"It's Dave, boss. Wheatley's just received a visitor."
"In a car? Could you see his number?"
"No, not all of it, only the letters ABC. It's a Rolls Royce. Just thought you'd be interested." I rang diP alma Fortunately he was in.
"Hi, Charlie, we're just moving into position. What time is it with you?"
"Happy hour. Can we make a slight change of plan, Tony? How about if I say we go in, say… forty-five minutes from now?"
"No problem. That makes it… seven-o-five local time."
"Got it; five past the hour. Good luck."
I passed the change of plan on to the team outside Wheatley's house, then dashed downstairs and into the car, determined to be there, with them.
For once there were no roadworks, so I made it with nearly ten minutes to spare. Billy Morrison, an inspector with the Fraud Squad, was in overall command. I walked up to his car and he wound down the window.
"Hello, Charlie, you're keen. Thought you were staying out of the cold," he said.
"Hello, Billy. I want to take a dekko at Cakebread. I've a score to settle with him, sometime."
"Do you want to take over? It's your show."
"No, be my guest. I'll try to keep out of your way." He looked at his watch, saying: "Twelve o'clock. Are we to wait five minutes?"
"No," I replied. "Let's go."
Billy, Sparky and myself went up to the house. The others stayed handy outside the gate. Three right hands dipped into inside pockets and removed warrant cards. A woman answered the door; ash-blonde, glamorous, made-up and bejewelled. Billy did the talking.
"Police, madam, we'd like to see Mr. Wheatley."
She looked flustered for a second, but quickly recovered. "I'll, er, I'll see if he's in," she said, and attempted to shut the door in our faces. Billy was too quick for her though, and we all followed him into the hallway. It oozed expense. Not taste, not class, just expense. Bit like the woman.
"Who is it, darling?" said a voice, and a man came out of a doorway in front of us. He had bleached hair, long at the back, and a suntan. He looked like an ageing pop singer who'd fallen into a time warp. He was half into an overcoat, and Cakebread was immediately behind him.
"Are you Brian Wheatley, sir?" asked Billy.
"Yes. Who the hell are you?"
"DI Morrison, and this is DI Priest and DC Sparkington. Do you mind going back in there, please, we'd like to ask you a few questions."
I watched Cakebread's face as my name was mentioned. His eyebrows shot up so far they nearly dislodged his toupee. Wheatley huffed and puffed and made mysterious threats, but we all ended up back in the room he had left a moment earlier. The desk and chair could have come from the oval office.
"Who are you, sir?" Billy asked Cakebread, but it didn't sound polite.
"My name's Cakebread, and this is outrageous! We're just on our way to an important lunch appointment. You can't come barging in…"
"Shut up and sit down," I ordered.
To my disappointment he did both. My next line was going to be to threaten to stuff his ferret down his throat, but I never got to deliver it; you never do.
Billy offered Wheatley a picture of one of the antiques, saying: "Do you recognise the piece of furniture shown here? It's a Queen Anne bureau."
"No," he replied, without looking.
"Do you recognise this list?"
"No."
"It's a list relating to a claim you made recently on RDW Insurance."
"No comment."
"Fuck me!" said Cakebread, looking exasperated. "You're not still trying to pin one of them on us, are you? Why don't you stop wasting your time and ours?"
I said: "Six weeks ago you forwarded six crates to the United States, via Big Ocean Transport. Could you tell us what was in them?"
No reply.
"Brian Wheatley," began DI Morrison, "I'm arresting you on a charge of attempting to defraud the RDW insurance Company. That'll do for starters. You are not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you. We also have a warrant to search these premises, so can we have your keys?
It'll save us damaging the locks." He patted a filing cabinet and held up the warrant.
Wheatley looked shocked, but the defiance soon returned.
"These files are confidential; you've no right to look at them," he claimed triumphantly.
"Unfortunately for you, sir, that's not true. This is a Special Procedures Warrant, which gives us access to everything. Your keys, please."
He stared at the sheet of paper in disbelief, then tossed the keys on to the table.
"Dave…" said Billy, gesturing with a nod towards the prisoner.
Sparky moved round the desk and handcuffed him. "Just one hand, sir," he said. "It's a long ride, and we don't want you to get cramp, do we?"
"Where are you taking him?" demanded Cakebread.
"Heckley."
"Heckley! Don't worry, Brian, I'll ring Simon, he'll be there before you are."
You know you've got trouble when they're on first names with their briefs. Sparky, myself and another DC took Wheatley back to Heckley, leaving the Fraud boys loose on the files. Rather them than me. Simon was Simon Mingeles. He didn't beat us back, but his reputation had already preceded him. Word had it that he would have mitigated in favour of Vlad the Impaler, on the grounds of him not being allowed sharp toys as a small boy. We weren't worried; it was a good nick, as long as we played it straight.
Next morning Wheatley appeared before the local magistrates, for committal to the crown court. We'd attempted a taped interview with him, but, at Mingeles's prompting, he'd just delivered a succession of "No comments'. It was his right to do so. We didn't push it, and the interview was terminated in a couple of minutes. He'd have a bigger problem in front of a judge, when confronted with the evidence.
Mingeles had a long, whispered conversation with him, no doubt about their tactics to ensure that he was given bail. Our chances of keeping him in were slim, so we didn't try.
"No opposition to bail," said the prosecutor from the CPS, before Mingeles could practise his oratory. Wheatley didn't get value for money from him that morning.
The Fraud Squad found plenty to interest them in Wheatley's office, and it looked as if the Inland Revenue and the VAT inspector would also be having words with him. In New York, diP alma men had made several arrests. They'd found a cache of stolen property and a small quantity of drugs. None in the shipment, though. They were pleased, and so was I. Maggie popped her head round the door and announced that she was leaving for Manchester, to pick up Newley and Caton; their flight was due in at one p.m. I rewarded myself with a cooked meal in a cafe on the high street. It had the added attraction of not being licensed:
I'd decided to make a more determined effort to go tee total By late afternoon I'd put our case against Wheatley down on paper, with the rider that other charges would follow. Transcribing the taped interview didn't take long.
"How many Is in gullible?" asked Tony Willis.
"Four," I told him.
"Thanks."
"Pleasure."
Then the phone rang.
"DI Priest, Heckley Police," I said.
"Boss, it's Maggie," she said, without her normal self-assurance. "I'm still at Manchester airport."
"What's the problem, Maggie?"
"The plane. It was delayed, but it landed nearly an hour ago. I'm in security now. We've checked the passenger list and Jeff and Nigel weren't on it."
Chapter Eighteen
I must have been mad to send them to New York. This was my war, my private vendetta, I should have handled it myself. An image of George, slumped over the passenger seat of his E-type, flashed through my brain, as it had done, on and off, during the sporadic disturbed nights I'd had since. Training and instinct soon took over, fortunately.