The Picasso Scam (8 page)

‘Can I help you, sir?’ enquired the youth.

‘I don’t know.’ I sighed with resignation. ‘Have you anything left in or near Marbella, for next week?’

‘Doubt it, sir. It’s school holidays and the companies have drastically cut down on flights to Spain this year. Everybody wants to go to the States.’

He rattled the keys on his terminal with great fluidity, shook his head and rattled them some more.

‘Must it be Marbella?’ he asked.

‘Well, within driving distance.’

‘Sorry, Tenerife and Portugal’s the nearest we can do, and they’re hardly a drive away.’

‘What about accommodation? If I drove down would I find somewhere to stay?’

‘Absolutely no problem, sir. There’s lots of spare capacity in the area. We could fix you up, but you’d be better having a look round when you got there. You’d probably find a nice villa for next to nothing if you fancied self-catering.’

Self-catering didn’t appeal to me, I had enough of that normally, but I was warming to the youth. He knew his job and was trying to be helpful. ‘What’s the best way of taking a car across the Channel?’ I asked.

‘There’s usually a few spare places on the ferries these days. I’d recommend the hovercraft from Dover. It’s busy, but we could book you on from here. When would you be travelling?’

‘I can’t be certain,’ I said. ‘What’s the chances if you just turn up?’

‘You might have a long wait, but they’d fit you on eventually. You’d best be there very early. Here, I’ll give you a timetable.’

‘Thank you, you’ve been very helpful. I promise to book my next holiday with you.’

‘You’re welcome,’ he said, with a smile.

Suddenly I was filled with new enthusiasm. I called in at the AA shop and had the Jag put on my policy. I took out their five-star touring service, and the price of it caused my enthusiasm to waver somewhat, but an international driving permit cost me next to nothing. Then I called at Jimmy Hoyle’s.

‘You’ll never fit five wheels in the back of the Cavalier,’ he told me. ‘I’ve got them in the van, I was going to bring ’em round. Come on, I’ll show you.’

He opened the back of his little van. It was stuffed solid with Jaguar wheels and smelt of new rubber. Jimmy pulled the nearest wheel towards him, and turned it to show off the gleaming chrome spokes.

‘Don’t they look fabulous,’ he enthused. ‘I think I’d keep the spare one over the mantelpiece.’

I had to agree with him. They looked a lot bigger than I remembered, and exuded style and excellence. And this was only the wheels.

‘Jimmy, do you think I’ll be able to take a long trip in it at the weekend?’ I asked.

‘Course you can,’ he said. ‘That’s what it’s meant for. I’ll give you an MOT certificate now and you can send off for the tax. As long as you backdate it you’ll be OK.
Then it just needs setting up. I’ll do that for you. No problem. Where are you going?’

I’d wanted to keep it secret. ‘I’m thinking about the South of France,’ I said.

‘Smashing. Anywhere in particular?’

‘Yeah, Spain. But don’t tell anyone.’

‘I’ll make a deal with you,’ he said, giving me his lopsided grin. ‘Leave the keys with me and I’ll pop up this afternoon and put the wheels on. Then I can give it a going-over. That way I get to have the first ride in it. OK?’

It was definitely OK by me. ‘Great,’ I said, ‘but what about this place? Can you leave it?’

‘No problem. I’ll soon have the wheels on, then I can bring it down here to set up. Do you want me to call round at the station with it?’

‘No. Er, definitely not. And make sure you put your time on the bill.’ Jimmy’s bills were about a third of what other garages charged, which was just as well, otherwise I’d never have been able to have all the work done. He’d done the paintwork and the technical jobs, and had the expert stuff done at cost price for me. It was Jimmy who’d given me the Cortina several years previously, and I still felt indebted to him.

‘Don’t worry, I will. C’mon, I’ll give you an MOT certificate and a tax form.’ We went into his little office, where he rummaged among an untidy jumble of papers.

‘How can you give it an MOT certificate when it hasn’t any wheels on?’ I asked.

‘Here they are.’ He retrieved the pad of certificates and ran his finger down the conditions of issue. He shook his head. ‘Doesn’t say anything about having to have wheels here.’

There’s a photocopying machine in the main post office, so I took copies of the documents before posting them off to the Vehicle Registration Centre at Swansea. Next I called at the bank and cleaned them out of francs and pesetas. They didn’t have many, and weren’t pleased because I hadn’t ordered them, but they paid up without being reminded that it was, after all, my money. Then, because I couldn’t think of anything better, I drove back to the office.

Only Nigel was in, immersed in a long report. He told me where everybody else was and gave me a couple of messages. There was nothing that couldn’t wait. I sat at my desk and pretended to be busy. I was still feeling restless, impatient, wondering what the next move would be.

The only relief came just before official
knocking-off
time. I answered the phone to hear a familiar voice whisper: ‘Hi, boss, it’s me, Maggie. Is Nigel in?’ She wasn’t called Mad Maggie for nothing.

‘Yes,’ I stated, flatly.

‘Can he see you?’

‘No.’ Nigel had recently turned his desk round to catch the light from outside, which meant he now had his back to the windows of my little office.

‘Then dial him on the party-line number and keep listening.’

I did as I was told, and was rewarded by the trill of Nigel’s phone.

‘Heckley Police, DC Newley speaking, can I help you?’

The next voice was that of a downtrodden female. ‘I’d like to speak to a policeman,’ it whined.

‘Detective Constable Newley here, ma’am, how can I help you?’

‘It’s about my ’usband. He’s been done for stealing an occasional table and I want to know if he’ll go to jail.’

‘Your husband, ma’am? Well, to start with, do you know if he’s been charged with stealing anything else?’

‘Yes, he ‘as.’

‘Can you tell me what?’

‘’E stole an occasional car … and an occasional video … and an occasional …’

Nigel slammed the phone down. ‘Piss off!’ I heard
through the glass. I replaced my receiver silently and buried my head in some paperwork. Maggie could be a heartless bitch when she wanted.

I left early, for once, and told Nigel not to hang about. I hadn’t made a great contribution to the cause of law and order today, but I had other things on my mind. Five years of broken fingernails, caused by endless rubbing down and polishing, had finally come to an end. All the difficulties of finding obscure spare parts had been overcome and now the whole thing was assembled and sitting in the garage waiting for me. Patience isn’t one of my foremost virtues, but I’d made great efforts not to spoil the restoration of the Jaguar by rushing it. Going slowly also helped to spread out the expenditure.

Jimmy had popped the keys through my letter box, as arranged. I just went into the house, picked up the keys, and went straight back out to open the garage door. It slid upwards like the shutter of a missile silo, to reveal its awesome contents. The evening sunlight slid slowly up the endless bonnet of the E-type and flicked over the windscreen. I took a few paces backwards and just stood there, staring at it. I’ve never been what might be called a car person – they’re normally strictly workhorses to me – but I’d always regarded the E-type Jaguar as a work of art. The reverence I experienced as I gazed upon it was similar to that I had felt when I stood before Michelangelo’s
Pieta
, or
watched the sun set, one winter’s afternoon, from the summit of Blencathra. Jimmy was right, except that I would have liked to have put the whole caboodle over the mantelpiece.

The phone was ringing in the house. I dashed in and grabbed it. ‘Hello,’ I said. It was as good an opening as any, and didn’t give a lead to crank callers.

‘Is that Mr Priest, please?’

It was a female voice. I thought I recognised it, but I wasn’t sure.

‘No, it’s Charlie. Who’s that, please?’

‘Hello, boss, it’s Kim, Kim Limbert

‘Hi, Kim,’ I replied with enthusiasm, ‘sorry I missed your bun fight, did it go off all right?’

‘Yes. Never mind that. Charlie, are you in trouble?

‘No. I don’t think so. Why?’

‘I overheard a conversation today, well, more of a row than a conversation. It seemed to be about you.’

I was intrigued. ‘Where was this?’ I asked.

‘Down at city HQ,’ Kim replied. ‘I don’t start till Monday, but I thought I’d call in today to say hello. I was waiting to see my new boss when I was invited up to see the Assistant Chief Constable, Mr Partridge.’

I hadn’t been invited to see the ACC when I made sergeant. ‘Go on,’ I told her.

‘Well, when I got there I was informed that he’d just been summoned to the Big Chief’s office. Hilditch’s, that is. Would I forgive him, and he’d have a word with me some other time.’

‘Mmm, sounds like I’ve a rival there. What happened next?’

‘Next I got lost. I had a quick word with a girl I know in the outer office, then I must have turned the wrong way when I came out. I knew I’d made a mistake when the carpet came over my ankles. I found myself outside Hilditch’s office. There was an unholy row going on inside, and your name was being mentioned. Well, shouted, actually.’

‘Maybe they were making the short list for the next super’s job,’ I suggested.

‘No way, Charlie. Hilditch was telling him that he wants you off the Force. Pronto and
sine die
. Mr Partridge tried to reason with him, but he wouldn’t listen. He ordered him to have you suspended, as from tomorrow, or else. What have you been up to, Charlie?’

I thought about it for a few moments before I answered. Two possible courses of action occurred to me. The first one was very tempting, almost irresistible: invite Kim for a trip to a moorland pub in my new sports car to discuss the predicament. ‘Kim, it’s best if you don’t know what it’s about just yet. What you don’t know can’t make a pig’s ear, or something. You just show ’em you’re the best sergeant they’ve got, and forget what you heard. And I promise I’ll tell you all about it as soon as I can. OK?’

‘I suppose so, you’re the boss.’

‘And I’m grateful. Any time you want a transfer to CID, just let me know.’

‘We’ve had this conversation before, Charlie. I’d be no good: my profile’s too high. Good detectives are grey and anonymous, they merge with the woodwork.’

‘Ah, but we have all the fun. Good luck with the job, Kim, and thanks.’

I was smiling as I put the phone down, but I had a feeling that I ought not to be. I gave myself a mental ticking off for having misplaced priorities, and trudged upstairs to pack a suitcase. Kim’s call had helped me make a decision. I had a lot to do, and not much time to do it in.

Jimmy Hoyle told me, when I rang him, that the car was hunky-dory. He’d done a hundred and thirty, he claimed, on the M62 and she was as steady as a
three-legged
card table. But keep an eye on the oil level. I was about to ring Tony Willis, but I changed my mind and wrote him a note. Notes can’t ask questions back. There were a few other things for him to attend to, but the main priority was the safety of Makinson and Rose. I instructed him to debrief them and act on whatever information they had gathered. I’d drop it through his letter box in the morning, on my way to Spain.

A good night’s sleep seemed more important than an early start, so I rose at my normal time. It was a brilliant sunny morning, as if to give me a foretaste of what to expect. I put the Jag out on the road and left the other car standing in its normal place, up against the garage
door. I pratted about for longer than I ought, checking this and that and wondering what I’d forgotten. I couldn’t find any sunglasses, although I did have some, once, but I did find a baseball cap with NYPD on the front. Sparky’s kids had brought it back from the States for me a few years ago. I pulled it on to my head and looked in the mirror. Not bad.

‘OK, Frank,’ I said to myself out of the corner of my mouth, ‘let’s go!’

The big engine rumbled into life immediately. I sat there for a few moments, feeling the car rocking gently beneath me, like the panting of a big cat –
panthera onca
– readying itself for the chase. It was inevitable that I thought of Dad, and wondered how much of his shadow I was still living under. I selected first gear and eased out the clutch. Going towards the high street an extremely glossy black Rover passed in the opposite direction. The two occupants were uniformed, and the one in the passenger seat had silver braid on the peak of his cap. I pulled the NYPD down over my eyes and shot past them.

After stuffing the note through the Willis letter box I filled up the fourteen-gallon tank. That should take me to the outskirts of Dover. There’s a pay-phone at the garage, so I used it to ring the station. I told the desk sergeant that I wasn’t very well and was having a day or two off sick, and to let Mr Wood know. He was very sympathetic because it was unheard-of for me to be off, and asked me what the problem was.

‘Haemorrhoids,’ I told him. Make it something unglamorous and they’re bound to believe you.

‘Ooh, nasty,’ he confided. ‘Have you tried Anusol? It’s the only thing that works for me.’

Then I remembered what I’d forgotten. We’d defied the purists on two counts: Jimmy had fitted a pair of tasteful wing mirrors that the manufacturers had not deemed necessary, and I’d installed a radio/cassette player. Unfortunately I’d forgotten to throw in any cassettes. A quick detour took me to the record shop. I picked up a Dylan I hadn’t heard, then made for the classical section. I was looking for S for Sibelius, but on the way saw Rimsky-Korsakov, and decided that perhaps
Capriccio Espanol
was more appropriate. Eventually, much later than I had wanted, I found myself heading cross-country to pick up the Ml southbound.

The E-type was a revelation. By modem standards it was heavy on the controls, and the performance was probably no better than lots of other cars, apart from the hundred and fifty miles per hour top speed. But what it did do,
par excellence
, was turn heads. Drivers pulled over to let me through, and then turned to wave a friendly hand. Kids in back seats gave me the thumbs up. When I stopped at a motorway cafe there was a constant procession of admirers gawping through the windows and standing well back to appreciate the graceful lines. I felt like a celebrity,
and was surprised to discover that I enjoyed the feeling.

Dover was reached by late afternoon. After filling up and buying a European road atlas I investigated the queue for the hovercraft. It wasn’t as bad as I had expected, and eventually they squeezed me on. I think they quickly regretted their consideration when they realised how long the car was, and how difficult it was to manoeuvre, but we did it. Forty-five minutes later we were in France. I followed another vehicle for a few hesitant miles, until I recovered from the shock of driving on the right. The Jag’s poor rearward visibility, combined with the fact that the steering wheel was now on the wrong side, meant that I had difficulty watching what was happening behind me. The obvious solution was to drive faster, then I’d be going away from it all.

Immediate priorities were meal, bed, breakfast; preferably in that order. I drove steadily for about an hour, then, just as it was growing dark, pulled into the car park of one of the legendary Les Routiers. It was a disappointment, but bright and early next morning, stuffed full of croissants and twitchy on thick black coffee, I set about some serious motoring. Before going to bed I’d spent half an hour studying the maps and decided to travel south on the
routes nationales
rather than the autoroutes. My intended course would take me to the west of Paris, through Orleans and Limoges, and touch the edge of the Massif Central
in Limousin country. It looked an interesting way to see some of France, and this was supposed to be a holiday.

France is a big place, I discovered, and my progress to the bottom of the map was tardy. But the E-type weaved its magic, and the sun was shining, and soon the familiar shadows of the avenues of poplar trees were flickering over the windscreen. I thought of all the impressionist paintings of these roads that I had admired, and wondered how many of them would be improved by the addition of a speeding Jaguar. The next time I visited a gallery I’d take a few fibre-tipped pens with me and see. Orleans was easily bypassed. It brought back memories of the only time I acted in a school play. We were doing Shaw’s
Saint Joan
, and I landed the part of the Bastard of Orleans, purely on the grounds of being the only kid in the class who could pronounce it properly.

It was going to take me a lot longer to reach the Costa del Sol than I had anticipated. Impetuosity is not normally one of my traits, and now I was paying the price for my foray into that territory. Lack of planning; that was the cause of the problem. What the hell, who cares? Problem? What problem?’

I stopped in an unnamed village and dared to check out the local supermarket. Stocked up with bottled water, crusty bread, fresh grapes and other local goodies, I was soon on my way again. I also bought some aspirin, because the driving seat was giving me
back-ache; and some sunglasses. Walking back to the car I put on the shades and gave the baseball cap to a little boy on a bike.

I reckoned on stopping for fuel at about
two-hundred
-mile intervals. I filled up four times that day.

There’s a line in a song about the old men playing chequers ’neath the trees. The shadows were long and the light had turned a warm golden-yellow when I pulled triumphantly into the small town of Foix, at the foot of the Pyrenees. And there they were: old men in woollen cardigans and black berets, playing chess in the shade along the roadside, against a backdrop of a sunwashed hilltop chateau. I extricated myself from the Jag, gingerly straightening my back and stretching my protesting limbs. I was worn out and sweating. Beautiful cars, like beautiful people, have their deficiencies.

I’d parked outside a church, underneath a colossal cedar tree. I had a quick swig of bottled water and went for an exploratory walk. My schoolboy French was an embarrassment, but after a lot of gesticulation and even more laughter I found a small, deep-shadowed hotel that could feed and accommodate me for the night. When I took the Jaguar there, Monsieur le Chef-Patron was ecstatic, and insisted on my putting it round the back, away from the road. I felt welcome.