The Picasso Scam dcp-1

by Stuart Pawson

  I'd no plan. I just wanted to get the feel of the place, so that if I ever came back it wouldn't be a surprise to me. I'd hang around a while, then maybe look for his home, The Ponderosa. What other names could he have chosen for his mansion, I wondered? A combination of their respective mo nickers would be about right. Eunaub had a certain style to it. Or maybe they'd prefer something a little more up-market, like… The Summer Palace.

  Suddenly he was there, getting into the Roller. He was even fatter than I remembered him. The gate man came out of his little office and raised the barrier and the Rolls swept imperiously through, the way that Rollses do.

  He could have forgotten his cigar clipper and come back for it, so I waited ten minutes before driving up to the little gatehouse that stood between me and the secrets of the Cakebread empire.

  "I've come to see Mr. Cakebread; he is expecting me," I told the gate man "I'm afraid you've just missed him, sir, he left a few minutes ago."

  "Oh dear. I've a rather important message for him." I tried to look suitably downcast and waved my ID card in his direction. "Do you think I could have a word with his secretary?"

  "Certainly, sir. Do you know where to find her?"

  "Yes, I think so, thanks."

  He raised the barrier and I was through. I tried to watch him in the rear-view mirror but didn't see anything. He hadn't had the opportunity to read the name on my ID, but it was a fair bet that he wrote my registration number in his log book.

  What the hell, I thought, no point in letting it grow cold, and parked in the spot marked ABC, so recently vacated by the man himself. Just inside the front entrance was a receptionist's desk, combined with a switchboard. I gazed at the blonde sitting behind it with awe.

  Geological forces were at work underneath her blouse. The thin material was struggling to conceal a demonstration of plate tectonics.

  Continents were in collision.

  "Can I help you?" she asked with a brassy smile, as she looked up from her True Romances.

  "Er, yes," I stumbled out, endeavouring to hold her gaze. Oh, to have the eyes of a chameleon, one to look here, the other to look there. "I, er, was hoping to see Mr. Cakebread."

  "Oh! you've just missed him. He left about five minutes ago, for the airport. He's flying to Spain. He has his own plane, you know, flies himself all over the place. I think it's ever so exciting." She went glassy-eyed with the romance of travel, then the receptionist training resurfaced: "Would you like to speak to anybody else, Mr…?"

  "No, it had to be Aubrey. I'm a policeman, and I needed a word with him. Any idea when he'll be back?"

  A look of shock spread across her face, and she exclaimed: "Oh my God!

  The policeman, where did I put it?" and started rummaging frantically in her desk. "Here it is!" she cried triumphantly, holding aloft a manila envelope. She looked at the front of it and read: "Mr.

  Hilditch, is that you?"

  "Yes, that's me," I lied, taking the envelope and putting it in my pocket. "Now you know my name, you have to tell me yours."

  She gave me the warm, confident smile of someone who has narrowly missed making a cock-up and doesn't yet know they have made an even bigger one. "Gloria," she told me, coyly.

  "It suits you," I said. "How long have you worked for Aubrey?" We were interrupted by the telephone. While she tried to connect somebody I had a glance round. No Van Goghs or Monets were hanging on the walls, dammit.

  "Only about a month, well, this is my third week. I started in the office, then he made me his receptionist."

  "Do you like working for him?"

  "Ooh yes, ever so much. Did you know he's a multimillionaire? He's got a plane and a boat, and flats all over the place. Says he'll take me on his boat one day." She was looking dreamy again.

  "Whereabouts in Spain has he gone? Do you know, Gloria?"

  "Marbella, I think. He's got a boat there. Don't know where it is but I've heard of it. Sounds ever so romantic. Do you ever go to any of his parties, Mr. Hilditch?"

  "It's Ernest, you can call me Ernie. Yes, I've been to a couple at The Ponderosa. Old Aubrey certainly knows how to throw a party."

  "Oh, I'd love to go to The Ponderosa. I meant the parties he holds here, in his suite upstairs."

  "No. To tell the truth, I didn't know he had a suite here.

  Crafty so-and-so's kept it a secret from me. Probably scared I'll pinch all the girls."

  "It's fabulous," she gushed, 'carpets up to your knees, and the colours are gorgeous everything matches. He showed me round it once. Says he'll invite me to the next party."

  "I might see you there, then." The clock behind her head showed a quarter to twelve. "How about letting me take you for a bite of lunch?

  What time are you free?"

  Her smile looked almost demure. "That will be lovely," she cooed.

  "About half past twelve; is that all right?"

  "That's fine. Where shall I pick you up? Can you get out of the door at the side?"

  "No, I don't think so. I'll meet you just outside the gatehouse, if that's okay."

  "Perfect. So I'll see you in three-quarters of an hour; it's a long time to wait."

  I drove away feeling like a prospector who isn't sure if he's struck gold or diamonds. I headed out of town until I found a suitable pub that served food, so that it looked as if I knew my way around. I parked and took the lumpy envelope from my inside pocket. It contained three keys and a note. One, a nondescript door key was on its own; the other two, a Yale and a Chubb, were on a keyring. The note read:

  Ernest,

  PM Tue. PM Thur.

  Alarm 4297 It was signed with a stylised ABC, similar to the logo on the vans.

  He'd obviously spent many hours practising it.

  When I arrived back at ABC House I parked just outside the side door.

  Looking as if I had every right to be there I tried the Yale key in the lock. It turned. Then I tried the Chubb and that fitted, too. I left the door as I'd found it and set off round to the gatehouse to wait for Gloria. That's when the diamond mine fell in.

  As I stopped in the road just short of the entrance, a maroon Daimler did a right turn across the front of me. It was driven by the one and only, the inimitable, appearing for the first time in person, Ernest Hilditch, Chief Constable of the East Pennine force. After a brief word the barrier was raised, and soon he was, no doubt, addressing the considerable charms of Gloria. After a couple of minutes he came storming out and slammed the Daimler's door behind him. As he tore towards the exit the barrier was raised, but he screeched to a halt and leapt out to accost the gate man After a few violent gestures they went into his office. Chief Constable Hilditch was playing at being a policeman, collecting car numbers. Somebody was up Shit Creek with a duff outboard, and it looked like me.

  My appetite had gone, so I went straight back to the office. Nigel and Tony Willis were in, going through some cases, solved and unsolved, looking for common denominators.

  I gave them a terse "Any messages?" as I hung up my jacket. It was my I Mean Business entrance.

  "Two," Nigel told me. "Your friend at the Fraud Squad said to tell you that rumour has it that the American private eye firm, Winkler's, are over here and asking a lot of questions in the shady market. He thinks you may be on to something."

  "Good, and the other?"

  "Limbo said be sure not to miss her promotion do tomorrow night."

  I caught Tony's gaze and flashed a glance up at a poster on the wall.

  It was headed: "Racism and Sexism', and went on to say that these would not be tolerated, and any officer hearing racist or sexist language should address it immediately.

  "Who's Limbo?" I asked him.

  "WPC Limbert, Kim Limbert. She moves to the city on the first, as sergeant."

  We sat in silence for a few moments, then I asked: "Have you ever thought that she might find being called Limbo offensive?"

  "Gosh, no," he confessed, 'it never occurred to me. Everybody calls her Li
mbo."

  "Not everybody," I stated.

  Nigel was embarrassed at being caught out, and fell silent. I wouldn't have let him off the hook, but Tony was working with him, so after a while he threw out a lifeline. "Do you still fancy Kim, Charlie?"

  I thought about it, leaning back in my chair and looking up at the ceiling. "Yes, I think I do, but I've stopped dreaming about her.

  Unless I dream about her and forget."

  "Not enough meat on her for me. I prefer something you can dig your fingers into."

  Nigel was looking from one of us to the other, growing visibly agitated.

  "Naw," I disagreed, "I like them tall and skinny. It's like wrestling with a boa constrictor, lots of points of contact and intertwining limbs."

  Nigel could contain himself no longer. "What about sexism?" he demanded, "When are you going to start addressing sexism?"

  "Good point, boss," Tony admitted. "When do we start addressing sexism?"

  I thought about it for ten seconds before making my pronouncement:

  "Mariana," I said.

  Chapter Six

  Nobody told me I was sacked, so I carried on as normal. We had a murder during the night and I was called from my bed. That's fairly normal. Neighbours had heard a couple having a violent fight and the husband had stormed off in his car. Definitely normal. Four hours later, when the eighth playing of Barry Manilow's Greatest Hits was still keeping them awake, the neighbours called the police. Playing Barry Manilow's Greatest Hits eight times on the trot is definitely abnormal behaviour our boys were there in minutes. They pulled the plug on the CD player, then looked for the wife.

  He'd made a good job of her. In the kitchen there was a rack with enough chefs knives on it to equip the Catering Corps. I'd seen them advertised in the colour supplements. He'd found a novel use for the cleaver on the end. I drew on my years of police training and told Command and Control to find the husband's car. A bright constable recognised the number as being involved in an accident he had attended at the beginning of his shift. Our man had gone off the road two miles from home, and was now in the General, waiting to have his broken thigh placed in traction.

  "He's all yours," I told DS Willis, 'and if he won't confess, swing on his wires. But make sure his solicitor is looking the other way."

  There was no point in going home, so I hung around the station until the canteen opened. I was snoozing in the office when I received a call from a probation officer called Gav Smith. Could he come round to see me sometime?

  "Come round now and I'll treat you to a bacon sandwich," I said. My stomach hadn't seen food for twelve hours and was considering suing my mouth for desertion. The popular conception is that we catch criminals and the Probation Service try to get them off. It sometimes seems that way to me, too, but they have an important and difficult job to do.

  Well, they say they have. I'd met Gavin professionally plenty of times, mainly at various committee meetings, but never socially. I was intrigued to know what he wanted: probation officers have a befriending role with their clients, and no doubt learn lots of stuff we'd find useful.

  I met him at the desk and took him to the canteen. "Two bacon sandwiches, please, one with all the fat cut off and cooked till it frizzles, in a toasted bun; the other as it comes. And two teas: one weak, no milk and three sugars; the other as it comes."

  I joined him at the table. "What's it all about, Gavin?" I asked. I refused to join the Gav conspiracy.

  "I had a client die of a heroin OD at the weekend. There's aspects of the case that I think the police ought to know."

  "Go on."

  "He was a pleasant lad, only seventeen. Brighter than most of our customers; very bright, in fact. He was in trouble for stealing to pay for his habit. An older man, about thirty, had made friends with him and took him to parties and discos. He introduced him to Ecstacy, said he could pay for it later. Jason got hooked on it. We think it must have been laced with something else; you don't get hooked on E like he was. Then they started chasing the dragon; it still seemed like good fun. Next he was having to inject, but by now he owed several hundred pounds to the pusher. He was caught robbing an old lady who had just collected her pension. In his right mind he wouldn't have dreamed of doing anything like that. That's when we got him. I tried to persuade him to grass on the pusher, but he wouldn't. Then during one of our talks, he let a name slip. Parker, that's all. He begged me to keep it to myself, and I had to, to maintain my credibility. I was working on ways of letting you know, but on Sunday he died. Massive overdose of uncut heroin. Somebody's poisoning our kids, Charlie. The streets are flooded with the stuff."

  The sandwiches arrived; they were both As They Come. Gavin was visibly distressed, but he wolfed his sandwich down; he seemed hungrier than I was. I thought about what he had told me.

  "Parker, just Parker?"

  "Afraid so. Doesn't narrow it down much, does it?"

  "That's okay, it's a starting point." Providing it's not just his pen name. I wrestled with my sandwich and sipped my tea.

  "A couple of weeks ago we caught three youths trying to rob the owner of a Chinese restaurant," I told him. "They were all first-offenders and they all had syringe marks on their arms. They're doing cold turkey on remand now. Last week we caught three schoolgirls stealing handbags. When their rooms were searched no drugs were found, but they had all the paraphernalia associated with the scene: posters, weird records, that sort of stuff. Plus their parents and teachers were alarmed at the deterioration in the girls' behaviour recently. You're right, we're just seeing the tip of the iceberg."

  The other reason for talking in the canteen was to escape the constant interruptions of the telephone. It didn't work. "It's for you, Mr.

  Priest," the manageress called out. I went behind the counter to take it.

  "Is that Inspector Priest?" asked the voice, flatly. Male, northern accent, unemotional.

  "Yes, who's that, please?"

  "Never mind. I've some information for you, and for you only. Meet me at the Coiners Arms, tonight, seven o' clock." And he was gone. Today was turning into Let's Tell Charlie Day.

  "I'll have to go, Gavin. Thanks for the information, I'll let you know if we make anything of it."

  "I just hope you can catch whoever's pushing this stuff," he answered.

  "Do you think they'll let me have another bacon sandwich?"

  I granted him the Freedom of the Canteen and went up to the office.

  Mike Freer is an old boozing pal from the days before I found out that a crutch made out of liquid is about as useful as a blancmange stepladder. He's also an inspector on the city Drug Squad. His office told me he wasn't in, but they'd get him to ring me as soon as possible, night or day.

  DS Willis obtained a confession from the husband, and statements from acquaintances and the neighbours. Our man had been thumping his wife for years, usually when he came home from the pub heavily under the influence. Last night one of his drinking companions had let it slip that the wife was having an affair with a work mate He'd drowned his sorrows, then taken his vengeance. On the wife, of course. That type has a strong opinion of where blame lies.

  "Did you have to twang his wires?" I asked.

  "No," Tony answered, "I just hung my jacket on the weights."

  "What about his solicitor?"

  "No, just my jacket."

  I'd obtained copies of the depositions for the three youths we'd called the Mountain Bike Gang. These are the statements that are presented to court. I read the names out loud, then asked: "Which of them would you say was the best-looking?"

  "Lee Ziolkowski," Sparky replied. "He's the fair-haired one, a bonny lad. I've always wanted fair hair." He looked wistful. "Or dark hair. Any sort of friggin' hair, actually."

  I set to work on Lee's depositions with white paper and scissors and gum. Then, after a visit to the photocopier, I placed the results of my handiwork in the typewriter and let my imagination plummet.

  Sometimes I can be so
mean I frighten myself.

  The Coiners is one of the oldest pubs in the area. There's never been much mining for minerals in the southern Pennines; all the lead and stuff was to the north. But there's supposed to be plenty of gold waiting to be found. The pub gets its name from a neat little scam that was carried out in these hills at the beginning of the nineteenth century.

  The Industrial Revolution was giving local businessmen more money than they knew what to do with, but, true to form, they were ever on the lookout for opportunities to increase that wealth. Legally or illegally.

  A gang living in the hills developed an ingenious technique for putting a gold sovereign in a mould and then bleeding off a couple of drops of the precious stuff. A fifteen percent profit, overnight, minus commission, had half of Yorkshire, Lancashire and Derbyshire beating a path to their cave. It all came to an end when they were hanged on York Knavesmire, as a prelude to the day's racing, but legend has it that there is still a million pounds worth of gold hidden somewhere in them thar hills.

  None of this was on my mind as I drove towards the Coiners after leaving the office. My main concern was whether they served food, closely followed by wondering what my mystery caller had for me.

  Hallelujah! There was a big sign outside that read "Home of Peggy Watt's Famous Yorkshire Puddings'. Wild Bill Hickok sat with his back to the door and paid for it with his life, so I sat in a corner where I could view the entire room. There was nobody else in, apart from the landlord, who seemed to resent my intrusion. I drank four orange juices with lemonade as slowly as I could, and ate one of Peggy Watt's puddings as rapidly as I was able. Two other men, apparently regulars, came in and had a serious discourse on tupping while sipping halves.

  The Yorkshire pudding had the consistency of a marathon runner's insole. Peggy would have been better employed helping ill their Jimmy with his steam engine; or perhaps he had to invent the steam engine to stir the bloody stuff.