the ram-raiders came from. It was a risky situation and we were all uneasy about it. They appeared to revel in the job, though.
'Martin Makinson seems to be coming up with the goods,' I told him.
'He's well in with a receiver and is bulk-buying off him. We sell the goods back to the insurance companies. They pay up front 'Bulk-buying! Is he creating the demand that they're trying to fill?
This could work wonders for the economy.'
'No, that was just a figure of speech. He just buys enough to keep his credibility high. He's worked himself into a good bargaining position; now he's talking about dealing directly with Mr. Big. There is a Mr.
Big. These people are organised.'
'How safe is he? What have you told him?'
'Maz has been given strict…'
'Who's Maz?' Gilbert interrupted.
'Martin,' I answered. 'He calls himself Maz now, it goes with his new haircut. And the tattoos. And the nose- ring. He really takes his work seriously. I've given him strict instructions that if he gets the faintest inkling of being rumbled he's to cut and run. I've also warned him that he might be dealing with dumbos at present, but the next tier will be a different league, they'll have brains. Just a name, that's all I've told him to get.'
Gilbert was calm now. He shook his head slowly. 'Rather him than me,' he said, then asked: 'Do you worry about them, Charlie?'
'Mmm, I worry myself sick. They seem to lap it up, though.'
'And what about John Rose?'
'John is cultivating a couple of contacts in a gang who call themselves the Fusiliers. Plenty going off but all small stuff. Thieving, some drugs, a bit of football hooliganism, racist overtones. Nothing organised, though.'
'God, what a healthy environment to put our best recruits into. What would his mother think? Call him off if he's wasting his time.'
'I'll leave him a bit longer, if you don't mind. No doubt we'll get something out of it. I'm having to be flexible with them both, though, because they're supposed to be unemployed. That's leaving me short in other areas.'
'Okay,' agreed Gilbert, 'do what you think is best. How are you getting on with your dad's Jaguar? Is it nearly ready?'
'It's going well. The wheels have just been done up and now they're back at Jimmy Hoyle's for new tyres and balancing. All we need then is an MOT and we're away.'
I stood up to leave. 'Don't forget the Procurator Fiscal,' I reminded him. His reply tripped off the tongue with similar ease.
Nigel Newley was back with us. He'd shown a definite aptitude for detective work and started to fit in when he realised that we weren't complete barbarians north of Hemel Hempstead. We just like to pretend we are. He'd even acquired a taste for the beer, and no longer diluted it with brown ale. I'd had him in, together with another DC, Jeff Caton, to give them a grilling in preparation for their promotion panels. When we'd finished I asked Jeff to find the names of the Traffic boys who had escorted the Art Aid convoy, and to check which security company was involved.
'A fart to a Ferrari it was Housecarl, but check anyway,' I told him.
Nigel had a report to type. He'd caught a pickpocket in the New Mall.
She was a sixty-seven-year-old alcoholic. We both agreed that this burst of success was unlikely to get the Super off our necks, but we'd go through the motions by giving her a caution and alerting the Social Services. Tony Willis was busy at the typewriter keys, too, preparing some court reports. Tony's typing has all the intermittency of some dastardly Chinese water torture. After a longer than average pause he asked: 'Does buggery have a g-g in it?'
'A gee-gee, a moo cow, usually something like that,' I told him.
'Thanks, boss. We'd be lost without you.'
'Any time, Anthony.'
Nigel was gazing at us both with a vacant expression when Gilbert Wood burst in. 'Haven't you got anything to do?' he demanded of Nigel.
Without waiting for a reply he hurled a screwed-up ball of paper at me and sat down. I smoothed out the sheet and saw it was the Procurator Fiscal's name and number that I had given him. He took a few deep breaths before he spoke. 'I just rang your friend Jock McPillock. Made me feel like a bloody schoolboy. How dare I have the temerity to ring him on the electric telephone? Any second I expected him to call me wee laddie.'
I waited until Gilbert had calmed down. 'Do I get the impression he's not willing to co-operate?' I asked, stifling a laugh.
'Him and me also. Not without hard evidence. A crime would be a good starting point. My advice is drop it, Charlie, we've enough on our plates chasing real villains without inventing them.'
'Okay, boss, but thanks for ringing him. I'll cross it off my list of Jobs I Must Do. Kettle's just boiled if you want a coffee.'
'No thanks. Wife's got me on decaffeinated. Tastes just the same to me.' He stumped off back to his office.
Nigel recovered his voice. 'Could be the perfect crime,' he said. 'The one nobody believes has been committed. Are you going to drop it, boss?'
'Is he chuff,' said DS Willis.
Next morning Jeff Caton presented me with a list of the Traffic officers that I'd asked for, with their current shifts. 'The security company situation is a bit odd,' he told me. 'Housecarl had the main contract to transport the Art Aid paintings, but apparently a firm called ABC Security have a contract with West Pennine County Council to do all their security work. They insisted it was their job and threatened to sue for breach of contract. Eventually a compromise was agreed to by the insurers, whereby Housecarl subcontracted this one journey to ABC 'ABC Security, well done.' I'd seen their vans occasionally. They seemed to have sprung up in the last couple of years. I didn't attach any significance to the name: every category in the Yellow Pages has somebody called ABC listed. A part of me was also beginning to think that perhaps Gilbert Wood was right. I could do without all this. I'd have one last throw, though.
'Get some background on ABC,' I told him. 'Find out what sort of company it is and who the registered owners are. But don't let them know we are asking. And if the Super asks what you're doing, tell him you're looking for a lost gerbil.'
It was decision time. What to have for lunch. I didn't fancy the canteen and I could use some fresh air, so I decided to wander down to the New Mall and eat there. The opening of the New Mall had been a bit of a renaissance for the centre of Heckley. We'd gone through the black-hole-in-the-middle period and, hopefully, were now entering a new, more prosperous phase for the town's traders. It was a rather grand place, and had been well accepted after many early misgivings. It had a posher name, but all and sundry referred to it as the New Mall.
Unfortunately it had become a happy hunting ground for petty thieves.
Today the local radio station was holding some sort of fund-raising event there that would provide riveting listening for its countless dozens of fans. For some strange reason this was expected to attract people to the mall, not drive them away, so it could be a good day for picking a pocket or two. We'd got everybody available mingling with the throng of happy teenyboppers.
Normally, I wouldn't become involved at this level, but the council elections were imminent, and one of the candidates was floating his campaign on the crime wave in there. My plan was simple I'd eat, look at the girls, nab a couple of villains, then come back to the office.
When the others returned empty-handed I'd give them hell and go home with a nice self-satisfied feeling.
The multi-choice, serve-yourself restaurant is on the third floor of the mall. The disc jockey was strutting his stuff on the ground floor, but it was still too close. I was tucking into my pizza when Sparky joined me. One-up to him: he'd found me before I found him.
'Any action?' I asked.
'A definite possible,' he told me. 'Mad Maggie has her eye on three girls who are acting a bit strange. At least three of the women who lost handbags were sitting over in that far left-hand corner when they realised their bags had gone. It's a bit more secluded there, lots of plastic palm trees. These girls keep returning to the spot, looking
