The Picasso Scam Read Online Free Page A

age and almost as tall as me. Her hair was fair and a line of curls fell across her forehead, like you see on Roman statues. The word Junoesque seemed appropriate. I could imagine her in her youth, leading the Cheltenham Ladies’ College hockey team on to the field, and being chaired off shoulder-high after scoring the winning goal in the final chukka. She might have been dressed to talk to the WI at the Albert Hall if it hadn’t been for the gardening gloves. I showed her my card the way I’d seen Philip Marlow do it.
    ‘Inspector Priest,’ I told her. ‘I believe you’d like some advice about the security of your home?’
    ‘Annabelle Wilberforce.’ She pulled off a glove and held out her hand, looking straight into my face and smiling. Her nose wrinkled when she smiled. I was suddenly struck by an osmosis problem: my throat felt dry but my knees had turned to water.
    ‘I didn’t expect an inspector to call …’ She paused and laughed.
    I picked up the drift. ‘There’s the makings of a play in there somewhere,’ I said. I went on: ‘Wilf Trumble asked me to come, and when Wilf says jump, we jump.’
    ‘Did you work with Wilf?’ she asked.
    ‘We overlapped careers for a while, but he’s always been a friend of the family.’
    ‘He and Betty worship at St Bidulph’s. They are a lovely couple.’
    I asked her to take me round the exterior of the house. It was a fine building and had been extensively modernised. I bet the current vicar would have preferred it to the tacky little box they’d put him in.
    ‘Do you do all the gardening yourself, Mrs Wilberforce?’ I asked.
    ‘Please, call me Annabelle,’ she said. ‘An old gentleman from up the road does most of it. He says I undo all his work.’
    A few window locks and perhaps a burglar alarm were all that was required. I gave the speech about it being impossible to keep out a really determinedthief but most were easily deterred by a few simple precautions. She didn’t want to invest in a Rottweiler, thank God. I gave her a rough idea of what it would cost and recommended a couple of people who would do a good job.
    ‘That’s a relief,’ she said. ‘I’d heard some rather extravagant prices being quoted. Can I offer you a cup of tea, Inspector Priest? I assume you can drink tea when on duty. Or would you prefer coffee?’
    ‘I’m probably off duty by now,’ I answered, ‘in which case I would love a cup of tea. And it’s Charles or Charlie, I answer to either.’
    The tea came in a delicate china service, with homemade fruit cake. I restrained myself and used just the tip of the spoon in the sugar, instead of my normal four big ones. When Annabelle noticed that I drank it black she asked if I would like lemon. Conversation was awkward and aimless for a while, then she referred back to our opening remarks.
    ‘Do you go to the theatre at all, Charles?’
    I did, although it was a year or three since my last visit. I told her why I hadn’t been for a while. I noticed a Mahler CD on the player, so we talked about plays and music for a few minutes. I heard myself confessing to being addicted to art galleries, no need to mention pubs with sawdust on the floor and transport cafes. After the second cup I reluctantly stood up to leave. Annabelle thanked me for coming and said she had enjoyed our chat.
    At the door I turned to her and said: ‘Annabelle,I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but I can sometimes obtain tickets for concerts at the town hall. Cancellations. Normally they are booked up a year in advance. Would you like me to give you a ring the next time any are available?’
    She opened her mouth in mock horror and said: ‘Inspector Priest! I hope they don’t fall off the back of a lorry!’
    This woman could make me laugh. It was getting better all the time. ‘’Fraid not,’ I said. ‘I ring my opposite number at the town hall and he nips down the corridor to the booking office. Then I have to send him a fat cheque. Shall I