Stuart Pawson - The Picasso Scam

"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, miniskirted 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."

"Okay," 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.

"Okay… okay…" 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 okay. 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.

"Okay. 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."