The Picasso Scam dcp-1

by Stuart Pawson

  "If it ain't broke, don't fix it."

  "Exactly." I put my ball-pen down. I'd become aware that I was clicking the cap on and off all the time we were talking.

  "How do you feel about what happened this morning, Charlie?"

  I had to think about this one. The truth was, I hadn't had time to feel much about it at all. After a while I said: "Sad. I'm sad that a young man has had a wasted life and has died. The fact that I was the person who… who shot him seems… irrelevant. He was somebody's son, though. Maybe it just hasn't hit me, yet, but at the moment it's not bothering me. It's just more hassle stopping me getting on with the job."

  Sam nodded. "I see," he said. "And, of course, you were in danger yourself."

  I shrugged my shoulders. "That's what we get underpaid for."

  "Don't you think about the danger to yourself?"

  "No. There shouldn't have been any."

  There shouldn't have been any. The words jangled in my brain. An innocent question, from someone who was trying to be helpful, had signalled a train of thought that I would prefer not to follow. Was this why I was scared of seeing Dr. Foulkes?

  I went on: "The danger was there because I made a cock-up. An error of judgement. I was being clever, short-cutting normal procedures. It should never have reached the shooting stage. I brought that on."

  I remembered what I'd said to Gilbert about some aggro doing me good.

  I'd wanted to go in and prove that I was still as good as anyone.

  Bring-'em-back-alive Charlie had wanted to show that he could still do it; but this time he'd brought one back dead. Two, if you included George. The ball-pen slipped out of my fingers and fell to the floor.

  I hadn't realised I'd picked the bloody thing up again.

  "Are you in trouble, Charlie? Do you think you'll be criticised?"

  Sam's tone was soft and concerned.

  I took a long time to answer. "I'll be all right. There'll be some searching questions, but we'll pull through. Deep down, I'm happy that I did the right thing; and that's what counts. I'll be able to sleep at nights."

  Sam made sympathetic noises, and waited for me to go on. I couldn't think of anything to add, so I told him what had happened in Spain. He looked shocked.

  "Right, you've convinced me," he stated. "I'm grounding you, at least for the rest of the week."

  "That's no good, I've work to do," I protested.

  "Someone else'll do it. And I think you ought to see Foulkes. This is not really my field."

  "No, I don't want to see him."

  "Then you're grounded. Why don't you clear off to the coast for a few days, do some fishing or something? You need a rest and a complete change. There's life outside the police force, you know."

  "Okay, it's a deal," I reluctantly agreed.

  "Good. Come and see me next Monday and we'll take it from there.

  Meanwhile, if you do need something to help you sleep for a night or two, you know where I am."

  "Cheers, Sam. How's Yvonne?"

  "She's fine, thanks. A lot better. Sold a painting last week for sixty quid. Says she ought to be paying you commission. Why don't you call in to see her? While you're off work."

  "I might do that."

  Chief Inspector Brabiner didn't give me such an easy ride. I still had the Walther in my pocket when we met. I ejected the cartridge clip and placed it, with the gun, on the desk in front of him. He didn't look pleased. His main line of enquiry was why was I armed with a pea shooter and the others with pistols. We should have gone in brandishing Heckler and Koch rapid-fire assault weapons. This would probably have resulted in a siege, with lad do holed up in the loft, but, hopefully, he would have survived. It didn't matter that the street would have had to be evacuated, and all the neighbours found alternative accommodation. Thousands of hours of police time would have been consumed, while he hurled down roofing slates for the benefit of the newsreel cameras. A life would have been saved, and that was above valuation, even if it was a life dedicated to thieving, drug peddling, corruption of the young and the destruction of society. And he was right.

  I felt depressed, and wished I'd accepted his offer to have a solicitor present. After nearly two hours he asked me if I had any questions.

  "Only the obvious one," I said. "What's the outcome likely to be?"

  He gathered his papers together. "I'm happy with what I've seen and heard. It's a miracle you didn't have your head blown off. With any sort of luck, the inquest will come out in our favour. I'd say it was cut and dried. There's always the possibility, though, that some trendy lefty politician will jump on the bandwagon and try to make capital out of it."

  I smiled at the irony. "I'll get called a trendy lefty," I said.

  That's why we'd gone in how we did, instead of armed to the teeth like Captain Blackbeard's pirates.

  "I know, but they'll still stab you in the back if it will help the cause." He clicked his briefcase shut and smiled for the first time.

  "You'll be all right. Our masters won't fall over themselves to give you a commendation, but plenty will think you deserve one."

  I shook my head: "I don't need a commendation, just get them off my back." But he'd made me feel happier.

  I went home and made a corned beef and pickle sandwich, which I didn't finish, and a pot of tea, which I did. I tried watching some TV, without any enthusiasm, and dipped into a couple of books. They didn't grip me, either. In the smallest bedroom, the one I'd slept in as a child, were boxes of possesions that I'd brought back with me when I returned to live here again. I sat down in the middle of the untidiness and started opening boxes. Eventually I found the one containing a comprehensive collection of Ordnance Survey maps, relics of my days as a budding mountaineer. I thumbed through them, extracting the most interesting ones. My old rucksack still held my waterproof clothing, and the boots were sound if you ignored the mildew. I stuffed the treasure into the sack and took it downstairs.

  The rucksack might have earned a place in a Museum of Scouting, but nobody would be seen dead carrying one like it these days, so I binned it. The boots were expensive leather ones and cleaned up beautifully.

  Then I settled down to pore over the maps. That evening the phone rang more often than a whore's doorbell when the party conferences are in town. All the calls were to wish me luck and offer support. One was from Mike Freer.

  "Sheepshagger! How y'doing?" he greeted me.

  "Gannet Breath! I'm okay, how are you?"

  "Not bad. I was wondering if you could use a pinch of this stuff of yours in our safe. Might be just what you need."

  "Don't tempt me, Mike, I'm in deep enough already. I take it you've heard?"

  "Yeah, you did well. The rest of the team send their regards. How are you feeling about it?"

  "Fed up. Brabiner gave me a grilling this afternoon. Then there'll be the inquest. He thinks I'll be okay, but he made it clear that I broke the rules. Maybe you were right: it's not worth it."

  "Listen, Sheepdip," he said. "The only rule you broke was to move. If you'd stood still and let him kill you, everybody would be saying what a splendid fellow you were. Past tense. Right now the high and the mighty would be pressing their best uniforms and practising the purple prose. You weren't carrying a gun to scratch your arse with, you know."

  "Yeah, thanks. When are you taking me out for a swift half?"

  "Sorry, Charlie, no can do for a while. It's the party season and we're busy. However…" he paused for maximum effect,

  "I've some good news about your friend Parker."

  "The pen pusher I asked.

  "None other. We've tracked him down, plus one or two others he's involved with. Any day now we'll invite him to help us with investigations."

  "Invoke the law against him," I suggested.

  "Exactly. Stick him before the Great Invigilator. No doubt he'll produce some suitable invective."

  "Great. People like him have no backbone."

  "Invertebrate, true. Never mind, the
information you gave us was… er… priceless."

  "Invaluable. Pity it can't be used."

  "Invalid. Wonder if he's got a maiden aunt in Scotland?"

  "Inverness?"

  We both started laughing.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I should have accepted Sam's offer of some sleeping tablets. A thousand thoughts were racing through my mind as I lay in bed, and, when I almost did drop off, the reports of the guns jolted me back to alertness. I listened to the World Service for an hour, then rose and dressed.

  All my old oil paints were in the junk room, together with an easel. I found a board of about, but not quite, the right size, and set up the easel in the front room, before the Picasso. It was daylight outside when I finished. It would take three or four days to dry, then it could go over the mantelpiece in place of the so-called original. It might fool a hired burglar, working by torchlight. I washed my hands and fetched the duvet from the bedroom. I fell asleep on the settee, the smell of oil paints and natural turpentine bringing back memories of another life.

  In the afternoon I rang Gilbert and arranged to see him later. Then I had a desultory meal, showered and went to the library. I spent a long time perusing books about walks in Yorkshire. The CID office is usually at its quietest in the late afternoon. When I entered only Martin Makinson and Nigel were there.

  "Hello, Maz," I said. "Or is it back to Martin? How does it feel to have to come to work again?"

  He gave a relieved smile. At first they both were uncertain how to deal with me. "No problem, boss. All the sex and drugs was starting to get me down anyway."

  "Good, you did well. Which of you two is good at walking?"

  Neither spoke. They both believed that the first to twitch a muscle would find himself pacing every pavement in Heckley.

  "Hard luck, Nigel. You blinked first." I had intended giving him the job all along. I put a bundle of OS maps and a library book on his desk. "You are now the secretary of the CID Walking Club. We meet the first Sunday in every month, for a brisk expedition across the fells.

  Have a look at these and sort something out. It's about time you discovered more about God's Own Country, apart from the boozers and curry houses."

  Nigel surprised me with his eagerness. "Great, boss," he said, adding:

  "Do you think many will want to come?"

  "They will when they read the constitution. It's a pound a week to be a member, and membership is compulsory. All walks to finish near a pub, where we spend the club funds. That'll drag 'em in."

  Poor Gilbert had aged ten years overnight. He'd probably been taking non-stop flak since the shooting.

  "Sit down, Charlie. Let's have a coffee." He filled two mugs, then looked at his watch. "Oh, it's not too early for a snifter, what do you say?"

  I'd have preferred to have said "No thanks', but I said: "Good idea, get the bottle out."

  Gilbert poured two measures in our coffees and we settled down to put the world right. I told him about the new Walking Club.

  "Hey, that could catch on," he said. "Might even come myself, if it's not too strenuous."

  "It won't be. We intend catering for all tastes, abilities, and the overweight."

  We discussed a few outstanding jobs, then he told me what Chief Inspector Brabiner had said he would put in his report. It sounded favourable. Gilbert delved into one of his drawers and slid a ten-by-eight black-and-white photograph across to me.

  "If anything clinches it, Charlie, that will. Christ, you were lucky.

  I went cold when I saw the hole in that wardrobe."

  The print showed a uniformed constable standing in the alcove where I had been. Inches in front of his face was a jagged mess where the shotgun blast had blown away the edge of the wardrobe. A chill ran through my bones, too. "Yes," I remarked. "I'm having a lot of luck lately."

  While we were sipping our coffee the phone rang. Gilbert answered it, making acquiescent noises into the mouthpiece as he listened for several minutes. He scribbled on his pad, then turned it so I could read it. He'd written "Longfellow'. After a while he said: "No, you won't catch him at home… He's here, that's why… Yes, in my office. I'll put him on." He reached over with the handset and gave me a resigned look.

  "Priest here," I said.

  "Hello, Inspector Priest. DI Longfellow, from the SFO. I'm afraid I've some not very good news for you."

  "Don't spare me, I'm feeling brave."

  "Pardon?"

  "Nothing, go ahead."

  "I've rung to tell you that we've just searched various of Mr.

  Cakebread's premises. They were all clean as a whistle. We also asked our Spanish opposites to turn over his villa and boat. They found nothing, too."

  Disappointment hit me like a ten-ton custard pie. "Where, exactly, have you searched?" I asked.

  "Everywhere he had registered; that's his premises in Welton, ABC House; his home ' "The Ponderosa?"

  "That's right; his aeroplane at Blackpool and a flat at Whitby. He spreads his largess between both coasts."

  "He certainly does. I didn't know about the flat in Whitby; do you have an address?" He read it to me. I went on: "And you found nothing at all?"

  "Nothing. Apparently the sniffer dog they put in the plane became quite excited, but nothing came of it. We've taken some sweepings-up for analysis, but if we do find anything it will never stick. Looks like he's given us the slip, for the time being."

  "Oh. Well at least you sound as if you're happy that I haven't led you up a gum tree."

  "No, nothing of the sort," he replied. "He's up to his neck in something. We'll just have to keep watching him."

  "Will I step on any toes if I include myself in that?"

  "Be our guest; you're on his doorstep."

  I was back on the job. "Okay, thanks for ringing."

  "There is one other thing," he said before I could put the phone down.

  "CS Fearnside had me dig out your file. You've been an inspector for a long time."

  I didn't like the sound of this. "That's right, I'm going for the record."

  His reply caught me off-guard: "Ever considered a sideways move?" he asked.

  "Er, no, never," I stuttered.

  "Maybe you should. Fearnside was impressed. Could get you away from a tricky situation. Why don't you think about it?"

  "I will. Thanks. Goodbye."

  I thought about it. Move down south no way. End of thought process. I handed the phone back to Gilbert, and when it was back in its cradle said: They've spun Breadcake and he's cleaner than a dog's balls. They can't manage without me, so will I spend some of my valuable time on the case? Then he offered me a proper job."

  Gilbert's eyebrows shot up. "Offered you a job?"

  "That's what it sounded like."

  "The cheeky bastard!"

  Being off work gave me time to think, without the pressures of day-to-day policing. All we had on Cakebread was a collection of tenuously linked crimes, where some of the connections were thinner than boarding house Spam. What we didn't have was forensic evidence, something that would stand up against critical cross-examination by the best bent lawyers in the business. Money can buy you truth, but only, thank God, up to a point. Wednesday morning I rose ridiculously early, but I hung about at home to give ADI Willis plenty of time to deploy his troops. Then I went in to the office.

  "Hi, boss," Sparky greeted me. "We were just having a discussion on the greatest labour-saving device ever invented. What would you say it was?"

  "No idea. What's this in aid of?"

  "It's the eldest lad's latest project from school. That's the sort of stuff they teach 'em, these days."

  "I thought you had only two sons," stated Nigel.

  "I have."

  "In that case he's your elder lad, not eldest."

  "But I've got three kids."

  "Well in that case he's your eldest child, but your elder son."

  "My daughter won't like that."

  "Why not?"

 
"She's elder than he is."

  "What's he thinking of so far?" interrupted Tony Willis.

  "Sliced bread."

  "Sliced bread's not labour-saving. Cutting it with a knife's no effort, it's just that they're all different thicknesses. What do you think, Charlie?"

  "Er, I agree."

  "The jumbo jet!" exclaimed Nigel, triumphantly.

  "What about it?"

  "Well," he explained, 'four hundred people can fly from Manchester to New York in five hours in a jumbo. It would take them months to swim it. That's what I call labour-saving."

  "Hey, that's good," said Sparky. "He might use that."

  "Rubbish!" exclaimed Tony. "What about the billion people who live in China? The jumbo hasn't saved them any labour."

  "In India they use them for moving logs," I said.

  Superintendent Wood walked through the door just in time to hear Sparky declare:… but the main fault with the Criminal Justice Act is that it does nothing to address the problem of overcrowding in the jails."

  Gilbert said: "Hello, Charlie, didn't know you were in."

  "I'm not, boss, it's just a quick social call."

  Gilbert placed some papers on my desk. "Have a look at those when you have a chance," he said. "Not as riveting as the Criminal Justice Act, I'm afraid."

  I gazed at the dreaded annual budget forecast forms. "I've just done them," I protested.

  "They were last year's. No hurry, tomorrow will do."

  He was halfway out of the door when I shouted to him: "Mr. Wood, what would you say was the greatest labour-saving invention ever made?"

  Gilbert paused, one hand on the door handle. "Brown underpants," he stated, and walked out.

  "Right, crime fighters I said, 'that is definitely the last word on the subject. I'll leave you to it."

  I stood up and walked over to my office. The main CID department is open plan, with a small room partitioned off in the corner which I grandly call my office. I do most of my work on a spare desk in the big office, leaving this room as open house for anyone who needs to work quietly, away from the rabble. I'd made a decision. The Cakebread Saga had gone far enough; it was time for drastic action.

  I created a file. After the minimum of thought I called it "Picasso Scam'. I gathered together all the reports and put them in the new file. Then I made a chart with all the disjointed events on it, and drew links between them, where possible. It was as obvious as a baritone in a convent choir that without the forensic we were going nowhere.