I put my finger on the relevant sentence and said: 'Looks like we'll need to be armed.'
'Sorry, boss,' said Tony. 'Didn't you know? Rose told us he keeps a gun in his car boot. I thought you were a bit eager to be up front.'
We were nearly finished when I was called to the phone. 'Priest here,'
I said.
'Good afternoon, Inspector. I'm Chief Superintendent Fearnside, Serious Fraud Office. I'd like to see you, in about fifteen minutes, if that's all right.'
A real chief super, they meant business. 'No problem, sir. Are you coming here?'
'No. I'll be at the Little Chef near Cattleshaw. I'll see you there.'
I hesitated, remembering the last arrangement I'd made on the telephone. Fearnside must have read my mind; he went on: 'If you ask Superintendent Wood, he'll tell you that he recommended the place. I'll be in a black Granada.'
'Right, sir, I'm on my way, but fifteen minutes is pushing it a bit.'
'Then you'd better get moving.'
I rang Gilbert, more to tell him where I was going than to check on Fearnside. 'What's the coffee like in the Little Chef?' I asked him.
He laughed: 'Okay, they do decaffeinated.'
'I'm going now.'
'Give 'em hell, Charlie.'
I parked a few spaces away from the Granada. There were two of them in it. We didn't go in for a coffee; as I approached the car the passenger got out. He let himself into the rear seat and gestured for me to join him. Fearnside was burly and prosperous-looking. He could have been a captain of industry. The one in the driving seat was tall and slim, and equally smooth. It was no good: if I wanted to get on I'd have to buy myself a suit. I took out my warrant card and offered it to Fearnside. He didn't look at it, but he got the message and they both showed me theirs. His aide-de-camp was an inspector called Longfellow.
The delights of production-line catering for hoi polloi apparently didn't appeal, for we went for a drive up on to the moors. I let Fearnside break the silence.
'Fascinating landscape,' he said. 'Absolutely fascinating. Am I right in believing the Bronte girls were from these parts?'
'That's right, sir, not too far away.' I wanted to add: 'And Robbie Burns, too,' but managed to stop myself. Eventually we pulled into a lay-by.
'Right, Inspector Priest, let's get down to business. Superintendent Wood has told us the main story, but we need a few details from you.
First of all, tell us everything you can about Truscott.'
I didn't tell them everything I knew, just the relevant stuff. I also handed over the copies of the reports.
When I'd finished he asked: 'How do you believe the paintings were switched?'
'In the security van. The fakes were already in the van, laid flat under the carpet, or wherever. On the journey the genuines were removed from the frames and the fakes substituted. One of the guards riding in the back was about the same size as Truscott, so I'm assuming it was him. The tacks would go back into the same holes, so they still looked the same from the back, as well as from the front. The breakdown was to give them more time; the loud music covered the sound of hammering.'
'Breakdown? Loud music?'
Gilbert had obviously not gone into such detail.
'Sorry, it's all in the reports.' After a few moments' silence I said:
'I take it that the art world is making waves. Have the paintings been switched?'
He pondered on what to tell me. 'Unofficially, yes,' he confided.
I felt strangely pleased. I clean forgot to mention the Picasso, but later a chill ran through me as I realised that I'd gone away and left it hanging over the fireplace.
'And now, Inspector, let's hear about your Spanish trip.'
They dropped me off back at the restaurant. It was out of my hands now. They had the resources and the intelligence network to really crack who was behind the theft of the paintings. A little bit of me was sorry, though George's death apart, I'd enjoyed my foray into international crime. Nicked videos and pensioners' purses lacked the glamour of drug cartels and international smuggling. It was Friday evening. I dallied in my car until the Granada left the car park, then I went in and ordered an all-day, American-style breakfast.
Chapter Twelve
I hadn't had enough time back to become snowed under with all the must-be-done-yesterday jobs that are usually threatening to engulf me.
Usually I have a couple of hours in the office on a Saturday morning, and maybe spend some time coordinating any of the troops who might be working. But, apart from a brief phone call from ADI Willis, I had a weekend off. Tony asked me if I wanted to take over on Monday, instead of being on the pointed end, but I declined his offer. The exercise would do me good I had two flights of stairs to run up.
The dead flies and streaks of yellow dirt that covered the Jaguar gave it a purposeful air, but they weren't good for the paint. I put it through a car wash and applied touch-up to the scrape. It was hardly noticeable. Then I pushed it to the back of the garage and covered it with a dust sheet In the afternoon I mowed the lawn and did some weeding. As soon as the garden looked only marginally worse than my neighbours', I stopped. Sunday, I hoovered. I love weekends like dentists love garlic.
We rendezvoused at the station at five a.m. Monday. People you've known for years always look different in situations like this. We were all wearing dark, casual clothes, with silent shoes, and one or two drew on cigarettes. There was tension behind the banter.
Superintendent Wood liaised with the city teams and confirmed the plan.
All four targets would be hit at six thirty-five. We had a final briefing, and then some of us went to the armoury to draw our guns. A Tactical Firearms Unit would be standing by, but those of us with the necessary training would carry personal weapons.
Hate is a word I rarely use, but it's in my vocabulary. I reserve it for describing my feelings towards guns. Holding a gun changes your personality as surely as does a mind-bending drug. I'd found it in everybody I'd ever seen with one, on both sides of the fence; including myself. In the Force, there are stringent tests of personality and ability before you can carry a firearm. In the streets, all you need is a hundred quid.
The standard issue is a thirty-eight, either automatic or revolver, according to the individual's preference, loaded with flat-nosed bullets. We are trained to shoot only if a life is in immediate jeopardy, so, if we have to shoot, we shoot to kill. The flat-nosed bullet has maximum stopping power, with the least chance of it going straight through the target and hitting somebody else. 'Maximum stopping power' means it makes a mess. 'The target' is the person you are trying to kill.
In the armoury, however, was a neat little Walther two-two automatic that had been found in a German tourist's handbag, and confiscated. I'd adopted this for my own use whenever I had to be armed. It fitted in my jacket pocket without the need for a holster. The macho types sniggered at it, but the way I saw things, if I had to use it, I'd already failed. I checked that it had a full clip of cartridges and that the safety catch was at 'zm'. We'd carried firearms on hundreds of occasions, and practised for hours on the range, but, to the best of my knowledge, none of us had ever fired a shot in anger.
Our four cars came to a silent halt round the corner from O'Hagan's house. We were a measured hundred yards away. Uniformed officers positioned themselves where they could prevent the postman and the milkman stumbling into the action. The last couple of minutes ticked by, then the codeword came through on the radio. Ten of us got out and, leaving the car doors wide open, strode towards the three-storey terrace. The drivers would bring the cars after us. At our head was a big constable carrying a sledgehammer. We lined up in a prearranged order at the door and I nodded to the constable. The hammer hit the lock and the door bounced inwards about four inches and sprang back. It was held at the top. Two more blows and we were in.
