The Picasso Scam by Stuart Pawson

day’s racing, but legend has it that there is still a million pounds worth of gold hidden somewhere in them thar hills.
    None of this was on my mind as I drove towards the Coiners after leaving the office. My main concern was whether they served food, closely followed by wondering what my mystery caller had for me.
    Hallelujah! There was a big sign outside that read ‘Home of Peggy Watt’s Famous Yorkshire Puddings’. Wild Bill Hickok sat with his back to the door and paid for it with his life, so I sat in a corner where I could view the entire room. There was nobody else in, apart from the landlord, who seemed to resent my intrusion. I drank four orange juices with lemonade as slowly as I could, and ate one of Peggy Watt’s puddings as rapidly as I was able. Two other men, apparently regulars, came in and had a serious discourse on tupping while sipping halves. The Yorkshire pudding had the consistency of a marathon runner’s insole. Peggy would have been betteremployed helping their Jimmy with his steam engine; or perhaps he had to invent the steam engine to stir the bloody stuff.
    It was dark when I left. Maybe Sparky and Nigel Newley were having better luck. I’d left them watching over my house – it could all have been a ploy to get me out of the way. I was manoeuvring in the car park just as another vehicle came in, carrying a young couple. We got in each other’s way for a few seconds, then the driver wound down his window and shouted to me: ‘Watch how you go, mate, there’s some rozzers parked down the lane and you’ve a back light out.’
    I waved a thank you and parked up again. The offside rear light was deader than last night’s promises. I tapped the lens a few times in an attempt to resuscitate it, then tried to open the boot lid to have a closer look. The key jammed in the lock at first, but with some extra persuasion I managed to force it open. Once I’d figured how it was done I flicked out the offending bulb holder. Surprise, surprise, there was no bulb there; it must have fallen out into the light fitting.
    All good cops carry a flashlight with a five- hundred-foot beam. By some chance I happened to have one with me. I didn’t find the bulb, but I did discover a white package tucked in the recess where the window-washer bottle was situated. It weighed about half a pound and was neatly done-up with polythene and Sellotape. It could have been special flour for Mrs Watt’s Yorkshire puddings, or it could have been something else.
    Watching in the rear-view mirror for the blue light to come on was like waiting for the sun to rise: dazzling and inevitable. I pulled over, they got out. It was a textbook exercise in courtesy and Proper Police Procedure. Nobody had been slipping double tequilas into my orange juice, and vitamin C is non-intoxicating, so I passed the breath test as easily as a Charolais heifer passes wind.
    ‘Do you mind if we look in your boot, sir?
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘It’ll be easier all round if you cooperate, sir.’
    ‘One of you can look; I want the other to stand well back.’
    The lock operated more easily this time. He flashed his light round inside, then asked to look in the car. I watched him like a weasel watches a rabbit, or was it like a rabbit watches a weasel?’
    ‘Everything seems to be in order, sir. You will get that light fixed, won’t you? Which station would you like to present your documents at?’
    ‘St Pancras. You’re on the wrong side of the hill, Sergeant. Who sent you over here?’ It was my turn to ask questions.
    ‘We had a tip-off, sir. Can’t say any more than that.’
    ‘Stop calling me sir. An anonymous tip-off?’
    ‘Er … I understand it was.’
    ‘Then make sure it was logged, ’cos I’ll be checking.’
    * * *
    The gate to Bentley Prison could have been the prototype for the Great Gate at Kiev. The whole edifice was constructed during Queen Victoria’s reign, in a burst of enlightenment and compassion, and an earnest desire to be