The Picasso Scam Read Online Free Page B

see what he can do?’
    She leant on the edge of the door for a long while before she answered. Then she shook her head slowly. ‘I think you’re very kind for asking, Charles, and I’m grateful. But I don’t think I want to just yet. Do you mind if we leave it for a while?’
    Ah well. Good old flat-footed Inspector Plod had cocked it up again. I gave her a tight-lipped smile and said: ‘That’s OK. I believe that’s what our American cousins call taking a raincheck.’
    ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Let’s just say we are taking a raincheck.’ She said it kindly, as if she meant it.
     
    Wilf Trumble let me in and poured me a beer. Betty went into the kitchen to serve the casserole.
    ‘What have you been up to?’ Wilf asked. ‘You’re grinning like a butcher’s terrier.’
    I had a sip of beer and grinned some more. After a while I said: ‘I’ve just seen a friend of yours.’
    ‘Who might that be?’
    ‘A certain Mrs Wilberforce,’ I told him.
    His eyes lit up: ‘What do you think of her?
    ‘I think she’s a bit of all right.’
    ‘She is, isn’t she? Are you seeing her again?’
    ‘What do you mean?’ I protested. ‘I saw her on a professional basis to give her some crime prevention advice. I don’t chat up every woman I meet. I can be civilised when I try.’ Then I asked him how long her husband had been dead.
    ‘Peter? About a year, no, maybe going on for two. He was a smashing bloke. It was a great loss to us all when he went. No edge to him at all. You’d never believe he was a bishop. Not like some of the daydreamers we get.’
    It was slow to register. It crept over me like a shadow creeping up an ivy-clad wall. ‘Did you say he was … a bishop?’
    ‘Yes. Didn’t I tell you? Annabelle’s husband was Peter Wilberforce, Bishop of Leeds. You must have heard of him.’
    ‘Jesus Christ!’ I exploded. ‘I just asked the Bishop’s wife for a date!’
    Wilf nearly choked on his beer. ‘I hope you didn’t blaspheme,’ he spluttered.
    Betty invited us to go through and eat. Her famous casserole was well up to standard. Wilf took greatpleasure in telling his wife what he knew, so out of politeness I filled them in on more or less what had happened.
    Betty said, ‘I know Wilf thinks I’m an old busybody, but I think you and Annabelle are made for each other. You liked her, didn’t you? Help yourself to some more.’
    I helped myself. I tried to sound uninvolved but appreciative. ‘I think she’s an extremely attractive lady, but I suspect she’s just a teeny bit out of my league.’
    ‘Nonsense!’ snapped Betty. ‘She’s flesh and blood like everybody else. And she’s been mourning for far too long. It’s unhealthy.’
    ‘I agree,’ said Wilf. ‘A fortnight should be plenty long enough.’
    Betty glared at him. ‘If you go first, I’ll be eyeing up all the widowers at the ham tea,’ she declared.
    I changed my mind about the casserole. It wasn’t just up to standard, it was exceptional.

CHAPTER THREE
    Gilbert Wood is my superintendent. Our careers can be compared to the early American rocket experiments. His kept going up, but mine just cleared the launch tower before toppling over and flying horizontally. A few people thought I ought to be in his seat, but I wasn’t one of them. We got on well together, worked as a team, with lots of mutual trust. It was more than that, though, we were good friends. I called into his office to tell him about the Chinaman and that I wanted Wednesday off.
    ‘Another day off, Charlie? You had one two years ago. You realise you’ve only five months and twenty-nine days’ holiday left now?’
    ‘And a half. I only had half a day off two years ago. And if it turns out to be business on Wednesday I’ll be putting in for expenses.’
    Gilbert looked interested. ‘Might it be business?’ he asked.
    I told him about the Rudi Truscott call.
    ‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘Sounds promising. Beamish is a super place. Doesn’t half take you back. The