"Is there anything else you can tell me?" I asked.
He shook his head. I thought about what he'd said so far. It didn't amount to much.
"How did you deliver the paintings and how were you paid?"
"I received a phone call. I'd to leave my studio unlocked and get lost for four hours. When I returned the paintings were gone and the money was there."
"Forty thousand pounds cash?"
"Yes, plus a couple of grand expenses. Then I received another call telling me to keep my mouth shut. He said he might have more work for me in the future."
"Where is your studio?"
"Just half of the kitchen in my cottage."
I sighed and rolled my eyes heavenwards. "You're not being very helpful, Rudi. Do you have an address?"
"I… I'd rather not say. And I'm thinking of moving."
"Have it your own way. So where can I get in touch with you?"
"You can't. I'll ring you."
"Okay. Give me a month. Ring me a month today. Don't expect too much, though. Now I'm off to look at the rest of this museum."
He hesitated, then he said: "Charlie, I'm sorry about Vanessa. I did love her, you know."
"So did I, Rudi. So did I."
I watched him wander up the hill towards the exit, then I strolled towards the gift shop to see if I could find something really tacky for the office.
"How many fs in peace and quiet?"
"There's no f in peace and quiet."
"That's what I keep telling the wife."
Sparky and Tony were in a good mood. I'd have to take a day off more often. When Gilbert Wood was free we all trooped up to see him. I didn't want to tell the story twice. When he'd heard what I had to say he was silent for a while. Then he said: "Will the experts be able to tell if the pictures are the real ones?"
"It's a grey area," I told him. "They can do forensic tests, same as us, but the real picture is the one they say it is, irrespective of who painted it. They'll never admit that theirs is a copy."
"Well, it proves one thing," said Gilbert. "Anyone can produce this modern rubbish. What about Truscott? Do you think his life is in danger?"
"I don't know, but he might be worth taking out a policy on."
"So if they were switched, it was done in England," said Sparky.
"Yes," I replied.
"They were guarded like the Crown Jewels," said Gilbert. "There were more people with guns than we had at D-Day." He thought for a while, then went on: "Our only involvement was the Traffic boys. They escorted the convoy through our patch and handed over to the city police. They were in a sealed van, so at least we would appear to be in the clear."
"Where did the pictures come from?" asked Tony.
"I'm not sure," I said. "There were two shows in the north prior to Leeds, at Liverpool and Oldfield, but I don't know which way round."
"And the helicopter," remembered Gilbert. "We had the chopper watching over them. First time we'd been able to get the bloody thing for weeks. Will you tell the organisers that their paintings are crap, Charlie?"
"Ooh, yes please, that should be fun," I said.
The Museum of Modern Art in New York jetted Dale T. Schweckert over by Concorde. He leapt straight into a taxi at Heathrow and asked to be taken to the Laing Art Gallery in Newcastle. Louis Vouillarde flew over directly from Paris in a private plane. Bunty I'Anson-Piggot, from the Tate Gallery, drove up in her Austin Metro. She was the last to arrive. I had hoped that I might gain an insight into the working techniques of an art expert, so I did the long drive north again.
Unfortunately they all insisted on working in private, so we didn't see how thorough they were. Their conclusions were as predicted: the paintings were genuine and we had put them to a great deal of expense and inconvenience. They graciously accepted that we had acted with the best of motives.
Afterwards I collared Schweckert. I envisaged a language problem with Vouillarde and I feared Ms I'Anson-Piggot might kick me to death with her Doc Martens. Schweckert wouldn't budge in his judgement. It was evident that the Monet was a Monet because he said it was, not because it was painted by a man called Monet. I pointed him in the direction of the taxi rank and drove home.
There was a message waiting for me from Tony Willis. The Mountain Bike Gang had showed up on Saturday morning. We had been looking for them every day through the week without any luck, but now we were barbecuing with charcoal again. I phoned him and got the lowdown. They were outside the post office at nine a.m. when the takings were checked in.
They just pedalled around in circles on their bikes and rode away afterwards. Tony had been there himself and it looked suspicious to him. We both agreed that Monday morning was highly likely for a snatch. He had followed them for a while but lost them when they took to the old railway track. All the arrangements for surveillance and arrest had been made. Tony had decided to go to town with the planning and turn the event into a training exercise. He saw a low probability of things getting nasty, and it would be experience for the younger troops. It would also get everybody on the job early on a Monday morning.
"Tell me the worst," I said. "What are we called?"
On a previous occasion Tony had organised an operation in my absence.
It involved an architect who was making illegal payments to the head of the council planning department. We caught him handing over a large sum of money in a supermarket car park. Tony's imagination had developed some sort of blockage, and he had called it Operation Freemason. I was the Grand Wizard. It had a few of the top brass looking over their shoulders, and the judge reaching for his bismuth tablets. It also delayed Tony's promotion by a couple of years. Since then we had compiled a list of names from nursery rhymes and children's stories, which we chose from at random.
"Operation Glass Slipper," he told me. "You're Rumpel-stilts king We nearly blew it. No cyclists wearing balaclavas and carrying violin cases were on the streets on Monday morning. We had units outside the restaurant and the post office, in various states of disguise and concealment. Sparky and I were in his car, liaising between the two.
We did a cruise round the block and that's when we saw them. Three youths were parked up in an XR2 just round the corner from the post office. I checked the number. It had been stolen in Halifax on Saturday night. Rumpelstiltskin alerted all Glass Slipper units.
At three minutes to nine two of the youths left the car and walked round the corner towards the post office.
"These kids know what they are doing," said Sparky. "They're not your average toe rags I had been thinking the same thing. We told the others to move in.
Sparky and I got out and walked towards the back of the XR2 as if in the middle of an animated conversation. He was waving his arms about and telling me about a row, real or imaginary, with his wife. The XR2's engine was running and I saw the driver clock us in his mirror. I joined Sparky in a few gestures. The kid at the wheel probably thought we were a couple of deaf Italians as we windmilled towards him. When we got to the rear of the car we separated and went down each side of it.
As Sparky reached the driver's door he wrenched it open and yanked the youth on to the pavement. He was standing with his hands on the roof before he could say: "I want my brief."
Sparky poked a finger in the back of his head and drawled: "One move, Blue-eyes, and I'll cure your acne for ever."
Crime has no closed season, no bank holidays, no days off. We are busy round the clock. My job is to manage the troops, make sure the paperwork gets done properly and liaise in every direction at once.
Meantime I like to get out on the streets as much as possible, which usually means in my own time. We all have our pet priorities, and mine, next to putting crooks behind bars, is looking after, developing and encouraging the lowly constables in my charge.