The North American Tourist office in Leeds wasn’t quite as accommodating, but I laid it on good and thick, and convinced them that there really was a conspiracy to assassinate Mickey Mouse that only we could foil. They eventually found places for Nigel and Jeff on the Friday morning flight from Manchester. I think the deal was that they had to help serve the meals, but I didn’t mind. Today was Wednesday. I remembered that the pubs are open on a Wednesday round here, so I turned out the light and went to one.
Interpol have an office in London. I rang them early next morning. I rang them again a little later, after they’d arrived. They were interested and helpful.
‘What authority do my men need,’ I asked, ‘and can you find me a contact for them?’
‘All they need is authority from the local chief. We’ll arrange that. We’ll have to come back to you with a contact. Do you know where the boat is registered?’
‘Yes, Monrovia.’ I’d done my homework.
‘OK. In that case it’s important not to touch the stuff until it’s on the dock. While it’s on the ship it’s out of our, or the American, jurisdiction. Stay there, we won’t be long.’
They weren’t. ‘Right, Inspector Priest, here’s what’s happening. Your boys contact Lieutenant Tony diPalma, at 120th Precinct HQ. That’s Staten Island.
They look after the docks. We’ll have somebody there, too. They want to hit the receiver at their end, so the suggestion is, if the identifications are positive, you liaise directly with diPalma and coordinate the raids. Is that acceptable to you?’
I had a choice? ‘Sure, that’s fine,’ I told him. ‘Can you give me a number for diPalma?’
Suddenly the feeling hit me that I’d put Nigel and Jeff into something really heavy. They’d made one decent identification yesterday afternoon, and had gone straight on to the job this morning. I’d spoken to them both on the phone last night, and told them to pack a suitcase. I walked wearily up the stairs to Gilbert’s office and informed him of what I’d done on his behalf.
‘What was Partridge’s attitude?’ he asked, when I’d finished. He was making small talk while he juggled the situation in his mind.
‘Helpful,’ I replied. ‘He didn’t raise any objections at all.’
‘Mmm, that’s how I find him. Pity he didn’t land the Chief’s job. We really ought to make young Newley acting sergeant, don’t you think? His promotion should be through any time.’
‘Yes, I was about to mention it. One of them ought to be upped, and Nigel’s been in on it from the very beginning.’
‘Right, I’ll see what I can do.’ He fiddled with his pen, then said: ‘So what’s the programme from now on?’
‘Tomorrow,’ I stated, ‘is Friday. They fly to New York, introduce themselves to Loot … Lieutenant diPalma. Saturday the boat docks. Sunday, hopefully, the container will be on United States territory and they’ll have access to the contents. If we’ve done good we could be knocking on Wheatley’s door sometime Monday.’
‘Well it sounds straightforward enough. Charlie, how would you feel if we called in the Fraud Squad?’
So that’s why the old bugger was being so edgy. He was afraid I’d be annoyed at having my show taken away from me.
‘Come off it, Gilbert,’ I replied. ‘You know me better than that. Call in the Yorkshire Light Infantry if it helps. Why? What are you thinking?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just that you’ve a lot invested in this one. I was thinking he’s probably up to his neck in all sorts of things. Why limit our enquiries to this little scam? They might be able to find something in his files.’
‘Right, good idea,’ I replied. I was delighted with the suggestion. ‘Then we’ll need a Special Procedures Warrant.’
‘Signed by a judge,’ sighed Gilbert. ‘Shouldn’t be too difficult to find a sympathetic one; they all live in houses stuffed to the rafters with quietly mouldering antiques.’
‘Ah, yes,’ I told him, ‘but they were new when they bought them.’
I drew a column of numbers on a sheet of paper, representing the twenty-four-hour clock, then I wrote another column alongside showing the corresponding time in New York and pinned the sheet on the wall. It looked as if diPalma should be at work so I dialled his number. He was around, somewhere. They transferred me. I was transferred several more times. Eventually a voice out of Damon Runyon came on and said: ‘Yes, Father?’
‘Pardon?’ was the best I could do.
‘DiPalma here. How can I help you, Father?’
‘Hello, Lieutenant. This is Inspector Priest, from the British police force; Charlie Priest. A couple of my men are coming over to see you, so I thought I’d make contact and introduce myself.’
‘Ha ha! They just said some priest was after me. How are you, Charlie?’
‘Fine. I never actually signed a vow of chastity – it’s just worked out that way.’
‘Hey, man, you must have married my wife’s sister. Call me Tony. When do your boys arrive?’
Acting Detective Sergeant Newley and Detective Constable Caton were taken to the airport by Mad Maggie and seen safely on their way. I’d given them strict instructions about contacting me after every stage of the enquiry. They were armed with photographs of several items from Wheatley’s list and had spoken to three of the previous owners. From them they had received extremely detailed descriptions, so they were now able to positively identify at least four pieces. I’d have preferred it to be more, but it should be enough. I stayed in the office and wore out the carpet.
When Maggie arrived back she reported that they were safely airborne and on time. ‘Oh, and Nigel said not to forget it’s the walk on Sunday,’ she added.
It had slipped my mind that it was the weekend for the Walking Club to go out. We’d had five or six expeditions and it had been a huge success, although a few were dropping out now the bad weather was here.
‘Dammit!’ I said. ‘I had forgotten. Where are we supposed to be going?’
‘Edale,’ she told me.
‘Derbyshire. Ah, well, that’s not too bad. We could be in the pub by lunchtime.’
Nigel rang me late Saturday night to say the Alpha Carrymaster had docked dead on schedule. Everybody was friendly and later that evening they were hitting the town with some of the boys from 120th Precinct. I looked at my mug of cocoa and dressing gown and felt old, but decided I had no desire to trade places with him.
The walk went well, even though it was misty on the high ground. We went over Kinder Scout to have a look at the Downfall. This is the only waterfall in the world where the water travels upwards. The breeze was obligingly from the right direction, so we had a good display, to the disbelief of those who hadn’t seen it before. Then I showed Sparky’s kids how to plot a compass course over the cloughs, back to Edale and the pub.
I was home well before Nigel was due to ring. ‘Bad news, boss,’ he said when he did come on. ‘The container’s off the ship, but we haven’t been able to get to it. Should be OK for tomorrow.’
I wasn’t perturbed; things never run as smoothly as planned. If this was the only hitch we’d done well. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I told him. ‘Ring me same time tomorrow.’
It would have been nice, though, to know we weren’t on a wild-goose chase. I went upstairs to have a shower, then remembered I’d already had one, so, after making a couple of phone calls, I went to the local instead.
I was grateful for the delay – I awoke on Monday morning feeling dreadful. Must have been something I’d eaten. Fraud Squad were itching to get their hands on Wheatley’s files. We were planning a cross-border raid to arrest him soon after we received positive news from Nigel, timed to coincide with similar action in New York. We reluctantly agreed to allow the Americans the pleasure of delivering a seven a.m. knock at the door; we’d have to be patient and wait until lunchtime.
Nigel rang earlier than expected. He didn’t mess about: ‘Success, boss,’ he told me. ‘We’ve identified the
ink stain in the drawer of the Queen Anne bureau, that’s item eleven on the list; the wrong hinge on item thirteen, George III writing cabinet; the bit knocked off the leg of item two, Chippendale dressing table …’
‘The chipped Chippendale,’ I said.
‘Pardon?’
‘Never mind, go on.’
‘Er, and item six, the Victorian table with the writing, that you found.’
‘Well done. What about the rest of it?’
‘Everything here could be on the list, as far as I can tell, but there are a couple of items on the list that aren’t here, if you follow.’
‘Yeah. He probably siphoned off one or two choice pieces for his private collection. So you’re confident that we can put Operation Bang Brian Behind Bars into action?’
‘You bet, boss.’
‘OK, tell Loot … Lieutenant diPalma – my pal Tony – that we are go for tomorrow. I’ll be in my office from six a.m., your time. Is Jeff with you?’
‘Sure, boss, do you want him?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Hi, boss, it’s Jeff.’
‘Hello, Jeff, how’s it going so far?’
‘Great, a bit different from back home though. We’ve been out on patrol a few times. It’s a crazy place, not my cup of tea.’
‘Have you been invited on the raid tomorrow?’
‘No, not so far.’
‘Good, keep out of it if you can, but it’s up to you. If you do go, keep an eye on Goldenballs, you know what he’s like.’
‘OK, boss.’
‘Ring me in the morning; ‘bye.’
Sparky went over first, to locate Wheatley and keep tabs on him. His office was built on to the side of his rather desirable converted farmhouse, and he was at home. Nearer the time, a team from Fraud Squad joined Sparky. All I was waiting for was a call from diPalma, then I’d send them in. The phone rang, but it was DC Sparkington.
‘It’s Dave, boss. Wheatley’s just received a visitor.’
‘In a car? Could you see his number?’
‘No, not all of it, only the letters – ABC. It’s a Rolls Royce. Just thought you’d be interested.’ I rang diPalma. Fortunately he was in.
‘Hi, Charlie, we’re just moving into position. What time is it with you?’
‘Happy hour. Can we make a slight change of plan, Tony? How about if I say we go in, say … forty-five minutes from now?
‘No problem. That makes it … seven-o-five local time.’
‘Got it; five past the hour. Good luck.’
I passed the change of plan on to the team outside Wheatley’s house, then dashed downstairs and into the car, determined to be there, with them.
For once there were no roadworks, so I made it with nearly ten minutes to spare. Billy Morrison, an inspector with the Fraud Squad, was in overall command. I walked up to his car and he wound down the window.
‘Hello, Charlie, you’re keen. Thought you were staying out of the cold,’ he said.
‘Hello, Billy. I want to take a dekko at Cakebread. I’ve a score to settle with him, sometime.’
‘Do you want to take over? It’s your show.’
‘No, be my guest. I’ll try to keep out of your way.’ He looked at his watch, saying: ‘Twelve o’clock. Are we to wait five minutes?’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘Let’s go.’
Billy, Sparky and myself went up to the house. The others stayed handy outside the gate. Three right hands dipped into inside pockets and removed warrant cards. A woman answered the door; ash-blonde, glamorous, made-up and bejewelled. Billy did the talking.
‘Police, madam, we’d like to see Mr Wheatley.’
She looked flustered for a second, but quickly recovered. ‘I’ll, er, I’ll see if he’s in,’ she said, and attempted to shut the door in our faces. Billy was too quick for her though, and we all followed him into the hallway. It oozed expense. Not taste, not class, just expense. Bit like the woman.
‘Who is it, darling?’ said a voice, and a man came out of a doorway in front of us. He had bleached hair, long at the back, and a suntan. He looked like an ageing pop singer who’d fallen into a time warp. He was half into an overcoat, and Cakebread was immediately behind him.
‘Are you Brian Wheatley, sir?’ asked Billy.
‘Yes. Who the hell are you?’
‘DI Morrison, and this is DI Priest and DC Sparkington. Do you mind going back in there, please, we’d like to ask you a few questions.’
I watched Cakebread’s face as my name was mentioned. His eyebrows shot up so far they nearly dislodged his toupee. Wheatley huffed and puffed and made mysterious threats, but we all ended up back in the room he had left a moment earlier. The desk and chair could have come from the oval office.
‘Who are you, sir?’ Billy asked Cakebread, but it didn’t sound polite.
‘My name’s Cakebread, and this is outrageous! We’re just on our way to an important lunch appointment. You can’t come barging in …’
‘Shut up and sit down,’ I ordered.
To my disappointment he did both. My next line was going to be to threaten to stuff his ferret down his throat, but I never got to deliver it; you never do.
Billy offered Wheatley a picture of one of the antiques, saying: ‘Do you recognise the piece of furniture shown here? It’s a Queen Anne bureau.’
‘No,’ he replied, without looking.
‘Do you recognise this list?’
‘No.’
‘It’s a list relating to a claim you made recently on RDW Insurance.’
‘No comment.’
‘Fuck me!’ said Cakebread, looking exasperated. ‘You’re not still trying to pin one of them on us, are you? Why don’t you stop wasting your time and ours?’
I said: ‘Six weeks ago you forwarded six crates to the United States, via Big Ocean Transport. Could you tell us what was in them?’
No reply.
‘Brian Wheatley,’ began DI Morrison, ‘I’m arresting you on a charge of attempting to defraud the RDW insurance Company. That’ll do for starters. You are not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you. We also have a warrant to search these premises, so can we have your keys? It’ll save us damaging the locks.’ He patted a filing cabinet and held up the warrant.
Wheatley looked shocked, but the defiance soon returned. ‘These files are confidential; you’ve no right to look at them,’ he claimed triumphantly.
‘Unfortunately for you, sir, that’s not true. This is a Special Procedures Warrant, which gives us access to everything. Your keys, please.’
He stared at the sheet of paper in disbelief, then tossed the keys on to the table.
‘Dave …’ said Billy, gesturing with a nod towards the prisoner.
Sparky moved round the desk and handcuffed him. ‘Just one hand, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s a long ride, and we don’t want you to get cramp, do we?’
‘Where are you taking him?’ demanded Cakebread.
‘Heckley.’
‘Heckley! Don’t worry, Brian, I’ll ring Simon, he’ll be there before you are.’
You know you’ve got trouble when they’re on first names with their briefs. Sparky, myself and another DC took Wheatley back to Heckley, leaving the Fraud boys loose on the files. Rather them than me. Simon was Simon Mingeles. He didn’t beat us back, but his reputation had already preceded him. Word had it that he would have mitigated in favour of Vlad the Impaler, on the grounds of him not being allowed sharp toys as a small boy. We weren’t worried; it was a good nick, as long as we played it straight.
Next morning Wheatley appeared before the local magistrates, for committal to the crown court. We’d attempted a taped interview with him, but, at Mingeles’s prompting, he’d just delivered a succession of ‘No comments’. It was his right to do so. We didn’t push it, and the interview was terminated in a couple of minutes. He’d have a bigger problem in front of a judge, when confronted with the evidence. Mingeles
had a long, whispered conversation with him, no doubt about their tactics to ensure that he was given bail. Our chances of keeping him in were slim, so we didn’t try.
‘No opposition to bail,’ said the prosecutor from the CPS, before Mingeles could practise his oratory. Wheatley didn’t get value for money from him that morning.
The Fraud Squad found plenty to interest them in Wheatley’s office, and it looked as if the Inland Revenue and the VAT inspector would also be having words with him. In New York, diPalma’s men had made several arrests. They’d found a cache of stolen property and a small quantity of drugs. None in the shipment, though. They were pleased, and so was I.
Maggie popped her head round the door and announced that she was leaving for Manchester, to pick up Newley and Caton; their flight was due in at one p.m. I rewarded myself with a cooked meal in a cafe on the high street. It had the added attraction of not being licensed: I’d decided to make a more determined effort to go teetotal.
By late afternoon I’d put our case against Wheatley down on paper, with the rider that other charges would follow. Transcribing the taped interview didn’t take long.
‘How many lower-case is in gullible?’ asked Tony Willis.
‘Four,’ I told him.
‘Thanks.’
‘Pleasure.’
Then the phone rang.
‘DI Priest, Heckley Police,’ I said.
‘Boss, it’s Maggie,’ she said, without her normal self-assurance. ‘I’m still at Manchester airport.’
‘What’s the problem, Maggie?’
‘The plane. It was delayed, but it landed nearly an hour ago. I’m in security now. We’ve checked the passenger list and Jeff and Nigel weren’t on it.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I must have been mad to send them to New York. This was my war, my private vendetta, I should have handled it myself. An image of George, slumped over the passenger seat of his E-type, flashed through my brain, as it had done, on and off, during the sporadic disturbed nights I’d had since. Training and instinct soon took over, fortunately.
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