Stuart Pawson - The Picasso Scam

Going down the other side the patchwork of the Lancashire plain was visible almost to the coast. Soon I was driving through the middle of Oldfield, rattling across the market square with its ancient cross, and heading out towards Welton and ABC House.

I drove past the gatehouse at the front entrance. Apart from the rows of mute lorries and security vans, the only vehicles parked there were a small motorbike belonging to the gate man and Breadcake's Rolls Royce. Dammit, I hadn't expected him to be in today. I settled down to watch, from as far away as possible. After an hour I rang his home, The Ponderosa, on the mobile phone.

"Hello," said a female voice.

"Hello, is Mr. Cakebread there?" I asked.

"No." She didn't give much away.

"Oh. It's Mr. Curtis here, of Curtis's. I'd like a quick word with him, soon as poss. Are you expecting him?" Curtis's were the local Rolls Royce dealers.

"Yes, he shouldn't be long."

"Good, I'll try a little later. If I miss him could you ask him to give me a bell sometime tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"Thank you. "Bye." Click.

At least it sounded as if he was due to go home soon. He did, just before the end of the Radio 4 play.

The cobbled lane that runs down the side of ABC House was deserted, apart from a couple of vehicles parked outside the factory next door. I left my car behind them and walked back to the side entrance of the building. I knew that two of my keys fitted the small door that was inset into the big sliding one. Without looking round I unlocked the deadlock, then the Yale, and stepped inside. A small red light was blinking on the burglar alarm unit on the wall at the side of the door.

I typed in the number and the light turned to a steady green one. He hadn't changed the code, I was in. I closed the door, leaving the latch off.

It had possibly been a weaving shed, or something similar, in days gone by. Now it was just a big empty space, devoid of any machinery. Across the other side were a couple of disabled lorries, cabs tipped forward and entrails laid neatly on the concrete floor, waiting for their mechanics to resume work on Monday morning. A security van stood on blocks, minus its wheels. It was gloomy without the lights on, the only illumination coming from a row of windows up near the roof. Away to the right was the main entrance a big concertina door that led out into the yard and the office block where I had met the desirable Gloria. The offices were a two-storey affair, easily accommodated within the height of the main building. A flight of metal stairs led up to the next floor. I wondered if the door at the top of them gave access to Breadcake's private suite, with its deep carpets and wonderful matching colour scheme. There was a good way to find out.

I padded across to the stairs and climbed them two at a time, hauling on the handrail and extracting the third key from my pocket as I moved.

I paused at the door and looked around. The place was as silent as a turkey farm on Boxing Day. I tried the key. It turned. I let the door swing open and surveyed the room. It was windowless and dark. I didn't want to put the lights on, so I left the door wide open. It still took a few moments for my eyes to accustom themselves to the gloom. It was a big room, with an odd assortment of furniture. There were two or three easy chairs and a huge table that might have come from a drawing office or a school laboratory. But what really caught my attention was the familiar face, staring unwaveringly at me through the gloaming.

Ill

I gazed back at it with a deal more fascination than when I'd seen the original in the Louvre, many years ago. It was the Mono. Lisa, but the picture wasn't hanging on the wall: it was on an easel, as if waiting for the artist to add the finishing touches.

I turned it a few degrees, so that it received more of the light from the door. It was good. Oil paints are slow to dry; the different colours drying at different speeds. The earth colours, as used in this painting, might take a couple of days, whereas a red might need a week or more to be touch-dry. Total dryness can take up to a year. I tested the surface with my fingers, to feel what it could tell me. Not much. He could, of course, have been working on it for months, developing minute areas with infinite patience.

That hint of a smile on her face doesn't fool me. I reckon someone in the room has just broken wind, and, being a lady, she's desperately trying to pretend she didn't hear them. I think she'd look better with a big, lecherous grin. If the paint wasn't completely dry I should be able to do it with my fingertips. I tried to draw the corners of the mouth upwards, pressing hard on the surface. It was too late. She looked a little more as if she was about to lose control, but not as manic as I'd hoped for. I glanced around for materials, then pulled open the drawer in the table.

All his paints were neatly laid out, as per the rainbow. I went straight to the short end of the spectrum and selected a colour.

Cadmium scarlet, perfect. Squeezing the paint directly from the tube on to the canvas, I gave her a luscious, Monroesque pout although it did look as if she'd applied her lipstick while riding a horse.

I placed the squashed tube back in the drawer without putting the top back on and moved up the frequency range. Something had to be done about those eyebrows and the receding hairline. Chrome yellow; a bit cool, but it'd do. I gave her two arching brows, then, working outwards from the parting, masses of looping, blonde curls. Bet she'd always wanted to be a blonde. Half a tube of lamp black provided eyelashes that looked like lawn rakes. I closed the drawer and examined my handiwork. Well, at least it was original.

At that point I should have left. I'd penetrated their empire and guaranteed them a bad case of dysentery when they found out. I should have organised twenty-four-hour surveillance. Over the years, there've been a lot of things I should have done, but didn't. Besides, I've always had an interest in interior decoration. I just had to have a look at Mr. Cakebread's private suite. I presumed that was where the door at the far end of the room led.

The handle turned silently and the door swung inwards when gently pushed. It was almost pitch black inside, except for a flickering blue glow reflecting off the shiny surfaces. As the door swung wider I saw the source of it. High in a corner was a small black-and-white closed-circuit TV monitor, showing the big door at the side, where I had entered the building.

"Come in, Charlie," said a familiar voice, and the lights flashed on.

Rudi Truscott was standing at the far side of the room. He had a smug expression on his face and a Smith and Wesson in his hand. It was a Lady Smith, one of a neat little series of weapons designed for American women to carry in their purses. It was a thirty-eight, though, and would fell a moose at this range.

"Pizza Express," I said. "Did anybody here order a quattro stagioniV "Sit down," he commanded, gesturing towards an armchair, 'and keep your tiresome humour to yourself."

Ouch! That hurt. He placed himself on an upright chair at the other side of the room. I glanced round at the furnishings. There was a lot of lilac. The style was Puffs Boudoir, with heavy Cocktail Bar influences.

"Nice room," I said. "Did you choose the colours?" No answer, just a contemptuous stare.

"I, er, I saw your painting." I gestured towards the outer room. "It's good, one of your best. But surely you're not going to try to heist the Mona Lisa, are you?"

He sniggered. "No. While I am confident I can reproduce Leonardo's masterpiece, he unfortunately used inferior materials. I am unable to do justice to the surface cracks that it is covered with. The picture is just a little present for the wife of a friend. She says it's her favourite painting."