‘That’s it. There are several small, smudged impressions on the glove, which match with the ones on the knife, but nothing big enough to give us sixteen points of similarity in one dab.’
‘Which the law requires.’
‘To make it conclusive, yes.’
‘How many points have we?’
‘Three, maybe four, plus a couple elsewhere.’
‘Mmm. You reckon it’s him, though?’
‘No doubt about it.’
‘Great, I’m grateful for what you’ve told me. Any chance of a report for me by five o’clock, the full works?’
‘No problem, Mr Priest. In fact, for you, four o’clock.’
I put the phone down, punched the air with my fists and gave a rebel yell. Nigel popped his head round the door, a big smile illuminating his tanned face.
‘Won the pools, boss?’
I thumped the palm of my hand. ‘We’ve got the bastard, Nigel, we’ve got the bastard.’
‘Who, Cakebread?’
I calmed down, stared at him and shook my head. ‘Sorry, Nigel, I can’t tell you; not just yet. But I will do, soon. Do you know if Mr Wood’s in?’
Gilbert was in an SDO’s meeting at city HQ. I asked the secretary to get a message to him to ring me, pronto. He came out of the meeting straight away.
‘I can’t tell you anything on the phone,’ I said, ‘but there’s been a development. I need to see you, soon as poss. What time will your meeting finish?’
‘Are you talking about your friend in Lancashire?’
‘Yes.’
‘We try to finish about three thirty. Do you want me to come back to the office? I usually sneak off home.’
‘No. Do you mind coming to my house? I’ll get off a bit early.’
‘OK, Charlie, I’ll be there four thirtyish.’
‘Thanks, boss.’
I made a pot of tea and struck out the biscuits. ‘I’ll be looking like tea and biscuits soon,’ grumbled Gilbert, going straight for the chocolate. ‘What’s it all about?’
I told him about my trip to Port Mulgrave, and what I’d found in the tunnel. He listened with pained resignation. When I’d finished I slid the Fingerprints report over to him. After he’d had a chance to study it I told him: ‘I know it’s not conclusive – a good defence lawyer would tear it to shreds; but statistically, that glove was worn either by Chief Constable Hilditch or a Mongolian witch doctor in the tenth century. A court would give him the benefit of the doubt, but I know who my money’s on.’ I could feel my voice and my temper rising as I said the words.
We sat in silence for a while, then Gilbert said: ‘So what are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know; it’s out of my league. I suppose I should go to either the Home Secretary or HMI. I’d hoped you might have some ideas.’
‘That prat in the striped shirt would sell the story to the tabloids.’
‘Probably,’ I sighed. ‘So it’s the inspectorate?’
‘What if he just clammed up and denied everything?’ asked Gilbert.
Suddenly I didn’t feel so confident. ‘He’d be retired on ill health, and I’d work out my time helping schoolkids across the street,’ I answered.
‘Correct. They’d say you were tired and emotional. What about seeing him?’
‘It’d crossed my mind. He’s not likely to break down and confess, though, is he? Or are you talking about a deal?’
‘Possibly. How would you feel if he saved his own skin by grassing on the others?’
‘Unhappy.’
‘So would I; we could end up as incriminated as him.’
It was the first time Gilbert had used the plural; I’d been thinking I was in this on my own. I went into the kitchen to replenish the teapot.
After a few moments Gilbert shouted after me: ‘How well do you know him?’
‘Hilditch? Hardly at all,’ I yelled back.
I poured us both another cup.
‘I know him a bit better than that,’ he said. After a while he went on: ‘What if I went to see him?’
I felt relieved. Gilbert’s responses so far were a disappointment to me. ‘I’d feel better, but what’s changed?’
‘Nothing, but he knows you’re conducting a vendetta against Cakebread. He’d be on the defensive. I’ll just wave the file under his nose and say we’ve found his dabs in a cave used by drug smugglers. See what his reaction is.’
‘It’s a tunnel; they’re not the Pirates of Penzance. Sounds good to me, though. What if he suggests a deal?’
‘It’s your case, Charlie. Who are you really after?’
‘I don’t know, but if he wants to talk turkey, the price is a shedful. I’ll leave it to you.’
Gilbert finished his tea. ‘I’ll take this,’ he said, holding up the file. ‘I’ll ring him from home, then let you know what’s happening.’
‘Cheers.’
I don’t normally pass on the dirty work, but I was grateful to let this one go. It wasn’t as cut and dried as I’d first thought. Gilbert rang me at seven.
‘I’m just setting off. I’m seeing him at eight. He’s moved to bloody Harrogate.’
‘I’ve been thinking, Gilbert,’ I said. ‘Do you think you ought to have a driver with you?’
‘No, you know the score. Wait up for me, I’ll call in on my way back.’
An hour there, an hour back, an hour talking. That came to ten o’clock. Say eleven. I cooked a meal fit for a condemned man and hardly touched it. It passed the first hour, though. The next four weren’t filled so easily. I tried luxuriating in the bath, with a couple of cans of beer, but the beer warmed almost as quickly as the water cooled. It had seemed a good idea. I watched some bad TV, then went into the garage to talk to the E-type. The dust sheets slid to the floor like a neglige off a beautiful woman. I ran my fingers along the curves, then unlocked the door and slid in. I sat there for a long time, thinking about people I’d known, messes I’d made. I wondered how much it would sell for.
It was after midnight when I went to bed, annoyed that Gilbert hadn’t rung. Earlier, I almost called Molly, to see if he was home, but I realised that would only make her as worried as I was. I was still awake when I heard a car in the road, followed by the doorbell ringing. I knew straight away, from Gilbert’s pallor, that something had gone wrong. I poured him a stiff Glenfiddich, with a very small one for myself. He downed his in one.
‘Hey, this isn’t Japanese muck, y’know,’ I told him, pouring another.
‘Cheers, Charlie, I needed that.’
When he’d composed himself I asked: ‘How’d it go?’
He sat looking at his hands, as if wondering where to begin, then said: ‘Bad, Charlie, really bad. I’d made it clear on the phone that he’d better see me. I think he had an idea what it was about. His wife was out, at a meeting, or something. I told him about the tunnel and the fingerprints. He said: “It’s that Priest, isn’t it, making wild accusations?” I said: “No, it’s me, and there’s nothing wild about that.” I showed him one of the photos, one taken from the paperknife. I didn’t bother explaining. He stared at it and started trembling.’
I had a sip of my drink and waited for him to continue.
‘I asked him how well he knew Cakebread; thought I’d give him an opening. He didn’t answer. After a while he said he needed a drink, did I mind if he fetched one? He stood up and went into the kitchen. While he was gone I had a look round the room, like you do. It’s cluttered with all that stuff you see in the supplements; mass-produced special editions, as if he didn’t know what to spend his money on. Then I saw the drinks cabinet in the corner. You’ll never guess what he drinks.’
‘What?’ I asked, remembering the Macallan I’d seen in his office.
‘Macallan,’ Gilbert replied.
‘Well at least he’s got taste in whisky,’ I said.
‘I walked over and opened the door to the kitchen,’ he continued. ‘He was standing at the far end, with his back to me. It’s a l
ong room. I said: “Mr Hilditch,” and he turned round. He was holding a shotgun, with the end of it in his mouth.’
‘Oh, no!’ I groaned.
‘He just looked at me for a moment, then pulled the trigger.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ I said, putting my head in my hands.
‘Do you mind if I have another?’
‘Of course not.’ I gestured towards the bottle. ‘Help yourself, I’ll run you home.’
‘That wasn’t the end of it. I was on the phone, trying to get some sense out of the local wallies, when I heard a car outside. It was Mrs Hilditch. I went out and locked the door behind me. She became hysterical. We had to drag her into a neighbour’s. I think that was the worst part.’
I didn’t have anything to offer, so I sat in silence. Gilbert took a sip and said: ‘I’ll say one thing, Charlie: it was bloody quick. He was dead before he hit the ceiling.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Another aspect of the backlash caused by our successes with the heroin pushers was that raids on chemists’ shops increased. The user who can’t obtain a regular fix of his chosen pick-me-up has a pharmacopoeia of alternatives. The ingenuity of the desperate addict, or the greedy pusher, knows no limits. Drugs that were discovered or invented to induce sleep, kill pain or calm the raging mind were soon found to produce very different effects when taken in massive doses, or mixed into cocktails.
The barbiturates are the most favoured alternatives to heroin. They also cause more deaths than all of the others put together – except booze and fags, of course. The problem is that the fatal dose is not many times greater than the effective dose. As the taker builds up tolerance he has to pump in more and more to get the same buzz. Unfortunately the lethal level does not increase in the same way. One day the two lines cross and another dopehead takes a one-way trip. We find them hunched in squalid bedsits or sprawled in public urinals, choked on their own vomit. It’s a long way from that first, laughing drag on a joint at someone’s party.
As soon as we recognised an increase in raids on pharmacies we visited all those on our patch and advised them to improve their security. Some chemists were amazingly complacent, but we eventually reversed the trend. This led to an increase in domestic burglaries, and then armed robberies. We felt as if we were standing in the middle of the Serengeti Plain, waving our arms about, trying to stop the wildebeest migrating. Serious violence was hiding in the long grass. Fortunately, the figures soon settled down to something like the norm, but it wasn’t due to our efforts: it was because supplies began to filter through again and the price dropped.
After long delays due to adjournments to allow for ‘further investigations’, the inquests into the deaths of O’Hagan and Hilditch were held. ‘Expedient’ is the kindest thing I can say about the first verdict. He’d been lawfully killed by a police officer who was not named, as it was not in the public’s interest to do so. It wasn’t in my interest, either, so I didn’t argue. He’d fired the first shot, and suffered the consequences. Nobody mentioned that he didn’t have a second.
If this was a whitewash, Hilditch got the full interior decorator treatment, complete with flock wallpaper. He was an overly conscientious officer, at the pinnacle of his profession, who had suffered a breakdown due to overwork. The rising crime figures, and his inability to stem them due to lack of resources, had caused him great distress. The Coroner said he’d borne an intolerable burden, and the Force would have difficulty replacing him. I wasn’t there; I just cut the bits out of the paper and put them in the file.
Superintendent Wood had given evidence to Her Majesty’s Inspectorate, and they interviewed me. They took copies of everything in the Picasso file. Nothing spectacular happened, but over the next few months and years jobs would be shuffled around, strangers from afar appointed in key positions, and traps set to snare the renegades. All most of us would ever know about it would be the odd, unexpected resignation.
We held our own inquests, of course. After hearing the shots, Sparky had come running into the bedroom, not knowing what to expect. Nigel, who wasn’t armed, had followed close behind. We’d been lucky this time, but under different circumstances it could have turned into a three-nil defeat. Gilbert gave me carte blanche to nail Cakebread.
* * *
All Monday mornings should be wet and foggy, particularly in November. This one set the standard for the others to be designed around. I’d just fired a rubber band at the window to see if I could make the raindrops run down faster when Nigel poked his head round the door.
‘Can I have a word, boss?’ he asked.
I swivelled my chair back to the desk. ‘No, I haven’t heard anything.’
‘It’s not about promotion,’ he said, coming in. ‘I was wondering if you watched Northern News on Saturday?’
‘No, I didn’t. My cup of tea was going cold, so I watched that instead.’ The onset of winter brings out the jollity in me.
‘Pity. You won’t have heard, then, that Percy the cat has turned up.’
I was worried about Nigel: he’d adopted a role model, and I wasn’t sure that I approved. ‘Close the door,’ I told him, resignedly. ‘Sit down and tell me all about Percy the cat.’
‘Well,’ he began, hardly able to contain his enthusiasm, ‘apparently, last Thursday, there was a fire in a small warehouse, near the middle of Oldfield. Nothing special, didn’t make the local news. The only casualty was Percy the cat, who was thought to have perished in the blaze. In fact, they blamed him for knocking over a heater and starting it.’
‘Fascinating,’ I said. It was marginally more riveting than racing raindrops on the window.
Nigel went on: ‘Well, on Saturday, to everybody’s relief, Percy turned up without a singe. That’s a story. Made Northern News and an interview with Linda Lovett.’
‘So he’s not a ginger cat,’ I suggested. ‘No, white. Why?’
‘Never mind. Tell me more. I presume there is more, or are this feline’s exploits the sum total of your reason for disturbing my morning?’
Nigel was enjoying himself. He said: ‘When I saw it on the news, I couldn’t help wondering who Percy’s master was, so this morning I’ve made a few enquiries.’
‘And …’
‘And he was Chief Mouser for Brian Wheatley Developments.’
I leant forward in the chair. ‘You mean they owned the warehouse?’
‘Yes.’
Well done, Nigel. I almost smiled, until I remembered that I’d smiled once already that morning. No point in becoming hysterical.
‘Is this the same Wheatley who’s Breadcake’s sidekick?’ I asked.
‘Yes, boss. I’ve checked our list of his companies, and it’s there.’
I nodded my approval. ‘Good work, Nigel. Now let’s have a think about our next move.’ Then I added: ‘On second thoughts, you’ve probably worked it all out. What do you suggest?’
‘Nothing much, really. The building was in an old area of town, probably not worth much. The site may be valuable. Then there’s the contents. It would be interesting to see what he’s claiming for.’
‘How do we find that?’
‘From the insurance company.’
‘And who tells us who they are?’ I asked. Nigel knew as well as I did that if at all possible we wanted to avoid involving the Oldfield police.
‘The fire brigade? Presumably they’d have to confirm that the place had burnt down.’
‘It’s worth a try. See what you can find out.’
Nigel left and I turned back to the raindrops. The window was covered with new ones, nowhere near as interesting as the ones I’d watched earlier. Here we go again, I thought. Where would this avenue lead us? Was I really conducting a vendetta against Cakebread, as some people believed? I was convinced that I wasn’t, but I was biased. ‘Keep shuffling the pieces,’ I told myself, ‘then, one day, they’ll all fall into place.’
It was lunch time when Nigel came back. He had a look on his face like Percy must have done whe
n Linda Lovett embraced him.
‘Any success?’ I asked.
‘Mmm … The local fire station is in Rochdale Road, Oldfield. I spoke to the station officer and they have confirmed details of the fire to RDW Insurance. Their claims manager, in Manchester, is a Mr Rollison. He’s already had a claim from Wheatley and he smells a rat.’
‘He’s not letting the grass grow under his feet, is he? What’s the claim for?’
Nigel paused for maximum effect, then told me: ‘A cool three hundred thousand pounds. Two hundred and twenty-five of which are for the contents. Wheatley claims that the place was stuffed to the rafters with antique furniture.’
I shook my head with disbelief. ‘How many times do the prats think they can get away with it?’ I wondered aloud. ‘So what’s happening next?’
‘Mr Rollison has asked Wheatley to see him this afternoon. Wheatley claims to have an itemised list of everything that was in the place, and Rollison has asked him for it.’
I allowed myself that second smile. ‘We need that list,’ I said.
‘In the morning,’ replied Nigel. ‘I’ve an appointment with Rollison at nine o’clock.’
‘Get your coat,’ I told him, rising to my feet. ‘It’s dinner time. I’ll buy you a Tomlinson’s pork pie in the Golden Scrotum.’
I went to Manchester with Nigel. I didn’t want to steal his glory, but I’d contacted the fire brigade and arranged to visit the burnt-out ruin afterwards, with Sub Officer Des Brown, of Green Watch. Or was it the other way round? To say Mr Rollison met us with enthusiasm is a bit like saying that Dante was quite pleased to see Beatrice. He pumped our hands and ordered coffee.
‘Do you think it was arson?’ he eagerly asked.
‘No idea,’ I replied, before Nigel could open his mouth. We were both studying copies of the list that Mr Rollison had ready for us. ‘We think some of these items may have – er – originated in our area.’
‘You mean they were stolen!’ he declared.
‘Now, now, Mr Rollison, that’s not what I said. Let’s just say we’re … interested.’
The Picasso Scam Page 17