Framed (10 page)

"How did he take it?" McKinnes asked.

"Moody," Shrapnel said. "Calling the magistrate a hard-nosed bitch and so forth. He'll play ball, though. He knows a reduced sentence is in the cards, so he's just going to have to behave himself."

McKinnes turned to Larry. "You've got a lot of reading to catch up on, son." He tapped the bundle under Larry's arm. "Familiarize yourself with all these old files."

They moved along the passage to a small room equipped for sound surveillance. Larry put down the files and looked around.

"Here's the radio controls," McKinnes said, "and the tape recorders. We do it in shifts, come and go without aggro, you won't know we're here."

"Where is he?" Larry asked.

"Unpacking," McKinnes said. "You live together, eat with the guy, and you get to know him better than your own bleeding mother." McKinnes grinned, poking Larry in the chest. "End of it, you'll never want to see him again or hear his name mentioned, because that bastard doesn't move out of here day or night—nor do you!"

The three of them proceeded on a tour of the house.

"You're not going to believe this," Shrapnel said when they got to the kitchen. "He's made out a list, says he eats proteins and carbohydrates only, never together. He wants wild rice—what the hell is wild rice? I mean, I know brown rice—"

"Get him what he wants," McKinnes grunted. "What the bastard eats isn't my concern."

"But we've got a freezerful of food! It's all been costed and ordered. I mean,
fresh fishl
Who's going to schlepp out for that?"

"Discuss it with the Super, right?" McKinnes went to the door, beckoning Larry. "Come on."

Shrapnel stayed where he was, examining Von Joel's list.

"Peppers, zucchini, carrots. No red meats. No frozen foods. Who does he think he is?" "Always remember," McKinnes told Larry, leading him into the sitting room, "when you start a session, make sure you give the exact time—
a.m., p.m
., and the date. . . ."

The sitting room was spacious and well furnished, the kind of room that invited relaxation; the only rather eerie element was the absence of windows.

"Always give names of officers on duty," McKinnes continued, crossing the room to the opposite door, "but watch everything you say because it's being fed back to base. When this switch is on"—he pointed to a discreet unit on the table—"it'll pick up at quite a radius. Fart in the bathroom and we hear it." He turned, rubbing his hands. "Okay, let's go to the sleeping quarters."

He led Larry along a gray passageway, pushing open various doors and letting them go as he passed.

"This is where you'll be bunking. . . . Bathroom there . . . toilet ..."

He stopped before a closed door and pushed it slowly open. Gucci luggage was stacked against the wall.

"The guest is here. Let's hope for your sake he doesn't snore."

Von Joel appeared in the doorway wearing slacks and a cashmere sweater. He reached for a suitcase.

"Got any decent hangers?" he said. "Wooden ones?"

"There's a gym next door," McKinnes said, ignoring him, leading Larry away.

Shrapnel caught up with them as they were surveying the layout of rowing machines, weights, and cycling equipment. He was still studying Von Joel's list.

"You ever heard of something called yannis? He doesn't drink straight tea, only herbal, and whatever this yannis is, it's a coffee replacement. I've never heard of it. Oh, yeah, that's another thing—he never takes any sugar, just honey."

McKinnes turned on Shrapnel.

"Don't give me any more aggro! Give him what we've got, if he doesn't like it he can starve for all I care." He jerked his head at Larry again. "Come on."

As they walked back along the passage soft classical music began to play from behind Von Joel's bedroom door.

"He's got two dozen tapes and a bloody color TV in there," McKinnes growled. "Getting like a five-star hotel, this place."

"How long will I be here?" Larry asked. "Only I've not brought much gear—"

"If there's anything you need," McKinnes said, "radio it through and one of my lads will go over to your place."

"Days or weeks?" Larry persisted. "What?"

"As long as it takes," McKinnes told him. He looked at Shrapnel. "How long was it last time?"

"Eighteen months."

Larry swallowed hard. He watched McKinnes and Shrapnel exchange snide, humorless smiles, then McKinnes turned, his smile widening as he patted Larry's arm.

"He's all yours, Jackson."

f

As Larry was settling in at the safe house, a colleague of his, Detective Constable Colin Frisby, was calling on Susan at home. Acting on instructions from DCI McKinnes, Frisby explained that Larry was on special duty which might keep him away from home for a considerable time. Frisby, noted for his style and track record with the ladies, put the news across as soothingly and appealingly as he could. But Susan was not placated.

"I don't believe this," she said, handing Frisby a cup of tea. "I mean, he's not even called me."

"He will, but it'll maybe be a few days. If you need him in an emergency"—Frisby fished out a card and handed it to Susan—"this is my direct line. Just call me there and I'll contact him straightaway."

Susan flounced to the stove, absently dropping the card on the counter. "It's all so bloody secretive," she said. "I know what it's about, you know. I know it's to do with this Eddie Myers, or Philip Von Joel or whatever he calls himself. . . ."

Frisby adopted his concerned frown, a slight tightening of the mouth, a gathering of the eyebrows, and a tilt of the head that inflated his charm, he believed, by giving him an air of mature responsibility.

"Mrs. Jackson, don't mention this to anyone. I mean,
anyone,
not even close family. For the safety of yourself, your kids—I mean it."

Susan sighed and peered into a pan on the stove.

"I've made some stew, if you're hungry."

"Stew sounds good to me," Frisby said. "I'm starving. Didn't get any lunch."

Susan turned up the heat under the pan.

"If you want to point me in the direction of the knives and forks," Frisby offered, "I'll set the table for you."

"All part of the service, is it?" Susan pointed. "Second drawer on the right. I'll go and call the kids in."

As she went out into the hallway Frisby turned to the drawers and opened the wrong one. Instead of cutlery he saw a stack of bills. On top was the itemized account for the car rental in Marbella. He sifted quickly through the

stack, reading fast, getting the picture.

f

By nine-thirty Larry had changed into his striped pajamas and was washing his underpants in the sink in the bathroom. Arranged on the shelf before him were Von Joel's shaving equipment and his toiletries. Larry had never realized that one person—not even a woman—would find a use for so many preparations. There were aftershave lotions, moisturizers, night cream, antiwrinkle cream, hair gel, hair spray, and a variety of shampoos and conditioners all in expensive-looking jars and bottles. Alongside were chunky bars of soap, bath oils, a pair of loofahs, and folded thick facecloths.

When he had rinsed through his underpants and wrung them out, he opened a few of the bottles, sniffed and even tried one or two on the back of his hand. It was only when he realized that certain smells would be likely to linger that he stopped and scrubbed his hands.

He opened the closet to hang up his pants. A soft white terry cloth robe was laid out on one shelf, soft white towels on another. Larry hung up the M&S underpants and shut the door.

At the bathroom door he heard a low, penetrating hum, its source uncertain; at first he thought it might be coming from the communications room. He stepped into the passage, listening. The hum was louder now, lasting ten to fifteen seconds, trailing off, then beginning again. He moved slowly along the passage and stopped, realizing the sound came from Von Joel's bedroom. For a moment he was unsure about violating the man's privacy; then he reminded himself this was a prisoner he was worrying about, a grass at that. Moving stealthily, he grasped the door handle, turned it, and pushed the door slowly inward. When it was open almost a foot he slid his head cautiously around the side.

The room was unnervingly tidy. The bed had been dismantled, the headboard, footboard, and base stacked against the wall. Von Joel, wearing a loose, beautifully cut white shift shirt, sat cross-legged on the mattress, which was on the floor. His eyes were closed. He appeared to be doing breathing exercises, his hands lying loosely at his sides, incense burners smoking at either side of the mattress. As he released the air from his lungs in a slow stream he emitted the curious humming sound.

Larry drew the door shut slowly, glad he hadn't been seen, completely unaware that Von Joel turned his head toward the closing door, opened his eyes, and smiled.

Larry settled down in bed with a couple of the files McKinnes had given him. But he couldn't focus his mind. It was all too new, too different; concentration was out of the question. He would need time to assimilate the turn of recent events and the consequent change in his working circumstances. Then, he was sure, he would get back to his normal functioning mode.

He punched his pillow a couple of times, put out the bedside light and lay down, drawing the bedclothes close around his neck. With eyes lightly closed he tried to think of nothing at all, especially not the fact that he was in bed alone. Involuntarily he thought of Susan, tucked up alone in their bed. He sighed and turned on his other side.

He began to drift. The day's surprises and novelties had added up to fatigue. He began to dream about a light shining up toward him from the bottom of a deep, dark-sided pit. He leaned over, farther and farther, trying to see where the light came from. All at once he was out too far and falling. As he waved his arms he came awake with a jolt.

He heard himself panting. As his breathing subsided he could hear something else besides. Music. Loud music. It came from Von Joel's bedroom on the other side of the wall. It was a remastered recording of Enrico Caruso singing
Celeste Aida,
a fact entirely lost on Larry, to whom it was no more than an assault, a castigation of his ears and nerves that he hoped was not a foretaste of the days—maybe weeks—to come.

He finally slept, hardly dreaming at all this time, except for a few minutes when he found himself in a concert hall, alone, tied to his seat while a fat Italian tenor sang at him.

Next morning he wandered into the kitchen to find Von Joel squeezing oranges by hand into a glass. Sleep appeared to have restored him. To Larry he looked as fit and alert as that time he had seen him at his gallery in Puerto Banus, charming the crowd. He turned with half an orange in his hand and smiled.

"Good morning. Sleep well?"

"What time is it?" Lawrence squinted at the walls, j looking for a clock.

"Tough to tell in this dungeon, isn't it? It's just after eight. Did I wake you?"

Larry got the kettle, not bothering to answer. Civilized exchange at this time of day was an area of deficiency with him.

"You want a cup of coffee?"

"No." Von Joel was standing by an open cupboard, staring balefully at the contents of the shelves. "No herb tea?' He sighed. "This is all crap, you know that? Look at this —corned beef hash. Can you imagine what chemicals have got to be in this to keep it edible?" He held up the packet and read the instructions, a look of extreme disgust on his face: "Slit along line as directed and place in a frying pan. Use a little oil as required and fry to a crisp golden brown ..."