On a previous occasion Tony had organised an operation in my absence.
It involved an architect who was making illegal payments to the head of the council planning department. We caught him handing over a large sum of money in a supermarket car park. Tony's imagination had developed some sort of blockage, and he had called it Operation Freemason. I was the Grand Wizard. It had a few of the top brass looking over their shoulders, and the judge reaching for his bismuth tablets. It also delayed Tony's promotion by a couple of years. Since then we had compiled a list of names from nursery rhymes and children's stories, which we chose from at random.
'Operation Glass Slipper,' he told me. 'You're Rumpel-stilts king We nearly blew it. No cyclists wearing balaclavas and carrying violin cases were on the streets on Monday morning. We had units outside the restaurant and the post office, in various states of disguise and concealment. Sparky and I were in his car, liaising between the two.
We did a cruise round the block and that's when we saw them. Three youths were parked up in an XR2 just round the corner from the post office. I checked the number. It had been stolen in Halifax on Saturday night. Rumpelstiltskin alerted all Glass Slipper units.
At three minutes to nine two of the youths left the car and walked round the corner towards the post office.
'These kids know what they are doing,' said Sparky. 'They're not your average toe rags I had been thinking the same thing. We told the others to move in.
Sparky and I got out and walked towards the back of the XR2 as if in the middle of an animated conversation. He was waving his arms about and telling me about a row, real or imaginary, with his wife. The XR2's engine was running and I saw the driver clock us in his mirror. I joined Sparky in a few gestures. The kid at the wheel probably thought we were a couple of deaf Italians as we windmilled towards him. When we got to the rear of the car we separated and went down each side of it.
As Sparky reached the driver's door he wrenched it open and yanked the youth on to the pavement. He was standing with his hands on the roof before he could say: 'I want my brief.'
Sparky poked a finger in the back of his head and drawled: 'One move, Blue-eyes, and I'll cure your acne for ever.'
Crime has no closed season, no bank holidays, no days off. We are busy round the clock. My job is to manage the troops, make sure the paperwork gets done properly and liaise in every direction at once.
Meantime I like to get out on the streets as much as possible, which usually means in my own time. We all have our pet priorities, and mine, next to putting crooks behind bars, is looking after, developing and encouraging the lowly constables in my charge.
The PC, whether in uniform or plain clothes, is the backbone of the Force. He is in the front line for all the danger, all the abuse. He or she. Call me old-fashioned, but somehow it seems even worse for the women. I had been on the point of quitting when my first promotion came through. Some good arrests had come my way, but my overriding feeling was of being scared. I never actually wet myself, but I was grateful for the dark trousers. The thought of going out every day or night for the rest of my life not knowing if I would come back in one piece did not appeal to me.
One Saturday afternoon I was parked near the municipal football pitches when I saw a commotion on one of them. I'd turned out for a local side a couple of times, but couldn't keep my place because of the shifts I was required to work. I got out of the car, and when they saw me some of the spectators came running over. Would I radio for an ambulance, someone was in a bad way? I didn't radio; I dashed over to see what the trouble was. A player was laid on the ground. He'd stopped breathing and his face was turning blue. When I tried to clear his airway I found he'd swallowed his tongue. I fished it out of his throat with my fingers and tipped him on his side, but he still wasn't breathing. I put him on his back again and forced a couple of breaths into him. That did the trick. He was conscious when the ambulance arrived.
The following Saturday should have been my day off, but I was asked to work again. I wasn't happy about it, and grumbled loudly to anybody who would listen. At about two thirty I received a message to go to the Poste Chase Hotel. There'd been a fracas in the restaurant would I investigate and see if anybody wanted to make a complaint? It was all a bit odd. For a start, the Poste Chase wasn't even on our patch. When I walked into the restaurant a big cheer went up. A young man came up to me and introduced himself as the foot baller whose life I'd helped to save the week before. This was his wedding reception and I was to be guest of honour; they'd fixed it all with my super. I sat at the top table, next to the groom's parents.
Everybody said nice things about me in their speeches, and my photo, with the happy couple, made the front page of the Evening News.
After that I decided to give it another try. I was young and skinny and not very streetwise. But I learned quickly and I toughened up and found that I could handle myself in a roughhouse. I started to enjoy more and more of the job. Nowadays there is more danger than ever facing the PC. I send them out and breathe a sigh of relief when they all come back, and generally fuss over them like a stupid old hen. I get one of the sergeants to do all the dirty work, like handing out bollockings. The constables appreciate it, and the unintentional result is that the police force is infiltrated at all ranks by officers who came through the Charlie Priest training school. Christ, I sound like Jean Brodie.
I didn't give Truscott a very high priority. Every day I am handed a print-out of outstanding crimes, against which I write high and low values of importance. Truscott didn't even appear on the print-out; I just pencilled him on the end. Fraud Squad have a so-called expert to deal with art frauds and we sent him copies of the file. He made nationwide enquiries but didn't come up with anything. The underworld had no knowledge of any big deals in the offing. He did tell me that there was a ready market among the mega-wealthy for great works. The ultimate in one-upmanship for a certain type of billionaire would be to have ihc Mona Lisa hanging behind the toilet door. I'd have preferred a never-ending toilet roll.
Truscott had told me that he would be in contact in one month.
It was with relief, not concern, that I saw the month marker in my diary pass by with no word from him. I neither liked nor trusted him, and I wasn't convinced that he was on the level. We had checked with Traffic, and the transport of the paintings had passed off reasonably well. Our boys had taken over on the Yorkshire/ Lancashire border and seen them right to the art gallery in Leeds. The only hiccup had occurred when the security van carrying the paintings had broken down.
After a delay of nearly two hours the convoy restarted with the security van being towed to its destination by a breakdown truck.
Everyone was adamant that the van holding the pictures stayed sealed throughout, and was only opened at the end of its journey. The bonnet had been lifted, briefly, to ascertain the trouble, and then the tow vehicle sent for. It had been quite a convoy, and the cargo had been safer than a nun's virtue on Christmas Eve. If I had been worrying about Truscott, I stopped when two months passed without a word.
It was towards the end of the fourth month that I received the letter from his solicitor saying that they were holding a bequest he had made me in his will. He was dead.
Chapter Four
McNaughtie, McNaughtie and Niece (Solicitors), of Edinburgh, begged to inform me that subsequent to reading the will after the untimely death of their client, they were holding a parcel for me which had been in their safety depository for some time. Would I please be kind enough to contact them with a view to arranging its collection?
I rang them immediately but they weren't open yet. The Presbyterian work ethic didn't extend to starting before nine of the a.m. I took the letter to the office, skipped morning parade and sent Tony Willis up to the Super's prayer meeting.
I got straight on the blower. It was cheaper to use the firm's phone, and it could be police business. A soft Edinburgh brogue answered immediately, but I didn't catch a word she said.
'Could I speak to one of the partners, please?'
'Yes, they're all here, which one would you be liking?'
