The Picasso Scam

by Stuart Pawson

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘and now I’ve got some information for you.’ I told him all about Parker.

  ‘Parker? It could be his pen name,’ he suggested. He was stealing my material.

  ‘In that case, he’s a penpusher,’ I countered.

  ‘Well let’s see if we can pension him off.’

  ‘To the penitentiary?’

  ‘Pentonville, of course.’

  ‘Let’s make that the penultimate comment.’

  ‘Thank God for that. Will your boy give evidence?’

  ‘No way, Pedro!’

  ‘Have you been bending the rules, Charlie?’

  ‘Mmm, massaging them, a little.’

  ‘Listen, Charlie; listen to Uncle Mike. It’s not worth it, there’s too much at stake. The days have gone when you could give them a clip round the ear and they’d say, “Thank you sir, I deserved that,” and send you a Christmas card.’

  ‘Ah, those were the days. You’re right, but it’s good info. However, whatever you do, keep it to yourself as much as possible – somebody in the Force is involved.’ No need to tell him just yet that it’s only our Chief Constable.

  Mike’s voice fell an octave. ‘Oh dear, are you sure?’

  ‘That’s why I want to see you tonight. Then, when we’ve sorted that lot out, I’ll take you to Kim Limbert’s promotion bash. She’s coming to the city.’

  ‘So I’ve heard. Actually I’m supposed to be going to a do over here. One of our number has just become a dad after trying for fifteen years, so we’re wetting the baby’s head.’

  ‘Lovely. What did they do, change their milkman?’

  ‘Probably,’ Mike replied. ‘I’ve only to throw my shirt on the bed and the wife’s pregnant. He’s got a little girl, so they’re calling her Mira.’

  ‘Myra? After the Pontefract Poisoner?’

  ‘No, after the electric shower manufacturers. Apparently she was conceived under one of their products.’

  We drove up towards the Coiners in my car, out of the decent weather into the perpetual rain of the high moorlands. Every schoolboy learns that Lancashire got the cotton because of the damp atmosphere on their side of the hill, whilst we got the wool due to the softness of the water in our streams. Nobody mentions the slave trade, of course. We weren’t taught about the merchants from Liverpool and Manchester who financed slave ships to plunder Africa. They carried their wretched cargo to America and returned laden with cotton for their almost-as-wretched mills. The merchants grew fat and wealthy, gave their names to various philanthropic projects and bought respectability.

  ‘We could have a pudding while we’re here,’ said Mike, with the enthusiasm of the ill-fed, when he saw the sign.

  ‘No way,’ I stated.

  I led him through a stile in the dry-stone wall at the back of the car park, and paced out twenty-five steps along the wall side. ‘There it is,’ I told him, pointing at the white package, still wedged between the stones where I had concealed it the night before. Mike fished it out, holding a corner between finger and thumb, and dropped it into a plastic bag.

  ‘’Fraid I handled it quite a bit,’ I confessed, then asked: ‘Any guesses what it is?’

  ‘No, not yet, but it looks interesting. I’ll have it analysed in the morning.’

  We drove down the hill in silence for a while. Eventually Mike said: ‘How do you want us to play this, Charlie?’

  I’d filled him in on the background on the way up. ‘Softly-softly, if possible. Somebody’s out to nail me, so I’d like to keep it under wraps. Let them have to try again. If that stuff’s self-raising flour there’s no harm done. If it’s something else, we’ve a problem.’

  ‘Thanks for the “we”. I think we can both kiss goodbye to our night on the tiles. I’ll go straight in with this, see if I can raise a friendly expert; and I don’t want it hanging around me for too long. You’d better get something down on paper: if we’re keeping quiet we’d best cover our backs.’

  I’d been looking forward to seeing Kim again, but never mind – it gave me an excuse to call her sometime in the future. I set to work on the word processor in the spare bedroom-cum-office and put down for posterity the events subsequent to the mysterious phone call. Then, because I felt wide awake, I typed out the story of my trip to ABC House, and the visitation of Chief Constable Hilditch. I ran off three copies and sealed them in separate envelopes.

  Seven a.m. the phone rang. It was Mike Freer. I’d forgotten that the Drug Squad are night owls. He sounded agitated. ‘It’s heroin. I had half a gram analysed. The Professor said it’s the purest he’s ever seen.’

  ‘So where does that leave us?’

  ‘Easy on the “us”, Super Sleuth. It leaves you with half a kilogram of Bogota’s best; street value about two hundred thousand quid.’

  ‘Jesus! I’ll take it. Where is it now?’

  ‘It’s sealed in a jiffy bag with my name on it and in our safe. It should be OK there. Trouble is, your story is that it was planted on you to incriminate you; our story, if we tell it, is that it’s the biggest individual haul we’ve ever had. Over the top’s hardly the word.’

  ‘You mean nobody would believe me.’

  ‘Somebody decided to make you a rich man, because they had a grudge against you? Would you believe it?’

  ‘No. They must be swimming in the stuff, whoever they are.’

  ‘And they’re clever. What’s your next move?’

  ‘I’ve written three reports,’ I told him. ‘I’ll lodge one with Gilbert Wood this morning. Hopefully that will keep us in the clear. I don’t want to go public yet, if that’s OK with you. Somebody’s invested a lot in me, let’s see what their next move is.’

  ‘Anything you say, Sheepshagger. Are you sending me a copy?’

  ‘In the post this morning. Thanks for your help, Mike, I appreciate it.’

  ‘No problem. Meanwhile, we’ll have a look for your Parker friend. Who knows, you could qualify for a transfer to the Drug Squad yet.’

  As soon as the morning’s formalities were over I collared Gilbert Wood in his office. I asked him to sign and date one of the envelopes across the flap, and gave it to him for safekeeping. Next, when he was sitting comfortably, cup of decaffeinated in hand, I told him the full story.

  Gilbert looked grave and thoughtful. ‘Jesus Christ, Charlie, you’ve poked a gorilla in the arse with a sharp stick this time. When do you get your twenty-six and a half years in? Is it before me?’

  ‘We don’t qualify for good behaviour or ill-health, Gilbert, we’re both full-termers.’

  ‘I’m working on it. We’ve probably enough to bring Cakebread in and spin his premises. It’s not very satisfactory, though, and we’d not root out the Force connection. Let’s just clarify what we’ve got so far.’

  Gilbert pulled an easel out of the corner of his office, with a large flip-chart on it. The first pen he tried didn’t work. He put it back on the ledge and selected one that did. He wrote:

  TRUSCOTT DID SOME PAINTINGS

  Then he added:

  CAKEBREAD (ABC) MOVED THE PAINTINGS

  ‘Hilditch knows Cakebread,’ I suggested. Gilbert wrote:

  CHIEF CONST. FRIENDS WITH CAKEBREAD

  ‘What next?’ he asked.

  ‘Why do you save the pens that don’t work? Why not sling them in the bin?’

  ‘It might start working again. What next?’

  ‘CC knows Charlie’s on his tail,’ I told him. He put:

  CHIEF CONST. FINDS OUT CP IS SUSPICIOUS

  I wasn’t happy about the ambiguity, but I let it go. In a sudden burst of inspiration Gilbert added:

  DRUGS PLANTED ON CP

  WERE THE PAINTINGS SWITCHED?

  IS TRUSCOTT DEAD?

  We stood back and admired his handiwork. Gilbert selected a different-coloured pen and drew arrows on the chart. ‘We’ve established links there, there and there,’ he said, indicating the top four lines, ‘but we’ve nothing to show that, the drugs are part of
the same scam. They might be totally unrelated. I hate to be the one to tell you this, Charlie, but there’s other people around who don’t like you.’

  ‘Mmm, I know, that’s what I’ve been thinking. Heroin is a highly marketable commodity, though. Which is easier to get rid of: three paintings or fifty million quid’s worth of smack?’

  ‘You mean they stole the paintings and traded them for the drugs.’

  ‘That’s the theory,’ I stated, ‘except that maybe they didn’t steal the paintings. Maybe they just traded the forgeries.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, no wonder Truscott sounded scared when you talked to him. Drug barons are not the people to meddle with.’

  I gazed at Gilbert with my brow furrowed and a deadpan expression on my face, trying hard not to smile. ‘Gilbert,’ I said, ‘do you have to keep using our Saviour’s name as an expletive? Some people might find it offensive. In fact, I believe I do. Why can’t you just use plain old Anglo-Saxon like everybody else?’

  ‘Oh no!’ He put his hands to his head in exasperation. ‘Don’t tell me: my DI’s found God!’

  ‘No I haven’t!’ I declared.

  ‘Then it’s a woman,’ he stated triumphantly, stabbing a forefinger at me. ‘You’ve found a woman and she’s found God.’

  ‘Rubbish. Anyway there’s something else to add to the chart.’

  ‘You’re blushing! I’ve never seen you blush before.’

  ‘No I’m not. Truscott …’

  ‘Yes you are. Hey! It’s the lady in the video, isn’t it? She looked all right, definitely too good for you. What about Truscott?’

  I was relieved to get back to business. I had a feeling that I’d lost that little skirmish. ‘The conversation I had with him at Beamish,’ I began. ‘I’ve been over and over it in my mind, and I’m certain he said that the Picasso was damaged and he didn’t think it had been switched. He pretended he didn’t know, as if the pictures had passed on from him. But then he bequeaths me the Picasso, real or forged, in his will.’

  Gilbert thought about it. ‘Which proves what?’ he asked.

  ‘Just that Truscott is a liar,’ I stated. ‘He knew all along where the Picasso was. He had it himself.’

  TRUSCOTT IS A LIAR

  Gilbert added to the chart.

  ‘And there’s another thing you ought to know,’ I said.

  ‘Too late, the sheet’s full.’ He pulled it off the pad and started to tear it into shreds which fell into his bin.

  ‘Cakebread’s just flown off on his hols in his own plane.’

  ‘Where to?’ Gilbert asked wearily.

  ‘The Costa del Crime,’ I answered.

  His eyebrows popped up. ‘Think he might be collecting another payment?’

  ‘Who knows?’ I watched the last few strips fall into the bin. ‘I’d like to leave things a while, see what their next move is, if that’s all right with you.’

  ‘There’s not much else we can do,’ he stated, stroking his chin, ‘but it could be dangerous. They may not be so subtle next time.’

  ‘If I broke my legs tonight, would you manage without me?’

  ‘It would be a struggle at first,’ he admitted, ‘but by ten o’clock we’d be saying, “Charlie who?”’

  ‘Well in that case, can I have the next two weeks off on leave?’

  Gilbert gave one of his all-the-cares-of-the-world sighs. After considering for a few seconds what I’d asked he said: ‘If you want to take your lady friend studying ecclesiastical architecture in the Cotswolds – yes. If you’re thinking of buggering off to Spain looking for Cakebread – no.’

  I didn’t say anything, just thought about the options he’d given, and a wave of melancholy swept over me. I could immerse myself in police work and enjoy the banter and the adventure of it; I even enjoyed the long, boring shifts waiting in the car in some alley, watching for something to happen. But the endless shifts always did come to an end. Gilbert had been dismissive of the holiday in the Cotswolds, with ‘your lady friend’, but his throwaway line expressed an unattainable dream for me. I must be growing sensitive.

  The office felt claustrophobic, I needed some fresh air. I delegated a few jobs, then told Tony and Dave that I was going to sort out a few things for the Jaguar. I paused in the exit from the car park. Turning right would take me up towards the moors, past St Bidulph’s and the Old Vicarage. ‘Not just yet,’ she had told me, but when was ‘yet’, and how would I know? I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, consumed with doubt and indecision. A patrol car waiting behind me gave a gentle toot on its horn. I waved an apology, signalled left and started down the hill into town.

  I’d had a message from Jimmy Hoyle, the mechanic, that the wheels were ready, so I thought I would collect them and fit them in the evening. On the way, as an afterthought, I called in to a travel agency that most of the troops used because it gave a discount to Federation members. There were three girls in varying degrees of desirability behind the counter, and a youth with a ponytail and earrings.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ enquired the youth.

  ‘I don’t know.’ I sighed with resignation. ‘Have you anything left in or near Marbella, for next week?’

  ‘Doubt it, sir. It’s school holidays and the companies have drastically cut down on flights to Spain this year. Everybody wants to go to the States.’

  He rattled the keys on his terminal with great fluidity, shook his head and rattled them some more.

  ‘Must it be Marbella?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, within driving distance.’

  ‘Sorry, Tenerife and Portugal’s the nearest we can do, and they’re hardly a drive away.’

  ‘What about accommodation? If I drove down would I find somewhere to stay?’

  ‘Absolutely no problem, sir. There’s lots of spare capacity in the area. We could fix you up, but you’d be better having a look round when you got there. You’d probably find a nice villa for next to nothing if you fancied self-catering.’

  Self-catering didn’t appeal to me, I had enough of that normally, but I was warming to the youth. He knew his job and was trying to be helpful. ‘What’s the best way of taking a car across the Channel?’ I asked.

  ‘There’s usually a few spare places on the ferries these days. I’d recommend the hovercraft from Dover. It’s busy, but we could book you on from here. When would you be travelling?’

  ‘I can’t be certain,’ I said. ‘What’s the chances if you just turn up?’

  ‘You might have a long wait, but they’d fit you on eventually. You’d best be there very early. Here, I’ll give you a timetable.’

  ‘Thank you, you’ve been very helpful. I promise to book my next holiday with you.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he said, with a smile.

  Suddenly I was filled with new enthusiasm. I called in at the AA shop and had the Jag put on my policy. I took out their five-star touring service, and the price of it caused my enthusiasm to waver somewhat, but an international driving permit cost me next to nothing. Then I called at Jimmy Hoyle’s.

  ‘You’ll never fit five wheels in the back of the Cavalier,’ he told me. ‘I’ve got them in the van, I was going to bring ’em round. Come on, I’ll show you.’

  He opened the back of his little van. It was stuffed solid with Jaguar wheels and smelt of new rubber. Jimmy pulled the nearest wheel towards him, and turned it to show off the gleaming chrome spokes.

  ‘Don’t they look fabulous,’ he enthused. ‘I think I’d keep the spare one over the mantelpiece.’

  I had to agree with him. They looked a lot bigger than I remembered, and exuded style and excellence. And this was only the wheels.

  ‘Jimmy, do you think I’ll be able to take a long trip in it at the weekend?’ I asked.

  ‘Course you can,’ he said. ‘That’s what it’s meant for. I’ll give you an MOT certificate now and you can send off for the tax. As long as you backdate it you’ll be OK. Then it just needs setting up. I’ll do that for you. No problem. Whe
re are you going?’

  I’d wanted to keep it secret. ‘I’m thinking about the South of France,’ I said.

  ‘Smashing. Anywhere in particular?’

  ‘Yeah, Spain. But don’t tell anyone.’

  ‘I’ll make a deal with you,’ he said, giving me his lopsided grin. ‘Leave the keys with me and I’ll pop up this afternoon and put the wheels on. Then I can give it a going-over. That way I get to have the first ride in it. OK?’

  It was definitely OK by me. ‘Great,’ I said, ‘but what about this place? Can you leave it?’

  ‘No problem. I’ll soon have the wheels on, then I can bring it down here to set up. Do you want me to call round at the station with it?’

  ‘No. Er, definitely not. And make sure you put your time on the bill.’ Jimmy’s bills were about a third of what other garages charged, which was just as well, otherwise I’d never have been able to have all the work done. He’d done the paintwork and the technical jobs, and had the expert stuff done at cost price for me. It was Jimmy who’d given me the Cortina several years previously, and I still felt indebted to him.

  ‘Don’t worry, I will. C’mon, I’ll give you an MOT certificate and a tax form.’ We went into his little office, where he rummaged among an untidy jumble of papers.

  ‘How can you give it an MOT certificate when it hasn’t any wheels on?’ I asked.

  ‘Here they are.’ He retrieved the pad of certificates and ran his finger down the conditions of issue. He shook his head. ‘Doesn’t say anything about having to have wheels here.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  There’s a photocopying machine in the main post office, so I took copies of the documents before posting them off to the Vehicle Registration Centre at Swansea. Next I called at the bank and cleaned them out of francs and pesetas. They didn’t have many, and weren’t pleased because I hadn’t ordered them, but they paid up without being reminded that it was, after all, my money. Then, because I couldn’t think of anything better, I drove back to the office.

  Only Nigel was in, immersed in a long report. He told me where everybody else was and gave me a couple of messages. There was nothing that couldn’t wait. I sat at my desk and pretended to be busy. I was still feeling restless, impatient, wondering what the next move would be.