The Picasso Scam by Stuart Pawson

me.’ He stumped off back to his office.
    Nigel recovered his voice. ‘Could be the perfect crime,’ he said. ‘The one nobody believes has been committed. Are you going to drop it, boss?’
    ‘Is he chuff,’ said DS Willis.
     
    Next morning Jeff Caton presented me with a list of the Traffic officers that I’d asked for, with their current shifts. ‘The security company situation is a bit odd,’ he told me. ‘Housecarl had the main contract to transport the Art Aid paintings, but apparently a firm called ABC Security have a contract with West Pennine County Council to do all their security work. They insistedit was their job and threatened to sue for breach of contract. Eventually a compromise was agreed to by the insurers, whereby Housecarl subcontracted this one journey to ABC.’
    ‘ABC Security, well done.’ I’d seen their vans occasionally. They seemed to have sprung up in the last couple of years. I didn’t attach any significance to the name: every category in the Yellow Pages has somebody called ABC listed. A part of me was also beginning to think that perhaps Gilbert Wood was right. I could do without all this. I’d have one last throw, though.
    ‘Get some background on ABC,’ I told him. ‘Find out what sort of company it is and who the registered owners are. But don’t let them know we are asking. And if the Super asks what you’re doing, tell him you’re looking for a lost gerbil.’
    It was decision time. What to have for lunch. I didn’t fancy the canteen and I could use some fresh air, so I decided to wander down to the New Mall and eat there. The opening of the New Mall had been a bit of a renaissance for the centre of Heckley. We’d gone through the black-hole-in-the-middle period and, hopefully, were now entering a new, more prosperous phase for the town’s traders. It was a rather grand place, and had been well accepted after many early misgivings. It had a posher name, but all and sundry referred to it as the New Mall. Unfortunately it had become a happy hunting ground for petty thieves. Today the local radio station was holding some sort of fundraising event there thatwould provide riveting listening for its countless dozens of fans. For some strange reason this was expected to attract people to the mall, not drive them away, so it could be a good day for picking a pocket or two. We’d got everybody available mingling with the throng of happy teeny-boppers.
    Normally, I wouldn’t become involved at this level, but the council elections were imminent, and one of the candidates was floating his campaign on the crime wave in there. My plan was simple – I’d eat, look at the girls, nab a couple of villains, then come back to the office. When the others returned empty-handed I’d give them hell and go home with a nice self-satisfied feeling.
    The multi-choice, serve-yourself restaurant is on the third floor of the mall. The disc jockey was strutting his stuff on the ground floor, but it was still too close. I was tucking into my pizza when Sparky joined me. One-up to him: he’d found me before I found him.
    ‘Any action?’ I asked.
    ‘A definite possible,’ he told me. ‘Mad Maggie has her eye on three girls who are acting a bit strange. At least three of the women who lost handbags were sitting over in that far left-hand corner when they realised their bags had gone. It’s a bit more secluded there, lots of plastic palm trees. These girls keep returning to the spot, looking for a vacant table. Done it about six times so far. Why are you eating pizza? You always say you don’t like it when we send out for some.’
    ‘Good for Maggie,’ I said. ‘Set a woman to catcha woman. We’ve too many old-fashioned ideas about villains; we’d have been watching the blokes. I don’t like pizza – the girl behind the counter looks like Steffi Graf.’
    ‘Speak for yourself, I’m younger than you. How long have you been a Steffi Graf fan?’
    ‘About half an hour.’
    ‘You