The Picasso Scam dcp-1

by Stuart Pawson

  "Doesn't make me feel any better. Are you coming in tomorrow?"

  Tomorrow was Friday, the last day of my holiday. "Yes, I'd like to."

  "Good. You'd better hang around the office no doubt they'll want a word with you. Let Willis see the week out as acting inspector."

  "That's fine by me. What else has been happening?"

  "I was just coming to it," he said. "We brought in young Rose and Makinson. They've come up with some good information. We're hitting four addresses early Monday morning, just when they're at their best.

  Only two of them's in Heckley, though. The city boys are looking after the others. Will you want to take over?"

  I thought about it. "No, if Tony's done all the planning, let him handle it. I wouldn't mind going in, though, if that's all right. A bit of aggression might do me good."

  "All right by me. I'll let Willis fill you in tomorrow."

  I went home and asked the word processor to run off copies of all the reports, for the Serious Fraud boys. According to the Data Protection Act I shouldn't store information like that on my computer, so I closed the curtains while I did it.

  The first four people I met next morning asked me how my haemorrhoids were and suggested a variety of treatments. Then word must have passed round that it was a touchy subject, and concern began to diminish. I buried myself in the small hill of paperwork that Tony had decided I ought to know about, and fielded enquiries about my holiday. The first worthwhile phone call I received was from Diaz.

  "Good morning, Charlie, or may I call you Inspector Priest?

  I thought you would be back at work today. How was the drive?"

  "Hello, Rafael, it's good to hear from you. The drive was hard work, not to be recommended. Any developments?"

  "Yes. One of my men was in a bar and he saw a youth wearing a leather jacket which had some interesting marks on the back. He brought him in. The stuff we took from under your fingernails was a perfect match.

  We now have the accomplice and the scooter, too."

  "Well done. No gun?"

  "Unfortunately, no, but they are known to be associates of gangsters.

  Rest assured, they are the ones."

  "Good, thanks for telling me, Rafael. I've put copies of all the relevant reports in the post for you. They should keep you entertained for a day or two."

  He went on to tell me when the funeral was arranged for, and offered to send flowers on my behalf. After a shaky start, I decided that I had a lot of time for Capitano Diaz.

  In the afternoon we had a briefing on Monday's raids. It was hard, but I had to drag myself down out of the clouds and start being a cop at Heckley again. There might be links stretching from our ram-raiders to Cakebread and Puerto Banus, but so far that was for the birds. Gilbert did the introductions and handed over to me. I split the troops into two teams and explained that Mr. Wood was in overall command and Acting Inspector Willis was running the show in the street. I'd be going in with the marines. We then split up to study our separate targets. That's when I discovered the identity of the occupier of the house I'd volunteered to enter. He was called Willy O'Hagan. I'd never heard of him, but his record said he had one conviction for armed robbery.

  I put my finger on the relevant sentence and said: "Looks like we'll need to be armed."

  "Sorry, boss," said Tony. "Didn't you know? Rose told us he keeps a gun in his car boot. I thought you were a bit eager to be up front."

  We were nearly finished when I was called to the phone. "Priest here,"

  I said.

  "Good afternoon, Inspector. I'm Chief Superintendent Fearnside, Serious Fraud Office. I'd like to see you, in about fifteen minutes, if that's all right."

  A real chief super, they meant business. "No problem, sir. Are you coming here?"

  "No. I'll be at the Little Chef near Cattleshaw. I'll see you there."

  I hesitated, remembering the last arrangement I'd made on the telephone. Fearnside must have read my mind; he went on: "If you ask Superintendent Wood, he'll tell you that he recommended the place. I'll be in a black Granada."

  "Right, sir, I'm on my way, but fifteen minutes is pushing it a bit."

  "Then you'd better get moving."

  I rang Gilbert, more to tell him where I was going than to check on Fearnside. "What's the coffee like in the Little Chef?" I asked him.

  He laughed: "Okay, they do decaffeinated."

  "I'm going now."

  "Give 'em hell, Charlie."

  I parked a few spaces away from the Granada. There were two of them in it. We didn't go in for a coffee; as I approached the car the passenger got out. He let himself into the rear seat and gestured for me to join him. Fearnside was burly and prosperous-looking. He could have been a captain of industry. The one in the driving seat was tall and slim, and equally smooth. It was no good: if I wanted to get on I'd have to buy myself a suit. I took out my warrant card and offered it to Fearnside. He didn't look at it, but he got the message and they both showed me theirs. His aide-de-camp was an inspector called Longfellow.

  The delights of production-line catering for hoi polloi apparently didn't appeal, for we went for a drive up on to the moors. I let Fearnside break the silence.

  "Fascinating landscape," he said. "Absolutely fascinating. Am I right in believing the Bronte girls were from these parts?"

  "That's right, sir, not too far away." I wanted to add: "And Robbie Burns, too," but managed to stop myself. Eventually we pulled into a lay-by.

  "Right, Inspector Priest, let's get down to business. Superintendent Wood has told us the main story, but we need a few details from you.

  First of all, tell us everything you can about Truscott."

  I didn't tell them everything I knew, just the relevant stuff. I also handed over the copies of the reports.

  When I'd finished he asked: "How do you believe the paintings were switched?"

  "In the security van. The fakes were already in the van, laid flat under the carpet, or wherever. On the journey the genuines were removed from the frames and the fakes substituted. One of the guards riding in the back was about the same size as Truscott, so I'm assuming it was him. The tacks would go back into the same holes, so they still looked the same from the back, as well as from the front. The breakdown was to give them more time; the loud music covered the sound of hammering."

  "Breakdown? Loud music?"

  Gilbert had obviously not gone into such detail.

  "Sorry, it's all in the reports." After a few moments' silence I said:

  "I take it that the art world is making waves. Have the paintings been switched?"

  He pondered on what to tell me. "Unofficially, yes," he confided.

  I felt strangely pleased. I clean forgot to mention the Picasso, but later a chill ran through me as I realised that I'd gone away and left it hanging over the fireplace.

  "And now, Inspector, let's hear about your Spanish trip."

  They dropped me off back at the restaurant. It was out of my hands now. They had the resources and the intelligence network to really crack who was behind the theft of the paintings. A little bit of me was sorry, though George's death apart, I'd enjoyed my foray into international crime. Nicked videos and pensioners' purses lacked the glamour of drug cartels and international smuggling. It was Friday evening. I dallied in my car until the Granada left the car park, then I went in and ordered an all-day, American-style breakfast.

  Chapter Twelve

  I hadn't had enough time back to become snowed under with all the must-be-done-yesterday jobs that are usually threatening to engulf me.

  Usually I have a couple of hours in the office on a Saturday morning, and maybe spend some time coordinating any of the troops who might be working. But, apart from a brief phone call from ADI Willis, I had a weekend off. Tony asked me if I wanted to take over on Monday, instead of being on the pointed end, but I declined his offer. The exercise would do me good I had two flights of stairs to run up.

  The dead flies and
streaks of yellow dirt that covered the Jaguar gave it a purposeful air, but they weren't good for the paint. I put it through a car wash and applied touch-up to the scrape. It was hardly noticeable. Then I pushed it to the back of the garage and covered it with a dust sheet In the afternoon I mowed the lawn and did some weeding. As soon as the garden looked only marginally worse than my neighbours', I stopped. Sunday, I hoovered. I love weekends like dentists love garlic.

  We rendezvoused at the station at five a.m. Monday. People you've known for years always look different in situations like this. We were all wearing dark, casual clothes, with silent shoes, and one or two drew on cigarettes. There was tension behind the banter.

  Superintendent Wood liaised with the city teams and confirmed the plan.

  All four targets would be hit at six thirty-five. We had a final briefing, and then some of us went to the armoury to draw our guns. A Tactical Firearms Unit would be standing by, but those of us with the necessary training would carry personal weapons.

  Hate is a word I rarely use, but it's in my vocabulary. I reserve it for describing my feelings towards guns. Holding a gun changes your personality as surely as does a mind-bending drug. I'd found it in everybody I'd ever seen with one, on both sides of the fence; including myself. In the Force, there are stringent tests of personality and ability before you can carry a firearm. In the streets, all you need is a hundred quid.

  The standard issue is a thirty-eight, either automatic or revolver, according to the individual's preference, loaded with flat-nosed bullets. We are trained to shoot only if a life is in immediate jeopardy, so, if we have to shoot, we shoot to kill. The flat-nosed bullet has maximum stopping power, with the least chance of it going straight through the target and hitting somebody else. "Maximum stopping power' means it makes a mess. "The target' is the person you are trying to kill.

  In the armoury, however, was a neat little Walther two-two automatic that had been found in a German tourist's handbag, and confiscated. I'd adopted this for my own use whenever I had to be armed. It fitted in my jacket pocket without the need for a holster. The macho types sniggered at it, but the way I saw things, if I had to use it, I'd already failed. I checked that it had a full clip of cartridges and that the safety catch was at 'zm'. We'd carried firearms on hundreds of occasions, and practised for hours on the range, but, to the best of my knowledge, none of us had ever fired a shot in anger.

  Our four cars came to a silent halt round the corner from O'Hagan's house. We were a measured hundred yards away. Uniformed officers positioned themselves where they could prevent the postman and the milkman stumbling into the action. The last couple of minutes ticked by, then the codeword came through on the radio. Ten of us got out and, leaving the car doors wide open, strode towards the three-storey terrace. The drivers would bring the cars after us. At our head was a big constable carrying a sledgehammer. We lined up in a prearranged order at the door and I nodded to the constable. The hammer hit the lock and the door bounced inwards about four inches and sprang back. It was held at the top. Two more blows and we were in.

  We'd studied the layouts of similar houses, and knew that the rooms on the second floor were usually used as bedrooms. It was my job, with Nigel, to get to them as quickly as possible. That's where the action was most likely to be, but hopefully we'd catch them with their pants round their ankles. I took the stairs three at a time, but I was only halfway up the last flight when a character came round the top whirling a rice flail round his head. Unfortunately for him it was not much good in the narrowness of the staircase and it tangled round his arm.

  He had a game attempt at passing me, but I just doubled up and went for his legs with my shoulders. I felt his shins connect with me, then he sailed over my head and landed at the foot of the stairs with a crash that shook the beer cans in the kitchen. I turned to look down at the wreckage.

  "I'll get him," shouted Sparky, who'd found the first floor uninhabited.

  "C'mon," I said to Nigel, and cleared the last few steps.

  I kicked open the first bedroom door. The bed bore signs of being recently vacated. I slid an unwilling hand between the off-grey sheets; they were still warm. Nobody was under the bed or in the wardrobe so I tried the next room. It was filled with junk, plus a stack of interesting, unopened cardboard boxes. The other bedroom was the biggest, and had a bed, wardrobe and chest of drawers. The sheets on the bed were colour coordinated with the others. Somebody had just got out from between them, too. Sparky and a couple more came round the landing to join us.

  "Find anything?" I asked, putting my finger to my lips, then pointing upwards.

  "No more bodies, plenty of loot, though," Sparky answered, his eyes following my finger.

  These houses originally had cellars and attics. When the attics were no longer required for the maid, or the kids, or the deranged mother-in-law to sleep in, most people blanked them off and demolished the stairs to make the bedroom bigger. This had been done here, leaving just a trapdoor to give access to the plumbing in the attic.

  The trap was above the chest of drawers, and it was open. Our second sleeping beauty was up there.

  I pointed for the others to go downstairs.

  "Okay! Let's go," I shouted. There was a gap at the side of the wardrobe to leave room for the curtains to go back. I slipped into it and gestured to Sparky to leave me.

  "Right, we've done all we can here, let's go," he said.

  They banged and stamped down the staircases. I moved the curtain to one side and looked out. The front door slammed, but only Nigel emerged into the road. He spoke to one of the drivers for a few seconds, then the car tore off with much revving and squealing. At the end of the street he put on his siren and I listened to it fade into the distance.

  I didn't have a long wait. There was a creaking of joists above my head, moving towards the trapdoor. After a few seconds, a pair of bare legs appeared. He sat on the edge of the opening, then dropped on to the chest of drawers. The upper half of his body was still above ceiling level. There was an easy way to do this. I put my hand in my pocket, and my fingers curled round the PPK. My thumb, without being told, eased the safety catch to 'auf." He stood, half concealed, apparently reaching for something in the loft.

  Then I saw the butt of a shotgun being lowered out of the opening. I stepped out of my hiding place. "I'm an armed police officer. Put the …"

  I didn't get any further. He ducked out of the trapdoor, swept the shotgun in my direction and pulled the trigger. I instinctively jumped back behind the wardrobe as the corner of it in front of my head exploded into sawdust and the window shattered. Stinging fragments peppered my face and eyes. I did a standing leap into the middle of the room, swung in his direction and pumped the trigger of the Walther three times. The figure swimming in front of me raised his hands in a futile gesture of protection, then toppled over, crashing to the floor, the shotgun clattering down alongside him. I lowered my head and blinked most of the debris out of my eyes, then put the pistol in my pocket and moved over to the body, just as Sparky, thirty-eight held in front of him, charged round the top of the stairs.

  All three shots had hit him in the chest. I pressed a finger into his neck, alongside the Adam's apple.

  "Anything?" asked Sparky, quietly.

  "Yes, there's a pulse," I said. "Let's take his vest off."

  We pulled the garment over his head and looked at the three wounds.

  They were small black holes, almost innocuous-looking, but the blood dribbling out of them was flecked with foam. Nigel and one or two others had joined us. I told him to go down and let ADI Willis know what had happened, and send for the ambulance. We had one standing by.

  He was back almost immediately.

  "Go back and tell Mr. Willis we need the SOCO and a photographer," said Sparky.

  I sealed the holes with my fingers, while Sparky checked the pulse.

  After a minute or so he said: "We're losing him."

  We decided he was dead more or les
s as the paramedics arrived. Acting Detective Inspector Willis drew some marks on the floor with a fibre pen to indicate where he fell, just before they put him on their stretcher and rushed him away. I flexed my knees and wiped more bits from my eyes.

  "Where were you when he fired, Charlie?" asked Tony.

  I blew my nose and walked across the room. "There," I said, pointing to where a great chunk from the edge of the wardrobe had been blasted into infinity.

  "And when you fired?"

  "There."

  Tony and Sparky stood looking at me, each waiting for the other to speak. I looked from one to the other. "C'mon," I demanded, 'what are you telling me?"

  "Have you seen his gun, boss?" asked Sparky.

  "Yeah, it fell near the bed."

  I walked over and looked down at it. "Great," I mumbled. "That's just what we need."

  It was an ancient, single-barrelled job. He didn't have another shot left.

  Chief Inspector Colin Brabiner was appointed investigating officer, and Sam Evans, the police surgeon, was asked to come and have a word with me. The Federation representative offered to appoint a solicitor to be at my side throughout, telling me what to say and what not to, and everybody I met gave what they believed to be support. Superintendent Wood made me coffee, the real stuff, and loaned me his office while I wrote my reports. Then he went with the 10 and Sparky to view the scene of the incident.

  Sam Evans looks like a well-fed, but pale, Mahatma Gandhi. Premature baldness and a grey moustache make him look much older than he is. I'd first met him about ten years earlier, when I'd hurt my back falling down a fire escape. I did him a favour and we became good friends. He came over as soon as he heard the news.

  "I'm supposed to make you an appointment to see Dr. Foulkes, at the General," he said. "How do you feel about it?"

  Foulkes was head of the psychiatry department. We used him for stress counselling. "Unhappy, Sam. Can't you deal with it? I have mixed feelings about this psychotherapy stuff. No doubt some people need it, but I don't think I'm one of them. Leave well alone, I say."