'Sliced bread's not labour-saving. Cutting it with a knife's no effort, it's just that they're all different thicknesses. What do you think, Charlie?'
'Er, I agree.'
'The jumbo jet!' exclaimed Nigel, triumphantly.
'What about it?'
'Well,' he explained, 'four hundred people can fly from Manchester to New York in five hours in a jumbo. It would take them months to swim it. That's what I call labour-saving.'
'Hey, that's good,' said Sparky. 'He might use that.'
'Rubbish!' exclaimed Tony. 'What about the billion people who live in China? The jumbo hasn't saved them any labour.'
'In India they use them for moving logs,' I said.
Superintendent Wood walked through the door just in time to hear Sparky declare:… but the main fault with the Criminal Justice Act is that it does nothing to address the problem of overcrowding in the jails.'
Gilbert said: 'Hello, Charlie, didn't know you were in.'
'I'm not, boss, it's just a quick social call.'
Gilbert placed some papers on my desk. 'Have a look at those when you have a chance,' he said. 'Not as riveting as the Criminal Justice Act, I'm afraid.'
I gazed at the dreaded annual budget forecast forms. 'I've just done them,' I protested.
'They were last year's. No hurry, tomorrow will do.'
He was halfway out of the door when I shouted to him: 'Mr. Wood, what would you say was the greatest labour-saving invention ever made?'
Gilbert paused, one hand on the door handle. 'Brown underpants,' he stated, and walked out.
'Right, crime fighters I said, 'that is definitely the last word on the subject. I'll leave you to it.'
I stood up and walked over to my office. The main CID department is open plan, with a small room partitioned off in the corner which I grandly call my office. I do most of my work on a spare desk in the big office, leaving this room as open house for anyone who needs to work quietly, away from the rabble. I'd made a decision. The Cakebread Saga had gone far enough; it was time for drastic action.
I created a file. After the minimum of thought I called it 'Picasso Scam'. I gathered together all the reports and put them in the new file. Then I made a chart with all the disjointed events on it, and drew links between them, where possible. It was as obvious as a baritone in a convent choir that without the forensic we were going nowhere.
I rang Scotland Yard and asked for copies of the fingerprints of Cakebread and two associates of his, Bradshaw and Wheatley. Bradshaw was believed to be his co-pilot. Cakebread had not held a pilot's licence very long, and was not qualified for international flights.
Bradshaw was. He was a one-time racing driver who had sought to sponsor his expensive tastes by avoiding paying the excise duty on a few thousand cigars, hence his record. Wheatley was involved in quite a few of Cakebread's business dealings. It was only hearsay, but he was a Rachman-like figure, involved in lots of dubious property deals.
His only conviction was for petty theft, as a teenager. They promised to send me the copies as soon as possible.
Truscott and Eunice Cakebread had no convictions, so there was not much I could do about them. That left Ernest Hilditch. I was reasonably certain that our Chief Constable had lived a blameless past, free from the indignity of having his fingers pressed on to an ink pad and unceremoniously rolled on a sheet of paper. I'd have to use my ingenuity to obtain his dabs. I picked up the phone.
I was in luck; she was there. 'Hi, Kim, it's Charlie Priest.'
'Hello, Charlie, this is a surprise; how're you?'
'Okay, thanks, but I need a favour.'
'If I can,' she said.
'Have you ever heard the saying 'Friendship corrupts', Kim?'
'No.'
'Well it does, especially in our job. But forget it for now, I'd like to corrupt you.'
'You've been trying to corrupt me for years, Charlie, what's new?'
I smiled at the thought of it. 'Cut out the sex talk, Limbert, I've forgotten why I rang now.' After a moment I went on: 'Oh, yes, I remember is the Chief's private secretary still Miss Yates?'
Kim said: 'The redoubtable Rita, it certainly is.'
'Good, I'd like a word with her, when nobody's there. Did you tell me you had a friend who worked in the outer office?'
'That's right Melanie. She's a cousin.'
'Okay. What's the chances of finding out when I'll be able to catch Miss Yates with none of the top-brass around?'
'That should be no problem. Only one thing might stop me.'
'What's that?'
'Jealousy. Where are you? I'll ring you back.'
Nigel had left the office, so I wrote him a note. I explained where the file was and suggested he read it. Then I told him to contact Companies House and find out as much as he could about Cakebread's empire. If any of his contacts had records, obtain copies of their dabs. As an afterthought I suggested he clear it with ADI Willis.
Kim kept her word. 'There's an executive meeting at three thirty,' she told me. 'The CC is on leave and Partridge is in London. The desirable Miss Yates should be at maximum vulnerability any time after that. Let me know if you breach her de fences Rita Yates was a civilian. She had been private secretary to a long succession of Chief Constables and wielded power far greater than her status implied. Word had it that several CCs had had affairs with her.
It was a recognised fact that most holders of the job died in harness, so to speak, but whether this was relative I had no way of knowing. At four o'clock I knocked tentatively on her office door and opened it.
Her perfume hit me with all the subtlety of a friendly labrador. I'd seen her before, years ago, and knew her to be a stunner. Time had been kind to her. The blonde hair was now tastefully streaked, and a large pair of fashionable spectacles made the best of nature's perfidy.
Her legs had been her most magnificent feature, but these were now concealed behind her desk.
'Miss Yates?' I asked.
'Yes, what can I do for you?'
The manner was abrupt; she rarely dealt with anyone below the rank of assistant chief constable. I went in and closed the door behind me.
'Priest, Inspector Priest, from Heckley,' I said. 'I've a… a little problem, and I'd like to ask your assistance to get over it.'
'If I can, Inspector, what is it?'
'Well…' I tried to sound uncomfortable, but it didn't require much effort, 'you see, Mr. Hilditch had this book that was evidence in a case; and now we've found some fingerprints on it. Trouble is, we can't be certain that they're not his. Wouldn't do for us to release them and have everybody looking for the Chief Constable, would it?'
'I see,' she stated, 'so now you need something with Mr. Hilditch's fingerprints on it so you can eliminate him from your enquiries.'
Phew! Couldn't have put it better myself. 'Quite,' I said.
She thought for a while. 'I've washed his cup and the glass he uses.
Let's see what we can find.'
She came from behind her desk and headed for the door into the adjoining office. The tight skirt emphasised the classy chassis. I followed her, tripping over the waste-paper bin on the way.
The Chief Constable's office was furnished in mahogany and leather.
There were law books in a cabinet, drinks in another, and photographs from memorable moments in his career on the walls. Not a loose piece of paper to be seen anywhere. I had a look at the drinks cabinet and discovered that he was a Macallan man. That would gain him some of Gilbert's respect.
