I dined in the hotel, then settled my bill and told the desk clerk I would be leaving in the early hours. The woman in the red dress wasn’t in the dining room. Then I lay on my bed, thinking, until it was time to get into it and try to sleep.
Dawn broke as I brought the car round to the front of the hotel and loaded the boot with my few belongings. I stopped a few miles up the coast, and looked out to sea. I’d been hoping to see the sunrise again, but there was a mist over the water, and the sun was obscured. It looked like being a hot day.
Driving is a good antidote for many things. You have to concentrate when you drive. If you drive fast enough you have to concentrate totally. I decided to take the autoroutes all the way. Not the best way to see a country, but you could pack a hundred miles into an hour. By early evening Barcelona was behind me. I refuelled and decided to have a rest.
Two hours later I was away again. The dim headlights were no obstruction to progress on the wide dual carriageways, and the E-type revelled in the type of cross-continent driving it had been designed for. I had a longer sleep, curled up in the back, near Lyons, and made it to the Paris peripherique in time for the rush hour. Afternoon tea on the hovercraft goes down well when your tongue has a relationship with your mouth like a sweep’s brush has with a chimney.
You think you’re there when you roll off the ferry, but it’s not true. The longest mile might be the last mile home, but the other two hundred and eighty were just as gruesome. It was another six hours before I slammed the car door under my own neighbours’ window and gratefully crashed out in my familiar bed. I’d been away just under nine days.
In the morning I looked at my mail. There were several never-to-be-repeated opportunities for me to win a total of three and a half million quid, and a note from Gilbert Wood. I sealed all the prepaid envelopes in the junk mail and put them on one side for posting. The post office needs the revenue. Then I opened Gilbert’s note. It read:
Charlie,
You’ve done the right thing being off. Hilditch has gone off his rocker. He sent ACC Partridge round with orders to suspend you for harassing Cakebread. Partridge was very embarrassed about it. Suggest you don’t come back until after your holiday. Things may have cooled down by then.
Gilbert
PS Sorry about the piles. Have you tried Germaloids?
I swapped the cars round and went to the supermarket to restock the freezer. Officially I still had a couple of days’ leave left, but I knew I’d be as restless as a foreskin in a synagogue if I didn’t get back to work straight away. I wrote full accounts of my trip and ran off three copies. Then I rang Gilbert.
‘Hello, Charlie,’ he said. ‘How’re the haemorrhoids?’ Funny how people always say ‘haemorrhoids’, but write ‘piles’.
‘I haven’t got frigging haemorroids,’ I told him. ‘I just said the first thing I thought of. Sorry I had to tell you a fib. Do I still have a job or am I suspended?’
‘God knows, it’s a bloody shambles. Hilditch wants you sacked, but he’s way out of order. Partridge is his own man, though, and would have done the right thing. He’s got the measure of Hilditch, I reckon, but I didn’t want to tell him what it’s all about. As far as I’m concerned you’re still with us. Where’ve you been?’
‘Spain.’
‘Christ, I knew it. Find anything?’
‘Yep. Are you in tonight?’
‘Sure. What time are you coming round?’
‘Try this,’ said Gilbert. ‘Discovered it when I was up there at Easter. It’s regarded by some as the finest single malt ever distilled.’
We were sitting in his little study, surrounded by his books and his small but growing collection of whiskies. He wasn’t a great imbiber, but he enjoyed the good things in life, and considered the elixir of the glens to be one of the best.
‘Make it a very small one; it’s wasted on me,’ I admitted.
‘I’d no intention of making it a big one,’ Gilbert countered.
I took a sip, and let it wash around under my tongue and down my throat. ‘Mmm, quite pleasant,’ I said, ‘for whisky. What is it?’
‘Linkwood,’ he replied, with hushed reverence.
‘Linkwood? Never heard of it. Japanese?’
‘God, Priest, you’re a peasant. Sit there while I fetch you a can of lager. What’s that you’ve brought to show me?’
I passed him the sheaf of reports. ‘Read those, Gilbert, while I savour the Linkwood. Then I’ll answer questions.’
It took him nearly half an hour to get through them. Periodically he glanced up at me, then, towards the end, he said ‘Jesus Christ’ under his breath. Finally he lowered the sheets and sat looking at me for a couple of minutes. I gazed into my glass.
He said: ‘You’re lucky to be alive, Charlie.’
‘Yeah. And George Palfreeman’s unlucky to be dead.’ I swirled the dregs of the straw-coloured liquid around the heavy tumbler. I didn’t dare lift my head to look at him. ‘Between those two statements and the Linkwood, we’ve got the makings of a nice philosophical evening.’
He went to ask Molly, his wife, to make some tea. I was grateful for the interlude.
Gilbert came back and sat down. We waited in silence until Molly brought the tea and left us. Then he said: ‘First thing in the morning I’ll call in the Serious Fraud Office. It’s spread too far and wide for us to handle. Sorry, Chas, but you’re off it from now on. It’s a pity I didn’t give you a bit more support earlier; we should have bowled Hilditch a googly – set him up, somehow.’
‘Never mind. It was one of his predecessors who said hindsight was an exact science.’
‘Doesn’t make me feel any better. Are you coming in tomorrow?’
Tomorrow was Friday, the last day of my holiday. ‘Yes, I’d like to.’
‘Good. You’d better hang around the office – no doubt they’ll want a word with you. Let Willis see the week out as acting inspector.’
‘That’s fine by me. What else has been happening?’
‘I was just coming to it,’ he said. ‘We brought in young Rose and Makinson. They’ve come up with some good information. We’re hitting four addresses early Monday morning, just when they’re at their best. Only two of them’s in Heckley, though. The city boys are looking after the others. Will you want to take over?’
I thought about it. ‘No, if Tony’s done all the planning, let him handle it. I wouldn’t mind going in, though, if that’s all right. A bit of aggression might do me good.’
‘All right by me. I’ll let Willis fill you in tomorrow.’
I went home and asked the word processor to run off copies of all the reports, for the Serious Fraud boys. According to the Data Protection Act I shouldn’t store information like that on my computer, so I closed the curtains while I did it.
The first four people I met next morning asked me how my haemorrhoids were and suggested a variety of treatments. Then word must have passed round that it was a touchy subject, and concern began to diminish. I buried myself in the small hill of paperwork that Tony had decided I ought to know about, and fielded enquiries about my holiday. The first worthwhile phone call I received was from Diaz.
‘Good morning, Charlie, or may I call you Inspector Priest? I thought you would be back at work today. How was the drive?’
‘Hello, Rafael, it’s good to hear from you. The drive was hard work, not to be recommended. Any developments?’
‘Yes. One of my men was in a bar and he saw a youth wearing a leather jacket which had some interesting marks on the back. He brought him in. The stuff we took from under your fingernails was a perfect match. We now have the accomplice and the scooter, too.’
‘Well done. No gun?’
‘Unfortunately, no, but they are known to be associates of gangsters. Rest assured, they are the ones.’
‘Good, thanks for telling me, Rafael. I’ve put copies of all the relevant reports in the post for you. They should keep you entertained for a day or two.’
He went on to tell me when the funeral was arranged for, and offered to send flowers on my behalf. After a shaky start, I decided that I had a lot of time for Capitano Diaz.
In the afternoon we had a briefing on Monday’s raids. It was hard, but I had to drag myself down out of the clouds and start being a cop at Heckley again. There might be links stretching from our ram-raiders to Cakebread and Puerto Banus, but so far that was for the birds. Gilbert did the introductions and handed over to me. I split the troops into two teams and explained that Mr Wood was in overall command and Acting Inspector Willis was running the show in the street. I’d be going in with the marines. We then split up to study our separate targets. That’s when I discovered the identity of the occupier of the house I’d volunteered to enter. He was called Willy O’Hagan. I’d never heard of him, but his record said he had one conviction – for armed robbery.
I put my finger on the relevant sentence and said: ‘Looks like we’ll need to be armed.’
‘Sorry, boss,’ said Tony. ‘Didn’t you know? Rose told us he keeps a gun in his car boot. I thought you were a bit eager to be up front.’
We were nearly finished when I was called to the phone. ‘Priest here,’ I said.
‘Good afternoon, Inspector. I’m Chief Superintendent Fearnside, Serious Fraud Office. I’d like to see you, in about fifteen minutes, if that’s all right.’
A real chief super, they meant business. ‘No problem, sir. Are you coming here?’
‘No. I’ll be at the Little Chef near Cattleshaw. I’ll see you there.’
I hesitated, remembering the last arrangement I’d made on the telephone. Fearnside must have read my mind; he went on: ‘If you ask Superintendent Wood, he’ll tell you that he recommended the place. I’ll be in a black Granada.’
‘Right, sir, I’m on my way, but fifteen minutes is pushing it a bit.’
‘Then you’d better get moving.’
I rang Gilbert, more to tell him where I was going than to check on Fearnside. ‘What’s the coffee like in the Little Chef?’ I asked him.
He laughed: ‘OK, they do decaffeinated.’
‘I’m going now.’
‘Give ’em hell, Charlie.’
I parked a few spaces away from the Granada. There were two of them in it. We didn’t go in for a coffee; as I approached the car the passenger got out. He let himself into the rear seat and gestured for me to join him. Fearnside was burly and prosperous-looking. He could have been a captain of industry. The one in the driving seat was tall and slim, and equally smooth. It was no good: if I wanted to get on I’d have to buy myself a suit. I took out my warrant card and offered it to Fearnside. He didn’t look at it, but he got the message and they both showed me theirs. His aide-de-camp was an inspector called Longfellow.
The delights of production-line catering for hoi polloi apparently didn’t appeal, for we went for a drive up on to the moors. I let Fearnside break the silence.
‘Fascinating landscape,’ he said. ‘Absolutely fascinating. Am I right in believing the Bronte girls were from these parts?’
‘That’s right, sir, not too far away.’ I wanted to add: ‘And Robbie Burns, too,’ but managed to stop myself. Eventually we pulled into a lay-by.
‘Right, Inspector Priest, let’s get down to business. Superintendent Wood has told us the main story, but we need a few details from you. First of all, tell us everything you can about Truscott.’
I didn’t tell them everything I knew, just the relevant stuff. I also handed over the copies of the reports.
When I’d finished he asked: ‘How do you believe the paintings were switched?’
‘In the security van. The fakes were already in the van, laid flat under the carpet, or wherever. On the journey the genuines were removed from the frames and the fakes substituted. One of the guards riding in the back was about the same size as Truscott, so I’m assuming it was him. The tacks would go back into the same holes, so they still looked the same from the back, as well as from the front. The breakdown was to give them more time; the loud music covered the sound of hammering.’
‘Breakdown? Loud music?’
Gilbert had obviously not gone into such detail.
‘Sorry, it’s all in the reports.’ After a few moments’ silence I said: ‘I take it that the art world is making waves. Have the paintings been switched?’
He pondered on what to tell me. ‘Unofficially, yes,’ he confided.
I felt strangely pleased. I clean forgot to mention the Picasso, but later a chill ran through me as I realised that I’d gone away and left it hanging over the fireplace.
‘And now, Inspector, let’s hear about your Spanish trip.’
They dropped me off back at the restaurant. It was out of my hands now. They had the resources and the intelligence network to really crack who was behind the theft of the paintings. A little bit of me was sorry, though – George’s death apart, I’d enjoyed my foray into international crime. Nicked videos and pensioners’ purses lacked the glamour of drug cartels and international smuggling. It was Friday evening. I dallied in my car until the Granada left the car park, then I went in and ordered an all-day, American-style breakfast.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I hadn’t had enough time back to become snowed under with all the must-be-done-yesterday jobs that are usually threatening to engulf me. Usually I have a couple of hours in the office on a Saturday morning, and maybe spend some time coordinating any of the troops who might be working. But, apart from a brief phone call from ADI Willis, I had a weekend off. Tony asked me if I wanted to take over on Monday, instead of being on the pointed end, but I declined his offer. The exercise would do me good – I had two flights of stairs to run up.
The dead flies and streaks of yellow dirt that covered the Jaguar gave it a purposeful air, but they weren’t good for the paint. I put it through a car wash and applied touch-up to the scrape. It was hardly noticeable. Then I pushed it to the back of the garage and covered it with a dustsheet. In the afternoon I mowed the lawn and did some weeding. As soon as the garden looked only marginally worse than my neighbours’, I stopped. Sunday, I hoovered. I love weekends like dentists love garlic.
We rendezvoused at the station at five a.m. Monday. People you’ve known for years always look different in situations like this. We were all wearing dark, casual clothes, with silent shoes, and one or two drew on cigarettes. There was tension behind the banter. Superintendent Wood liaised with the city teams and confirmed the plan. All four targets would be hit at six thirty-five. We had a final briefing, and then some of us went to the armoury to draw our guns. A Tactical Firearms Unit would be standing by, but those of us with the necessary training would carry personal weapons.
Hate is a word I rarely use, but it’s in my vocabulary. I reserve it for describing my feelings towards guns. Holding a gun changes your personality as surely as does a mind-bending drug. I’d found it in everybody I’d ever seen with one, on both sides of the fence; including myself. In the Force, there are stringent tests of personality and ability before you can carry a firearm. In the streets, all you need is a hundred quid.
The standard issue is a thirty-eight, either automatic or revolver, according to the individual’s preference, loaded with flat-nosed bullets. We are trained to shoot only if a life is in immediate jeopardy, so, if we have to shoot, we shoot to kill. The flat-nosed bullet has maximum stopping power, with the least chance of it going straight through the target and hitting somebody else. ‘Maximum stopping power’ means it makes a mess. ‘The target’ is the person you are trying to kill.
In the armoury, however, was a neat little Walther two-two automatic that had been found in a German tourist’s handbag, and confiscated. I’d adopted this for my own use whenever I had to be armed. It fitted in my jacket pocket without the need for a holster. The macho types sniggered at it, but the way I saw things, if I had to use it, I’d already failed. I checked that it had a full clip of cartridges and that the safety catch was at ‘zu’.
We’d carried firearms on hundreds of occasions, and practised for hours on the range, but, to the best of my knowledge, none of us had ever fired a shot in anger.
Our four cars came to a silent halt round the corner from O’Hagan’s house. We were a measured hundred yards away. Uniformed officers positioned themselves where they could prevent the postman and the milkman stumbling into the action. The last couple of minutes ticked by, then the codeword came through on the radio. Ten of us got out and, leaving the car doors wide open, strode towards the three-storey terrace. The drivers would bring the cars after us. At our head was a big constable carrying a sledgehammer. We lined up in a prearranged order at the door and I nodded to the constable. The hammer hit the lock and the door bounced inwards about four inches and sprang back. It was held at the top. Two more blows and we were in.
We’d studied the layouts of similar houses, and knew that the rooms on the second floor were usually used as bedrooms. It was my job, with Nigel, to get to them as quickly as possible. That’s where the action was most likely to be, but hopefully we’d catch them with their pants round their ankles. I took the stairs three at a time, but I was only halfway up the last flight when a character came round the top whirling a rice flail round his head. Unfortunately for him it was not much good in the narrowness of the staircase and it tangled round his arm. He had a game attempt at passing me, but I just doubled up and went for his legs with my shoulders. I felt his shins connect with me, then he sailed over my head and landed at the foot of the stairs with a crash that shook the beer cans in the kitchen. I turned to look down at the wreckage.
‘I’ll get him,’ shouted Sparky, who’d found the first floor uninhabited.
‘C’mon,’ I said to Nigel, and cleared the last few steps.
I kicked open the first bedroom door. The bed bore signs of being recently vacated. I slid an unwilling hand between the off-grey sheets; they were still warm. Nobody was under the bed or in the wardrobe so I tried the next room. It was filled with junk, plus a stack of interesting, unopened cardboard boxes. The other bedroom was the biggest, and had a bed, wardrobe and chest of drawers. The sheets on the bed were colour coordinated with the others. Somebody had just got out from between them, too. Sparky and a couple more came round the landing to join us.
The Picasso Scam Page 13