Framed (29 page)

So
that's what it's all about,
Larry thought. A pep talk. A soft-edged warning that he was expected to work even harder from here on in. Well, that was no skin off Larry's nose—he enjoyed hard work if it got him somewhere. He gulped his beer, feeling he should contribute something to the meeting.

"He said there was a nurse, Guv, one of the staff nurses, that he'd been screwing."

McKinnes erupted with sudden and harsh laughter. Larry nearly jumped.

"The bastard," McKinnes said, when he was able to speak. He wiped his face. "Is that the truth? He was shafting one of the nurses?"

"That's what he told me."

McKinnes shook his head, muttering something, then picked up his glass and swallowed the remainder of his beer. He got off his stool and snatched up the flowers.

"So," he said, wagging a finger at Larry. "Phase two— and this is your job—get to his hidden stash." He winked. "I want to strip him down to the knuckles."

McKinnes was chuckling as he walked out of the pub. Larry gulped down his pint and hurried to the door, then came scurrying back for the box of chocolates. He ran outside with it. McKinnes was nowhere in sight.

In another part of London, at the heart of Covent Garden, DC Frisby was presenting himself at the booking office of the Royal Opera House. He flashed his ID at the clerk and explained that he was trying to get details of a recent ticket purchase.

"I phoned earlier. The girl I spoke to said she would look up the booking for the particular night."

"Oh, yes . . ." The clerk was looking at a sheet in front of him. "Three seats on the night of September 28th, yes?"

"Right." Frisby nodded. "I want to know if they were paid for by check or—"

"Credit card," the clerk said. "Mr. Philip Von Joel."

Frisby stared. "Are you sure about that?"

"Yes." The clerk passed over the sheet. "They were row E, 22, 23, and 24. Mr. Von Joel asked for a box, and the reason I'm certain of the booking is because we were to call the Hyde Park Hotel if a box became available."

"Thank you very much," Frisby said, turning away, his

head buzzing with the implications.

f

That evening Larry and Von Joel had another game of chess. Von Joel was full of constructive aggression, playing strongly, at the same time encouraging Larry to try harder and take every opportunity that showed itself. As the game approached its close Larry nearly made a disastrous move and Von Joel jumped on him.

"No, Larry! Your rook, he's supposed to act as a wall, to prevent my lone king moving out to the center of the board. Bring your king up. If you want to beat me, get your king to face mine, check it with your rook, you'll force me back. . . ." He watched Larry make the revised move. "That's it." Von Joel moved his king. "Good. Keep pushing me back to the edge of the board. Good. Now it's . . . what?"

Larry turned aside and began thumbing through his
Beginner's Chess
book.

"It's checkmate, you don't need the book." Von Joel tapped his forehead. "Think. The defender has two ways of delaying. You can't avoid the mate, you attack with the rook." He sighed. "Look up
'Waiting Moves.' "

Larry frowned, studying the book, cross-checking the information with the layout on the board.

"It's cash," Von Joel said, almost whispering. "Nearly one million, give or take a few grand, split it fifty-fifty."

Larry stopped thumbing the book. He felt sweat break out on his face. This was informal, no tape was running.

"Larry, you and my little girl were this close to it." Von Joel held up his finger and thumb, a fraction of an inch apart. "This close."

They stared at each other. Von Joel looked down at the board again.

"The enemy king will return opposite your king. I'm defending, so force my hand. I'm making the attacker's job easy." Von Joel's voice went low again. "Sitting there," he said, "but we can't get to it."

"We?"
Larry asked, trying to sound nonchalant. "You mean you and Lola?"

"No, I mean you, Larry, me and you."

Larry stayed cool. He put his book aside, stared at the board, then reached forward and made his move. Checkmate.

"Good," Von Joel said. He looked up. "You're learning fast."

Larry smiled, pleased with himself, in a nervous kind of way.

f

Late that night Susan Jackson stood in her sons' bedroom, making sure they were asleep. When she left she closed their door soundlessly and tiptoed along the landing to her own bedroom. She slipped inside, closed the door, and put a stool in front of it. She turned to Colin Frisby, who was already under the bedclothes.

"There's no lock," she whispered. "I don't want them waking up and walking in."

"They didn't see me come back," Frisby said, by way of reassuring her. He lifted the side of the covers and leered, although he believed it was a grin. "It's nice and warm."

Susan dithered at the side of the bed. "I've never done this before."

"Nor have I," Frisby said. "Not with you, anyway."

"Oh, thanks." Susan sat on the edge. "You go to bed with all the people you're supposed to be watching, do you?"

"No way. Some of them are blokes."

They both smiled awkwardly. Frisby held out his hand. Susan took it.

"It's not too late to change your mind," he told her, kissing her hand. "I don't want to."

"Thank Christ for that," he grunted. "Come here . . ." He drew her under the covers, his hands everywhere at once. "You're driving me nuts . . ."

20

Frank Shrapnel walked into Larry's bedroom at the safe house and found DI Falcon turning out the contents of the drawers and sorting through Larry's belongings. Shrapnel stood back from the doorway a moment; he had a feeling he wasn't catching Falcon doing anything he hadn't been told to do. There was nothing furtive about the way he was tossing that room.

"What's all this about?" Shrapnel said lamely. "Larry's with the Guv'nor this morning."

"Yeah, I know." Falcon paused with his hand in a drawer. "Mac said to give his room a thorough once over . . ." He picked up a camomile tea box and flipped open the lid. He sniffed. "Bloody hell!" He stared at Shrapnel. "Do you know what this is?"

Shrapnel cocked his head to read the box.

"High-grade marijuana," Falcon said. "Jackson must be out of his head."

Shrapnel looked profoundly shocked. And worried. Later, when a certain amount of dust had settled, DCI McKinnes explained the new situation. He delivered the explanation in the Superintendent's office at St. John's Row station, pacing back and forward in front of the Superintendent as he spoke, puffing hard on his cigarette.

"He admits he went to the Hyde Park Hotel, and he admits he went to the bloody opera with the women. I think he got it on with the Spanish bird."

"The ruddy idiot." The Superintendent was white-lipped, imagining he could already feel waves of repercussion. "This is getting out of hand. It's insanity."

"Unbelievable," McKinnes agreed. "I don't know what the hell he thought he was trying to do."

"Whatever, Mac—get rid of him."

McKinnes stopped pacing.

"No can do," he said, his voice rich with regret. "I need the bugger. And I reckon Myers is going to need Jackson to get his money." He spread his hands. "Give me audio on the place. Give me surveillance. Let's wire the prat up."

The Superintendent stared. "Are you crazy? Bloody Jackson's screwed up not just once but . . . Listen, if we don't watch it, he's going to take us both down."

McKinnes stubbed out his cigarette and lit another one.

"I got down on my sodding knees for this," he said, "and I'll go down on them again. I won't let Jackson foul up, I promise you. Just let me finish what I started. I'll be right here. . . ." He tapped his shoulder. "You know why I want Eddie Myers."

"You've already got him, Mac."

"No!' McKinnes said it vehemently, almost glaring at the Superintendent. "No, I haven't. Not all of him. But I will have." He looked straight at the Superintendent and pointedly tapped his shoulder again. "Because I'll be right there . . . Okay?"

Ten minutes later McKinnes was marching along the corridor with Larry beside him. DC Summers, running as usual, caught up with them by the lift.

"Boss," he panted. "Sydney Jefferson's downstairs."

"He can wait."

Summers melted away. McKinnes pressed the lift button. He and Larry waited. Larry was partly in the picture, far enough to know he was in the kind of trouble that did not easily go away. He also knew, without being told, that Colin Frisby was an element in his predicament. One look at Frisby's devious mug in the operations room had made it crystal clear.

"You must never coerce," McKinnes said now, keeping it strictly business. "You just listen and ask pertinent questions, but do not encourage or make suggestions about any part of the robbery to Myers. Any
unrecorded
information you are privy to can go against you. You must at no time appear to aid or give incitement to any illegal activity. You taking this in?"

"Yes, Mac." The lift arrived. Larry got in. "Ah, about everything . . . I'm sorry, I want to—"

"All I want is Myers, son. I put myself right in front of the firing squad keeping you on this." McKinnes pointed straight up. "Get up there! And get your sodding head straightened out!"

The lift door closed. McKinnes turned along the corridor and saw Sydney Jefferson being shown into an interview room by DC Summers. When Jefferson saw McKinnes striding toward them he stopped in the doorway.

"Chief Inspector McKinnes," he called, "I've been waiting for over an hour. It is my right to have access to my client—"

"Is it?" McKinnes didn't break step. "He can't just hop on a bus, you know. It takes a lot of organization. Just have patience. Myers'll be here."

McKinnes strode on past. Jefferson went into the interview room and sat down. As Summers came out McKinnes gestured to him. He ran to catch up.

"Search Jefferson," McKinnes said grimly. "Down to his Y-fronts if necessary."

Upstairs in the Radio Control Division a departmental

technician gave Larry rudimentary instructions in the deployment of bugs and body wires. On a trestle table in front of them was an open briefcase with plastic foam compartments. Beside it were a number of miniature receivers, several two-way bugs and a pair of radio microphones. Two of the department's specialists hovered nearby, watching the tackle on the table like hard-eyed mother swans keeping an eye on their young.

"Try not to touch the heads," the technician said, pointing to the radio mikes. "They're very delicate. This one you use for outside work only, it's got a good wide radius. This is the internal one, it's good for two miles, then it distorts. Tape it to your chest or just here . . ." He pointed to his armpit. "Now, every time you set yourself up for the day, check with this." He held up a small black box fitted with a dial indicator. "If the needle remains between these two points, you're on air."