Stuart Pawson - The Picasso Scam

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

"Okay. 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 diP alma 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 okay. I haven't confirmed which flight they were on, but all flights are over booked 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 M1. 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 talent less 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 Wilber-force'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 over booked "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. "Okay," 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 swag-bag 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."