The Picasso Scam dcp-1

by Stuart Pawson

  They lived in a respectable house just off one of the big estates. It was probably a council house which they had purchased. The garden was tidy and several alterations had been made to the outside. They were both at home. Julie had complained of pains in her leg for several days, and had stayed off school. She wouldn't see the doctor, though.

  When her foot turned black Mrs. Simpson sent for him and he had her ambulanced straight to the General.

  "Have you been told what caused the gangrene, Mrs. Simpson?" asked Maggie.

  She nodded and sniffed. Her husband replied for her.

  "They said she'd been injecting drugs. Heroin."

  We asked about her friends, where she went at night, who might have influence over her. They knew nothing, apart from the two girls Julie was arrested with. Julie was just a typical teenager, with a typical secret life.

  "Does Julie have her own room?" I asked.

  "Yes," replied her mother. "Her older sister is married. There's just the two of them."

  "Do you mind if we look through it? You never know, we might find something."

  Mrs. Simpson led us upstairs. She said: "I've tidied it up. It's usually a dreadful tip; you know what teenage girls are like."

  I didn't, so I stayed silent. Maggie said: "Yes."

  The room was neat, and more childish than I expected. A row of teddy bears sat across the pillow and the wallpaper was more suitable for a nursery than the room of a girl burgeoning into womanhood. Several posters of stripped-to-the-waist pop stars doing strange things with microphones added a note of conflict.

  "Mrs. Simpson, could you possibly leave us alone?" asked Maggie.

  "Julie might not be very pleased if she knew you had looked through her things."

  I looked quizzical, but Mrs. Simpson saw the sense of what Maggie said, and left us to it. I went straight to the drawers at the side of the bed, but they were locked. Maggie cast an expert eye round the room. Near the window was a brass rubbing, in a heavy frame, presumably done by Julie in happier times. It was half concealed by the curtain, and easily overlooked. Maggie lifted it away from the wall and a key fell into her hand.

  "Feminine intuition," she said with a wink.

  "I'm impressed," I replied.

  The top drawer contained mainly cheap jewellery. Underneath was some surprisingly sexy underwear for a sixteen-year-old, and a couple of hard-porn magazines. Now I knew why Maggie had wanted the parents out of the way; or I thought I did.

  I was mistaken. In the bottom drawer we found a three-month supply of the Pill and two packets of condoms. Maggie held one of them up.

  "She's sensible about some things," she said, 'but I don't think her mum and dad would agree."

  "Put them back, Maggie," I told her. "I need some fresh air. And a drink."

  I picked up one of the teddy bears and took it downstairs with me.

  "When do you visit Julie?" I asked her parents.

  "Just in the afternoons," said Mr. Simpson. "We don't like travelling on the buses at night. You don't feel safe."

  "How's she bearing up?"

  "Not very well, but she was still a bit groggy yesterday."

  "Do you mind if I call in to see her? Not to question her, just to see if I can cheer her up." I held up the teddy bear. "I'll take him along, maybe tomorrow night."

  They didn't mind. They wouldn't have minded if I'd offered to sell her to the King of Tonga. Not because they didn't care, but because they'd taken just about as much as they could. Maggie came down the stairs and joined us.

  "I don't know where we've gone wrong," sobbed Mrs. Simpson. "She was such a good girl. It all started about eighteen months ago…"

  I looked at my watch. "We could give you a lift to the hospital," I said, "If you'd like to go now."

  They thought about it for a second or two, then declined. They wanted to do some shopping first. Maggie took Julie's mother by the arm and told her not to be too hard on either herself or Julie. They went through into the kitchen.

  "Do you work?" I asked Mr. Simpson.

  "No, I was made redundant fifteen months ago."

  "Where did you work?"

  "Anderson's Engineering. There twenty-two years."

  "And now it's gone."

  "Yes."

  When Maggie was ready we left and went to the pub for lunch. Neither of us felt very talkative, so we ate our sandwiches quickly and quietly, then set off for the second girl's home. Sharon Turner was a year younger than the other two, but we believed her to be the major influence in the gang. We could have been wrong, though. She had escaped when we confronted them, but the others gave us her name when we showed them the video. Walking up their path we were aware of the Turners being a rung or two lower on the ladder of luck than the Simpsons. The front garden made mine look like Sissinghurst, and a big Alsatian was going berserk in a compound at the back.

  Sharon answered the door. "Mam, it's the police," she yelled over her shoulder, before we could speak.

  Mrs. Turner appeared with her indignant head on. She fell into the category known to anthropologists as Big Fat Slags. "What do you want now?" she demanded.

  Maggie introduced us and asked if we could come in and have a word with her. The room we entered illustrated the triumph of hopelessness over poverty. The floor covering stuck to your feet as you walked across it. Two toddlers with angelic faces, wearing only tattered vests, smiled up at us. We didn't sit down. Sharon was hovering near her mum, so Maggie said: "Alone?"

  When Sharon left us, Maggie asked Mrs. Turner: "Do you know Julie Simpson?"

  "Yeah, she's the one who grassed on our Sharon," she replied.

  "Did you know she'd had a leg amputated?"

  "I heard. What's that got to do with us?"

  "She had gangrene, through injecting drugs. They were stealing to pay for drugs. We believe Sharon might be at risk, too."

  "Nonsense. My Sharon don't do no drugs; she's a good girl. It's them other two what got her into trouble. She didn't know what they were doing. I asked her if she knew and she swore she didn't. That's good enough for me. She wouldn't lie to me."

  We were wasting our time. "Has Sharon left school?" I asked.

  "Er, no. She's a sore throat, so I kept 'er off today."

  "Is there a Mr. Turner?"

  "Yes, he's out, though."

  "Out where?"

  "I don't know. Just walking round. Sometimes he helps a pal down at the allotments."

  "What's your husband's first name, Mrs. Turner?"

  "Eric. Why? He hasn't done owl."

  "Just for the forms we have to fill in, love. You know how it is."

  "Mrs. Turner," said Maggie, 'we'd like to have a look in Sharon's room. Do you mind? We could easily get a warrant, but I'm sure that's unnecessary."

  It was a brave try, Maggie, but futile. The Turners wouldn't let the rat catcher in without a warrant.

  The third girl, Claire Clegg, lived in a different part of town. I threw the keys to Maggie and told her to drive while I used the radio.

  Five minutes later I knew that Eric Turner had served time for burglary and handling, and his wife, Vera, was a convicted prostitute. They'd both been clean for the last ten years.

  "Could be they're making an effort," suggested Maggie.

  "True," I replied, 'let's give them credit for that. There's sod-all else we can give them credit for."

  "Did you see the two little ones?" she asked.

  "Yes, they were bonny, weren't they."

  "They were beautiful. It makes you sad when you think of the life they'll have."

  "Well," I declared, 'on the whole, I think I'm glad that I haven't any kids. I should hate to think I'd brought anyone into this world."

  "Oh, I don't know," Maggie sighed, with a hint of sadness.

  I felt I was close to rattling forgotten skeletons, so I changed the subject. "C'mon," I told her, 'let's see what Claire's mum has to say."

  Claire's mum was a single mum, but I didn't know what the ci
rcumstances were. She was attractive, but her face was becoming lined before its time, and there was a touch of neglect in her hairstyle. She needed someone to smooth the lines. Under different circumstances I might have volunteered to try, and not in a furtive way. She invited us in and offered tea. Maggie was surprised when I accepted. The news about Julie caused the furrows to deepen.

  "You say she was injecting heroin?" Mrs. Clegg said.

  "Mmm."

  "And you think Claire may be?"

  "It's a likely possibility."

  "But… but wouldn't I know? Surely I'd be able to tell?"

  "Not necessarily," replied Maggie. "The highs and lows would probably pass off as normal teenage swings of mood. People on heroin look just like the rest of us, most of the time."

  "Heaven knows, we've been getting plenty of moods, the last eighteen months…"

  "Tell us about it, Mrs. Clegg," encouraged Maggie.

  "Oh, I don't know," she sighed. "It's easy to blame someone else, but they were all as bad. The trouble all started when the Turner girl started going to their school, but that's no excuse; she should know right from wrong."

  "It's not so clear-cut," Maggie told her. "Taking a few pills seems harmless enough at the start, and it doesn't hurt anyone else. Then things get out of control. Someone starts pushing them heavier stuff.

  Your daughter's not bad, she's just come into contact with unscrupulous people, and she may be at risk."

  Mrs. Clegg's cup of tea remained untouched. "It's such a disappointment," she said. "It's tough bringing up a child on your own, but we'd come through the bad years. Claire's father died in a road accident when she was five. We were just starting to enjoy ourselves. Claire was borrowing my clothes, and I even tried some of her outfits. I'd taken her out for meals, that sort of thing. One day, I knew, she'd bring a boyfriend home, and that would be me out in the cold, but before then I'd hoped we could be friends for a year or two. Like big sister and kid sister. Then, all of a sudden, she hated me; couldn't stand the sight of me; everything I said was rubbish. I don't know where I went wrong…"

  She started to cry. I finished my tea and let Maggie do the Marje Proops bit. Each to his own. When the tissues were put away I said:

  "Mrs. Clegg, would you mind if we took a look in Claire's room?"

  "No, of course not," she replied with a sniffle. She led the way upstairs and opened the door for us.

  "It might be better if you left us to it," I suggested. "Claire will be annoyed with you if she knows you've been through her things. You can always say we had a warrant."

  Maggie gave me a sideways look. "You're a fast learner, Charlie," she said, when Mrs. Clegg had gone.

  The room was more in the style I had expected. The ceiling was black, with luminous stars and zodiac symbols on it. Large posters, with swirling, circular patterns or images from the occult adorned the walls. Hieronymus Bosch would have liked it. Only the teddy bears gave a clue to the former life of the room's occupant. The drawers in the small bedside cabinet were locked. We searched around, without finding the key.

  "What does the feminine intuition say?" I asked.

  "It says the key is hanging round her neck," Maggie replied.

  I leaned over the cabinet and put my hand between it and the wall; it was open at the back. I placed the table lamp and the few other pieces on the bed, then wrapped my arms around the cabinet and lifted it bodily.

  "Then let's try some male aggression," I grunted, walking backwards away from the wall. I placed the drawers where Maggie could get behind them. She removed her jacket and squeezed her bare wrist through the narrow gap into the top one. It wasn't necessary to remove much, because she could tell by feel what most of the stuff was.

  "Clothing, mainly," she told me. "Underwear… something silky… bra… suspender belt. Hey, Charlie, you ought to be doing this."

  I'd been thinking the same thing. After a few seconds' silence a puzzled expression flicked across her face. "This feels more like it," she mumbled to herself, and a moment later she extricated a small tin box with a hinged lid. It said Zubes on it. I remembered keeping a spider in a similar one when I was a kid. They don't make useful boxes like that any more.

  Maggie prised the lid open and studied the contents. Then she turned the box so I could see. A wicked-looking syringe lay on a folded tissue, corner ways across. "Fancy a pick-me-up, boss?" she said, without smiling.

  Chapter Nineteen

  "Jesus, Maggie, mind your fingers," I said. She slid the box across to me and delved back into the drawers. Wrapped in a pair of tights she found a twist of cooking foil, as if wrapping a home-made sweet.

  "That's what we're looking for," I told her. After more groping she produced a cardboard packet. It was pale blue, and I noticed the Boots logo. "What is it?" I asked.

  Maggie held it so I could read the label. It said: "Clear Blue', and underneath: "Home pregnancy testing kit'.

  "I've seen enough," I said, adding: "You'd better give me a lift back with the drawers; I think I did my back getting them out."

  We decided to take the wrap straight round to Drug Squad at city HQ. On the way there I asked: "Do you think the girls were on the game.

  Maggie?"

  "Dunno," she replied. "Probably not. Just having it away with the boyfriend, most likely; or the bloke who supplied. Maybe it's the same person. Let's give them the benefit of the doubt."

  We'd forgotten about the Friday afternoon traffic. It's one of life's little mysteries why there are so many more vehicles on the road on a Friday afternoon. Waiting for the lights to change, Maggie asked: "Charlie, why didn't you tell Mrs.

  Clegg about the wrap and the syringe?"

  "No idea," I replied. "Just a spur of the moment thing. She's enough on her plate."

  "Would you have given the Turners the same break?"

  "No," I replied, after some consideration, 'probably not."

  Maggie gunned us across the junction as soon as the amber flashed on.

  "I thought amber meant "Prepare to start"," I said, as the G-force relaxed its grip.

  "What did you think of Mrs. Clegg?" she asked. "She was attractive, in a careworn sort of way, don't you think?"

  "Er, yes. It was a nice home, too."

  Maggie turned to me and smiled. "I think you fancied her, Charlie."

  I smiled back at her. "These days, Maggie, I fancy anything. It's a phase I'm going through."

  An old lady was walking on the pavement, with a poodle on a lead. "Look at that!" I exclaimed, turning in my seat and wolf whistling at the dog.

  We pulled into the HQ car park. "You could always try Vera Turner, Charlie. She'd probably accommodate you."

  "No thanks. If I'm ever that desperate, I'll jump in the Calder," I said.

  Maggie gave her lewdest laugh. "You and Vera it'd be like throwing a chipolata up a ginnel," she giggled. She was still chuckling as we went into the building.

  We gave the Drug Squad the evidence and asked for a report as soon as possible. I left word for DI Freer to ring me. He caught me at home later that night and invited me out for a pint.

  "Oh, go on, then," I said, in the pub, when he pointed towards the beer pumps. "But I'm limiting it to one." ' Good idea," he replied. "True temperance is moderation."

  "Is it? Who said that?"

  "Peter Yates."

  I was puzzled. "The solicitor with Jack Berenson's?" I asked.

  "That's Peter Gates. Peter Yates founded Yates's Wine Lodges."

  "Oh. Well he would do, wouldn't he."

  "Would do what?"

  "Would say that true temperance was moderation. He could have added that the only genuine way to appreciate abstinence was to get totally rat-arsed now and again."

  "Mmm, you might have a point. Cheers."

  "Cheers."

  We found an empty table and sat down. I looked around the pub; the average age of the clientele was about nineteen.

  "So where did the works come from, Charlie?" Mike asked.
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  I reminded him about the girls, and told him about Julie.

  He licked froth off his lip and shook his head. "They never believe it can happen to them. What'd she been doing?"

  "I don't know the details, just that she'd been injecting. I was hoping you'd be able to tell me' "It depends on where she's been sticking the needle in," he replied 'or what the dope was cut with. Milk powder's the favourite over here. In America some sadistic bastards sell it with powdered glass in. She probably injects it between her toes. Not very hygenic, but the marks don't show. Sometimes they go for the femoral vein, in the groin. If they hit the artery they're in big trouble."

  I squirmed at the thought of it. After a few minutes I asked him if there was anything big in the pipeline. No pun was intended.

  He shook his head. "No, 'fraid not. At the moment we're reduced to spying on the needle-exchange schemes. We're picking up plenty of small fry, but nothing significant. Our policy is "hit the users", but only because we don't know who else to hit. Your Mr. Cakebread is the favourite. He's a lot to answer for. We've been trying to watch him, but it's too intermittent. Lack of resources, as usual."

  We discussed various ways of smoking him out, ranging from the possible but ineffective right through to the absurd. I went on to orange juice and surveyed the talent. I decided that vitamin C was all the stimulus I needed.

  "Would you like to be young again, Mike?" I asked.

  He pursed his lips and looked round the room. It had become packed with the Friday night crowd of revellers, heading for a night on the town. The delights were the same as in our youth, but the temptations and the dangers were much greater. Pot and Purple Hearts had been replaced by dirty drugs that could kill in a dozen sordid ways, with the spectre of AIDS overshadowing everything. His gaze settled on the gyrating bum of a tall, miniskirted girl who was standing, glass in hand, about a foot from his face. Blonde hair hung down her back and her thighs were a navigation hazard.

  "Yes," he announced, gravely.

  "Me too," I added, unnecessarily.

  Billy Morrison of the Fraud Squad rang me at the office with an update on Wheatley's affairs. I was impressed the main attraction of working for the Fraud Squad is they don't usually work weekends. He sounded hurt when I pointed this out to him.