The Picasso Scam (11 page)

He raised an eyebrow that invited me to enlighten him.

‘Cakebread had a colleague called Truscott. Truscott supposedly died in a fire, but the body was unrecognisable. I think he may be alive, possibly living in Spain. I’d hoped I might see him.’

He stood up and walked over to the window. He looked out for a few seconds, then resumed his seat.

‘Inspector Priest,’ he began, ‘it is a sad fact that there are many international gangsters living on the Costa del Sol. But not everyone who is wealthy is a thief. Well, not according to the law.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘We have many influential people visiting Puerto, very influential indeed. We are constantly alert for would-be
terrorists and kidnappers. You were seen behaving suspiciously. That is why you were arrested. I apologise if my men were rough with you, but I am sure you understand that you were not in order. I am told you were quite rough with one of them.’ He gave another hint of a smile.

‘Yes, sir. Sorry about that. Is he all right?’

‘He’s not at work this morning. He was too close to you; I’m sure he will learn his lesson. When are you leaving Spain?’

I had a choice? I’d expected to be run out of town on a pole.

‘In four days, if that’s all right.’

‘That’s all right. Please leave word of where you are staying, and I would be grateful to receive a report and information on Mr …’

‘Cakebread,’ I offered.

‘Yes, Mr Cakebread. You are free to go, Inspector, but I would appreciate it if you spent the rest of your holiday sightseeing. The Alhambra is very beautiful.’

‘Thank you, I’ll take your advice, and you’ll have the reports as soon as possible. One small problem: I don’t know where I am.’

‘Don’t worry, Ramon will take you back to your car.’ He turned to the lieutenant and gave him some instructions, adding: ‘Goodbye, Inspector.’

The surly Ramon dropped me off on the quay. He made no attempt to communicate in the car, so I busied myself rethreading my trainers. The Jag was where I’d
left it. I fished my watch out of the envelope; there was time to make it back to the hotel, have a shower and catch the end of breakfast. I’d had a lucky escape. I left Puerto Banus without casting a glance in the direction of the
Pelican
.

I hung the ‘Do not disturb’ notice on the door handle and crashed out on the bed. Around lunchtime I had a walk round a few shops and bought an exercise book so that I could map out a report for Captain Diaz. I had coffee and a pastry and went back to the room to do the report. Then I dossed on the bed again until it was time to start getting ready for my appointment with George and the paella. I was ready for it.

Seven thirty sharp I walked on to the end of the Carahuela. George was already there, standing alongside his car. He looked pleased to see me.

‘Charlie! How are you? Glad you could make it. I was a little early, so I had a look round for your car. Couldn’t see it anywhere. Thought perhaps you’d gone off again for the day and not got back.’

‘Hello, George,’ I said. ‘I’m fine, thanks. They let me put it round the back of the hotel, away from sticky fingers and lager louts. Where do you fancy eating?’

‘Anywhere, I think most of these places are the same. How about this one?’

We’d walked past the first restaurant and were standing outside the next one. It had already attracted several evening diners, and a waiter was going round
lighting the lanterns on the tables. It looked tempting and businesslike. He saw us hovering and came over.

‘A table for two, gentlemen?’ he asked in English.

I wondered if it was my Marks and Spencer, or George’s
Country Life
look that gave us away. We sat down so that George had the view out to sea, while I could watch the four women at the next table. A perfect arrangement. No messing about with the menu: it was a carafe of the local red and the house speciality paella. I also ordered some water in deference to my recent brain operation.

Being with an attractive woman would have made it perfect. Sharing the evening with Annabelle Wilberforce would have been riches beyond my dreams. But in any company, quaffing soft red wine as the sun sinks behind you, eating passable food and sharing anecdotes makes a reasonable approximation of what heaven must be like. George was good company. Eventually, tongue loosened by the grape, I confessed that I was a policeman – off duty, of course – and we swapped service stories well into the night. We discovered that men in uniform have similar ways of relieving the tension or boredom of their chosen professions. Ways that were always funny, and usually vulgar.

Our laughter was echoed by the women at the next table. They were having a good time, too. I kept exchanging glances with the dark-haired one in the red dress. Every time George rocked his head back
to give one of his guffaws, I gave her a smile. She smiled back. I had a feeling that I’d seen her in the Cala d’Or, but it could have been desire triumphing over reality.

George said he was OK to drive. He’d only had coffee over the last couple of hours, so he was probably right. He gave me his card and I promised to ring him before I went home. I meant it, too. We stood up and shook hands. It was an extended, jovial goodbye. George said something to the ladies at the table behind him, then noticed that we had a drop of wine left. He shared it amongst them with a flourish. As he walked to his car I caught the waiter’s eye and gestured for another coffee. I sat down in the seat George had left, near the lady in red, and half facing her.

‘Your friend enjoyed himself,’ she said.

‘Yes, I hope he did,’ I replied, adding: ‘I’m having quite a pleasant evening myself.’

I watched him reverse out of his parking place, then the long bonnet swung round and the Jaguar slid up the hill out of sight. There was a junction in about fifty yards where he would have to stop. As he pulled away a scooter engine burst into noisy life in the shadows just beyond him. Two youths were on it, and they followed George up the hill. The waiter arrived with my coffee. He put it down near me, but on the ladies’ table; he was a professional.

‘Would anyone …’ I began.

There were two loud cracks, from what sounded like
a heavy-calibre pistol. I sat, frozen, for half a second that felt like an eternity, then I was up and running.

I jumped on to the low wall that separated us from the first restaurant, stepped in the middle of someone’s table, scattering food and crockery, and cleared the wall at the other side. I was in the street. George’s car was at the junction, the scooter alongside it. The scooter rider had messed up his getaway; he’d dropped the clutch too quickly and nearly stalled the engine. It was pop-popping and throwing up a cloud of blue smoke. I could catch him. I could catch the bastard and screw his fucking head off. Ten yards. The engine burst into full song. Four yards; he was screaming the engine, determined not to make the same mistake again. My outstretched fingers clutched for the collar of the passenger’s jacket.

I grabbed a bunch of leather just below the collar, but I couldn’t hold on to it. As they pulled away my fingernails raked down his back. There was a luggage carrier behind the seat. My hand curled around the metal and I was dragged off my feet. The rear wheel was spinning inches in front of my face and the exhaust pipe bellowing in my ears and eyes. Twenty yards along the road I let go and rolled over in the gutter.

George’s car had run back a short way and come to rest against a lighting column. As I limped towards it a horrified couple embraced each other for comfort. George was slumped over sideways; most of his brains
were on the passenger seat. I removed the wallet from my jacket pocket and put the coat over his head, to protect him from salacious eyes. Then I sat on the edge of his seat, one foot on the pavement and my arm around him, and waited for the police to arrive. 

Capitano Diaz was immaculate in brown suit and cream shirt, in spite of being called out in the middle of the night. We’d had language difficulties in the local station, so I’d suggested that he be sent for. He arrived within the hour, and now it looked as if he had taken over the investigation. I found his courtesy disturbing. If our roles had been reversed I hope I would have treated him similarly, but I doubted it. We were sitting in a bare interview room. My trousers were around my ankles and the police doctor was cleaning up my knees. He’d already trimmed the fingernails I’d nearly ripped off, carefully dropping the clippings into a specimen bag. I now sported two muslin finger-pokes on my right hand and my knees were stinging like hell. Diaz was asking the questions.

‘You are saying, Inspector Priest, that Mr Palfreeman had a red Jagwar very similar to you own, and that the gunman mistook him for you? Am I correct?’

‘Yes, Captain, I’m sure of it. The day before yesterday, before I was arrested by your men, I’d been to Gibraltar. I visited a pub – a bar – called the Pillars of Hercules, which I believe to be one of Cakebread’s haunts. I let them know I was looking for him, and I was followed back to my car. Unfortunately I’d parked in the police station.’

‘In retrospect, Inspector, that would appear to have been foolish of you.’

‘Do you think I need reminding, Captain Diaz?’ I snapped.

‘Quite. I apologise. Even though you only met Mr Palfreeman two days ago you are obviously upset by his death. Please accept my sympathies.’

The doctor stood up and gabbled something to Diaz. Diaz translated: ‘You are to keep the dressings on for as long as possible, then you should be OK without one. Why did you not tell me about Gibraltar when we met yesterday?’

I pulled up my trousers and shouted a thank you after the doctor as he left, then went on: ‘It wasn’t relevant at that time. However, I’ve written a rough report and it’s all in there. It’s in my hotel room.’

‘Good. Yesterday we made some enquiries into your Mr Cakebread’s movements. I’m afraid you missed him; he left Spain last Thursday.’ He flicked
through the pages of his notebook, then said: ‘Here it is. He flies an aeroplane called a Piper Commanche, and according to his flight plan, he intended landing at … Teesside, after refuelling at Nantes, in France. He had one passenger, a man called Bradshaw. You know him?’

I shrugged, saying: ‘Never heard of him. Teesside’s interesting though. It’s in the north of England, about a hundred miles further on than he need have flown.’

‘Very strange. When you go home, maybe you should ask yourself why it is necessary for him to fly so much further. Do you not think so, Inspector?’

‘Good point,’ I admitted. ‘We’ll look into it.’ I knew he usually kept his plane at Blackpool airport.

Diaz stood up: ‘Come, Inspector, I will take you back to your hotel, then you can give me those reports. Can you walk OK?’

It was an effort. Both knees had scraped along the tarmac for several yards, and the doctor’s ministrations, while no doubt of long-term benefit, had only aggravated the immediate pain. My fingers were singing a duet to each other, too. On the way to his car Diaz asked if this would change my leaving plans. I’d not given them any thought since the shooting.

After a while I said: ‘I’ll rest up for the remainder of today, then, if you’ve no objections, I’ll leave first thing tomorrow morning.’

‘None at all, but I’d appreciate it if you stayed near your hotel today, in case we need anything else. You realise, of course, that you may have to come back to give evidence.’

‘If you catch them,’ I said.

‘We’ll catch them,’ he replied, as he opened the door for me. ‘Of that, Inspector, you can be quite sure.’

I sat down, easing the material of my pants off my knees. When he was in beside me I said: ‘Capitano Diaz, you are of a higher rank than me, and although we are in different forces I respect that. However, I’d like to point out that I am a plainclothes officer. If you call me Inspector all the time it destroys the point of it. My name is Priest, most people call me Charlie.’ I wasn’t sure what his reaction would be, but he’d been getting up my bodily orifices with his formality.

He turned to face me and held out a perfectly manicured hand: ‘And my name is Rafael. Pleased to meet you, Charlie. I think you are my kind of police officer.’

We were driving along the coast road. Off to our right the sun was half out of the sea. It looked like a red tombstone, come to mark the first day for seventy-odd years of a world without George Palfreeman. I twisted in my seat and watched it slowly rise and detach itself from its reflection.

‘You’re lucky to live in such a beautiful place,’ I said.

‘Yes, I know. But there are beautiful places in the south of England, too. My wife and I have spent several happy holidays in Cornwall and Devon. You live in the north, I believe. Is it very industrialised there?’

I laughed a little. ‘No, it’s wild and rugged. I love it, but I wish we had some of your weather.’

‘Ah yes, the famous English weather.’

‘Your English is excellent, Rafael. Where did you learn it?’ I asked.

‘My wife was a lecturer in English at the University of Barcelona. We moved down here about ten years ago. Now she teaches English in a local school, we speak it at home and listen to the BBC.’

I pointed to the hotel and he swung into the gateway. We went round the back so he could see my ‘Jagwar’. Then he accompanied me to my room and I handed over the rough drafts of the reports. We shook hands and he told me to take care. He tried to say something about George’s death not being my fault. I already knew the speech, but it still sounded unconvincing.

I needed a shower, but didn’t know how to have one without ruining my various bandages. I couldn’t decide if I wanted breakfast or not, so I settled for two aspirin and stretched out on the bed. The housemaid woke me four hours later, but I excused her of her duties. I managed to have some sort of a bath, and changed into decent clothes. Diaz had told
me that the British community would rally round and organise George’s funeral – there was no need for me to become involved. Once or twice through the day I looked at the number he had given me and thought about ringing it, but I didn’t. Tomorrow I would sneak away like a plague rat, leaving only death in my wake. I wasn’t proud of it, but I didn’t know what else to do.

I dined in the hotel, then settled my bill and told the desk clerk I would be leaving in the early hours. The woman in the red dress wasn’t in the dining room. Then I lay on my bed, thinking, until it was time to get into it and try to sleep.

Dawn broke as I brought the car round to the front of the hotel and loaded the boot with my few belongings. I stopped a few miles up the coast, and looked out to sea. I’d been hoping to see the sunrise again, but there was a mist over the water, and the sun was obscured. It looked like being a hot day.

Driving is a good antidote for many things. You have to concentrate when you drive. If you drive fast enough you have to concentrate totally. I decided to take the autoroutes all the way. Not the best way to see a country, but you could pack a hundred miles into an hour. By early evening Barcelona was behind me. I refuelled and decided to have a rest.

Two hours later I was away again. The dim headlights were no obstruction to progress on the wide dual carriageways, and the E-type revelled in the
type of cross-continent driving it had been designed for. I had a longer sleep, curled up in the back, near Lyons, and made it to the Paris
peripherique
in time for the rush hour. Afternoon tea on the hovercraft goes down well when your tongue has a relationship with your mouth like a sweep’s brush has with a chimney.

You think you’re there when you roll off the ferry, but it’s not true. The longest mile might be the last mile home, but the other two hundred and eighty were just as gruesome. It was another six hours before I slammed the car door under my own neighbours’ window and gratefully crashed out in my familiar bed. I’d been away just under nine days.

In the morning I looked at my mail. There were several never-to-be-repeated opportunities for me to win a total of three and a half million quid, and a note from Gilbert Wood. I sealed all the prepaid envelopes in the junk mail and put them on one side for posting. The post office needs the revenue. Then I opened Gilbert’s note. It read:

I swapped the cars round and went to the supermarket to restock the freezer. Officially I still had a couple of days’ leave left, but I knew I’d be as restless as a foreskin in a synagogue if I didn’t get back to work straight away. I wrote full accounts of my trip and ran off three copies. Then I rang Gilbert.

‘Hello, Charlie,’ he said. ‘How’re the haemorrhoids?’ Funny how people always say ‘haemorrhoids’, but write ‘piles’.

‘I haven’t got frigging haemorroids,’ I told him. ‘I just said the first thing I thought of. Sorry I had to tell you a fib. Do I still have a job or am I suspended?’

‘God knows, it’s a bloody shambles. Hilditch wants you sacked, but he’s way out of order. Partridge is his own man, though, and would have done the right thing. He’s got the measure of Hilditch, I reckon, but I didn’t want to tell him what it’s all about. As far as I’m concerned you’re still with us. Where’ve you been?’

‘Spain.’

‘Christ, I knew it. Find anything?’

‘Yep. Are you in tonight?’

‘Sure. What time are you coming round?’

‘Try this,’ said Gilbert. ‘Discovered it when I was up there at Easter. It’s regarded by some as the finest single malt ever distilled.’

We were sitting in his little study, surrounded by his books and his small but growing collection of whiskies. He wasn’t a great imbiber, but he enjoyed the good things in life, and considered the elixir of the glens to be one of the best.

‘Make it a very small one; it’s wasted on me,’ I admitted.

‘I’d no intention of making it a big one,’ Gilbert countered.

I took a sip, and let it wash around under my tongue and down my throat. ‘Mmm, quite pleasant,’ I said, ‘for whisky. What is it?’

‘Linkwood,’ he replied, with hushed reverence.

‘Linkwood? Never heard of it. Japanese?’

‘God, Priest, you’re a peasant. Sit there while I fetch you a can of lager. What’s that you’ve brought to show me?’

I passed him the sheaf of reports. ‘Read those, Gilbert, while I savour the Linkwood. Then I’ll answer questions.’

It took him nearly half an hour to get through them. Periodically he glanced up at me, then, towards the end, he said ‘Jesus Christ’ under his breath. Finally he lowered the sheets and sat looking at me for a couple of minutes. I gazed into my glass.

He said: ‘You’re lucky to be alive, Charlie.’

‘Yeah. And George Palfreeman’s unlucky to be dead.’ I swirled the dregs of the straw-coloured liquid around the heavy tumbler. I didn’t dare lift my head to look at him. ‘Between those two statements and the Linkwood, we’ve got the makings of a nice philosophical evening.’

He went to ask Molly, his wife, to make some tea. I was grateful for the interlude.

Gilbert came back and sat down. We waited in silence until Molly brought the tea and left us. Then he said: ‘First thing in the morning I’ll call in the Serious Fraud Office. It’s spread too far and wide for us to handle. Sorry, Chas, but you’re off it from now on. It’s a pity I didn’t give you a bit more support earlier; we should have bowled Hilditch a googly – set him up, somehow.’

‘Never mind. It was one of his predecessors who said hindsight was an exact science.’

‘Doesn’t make me feel any better. Are you coming in tomorrow?’

Tomorrow was Friday, the last day of my holiday. ‘Yes, I’d like to.’

‘Good. You’d better hang around the office – no doubt they’ll want a word with you. Let Willis see the week out as acting inspector.’

‘That’s fine by me. What else has been happening?’

‘I was just coming to it,’ he said. ‘We brought in young Rose and Makinson. They’ve come up with some good information. We’re hitting four addresses
early Monday morning, just when they’re at their best. Only two of them’s in Heckley, though. The city boys are looking after the others. Will you want to take over?’

I thought about it. ‘No, if Tony’s done all the planning, let him handle it. I wouldn’t mind going in, though, if that’s all right. A bit of aggression might do me good.’

‘All right by me. I’ll let Willis fill you in tomorrow.’

I went home and asked the word processor to run off copies of all the reports, for the Serious Fraud boys. According to the Data Protection Act I shouldn’t store information like that on my computer, so I closed the curtains while I did it.

The first four people I met next morning asked me how my haemorrhoids were and suggested a variety of treatments. Then word must have passed round that it was a touchy subject, and concern began to diminish. I buried myself in the small hill of paperwork that Tony had decided I ought to know about, and fielded enquiries about my holiday. The first worthwhile phone call I received was from Diaz.

‘Good morning, Charlie, or may I call you Inspector Priest? I thought you would be back at work today. How was the drive?’

‘Hello, Rafael, it’s good to hear from you. The drive was hard work, not to be recommended. Any developments?’

‘Yes. One of my men was in a bar and he saw a youth wearing a leather jacket which had some interesting marks on the back. He brought him in. The stuff we took from under your fingernails was a perfect match. We now have the accomplice and the scooter, too.’

‘Well done. No gun?’

‘Unfortunately, no, but they are known to be associates of gangsters. Rest assured, they are the ones.’