‘Priest here,’ I said.
‘Hello, Inspector Priest. DI Longfellow, from the SFO. I’m afraid I’ve some not very good news for you.’
‘Don’t spare me, I’m feeling brave.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Nothing, go ahead.’
‘I’ve rung to tell you that we’ve just searched various of Mr Cakebread’s premises. They were all clean as a whistle. We also asked our Spanish opposites to turn over his villa and boat. They found nothing, too.’
Disappointment hit me like a ten-ton custard pie. ‘Where, exactly, have you searched?’ I asked.
‘Everywhere he had registered; that’s his premises in Welton, ABC House; his home—’
‘The Ponderosa?’
‘That’s right; his aeroplane at Blackpool and a flat at Whitby. He spreads his largess between both coasts.’
‘He certainly does. I didn’t know about the flat in Whitby; do you have an address?’ He read it to me. I went on: ‘And you found nothing at all?’
‘Nothing. Apparently the sniffer dog they put in the plane became quite excited, but nothing came of it. We’ve taken some sweepings up for analysis, but if we do find anything it will never stick. Looks like he’s given us the slip, for the time being.’
‘Oh. Well at least you sound as if you’re happy that I haven’t led you up a gum tree.’
‘No, nothing of the sort,’ he replied. ‘He’s up to his neck in something. We’ll just have to keep watching him.’
‘Will I step on any toes if I include myself in that?’
‘Be our guest; you’re on his doorstep.’
I was back on the job. ‘OK, thanks for ringing.’
‘There is one other thing,’ he said before I could put the phone down. ‘CS Fearnside had me dig out your file. You’ve been an inspector for a long time.’
I didn’t like the sound of this. ‘That’s right, I’m going for the record.’
His reply caught me off-guard: ‘Ever considered a sideways move?’ he asked.
‘Er, no, never,’ I stuttered.
‘Maybe you should. Fearnside was impressed. Could get you away from a tricky situation. Why don’t you think about it?’
‘I will. Thanks. Goodbye.’
I thought about it. Move down south – no way. End of thought process. I handed the phone back to Gilbert, and when it was back in its cradle said: ‘They’ve spun Breadcake and he’s cleaner than a dog’s balls. They can’t manage without me, so will I spend some of my valuable time on the case? Then he offered me a proper job.’
Gilbert’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Offered you a job?’
‘That’s what it sounded like.’
‘The cheeky bastard!’
Being off work gave me time to think, without the pressures of day-to-day policing. All we had on Cakebread was a collection of tenuously linked crimes, where some of the connections were thinner than boarding house Spam. What we didn’t have was forensic evidence, something that would stand up against critical cross-examination by the best bent lawyers in the business. Money can buy you truth, but only, thank God, up to a point. Wednesday morning I rose ridiculously early, but I hung about at home to give ADI Willis plenty of time to deploy his troops. Then I went in to the office.
‘Hi, boss,’ Sparky greeted me. ‘We were just having a discussion on the greatest labour-saving device ever invented. What would you say it was?’
‘No idea. What’s this in aid of?’
‘It’s the eldest lad’s latest project from school. That’s the sort of stuff they teach ’em, these days.’
‘I thought you had only two sons,’ stated Nigel.
‘I have.’
‘In that case he’s your elder lad, not eldest.’
‘But I’ve got three kids.’
‘Well in that case he’s your eldest child, but your elder son.’
‘My daughter won’t like that.’
‘Why not?’
‘She’s elder than he is.’
‘What’s he thinking of so far?’ interrupted Tony Willis.
‘Sliced bread.’
‘Sliced bread’s not labour-saving. Cutting it with a knife’s no effort, it’s just that they’re all different thicknesses. What do you think, Charlie?’
‘Er, I agree.’
‘The jumbo jet!’ exclaimed Nigel, triumphantly.
‘What about it?’
‘Well,’ he explained, ‘four hundred people can fly from Manchester to New York in five hours in a jumbo. It would take them months to swim it. That’s what I call labour-saving.’
‘Hey, that’s good,’ said Sparky. ‘He might use that.’
‘Rubbish!’ exclaimed Tony. ‘What about the billion people who live in China? The jumbo hasn’t saved them any labour.’
‘In India they use them for moving logs,’ I said.
Superintendent Wood walked through the door just in time to hear Sparky declare: ‘… but the main fault with the Criminal Justice Act is that it does nothing to address the problem of overcrowding in the jails.’
Gilbert said: ‘Hello, Charlie, didn’t know you were in.’
‘I’m not, boss, it’s just a quick social call.’
Gilbert placed some papers on my desk. ‘Have a look at those when you have a chance,’ he said. ‘Not as riveting as the Criminal Justice Act, I’m afraid.’
I gazed at the dreaded annual budget forecast forms.
‘I’ve just done them,’ I protested. ‘They were last year’s. No hurry, tomorrow will do.’
He was halfway out of the door when I shouted to him: ‘Mr Wood, what would you say was the greatest labour-saving invention ever made?’
Gilbert paused, one hand on the door handle. ‘Brown underpants,’ he stated, and walked out.
‘Right, crimefighters,’ I said, ‘that is definitely the last word on the subject. I’ll leave you to it.’
I stood up and walked over to my office. The main CID department is open plan, with a small room partitioned off in the corner which I grandly call my office. I do most of my work on a spare desk in the big office, leaving this room as open house for anyone who needs to work quietly, away from the rabble. I’d made a decision. The Cakebread Saga had gone far enough; it was time for drastic action.
I created a file. After the minimum of thought I called it ‘Picasso Scam’. I gathered together all the reports and put them in the new file. Then I made a chart with all the disjointed events on it, and drew links between them, where possible. It was as obvious as a baritone in a convent choir that without the forensic we were going nowhere.
I rang Scotland Yard and asked for copies of the fingerprints of Cakebread and two associates of his, Bradshaw and Wheatley. Bradshaw was believed to be his co-pilot. Cakebread had not held a pilot’s licence very long, and was not qualified for international flights. Bradshaw was. He was a one-time racing driver who had sought to sponsor his expensive tastes by avoiding paying the excise duty on a few thousand cigars, hence his record. Wheatley was involved in quite a few of Cakebread’s business dealings. It was only hearsay, but he was a Rachman-like figure, involved in lots of dubious property deals. His only conviction was for petty theft, as a teenager. They promised to send me the copies as soon as possible.
Truscott and Eunice Cakebread had no convictions, so there was not much I could do about them. That left Ernest Hilditch. I was reasonably certain that our Chief Constable had lived a blameless past, free from the indignity of having his fingers pressed on to an ink pad and unceremoniously rolled on a sheet of paper. I’d have to use my ingenuity to obtain his dabs. I picked up the phone.
I was in luck; she was there. ‘Hi, Kim, it’s Charlie Priest.’
‘Hello, Charlie, this is a surprise; how’re you?’
‘OK, thanks, but I need a favour.’
‘If I can,’ she said.
‘Have you ever heard the saying “Friendship corrupts”, Kim?’
‘No.’
‘Well it does,
especially in our job. But forget it for now, I’d like to corrupt you.’
‘You’ve been trying to corrupt me for years, Charlie, what’s new?’
I smiled at the thought of it. ‘Cut out the sex talk, Limbert, I’ve forgotten why I rang now.’ After a moment I went on: ‘Oh, yes, I remember – is the Chief’s private secretary still Miss Yates?’
Kim said: ‘The redoubtable Rita, it certainly is.’
‘Good, I’d like a word with her, when nobody’s there. Did you tell me you had a friend who worked in the outer office?
‘That’s right – Melanie. She’s a cousin.’
‘OK. What’s the chances of finding out when I’ll be able to catch Miss Yates with none of the top-brass around?’
‘That should be no problem. Only one thing might stop me.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Jealousy. Where are you? I’ll ring you back.’
Nigel had left the office, so I wrote him a note. I explained where the file was and suggested he read it. Then I told him to contact Companies House and find out as much as he could about Cakebread’s empire. If any of his contacts had records, obtain copies of their dabs. As an afterthought I suggested he clear it with ADI Willis.
Kim kept her word. ‘There’s an executive meeting at three thirty,’ she told me. ‘The CC is on leave and Partridge is in London. The desirable Miss Yates should be at maximum vulnerability any time after that. Let me know if you breach her defences.’
Rita Yates was a civilian. She had been private secretary to a long succession of Chief Constables and wielded power far greater than her status implied. Word had it that several CCs had had affairs with her. It was a recognised fact that most holders of the job died in harness, so to speak, but whether this was relative I had no way of knowing. At four o’clock I knocked tentatively on her office door and opened it.
Her perfume hit me with all the subtlety of a friendly Labrador. I’d seen her before, years ago, and knew her to be a stunner. Time had been kind to her. The blonde hair was now tastefully streaked, and a large pair of fashionable spectacles made the best of nature’s perfidy. Her legs had been her most magnificent feature, but these were now concealed behind her desk.
‘Miss Yates?’ I asked.
‘Yes, what can I do for you?’
The manner was abrupt; she rarely dealt with anyone below the rank of assistant chief constable. I went in and closed the door behind me.
‘Priest, Inspector Priest, from Heckley,’ I said. ‘I’ve a … a little problem, and I’d like to ask your assistance to get over it.’
‘If I can, Inspector, what is it?’
‘Well …’ I tried to sound uncomfortable, but it didn’t require much effort, ‘you see, Mr Hilditch had this book that was evidence in a case; and now we’ve found some fingerprints on it. Trouble is, we can’t be certain that they’re not his. Wouldn’t do for us to release them and have everybody looking for the Chief Constable, would it?’
‘I see,’ she stated, ‘so now you need something with Mr Hilditch’s fingerprints on it so you can eliminate him from your enquiries.’
Phew! Couldn’t have put it better myself. ‘Quite,’ I said. She thought for a while. ‘I’ve washed his cup and the glass he uses. Let’s see what we can find.’
She came from behind her desk and headed for the door into the adjoining office. The tight skirt emphasised the classy chassis. I followed her, tripping over the waste-paper bin on the way.
The Chief Constable’s office was furnished in mahogany and leather. There were law books in a cabinet, drinks in another, and photographs from memorable moments in his career on the walls. Not a loose piece of paper to be seen anywhere. I had a look at the drinks cabinet and discovered that he was a Macallan man. That would gain him some of Gilbert’s respect.
‘What about his paperknife, Inspector?’ Miss Yates was examining his desk. I turned to face her. Hell’s goblins! She’d taken her spectacles off! The desk was totally bare except for a marble-based executive paper knife holder, essential for the job, complete with stainless steel knife. I held it between my fingertips and examined it as if I knew what I was doing.
‘Smashing,’ I said, ‘do you mind if I borrow this for an hour or two?’
She perched herself on the corner of his desk. As I faced her she drew up one long leg and folded her hands around her knee. ‘Not at all, Inspector. Did you say it was an interesting case?’
I dropped the knife into a plastic bag. ‘Very interesting. I’d like to tell you all about it sometime. Meanwhile, I’d better have this examined. Then I can bring it back to you’ – I gave her the smile – ‘personally.’
Fingerprints were in the middle of a panic. Every white male in the city who could run a mile in under five minutes with his trousers round his ankles was in the process of being eliminated from enquiries. The constable laid aside what he was doing and gave the knife a brush-over with aluminium flake. It didn’t show up too well against the bright metal, but he assured me there were some useful dabs present. He pressed strips of Sellotape over the smudges to lift them off. I could see them easily enough then. Chalk and soot are still used sometimes, but they have particles that squash flat when Sellotape is pressed on to them, distorting the image. This doesn’t happen with the ally flake. The sticky strips are then placed on pieces of clear plastic sheet, to produce instant negatives, thereby eliminating half of the photographic process.
‘Will they do?’ he asked. ‘Or do you want some contact prints making? They’ll take a while, I’m afraid.’
‘Make me some prints, please. There’s no immediate hurry.’ I wiped the powder from the paperknife, put it in an envelope with a note and posted it in the internal mail. The note read:
Dear Rita,
I’ve had to dash away. Thanks for the loan of the knife. (They were not Mr H’s prints, thank goodness.) I haven’t forgotten that I promised to tell you all about it.
Charles
PS I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to Mr H – it might not be good for my promotion prospects!!!
Or my breathing, I’d thought, as I folded it.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Hard physical exercise; that’s what I needed. I retrieved the gardening tools from the back of the shed and spent the rest of the day digging the old vegetable patch. It looked better for it, but my hands were blistered and my back felt dodgy. That evening I hobbled to the nearest pub for a couple of pints. It’s not my idea of a local, with its polystyrene beams and flickering electric candles. There were only four others in the place, all leaning on the one, short bar. They made little effort to move so I could be served. As I reached between them for my pint I accidentally let it drip on someone’s portable phone. One of them was complaining that he’d had to drive the Rover all the way to Leeds to fill up, because that’s where the company account was. I narrowly avoided puking down the back of his Pierre Cardigan. It didn’t work: next morning still found me drinking tea in the kitchen at four a.m.
I lunched in Whitby, after a three-hour drive, then went walkabout in the rain, looking for the address Longfellow had given me for Cakebread’s flat. It was in an imposing Victorian terrace, on the north side, near Captain Cook’s monument. I sat outside for over an hour, watching for comings and goings. Nobody came, nobody went. Whitby was as depressing as the weather, but without the possibility of changing in the near future. The front door of the building was not locked, so I entered and climbed the stairs. When I reached his door I took out the third key that had been in the envelope Gloria had given me. It wouldn’t even go in the lock. If it had fitted I don’t think I would have opened the door, but it would have been useful to know that I had the means to, at a more favourable time. Never mind, this wasn’t the real purpose of my journey. I went back to the car and set off up the coast.
I’d scoured the Ordnance Survey maps and the only PM I found was a place called Port Mulgrave, near Staithes, to the north of Whitby, and only thirty mi
les from Teesside airport. Captain Diaz had suggested we ask ourselves why Cakebread flew to Teesside. I was working on the lines that the drugs were dropped to accomplices waiting in a boat. He’d be flying in unrestricted airspace, and could easily divert twenty miles out to sea. It’d been done before. Port Mulgrave looked the perfect spot to bring the booty ashore.
The east coast doesn’t have the reputation of, say, Cornwall, as a hotbed of smuggling, but it happens. Not too long ago a major racket was exposed involving the importation of illegal immigrants, and recently a ton of cannabis was found on an oil rig service boat. The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced that I’d cracked the note’s last riddle. ‘Nineteenth-century port, used for exporting iron ore. Never commercially successful’ was the only reference I’d been able to find in the library. It was time to investigate first-hand. In the car I had my old walking gear and a pair of binoculars; today I was an ornithologist.
It was mid-afternoon when I parked about a mile down the road from the turn-off to Port Mulgrave. The rain was coming down as if the second flood was already here. I changed into my waterproofs, stuffed the binocs down the front of my cagoule, and went for a walk. Half an hour later I arrived at the clifftop overlooking the port. There was a hotel that would have been a perfectly sensible place to park. The cliffs here are not like the ones at Bempton or Dover. Although the overall height might be just as great, they don’t rise vertically from the sea. They slump against the land, at about forty-five degrees. Another noticeable difference is that they are not carved from chalk. Their chief component is mud.
A narrow path zigged and zagged down towards the broken little pier that jutted into the unwelcoming ocean. Skeins of rain flurried across the surface of the water. There were no buildings down there, just a couple of what looked like garden sheds, and a pair of boats dragged on to the shingle. I was hardly halfway down the path when two figures came out of one of the huts. I stopped and took out the binoculars. I had a good scan round, at nothing in particular, and proceeded downwards. I hadn’t looked at the two men; I’d already noticed that they were carrying shotguns.
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