Framed (37 page)

f

At five-thirty a WPC told everyone in the waiting room that they were free to leave. "Everyone is cleared to go except Sergeant Jackson."

For a further half hour Larry waited alone, feeling like a pariah, while the board deliberated. When he was finally called in to face them, he did so with the slightly vacant look of a man worn expressionless with strain.

"I have taken everything into consideration, Sergeant," the Commander said. "I find you guilty of foolhardiness, perhaps more than gross error of judgement. You acted, I believe, without criminal intent, as has already been determined, but your behavior must be reprimanded."

"Yes, sir," Larry murmured.

"You will be fined three thousand pounds. You will lose your rank, and will return to uniform for two years. After two years you can apply to be considered for reappraisal." Larry nodded once, accepting the board's decision.

f

Later that evening, in a local pub used regularly by St. John's Row personnel, the Superintendent joined DCI McKinnes and DI Shrapnel in a booth with a number of other officers. There was an atmosphere of overdone jollity. DC Summers was announcing, loudly, that Von Joel had nowhere to run.

"I mean, where could he go to? If he tries to get to France we've got him, he can't go back to Spain or they'll have him. Anywhere he goes in Europe, Interpol's going to jump on him. I'd take bets we get him back in days. . .

Colin Frisby was singing and trying to encourage the others to join in. Shrapnel looked glazed. So did McKinnes, but the Superintendent believed that was partly self-defense. He leaned close to McKinnes and passed him the news he was waiting for.

"Demoted, fined three grand, he's back in uniform."

McKinnes nodded solemnly. "All I ask," he said, raising his glass, "is, live long enough for me to get you, Eddie, because I will, I'll keep on looking until they ram the last nail in my coffin!" He swallowed all the whisky in the glass and turned to the Superintendent. "What about me? What did I get?"

"It's as you expected, Jimmy."

A rapid blink was the only sign that he had been affected. "So I'm out, huh? I suppose they'll let me get the trial over, and then . . ." He blew a raspberry. "Ah, well . . ." He shrugged. "You got Minton, Bingham, and a few other heavies. No news on Myers?"

The Superintendent shook his head.

"Well," McKinnes said, looking past the Superintendent. "I'll say this for him, he's got some guts."

The table grew quiet as Larry approached and stood in front of the booth. Everyone stared at him.

"It's all right," Larry said, "I don't want to have a drink with you, I just wanted to give you this, Guv." He put his warrant card on the table in front of McKinnes. "I've left a formal letter of resignation on your desk. I'll clear out my locker tonight."

McKinnes glared at him. "Sit down, you flashy bugger." He started waving his arms at the others. "Come on, come on, make room, you lot, he's not contagious. Oy! Push up."

Larry stepped back, shaking his head. The jukebox was playing the Kinks—"Dedicated Follower of Fashion."

"They're playing your tune, Sergeant," DI Falcon shouted from the bar. The others roared with laughter. Larry leaned down to McKinnes.

"Thanks all the same. But—sorry. I'm really sorry, Mac."

There was no drama in his departure. Falcon pushed past him with a flowing drinks tray. The hubbub swelled. People shouted at each other and several of the lads began to sing along with the jukebox. Larry walked out.

McKinnes had the chasers lined up, and the lads kept them coming as they sang at the top of their voices, until it was obvious to all there was nothing to sing about.

The cold night air hit McKinnes like a slap in the face. He refused all the lads' offers to drive him home, saying he'd prefer to walk. When he was halfway down the street, Shrapnel drew up alongside him.

"Eh, Mac, you sure you don't want a lift? You got quite a skin full."

"Piss off!"

Shrapnel looked up at McKinnes, his face flushed red, the ever present butt stuck out of his mouth.

"Well, one good thing came of it all . . ."

"Oh, yeah, and what would that be? Got rid of me?"

"No, the patches, they work. . . . Tarra!"

McKinnes had no idea what Shrapnel was talking about, wondered if he should be driving—he'd no doubt sunk a few pints. He plodded on, turning into Edgware Boad, and stopped by a large glass-fronted display window of a television shop and showroom. The screens showed all the different channels. He was about to pass on but suddenly stopped. One TV set showed the face of Edward Myers, the most wanted Super Grass. He couldn't hear what the announcer was saying, as there was no sound. Instead he stood staring at the handsome, arrogant man.

"You got the luck of the devil, Myers."

The news continued, as Mac plodded on down the street toward a cab rank. He could hear that dark voice again, asking if he was still wearing the same raincoat. He was, he doubted if he'd get a new one.

"How are you, Mac?"

"In shape." He remembered when he'd said it how he had felt. That gut-tightening feeling. He really had believed that this time he would have Myers locked up for at least fifteen to eighteen years. Myers was free again, but he reckoned it would not be for long. Somebody, somewhere'd grass on him. They always did. Only Mac knew that when, and if, they brought Myers back he himself would be out in his garden planting friggin' roses, or under the sod himself. He'd not felt well for months. He sighed, looked up and down the road, and then gave a halfhearted signal to flag a passing taxi cab. He stumbled slightly as he got in, and gave the address. That was another thing he'd have to face. The wife. She'd love this, relish it. And her bloody sister. They would, no doubt, be sitting in the kitchen right now with all the papers, and when he appeared they'd give those looks to each other. And he'd sit at the table as the wife placed his Marks & Spencer's dinner in front of him—since she discovered their bloody food take-away he'd not had a home-cooked dinner. He leaned back against the seat, exhausted, and would have nodded off, but as luck would have it, he'd got a mouth under a cloth cap that slid back the adjoining window. "You been followin' this Super Grass escape then?"

"Yes," said McKinnes. "I've been following it."

f

The noon sun in Casablanca was scorching. Lola, sunbathing on the deck of Von Joel's motor yacht, rubbed oil into her arms and gazed lazily around. She glanced toward the harbor and caught her breath. Charlotte, coming up from below, heard Lola and followed the direction of her eyes. She stared, surprised. Coming up behind her, Von Joel looked over her shoulder, moved slowly past her, and stopped by the rail. The women came and stood behind him protectively. Nobody said a word.

Walking toward them, carrying a single carryon, looking fabulous in a lightweight suit and mirrored shades, was Larry Jackson.

The two-man crew appeared at the high steering deck, like guards. Von Joel stepped onto the gangplank and walked to meet Larry. They stopped within handshaking distance. Larry dropped his bag. He took off his shades.

"Hi," Von Joel said, opening his arms. He embraced Larry cautiously. "We did it."

"One thing didn't go to plan, Eddie." Larry's voice was soft and icy calm. "They didn't fire me."

"What!" Von Joel stepped back a fraction.

"I said they didn't fire me."

Larry's right hand moved slowly and deliberately to his inside left jacket pocket.

"You shouldn't have lied to me about your brother. You shouldn't have lied to me. . . ."

Von Joel's eyes darted right and left. His composure disappeared. He stepped back. Larry's hand moved in his pocket, taking a grip. On the harbor road behind Larry, Von Joel saw a police patrol car moving slowly. Larry's hand came out of his pocket. He was holding a huge Havana cigar.

"Gotcha, Eddie! Checkmate!"

They roared with laughter, and Von Joel hugged Larry. Charlotte ran down the gangplank, catching Larry's hand to draw him aboard the yacht. Lola hung back slightly. Larry dropped his bag and he gave her a wonderful smile, opening his arms for her. Like a cat she sprang forward, wrapping her arms and legs around his body.

"We did it," she crooned, and then began to kiss every inch of his face, his cheeks, his eyes, and lastly his lips. As they parted she whispered . . . "Oh, Larry, we did it!"

Larry turned to Von Joel, who was slowly strolling up the gangplank. He wafted his hand to signal the crew to begin to lift anchor, and the chains began their slow, uneasy turn. As he stepped onto the deck, Charlotte called for the gangplank to be drawn up. They were on their way.

Larry was being drawn down into the cabin area by Lola. He never even saw Von Joel deftly remove the gun that had been tucked into the back of his trousers. Ever cautious, he would have, if it had been necessary, killed Larry, just as he had killed the man who had brought him the deposit key all those years ago, a man that Von Joel had trusted, who had suddenly started wanting more than the share they had agreed. He had no idea Von Joel was going to split it fifty-fifty. He had been welcomed on board, had even had a few glasses of champagne with Von Joel before they had strolled up onto the deck, stood looking out over the dark, still waters. Nothing in Von Joel's manner had given the slightest indication of his intentions. When he had unhooked the guard rail, there had been a moment of dread, terror even. They were miles out, but he thought that having the key still on him meant that he was safe. He had been wrong. Von Joel simply kicked his feet from under him, and as he floundered in the water, had stood watching.

"For Christ's sake, Eddie, get me up. I got the fuckin' key. You can't get the money without it . . .
Get me out. ...

I got the key."

Von Joel had turned away, walked to the bow of the boat, and sat, listening to the man thrashing around. He didn't care if he drowned, or if he got the safe-deposit box key back. It wasn't the money that concerned him, it was the fact that he had trusted this man, like a brother, and he had betrayed him.

When the cries subsided, Von Joel put on a rubber suit and aqua lungs and dived in. He found the body, even searched it, but if he had the key on him, it had dropped way down, fathoms down. It was while he was in the water that Von Joel slipped his own wristwatch onto the dead man's wrist, emptied his pockets, and then returned to the boat. The body was washed up two weeks later, but he had never identified it, never visited the morgue. By that time the sharks would have had a good go at the man, hopefully not chewing off his arm, with the wristwatch enscribed to "Eddie Myers with love from his wife Moyra." It had been good night, Eddie, good-bye, Eddie, and Philip Von Joel set out for Marbella. ... He was setting sail again now. He'd have to change his name, keep on the move. He had a few encumbrances, too, now, such as Jackson and the two girls.

He had to bend his head slightly to enter the cabin. The throb of the engines had started. The boat swayed as the water churned and frothed like the champagne Lola already had open. She was filling four glasses to the brim. She passed one to Charlotte, another to Larry, and lifted her own at the same time Von Joel reached for his. Larry was about to say something, a toast perhaps, but Lola tapped his arm. It was a tiny gesture, but an indication that they were not equals, and Larry was onto it fast. He kept his glass lifted, his eyes met and held Von Joel's.

"To us, to the future, no regrets, no betrayals . . ." It was not done with a flourish, a relish even. Von Joel's voice was husky, and solemn. He looked first at Charlotte, then to Lola, and lastly to Larry. Only then did he raise the champagne glass to his lips, only then did he laugh that infectious, wonderful gut laugh that had stayed in the mind of a young, eager police officer, a laugh that the same police officer, now a sergeant, had recognized all those years later. Larry had known instantly that he was right. The man calling himself Philip Von Joel was in actual fact the supposedly dead Edward "Eddie" Myers.