The Picasso Scam (19 page)

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 owt.’

‘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 circumstances 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 leant 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, cornerways across. ‘Fancy a pick-me-up, boss?’ she said, without smiling.

‘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.

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, mini-skirted 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.

‘We’ll be doing him for false accounting, among other things. Just thought I’d let you know his books don’t balance,’ he said.

‘In what way?’

‘Well, let’s say he’s living way above his apparent means. His companies are losing money, or, at best, breaking even. But he has a lavish lifestyle and it’s not done on credit – he’s no major debts. Most of his properties are paid for, as are the Range Rover and the Porsche.’

‘So what we need to know is where does he get the money?’

‘That’s about the size of it.’

‘What does he say about it?’ I asked.

‘Oh, there’s a few deals in the books, associated with large injections of cash, but they don’t stand up to scrutiny. We can’t get anything out of him, thanks to that creep of a lawyer. The real reason I’m ringing is to ask you about this drugs thing; are you any closer with that?’

‘No, it’s come to a standstill.’

‘Pity. If we could find a smell of drugs on him we could screw him with the 1987 Drug Trafficking Act. Confiscate the lot, with a bit of luck.’

‘I get it: we say he gained the money through trafficking, then the onus is on him to prove otherwise.’

‘That’s the theory.’

‘OK,’ I replied. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

I didn’t get the chance to. A message came up from Control and Command that a silent alarm had been activated at the York and Durham Bank in the high street. I went downstairs to listen to the action.

The intensity of purpose in the control room was almost tangible as I walked in. The sergeant looked up from his desk and lifted one finger towards his lips to silence me. He was listening on his headset.

‘OK … OK …’ he said. ‘Good, good. So you stay there and round up the witnesses, then tell the other two to get off towards the motorway.’ He turned to the WPC who was also listening and making notes. ‘Did you get all that?’

She nodded as she wrote.

‘Right, then divert all cars to the ring road, except Lima Sierra. They’re too far away. Put them on the motorway, watching the westbound lane. Tell them what to look for; and we want no heroics – he may be armed.’

He removed his headset and turned to me. ‘Sorry about that, Mr Priest,’ he said.

‘That’s OK. What’s happening?’

‘That was young Henderson.’ He gestured towards the microphone. ‘Him and Wilson were first there,
but the culprit had already left. Believe it or not, someone took his number, or at least, most of it. He’s in a red Ford Escort that sounds like one that was stolen earlier this morning. Jenny’s circulating it.’

‘Was he armed?’

‘Yes. A handgun – “like cowboys use”.’

‘How many cars is “all cars”?’

‘Two of ours, one from City and a Traffic.’

‘Mmm. Where’s the nearest Armed Response Vehicle?’

‘Halfway to Lancashire, unfortunately, but we’ve turned them round and they’re heading this way.’

‘Good. Any idea which way the crook was heading?’

‘He started up the hill, but he may have gone round the one-way system and left it in any direction.’ I wondered if I’d obey the one-way signs after sticking up a bank. Probably.

‘OK. Jenny – repeat to all units that under no circumstances are they to approach the target. Strictly locate, follow and observe.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Tom – have someone contact City and raise a firearms unit. Then let West Pennine know there may be some fast traffic coming their way. I’ll try and organise the helicopter, before I ruin Mr Wood’s lunch.’

Molly was just about to put the Yorkshire puddings in. I took pity on him and told him we could manage,
strictly on condition that the next time Molly made Yorkshires, I was invited.

We alerted adjoining forces and listened to the banter on the radios. The sergeant knew the area better than a Buddhist monk knows his navel. He instinctively read the mind of the fleeing man and directed the cars under his command accordingly. I tried to follow the action on the big map. The net was slowly tightening, but there were some frighteningly large holes in it. Gilbert walked in. I gave him an update on the action.

‘Where’s the nearest ARV?’ he asked.

Jenny overheard the question. ‘They’re just coming off the M62, sir,’ she replied.

‘Sorry, Charlie, didn’t mean to take over.’

‘No problem. Have them stand by, Jenny, until we know where laddo’s heading. Do you want me to get out there, boss?’

‘No, you handle it from here.’

Things went dead for a while. It looked as if he’d sneaked through the cordon. If he was heading for the motorway we might latch on to him in a few minutes, otherwise he’d be out of our patch and we’d have to rely on our neighbours. Then there was a sudden burst of static from the speaker.

‘We’ve got him!’ shouted an excited voice.

‘Call sign and location? Let’s have proper radio procedure, lads,’ demanded the sergeant.

‘It’s Lima Tango,’ someone yelled back. ‘We’re on
Parkside. He’s gone the other way. We nearly hit him on the bend. Doing a … bloody ’ell! … done a U-turn and pursuing.’

‘Lima Tango … whereabouts on Parkside?’

‘Near the park, skipper, heading south. The park’s on our left. He’s turning left on to the Parkway; we’ve lost sight of him.’

The sergeant pointed towards the map. ‘He’s either heading for the Meadowlands or he’s making a break for the Bradford Road,’ he suggested.

‘Lima Tango to control. We’ve regained contact. On Parkway, heading out of town. Just passing B & Q. He’s about two hundred yards ahead and we’re gaining.’

‘How fast’s he going?’ I asked.

‘Control to Lima Tango. What is your speed?

‘About sixty.’

‘Back off. Don’t get any closer.’

‘Zulu 99 airborne, Mr Priest,’ interrupted Jenny. ‘Requesting directions.’

I spoke directly with the chopper pilot, giving him some very unaeronautic bearings. We got him there, though. Then we contacted City to see what units they had available and to tell them to switch to our channel.

‘Zulu 99 to Heckley Control. We’ve made contact with target.’

‘Control to Chopper; can you make a low pass in front of him; make sure he knows you’re there?’

‘Will do.’

I turned to Jenny. ‘Then blast him with your missiles,’ I whispered.

‘He’s turning right,’ someone yelled over the radio.

‘Meadowlands,’ stated the sergeant. He relayed the information to the other units in the vicinity.

‘They’re getting excited,’ I said to the sergeant. ‘Tell them not to chase him, leave it to the chopper.’

He passed the message on. Some of the villains who lived on the Meadowlands estate liked to think it was a no-go area, and the newspapers eagerly promoted this view. It wasn’t, though. The area was rife with crime, but it was the pain-in-the-arse variety, committed by fourteen-to-eighteen-year-olds. Boys in men’s bodies, but not old enough to draw the dole. They burgled each other’s houses, then probably went for a drink together. Everybody knew who the culprits were. Even the respectable people – who were in the vast majority – could name a string of villains, but a brick through a window, or the threat of a firebomb, discouraged any contact with us. Who could blame them? The protection we could offer was negligible.

‘Lima Sierra here. Approaching Meadowlands, where do you want us?’

‘Don’t know yet,’ came back Lima Tango. ‘Heading towards the big roundabout. Speed, nearly seventy.’

‘Lima Sierra, this is Control. Get to the flats if you can, and wait. Lima Tango, back off and leave it to the chopper. Understood?’

‘Yes, skip,’ said a relieved voice, ‘backing off. He’s turning right at the roundabout, heading towards the flats.’

I was standing at the end of the console, alongside the sergeant. Gilbert was standing at the back, leaning on it and drumming his fingers. There was a burst of noise as everybody spoke at once.

‘Repeat message,’ ordered the sergeant.

‘Lima Tango here. He’s knocked a kid off a bike. Stopping to give assistance.’

‘Zulu 99 here. I caught it on the video. Looks serious. Suggest you send for an ambulance, Control.’

‘Will do. You stay with that, please, Lima Tango.’

‘Understood.’

Gilbert thumped his fist into the palm of his other hand and walked over to the window.