Framed (7 page)

"It's all bloody wrong," Larry muttered.

He heard a sound from somewhere in the villa; it was a woman's voice, crying or laughing, he couldn't tell which. Probably the sexy Lola, going vocal while she gave the Rronzed Rull something to remember her by.

He wandered out to the balcony and saw Summers still splashing away in the pool. He leaned on the parapet, skimming the discontent that cluttered his mind. He wondered how Susan would cope with getting back to England on her own with the boys. He wasn't entirely sure how she felt about the vacation being cut short in the first place, but he could guess. There was bound to be a showdown, but his prospect of a promotion, and the more realistic salary that went with it, might be enough to keep the blood on the walls to a minimum.

Picturing his new status, Larry straightened suddenly, recalling what Falcon had said as he walked away.

Ease up, Larry, we got him, didn't we?

All of a sudden it was
we.
How come?

Where did team effort enter the picture? Who spotted the walking corpse in the first place? Lawrence Jackson, that was who, all on his own, entirely unaided. He was the one who followed Myers, got his dabs and clinched the

ID. It had been his baby, his operation all the way through. So where did collective credit come into it?

He folded his arms tightly, the way he had done as a kid when something got his goat; he clasped his ribs, feeling his aggravation swell. As you got older, he thought, nothing lived up to expectation. Just about every outcome, even the best, carried a letdown in the tail. He pictured himself being elbowed out of the limelight and began to wish he hadn't spotted the speedboat that stinking hot lunchtime. If he had concentrated harder on his book, or even the women lying alongside him, it would all have been different. A miserable, uneventful vacation for the wife and kids would have been a less gut-churning, less heartbreaking option. He turned and ran his eyes around the villa, trying to find consolation, knowing this was the last place to look.

f

Late that afternoon, as they were leaving the villa in the Corniche, Von Joel turned and called back to Lola, telling her to mind the dogs.

"Mind my boys," he cried. "I'll be back."

"I wouldn't bet on it," Larry told him.

Von Joel stared for a moment, his eyes glinting darkly behind his shades. Then he began to laugh. It was real laughter, spontaneous and unforced, resounding and deep. It mystified Larry. And it scared him a little. He took a sidelong glance at Myers. He could smell his aftershave and his eyes traveled down to Myers's fine, strong, tanned hands, relaxed, completely at ease, only the telltale handcuffs giving any indication this man was a captive. He didn't turn back to the villa again, but stared ahead. His dark glasses gave nothing away, his perfect jawline was not rigid, he appeared to be totally relaxed and on top of the situation. In actual fact he was seething, but timing each breath, forcing himself into an outward show of calmness. The fifteen minutes with Lola had not given him enough time, but she was intelligent, she'd get moving, and while with Charlotte to help her they would be some assistance, he knew he was going to need more, a lot more. He had a moment's worry about the dogs, but then ignored it, knowing his housekeeper would take care of them. But he'd miss them, he loved his dogs. He breathed deeper, deeper, and his body felt good, strong, he clenched his buttocks, his thighs, could feel the muscles obey him, then he exhaled slowly, feeling the hard stomach muscles relaxing, contracting ... his hands remained folded on his lap, no indication that his entire body was working, moving, exercising, perfecting the control he took such pleasure in achieving.

f

Lola sobbed, and Charlotte eventually had to get tetchy with her. They had to pack and be ready and waiting, as Philip wanted; they would be on the next flight tomorrow, but Lola could not stop weeping, and eventually Charlotte wrapped her arms around her. "We'll be there for him, we'll be there . . . we have to contact his lawyer, arrange for him to be waiting in London. Lola . . . don't cry, Lola!"

Lola hiccuped and bit her lips, nodding in confirmation. They must do as Philip had instructed. She crossed to the balcony and watched the two dogs below. They wandered around the gates and then sat, their heads craning forward, looking for their master, waiting for him.

"He will be all right, won't he?" Lola whispered.

Charlotte nodded from the balcony window, from which they could see the dogs waiting patiently. "Yes, he'll come back; he's our magic man, Lola, nobody can take Philip away from us. . . ." They seemed so childlike, and in some ways they resembled the two waiting dogs, their eyes looking, pleading, to the high barred gates, willing them to open, willing the past hours to be a nightmare from which they would wake. Without their magic man the villa was deathly quiet, without him they were at a loss; they both loved him, they both needed him, he was the center of their world; he wasn't Eddie Myers, they didn't know him, had never known him, they only knew the man they worshiped, Philip Von Joel, their magician.

f

Myers was taken from the plane to a waiting patrol car, a blanket covering his head, and not until the car was moving out of the airport was the blanket removed. He was handcuffed to a uniformed officer and accompanied by one more driver and a plainclothes detective who had not said one word.

Larry, Falcon, and Co. were somewhat disappointed, as they had to settle all the paperwork at the airport and were trailing behind in a patrol car, the convoy with Myers aboard way ahead. Larry was pissed off; no one had even said one word of congratulations, it was as if they were the three stooges.

Myers remained as silent as the men seated in the car. Ahead was a patrol car, behind another, their blue lights flashing, sirens blasting as they screamed across London. It was raining, it was cold, and the streets and buildings were as gray as he remembered, if not worse. The night was gray, the people they passed were gray, the flashes of brilliantly lit billboards and advertisements gave splashes of color to the grayness. Myers's face was half in shadow, the blue lights gave his dark features an almost eerie quality. The plainclothes detective half turned around, saying quietly that as soon as they reached St. John's Row station he wanted Myers's head covered up. Myers paid no attention, and it gave the officer a moment to take a good look at him. He was unnervingly still, very composed, staring out the window of the fast-moving car.

They reached St. John's Row police station shortly after nine o'clock. A group of Special Branch officers formed a flinty-eyed escort as Myers entered the station handcuffed between two uniformed constables, his head covered with a gray blanket. Larry, DI Falcon, and DC Summers, who had traveled behind in an unmarked patrol car, unpacked their luggage from the trunk and straggled into the station, shivering, looking slightly lost.

Myers was marched to the first floor, where he was fingerprinted and photographed. People from other departments stuck their heads into the room, keen to see the root cause of so much sudden upheaval. Myers conducted himself calmly even though there was haste and a certain amount of roughness attending the procedures. No time was wasted at any stage. It was a major priority to have the prisoner documented, charged, and safely locked up as quickly as possible. More and more people were finding some excuse to pass through, everyone trying to catch a glimpse of the famous Edward Myers. There were a few throwaway remarks, mundane, stupid, fatuous—"That suntan won't last, Eddie!"—but throughout Myers remained aloof and impassive, watching with distaste the black ink rolled over his fingertips. He could see the officer's head shaking as he pressed each print down onto the sheets. He was offered a damp towel to wipe the ink off. He sat staring ahead as the mug shots were taken, right side, left side, full face. The whispering and murmurs continued as he asked if he could take a leak, make his phone call. No one replied and he was asked to stand and move away from the photographer. As he stood he was head and shoulders taller than most of the men ! around him.

The entire area went quiet, and slowly, one by one, everyone turned toward the new arrival. Detective Chief Inspector Jimmy McKinnes walked toward Myers, shadowed by his DI, Frank Shrapnel. They had come to formally charge him, everyone knew it, just as they knew McKinnes had virtually got down on his knees and begged to head the case. Rumors were running like a bushfire. McKinnes had reached retirement age and

should have, as some whispered, been put out to grass a long time ago, haw haw. But he had swung it, due to the fact that he had been in charge of Myers when he skipped custody and would thus be on top of all the previous information Myers had given.

The two detectives stepped forward and confronted the prisoner, Shrapnel a discreet step behind McKinnes. They worked as a team and although the master-servant nature of the relationship was obvious, they did look rather alike. Both were bald; Shrapnel had attempted a cover-up with strands of long side hair plastered across the top of his head. They were near-identical in stature and physique, down to such details as their potbellies and large feet. Both men smoked heavily, cigarettes in McKinnes' case, small cigars for Shrapnel, and their professional style—thrustingly physical, with rhythms of speech to match—suggested an identical permanent urgency, whatever they happened to be doing. In looks McKinnes was the more formidable; he was bearded, with disturbingly mandarinlike features and hard, probing eyes. Shrapnel had a more bland, fat-man's face, which made it easy for him to hide what he was thinking.

They stood staring at Myers.

"Hello, Mac," he said, smiling and nodding to McKinnes, ignoring Shrapnel. "Still got the same raincoat, I see. How have you been keeping?"

"In shape," McKinnes snapped. He jerked his head at the door. "Let's go."

The following morning Larry Jackson was summoned to the Superintendent's office. The interview was swift, too swift for Larry, who was finding himself more and more alert to brush-offs.

"Congratulations!" the Superintendent said brightly, then switched his attention to the papers on his desk. He looked up again, the matter of praise over and done with.

"Okay, Jackson, you've got two weeks' leave. Take it. Make up for your vacation."

Larry wet his lips. "I've got a lot of extra expenses," he said. "There were phone calls and—"

"We know, Sergeant. Just fill out the expense sheets as per norm."

The telephone rang and the Superintendent snatched up the receiver.

"It's not just that," Larry explained. "If Eddie Myers turns informer again ... I mean, I found him, I'd like to see it through. . . ."

"Yes," the Superintendent snapped into the telephone, "I'll be right with you." He put a hand over the mouthpiece and narrowed his eyes at Larry. "I'll keep it in mind," he said.

Larry had no option but to go.

At approximately that moment a slim, hard-jawed man wearing an expensive gray suit and a fawn Burberry was being shown into the gloom of Von Joel's cell. He was Sydney Jefferson, an accomplished and expensive criminal defense lawyer. He waited in silence as an officer closed the door behind him.

Von Joel was stretched out on the hard bunk, one arm across his face.

"How am I doing, Sydney?" he said.

Jefferson hesitated for dramatic effect, flaring his nostrils delicately at the damp odor of the cell. He looked at Von Joel as if he might be something unpleasant to approach.

"You want it straight?" he said. "You are in it up to your armpits." He looked at his watch. "I've got five minutes, so let's keep all this tight. You've a custody hearing in the morning. Normal routine stuff. There's not a ghost of a chance of bail—the charge of absconding from custody last time will hold you." Von Joel eased his legs over the side of the bunk and sat up. He clasped his hands and looked at his lawyer.

"I can't go down, Sydney. There's not a jail in this stinking country I'd survive ten minutes in."

"You can't avoid it," Jefferson said impassively. "The question isn't whether, but for how long."

Von Joel stared at his knuckles, frowning.

"Will they bite on a deal? Did you feel it out?" He looked up again. "What do you think?"