Framed (30 page)

Larry nodded, taking it all in, trying to be a professional in the teeth of his anxieties; after today's events, he couldn't shake a gnawing suspicion that the alterations to his life—so sudden and so many—had plunged him into bad currents.

"Do remember," the technician said, packing the gear into the briefcase, "this is valuable equipment. Try not to damage any of it."

"I'll do my best," Larry promised.

I'll maybe even do better than that.
He had to motivate himself. If he could make this phase of the operation work without confusion, the prestige might rub out some of the black marks that had accumulated against him.

Two floors below, meanwhile, DCI McKinnes and the Superintendent were looking at a street map.

"I'll need men across the road," McKinnes said. "We're sorting a good surveillance flat and a surveillance vehicle. The entire flat will be wired and—"

"This is costing, Mac." The Superintendent's faraway look had been there since McKinnes came back with the

map. "I had to put it before Fretlow, and he had to take it even higher. My budget's wiped out." "Are you saying I can't go on?"

The Superintendent looked cagey. The whole truth

about his negotiations with the brass would not be forthcoming.

"They want—and I knew this would come up—they want Myers taken to the Reading Secure Unit."

"So I lose him?" McKinnes didn't hide his indignation. "Doesn't matter that he's planning a bloody robbery?" "Oh, come on, now, Mac . . ."

"Jefferson says his girls are cleaning him out. He's got to go for it."

"We don't know that for sure." The Superintendent smiled sourly. "You just want him to."

"You said it." McKinnes glared at the window. "Five years I've waited for this."

Twenty minutes later DI Shrapnel, DI Falcon, and DC Summers looked up from one of the desks in the incident room to face DCI McKinnes as he marched in. They looked sheepish.

"Frank," McKinnes said, "I want Jefferson tipped off that Myers has just two more weeks in our custody. In the meantime we hold Myers here until I've got the safe house wired . . ." He stopped, taking in the group expression. "What's up?"

Falcon held up a camomile tea box. "We found this in Jackson's bedroom."

McKinnes looked at the box with a so-what expression. Shrapnel put it down and held out a box of Black Magic chocolates.

"These were in the kitchen," he said. "I can have the lab boys check them out. They could have drugs in them, I don't know how the hell he got them in—" "The chocolates were for my wife," McKinnes snapped. The three detectives looked at each other. McKinnes snatched up a plastic bag from the tea box and sniffed it. He appeared to freeze.

"It's marijuana," Shrapnel said, pronouncing it
mari-jewana.

"I know what it bloody is, Frank!"

Larry appeared. He was carrying a briefcase, gingerly, as if there were eggs in it.

"I'm all set to go back, Guv," he said.

"Oh, are you?" McKinnes turned to him, holding up the bag of grass between finger and thumb. "What's this, Jackson? It was found in your room at the safe house."

Larry stared, his throat tightening. For the moment he couldn't summon an excuse. He went on staring, his hopes of redemption melting. There was no way to avoid

the obvious. His life was turning to shit.

f

Jefferson was tight-lipped with fury. His ratlike eyes were gray as flints. He had been searched, left waiting, and no one had listened to his clipped demands as to how long it would be before he had access to Von Joel. Then, just as he was about to really fly off the handle, the thud of footsteps heralded Von Joel's arrival. Two uniformed officers remained in the room throughout the short interview. Jefferson had demanded the meeting as his client's right. Von Joel, as agreed, had signed over power of attorney to Jefferson, giving him access to Von Joel's bank accounts. DI Falcon sat in on the meeting. In fact the room was so filled with bodies, it became stifling. Every single move that went between Von Joel and Jefferson was watched. Each document Von Joel was required to sign was checked carefully. The men watched and listened almost gleefully as Jefferson informed Von Joel that both his girlfriends were, as he had told McKinnes, cleaning him out. They had used his check cards, and spent thousands on a suite at the Hyde Park Hotel. . . . Jefferson, however, appeared to the onlookers to be more worried about his own fees being met, and when they heard the amount due to him, the men exchanged shifty looks.

Von Joel's appearance had slightly shocked Jefferson. He seemed quiet, exceptionally subdued. There was stubble on his chin, a scruffiness about him that Jefferson had never detected before, but he made no reference to the obvious discomfort of his client, and the fading bruises on his face. The cuffs were never removed, even when Von Joel signed the documents. Falcon noticed that Von Joel seemed almost about to crack up, especially when Jefferson repeated the amount of money the girls had got away with, and admitted that he was unsure how long he could continue taking care of Von Joel's business transactions since Von Joel was broke.

Jefferson gave Von Joel a strange half smile. "The villa in Spain was bought in Lola's name. Well, the little bird has it on the market, and there is nothing you or I can do about it. The Monterey was in the other girl's name and that, too, is on the market. Again, as they have proof of ownership, I cannot stop the sale going ahead."

Von Joel swore under his breath about cheating bitches, and kept his head bent down, as Jefferson checked over the papers, preparing to return them to his briefcase. The locks snapped shut.

"Any complaints? Food all right, is it? They're getting your vitamins to you?"

Von Joel nodded, then sighed. "I am held in a shit hole, but apart from that I don't have too many complaints. There's no exercise area, and I'm getting sick. I need some fresh air. Can you arrange for me to have at least a walk? I'd like a run if possible. The place is close to Regent's Park, somebody must be able to arrange it. Can you talk to McKinnes? I'm going crazy in that dump."

Jefferson nodded, said he would do whatever was possible, but he doubted if Von Joel would be allowed out for a morning jog. He gave a twisted smile. Falcon couldn't help but smile as well; bloody nerve of Von Joel, asking to go friggin' joggin', next it would be a night out at the theater.

The meeting lasted no longer than fifteen minutes. A report was sent back to McKinnes that nothing unforeseen had happened, apart from Von Joel looking like hell, and obviously being depressed. The news of Von Joel's girlfriends stitching him up good and well traveled fast, and everyone couldn't help but laugh. So much for the Super Grass, his own little darlin's were rippin' him off, and his brief was doing an even better job.

McKinnes had a few moments with Jefferson, and he almost laughed in Jefferson's face when he passed on Von Joel's request that he be allowed to go running or walking to get some fresh air. Jefferson carefully made no reference to the fact that Von Joel had let slip the location— that he was being held within the vicinity of Regent's Park. McKinnes almost told Jefferson to piss off, but then excused himself, and walked out into the corridor. Von Joel wanted a run, did he? Or was he already planning to do a runner? Maybe they should let out the leash a little bit more. If they kept an eye on him, maybe, as McKinnes

had said, he'd give them a lead.

f

After seeing Von Joel at the police station, Sydney Jefferson called on Lola and Charlotte at the Hyde Park Hotel. Their business was brief, hardly more than an update, concluding with Jefferson's account of the meeting at St. John's Row station. As he was preparing to leave Lola asked him if Von Joel had asked after his girls.

"Every word we said was monitored. And he's not supposed to be enamored of the situation, is he?" Jefferson smiled. "You're taking him to the cleaners, remember?" He picked up his attache case, went to the door and opened it. "I'll contact you here as soon as I get a result."

"But you haven't found out where they're keeping him," Lola said.

"I did my best," Jefferson replied testily. "All I know is what I told you, he's somewhere close to Regent's Park. And McKinnes agreed that he could exercise early each morning." He looked from one girl to the other. "The rest will be up to you."

f

Early that evening Larry fitted bugs in the safe house, under the moody eye of Frank Shrapnel. He worked his way along to the kitchen, taking his cues from sketchy notes he had made at the station. Throughout the flat he had positioned each bug so that its pattern of receptivity overlapped that of at least one other bug in the vicinity. He wore an earpiece as he worked, to monitor signal strength and pick up any howl that might result from putting bugs too close to one another. He walked slowly around the kitchen with the last-but-one device, a transceiver the size of a ten-pence piece, deciding where to put it.

"Testing, testing . . ."

Shrapnel checked the dial on the small black box. The needle moved gently between the two markers. He gave a thumbs up. Larry stripped the wax paper from the adhesive on the back of the bug and positioned it under the overhanging trim at the base of a wall cupboard.

"Look," Shrapnel said throatily, finally spitting out what had obviously been on his mind, "thanks for not spilling the beans about the herbal tea. If Mac and the lads had got to hear . . ."

Larry prodded him. He pointed to the dial on the box. Shrapnel slapped a hand over his mouth. Larry handed him an earpiece.

"It's called skating, Frank—on very thin ice. I just hope I don't fall through the cracks." Larry moved close to the nearest bug and spoke directly to it. "Just one more, in Myers's bedroom, then that's it. Over. "By five-forty the safe house was comprehensively wired. In the surveillance flat in a block across the way, reel-to-reel tape machines, binoculars, cameras, and dark-light monitoring equipment had already been set up. A surveillance team was in place.

At nine o'clock Von Joel was finally brought back to the safe house by a posse of plainclothes policemen. He was taken directly to his bedroom and locked in.

After undressing for bed, he turned off his light and stood by the window. He could see the solitary officer posted near the entrance to the block of flats, and it was easy to spot the unmarked patrol car at the roadside with two men sitting inside, silhouetted against the lamplight. All very reassuring, he thought, but there had to be more than that. The ball game, after all, was changing.

He waited.

Long minutes passed, then a man came along the street and stopped by the police car. He bent low and spoke to the men inside. When he moved away he entered the apartment block opposite.

Von Joel began examining the windows of the block one by one, taking his time, scanning each of them from top to bottom, side to side. Halfway up the block his eye was held by a dark-draped window with a tiny gap between the curtains. In the gap was the small but telltale glint of a camera lens.

"Gotcha!" Von Joel whispered.

He went to bed.

f

At ten the following morning there was a team changeover in the surveillance flat. The officer taking over the audio equipment was removing his jacket when the night-shift officer, still wearing headphones, beckoned him to the table. He turned up the sound on the external monitor speaker.

"Listen to this."

They sat motionless, scarcely breathing, as Larry's voice said, "Five hundred grand for me and five for you, that right?"

The policemen leaned closer to the equipment, their faces tense. There was a ratding sound, then Larry spoke again.

"Six," he said. "Okay, that's me to go. I'm feeling lucky."

The officers looked at each other, smiling foolishly as they realized Larry and Von Joel were playing Monopoly.

Over in the safe house the two men sat cross-legged on the living room floor with the Monopoly board between them. Von Joel had a notepad; as he talked and played he simultaneously drew pictures and made notes.

"Now," he said slowly, shaking the dice, "do I go for the bank?" The dice landed. "Oh, yes! Double six! Very nice. Walk straight to the vaults." He made his move on the board. "Very easy access, and nobody gets hurt. You saw for yourself, it'd be no problem."

"Hang on," Larry said. "One, two, three—that's jail."

"No way," Von Joel said, staring at the board. "It's not as if I would be stealing. It's my money. Your turn." He watched as Larry threw the dice. "Oh, very nice! Double four. But not good enough, my friend. Check my score. You see—when you're desperate something always turns up."

He handed Larry a drawing of the interior of the bank, the same one Larry had visited with Lola. He studied it, marveling at the detail.

Von Joel gasped suddenly.

Larry looked at him. "You okay?"

Von Joel blinked, rubbing the side of his head.

"Give me a hand up, would you? I feel lousy."

As Larry helped him to his feet Von Joel swayed, holding on with one hand, letting his slack knuckles slide and trail across Larry's arm and chest, feeling for his wire.

"I think I'll go and lie down, I don't feel so good. How could my little girls do it to me? I'm sick, Larry, sick . . ."

Over the next hour his condition appeared to get worse. The pallor of his face made his tan a light waxy brown; his eyes were dark-rimmed and feverishly bright. At eleven o'clock Shrapnel decided to call in a police doctor. He came at once and made a thorough examination. Afterward, standing at the front door with Larry, he explained the position.

"If his headache continues, he should be whipped back in for another X ray. There's nothing I can do, really. He says he won't take aspirin or codeine."

"Has he got a temperature?"

"One degree above normal, that's all. But keep an eye on him. If it goes any higher then he should be in hospital."

Behind the locked bedroom door, as they spoke, Von Joel was on his feet. From under the bed he fished out a bottle of water. He uncapped it quietly, shook it over the pillow and bedclothes, then used it to soak his hair. When he was finished he recapped the bottle, put it back in its hiding place, and climbed into bed.

When he was found in his sorry condition half an hour later, babbling deliriously to himself, Larry and DI Shrapnel changed the bed linen and his night clothes.