'Er, Mr. McNaughtie, please.' Except that I pronounced it McNorty.
'It's pronounced Nochty, McNochty,' she told me, 'and both Mr.
McNaughties passed on many years ago. Miss McNaughtie is in, would you care to speak with her?'
The niece? 'Oh, sorry. Yes, Miss McNaughtie will be fine, thank you.'
Sparky had pricked up his ears in disbelief when I had asked for Mr.
McNorty, and now his shoulders were bobbing up and down as he hid his face behind a sheaf of court papers.
'Pillock,' I hissed at him with my hand over the mouthpiece.
After I'd introduced myself, Miss McNaughtie started to tell me about my bequest, but I cut her short and asked her how Truscott had died.
The poor sod had burned to death when his cottage caught fire. The verdict had been accidental death, possibly brought about by falling asleep in a highly inflammable armchair whilst smoking. She couldn't tell me anything further, so I asked her what he'd left me.
'It's probably a painting. Mr. Truscott was a very eminent artist, you know. It is well wrapped up and has been in our depository for several weeks, along with one or two others. Mr. Truscott specialised in copying old masters, but his paintings are very valuable in their own right. Would you like us to arrange delivery by Housecarl, or will you come to collect it?'
Housecarl were the biggest security company in the country. It crossed my mind that they had probably managed the transport of the Art Aid paintings, something we hadn't looked into. Maybe we should start looking again.
'Yes, I'd be grateful if you could send it to me,' I told her, 'but first of all could you possibly open it up and tell me what it is?'
This prospect delighted Miss McNaughtie, and she promised to ring me back as soon as the wrappings were off. She kept her word.
'It's a copy of a Picasso. I didn't think I liked Picasso, but this one is charming.'
'Is it a portrait of a lady?' I asked.
'Yes.'
'Facing left, hair piled on top of her head, lots of blue and yellow, holding a magnolia blossom?'
'That's it, Mr. Priest. You obviously know the painting.'
'Yes, I've seen the original. She's called Isobelle Maillol. Rumour has it that she was Picasso's mistress. Can you see if the painting is damaged in any way, probably very slightly?'
She was quiet for a couple of minutes, then she came back to the phone and told me: 'Yes, but it is very slight. There's a scratch, only about an inch long, near the top left-hand corner. It's hardly noticeable.'
'Thank you. Well spotted. Mr. Truscott told me that it had been damaged. Is it possible for you to tell me who he left the rest of his estate to?'
'It's public knowledge, Mr. Priest. Everything went to his two ex-wives. Not that it amounts to much. As far as we have been able to ascertain, his estate is somewhat smaller than we had expected.'
'How small?'
'Oh, about fifteen thousand pounds, plus a few paintings.'
I'd have put him easily into the half-millionaire bracket. Miss McNaughtie gave me the address of the burnt- out cottage and I confirmed my address with her. Before I put the instrument down I told her it had been a pleasure talking to her, but it hadn't. As I trudged up the stairs to Gilbert Wood's office I wondered if this elderly Edinburgh spinster was gazing upon that beautiful three-eyed lady in a new light in the knowledge that she had been Picasso's mistress. I was also wondering what the hell to do next.
The black economy was booming. How we envy those TV detectives who work on one crime at a time; swarming about with their able assistant until the culprit is firmly behind bars before moving on to the next juicy piece of villainy. It would have been nice to have been able to follow my whim and investigate Truscott's lifestyle, but we had a business to run.
There had been another ram-raid in Heckley over the weekend: a Lada estate had been driven through the shutters of Bink's Hi-Fi and Video, and four youths had made off in a stolen Sierra with eight thousand pounds worth of goodies. It was the tenth similar raid we'd had in as many weeks. In addition a gang of pickpockets and bag- snatchers was operating in the New Mall, with apparent impunity from the law. The Super was catching flack from the Chamber of Commerce, the Retailers'
Association and the Watch Committee. I was catching flack, with interest, from the Super.
Truscott wouldn't go away, though. We didn't have a crime or a complainant; but dead men don't complain, they just stink, and I could feel it in my nostrils. Eventually I tracked down the officer who had investigated the fire at Truscott's cottage.
'Aye, we're happy that it was an accident,' he told me when I got him to the phone, 'and the Procurator Fiscal agrees. There was nothing left of the body, just a pile of ashes. He used the place as an artist's studio, so there was lots of paint and spirit and stuff lying around. Went up like a bonfire.'
'How was he identified?'
'Personal effects. Signet ring, wristwatch. Decent watch, a Rolex.
It'd stopped, though. His ex-wife was the only next of kin we could trace. She recognised them.'
Vanessa? 'Did you meet the ex-wife?'
'No, one of my constables dealt with it.'
I told the sergeant why I was so interested, and about Truscott's claim that his life was in danger. 'Just out of interest, Sergeant,' I chose my words carefully, 'you wouldn't happen to know of any missing persons locally, would you?'
He realised what I was getting at. 'Are you implying that the body wasn't this Truscott fellow?' A note of aggression had crept into his voice.
'It's a remote possibility.'
He was silent for a long while. I'd have thought we'd been cut off except that I could hear him breathing. Then he said: 'Aye, old Jamie.'
'Old Jamie, who's he?'
'He's a vagrant, wanders from village to village. He vanishes into Edinburgh when the weather turns, then comes back in the spring, sure as the swallows.'
'But he's disappeared?'
'Aye. A few people have commented that he hasn't been seen around.
We've been half expecting to find him lying in a burn somewhere.'
I could feel the poor sergeant growing agitated. One accidental death and one missing person to deal with, and some Sassenach was accusing him of getting them the wrong way round.
'Accidental death,' he told me with an air of finality, 'that's what the Procurator Fiscal said it was. If you think any different you'd best take it up with him.'
'I'm sure you're right,' I agreed, trying to get him back on my side.
'But I would be interested if old Jamie turns up.' He promised to let me know. As an afterthought I said: 'Oh, by the way, who is the Procurator Fiscal these days?'
He gave me a name that sounded like a chord on the bagpipes. I asked him to spell it. We rang off on reasonable terms, but I couldn't help thinking that they were looking for Auld Jamie in the wrong sort of burn.
I'm Gilbert Wood's greatest fan. He actually volunteered to ring the Procurator Fiscal. I was causing him a lot of hassle that he could do without, but deep down he was beguiled by the thought of cracking a multi-million-pound art scam. Especially one that nobody knew had happened.
'Okay, Charlie, okay! I'll bloody well ring him, if only to get you off my back.' He was pacing back and forth like a tiger in a cage, except he looked more like a panda. The mood, though, was definitely tigerish. 'But not just yet. Where do we stand with the ram-raiders?
The only people who aren't on to me are the bloody glass merchants and the suppliers of eight-by-four sheets of plywood. What are your boys coming up with?'
'You're going to give yourself a coronary,' I stated. 'You've forgotten how to enjoy yourself. Sit down, calm down, and I'll tell you all about it.'
Gilbert sat down. Two young constables were trying to penetrate the gangs on the estates where we thought
