The Picasso Scam

by Stuart Pawson

  ‘Mmm, I worry myself sick. They seem to lap it up, though.’

  ‘And what about John Rose?’

  ‘John is cultivating a couple of contacts in a gang who call themselves the Fusiliers. Plenty going off but all small stuff. Thieving, some drugs, a bit of football hooliganism, racist overtones. Nothing organised, though.’

  ‘God, what a healthy environment to put our best recruits into. What would his mother think? Call him off if he’s wasting his time.’

  ‘I’ll leave him a bit longer, if you don’t mind. No doubt we’ll get something out of it. I’m having to be flexible with them both, though, because they’re supposed to be unemployed. That’s leaving me short in other areas.’

  ‘OK,’ agreed Gilbert, ‘do what you think is best. How are you getting on with your dad’s Jaguar? Is it nearly ready?’

  ‘It’s going well. The wheels have just been done up and now they’re back at Jimmy Hoyle’s for new tyres and balancing. All we need then is an MOT and we’re away.’

  I stood up to leave. ‘Don’t forget the Procurator Fiscal,’ I reminded him. His reply tripped off the tongue with similar ease.

  Nigel Newley was back with us. He’d shown a definite aptitude for detective work and started to fit in when he realised that we weren’t complete barbarians north of Hemel Hempstead. We just like to pretend we are. He’d even acquired a taste for the beer, and no longer diluted it with brown ale. I’d had him in, together with another DC, Jeff Caton, to give them a grilling in preparation for their promotion panels. When we’d finished I asked Jeff to find the names of the Traffic boys who had escorted the Art Aid convoy, and to check which security company was involved.

  ‘A fart to a Ferrari it was Housecarl, but check anyway,’ I told him.

  Nigel had a report to type. He’d caught a pickpocket in the New Mall. She was a sixty-seven-year-old alcoholic. We both agreed that this burst of success was unlikely to get the Super off our necks, but we’d go through the motions by giving her a caution and alerting the Social Services. Tony Willis was busy at the typewriter keys, too, preparing some court reports. Tony’s typing has all the intermittency of some dastardly Chinese water torture. After a longer than average pause he asked: ‘Does buggery have a g-g in it?’

  ‘A gee-gee, a moo cow, usually something like that,’ I told him.

  ‘Thanks, boss. We’d be lost without you.’

  ‘Any time, Anthony.’

  Nigel was gazing at us both with a vacant expression when Gilbert Wood burst in. ‘Haven’t you got anything to do?’ he demanded of Nigel. Without waiting for a reply he hurled a screwed-up ball of paper at me and sat down. I smoothed out the sheet and saw it was the Procurator Fiscal’s name and number that I had given him. He took a few deep breaths before he spoke. ‘I just rang your friend Jock McPillock. Made me feel like a bloody schoolboy. How dare I have the temerity to ring him on the electric telephone? Any second I expected him to call me “wee laddie”.’

  I waited until Gilbert had calmed down. ‘Do I get the impression he’s not willing to cooperate?’ I asked, stifling a laugh.

  ‘Him and me also. Not without hard evidence. A crime would be a good starting point. My advice is drop it, Charlie, we’ve enough on our plates chasing real villains without inventing them.’

  ‘OK, boss, but thanks for ringing him. I’ll cross it off my list of Jobs I Must Do. Kettle’s just boiled if you want a coffee.’

  ‘No thanks. Wife’s got me on decaffeinated. Tastes just the same to me.’ He stumped off back to his office.

  Nigel recovered his voice. ‘Could be the perfect crime,’ he said. ‘The one nobody believes has been committed. Are you going to drop it, boss?’

  ‘Is he chuff,’ said DS Willis.

  Next morning Jeff Caton presented me with a list of the Traffic officers that I’d asked for, with their current shifts. ‘The security company situation is a bit odd,’ he told me. ‘Housecarl had the main contract to transport the Art Aid paintings, but apparently a firm called ABC Security have a contract with West Pennine County Council to do all their security work. They insisted it was their job and threatened to sue for breach of contract. Eventually a compromise was agreed to by the insurers, whereby Housecarl subcontracted this one journey to ABC.’

  ‘ABC Security, well done.’ I’d seen their vans occasionally. They seemed to have sprung up in the last couple of years. I didn’t attach any significance to the name: every category in the Yellow Pages has somebody called ABC listed. A part of me was also beginning to think that perhaps Gilbert Wood was right. I could do without all this. I’d have one last throw, though.

  ‘Get some background on ABC,’ I told him. ‘Find out what sort of company it is and who the registered owners are. But don’t let them know we are asking. And if the Super asks what you’re doing, tell him you’re looking for a lost gerbil.’

  It was decision time. What to have for lunch. I didn’t fancy the canteen and I could use some fresh air, so I decided to wander down to the New Mall and eat there. The opening of the New Mall had been a bit of a renaissance for the centre of Heckley. We’d gone through the black-hole-in-the-middle period and, hopefully, were now entering a new, more prosperous phase for the town’s traders. It was a rather grand place, and had been well accepted after many early misgivings. It had a posher name, but all and sundry referred to it as the New Mall. Unfortunately it had become a happy hunting ground for petty thieves. Today the local radio station was holding some sort of fundraising event there that would provide riveting listening for its countless dozens of fans. For some strange reason this was expected to attract people to the mall, not drive them away, so it could be a good day for picking a pocket or two. We’d got everybody available mingling with the throng of happy teeny-boppers.

  Normally, I wouldn’t become involved at this level, but the council elections were imminent, and one of the candidates was floating his campaign on the crime wave in there. My plan was simple – I’d eat, look at the girls, nab a couple of villains, then come back to the office. When the others returned empty-handed I’d give them hell and go home with a nice self-satisfied feeling.

  The multi-choice, serve-yourself restaurant is on the third floor of the mall. The disc jockey was strutting his stuff on the ground floor, but it was still too close. I was tucking into my pizza when Sparky joined me. One-up to him: he’d found me before I found him.

  ‘Any action?’ I asked.

  ‘A definite possible,’ he told me. ‘Mad Maggie has her eye on three girls who are acting a bit strange. At least three of the women who lost handbags were sitting over in that far left-hand corner when they realised their bags had gone. It’s a bit more secluded there, lots of plastic palm trees. These girls keep returning to the spot, looking for a vacant table. Done it about six times so far. Why are you eating pizza? You always say you don’t like it when we send out for some.’

  ‘Good for Maggie,’ I said. ‘Set a woman to catch a woman. We’ve too many old-fashioned ideas about villains; we’d have been watching the blokes. I don’t like pizza – the girl behind the counter looks like Steffi Graf.’

  ‘Speak for yourself, I’m younger than you. How long have you been a Steffi Graf fan?’

  ‘About half an hour.’

  ‘You should try the roast beef stall, I always go there.’

  ‘What’s the waitress like?’

  ‘Henry Cooper, but the beef’s good.’

  Sparky took me to where DCMargaret Madison was looking at a closed-circuit television monitor, focused down on to the corner of the restaurant where the action was.

  ‘Hi, boss,’ she whispered, somewhat unnecessarily, and gestured with an inclination of her head. ‘They’re back, and they’re sitting behind that woman who’s put her handbag on the floor.’

  The three girls were at a table in the corner, facing outwards. They had a commanding view of the immediate vicinity, but could not be observed themselves. Except by us.

  ‘Can you rec
ord this?’ I asked Maggie.

  ‘It’s in the can, sweetie. Sorry, boss – film producers’ jargon.’

  A middle-aged woman was at the next table to the girls, with her back to them. Maggie juggled with the camera’s remote control and showed me the woman’s handbag on the floor. As we watched, the bent end of an umbrella came into view and slowly hooked itself through the strap of the bag. Maggie pulled the camera back into wide angle. The girl on the left gently drew the bag towards her. When it was within reach she picked it up and put it over her shoulder and all three of them stood up and calmly walked away.

  ‘Dave, you go up and collar the woman, and radio the others to join us at the ground-floor exits.’ I was speaking as we dashed out of the monitor room. We were already on the ground floor. A couple of the mall’s own security people were with us. I told them to get to the Ladies’ toilets in case the girls went there with their spoils. Maggie and I stood at the foot of the staircase, from where we could also watch the escalator. We tried to look natural.

  ‘God, you’ve got beautiful eyes,’ I told her. ‘Why don’t you let me take you away from all this?’

  ‘You say the nicest things, Charlie. What will we do about Robin?’

  ‘There’s always a snag. We could poison him, does he like mushrooms? Don’t answer that, they’re coming down the escalator.’

  We walked to the foot of the escalator and it delivered the three girls, as pretty as a postcard, right on to our doormat. ‘Police,’ I said. ‘You’re under arrest for sus—’

  The front one’s face registered horror for a split second, then she burst between us and fled. The second girl tried to follow but I grabbed the sleeve of her baseball jacket. The other one turned back up the escalator with Maggie in hot pursuit. The girl I’d grabbed tried to slip out of her jacket and run, but I managed to hold her arm. She started to thump me with her free hand and kick me.

  ‘Help!’ she yelled. ‘Help me! He’s attacking me! Rape!’

  I managed to get her in a bear hug. She was kicking and spitting and still shouting for help. From up the escalator I could hear her pal yelling: ‘Get off me, you cow. Let me go!’ A crowd started to gather. It looked as if they might join in – on the girls’ side.

  ‘I’m a police officer,’ I shouted above her screams. ‘She’s under arrest for suspicion of theft.’

  ‘Do you have to be so rough with her?’

  ‘Bastard pigs, that’s all you’re fit for.’

  Maggie appeared with her girl in handcuffs, closely followed by Sparky and the lady with no handbag. We got the cuffs on my girl, but not without a struggle.

  ‘Take them in,’ I told Maggie and Sparky, loosening my tie and brushing the hair from my eyes. ‘I’ll try for some Brownie points in PR.’ I turned to face the crowd and held up my hands. A big youth with a beer gut testing the tensile strength of his T-shirt stood at the front of the crowd, together with a young woman wearing a baby round her neck in a sling, as if it were the latest fashion accessory. They’d done most of the protesting, so I addressed them directly.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry if we appeared rough, but the girls were given plenty of opportunity to come quietly. The third one did escape. There’s been a spate of handbag-stealing in the mall recently, and we have good reason to believe that those girls were involved. Now will you please all go back to what you were doing.’

  Most of them started to melt, away. Some of the troops had been mixed in with them, keeping an eye on things, and they drifted off. The woman with the baby held back.

  ‘Typical police bullshit,’ she snorted. ‘Your behaviour was disgraceful. I’m going to take this further. I demand to know your name.’

  ‘Priest,’ I answered wearily. ‘Inspector. Try to have a nice rest of the day.’

  Another woman, a little older, appeared in front of me. She was offering me a tissue. ‘She scratched you, Inspector. Your cheek’s bleeding slightly.’

  I took the tissue and wiped my cheek. ‘Thank you,’ I said, smiling so wide it hurt my face. ‘You’re very kind. Could I possibly repay you by buying you a coffee?’

  ‘I’d prefer tea,’ replied Annabelle Wilberforce.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  We went back upstairs to the restaurant and had a pot of Earl Grey and a Danish pastry each. It was unreal after the unpleasantness of a few minutes earlier. ‘Did you see it all?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. I’d just popped in to buy a few things and I walked straight into it. Do you often have to put up with such abuse?’

  ‘Oh, now and again.’

  ‘Will that woman really report you? It’s people like her who give the left a bad name.’

  ‘I doubt it, but it will be tricky if she does. Manhandling a sixteen-year-old girl could be construed to my disadvantage.’

  Annabelle looked grave. ‘Oh dear. I hope you are not going to be in trouble. I saw it all – I could make a statement on your behalf.’

  I laughed. ‘Thanks for the offer, but don’t worry about it. She said her piece in front of an audience, that’s probably all she wanted.’

  Annabelle went off to do her shopping and I scrounged a lift back to the station. It had been a mixed sort of an afternoon, and it wasn’t over yet. My reputation had preceded me.

  ‘Hey, who’s the stunner you were seen with? You’ve been keeping her under wraps, you crafty so-and-so,’ were DS Willis’s opening words.

  ‘Oh, just a friend, Tony. Any messages?’

  ‘Only a note from Jeff Caton for you. It’s on your desk somewhere.’

  I found the note. It read: ‘ABC Security is a privately owned company, founded four years ago. Head office at ABC House, Welton, Lancs. Managing Director named Miss Eunice Grimes.’

  Big bells were ringing in my head. I was riding on a lucky streak. Time to spin the wheel once again, but this time we’d do it the easy way. I rang Oldfield CID. There was nobody in that I knew. Eventually I persuaded a young DC to make some enquiries for me. He rang me back, true to his word.

  ‘ABC Security is owned by Eunice Grimes, as you said, but her married name is Cakebread. She’s just a front for her husband. He has his finger in all sorts of pies, but he’s got a record, so that would rule him out of owning a security company.’

  ‘Aubrey Bingham Cakebread?’

  ‘That’s the man. His wife’s supposed to be an ex-beauty queen, and she breeds dogs as a pastime.’

  ‘Dogs? What sort of dogs?’

  ‘Some fancy little foreign things. Shites-something-or-other.’

  ‘Shites-on-the-carpet?’

  ‘Not quite, sir, but something like that,’ he chuckled. ‘How about shih-tzu?’

  ‘That’s it, sir! Shih-tzu.’

  ‘Thanks, pal, you’ve been a big help. I’ll keep you informed.’

  I went home. The reasonable day had turned into a good one, and I had discovered that wrestling with a nubile schoolgirl was no big turn-on. I was pleased about that, too.

  Mad Maggie announced that she had a copy of the incriminating video set up in the conference room, and would show it to us if we cared to proceed there forthwith. I was delayed on the telephone, and when I reached the conference room it was heaving with bodies. I was amazed by the interest she had drummed up. Everybody, from the canteen ladies to the SDO, seemed eager to view the evidence.

  It was a superb piece of camera work. First there were wide-angle shots, showing the overall scene, then close-ups of each of the three girls’ faces. I’d seen the next bit, where the umbrella neatly hooked the handbag. It was all done without breaks, joints or patches; as evidence it couldn’t be faulted. When I thought it had ended I stood up to leave, but somebody said: ‘Wait, there’s some more.’ After a few seconds of snow-storm an overall view of the restaurant came into view. A couple were just taking their places at a table in the middle. The male was being very attentive. The hairs on the back of my neck were already prickling like a bilious porcupine when the camera zoomed in.

  ‘It’s Mr Priest
!’ somebody exclaimed.

  A cheer went up all round the room as they recognised me, followed by wolf whistles when they saw Annabelle. ‘Never mind him! Who’s she?’

  ‘The jammy sod, nabs the villains and gets the woman!’

  I was due in court at ten o’clock, but before that I had arranged for one of the Traffic drivers who had been on the Art Aid convoy to come to see me. I knew him reasonably well, and he had a reputation as a no-nonsense officer.

  ‘Cast your mind back about six months,’ I asked him, after I’d given him his compulsory mug of coffee, ‘to the time you escorted the paintings for the Art Aid exhibition. What can you tell me about the job?’

  He thought for a moment, then said: ‘Not much to tell, really. It started out pretty routine; we thought there was a touch of overkill, but I suppose you can’t be too careful with money like that involved. We waited in the big lay-by on the Lancashire side of the border and took over from the West Pennine boys. Then, coming down this side, the armoured van broke down. We were suspicious, but not worried enough to sign out the gun we were carrying. The chopper had been standing by, so we whistled it up for extra cover. We hung around for two hours until a breakdown truck arrived, then towed the lot straight to the Leeds Art Gallery. It was a bit ball-aching: we were only doing twenty miles per hour, and trying to watch every which way at once. The pictures weren’t transferred to another vehicle or anything like that. They stayed in the armoured van throughout.’

  ‘This was an ABC Security armoured van?’

  ‘That’s right,’ he replied. ‘Up to breaking down they’d been very impressive. Well drilled – everybody seemed to know what they were doing. The breakdown cocked it up, though. We were about three hours late when we finally arrived.’

  ‘Did anybody try to find what the trouble was?’

  ‘Yeah, I’d forgotten that. The driver had a look under the bonnet. The oil filter had fallen off and wrecked the engine. He was well watched. I can guarantee that he didn’t squirm down the prop shaft, up through a hole in the van floor and swipe a couple of paintings. He just pronounced the vehicle unrepairable and radioed for help.’ He shrugged his shoulders as if he had nothing further to offer. ‘What’s the problem, Mr Priest? Has a picture gone missing?’