The Picasso Scam (18 page)

‘Do you want to take over? It’s your show.’

‘No, be my guest. I’ll try to keep out of your way.’ He looked at his watch, saying: ‘Twelve o’clock. Are we to wait five minutes?’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘Let’s go.’

Billy, Sparky and myself went up to the house. The others stayed handy outside the gate. Three right hands dipped into inside pockets and removed warrant cards. A woman answered the door;
ash-blonde
, glamorous, made-up and bejewelled. Billy did the talking.

‘Police, madam, we’d like to see Mr Wheatley.’

She looked flustered for a second, but quickly recovered. ‘I’ll, er, I’ll see if he’s in,’ she said, and attempted to shut the door in our faces. Billy was too quick for her though, and we all followed him into the hallway. It oozed expense. Not taste, not class, just expense. Bit like the woman.

‘Who is it, darling?’ said a voice, and a man came out of a doorway in front of us. He had bleached hair, long at the back, and a suntan. He looked like an ageing pop
singer who’d fallen into a time warp. He was half into an overcoat, and Cakebread was immediately behind him.

‘Are you Brian Wheatley, sir?’ asked Billy.

‘Yes. Who the hell are you?’

‘DI Morrison, and this is DI Priest and DC Sparkington. Do you mind going back in there, please, we’d like to ask you a few questions.’

I watched Cakebread’s face as my name was mentioned. His eyebrows shot up so far they nearly dislodged his toupee. Wheatley huffed and puffed and made mysterious threats, but we all ended up back in the room he had left a moment earlier. The desk and chair could have come from the oval office.

‘Who are you, sir?’ Billy asked Cakebread, but it didn’t sound polite.

‘My name’s Cakebread, and this is outrageous! We’re just on our way to an important lunch appointment. You can’t come barging in …’

‘Shut up and sit down,’ I ordered.

To my disappointment he did both. My next line was going to be to threaten to stuff his ferret down his throat, but I never got to deliver it; you never do.

Billy offered Wheatley a picture of one of the antiques, saying: ‘Do you recognise the piece of furniture shown here? It’s a Queen Anne bureau.’

‘No,’ he replied, without looking.

‘Do you recognise this list?’

‘No.’

‘It’s a list relating to a claim you made recently on RDW Insurance.’

‘No comment.’

‘Fuck me!’ said Cakebread, looking exasperated. ‘You’re not still trying to pin one of them on us, are you? Why don’t you stop wasting your time and ours?’

I said: ‘Six weeks ago you forwarded six crates to the United States, via Big Ocean Transport. Could you tell us what was in them?’

No reply.

‘Brian Wheatley,’ began DI Morrison, ‘I’m arresting you on a charge of attempting to defraud the RDW insurance Company. That’ll do for starters. You are not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you. We also have a warrant to search these premises, so can we have your keys? It’ll save us damaging the locks.’ He patted a filing cabinet and held up the warrant.

Wheatley looked shocked, but the defiance soon returned. ‘These files are confidential; you’ve no right to look at them,’ he claimed triumphantly.

‘Unfortunately for you, sir, that’s not true. This is a Special Procedures Warrant, which gives us access to everything. Your keys, please.’

He stared at the sheet of paper in disbelief, then tossed the keys on to the table.

‘Dave …’ said Billy, gesturing with a nod towards the prisoner.

Sparky moved round the desk and handcuffed him. ‘Just one hand, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s a long ride, and we don’t want you to get cramp, do we?’

‘Where are you taking him?’ demanded Cakebread.

‘Heckley.’

‘Heckley! Don’t worry, Brian, I’ll ring Simon, he’ll be there before you are.’

You know you’ve got trouble when they’re on first names with their briefs. Sparky, myself and another DC took Wheatley back to Heckley, leaving the Fraud boys loose on the files. Rather them than me. Simon was Simon Mingeles. He didn’t beat us back, but his reputation had already preceded him. Word had it that he would have mitigated in favour of Vlad the Impaler, on the grounds of him not being allowed sharp toys as a small boy. We weren’t worried; it was a good nick, as long as we played it straight.

Next morning Wheatley appeared before the local magistrates, for committal to the crown court. We’d attempted a taped interview with him, but, at Mingeles’s prompting, he’d just delivered a succession of ‘No comments’. It was his right to do so. We didn’t push it, and the interview was terminated in a couple of minutes. He’d have a bigger problem in front of a judge, when confronted with the evidence. Mingeles had a long, whispered conversation with him, no doubt about their tactics to ensure that he was given bail. Our chances of keeping him in were slim, so we didn’t try.

‘No opposition to bail,’ said the prosecutor from the CPS, before Mingeles could practise his oratory. Wheatley didn’t get value for money from him that morning.

The Fraud Squad found plenty to interest them in Wheatley’s office, and it looked as if the Inland Revenue and the VAT inspector would also be having words with him. In New York, diPalma’s men had made several arrests. They’d found a cache of stolen property and a small quantity of drugs. None in the shipment, though. They were pleased, and so was I.

Maggie popped her head round the door and announced that she was leaving for Manchester, to pick up Newley and Caton; their flight was due in at one p.m. I rewarded myself with a cooked meal in a cafe on the high street. It had the added attraction of not being licensed: I’d decided to make a more determined effort to go teetotal.

By late afternoon I’d put our case against Wheatley down on paper, with the rider that other charges would follow. Transcribing the taped interview didn’t take long.

‘How many lower-case is in gullible?’ asked Tony Willis.

‘Four,’ I told him.

‘Thanks.’

‘Pleasure.’

Then the phone rang.

‘DI Priest, Heckley Police,’ I said.

‘Boss, it’s Maggie,’ she said, without her normal
self-assurance
. ‘I’m still at Manchester airport.’

‘What’s the problem, Maggie?’

‘The plane. It was delayed, but it landed nearly an hour ago. I’m in security now. We’ve checked the passenger list and Jeff and Nigel weren’t on it.’

I must have been mad to send them to New York. This was my war, my private vendetta, I should have handled it myself. An image of George, slumped over the passenger seat of his E-type, flashed through my brain, as it had done, on and off, during the sporadic disturbed nights I’d had since. Training and instinct soon took over, fortunately.

‘When’s the next plane, Maggie?’ I asked.

‘Not till this evening, boss.’

I thought for a few seconds. ‘Any chance of the airline checking with New York to see if they’re booked on a later flight?’

‘We’ve tried. They’re supposed to be ringing back, but they’re taking their time.’

‘OK. Give them this number, then get yourself home.’

Outside, darkness had fallen an hour early. Black clouds were piling up on each other, gathering themselves for the onslaught and blotting out the twilight. I picked up the phone, considered dialling Gilbert, then rang diPalma instead.

‘It’s Charlie Priest in England, Tony. They weren’t on the plane. Any ideas?’

‘Hell, no. What do the airline say?’

‘They’re not answering our calls. Can you check if they caught a different flight?’

‘Sure. I’ll check with Immigration. Stay where you are.’

At least he had no bad news for me. Half an hour later he rang me back. ‘They’ve handed in their immigration cards OK. I haven’t confirmed which flight they were on, but all flights are overbooked, so it’s likely they were bumped on to a later plane. Don’t worry, Charlie, they’ll turn up.’

‘No doubt, thanks for checking.’

I looked out of the window and watched the cars leaving. Tony Willis, with his raincoat on, shouted from the outside office to see if I was going home. I shouted back to him and shook my head.

It wasn’t a long wait. Command and Control, on the ground floor, had a message for me. ADS Newley and DC Caton were in a South Yorkshire Traffic car being blue-lighted up the Ml. They’d landed at East Midlands airport and our Traffic boys would be picking them up at the border. Should be home in about an hour. They’d ring me from there.

‘Get a message back to them,’ I growled. ‘I’ll see them in my office in an hour.’

I made a mug of tea, swung the electric fire in my direction and put my feet up on another chair. I sipped the tea and thought about alternative ways of earning a living. When Vanessa left me I lost my head for a while, made a spectacular fool of myself. Then, one day, I sat down and reviewed the situation. The conclusion I reached was that Truscott had possibly done me a favour. Our relationship was always on a knife-edge, and would probably have collapsed some other time in the future. She was beautiful, and I was glad I’d been married to her. Now she was gone, and I was glad of that, too. But someone, a talentless little rat ten years older than me, had stolen her with his big ideas and even bigger ego. That’s what had hurt. Once I recognised it, I came back to life.

Now I was on the roller-coaster again: lows and highs following each other in rapid succession. I went through the past year in my mind. Someone in my position should always be able to compartmentalise the job; not let the grubbiness rub off on to his private life. That was the theory, and usually I managed it without any problem. I’d turned over corpses and tried to comfort shattered lives, then had a couple of pints in the pub and slept like a hibernating squirrel. Not always, but usually.

But now I was getting obsessive, and it worried me. Aubrey Bastard Cakebread was the root of the
problem. Putting him behind bars was like a vast chasm that stood between me and a shining land at the other side. Was there anything I wanted more than that simple goal? Yes, there was: Annabelle Wilberforce’s affection. The realisation jolted me awake. Would I trade Breadcake’s freedom for Annabelle’s love? Any time, it was no contest. But not just yet; maybe I could have them both.

Nigel and Jeff looked like last week’s lettuce sandwiches when they walked in. Nigel was carrying his briefcase, Jeff a paper bag. I took my feet off the chair and kicked it towards them.

‘Sit down,’ I said.

Neither of them spoke. I couldn’t tell if they were contrite or annoyed.

‘Do you realise that they’re dragging the East River for your bodies?’ I told them.

‘Sorry, boss,’ they mumbled.

‘Well, what happened then?’

‘Er, at the airport, do you mean?’ asked Nigel.

‘Yes, at the bloody airport.’

‘We … well, we missed the plane. No, we didn’t miss it; it was full, so they wouldn’t let us on. They were overbooked.’

‘You were late for it?’

Jeff decided to help Nigel out: ‘Yes, boss. We’d been out with some of the lads from the precinct. They got us to the airport a bit late, and the plane was full. We’re sorry if we’ve caused a fuss.’

I breathed a big sigh. ‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘Apart from that cock-up you did a good job. I suppose we should have let you stay over another day. You look dreadful, how do you feel?’

‘Tired.’

‘Rough.’

‘Serves you right. How much sleep have you had in the last few days?’

‘Hardly any.’

‘None.’

I shook my head and managed a smile. ‘Then you’ll find it a struggle to have a report on my desk by nine in the morning,’ I said.

Nigel lifted his briefcase off the floor. ‘We did it on the plane,’ he replied, producing the document, adding: ‘It needs typing, though.’

I reached across and took it from him. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘In that case you’d both better have tomorrow off, to catch up on your sleep. But stay by the phone.’ That cheered them up.

‘We brought you a present, boss,’ said Nigel, gesturing towards Jeff. Jeff passed the paper bag to me. Inside I found a baseball cap. I held it in both hands, peak towards me, and read the logo on the front. It said: ‘NYPD’.

‘Thank you,’ I told them, ‘I’ll always treasure it.’

I went home after ringing Maggie with the good news.

‘The brainless pillocks!’ she yelled. ‘Wait till I see them.’

I had a feeling they hadn’t escaped as lightly as they thought. I cooked a decent meal and ate it all. After I’d washed up I took out my diary and sat by the telephone. I picked the phone up a couple of times, then put it down again. The third time, I dialled Annabelle’s number. There was no reply. Ah, well, at least I’d tried. I suppose that was progress of a sort.

Maggie had calmed down by the time the Terrible Twins reported for duty on Friday morning. Gilbert Wood suggested we join him later in the day for a celebratory snifter. I had to dash out to a bookmaker’s office in town that had been held up at gunpoint. All that was taken was the cashier’s wallet, containing ten pounds and two credit cards. He was so shaken he didn’t have the wit to say he’d just been to the bank and there was three hundred quid in the wallet, like they usually do. The gunman had given him a hard ride because there was nothing in the till: nine o’clock in the morning is not a sensible time to rob a bookie’s office.

The worrying part was the gun; from the description it could be real. He was almost certainly the character who’d tried to rob a bank last week. He was armed and he was stupid: a dangerous combination. I sent Martin Makinson and John Rose to interview the witnesses, suggesting that they invite along someone from Victim Support. Jeff Caton went to talk with the local intelligence officer and find out who was out and about in town. An ounce of inside information is worth
a swagbag full of questions and answers. I hadn’t been back in the station long when Maggie walked into my office. She wasn’t her usual ebullient self.

‘What’s the matter, Maggie?’ I asked, ‘You’ve lost your sparkle lately. Am I working you too hard?’

She sat down and sighed. ‘I don’t know, Charlie. Things are just getting on top of me at the moment. It’ll pass.’

‘What things? Anything I should know about?’

‘Oh, this and that. Like Nigel the other day. I was stupidly upset when they weren’t on that plane. It was obvious they’d only missed it, but all sorts went through my mind.’

‘I know what you mean, Maggie,’ I told her. ‘I felt the same way. Maybe we both need a holiday. If you want any time off, take it. You’ve plenty in the bank.’

‘It’s all right, but thanks. Now I’ve just taken a call about Julie Simpson; remember her?’

‘Mmm … remind me.’

‘Those girls we arrested in the New Mall. She’s the one you caught.’

‘Oh, I remember. She was the last woman I put my arms around. Not bad-looking; she’ll be a stunner in a year or two. What’s she done now?’

‘Not now, she won’t be,’ said Maggie. ‘Her solicitor’s just been on the phone. She’s in the General Hospital. Day before yesterday they amputated one of her legs. Gangrene.’

Maggie was usually as hard as old horseshoes,
but now she just sat there, talking in matter-of-fact monotones. I could see Sparky through the window. When he caught my eye I made a ‘two teas’ gesture to him. He nodded and went over to the kettle.

‘Poor kid, what happened?’ I asked.

Maggie sat back in her chair and looked at me. ‘Have a guess,’ she invited.

‘You don’t mean … injecting?’

She nodded.

After a while I said: ‘Jesus Christ, we’re living in a cesspit.’

Tea and work are my recipe for survival. We drank our tea and I off-loaded the armed robbery on to Tony Willis. Then I took Maggie to have a word with Julie Simpson’s parents.

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.