Another aspect of the backlash caused by our successes with the heroin pushers was that raids on chemists' shops increased. The user who can't obtain a regular fix of his chosen pick-me-up has a pharmacopoeia of alternatives. The ingenuity of the desperate addict, or the greedy pusher, knows no limits. Drugs that were discovered or invented to induce sleep, kill pain or calm the raging mind were soon found to produce very different effects when taken in massive doses, or mixed into cocktails.
The barbiturates are the most favoured alternatives to heroin. They also cause more deaths than all of the others put together except booze and fags, of course. The problem is that the fatal dose is not many times greater than the effective dose. As the taker builds up tolerance he has to pump in more and more to get the same buzz.
Unfortunately the lethal level does not increase in the same way. One day the two lines cross and another dope head takes a one-way trip. We find them hunched in squalid bed sits or sprawled in public urinals, choked on their own vomit. It's a long way from that first, laughing drag on a joint at someone's party.
As soon as we recognised an increase in raids on pharmacies we visited all those on our patch and advised them to improve their security. Some chemists were amazingly complacent, but we eventually reversed the trend. This led to an increase in domestic burglaries, and then armed robberies. We felt as if we were standing in the middle of the Serengeti Plain, waving our arms about, trying to stop the wildebeest migrating. Serious violence was hiding in the long grass. Fortunately, the figures soon settled down to something like the norm, but it wasn't due to our efforts: it was because supplies began to filter through again and the price dropped.
After long delays due to adjournments to allow for 'further investigations', the inquests into the deaths of O'Hagan and Hilditch were held. "Expedient' is the kindest thing I can say about the first verdict. He'd been lawfully killed by a police officer who was not named, as it was not in the public's interest to do so. It wasn't in my interest, either, so I didn't argue. He'd fired the first shot, and suffered the consequences. Nobody mentioned that he didn't have a second.
If this was a whitewash, Hilditch got the full interior decorator treatment, complete with flock wallpaper. He was an overly conscientious officer, at the pinnacle of his profession, who had suffered a breakdown due to overwork. The rising crime figures, and his inability to stem them due to lack of resources, had caused him great distress. The Coroner said he'd borne an intolerable burden, and the Force would have difficulty replacing him. I wasn't there; I just cut the bits out of the paper and put them in the file.
Superintendent Wood had given evidence to Her Majesty's Inspectorate, and they interviewed me. They took copies of everything in the Picasso file. Nothing spectacular happened, but over the next few months and years jobs would be shuffled around, strangers from afar appointed in key positions, and traps set to snare the renegades. All most of us would ever know about it would be the odd, unexpected resignation.
We held our own inquests, of course. After hearing the shots, Sparky had come running into the bedroom, not knowing what to expect. Nigel, who wasn't armed, had followed close behind. We'd been lucky this time, but under different circumstances it could have turned into a three-nil defeat. Gilbert gave me carte blanche to nail Cakebread.
All Monday mornings should be wet and foggy, particularly in November.
This one set the standard for the others to be designed around. I'd just fired a rubber band at the window to see if I could make the raindrops run down faster when Nigel poked his head round the door.
"Can I have a word, boss?" he asked.
I swivelled my chair back to the desk. "No, I haven't heard anything."
"It's not about promotion," he said, coming in. "I was wondering if you watched Northern News on Saturday?"
"No, I didn't. My cup of tea was going cold, so I watched that instead." The onset of winter brings out the jollity in me.
"Pity. You won't have heard, then, that Percy the cat has turned up."
I was worried about Nigel: he'd adopted a role model, and I wasn't sure that I approved. "Close the door," I told him, resignedly. "Sit down and tell me all about Percy the cat."
"Well," he began, hardly able to contain his enthusiasm, 'apparently, last Thursday, there was a fire in a small warehouse, near the middle of Oldfield. Nothing special, didn't make the local news.
The only casualty was Percy the cat, who was thought to have perished in the blaze. In fact, they blamed him for knocking over a heater and starting it."
"Fascinating," I said. It was marginally more riveting than racing raindrops on the window.
Nigel went on: "Well, on Saturday, to everybody's relief, Percy turned up without a singe. That's a story. Made Northern News and an interview with Linda Lovett."
"So he's not a ginger cat," I suggested.
"No, white. Why?"
"Never mind. Tell me more. I presume there is more, or are this feline's exploits the sum total of your reason for disturbing my morning?"
Nigel was enjoying himself. He said: "When I saw it on the news, I couldn't help wondering who Percy's master was, so this morning I've made a few enquiries."
"And…"
"And he was Chief Mouser for Brian Wheatley Developments."
I leaned forward in the chair. "You mean they owned the warehouse?"
"Yes."
Well done, Nigel. I almost smiled, until I remembered that I'd smiled once already that morning. No point in becoming hysterical.
"Is this the same Wheatley who's Breadcake's sidekick?" I asked.
"Yes, boss. I've checked our list of his companies, and it's there."
I nodded my approval. "Good work, Nigel. Now let's have a think about our next move." Then I added: "On second thoughts, you've probably worked it all out. What do you suggest?"
"Nothing much, really. The building was in an old area of town, probably not worth much. The site may be valuable. Then there's the contents. It would be interesting to see what he's claiming for."
"How do we find that?"
"From the insurance company."
"And who tells us who they are?" I asked. Nigel knew as well as I did that if at all possible we wanted to avoid involving the Oldfield police.
"The fire brigade? Presumably they'd have to confirm that the place had burned down."
"It's worth a try. See what you can find out."
Nigel left and I turned back to the raindrops. The window was covered with new ones, nowhere near as interesting as the ones I'd watched earlier. Here we go again, I thought. Where would this avenue lead us? Was I really conducting a vendetta against Cakebread, as some people believed? I was convinced that I wasn't, but I was biased.
"Keep shuffling the pieces," I told myself, 'then, one day, they'll all fall into place."
It was lunch time when Nigel came back. He had a look on his face like Percy must have done when Linda Lovett embraced him,
"Any success?" I asked.
"Mmm. The local fire station is in Rochdale Road, Oldfield.
I spoke to the station officer and they have confirmed details of the fire to RDW Insurance. Their claims manager, in Manchester, is a Mr.
Rollison. He's already had a claim from Wheatley and he smells a rat."
"He's not letting the grass grow under his feet, is he? What's the claim for?"
Nigel paused for maximum effect, then told me: "A cool three hundred thousand pounds. Two hundred and twenty-five of which are for the contents. Wheatley claims that the place was stuffed to the rafters with antique furniture."
I shook my head with disbelief. "How many times do the prats think they can get away with it?" I wondered aloud. "So what's happening next?"
"Mr. Rollison has asked Wheatley to see him this afternoon. Wheatley claims to have an itemised list of everything that was in the place, and Rollison has asked him for it."
I allowed myself that second smile. "We need that list," I said.
"In the morning," replied Nigel. "I've an appointment with Rollison at nine o'clock."
"Get your coat," I told him, rising to my feet. "It's dinner time.
I'll buy you a Tomlinson's pork pie in the Golden Scrotum."
I went to Manchester with Nigel. I didn't want to steal his glory, but I'd contacted the fire brigade and arranged to visit the burned-out ruin afterwards, with Sub Officer Des Brown, of Green Watch. Or was it the other way round? To say Mr. Rollison met us with enthusiasm is a bit like saying that Dante was quite pleased to see Beatrice. He pumped our hands and ordered coffee.
"Do you think it was arson?" he eagerly asked.
"No idea," I replied, before Nigel could open his mouth. We were both studying copies of the list that Mr. Rollison had ready for us. "We think some of these items may have er originated in our area."
"You mean they were stolen!" he declared.
"Now, now, Mr. Rollison, that's not what I said. Let's just say we're … interested."
The lists contained brief descriptions of items of furniture, date of purchase, name of dealer or auction house and price paid. Appended to it were photocopies of all the receipts.
"It's a very comprehensive list," observed Nigel. "He obviously didn't keep the receipts in the warehouse."
"Did you see the originals of the receipts?" I asked.
"Oh, yes," replied Rollison. "He brought the originals, but wouldn't let me keep them, which is reasonable enough. I had them copied here.
They looked genuine to me."
We finished our coffees and thanked Mr. Rollison for his co-operation, recommending that he didn't rush to pay out until he'd heard from us.
"What do you suggest I tell the investigation department, Inspector?" he asked.
"The truth, Mr. Rollison," I replied loftily. "It's always the best policy."
On the way to the fire station I asked Nigel if he knew anything about antiques.
"No, not much," he said, with characteristic understatement, adding: "My mother has a couple of nice pieces."
"Really?" I replied, stifling a smirk. "In that case, from now on you're the station's expert."
We'd had the foresight to take our own Wellington boots. Des Brown supplied us with yellow plastic safety helmets and took us in a station van to the warehouse. It was a narrow building, four storeys high, in a long terrace that had been purpose-built for another industry in another age. The ground-floor windows and door were boarded up, and black streaks of soot reached upwards from them. First impressions were that it had been an inferno.
"You were lucky to contain it to the one building," I observed.
"Yeah," Des replied. "Fortunately the ones on either side are empty, so we were able to get into them and cool the walls. These places are well built structurally, but there's a lot of timber inside. They're a headache to us, but the whole area's scheduled for redevelopment. The sooner the better."
He'd taken a jemmy from the car boot and was levering off the boards from the door. When they were removed he went through and we followed.
The first floor had vanished completely. Above that were just blackened ribs to indicate where the others had been. The roof was intact apart from one small patch where the sky was visible. The air was still hung with smoke, and when you looked up the light from the empty windows created a cathedral effect.
"Where did it start, Des?" I asked.
"We don't know. The story is that there was a small office over there, where you can see the stairs were. It was stuffed with cardboard boxes and other combustibles…"
"Like cans of paraffin?" I interrupted.
"Possibly," he replied, with a smile, 'but plastic bottles leave less evidence. Anyway, they think they may have gone home that evening and left the electric fire on. The cat was roaming around… et cetera, et cetera. It's a good story; we can't fault it."
"Did your forensic people find anything?"
"Fraid not. Too much water damage."
I gazed at the floor with dismay. It was a tangle of charred joists, partly submerged in black slurry. I gestured towards Nigel with my hand. "Nigel's our antiques expert," I explained. "Okay, Nigel, tell us what we're looking for."
Nigel took a moment to gather his breath and his thoughts, then began:
"Well, most antique furniture, and this was furniture, is held together by glue and well-made joints. The non-combustible parts are the fittings, such as hinges, handles and escutcheons. These were usually made of brass, and should have survived the blaze, other decorative features might be made from marble, glass or…"
"Right," I interrupted, 'let's see what we can find." I kicked my feet in the mess, feeling for anything small and solid. It was a hopeless task and a difficult situation. We were trespassing on another force's territory, which made it impossible for me to call in a search party, and we were looking for something that we didn't really want to find.
The temptation was to make a desultory search, find nothing and regard it as success.
Des saved the day. He was grinning broadly when he announced: "I've an idea; how does this sound? We've some job-experience kids with us this week, all said they want to be firemen. It's a pain in the backside finding things for them to do non-stop questions all day long. I could send them down here this afternoon, with a supervisor, and tell them to sift everything metallic out of that lot. Would that be a help?"
We accepted the offer like a banana republic dictator accepts a medal.
In return we offered Des his lunch, but were pleased when he declined.
We cleaned up in the fire station, and after a quick mug of tea and a laugh with Green Watch stormed back over the Tops to our own side of the lines.
An auction house in Leeds had supplied one of the expensive pieces on the claim. I sent Nigel on a preliminary recce to see them. If the search of the ashes showed that there had been some valuable stuff in the building then we were barking up the wrong tallboy. But if our instincts were right, we had no time to waste.
I wrote a brief report and spent the afternoon shifting paperwork. Much of it was the usual comical stuff: vernacular accounts of the exploits of our clients, complete with expletives. Some of it wasn't funny at all, just part of the endless procession of the sad, the mad and, occasionally, the bad that passes through our hands. Sparky came in, looking weary. He'd been interviewing witnesses at an unsuccesful bank robbery.
"Any luck, Dave?" I ventured.
"Fantastic," he declared. "He was black, or maybe white; between five feet four and six feet, and possibly walks with a limp. He's wearing a very distinctive coat: one side of it is leather and the other is an anorak."
"That narrows it down. Tell me, do you know what an escutcheon is?"
"No, Charlie, but I'd have it looked at if I were you."
Nigel arrived just before five. "I saw Mr. Somerby himself," he told me. "He's a lot younger than I expected; must be the son. He was amazingly helpful and open. He remembered the escritoire it's a writing desk because they'd had it in for a quite a while. They were trying to sell it for an old lady. It was a beautiful item but her reserve was too high. They'd put it through auction a couple of times before without it moving."
"Did he say what the reserve was?" I asked.
"Yes, seven and a half thousand. When Wheatley started bidding Mr.
Somerby recognised him. Apparently he'd been going round the sales for over a year, buying the best items, often at top prices. Mr. Somerby said that when he started bidding for the escritoire he couldn't believe his luck. The last genuine bid was at three grand, then Wheatley joined in. Somerby took him up to the reserve, then knocked it down to him. I was staggered when he admitted that."
"So Mr. Somerby did the auctioneering himself?"
"Yes. Sorry, boss, didn't I say?"
"Never mind. Anything else?"
"Well, yes." He hesitated, then went on: "Because he'd been so frank with me I showed him the list. He remembered several of the pieces; said they were all fine items. But they didn't… coalesce was the word he used."
"Coalesce? What did he mean by that?"
"He meant that there was no rhyme or reason behind his buying, no pattern to it. Wheatley wasn't going to make a quick profit, because he paid top prices; he wasn't furnishing a house, because who needs four commodes; he wasn't forming a collection, because they were all from different periods… and so forth."
"I get the message. Mr. Somerby sounds useful to know. Hope you pointed out that we're only acting on suspicions, so far."
"Never fear, boss. Then he showed me some of the things in their next sale. Told me the reserves on one or two that caught my eye. I might make a small investment with him after next payday."
"Sounds like he's a good salesman. Fireman Des hasn't rung. I'll call him in the morning. C'mon, let's have an early night for a change." I had a feeling that it might be our last for a while.
Des's call dragged me out of the morning briefing, before I'd had a chance to say my piece. "You've a good job," he declared. "Rang you last night but you'd already gone."
"Home for a snatched bite, Des. We don't have the luxury of three-shift cover like you. How did the kids go on?"
"Great!" I could hear him chuckling at the memory. "We gave them oilskins, and they came back looking like black slugs. Had to hose them down in the yard."
I smiled at the picture. "What did they find?" I asked. "Any escutcheons?"
"Not a one. I've two buckets here, filled with all sorts of bits and pieces, but nothing that looks antique."
"Can you tell what they are?"
"Yes," he replied. "Hundreds of nails, out of the floorboards; quite a lot of hinges the type used on modern kitchen units; a few handles made from aluminium or monkey metal; steel drawer sliders, that sort of stuff."
"All MFI rather than Chippendale."
"Exactly. What do you want me to do with it?"
"Any chance of a brief report, saying what you've just told me?" I ventured, pushing my luck.
"No problem," he replied.
"Great," I declared. "In that case, if you don't hear otherwise from me in a day or two, you can chuck 'em in the skip."
I thanked him for his help and promised to let him know the outcome. So far, over the months, I'd promised several people that I'd keep them informed. It was a tool I used to good effect: they gave me information, I satisfied their natural curiosity. It was a fair exchange. When the time came I'd run through the list and pay my debts. One of the unmentioned penalties suffered by the law-breaker is that he loses his right to privacy. His misdemeanours become public currency. Tough turds.
"So what we need to know," I told Nigel, when I found him, 'is where are the antiques now?"
"Abroad," he said.
I'd decided that was the best bet myself. "Expand," I ordered.
"Some of the pieces are quite well known, at least locally. The further away they are off-loaded, the safer it is."
"Australia?"
"Maybe not that far. America's a better market. If he sells them over there at a small profit, and gets paid out by the insurers, he won't have done too bad, will he?"
"Then we'd better frustrate his efforts, hadn't we?" I pulled the Yellow Pages directory out of my drawer and slid it across to Nigel.
"There are fifty-two entries under Shipping Agents in there, I've just counted them. One for every week of the year, except you haven't got that long. Give them all a ring and see who's done business with Brian Wheatley Developments lately."
Nigel's face fell. "It'll take all week, boss," he stated.
"Nonsense. Just pray that they're all computerised. You could always give your friend the auctioneer… I've forgotten his name…"
"Mr. Somerby."
"That's right, Somerby. Why not give him a ring, see if he thinks we're on the right lines. He might have a suggestion about who has experience in transporting antiques. What was it you were thinking of buying from him?"
"A couple of paperweights, by a French maker called Baccarat. It's my parents' thirtieth anniversary soon; I thought they'd make a decent present."
"Mmm, they sound nice. Give him a ring, see what he says. All in the third person, of course: no names. Then offer him twenty percent less than he's asking for the paperweights."
"Right, boss. Can I use your office?"
"Sure. Tell you what, I'll take Jeff Caton off what he's doing and let him help you. Fill him in with the details. I'll be upstairs, somewhere."
Young Caton was on a futile mission knocking on doors at the Sylvan Fields housing estate, asking deaf and blind people if they'd seen or heard anything. He was glad to come in from the rain. I caught up with Gilbert and told him what we were doing.
As soon as I was able to off-load most of the other pressing cases, by a combination of delegation or simply placing them back at the bottom of the heap, I went out to do some investigating of my own. One of the auction houses on the list of suppliers had been burgled about ten years previously, and I'd handled the enquiry. I decided to renew my acquaintance with them.
The old gentleman who ran the place, Mr. Oliphant, was still there, looking appropriately older and frailer than before.
"They'll have to shoot me to get rid of me," he said, after I'd reintroduced myself. "I don't do any auctioneering now, but I like to be surrounded by all these beautiful objects. The trouble with being in the business is that you don't make anything your own. Everything has a price, everything is for sale. My house is filled with bric-a-brac, but the good stuff goes under the hammer, I'm afraid."
"That's business, Mr. Oliphant," I replied. "Sentimentality is a luxury neither of us can afford."
"Quite, quite. Now, how can I help you?"
I produced the list that Wheatley had supplied, and read from it: "Do you remember selling this item? It's an early Victorian mahogany drum table, inlaid with marquetry in a geometric design." I told him the price paid and the date of the sale.
"Oh, yes," he replied immediately, "I remember it well. It was a superb piece of workmanship. It was perfect, except that someone had started writing a letter on it and pressed too hard, leaving an imprint. All the dealers said this ruined it, and fifteen thousand was way over the top, but I disagreed. I thought it added to the charm of the piece, but not many share my sensibilities. Anyway, this chap Wheatley obviously agreed with me, so he bought it."
"I don't suppose you've a catalogue with a photograph or a fuller description, have you?"
"Why, of course. Why didn't I think of that?" He rose unsteadily to his feet and made his way over to a bookcase. "What did you say the date of the sale was?" he asked.
I told him, and in a few moments he produced the appropriate catalogue and found the page for me. I was studying it in a noncommittal way, wondering how else I would have used fifteen grand, when Mr. Oliphant enquired: "Is there a problem with it, Inspector? Has it been stolen?"
"Yes," I answered, 'it's been stolen." Technically, I suppose it had.
"This writing," I continued, 'was it possible to read what it said?"
"Yes, but it wasn't anything enlightening or salacious, I'm afraid. It just said Dear… I think it was William. That was impressed into the marquetry, then it ran on to the mahogany and became too faint to read.
I like to think it was written by a young lady, too distraught to realise what she was doing."
"You're a romantic, Mr. Oliphant. Tell me one other thing. Which shipping companies would you recommend to export a collection of antiques?"