The Picasso Scam by Stuart Pawson Read Free Book Online

copyingold 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; swanning 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