Framed (35 page)

I drove fast because Myers held a bloody gun at my neck!"

Larry was in the Superintendent's office, sitting in a straight-backed chair opposite the desk. His breathing was labored and he sounded as if he might start crying. The Superintendent sat on the edge of the desk, watching him dispassionately. Larry was dirty and disheveled, with dark patches on his hands and face, light ones on his clothes. A cut on his right temple had bled. The blood around it, dry now, looked like a dab of maroon paint made with a coarse brush.

He stood up suddenly, agitated, moving his arms.

"If he wasn't on the train, he had to be in the station. And he can't get far. We've got the briefcase with the passports and the tickets."

The telephone rang. Larry stared, eyes wide, as the Superintendent answered it.

"I'll be right up," the Super said, and put the phone down again. He looked at Larry. "Go and get yourself cleaned up, they're all coming back in."

"Have they got him?"

"No!" the Superintendent barked, losing his temper for a moment. "No, Jackson," he said more quietly, "they have not."

He turned and left the office.

Larry closed his eyes and clasped his hands to stop the shaking.

In the incident room there was an attempt at bustle as usual. Officers came and went briskly, telephones rang, fax machines and computers brought in new and revised information. At the center of it all DCI McKinnes appeared calm, smoking steadily, trying to stay untainted by the bleak, unmistakable undertow of defeat. At desks and tables around him, furtive looks were darting back and forth like forbidden messages.

Frank Shrapnel looked up from Von Joel's briefcase, open on the desk in front of him.

"Full of junk," he said. "The so-called passports are the kind you buy for kids at Woolworth's. Flight tickets are used throwaways. We had every flight from Heathrow, Gatwick, and Stansted checked out, he wasn't on one of them. We've still got the airports alerted—customs officers, passport control, the lot."

McKinnes said nothing. He simply stood nodding, pulling absently at his ear, puffing his cigarette. Superficially, no one had given up hope. The case was still a case. Team members were trying to be serious and responsible in their manner, although at a nearby desk DC Colin Frisby, reading the statements from the bank, was showing ill-timed amusement at the fact that one of the clerks was called Jeffrey Archer. Beside him DI Falcon was on the telephone, taking down details from Hertz Rental on Oxford Street, the company that owned the red Granada. At another desk DC Summers put down the telephone and flapped his notebook to attract McKinnes's attention.

"Guv ... We traced the Jaguar XJL. Hired Thursday morning from Elvaston Motors. It was a woman, she paid cash. Described as young, early twenties, blonde, very slim build. They xerox all the driving licenses . . He consulted his notebook. "Name of—

"A woman rented the Granada, Guv," DI Falcon interrupted. "Same description, young, blonde—

"Good, good," McKinnes muttered, walking away.

A telephone rang as he reached the door. DC Summers answered it.

"Guv," he shouted, his hand over the mouthpiece.

McKinnes turned, hope glimmering.

"The cashiers and the manager from the bank are ready for home. Do you want to see them again?"

"No," McKinnes snapped, turning away again, "they can go."

Larry was rinsing his face at a sink in the men's washroom. He heard somebody come in and hesitate by the door. He looked up and saw McKinnes reflected in the mirror over the basins. He looked as if he might be about to leave again. As they stared at each other the station PA sounded its bing-bong signal.

"Detective Sergeant Lawrence Jackson to Commander Havergill's office immediately."

Larry shook water from his hands. "What's going to happen to me, Mac?"

McKinnes had pushed open the door of a toilet stall. He paused, staring coldly.

"Mac, he had a gun stashed."

"Correction," McKinnes growled. "You had the frigging shooter. You had it and we've got witnesses that sodding saw you with it!"

"I took it off him!"

The Tannoy sounded again and the message was repeated.

"You're wanted," McKinnes said with a grunt, going into the stall and slamming the door shut.

Larry made his way up to the Commander's office. He was shown in at once. The Superintendent stood besidethe desk while Commander Havergill himself, a good-looking, casually dressed man in his late forties, sat behind it, leaning forward on his elbows. Larry stopped two yards from the front of the desk and stood with his hands at his sides, feeling like a prisoner freshly arraigned.

"I'll make it brief for the time being, Sergeant Jackson." The Commander's tone was neutral, with no trace of condemnation. "I think you're able to see how matters appear from our standpoint. A special investigation is clearly called for. Under the circumstances it will be necessary to have your entire interaction with Edward Myers scrutinized. Depending on the findings, a decision will be taken as to whether or not criminal proceedings should be taken against you."

"I know how it must look," Larry said, "but—"

"Jackson, I can't discuss it. If criminal proceedings go ahead, then you should retain a legal adviser. If they do not, then you will go before a disciplinary hearing. As from today you are suspended from duty, pending inquiries."

f

At a little before one o'clock that day, roughly two hours after disappearing at Liverpool Street Station, Von Joel drove a sleek Saab saloon along a quiet country lane in West Sussex. He turned into the sweeping entrance of an immaculately tended estate, past wide iron gates above which a sign said green lawns health farm. As he steered the car along the main drive he smiled at Lola, who sat next to him.

"What name are we booked in?"

"Visconti," she said. "Room six, ground floor."

f

The next morning a new fervor had taken control in the incident room. The aura of defeat and failure had lifted.

In its place a stark, challenging fact was being faced: Von Joel had jumped custody, and to make matters worse, he had robbed a bank. A top priority chase was on; the bad guy had to be found and brought to book. Everyone on McKinnes's team was committed to catching him. By ten o'clock the place was busier than ever. McKinnes convened a coffee-time huddle so that officers directly concerned in the hunt could pool their information. He started the ball rolling with a fax he had just received from Paris.

"Eddie Myers's boat left its mooring three days ago. The crew asked the harbor master at Puerto Banus to arrange for them to drop anchor in Cannes. We've got Interpol giving us every assistance."

McKinnes stepped back and DI Falcon came forward. At the same moment the PA sounded.

"Detective Chief Inspector McKinnes to Main Conference Room."

"We think we've got the ID of the del Moreno girl," Falcon announced. "Her real name is Ana Maria Morales. She was a listed runaway. She's been busted for thieving in Malaga—part of a kids' street gang, ripping off the tourists—last seen in 1988. The other girl, calling herself Charlotte Lampton, is possibly a Cheryl Lang, missing from home since 1987—the description fits, but we've got nothing else. She hired the getaway cars with a fake driving license. Their passports are fake, too; they entered England under the aliases del Moreno and Lampton. Both women were interviewed in Spain. . . ."

McKinnes stepped aside, preparing to leave, combing the hair at either side of his bald scalp. The PA sounded again.

"Detective Chief Inspector McKinnes to Main Conference Room—immediately."

Frank Shrapnel sidled up. "I get the feeling they think Jackson was in on it from the word go," he said.

"Bollocks!" McKinnes stubbed out his cigarette irritably. "He's not bent, Frank. He's just bloody incompetent.

We all are. Those two women were right under our noses all the time, one of 'em even under ruddy Jackson . . ."

"But we had nothing on them, Guv," DI Falcon said, looking hurt. "They were just his pieces of skirt."

McKinnes sighed and turned away. He was finding it hard to keep up the energetic drive necessary for a hunt like this. As he made his way to the door he had the stooped bearing of a beaten man. Someone had tacked up a newspaper headline:
super grass escapes
. McKinnes tore it down as he passed.

f

For Larry Jackson the day went by slowly. He read all the papers, tried to distract himself with television, failed, and read the papers again. By early evening he had decided to stun himself with alcohol. He sat in the living room with a bottle of whisky, the papers strewn around him on the couch and on the floor. At nine o'clock Susan started tidying the place, surreptitiously checking his state of mind. She held up the papers, piled loosely between her hands.

"Do you want to keep these?"

Larry looked up at her, his head moving with the overfast reaction of the inebriated. "Yeah. Frame them."

Susan put them on a chair by the door to the kitchen. "It isn't funny," she mumbled.

"Do you think 1 think it is?"

"What's the worst that can happen?"

"Jail," Larry said. He frowned as Susan gave a listless laugh. "I'm serious. Look at the facts." He took a swig from his glass. "I found him, he insisted I was put on the interrogation, I pulled the bloody robbery with him—I even drove the getaway car." Depression appeared to wash over him suddenly. "Oh, shit . . ."

"Aren't you missing something out?" Susan said.

"Isn't that enough?"

"What about you and his girlfriends?"

Slowed by the drink, Larry was on the point of telling her he didn't know what she was talking about. Then he looked at her, saw the certainty on her face. The penny dropped—understanding dawned.

"Bloody Frisby!"

"He was always here, Larry . . ." Defensive now, Susan began to sound tearful. "Those phone calls, and the way you were behaving—"

"What way? I'd been working my butt off!"

"Working?" Susan pulled her head back, helping her voice up to the hysterical register. "Spending the night with Eddie Myers's tart at the Hyde Park Hotel—that's working, is it?" Her eyes narrowed. "Enjoy the opera, did you?" She watched his expression cloud over. "Yes, I know all about it, Larry."

He had stood up, and now he walked the length of the room, his hands in his pockets, brows gathered. He kicked the door.

"Frisby," he said, as if the name were something revolting on his tongue. "I'm going to have that conniving two-faced bastard."

"Don't, Larry."

"Why not? I might as well get done for assault."

"I meant don't lack the door."

He dug his hands deeper into his pockets and stared up at the ceiling. "Great!" he said. "I lose my job, I could go to prison, and I find out my wife's going behind my back. So." He turned and booted the door again. "If I want to, I'll kick the bloody house down." He drew back his fist suddenly and punched the door. "I've messed up everything," he said, his voice breaking.

"Oh, please don't, Larry . . ."

He slumped down on the sofa, curling in on himself, his shoulders heaving. After a minute he sat up, sniffing, wiping his face with his cuff.