The PC, whether in uniform or plain clothes, is the backbone of the Force. He is in the front line for all the danger, all the abuse. He or she. Call me old-fashioned, but somehow it seems even worse for the women. I had been on the point of quitting when my first promotion came through. Some good arrests had come my way, but my overriding feeling was of being scared. I never actually wet myself, but I was grateful for the dark trousers. The thought of going out every day or night for the rest of my life not knowing if I would come back in one piece did not appeal to me.
One Saturday afternoon I was parked near the municipal football pitches when I saw a commotion on one of them. I'd turned out for a local side a couple of times, but couldn't keep my place because of the shifts I was required to work. I got out of the car, and when they saw me some of the spectators came running over. Would I radio for an ambulance, someone was in a bad way? I didn't radio; I dashed over to see what the trouble was. A player was laid on the ground. He'd stopped breathing and his face was turning blue. When I tried to clear his airway I found he'd swallowed his tongue. I fished it out of his throat with my fingers and tipped him on his side, but he still wasn't breathing. I put him on his back again and forced a couple of breaths into him. That did the trick. He was conscious when the ambulance arrived.
The following Saturday should have been my day off, but I was asked to work again. I wasn't happy about it, and grumbled loudly to anybody who would listen. At about two thirty I received a message to go to the Poste Chase Hotel. There'd been a fracas in the restaurant would I investigate and see if anybody wanted to make a complaint? It was all a bit odd. For a start, the Poste Chase wasn't even on our patch. When I walked into the restaurant a big cheer went up. A young man came up to me and introduced himself as the foot baller whose life I'd helped to save the week before. This was his wedding reception and I was to be guest of honour; they'd fixed it all with my super. I sat at the top table, next to the groom's parents.
Everybody said nice things about me in their speeches, and my photo, with the happy couple, made the front page of the Evening News.
After that I decided to give it another try. I was young and skinny and not very streetwise. But I learned quickly and I toughened up and found that I could handle myself in a roughhouse. I started to enjoy more and more of the job. Nowadays there is more danger than ever facing the PC. I send them out and breathe a sigh of relief when they all come back, and generally fuss over them like a stupid old hen. I get one of the sergeants to do all the dirty work, like handing out bollockings. The constables appreciate it, and the unintentional result is that the police force is infiltrated at all ranks by officers who came through the Charlie Priest training school. Christ, I sound like Jean Brodie.
I didn't give Truscott a very high priority. Every day I am handed a print-out of outstanding crimes, against which I write high and low values of importance. Truscott didn't even appear on the print-out; I just pencilled him on the end. Fraud Squad have a so-called expert to deal with art frauds and we sent him copies of the file. He made nationwide enquiries but didn't come up with anything. The underworld had no knowledge of any big deals in the offing. He did tell me that there was a ready market among the mega-wealthy for great works. The ultimate in one-upmanship for a certain type of billionaire would be to have ihc Mona Lisa hanging behind the toilet door. I'd have preferred a never-ending toilet roll.
Truscott had told me that he would be in contact in one month.
It was with relief, not concern, that I saw the month marker in my diary pass by with no word from him. I neither liked nor trusted him, and I wasn't convinced that he was on the level. We had checked with Traffic, and the transport of the paintings had passed off reasonably well. Our boys had taken over on the Yorkshire/ Lancashire border and seen them right to the art gallery in Leeds. The only hiccup had occurred when the security van carrying the paintings had broken down.
After a delay of nearly two hours the convoy restarted with the security van being towed to its destination by a breakdown truck.
Everyone was adamant that the van holding the pictures stayed sealed throughout, and was only opened at the end of its journey. The bonnet had been lifted, briefly, to ascertain the trouble, and then the tow vehicle sent for. It had been quite a convoy, and the cargo had been safer than a nun's virtue on Christmas Eve. If I had been worrying about Truscott, I stopped when two months passed without a word.
It was towards the end of the fourth month that I received the letter from his solicitor saying that they were holding a bequest he had made me in his will. He was dead.
Chapter Four
McNaughtie, McNaughtie and Niece (Solicitors), of Edinburgh, begged to inform me that subsequent to reading the will after the untimely death of their client, they were holding a parcel for me which had been in their safety depository for some time. Would I please be kind enough to contact them with a view to arranging its collection?
I rang them immediately but they weren't open yet. The Presbyterian work ethic didn't extend to starting before nine of the a.m. I took the letter to the office, skipped morning parade and sent Tony Willis up to the Super's prayer meeting.
I got straight on the blower. It was cheaper to use the firm's phone, and it could be police business. A soft Edinburgh brogue answered immediately, but I didn't catch a word she said.
"Could I speak to one of the partners, please?"
"Yes, they're all here, which one would you be liking?"
"Er, Mr. McNaughtie, please." Except that I pronounced it McNorty.
"It's pronounced Nochty, McNochty," she told me, 'and both Mr.
McNaughties passed on many years ago. Miss McNaughtie is in, would you care to speak with her?"
The niece? "Oh, sorry. Yes, Miss McNaughtie will be fine, thank you."
Sparky had pricked up his ears in disbelief when I had asked for Mr.
McNorty, and now his shoulders were bobbing up and down as he hid his face behind a sheaf of court papers.
"Pillock," I hissed at him with my hand over the mouthpiece.
After I'd introduced myself, Miss McNaughtie started to tell me about my bequest, but I cut her short and asked her how Truscott had died.
The poor sod had burned to death when his cottage caught fire. The verdict had been accidental death, possibly brought about by falling asleep in a highly inflammable armchair whilst smoking. She couldn't tell me anything further, so I asked her what he'd left me.
"It's probably a painting. Mr. Truscott was a very eminent artist, you know. It is well wrapped up and has been in our depository for several weeks, along with one or two others. Mr. Truscott specialised in copying old masters, but his paintings are very valuable in their own right. Would you like us to arrange delivery by Housecarl, or will you come to collect it?"
Housecarl were the biggest security company in the country. It crossed my mind that they had probably managed the transport of the Art Aid paintings, something we hadn't looked into. Maybe we should start looking again.
"Yes, I'd be grateful if you could send it to me," I told her, 'but first of all could you possibly open it up and tell me what it is?"
This prospect delighted Miss McNaughtie, and she promised to ring me back as soon as the wrappings were off. She kept her word.
"It's a copy of a Picasso. I didn't think I liked Picasso, but this one is charming."
"Is it a portrait of a lady?" I asked.
"Yes."
"Facing left, hair piled on top of her head, lots of blue and yellow, holding a magnolia blossom?"