work. He put it back on the ledge and selected one that did. He wrote:
TRUSCOTT DID SOME PAINTINGS Then he added:
CAKE BREAD (ABC) MOVED THE PAINTINGS 'Hilditch knows Cakebread,' I suggested. Gilbert wrote:
CHIEF CONST. FRIENDS WITH CAKE BREAD
'What next?' he asked.
'Why do you save the pens that don't work? Why not sling them in the bin?'
'It might start working again. What next?'
'CC knows Charlie's on his tail,' I told him. He put:
CHIEF CONST. FINDS OUT CP IS SUSPICIOUS
I wasn't happy about the ambiguity, but I let it go. In a sudden burst of inspiration Gilbert added:
DRUGS PLANTED ON CP WERE THE PAINTINGS SWITCHED? IS TRUSCOTT DEAD?
We stood back and admired his handiwork. Gilbert selected a different-coloured pen and drew arrows on the chart. 'We've established links there, there and there,' he said, indicating the top four lines, 'but we've nothing to show that the drugs are part of the same scam. They might be totally unrelated. I hate to be the one to tell you this, Charlie, but there's other people around who don't like you.'
'Mmm, I know, that's what I've been thinking. Heroin is a highly marketable commodity, though. Which is easier to get rid of: three paintings or fifty million quid's worth of smack?'
'You mean they stole the paintings and traded them for the drugs.'
'That's the theory,' I stated, 'except that maybe they didn't steal the paintings. Maybe they just traded the forgeries.'
'Jesus Christ, no wonder Truscott sounded scared when you talked to him. Drug barons are not the people to meddle with.'
I gazed at Gilbert with my brow furrowed and a deadpan expression on my face, trying hard not to smile. 'Gilbert,' I said, 'do you have to keep using our Saviour's name as an expletive? Some people might find it offensive. In fact, I believe I do. Why can't you just use plain old Anglo-Saxon like everybody else?'
'Oh no!' He put his hands to his head in exasperation. 'Don't tell me: my DI's found God!'
'No I haven't!' I declared.
'Then it's a woman,' he stated triumphantly, stabbing a forefinger at me. 'You've found a woman and she's found God.'
'Rubbish. Anyway there's something else to add to the chart.'
'You're blushing! I've never seen you blush before.'
'No I'm not. Truscott 'Yes you are. Hey! It's the lady in the video, isn't it? She looked all right, definitely too good for you. What about Truscott?'
I was relieved to get back to business. I had a feeling that I'd lost that little skirmish. 'The conversation I had with him at Beamish,' I began. 'I've been over and over it in my mind, and I'm certain he said that the Picasso was damaged and he didn't think it had been switched.
He pretended he didn't know, as if the pictures had passed on from him.
But then he bequeaths me the Picasso, real or forged, in his will.'
Gilbert thought about it. 'Which proves what?' he asked.
'Just that Truscott is a liar,' I stated. 'He knew all along where the Picasso was. He had it himself.'
TRUSCOTT IS A LIAR
Gilbert added to the chart.
'And there's another thing you ought to know,' I said.
'Too late, the sheet's full.' He pulled it off the pad and started to tear it into shreds which fell into his bin.
'Cakebread's just flown off on his hols in his own plane.'
'Where to?' Gilbert asked wearily.
'The Costa del Crime,' I answered.
His eyebrows popped up. 'Think he might be collecting another payment?'
'Who knows?' I watched the last few strips fall into the bin. 'I'd like to leave things awhile, see what their next move is, if that's all right with you.'
'There's not much else we can do,' he stated, stroking his chin, 'but it could be dangerous. They may not be so subtle next time.'
'If I broke my legs tonight, would you manage without me?'
'It would be a struggle at first,' he admitted, 'but by ten o'clock we'd be saying, 'Charlie who?' ' 'Well in that case, can I have the next two weeks off on leave?'
Gilbert gave one of his all-the-cares-of-the-world sighs. After considering for a few seconds what I'd asked he said: 'If you want to take your lady friend studying ecclesiastical architecture in the Cotswolds yes. If you're thinking of buggering off to Spain looking for Cakebread no.'
I didn't say anything, just thought about the options he'd given, and a wave of melancholy swept over me. I could immerse myself in police work and enjoy the banter and the adventure of it; I even enjoyed the long, boring shifts waiting in the car in some alley, watching for something to happen. But the endless shifts always did come to an end.
Gilbert had been dismissive of the holiday in the Cotswolds, with 'your lady friend', but his throwaway line expressed an unattainable dream for me. I must be growing sensitive.
The office felt claustrophobic, I needed some fresh air. I delegated a few jobs, then told Tony and Dave that I was going to sort out a few things for the Jaguar. I paused in the exit from the car park. Turning right would take me up towards the moors, past St. Bidulph's and the Old Vicarage. 'Not just yet,' she had told me, but when was 'yet', and how would I know? I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, consumed with doubt and indecision. A patrol car waiting behind me gave a gentle toot on its horn. I waved an apology, signalled left and started down the hill into town.
I'd had a message from Jimmy Hoyle, the mechanic, that the wheels were ready, so I thought I would collect them and fit them in the evening.
On the way, as an afterthought, I called in to a travel agency that most of the troops used because it gave a discount to Federation members. There were three girls in varying degrees of desirability behind the counter, and a youth with a ponytail and earrings.
'Can I help you, sir?' enquired the youth.
'I don't know.' I sighed with resignation. 'Have you anything left in or near Marbella, for next week?'
'Doubt it, sir. It's school holidays and the companies have drastically cut down on flights to Spain this year. Everybody wants to go to the States.'
He rattled the keys on his terminal with great fluidity, shook his head and rattled them some more.
'Must it be Marbella?' he asked.
'Well, within driving distance.'
'Sorry, Tenerife and Portugal's the nearest we can do, and they're hardly a drive away.'
'What about accommodation? If I drove down would I find somewhere to stay?'
'Absolutely no problem, sir. There's lots of spare capacity in the area. We could fix you up, but you'd be better having a look round when you got there. You'd probably find a nice villa for next to nothing if you fancied self-catering.'
Self-catering didn't appeal to me, I had enough of that normally, but I was warming to the youth. He knew his job and was trying to be helpful. 'What's the best way of taking a car across the Channel?' I asked.
'There's usually a few spare places on the ferries these days. I'd recommend the hovercraft from Dover. It's busy, but we could book you on from here. When would you be travelling?'
'I can't be certain,' I said. 'What's the chances if you just turn up?'
'You might have a long wait, but they'd fit you on eventually. You'd best be there very early. Here, I'll give you a timetable.'
'Thank you, you've been very helpful. I promise to book my next holiday with you.'
'You're welcome,' he said, with a smile.
Suddenly I was filled with new enthusiasm. I called in at the AA shop and had the Jag put on my policy. I took out their five-star touring service, and the price of it caused my enthusiasm to waver somewhat, but an
