The Picasso Scam (6 page)

‘Perfect. So I’ll see you in three-quarters of an hour; it’s a long time to wait.’

I drove away feeling like a prospector who isn’t sure if he’s struck gold or diamonds. I headed out of town until I found a suitable pub that served food, so that it looked as if I knew my way around. I parked and took the lumpy envelope from my inside pocket. It contained three keys and a note. One, a nondescript doorkey, was on its own; the other two, a Yale and a Chubb, were on a keyring. The note read:

It was signed with a stylised ABC, similar to the logo on the vans. He’d obviously spent many hours practising it.

When I arrived back at ABC House I parked just outside the side door. Looking as if I had every right to be there I tried the Yale key in the lock. It turned. Then I tried the Chubb and that fitted, too. I left the door as I’d found it and set off round to the gatehouse to wait for Gloria. That’s when the diamond mine fell in.

As I stopped in the road just short of the entrance, a maroon Daimler did a right turn across the front of me. It was driven by the one and only, the inimitable, appearing for the first time in person, Ernest Hilditch,
Chief Constable of the East Pennine force. After a brief word the barrier was raised, and soon he was, no doubt, addressing the considerable charms of Gloria. After a couple of minutes he came storming out and slammed the Daimler’s door behind him. As he tore towards the exit the barrier was raised, but he screeched to a halt and leapt out to accost the gateman.

After a few violent gestures they went into his office. Chief Constable Hilditch was playing at being a policeman, collecting car numbers. Somebody was up Shit Creek with a duff outboard, and it looked like me.

My appetite had gone, so I went straight back to the office. Nigel and Tony Willis were in, going through some cases, solved and unsolved, looking for common denominators.

I gave them a terse ‘Any messages?’ as I hung up my jacket. It was my I Mean Business entrance.

‘Two,’ Nigel told me. ‘Your friend at the Fraud Squad said to tell you that rumour has it that the American private eye firm, Winkler’s, are over here and asking a lot of questions in the shady market. He thinks you may be on to something.’

‘Good, and the other?’

‘Limbo said be sure not to miss her promotion do tomorrow night.’

I caught Tony’s gaze and flashed a glance up at a
poster on the wall. It was headed: ‘Racism and Sexism’, and went on to say that these would not be tolerated, and any officer hearing racist or sexist language should address it immediately.

‘Who’s Limbo?’ I asked him.

‘WPC Limbert, Kim Limbert. She moves to the city on the first, as sergeant.’

We sat in silence for a few moments, then I asked: ‘Have you ever thought that she might find being called Limbo offensive?’

‘Gosh, no,’ he confessed, ‘it never occurred to me. Everybody calls her Limbo.’

‘Not everybody,’ I stated.

Nigel was embarrassed at being caught out, and fell silent. I wouldn’t have let him off the hook, but Tony was working with him, so after a while he threw out a lifeline. ‘Do you still fancy Kim, Charlie?’

I thought about it, leaning back in my chair and looking up at the ceiling. ‘Yes, I think I do, but I’ve stopped dreaming about her. Unless I dream about her and forget.’

‘Not enough meat on her for me. I prefer something you can dig your fingers into.’

Nigel was looking from one of us to the other, growing visibly agitated.

‘Naw,’ I disagreed, ‘I like them tall and skinny. It’s like wrestling with a boa constrictor, lots of points of contact and intertwining limbs.’

Nigel could contain himself no longer. ‘What about
sexism?’ he demanded, ‘When are you going to start addressing sexism?’

‘Good point, boss,’ Tony admitted. ‘When do we start addressing sexism?’

I thought about it for ten seconds before making my pronouncement: ‘
Mariana
,’ I said.

Nobody told me I was sacked, so I carried on as normal. We had a murder during the night and I was called from my bed. That’s fairly normal. Neighbours had heard a couple having a violent fight and the husband had stormed off in his car. Definitely normal. Four hours later, when the eighth playing of Barry Manilow’s
Greatest Hits
was still keeping them awake, the neighbours called the police. Playing Barry Manilow’s
Greatest Hits
eight times on the trot is definitely abnormal behaviour – our boys were there in minutes. They pulled the plug on the CD player, then looked for the wife.

He’d made a good job of her. In the kitchen there was a rack with enough chef’s knives on it to equip the Catering Corps. I’d seen them advertised
in the colour supplements. He’d found a novel use for the cleaver on the end. I drew on my years of police training and told Command and Control to find the husband’s car. A bright constable recognised the number as being involved in an accident he had attended at the beginning of his shift. Our man had gone off the road two miles from home, and was now in the General, waiting to have his broken thigh placed in traction.

‘He’s all yours,’ I told DS Willis, ‘and if he won’t confess, swing on his wires. But make sure his solicitor is looking the other way.’

There was no point in going home, so I hung around the station until the canteen opened. I was snoozing in the office when I received a call from a probation officer called Gav Smith. Could he come round to see me sometime?’

‘Come round now and I’ll treat you to a bacon sandwich,’ I said. My stomach hadn’t seen food for twelve hours and was considering suing my mouth for desertion. The popular conception is that we catch criminals and the Probation Service try to get them off. It sometimes seems that way to me, too, but they have an important and difficult job to do. Well, they say they have. I’d met Gavin professionally plenty of times, mainly at various committee meetings, but never socially. I was intrigued to know what he wanted: probation officers have a befriending role with their clients, and no doubt learn lots of stuff we’d find useful.

I met him at the desk and took him to the canteen. ‘Two bacon sandwiches, please. One with all the fat cut off and cooked till it frizzles, in a toasted bun; the other as it comes. And two teas: one weak, no milk and three sugars; the other as it comes.’

I joined him at the table. ‘What’s it all about, Gavin?’ I asked. I refused to join the Gav conspiracy.

‘I had a client die of a heroin OD at the weekend. There’s aspects of the case that I think the police ought to know.’

‘Go on.’

‘He was a pleasant lad, only seventeen. Brighter than most of our customers; very bright, in fact. He was in trouble for stealing to pay for his habit. An older man, about thirty, had made friends with him and took him to parties and discos. He introduced him to Ecstacy, said he could pay for it later. Jason got hooked on it. We think it must have been laced with something else; you don’t get hooked on E like he was. Then they started chasing the dragon; it still seemed like good fun. Next he was having to inject, but by now he owed several hundred pounds to the pusher. He was caught robbing an old lady who had just collected her pension. In his right mind he wouldn’t have dreamt of doing anything like that. That’s when we got him. I tried to persuade him to grass on the pusher, but he wouldn’t. Then during one of our talks, he let a name slip. Parker, that’s all. He begged me to keep it to myself, and I had to, to maintain my credibility.
I was working on ways of letting you know, but on Sunday he died. Massive overdose of uncut heroin. Somebody’s poisoning our kids, Charlie. The streets are flooded with the stuff.’

The sandwiches arrived; they were both As They Come. Gavin was visibly distressed, but he wolfed his sandwich down; he seemed hungrier than I was. I thought about what he had told me.

‘Parker, just Parker?’

‘Afraid so. Doesn’t narrow it down much, does it?’

‘That’s OK, it’s a starting point.’ Providing it’s not just his pen name. I wrestled with my sandwich and sipped my tea.

‘A couple of weeks ago we caught three youths trying to rob the owner of a Chinese restaurant,’ I told him. ‘They were all first-offenders and they all had syringe marks on their arms. They’re doing cold turkey on remand now. Last week we caught three schoolgirls stealing handbags. When their rooms were searched no drugs were found, but they had all the paraphernalia associated with the scene: posters, weird records, that sort of stuff. Plus their parents and teachers were alarmed at the deterioration in the girls’ behaviour recently. You’re right, we’re just seeing the tip of the iceberg.’

The other reason for talking in the canteen was to escape the constant interruptions of the telephone. It didn’t work. ‘It’s for you, Mr Priest,’ the manageress called out. I went behind the counter to take it.

‘Is that Inspector Priest?’ asked the voice, flatly. Male, northern accent, unemotional.

‘Yes, who’s that, please?’

‘Never mind. I’ve some information for you, and for you only. Meet me at the Coiners Arms, tonight, seven o’clock.’ And he was gone. Today was turning into Let’s Tell Charlie Day.

‘I’ll have to go, Gavin. Thanks for the information, I’ll let you know if we make anything of it.’

‘I just hope you can catch whoever’s pushing this stuff,’ he answered. ‘Do you think they’ll let me have another bacon sandwich?’

I granted him the Freedom of the Canteen and went up to the office. Mike Freer is an old boozing pal from the days before I found out that a crutch made out of liquid is about as useful as a blancmange stepladder. He’s also an inspector on the city Drug Squad. His office told me he wasn’t in, but they’d get him to ring me as soon as possible, night or day.

DS Willis obtained a confession from the husband, and statements from acquaintances and the neighbours. Our man had been thumping his wife for years, usually when he came home from the pub heavily under the influence. Last night one of his drinking companions had let it slip that the wife was having an affair with a workmate. He’d drowned his sorrows, then taken his vengeance. On the wife, of course. That type has a strong opinion of where blame lies.

‘Did you have to twang his wires?’ I asked.

‘No,’ Tony answered, ‘I just hung my jacket on the weights.’

‘What about his solicitor?’

‘No, just my jacket.’

I’d obtained copies of the depositions for the three youths we’d called the Mountain Bike Gang. These are the statements that are presented to court. I read the names out loud, then asked: ‘Which of them would you say was the best-looking?’

‘Lee Ziolkowski,’ Sparky replied. ‘He’s the
fair-haired
one, a bonny lad. I’ve always wanted fair hair.’ He looked wistful. ‘Or dark hair. Any sort of friggin’ hair, actually.’

I set to work on Lee’s depositions with white paper and scissors and gum. Then, after a visit to the photocopier, I placed the results of my handiwork in the typewriter and let my imagination plummet. Sometimes I can be so mean I frighten myself.

The Coiners is one of the oldest pubs in the area. There’s never been much mining for minerals in the southern Pennines; all the lead and stuff was to the north. But there’s supposed to be plenty of gold waiting to be found. The pub gets its name from a neat little scam that was carried out in these hills at the beginning of the nineteenth century.

The Industrial Revolution was giving local businessmen more money than they knew what to do
with, but, true to form, they were ever on the lookout for opportunities to increase that wealth. Legally or illegally.

A gang living in the hills developed an ingenious technique for putting a gold sovereign in a mould and then bleeding off a couple of drops of the precious stuff. A fifteen percent profit, overnight, minus commission, had half of Yorkshire, Lancashire and Derbyshire beating a path to their cave. It all came to an end when they were hanged on York Knavesmire, as a prelude to the day’s racing, but legend has it that there is still a million pounds worth of gold hidden somewhere in them thar hills.

None of this was on my mind as I drove towards the Coiners after leaving the office. My main concern was whether they served food, closely followed by wondering what my mystery caller had for me.

Hallelujah! There was a big sign outside that read ‘Home of Peggy Watt’s Famous Yorkshire Puddings’. Wild Bill Hickok sat with his back to the door and paid for it with his life, so I sat in a corner where I could view the entire room. There was nobody else in, apart from the landlord, who seemed to resent my intrusion. I drank four orange juices with lemonade as slowly as I could, and ate one of Peggy Watt’s puddings as rapidly as I was able. Two other men, apparently regulars, came in and had a serious discourse on tupping while sipping halves. The Yorkshire pudding had the consistency of a marathon runner’s insole. Peggy would have been better
employed helping their Jimmy with his steam engine; or perhaps he had to invent the steam engine to stir the bloody stuff.

It was dark when I left. Maybe Sparky and Nigel Newley were having better luck. I’d left them watching over my house – it could all have been a ploy to get me out of the way. I was manoeuvring in the car park just as another vehicle came in, carrying a young couple. We got in each other’s way for a few seconds, then the driver wound down his window and shouted to me: ‘Watch how you go, mate, there’s some rozzers parked down the lane and you’ve a back light out.’

I waved a thank you and parked up again. The offside rear light was deader than last night’s promises. I tapped the lens a few times in an attempt to resuscitate it, then tried to open the boot lid to have a closer look. The key jammed in the lock at first, but with some extra persuasion I managed to force it open. Once I’d figured how it was done I flicked out the offending bulb holder. Surprise, surprise, there was no bulb there; it must have fallen out into the light fitting.

All good cops carry a flashlight with a five-
hundred-foot
beam. By some chance I happened to have one with me. I didn’t find the bulb, but I did discover a white package tucked in the recess where the window-washer bottle was situated. It weighed about half a pound and was neatly done-up with polythene and Sellotape. It could have been special flour for Mrs Watt’s Yorkshire puddings, or it could have been something else.

Watching in the rear-view mirror for the blue light to come on was like waiting for the sun to rise: dazzling and inevitable. I pulled over, they got out. It was a textbook exercise in courtesy and Proper Police Procedure. Nobody had been slipping double tequilas into my orange juice, and vitamin C is non-intoxicating, so I passed the breath test as easily as a Charolais heifer passes wind.

‘Do you mind if we look in your boot, sir?

‘Yes.’

‘It’ll be easier all round if you cooperate, sir.’

‘One of you can look; I want the other to stand well back.’

The lock operated more easily this time. He flashed his light round inside, then asked to look in the car. I watched him like a weasel watches a rabbit, or was it like a rabbit watches a weasel?’

‘Everything seems to be in order, sir. You will get that light fixed, won’t you? Which station would you like to present your documents at?’

‘St Pancras. You’re on the wrong side of the hill, Sergeant. Who sent you over here?’ It was my turn to ask questions.

‘We had a tip-off, sir. Can’t say any more than that.’

‘Stop calling me sir. An anonymous tip-off?’

‘Er … I understand it was.’

‘Then make sure it was logged, ’cos I’ll be checking.’

The gate to Bentley Prison could have been the prototype for the Great Gate at Kiev. The whole edifice was constructed during Queen Victoria’s reign, in a burst of enlightenment and compassion, and an earnest desire to be constructive in the treatment of the criminal classes. Now it was overcrowded, understaffed, and held regular degree ceremonies for those who passed through its courses in advanced criminality. They don’t open the Great Gate to let visitors in – there’s a
normal-sized
, but metal, door just to the side of it.

I’d arranged my visit to see Lee Ziolkowski the previous afternoon. The visiting room is like a large canteen, with formica tables and tubular chairs; none of this talking through a screen that you see in the films. Down the side there are small cubicles for special visitors, such as solicitors or policemen. I was told which cubicle to use, and someone went to fetch Lee. I bought a couple of teas and chocolate biscuits from the lady at the WRVS counter and waited. It was normal visiting hours, and the place was noisy with young women with toddlers, come to see daddy doing his bird. At the table just outside my cubicle a tattooed hero was trying to swallow his leather-clad visitor. She wore a mini-skirt and thigh boots, and the gap between displayed enough fishnet to equip a small trawler. Just the thing to raise the morale when you measure the passing of time in Christmas dinners.

Lee appeared a lot healthier than when I last saw him. He’d lost his pallor and gained a pound or two
in weight. He still looked at me nervously, though.

‘Hello, Lee. Remember me, Charlie Priest? I interviewed you in Heckley nick. I got you one with milk and two sugars; hope that’s how you like it.’ It’s how they always like it.

He sat down opposite me. ‘Yeah, thanks,’ he said.

‘I have to tell you, Lee, that you’ve no need to talk to me if you don’t want to. You can get up and leave right now, or you can insist on your solicitor being present. I hope you won’t, though, because I think you should hear what I have to say.’

Legally he was a man, but inside he was just a scared little boy, struggling to survive in a world he couldn’t comprehend. He would put up a tough show for my benefit, but was out of his depth, and now had to either grab the lifeline or go under, maybe for ever. He didn’t say anything, just stayed where he was and unwrapped his biscuit.

‘You and your pals have been used, Lee,’ I told him, ‘by evil people who don’t care if you live or die. They feed you shit drugs and shit friendship, but all they want is for you to get hooked. Then they start bleeding you. You don’t belong in here, this place is a dustbin, it’s full of garbage. A young kid died over the weekend from a heroin overdose. The stuff he was using was too strong, he was just guessing at the dose. He’s the latest in a long line. It could have been you if you hadn’t been in here. I know it’s not the done thing, Lee, but you could help me stamp it out. You could save lives,
including your own. I want you to tell me who you got your works from.’ Longest speech I ever made, and he wasn’t impressed.