FRAMED

by Lynda La Plante

  “A lot of blokes in the frame,” he said reflectively, “would like to cut Eddie Myers’s balls off, never mind slitting his throat.” He nodded at the back seat. “Get in. We’ve got a sealed court.” DI Shrapnel appeared. “You met Frank,” McKinnes said offhandedly to Larry. He turned to Shrapnel. “Let’s go.”

  Shrapnel had ignored Larry. He walked around to the driver’s seat and got in, starting the engine as McKinnes eased into the front seat. Larry noticed a second patrol car lined up at the rear. Without any apparent signal the convoy suddenly moved off, fast, the unmarked Granada in front, patrol car at the rear, and the holding wagon sandwiched between them, all sirens blasting.

  As they rounded the corner onto the main road McKinnes turned to Larry.

  “Sergeant, about the floater in Italy … we only got the frigging ashes, his wife had him—or whoever the poor bastard was—cremated, so it’ll be circumstantial evidence. We need more.”

  “If he didn’t bump the guy off,” Larry offered, “he’ll sure as hell know who did.”

  “That doesn’t concern us right now, son. Believe me, I want Eddie Myers stitched up.”

  Larry thought this might be a good time to ask the question uppermost in his mind.

  “Why have you brought me in?”

  Shrapnel shot McKinnes a bored look.

  “I want him kept sweet,” McKinnes said. “And I want him to keep spewing up what he’s got. He asked for you personally, Larry boy.”

  “What does that mean?” Larry asked, baffled.

  “He wants you to sit and hold his hand,” Shrapnel grunted, exchanging looks with McKinnes again.

  The profound truth dawned sharply on Larry. He was on the case. Jesus. He was really on it! He sat back in his seat, feeling a smile spread.

  In the front Shrapnel began to laugh. McKinnes controlled himself briefly, then he grinned, and after a second he began to laugh too.

  Larry felt his smile fade, wondering what they knew that he didn’t.

  f

  An hour in the sealed court was like four anywhere else. By eleven forty-five Larry was having trouble staying alert. He preferred courts full of people, plenty of faces to dwell on. Variety kept him attentive.

  This gathering had the atmosphere of a funeral for somebody who had died friendless, with only a handful of acquaintances grudgingly mourning him. Four uniformed officers guarded the door; Von Joel, handcuffed, was on the podium with his head bowed. His lawyer, Sydney Jefferson, sat in the front pew. Larry and DI Shrapnel were on a bench at the side.

  The magistrate, an attractive middle-aged woman with steady eyes and a no-nonsense mouth, sat with her head resting on her hands, a large file open in front of her. She turned the pages slowly, listening carefully to McKinnes, who was standing to her left with a copy of the same file.

  “As you can see, ma’am,” he said in his gravest courtroom voice, “pages ten, eleven, and up to page fourteen give details of the fifth offense. This was a particularly violent robbery, and Constable Walter Cronk was shot at point-blank range. To date we have been unable to produce the evidence to enable us to arrest the five suspects named at the top of page fifteen. These suspects have all been questioned over a number of years in connection with the said offense. Edward Myers has supplied us with a detailed route and layout of the robbery, plus the names of four fences used to distribute the money, and he has admitted to being a party to laundering the said moneys.”

  The magistrate looked up.

  “Did Myers also benefit from the proceeds of the named robbery?” “Yes, ma’am, he did, and we have access to his private accounts. His lawyer has produced bank statements and details of all financial transactions over a period of five years, proving without doubt that Myers was, even though on the run, very active in laundering moneys from illegal sources.”

  McKinnes paused to clear his throat.

  “If I may draw your attention to the next page …”

  “The Highfield armed robbery,” the magistrate said, making a note. “Continue.”

  The officers by the door were wilting but trying gamely not to show it. Sydney Jefferson, on the other hand, had been vigilant throughout, making notes as the various pieces of evidence were discussed. Frank Shrapnel, too, had made a lot of notes. Von Joel, standing with his eyes fixed on the floor, might well have been in a trance.

  “This man, the suspect numbered thirteen on your list,” McKinnes said, “disposed of the shotgun used in the robbery. Myers has been very cooperative and is willing to take us to the location. Page sixteen gives details of the bullion raid at Gatwick Airport, June 1987. There are three named suspects. None have been interrogated as a result of the continuing investigation, but they will now be brought in for questioning.”

  Larry found himself staring at Von Joel, fascinated by his air of detached calm, the way he managed to look as if he wasn t really part of the proceedings. As Larry stared, Von Joel turned his head slowly. Their eyes met and Von Joel smiled. Larry looked away sharply.

  “The men named by Myers,” McKinnes went on, “have no previous criminal connections, or associations with any of the afore-listed suspects. None have police records and they appear on the surface to be honest, hard-working citizens. The information divulged by Edward Myers is therefore deemed to be of great importance.”

  During the lunch break Larry found himself in the toilet at the same time as DI Shrapnel. As Larry washed his hands he glanced at the Inspector.

  “So what’s next?”

  “Jefferson will have his say,” Shrapnel muttered, stepping away from the stall. “Then we wait for the outcome. In the old days none of this was bloody necessary, as you know. We could make the deal and get on with it.” He went to the mirror and combed his sparse hair. “Now everything’s in favor of the criminals. The deal’s on record, so he’s protected.”

  “No mention of the murder,” Larry said, running his hands through his hair. “Doesn’t that come into this?”

  “A few flash bastards made promises,” Shrapnel said, as if he hadn’t heard. “When they couldn’t keep them the grasses started screeching, withdrew statements, et cetera, et cetera. Now we have to go through this farce, we’ve got to have him segregated, keep him sweet… .”

  “What’s he after? I mean, he absconded, he’s going to have to do time, isn’t he?”

  “Let’s find out,” Shrapnel said, pulling open the door.

  It took Sydney Jefferson an hour to reach the stage where he could draw together the points of his client’s case and submit them to the magistrate in something resembling a summary. The fatigue in the courtroom had become almost tangible. Von Joel sat in the dock looking tired and drawn. McKinnes drooped in the front bench with his elbows on his knees; Shrapnel and Larry Jackson were behind him, Shrapnel alternately yawning and sighing.

  “The information my client has produced is, and I quote, ‘of great importance.’ ” Jefferson paused to let the small drama of the point register. “At the same time it would, if it were to be discovered, place my client at great personal risk. He has been totally cooperative, agreeing to return to England from Spain voluntarily.”

  “Mr. Jefferson,” the magistrate said, “your client absconded from custody five years ago. He was at that time acting as an informer and had spent sixteen months in police custody. His continued presence was of great importance, and subsequent to his escape from custody, charges against eight of the men now named yet again by your client were dismissed.”

  “That is correct, ma’am.” Jefferson glanced at Von Joel, who was now leaning forward in the dock, listening intently. “I assure you my client has every intention of becoming a Crown prosecution witness again, and as his information shows, he will be a worthwhile witness. I ask for this to be taken into consideration at the trial of my client, as his principal motivation for divulging this information is to receive a reduced sentence. May I suggest—”

  “I suggest,” the magistrate cut in, “that your client shoul
d have considered this when, at great cost to the government, he absconded from police custody.” She sat back in her high-backed chair and looked toward the dock. “Would the defendant please rise.”

  Von Joel got up smartly, standing with his arms as straight as he could manage, his face devoid of expression. The magistrate stared at him for a second before she spoke.

  “You have stated that you are prepared to give evidence against former colleagues in crime and to assist the police with their inquiries. Have you come to this decision of your own free will, without compulsion?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Von Joel said, “I have.”

  McKinnes was sitting up now, watching the magistrate’s mouth as if it might leak a preview of what she would say next. Behind him Shrapnel and Larry stared, too, scarcely breathing.

  “I am fully aware,” the magistrate continued, “that your principal motivation for giving evidence against your erstwhile colleagues will be the hope of a reduction in the sentence you are liable to receive.”

  Von Joel nodded, the tip of his tongue flicking between his lips.

  “However, I am not, at this stage, prepared to indicate any reduction of sentence.”

  Von Joel’s face stiffened and he took a fractional, involuntary step back in the dock.

  “Nevertheless,” the magistrate went on, “your continued assistance will be recorded and I agree to you being held in conditions of secrecy. This will enable you to continue assisting inquiries, until it is determined what action and charges will be brought against you. Take him down.”

  7

  Back at St. John’s Row station that evening Larry was given a bundle of heavy files and told that he was being assigned to duty as an interrogating officer. Carrying the files and his overnight bag, he was led by DCI McKinnes deep into the security holding area at St. John’s Row, deeper than he had ever been before, down spiral stairs and along passages lined with numbered cells.

  At the bottom of the final staircase they reached an entrance which was, McKinnes explained, the door of the safe house where Von Joel was being held. He pressed a button by the door. There was an answering buzz from the intercom. He leaned close and spoke into it.

  “DCI McKinnes and Detective Sergeant Lawrence Jackson.”

  The door swung open. DI Shrapnel stood there, nodding with a proprietory air. He stepped aside as they went in and closed the door behind them.

  “How did he take it?” McKinnes asked.

  “Moody,” Shrapnel said. “Calling the magistrate a hard-nosed bitch and so forth. He’ll play ball, though. He knows a reduced sentence is in the cards, so he’s just going to have to behave himself.”

  McKinnes turned to Larry. “You’ve got a lot of reading to catch up on, son.” He tapped the bundle under Larry’s arm. “Familiarize yourself with all these old files.”

  They moved along the passage to a small room equipped for sound surveillance. Larry put down the files and looked around.

  “Here’s the radio controls,” McKinnes said, “and the tape recorders. We do it in shifts, come and go without aggro, you won’t know we’re here.”

  “Where is he?” Larry asked.

  “Unpacking,” McKinnes said. “You live together, eat with the guy, and you get to know him better than your own bleeding mother.” McKinnes grinned, poking Larry in the chest. “End of it, you’ll never want to see him again or hear his name mentioned, because that bastard doesn’t move out of here day or night—nor do you!”

  The three of them proceeded on a tour of the house.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” Shrapnel said when they got to the kitchen. “He’s made out a list, says he eats proteins and carbohydrates only, never together. He wants wild rice—what the hell is wild rice? I mean, I know brown rice—”

  “Get him what he wants,” McKinnes grunted. “What the bastard eats isn’t my concern.”

  “But we’ve got a freezerful of food! It’s all been costed and ordered. I mean, fresh fishl Who’s going to schlepp out for that?”

  “Discuss it with the Super, right?” McKinnes went to the door, beckoning Larry. “Come on.”

  Shrapnel stayed where he was, examining Von Joel’s list.

  “Peppers, zucchini, carrots. No red meats. No frozen foods. Who does he think he is?” “Always remember,” McKinnes told Larry, leading him into the sitting room, “when you start a session, make sure you give the exact time—a.m., p.m., and the date… .”

  The sitting room was spacious and well furnished, the kind of room that invited relaxation; the only rather eerie element was the absence of windows.

  “Always give names of officers on duty,” McKinnes continued, crossing the room to the opposite door, “but watch everything you say because it’s being fed back to base. When this switch is on”—he pointed to a discreet unit on the table—“it’ll pick up at quite a radius. Fart in the bathroom and we hear it.” He turned, rubbing his hands. “Okay, let’s go to the sleeping quarters.”

  He led Larry along a gray passageway, pushing open various doors and letting them go as he passed.

  “This is where you’ll be bunking… . Bathroom there … toilet …”

  He stopped before a closed door and pushed it slowly open. Gucci luggage was stacked against the wall.

  “The guest is here. Let’s hope for your sake he doesn’t snore.”

  Von Joel appeared in the doorway wearing slacks and a cashmere sweater. He reached for a suitcase.

  “Got any decent hangers?” he said. “Wooden ones?”

  “There’s a gym next door,” McKinnes said, ignoring him, leading Larry away.

  Shrapnel caught up with them as they were surveying the layout of rowing machines, weights, and cycling equipment. He was still studying Von Joel’s list.

  “You ever heard of something called yannis? He doesn’t drink straight tea, only herbal, and whatever this yannis is, it’s a coffee replacement. I’ve never heard of it. Oh, yeah, that’s another thing—he never takes any sugar, just honey.”

  McKinnes turned on Shrapnel.

  “Don’t give me any more aggro! Give him what we’ve got, if he doesn’t like it he can starve for all I care.” He jerked his head at Larry again. “Come on.”

  As they walked back along the passage soft classical music began to play from behind Von Joel’s bedroom door.

  “He’s got two dozen tapes and a bloody color TV in there,” McKinnes growled. “Getting like a five-star hotel, this place.”

  “How long will I be here?” Larry asked. “Only I’ve not brought much gear—”

  “If there’s anything you need,” McKinnes said, “radio it through and one of my lads will go over to your place.”

  “Days or weeks?” Larry persisted. “What?”

  “As long as it takes,” McKinnes told him. He looked at Shrapnel. “How long was it last time?”

  “Eighteen months.”

  Larry swallowed hard. He watched McKinnes and Shrapnel exchange snide, humorless smiles, then McKinnes turned, his smile widening as he patted Larry’s arm.

  “He’s all yours, Jackson.”

  f

  As Larry was settling in at the safe house, a colleague of his, Detective Constable Colin Frisby, was calling on Susan at home. Acting on instructions from DCI McKinnes, Frisby explained that Larry was on special duty which might keep him away from home for a considerable time. Frisby, noted for his style and track record with the ladies, put the news across as soothingly and appealingly as he could. But Susan was not placated.

  “I don’t believe this,” she said, handing Frisby a cup of tea. “I mean, he’s not even called me.”

  “He will, but it’ll maybe be a few days. If you need him in an emergency”—Frisby fished out a card and handed it to Susan—“this is my direct line. Just call me there and I’ll contact him straightaway.”

  Susan flounced to the stove, absently dropping the card on the counter. “It’s all so bloody secretive,” she said. “I know what it
’s about, you know. I know it’s to do with this Eddie Myers, or Philip Von Joel or whatever he calls himself… .”

  Frisby adopted his concerned frown, a slight tightening of the mouth, a gathering of the eyebrows, and a tilt of the head that inflated his charm, he believed, by giving him an air of mature responsibility.

  “Mrs. Jackson, don’t mention this to anyone. I mean, anyone, not even close family. For the safety of yourself, your kids—I mean it.”

  Susan sighed and peered into a pan on the stove.

  “I’ve made some stew, if you’re hungry.”

  “Stew sounds good to me,” Frisby said. “I’m starving. Didn’t get any lunch.”

  Susan turned up the heat under the pan.

  “If you want to point me in the direction of the knives and forks,” Frisby offered, “I’ll set the table for you.”

  “All part of the service, is it?” Susan pointed. “Second drawer on the right. I’ll go and call the kids in.”

  As she went out into the hallway Frisby turned to the drawers and opened the wrong one. Instead of cutlery he saw a stack of bills. On top was the itemized account for the car rental in Marbella. He sifted quickly through the

  stack, reading fast, getting the picture.

  f

  By nine-thirty Larry had changed into his striped pajamas and was washing his underpants in the sink in the bathroom. Arranged on the shelf before him were Von Joel’s shaving equipment and his toiletries. Larry had never realized that one person—not even a woman—would find a use for so many preparations. There were aftershave lotions, moisturizers, night cream, antiwrinkle cream, hair gel, hair spray, and a variety of shampoos and conditioners all in expensive-looking jars and bottles. Alongside were chunky bars of soap, bath oils, a pair of loofahs, and folded thick facecloths.

  When he had rinsed through his underpants and wrung them out, he opened a few of the bottles, sniffed and even tried one or two on the back of his hand. It was only when he realized that certain smells would be likely to linger that he stopped and scrubbed his hands.