The Picasso Scam (16 page)

‘Well at least he’s got taste in whisky,’ I said.

‘I walked over and opened the door to the kitchen,’ he continued. ‘He was standing at the far end, with his back to me. It’s a long room. I said: “Mr Hilditch,” and he turned round. He was holding a shotgun, with the end of it in his mouth.’

‘Oh, no!’ I groaned.

‘He just looked at me for a moment, then pulled the trigger.’

‘Jesus Christ!’ I said, putting my head in my hands.

‘Do you mind if I have another?’

‘Of course not.’ I gestured towards the bottle. ‘Help yourself, I’ll run you home.’

‘That wasn’t the end of it. I was on the phone, trying to get some sense out of the local wallies, when I heard a car outside. It was Mrs Hilditch. I went out and locked the door behind me. She became hysterical. We had to drag her into a neighbour’s. I think that was the worst part.’

I didn’t have anything to offer, so I sat in silence. Gilbert took a sip and said: ‘I’ll say one thing, Charlie: it was bloody quick. He was dead before he hit the ceiling.’

Another aspect of the backlash caused by our successes with the heroin pushers was that raids on chemists’ shops increased. The user who can’t obtain a regular fix of his chosen pick-me-up has a pharmacopoeia of alternatives. The ingenuity of the desperate addict, or the greedy pusher, knows no limits. Drugs that were discovered or invented to induce sleep, kill pain or calm the raging mind were soon found to produce very different effects when taken in massive doses, or mixed into cocktails.

The barbiturates are the most favoured alternatives to heroin. They also cause more deaths than all of the others put together – except booze and fags, of course. The problem is that the fatal dose is not many times greater than the effective dose. As the taker builds up
tolerance he has to pump in more and more to get the same buzz. Unfortunately the lethal level does not increase in the same way. One day the two lines cross and another dopehead takes a one-way trip. We find them hunched in squalid bedsits or sprawled in public urinals, choked on their own vomit. It’s a long way from that first, laughing drag on a joint at someone’s party.

As soon as we recognised an increase in raids on pharmacies we visited all those on our patch and advised them to improve their security. Some chemists were amazingly complacent, but we eventually reversed the trend. This led to an increase in domestic burglaries, and then armed robberies. We felt as if we were standing in the middle of the Serengeti Plain, waving our arms about, trying to stop the wildebeest migrating. Serious violence was hiding in the long grass. Fortunately, the figures soon settled down to something like the norm, but it wasn’t due to our efforts: it was because supplies began to filter through again and the price dropped.

After long delays due to adjournments to allow for ‘further investigations’, the inquests into the deaths of O’Hagan and Hilditch were held. ‘Expedient’ is the kindest thing I can say about the first verdict. He’d been lawfully killed by a police officer who was not named, as it was not in the public’s interest to do so. It wasn’t in my interest, either, so I didn’t argue. He’d fired
the first shot, and suffered the consequences. Nobody mentioned that he didn’t have a second.

If this was a whitewash, Hilditch got the full interior decorator treatment, complete with flock wallpaper. He was an overly conscientious officer, at the pinnacle of his profession, who had suffered a breakdown due to overwork. The rising crime figures, and his inability to stem them due to lack of resources, had caused him great distress. The Coroner said he’d borne an intolerable burden, and the Force would have difficulty replacing him. I wasn’t there; I just cut the bits out of the paper and put them in the file.

Superintendent Wood had given evidence to Her Majesty’s Inspectorate, and they interviewed me. They took copies of everything in the Picasso file. Nothing spectacular happened, but over the next few months and years jobs would be shuffled around, strangers from afar appointed in key positions, and traps set to snare the renegades. All most of us would ever know about it would be the odd, unexpected resignation.

We held our own inquests, of course. After hearing the shots, Sparky had come running into the bedroom, not knowing what to expect. Nigel, who wasn’t armed, had followed close behind. We’d been lucky this time, but under different circumstances it could have turned into a three-nil defeat. Gilbert gave me carte blanche to nail Cakebread.

All Monday mornings should be wet and foggy, particularly in November. This one set the standard for the others to be designed around. I’d just fired a rubber band at the window to see if I could make the raindrops run down faster when Nigel poked his head round the door.

‘Can I have a word, boss?’ he asked.

I swivelled my chair back to the desk. ‘No, I haven’t heard anything.’

‘It’s not about promotion,’ he said, coming in. ‘I was wondering if you watched
Northern News
on Saturday?’

‘No, I didn’t. My cup of tea was going cold, so I watched that instead.’ The onset of winter brings out the jollity in me.

‘Pity. You won’t have heard, then, that Percy the cat has turned up.’

I was worried about Nigel: he’d adopted a role model, and I wasn’t sure that I approved. ‘Close the door,’ I told him, resignedly. ‘Sit down and tell me all about Percy the cat.’

‘Well,’ he began, hardly able to contain his enthusiasm, ‘apparently, last Thursday, there was a fire in a small warehouse, near the middle of Oldfield. Nothing special, didn’t make the local news. The only casualty was Percy the cat, who was thought to have perished in the blaze. In fact, they blamed him for knocking over a heater and starting it.’

‘Fascinating,’ I said. It was marginally more riveting than racing raindrops on the window.

Nigel went on: ‘Well, on Saturday, to everybody’s relief, Percy turned up without a singe. That’s a story. Made
Northern News
and an interview with Linda Lovett.’

‘So he’s not a ginger cat,’ I suggested. ‘No, white. Why?’

‘Never mind. Tell me more. I presume there is more, or are this feline’s exploits the sum total of your reason for disturbing my morning?’

Nigel was enjoying himself. He said: ‘When I saw it on the news, I couldn’t help wondering who Percy’s master was, so this morning I’ve made a few enquiries.’

‘And …’

‘And he was Chief Mouser for Brian Wheatley Developments.’

I leant forward in the chair. ‘You mean they owned the warehouse?’

‘Yes.’

Well done, Nigel. I almost smiled, until I remembered that I’d smiled once already that morning. No point in becoming hysterical.

‘Is this the same Wheatley who’s Breadcake’s sidekick?’ I asked.

‘Yes, boss. I’ve checked our list of his companies, and it’s there.’

I nodded my approval. ‘Good work, Nigel. Now let’s have a think about our next move.’ Then I added: ‘On second thoughts, you’ve probably worked it all out. What do you suggest?’

‘Nothing much, really. The building was in an old area of town, probably not worth much. The site may be valuable. Then there’s the contents. It would be interesting to see what he’s claiming for.’

‘How do we find that?’

‘From the insurance company.’

‘And who tells us who they are?’ I asked. Nigel knew as well as I did that if at all possible we wanted to avoid involving the Oldfield police.

‘The fire brigade? Presumably they’d have to confirm that the place had burnt down.’

‘It’s worth a try. See what you can find out.’

Nigel left and I turned back to the raindrops. The window was covered with new ones, nowhere near as interesting as the ones I’d watched earlier. Here we go again, I thought. Where would this avenue lead us? Was I really conducting a vendetta against Cakebread, as some people believed? I was convinced that I wasn’t, but I was biased. ‘Keep shuffling the pieces,’ I told myself, ‘then, one day, they’ll all fall into place.’

It was lunch time when Nigel came back. He had a look on his face like Percy must have done when Linda Lovett embraced him.

‘Any success?’ I asked.

‘Mmm … The local fire station is in Rochdale Road, Oldfield. I spoke to the station officer and they have confirmed details of the fire to RDW Insurance. Their claims manager, in Manchester, is a Mr Rollison.
He’s already had a claim from Wheatley and he smells a rat.’

‘He’s not letting the grass grow under his feet, is he? What’s the claim for?’

Nigel paused for maximum effect, then told me: ‘A cool three hundred thousand pounds. Two hundred and twenty-five of which are for the contents. Wheatley claims that the place was stuffed to the rafters with antique furniture.’

I shook my head with disbelief. ‘How many times do the prats think they can get away with it?’ I wondered aloud. ‘So what’s happening next?’

‘Mr Rollison has asked Wheatley to see him this afternoon. Wheatley claims to have an itemised list of everything that was in the place, and Rollison has asked him for it.’

I allowed myself that second smile. ‘We need that list,’ I said.

‘In the morning,’ replied Nigel. ‘I’ve an appointment with Rollison at nine o’clock.’

‘Get your coat,’ I told him, rising to my feet. ‘It’s dinner time. I’ll buy you a Tomlinson’s pork pie in the Golden Scrotum.’

I went to Manchester with Nigel. I didn’t want to steal his glory, but I’d contacted the fire brigade and arranged to visit the burnt-out ruin afterwards, with Sub Officer Des Brown, of Green Watch. Or was it the other way round? To say Mr Rollison met us with
enthusiasm is a bit like saying that Dante was quite pleased to see Beatrice. He pumped our hands and ordered coffee.

‘Do you think it was arson?’ he eagerly asked.

‘No idea,’ I replied, before Nigel could open his mouth. We were both studying copies of the list that Mr Rollison had ready for us. ‘We think some of these items may have – er – originated in our area.’

‘You mean they were stolen!’ he declared.

‘Now, now, Mr Rollison, that’s not what I said. Let’s just say we’re … interested.’

The lists contained brief descriptions of items of furniture, date of purchase, name of dealer or auction house and price paid. Appended to it were photocopies of all the receipts.

‘It’s a very comprehensive list,’ observed Nigel. ‘He obviously didn’t keep the receipts in the warehouse.’

‘Did you see the originals of the receipts?’ I asked.

‘Oh, yes,’ replied Rollison. ‘He brought the originals, but wouldn’t let me keep them, which is reasonable enough. I had them copied here. They looked genuine to me.’

We finished our coffees and thanked Mr Rollison for his cooperation, recommending that he didn’t rush to pay out until he’d heard from us.

‘What do you suggest I tell the investigation department, Inspector?’ he asked.

‘The truth, Mr Rollison,’ I replied loftily. ‘It’s always the best policy.’ 

On the way to the fire station I asked Nigel if he knew anything about antiques.

‘No, not much,’ he said, with characteristic understatement, adding: ‘My mother has a couple of nice pieces.’

‘Really?’ I replied, stifling a smirk. ‘In that case, from now on you’re the station’s expert.’

We’d had the foresight to take our own wellington boots. Des Brown supplied us with yellow plastic safety helmets and took us in a station van to the warehouse. It was a narrow building, four storeys high, in a long terrace that had been purpose-built for another industry in another age. The ground floor windows and door were boarded up, and black streaks of soot reached upwards from them. First impressions were that it had been an inferno.

‘You were lucky to contain it to the one building,’ I observed.

‘Yeah,’ Des replied. ‘Fortunately the ones on either side are empty, so we were able to get into them and cool the walls. These places are well built structurally, but there’s a lot of timber inside. They’re a headache to us, but the whole area’s scheduled for redevelopment. The sooner the better.’

He’d taken a jemmy from the car boot and was levering off the boards from the door. When they were removed he went through and we followed. The first floor had vanished completely. Above that were just blackened ribs to indicate where the others had been.
The roof was intact apart from one small patch where the sky was visible. The air was still hung with smoke, and when you looked up the light from the empty windows created a cathedral effect.

‘Where did it start, Des?’ I asked.

‘We don’t know. The story is that there was a small office over there, where you can see the stairs were. It was stuffed with cardboard boxes and other combustibles …’

‘Like cans of paraffin?’ I interrupted.

‘Possibly,’ he replied, with a smile, ‘but plastic bottles leave less evidence. Anyway, they think they may have gone home that evening and left the electric fire on. The cat was roaming around … et cetera, et cetera. It’s a good story; we can’t fault it.’

‘Did your forensic people find anything?’

‘’Fraid not. Too much water damage.’

I gazed at the floor with dismay. It was a tangle of charred joists, partly submerged in black slurry. I gestured towards Nigel with my hand. ‘Nigel’s our antiques expert,’ I explained. ‘OK, Nigel, tell us what we’re looking for.’

Nigel took a moment to gather his breath and his thoughts, then began: ‘Well, most antique furniture, and this was furniture, is held together by glue and well made joints. The non-combustible parts are the fittings, such as hinges, handles and escutcheons. These were usually made of brass, and should have survived the blaze. Other decorative features might be made from marble, glass or …’

‘Right,’ I interrupted, ‘let’s see what we can find.’ I kicked my feet in the mess, feeling for anything small and solid. It was a hopeless task and a difficult situation. We were trespassing on another force’s territory, which made it impossible for me to call in a search party, and we were looking for something that we didn’t really want to find. The temptation was to make a desultory search, find nothing and regard it as success.

Des saved the day. He was grinning broadly when he announced: ‘I’ve an idea; how does this sound? We’ve some job-experience kids with us this week, all said they want to be firemen. It’s a pain in the backside finding things for them to do – non-stop questions all day long. I could send them down here this afternoon, with a supervisor, and tell them to sift everything metallic out of that lot. Would that be a help?’

We accepted the offer like a banana republic dictator accepts a medal. In return we offered Des his lunch, but were pleased when he declined. We cleaned up in the fire station, and after a quick mug of tea and a laugh with Green Watch stormed back over the Tops to our own side of the lines.

An auction house in Leeds had supplied one of the expensive pieces on the claim. I sent Nigel on a preliminary recce to see them. If the search of the ashes showed that there had been some valuable stuff
in the building then we were barking up the wrong tallboy. But if our instincts were right, we had no time to waste.