The Picasso Scam dcp-1

by Stuart Pawson

  "Maybe they were making the short list for the next super's job," I suggested.

  "No way, Charlie. Hilditch was telling him that he wants you off the Force. Pronto and sine die. Mr. Partridge tried to reason with him, but he wouldn't listen. He ordered him to have you suspended, as from tomorrow, or else. What have you been up to, Charlie?"

  I thought about it for a few moments before I answered. Two possible courses of action occurred to me. The first one was very tempting, almost irresistible: invite Kim for a trip to a moorland pub in my new sports car to discuss the predicament.

  "Kim, it's best if you don't know what it's about just yet. What you don't know can't make a pig's ear, or something. You just show 'em you're the best sergeant they've got, and forget what you heard. And I promise I'll tell you all about it as soon as I can. Okay?"

  "I suppose so, you're the boss."

  "And I'm grateful. Any time you want a transfer to CID, just let me know."

  "We've had this conversation before, Charlie. I'd be no good: my profile's too high. Good detectives are grey and anonymous, they merge with the woodwork."

  "Ah, but we have all the fun. Good luck with the job, Kim, and thanks."

  I was smiling as I put the phone down, but I had a feeling that I ought not to be. I gave myself a mental ticking off for having misplaced priorities, and trudged upstairs to pack a suitcase. Kim's call had helped me make a decision. I had a lot to do, and not much time to do it in.

  Jimmy Hoyle told me, when I rang him, that the car was hunky-dory. He'd done a hundred and thirty, he claimed, on the M62 and she was as steady as a three-legged card table. But keep an eye on the oil level. I was about to ring Tony Willis, but I changed my mind and wrote him a note.

  Notes can't ask questions back. There were a few other things for him to attend to, but the main priority was the safety of Makinson and Rose. I instructed him to debrief them and act on whatever information they had gathered. I'd drop it through his letter box in the morning, on my way to Spain.

  A good night's sleep seemed more important than an early start, so I rose at my normal time. It was a brilliant sunny morning, as if to give me a foretaste of what to expect. I put the Jag out on the road and left the other car standing in its normal place, up against the garage door. I prat ted about for longer than I ought, checking this and that and wondering what I'd forgotten. I couldn't find any sunglasses, although I did have some, once, but I did find a baseball cap with NYPD on the front. Sparky's kids had brought it back from the States for me a few years ago. I pulled it on to my head and looked in the mirror. Not bad.

  "Okay, Frank," I said to myself out of the corner of my mouth, 'let's go!"

  The big engine rumbled into life immediately. I sat there for a few moments, feeling the car rocking gently beneath me, like the panting of a big cat pant hera onca readying itself for the chase. It was inevitable that I thought of Dad, and wondered how much of his shadow I was still living under. I selected first gear and eased out the clutch. Going towards the high street an extremely glossy black Rover passed in the opposite direction. The two occupants were uniformed, and the one in the passenger seat had silver braid on the peak of his cap. I pulled the NYPD down over my eyes and shot past them.

  After stuffing the note through the Willis letter box I filled up the fourteen-gallon tank. That should take me to the outskirts of Dover.

  There's a pay-phone at the garage, so I used it to ring the station. I told the desk sergeant that I wasn't very well and was having a day or two off sick, and to let Mr. Wood know. He was very sympathetic because it was unheard-of for me to be off, and asked me what the problem was.

  "Haemorrhoids," I told him. Make it something unglamorous and they're bound to believe you.

  "Ooh, nasty," he confided. "Have you tried Anusol? It's the only thing that works for me."

  Then I remembered what I'd forgotten. We'd defied the purists on two counts: Jimmy had fitted a pair of tasteful wing mirrors that the manufacturers had not deemed necessary, and I'd installed a radio cassette player. Unfortunately I'd forgotten to throw in any cassettes. A quick detour took me to the record shop. I picked up a Dylan I hadn't heard, then made for the classical section. I was looking for S for Sibelius, but on the way saw Rimsky-Korsakov, and decided that perhaps Capriccio Espanol was more appropriate.

  Eventually, much later than I had wanted, I found-myself heading cross-country to pick up the M1 southbound.

  The E-type was a revelation. By modern standards it was heavy on the controls, and the performance was probably no better than lots of other cars, apart from the hundred and fifty miles per hour top speed. But what it did do, par excellence, was turn heads. Drivers pulled over to let me through, and then turned to wave a friendly hand. Kids in back seats gave me the thumbs-up. When I stopped at a motorway cafe there was a constant procession of admirers gawping through the windows and standing well back to appreciate the graceful lines. I felt like a celebrity, and was surprised to discover that I enjoyed the feeling.

  Dover was reached by late afternoon. After filling up and buying a European road atlas I investigated the queue for the hovercraft. It wasn't as bad as I had expected, and eventually they squeezed me on. I think they quickly regretted their consideration when they realised how long the car was, and how difficult it was to manoeuvre, but we did it.

  Forty-five minutes later we were in France. I followed another vehicle for a few hesitant miles, until I recovered from the shock of driving on the right. The Jag's poor rearward visibility, combined with the fact that the steering wheel was now on the wrong side, meant that I had difficulty watching what was happening behind me. The obvious solution was to drive faster, then I'd be going away from it all.

  Immediate priorities were meal, bed, breakfast; preferably in that order. I drove steadily for about an hour, then, just as it was growing dark, pulled into the car park of one of the legendary Les Routiers. It was a disappointment, but bright and early next morning, stuffed full of croissants and twitchy on thick black coffee, I set about some serious motoring. Before going to bed I'd spent half an hour studying the maps and decided to travel south on the routes nation ales rather than the auto routes My intended course would take me to the west of Paris, through Orleans and Limoges, and touch the edge of the Massif Central in Limousin country. It looked an interesting way to see some of France, and this was supposed to be a holiday.

  France is a big place, I discovered, and my progress to the bottom of the map was tardy. But the E-type weaved its magic, and the sun was shining, and soon the familiar shadows of the avenues of poplar trees were flickering over the windscreen. I thought of all the impressionist paintings of these roads that I had admired, and wondered how many of them would be improved by the addition of a speeding Jaguar. The next time I visited a gallery I'd take a few fibre-tipped pens with me and see. Orleans was easily bypassed. It brought back memories of the only time I acted in a school play. We were doing Shaw's Saint Joan, and I landed the part of the Bastard of Orleans, purely on the grounds of being the only kid in the class who could pronounce it properly.

  It was going to take me a lot longer to reach the Costa del Sol than I had anticipated. Impetuosity is not normally one of my traits, and now I was paying the price for my foray into that territory. Lack of planning; that was the cause of the problem. What the hell, who cares?

  Problem? What problem?

  I stopped in an unnamed village and dared to check out the local supermarket. Stocked up with bottled water, crusty bread, fresh grapes and other local goodies, I was soon on my way again. I also bought some aspirin, because the driving seat was giving me backache; and some sunglasses. Walking back to the car I put on the shades and gave the baseball cap to a little boy on a bike.

  I reckoned on stopping for fuel at about two-hundred-mile intervals. I filled up four times that day.

  There's a line in a song about the old men playing chequers 'neath the trees. The shadows were long and the light had turned a wa
rm golden-yellow when I pulled triumphantly into the small town of Foix, at the foot of the Pyrenees. And there they were: old men in woollen cardigans and black berets, playing chess in the shade along the roadside, against a backdrop of a sun-washed hilltop chateau. I extricated myself from the Jag, gingerly straightening my back and stretching my protesting limbs. I was worn out and sweating. Beautiful cars, like beautiful people, have their deficiencies.

  I'd parked outside a church, underneath a colossal cedar tree. I had a quick swig of bottled water and went for an exploratory walk. My schoolboy French was an embarrassment, but after a lot of gesticulation and even more laughter I found a small, deep-shadowed hotel that could feed and accommodate me for the night. When I took the Jaguar there, Monsieur le Chef-Patron was ecstatic, and insisted on my putting it round the back, away from the road. I felt welcome.

  The evening blowout started with trout in a buttery sauce, followed by steak and whitebait, with olives. An unusual combination to me, but it went down well. This was followed by a portion of cooked celery and then a salad. There was no menu; as I cleared one platter the next appeared. We finished off with a cherry flan that would have impressed my mother.

  I wiped my chin on the big napkin. Madame was insistent with the cheese board but I could only manage a couple of mousetrap-sized portions. As with the food, there was no choice of wine. And rightly so: they were the experts, and I submitted to their knowledge. My glass was filled with liquid that looked black until you held it to the brightest light. Then it glowed deep ruby, like St. Anne's robe in the Leonardo painting. It was one of those wines that ambushes you.

  The first big mouthful left a slight prickly sensation on the tongue, and I decided that it was not really to my palate. By the end of the glass I was reconsidering this hurried appraisal, and by the third glass I was thinking that tomorrow was another day and could look after itself.

  Monsieur asked me if I had enjoyed my meal. At least, I think that's what he said. I gave it Yorkshire's highest accolade: "Not bad," I told him, grinning like a euphonium, as he refilled my glass.

  Next morning I felt as if I was coming round from unsuccesful brain surgery. Two aspirin for this hangover seemed as effectual as throwing ping-pong balls at a runaway train. Maybe the mountain air would do the trick.

  "Never again," I swore, not for the first time.

  Normally, I like mountains. Human beings are supposed to have some primordial instinct that draws them, eternally, back to the sea. Not me, I go for the high ground. Today, though, the Pyrenees were just a barrier to my progress. The big engine ignored the gradients, but the mile after mile of hairpin bends took its toll on the driver.

  Perspiration was running down my arms when we were in the sunlight, then we would swing round a bend that seemed to go on for ever and plunge into shadow. The temperature would drop until the next hairpin brought us bursting out into the brightness again. I felt sick. A road signposted "Andorra' passed by on the right. It would have been an interesting diversion, but I'd save that for the next time. I'd made myself a promise that one day I would return to Foix, but then it would be my destination and not just a stopover. The first view down into Spain was not what I expected. The entire countryside below was covered by cloud, like a vast goose-down quilt stretching into infinity. Here and there pinnacles of vapour towered upwards from the undulating mass, as if trying to break free from it, and caught the morning sun.

  I pulled off the road and got out. It was one of those sights that makes you wish that everyone you had ever loved was there to share it with you. I had mixed feelings, though soon I would drop down into it and it would slow my progress. I settled back into the driving seat and looked at the mileage on the speedo. I was eleven hundred miles from home, but it felt like ten thousand.

  It wasn't too bad. By concentrating hard, and with some fairly heavy braking now and then, I managed to keep up a good speed. After a while I caught a lorry. He was cracking on, and overtaking him would have been suicidal, so I just locked on to his taillights and settled down to follow him. It was a lot more relaxing.

  I took stock of what I was doing there. It was difficult to come up with a good answer. Suddenly, looking for Cakebread's boat seemed a feeble reason for tear-arsing across Europe. There was the information in the note that Gloria had given me, but it didn't amount to much.

  We'd tried brainstorming possible meanings for PH and PM with the troops, but our combined grey matter had hardly raised a summer breeze.

  I wished one of them was with me now. Tony Willis would be upped to inspector before too long, and I'd lose him from my team. He was young and ambitious, but he'd worked hard and deserved to move on. I'd let him run the show often enough, and known it was in good hands. The only thing that might hold him back was a sense of humour that he had difficulty containing.

  Sparky was different. He was about as old as me but was still ranked as a constable. In spite of this he was one of the best officers I had ever known. He knew the theory, whether it be an obscure point of law or a piece of practical psychology, and he knew what on-the-street policing was all about. More than once he'd put his hand on my shoulder and told me: "Let it go, boss, there's a better way of doing this." And there usually was.

  Only one thing scared Sparky, and it couldn't be hidden from: whenever he sat in an examination room he developed paralysis of the mind. He was okay talking to the top brass, and performed well in court, but stick an exam paper in front of him and he froze. We'd worked on it with him, and I'd spoken to various people about him, but in the last few years we'd accepted that DC David Sparkington was as high as he'd ever be. Police-wise, it didn't matter much we could use him to the best of his considerable abilities without any problem. It was just unfortunate that he lost out on the pay. There was no reason for Sparky to contain his sense of humour, though, so we all benefited from that.

  Then there was Gloria. Yep, I wouldn't have minded having Gloria with me, either. Distance changed my perspective on the brief meeting we'd had. I'd laughed at her enthusiasm for Cakebread's shabby world, and derided her eagerness to fall for his advances. The truth was that she was a young girl making the best of what she had. She'd found herself a job that she loved a rare thing at the best of times and I'd probably lost it for her. One day I'd like to make it up to her, but could I trust my motives? Probably not, I gladly admitted.

  Most of all, I wished Annabelle was with me. I'd only met her twice, but readily confessed that I was smitten. It had taken her to make me realise that I'd drifted into an existence of compromise and second best. But not any more from now on I was Going for Gold. She'd affected me on a more mundane level, too. I'd started polishing my shoes and wearing better shirts, just in case I bumped into her again.

  I'd even bought some decent aftershave; it must be love.

  The cold, clammy mist suddenly began to glow yellow, as if each individual molecule was its own light source. Then, a few moments later, we burst out of it into the sun-drenched landscape of northern Spain. The sky was brilliant blue and the land all the shades of ochre. The lorry in front pulled over on to the shoulder of the road to let me through, and I gunned the Jag past him, waving a gracias. We were on our way again, and my hangover had nearly gone.

  Outside Barcelona the road south became the Autopista Seven, for which I was thankful, but we were still about seven hundred miles from Marbella. I wanted to make it today, so there was no time for sightseeing. Do they have speed limits in Spain? No idea. I practised my Gallic shrug, in case I was pulled over. With a little effort I could bring my shoulders above my ears.

  It was a long, hard day, but we did it. I grabbed packets and cans of whatever was available at the filling stations and dined on the move.

  The sun traversed the sky and the last couple of hours were driven in the dark. The Jag's headlights fell into the bimbo category sexy to look at, but staggeringly dim. Just through Torremolinos a road sign read "Marbella 45km'. Say thirty miles. That was near enough for me —
I was at the end of my endurance. I pulled off the main road and found my way down towards the se afront where the tourist hotels were.

  It was nearly midnight and I was well and truly japanned.

  The first one I entered was called the Cala d'Or. It had a lounge with a piano and a small dance floor. The clientele still around were all over twenty-one, but it looked as if most customers had already gone to bed. I leaned on the bar and had ordered a lager before I remembered my early-morning vow. The pianist was tinkling "I Get Along Without You Very Well…" It felt in harmony with my mood, so I decided that this would do.

  When I'd finished my drink and was feeling slightly less ragged round the edges, I made my way to the front desk. The receptionist was talking to somebody, but while I was waiting a girl came by wearing the characteristic blouse and skirt of one of the major British tour companies. I intercepted her.

  "Excuse me, are you with Wilsons?" I asked. She was a big girl. I bet she was pushing at the leading edge of the company's unwritten rule about the preferred size of their representatives. Expanding the envelope, I believe it's called. The badge on her blouse said Stephanie Jones. I notice things like that: I'm a cop. The suntanned face split into a wide smile that didn't look too rehearsed.

  "Yes, Stephanie Jones. What can I do for you?"

  It was midnight, she'd been dealing with lost passports and punters with dicky pacemakers all day, and she was still smiling and touting for business. This lady had stamina.

  "You're right, you are." I pointed at the badge. "Charlie Priest.

  I've just driven down and I'm looking for somewhere to stay. Can you recommend this place?"

  "Nah! It's dreadful. How long are you staying?"

  "Mmm, about a week."

  "This is probably what you're looking for," she suggested. "It's fairly quiet without being dead. The food's good." Then, with a mischievous smile, she went on: "At the Cala d'Or we cater for the more discerning holiday maker."