The Picasso Scam by Stuart Pawson Read Free Book Online Page A

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 thesergeant 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 turnsup.’ 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.
    ‘OK, Charlie, OK! 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 the ram-raiders came from. It was a risky situation and we were all uneasy about it. They appeared to revel in the job, though.
    ‘Martin Makinson seems to be coming up with the goods,’ I told him. ‘He’s well in with a receiver and is bulk-buying off him. We sell the goods back to the insurance companies. They pay upfront.’
    ‘Bulk-buying! Is he creating the demand that they’re trying to fill? This could work wonders for the economy.’
    ‘No, that was just a figure of speech. He just buys enough to keep his credibility high. He’s worked himself into a good bargaining position; now he’s talking about dealing directly with Mr Big. There is a Mr Big. These people are organised.’
    ‘How safe is he? What have you told him?’
    ‘Maz has been given strict …’
    ‘Who’s Maz?’ Gilbert interrupted.
    ‘Martin,’ I answered. ‘He calls himself Maz now, it goes with his new haircut. And the tattoos. And the nose-ring. He really takes his work seriously. I’ve given him strict instructions that if he gets the