His reply caught me off-guard: "Ever considered a sideways move?" he asked.
"Er, no, never," I stuttered.
"Maybe you should. Fearnside was impressed. Could get you away from a tricky situation. Why don't you think about it?"
"I will. Thanks. Goodbye."
I thought about it. Move down south no way. End of thought process. I handed the phone back to Gilbert, and when it was back in its cradle said: They've spun Breadcake and he's cleaner than a dog's balls. They can't manage without me, so will I spend some of my valuable time on the case? Then he offered me a proper job."
Gilbert's eyebrows shot up. "Offered you a job?"
"That's what it sounded like."
"The cheeky bastard!"
Being off work gave me time to think, without the pressures of day-to-day policing. All we had on Cakebread was a collection of tenuously linked crimes, where some of the connections were thinner than boarding house Spam. What we didn't have was forensic evidence, something that would stand up against critical cross-examination by the best bent lawyers in the business. Money can buy you truth, but only, thank God, up to a point. Wednesday morning I rose ridiculously early, but I hung about at home to give ADI Willis plenty of time to deploy his troops. Then I went in to the office.
"Hi, boss," Sparky greeted me. "We were just having a discussion on the greatest labour-saving device ever invented. What would you say it was?"
"No idea. What's this in aid of?"
"It's the eldest lad's latest project from school. That's the sort of stuff they teach 'em, these days."
"I thought you had only two sons," stated Nigel.
"I have."
"In that case he's your elder lad, not eldest."
"But I've got three kids."
"Well in that case he's your eldest child, but your elder son."
"My daughter won't like that."
"Why not?"
"She's elder than he is."
"What's he thinking of so far?" interrupted Tony Willis.
"Sliced bread."
"Sliced bread's not labour-saving. Cutting it with a knife's no effort, it's just that they're all different thicknesses. What do you think, Charlie?"
"Er, I agree."
"The jumbo jet!" exclaimed Nigel, triumphantly.
"What about it?"
"Well," he explained, 'four hundred people can fly from Manchester to New York in five hours in a jumbo. It would take them months to swim it. That's what I call labour-saving."
"Hey, that's good," said Sparky. "He might use that."
"Rubbish!" exclaimed Tony. "What about the billion people who live in China? The jumbo hasn't saved them any labour."
"In India they use them for moving logs," I said.
Superintendent Wood walked through the door just in time to hear Sparky declare:… but the main fault with the Criminal Justice Act is that it does nothing to address the problem of overcrowding in the jails."
Gilbert said: "Hello, Charlie, didn't know you were in."
"I'm not, boss, it's just a quick social call."
Gilbert placed some papers on my desk. "Have a look at those when you have a chance," he said. "Not as riveting as the Criminal Justice Act, I'm afraid."
I gazed at the dreaded annual budget forecast forms. "I've just done them," I protested.
"They were last year's. No hurry, tomorrow will do."
He was halfway out of the door when I shouted to him: "Mr. Wood, what would you say was the greatest labour-saving invention ever made?"
Gilbert paused, one hand on the door handle. "Brown underpants," he stated, and walked out.
"Right, crime fighters I said, 'that is definitely the last word on the subject. I'll leave you to it."
I stood up and walked over to my office. The main CID department is open plan, with a small room partitioned off in the corner which I grandly call my office. I do most of my work on a spare desk in the big office, leaving this room as open house for anyone who needs to work quietly, away from the rabble. I'd made a decision. The Cakebread Saga had gone far enough; it was time for drastic action.
I created a file. After the minimum of thought I called it "Picasso Scam'. I gathered together all the reports and put them in the new file. Then I made a chart with all the disjointed events on it, and drew links between them, where possible. It was as obvious as a baritone in a convent choir that without the forensic we were going nowhere.
I rang Scotland Yard and asked for copies of the fingerprints of Cakebread and two associates of his, Bradshaw and Wheatley. Bradshaw was believed to be his co-pilot. Cakebread had not held a pilot's licence very long, and was not qualified for international flights.
Bradshaw was. He was a one-time racing driver who had sought to sponsor his expensive tastes by avoiding paying the excise duty on a few thousand cigars, hence his record. Wheatley was involved in quite a few of Cakebread's business dealings. It was only hearsay, but he was a Rachman-like figure, involved in lots of dubious property deals.
His only conviction was for petty theft, as a teenager. They promised to send me the copies as soon as possible.
Truscott and Eunice Cakebread had no convictions, so there was not much I could do about them. That left Ernest Hilditch. I was reasonably certain that our Chief Constable had lived a blameless past, free from the indignity of having his fingers pressed on to an ink pad and unceremoniously rolled on a sheet of paper. I'd have to use my ingenuity to obtain his dabs. I picked up the phone.
I was in luck; she was there. "Hi, Kim, it's Charlie Priest."
"Hello, Charlie, this is a surprise; how're you?"
"Okay, thanks, but I need a favour."
"If I can," she said.
"Have you ever heard the saying "Friendship corrupts", Kim?"
"No."
"Well it does, especially in our job. But forget it for now, I'd like to corrupt you."
"You've been trying to corrupt me for years, Charlie, what's new?"
I smiled at the thought of it. "Cut out the sex talk, Limbert, I've forgotten why I rang now." After a moment I went on: "Oh, yes, I remember is the Chief's private secretary still Miss Yates?"
Kim said: "The redoubtable Rita, it certainly is."
"Good, I'd like a word with her, when nobody's there. Did you tell me you had a friend who worked in the outer office?"
"That's right Melanie. She's a cousin."
"Okay. What's the chances of finding out when I'll be able to catch Miss Yates with none of the top-brass around?"
"That should be no problem. Only one thing might stop me."
"What's that?"
"Jealousy. Where are you? I'll ring you back."
Nigel had left the office, so I wrote him a note. I explained where the file was and suggested he read it. Then I told him to contact Companies House and find out as much as he could about Cakebread's empire. If any of his contacts had records, obtain copies of their dabs. As an afterthought I suggested he clear it with ADI Willis.
Kim kept her word. "There's an executive meeting at three thirty," she told me. "The CC is on leave and Partridge is in London. The desirable Miss Yates should be at maximum vulnerability any time after that. Let me know if you breach her de fences Rita Yates was a civilian. She had been private secretary to a long succession of Chief Constables and wielded power far greater than her status implied. Word had it that several CCs had had affairs with her.
It was a recognised fact that most holders of the job died in harness, so to speak, but whether this was relative I had no way of knowing. At four o'clock I knocked tentatively on her office door and opened it.
Her perfume hit me with all the subtlety of a friendly labrador. I'd seen her before, years ago, and knew her to be a stunner. Time had been kind to her. The blonde hair was now tastefully streaked, and a large pair of fashionable spectacles made the best of nature's perfidy.