Free The Picasso Scam by Stuart Pawson Page B

the owner of a Chinese restaurant,’ I told him. ‘They were all first-offenders and they all had syringe marks on their arms. They’re doing cold turkey on remand now. Last week we caught three schoolgirls stealing handbags. When their rooms were searched no drugs were found, but they had all the paraphernalia associated with the scene: posters, weird records, that sort of stuff. Plus their parents and teachers were alarmed at the deterioration in the girls’ behaviour recently. You’re right, we’re just seeing the tip of the iceberg.’
    The other reason for talking in the canteen was to escape the constant interruptions of the telephone. It didn’t work. ‘It’s for you, Mr Priest,’ the manageress called out. I went behind the counter to take it.
    ‘Is that Inspector Priest?’ asked the voice, flatly. Male, northern accent, unemotional.
    ‘Yes, who’s that, please?’
    ‘Never mind. I’ve some information for you, and for you only. Meet me at the Coiners Arms, tonight, seven o’clock.’ And he was gone. Today was turning into Let’s Tell Charlie Day.
    ‘I’ll have to go, Gavin. Thanks for the information, I’ll let you know if we make anything of it.’
    ‘I just hope you can catch whoever’s pushing this stuff,’ he answered. ‘Do you think they’ll let me have another bacon sandwich?’
    I granted him the Freedom of the Canteen and went up to the office. Mike Freer is an old boozing pal from the days before I found out that a crutch made out of liquid is about as useful as a blancmange stepladder. He’s also an inspector on the city Drug Squad. His office told me he wasn’t in, but they’d get him to ring me as soon as possible, night or day.
    DS Willis obtained a confession from the husband, and statements from acquaintances and the neighbours. Our man had been thumping his wife for years, usually when he came home from the pub heavily under the influence. Last night one of his drinking companions had let it slip that the wife was having an affair with a workmate. He’d drowned his sorrows, then taken his vengeance. On the wife, of course. That type has a strong opinion of where blame lies.
    ‘Did you have to twang his wires?’ I asked.
    ‘No,’ Tony answered, ‘I just hung my jacket on the weights.’
    ‘What about his solicitor?’
    ‘No, just my jacket.’
     
    I’d obtained copies of the depositions for the three youths we’d called the Mountain Bike Gang. These are the statements that are presented to court. I read the names out loud, then asked: ‘Which of them would you say was the best-looking?’
    ‘Lee Ziolkowski,’ Sparky replied. ‘He’s the fair-haired one, a bonny lad. I’ve always wanted fair hair.’ He looked wistful. ‘Or dark hair. Any sort of friggin’ hair, actually.’
    I set to work on Lee’s depositions with white paper and scissors and gum. Then, after a visit to the photocopier, I placed the results of my handiwork in the typewriter and let my imagination plummet. Sometimes I can be so mean I frighten myself.
     
    The Coiners is one of the oldest pubs in the area. There’s never been much mining for minerals in the southern Pennines; all the lead and stuff was to the north. But there’s supposed to be plenty of gold waiting to be found. The pub gets its name from a neat little scam that was carried out in these hills at the beginning of the nineteenth century.
    The Industrial Revolution was giving local businessmen more money than they knew what to dowith, but, true to form, they were ever on the lookout for opportunities to increase that wealth. Legally or illegally.
    A gang living in the hills developed an ingenious technique for putting a gold sovereign in a mould and then bleeding off a couple of drops of the precious stuff. A fifteen percent profit, overnight, minus commission, had half of Yorkshire, Lancashire and Derbyshire beating a path to their cave. It all came to an end when they were hanged on York Knavesmire, as a prelude to the