Framed (12 page)

Von Joel didn't appear to be listening. He had taken vinegar, lemon juice, and pepper from the cupboard and now he was searching along the shelves, pushing items aside, growing agitated as he failed to find what he was looking for. Finally he slammed the cupboard door shut.

"I specifically asked for
Moutarde de Meaux,"
he said, his teeth barely parting. "This"—he held up a small jar of Colman's English—"is
not
French mustard."

Larry blinked at him. "It's mustard, isn't it?"

Von Joel hit the cupboard so hard with the flat of his hand, the rim came away and crashed to the floor. He turned on Larry, his face twisted with rage.

"I can't make my dressing . . ." he hissed. Larry almost choked. He couldn't believe it, Von Joel going ape shit because of a jar of ruddy mustard. He was about to stand up, just in case Von Joel went for his throat.

DI Shrapnel sauntered into the kitchen. He looked at Larry, then at Von Joel. There was no response from either of them. He got a plate and put half the remaining spaghetti on it.

"Everything okay?" he said.

Von Joel walked to the door. He paused, looking at Larry. "When we break, no questions. And incidentally, Sam Kellerman was innocent, he wasn't on that job." ToShrapnel he said, "Fill our friend in, will you? Tell him everything's got to be taped."

He walked out. Shrapnel looked at Larry questioningly.

"He can't make his salad dressing."

Shrapnel went and closed the door.

"My heart bleeds," he said. "What do you make of him?"

Larry shrugged. He tipped the bulk of his lunch into the waste disposal, then opened a carton of creme caramel.

"You taken a look at his gear?" Shrapnel said. "You don't think he's queer, do you?"

"Eh?" Larry froze with the spoon halfway to his mouth. "He had great-looking women in Spain."

Shrapnel appeared to have forgotten the spaghetti. He opened the fridge, lighting one of his little cigars as he nosed around inside. Loud operatic music started suddenly. Shrapnel looked up, shaking his head.

"He's playing that crap again. And I don't know about you, but the stink of those joss sticks gets on my chest."

Larry nodded absently, watching Shrapnel flick his ash on the floor.

At two-fifteen Larry went into the gym. Von Joel was there. He had on a pair of boxing gloves and was hammering a punching bag. Larry got himself into the line of vision and looked at his watch.

"Go again in about ten minutes," he said.

Von Joel nodded and slammed a straight left into the bag. He stepped back, breathing through his mouth.

"You ever boxed?" he said. "Good exercise . . ."

Larry began to say something, then checked himself and walked out.

Foreground police activity, meantime, carried on at top speed. In the incident room the fax machine didn't stop, the telephones rang continually, and the drafted-in clerical staff found themselves each doing the work of three people, instead of two as they had been led to expect. To one side of McKinnes's desk a man sifted a mountain of files, on the other side two officers worked at computers. McKinnes was on the phone.

"We need more details," he was saying, waving his free hand, making a smoke trail. "He's a flash git in the city. We also need more information on the weapon they used, and more details on the fence. What? Okay!"

He threw the receiver down and looked around sharply, taking in the activity, checking for slack. Telephones warbled and jangled, data was steadily added to the corkboards, and keyboards clacked without a break. On the far wall was a collection of mug shots of men already named by Von Joel. McKinnes was staring at them, memory working, as a WPC came in with a stack of files and put them on a desk.

"Maureen . . ." McKinnes beckoned her with a curled finger. "Our boy was throwing a wobbly about some mustard. Have a word with Sergeant Jackson, sort it out. . . ." He turned to the fax machine, stared at the output, then looked up and addressed the room at large: "Has anybody found out Minton's address yet?"

The telephone on his desk rang. The WPC picked it up. Across the room, DC Summers waved to attract McKinnes's attention.

"Mac . . ." The familiarity was tolerated at times of stress and high activity. "Willy Noakes is in Brighton. He's in a wheelchair and his wife says he's got a doctor's letter to say he shouldn't travel. . . ." Summers checked his notes. "He had bypass surgery two years ago. What you want me to do?" Before McKinnes could say anything, Summers added, "I hear we didn't get Minton."

"Oh, you heard, did you?" McKinnes glared at him, scratching his beard. "Whole goddamned pack runnin' around like blue-arsed flies and the prick's moved! You bring in Noakes in his chair or his walking frame or whatever. Just get him locked up." He turned, yelling at the whole room again. "Anyone raced Bloody George Minton's residence? See if he's on the polling lists! The bastard's bound to vote Conservative!""Guv?" The WPC held up the phone. "Sergeant Jackson."

"Give me a minute, McKinnes said to Summers, and grabbed the receiver. "Larry—get cracking. We want more details and fast. He gave us the wrong info on bloody Minton! We want an address! What?" He listened, frowning. His eyes widened. "Jesus! Yes! Yes! He'll get his sodding mustard all right!"

Von Joel continued to talk late into the evening. By nine-thirty he was growing tired, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his head resting in his hands. By that time Larry was on the floor, too, with cushions propped behind him.

"Arnold French, Jimmy Sullivan, and George Minton were on the job. Minton organized the gig—he's got a brother-in-law who works in the baggage terminal at Gatwick. The bag never went through customs, it went straight on the plane to New York."

Von Joel stopped. He yawned, stretched, and stood up. He lit an incense stick, which struck Larry as oddly inappropriate at that point.

"At Kennedy," Von Joel continued, "he paid a baggage handler twenty-five thousand dollars to take the bag off the truck from the plane. Minton's crew made the plates. The dollars were in small denominations to begin with— tens, fives, ones, but in November, the exchange day, the bag contained samples of fifty-and hundred-dollar bills. Two million dollars." Von Joel stopped and stared at Larry. "You should use deodorant," he said sharply.

Larry didn't respond, but his neck and ears turned pink.

"Where did you fit into all this?" he asked.

"I took five hundred thousand," Von Joel said, "laundered it through my antique store and art galleries. Minton's got a time-share deal, an apartment block. I got twenty-five percent—cash. Minton's your big fish."

Larry looked up.

"You gave us a bum address. He's not at Weybridge."

"Oh, I remember . . ." Von Joel rubbed his head wearily. "He moved. Try Totteridge. What time is it? I can't think straight."

The intercom clicked. Shrapnel's voice came on.

"Call it quits for the day, Sergeant."

"Thank you, Frank," Von Joel said. He leaned over the intercom, winking at Larry. "When I say I'm tired, that's your cue. Means I could be getting scrambled, doesn't look good on the transcripts—right, Frank?"

They waited in silence for the tape machine to be turned off. Von Joel looked at Larry again.

"You play chess?"

"No."

"Checkers? No? Scrabble?"

"No," Larry said curtly, standing and stretching.

"Rummy? Poker? Bridge?"

Larry shook his head.

"Do you fuck?"

"What?"

"What do you do, Larry, to let off steam? You play squash?"

"I'll go and fix something to eat." Larry went to the door. "What do you want?"

"I won't eat with—" Von Joel pointed in the direction of the radio link room. "And I'll cook my own."

"Suit yourself." Larry opened the door. He glanced at Von Joel before he left. "I, ah, I'm on the boxing team."

He went out, closing the door. Von Joel laughed softly. He brought up his fists, did a quick one-two and some nifty footwork that brought him to the door. He moved like a dancer, really light on his feet considering his size. He listened a moment, could hear Jackson and Shrapnel conferring. He wondered if Shrapnel was telling Jackson about the conversation. Von Joel had been asking nonchalant questions about sports, though looking at Shrapnel's bulk he doubted if he had ever done any, and then he had asked about Jackson. Shrapnel had mumbled that he was on the boxing team, but then Von Joel had changed the conversation fast, discussing his vitamins. He already knew Jackson liked boxing; he was testing, feeling around for anything that could get him closer to the boy, because he had so little time. He had to get under his skin, and he had to do it fast.

Von Joel moved away from the door, began a slow, strange walk around the room, like a caged animal, every muscle tensed, then relaxed as he kept up the slow, steady pacing, until he stopped, turned on his back, and lay flat. He stared up at the ceiling, his breathing gradually calming down after the exertion, until he held each breath for six beats and released it. . . . He liked to feel the thudding of his heart, counting the beats, as he slowly began his relaxation program, feeling the flow ease through his body. As each limb relaxed, his body grew heavy, and then he closed his eyes. Von Joel slept, a clean, dreamless, fifteen-minute sleep, giving not a single thought to the list of men, some of them his friends, whom he had just betrayed.

9

At seven forty-five on Wednesday evening, as Larry lay reading on his bed at the safe house, there was a tap on the door. It opened and Von Joel put his head around the edge.

"Come next door," he said. "Come on . . ."

Larry got off the bed warily, hanging on to his book. He followed Von Joel into his bedroom, noticing the change at once. The process of simplifying and rearranging had given the place a powerfully masculine feel; in the candlelight it looked Spartan and austere. Pillows were nested on the mattress on the floor. A punching bag swayed near one corner and along the wall books and videotapes were stacked neatly. Laid out on a white cloth in the middle of the floor were rice dishes in bowls with chopsticks beside them. Nearby was an ornate chess set on a thick rectangle of marble.

Von Joel lowered himself slowly until he was cross-legged on the floor. He picked up a bowl and held it out to Larry.

"I've eaten," Larry said.

"I'm not offering you dinner. Sit. Sit down, I've got something to show you. . . ." Von Joel took a black re-mote-control unit and pointed it at the television set in the corner. "Tapes of all the ex-heavyweight champions, from chat shows and interviews."

The screen image was a momentary scramble of lines and colors, then it stabilized into a picture of Mike Tyson. He was laughing. Larry looked away sharply.

"Another time," he said. "I'm reading."

Von Joel tilted his head to read the title of Larry's book.

"Dick Francis. Ah well, better than Catherine Cookson. That's what they lumbered me with." Von Joel picked up a pair of chopsticks. "The last guy must have been a psychopath."

Larry glanced at the TV again. In truth he wanted to stay but wasn't sure if he should. Of all his enthusiasms, boxing was the one that endured and held his interest whatever his state of mind. Just then he could have used the distraction of the tapes, but protocol had to be considered—and also, he didn't want to look like a pushover.

"Best world heavyweight in history," Von Joel said. "He's a giant, and he's twenty-five years old. Look at the size of his neck. And his feet. He's like a human tank."