FRAMED

by Lynda La Plante

  “You said in your first statement you can remember the exact spot …““That’s right.” Von Joel nodded. “I was with Minton when he chucked it, wrapped in a sack with a weight to keep it in the drink. It took only a second—he stopped the car, got to the parapet, flung it in.”

  “Do you know who sold Minton the shooter?”

  “I don’t know.” Von Joel rubbed his chin, thinking. “It was definitely the same gun that knocked off that security officer.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Maybe …” He looked at Larry. “Bingham. Yeah, it could have been him.”

  It seemed to Larry a good time to stop. They withdrew to the kitchen, where Von Joel insisted that he make lunch for them both. He prepared rice dishes again, plus an elaborate salad and—the French mustard now being on hand—a spectacular dressing. The heart of the meal was monkfish with steamed fresh vegetables.

  Larry confessed his misgivings. He had never eaten monkfish—in fact he had no clear idea what it was.

  “Monkfish are any of about ten or twelve species of shark,” Von Joel told him. “They all form the one group with the Latin name Squatina. The one we’re having today, which tastes like very superior scampi, is a Mediterranean variety called Squatina squatina—angel shark.”

  Larry tasted a piece. It was delicious.

  “That’s something else I’ve found out I like,” he said.

  Von Joel winked. “Wait till you taste my calamari.”

  As they sat down to eat Larry asked if Von Joel’s wife had taught him to cook. The question appeared to amuse him, but apart from saying no, he had nothing further to offer on the subject. As before, he moved nimbly on to something else. He put two small capsules on the table in front of Larry. They were B vitamins, he explained.

  “Take them tomorrow before warm-up. Keeps your blood in good condition. Food okay?”

  DI Shrapnel put his head around the door.

  “They picked up Minton,” he reported brightly. “Bastard was hidden in his cellar all the time. He said he was doing some home improvements!”

  Larry watched Von Joel. For a moment he registered sadness, perhaps remorse; he recovered quickly and carried on eating.

  A few minutes later, as they were finishing the meal, Von Joel said, “I hope McKinnes’s security’s tight. Minton’s got a lot of friends.”

  “Scares you, does he?”

  “It’s not me I’m worried about, Larry.” Von Joel chewed in silence for a moment. “You’ve got a wife and kids.”

  Larry stared at him, his appetite dying.

  Later that afternoon DCI McKinnes paused to watch a small procession of uniformed officers lead three handcuffed men along a corridor outside the incident room at St. John’s Row station. As he stood there DI Falcon appeared at his side. They waited until the prisoners passed, then walked together down the corridor.

  “Did you get the message?” Falcon asked. From McKinnes’s expression it was obvious he hadn’t. “Eddie Myers’s ex-wife, she got a call, doesn’t know who it was from, but the caller asked if she knew where Eddie was. No name, like I say, but she freaked. So. Her husband contacted the local police, who contacted us. I went along to see her this morning. She was hysterical, howling her eyes out. I’m running a check on her husband, he looks a tough bugger. …”

  A moment before Falcon had finished speaking, George Minton was led out of an interview room at the end of the corridor. He glared at McKinnes.

  “I’ll be out!” he shouted. “You’ve got nothing, McKinnes!”

  The DCI studied the toes of his shoes.

  “Hear me, you bastard? You tried this six years ago… .”

  McKinnes turned away and practically bumped into DC Summers. “Guv …” Summers paused to swallow. He always seemed to be in a hurry. “We got this Rodney Bingham coming in, and he’s with his solicitor.”

  “So?”

  “It’s bloody Jefferson—Eddie Myers’s man.”

  “What?” McKinnes blinked.

  “Straight up.”

  “I don’t believe it!” McKinnes turned toward the incident room, then turned back to Summers. “Get Jefferson in to see me! Now! Jesus Christ! What the hell does he think he’s playing at?” He caught DI Falcon by the arm. “You didn’t say anything to Myers’s wife about the stiff in Italy?”

  Falcon shook his head.

  “Good. Now check out her husband, and get a local to keep an eye on them. I think the ruddy cat’s out of the bag.”

  That night, sprawled at one side of the mattress on the floor in Von Joel’s room, Larry stared at the chess board lying between them and wondered if there was anything the man opposite him did not know, or at least didn’t have an opinion about.

  “Checkmate,” Von Joel said, capturing Larry’s king with a soft click. He looked up, smiling. “Think you’re getting the hang of it?”

  Larry nodded. Spending time with Von Joel had to be a better move than joining the Open University. Earlier, while he was preparing dinner—tonight it had been carrots in orange and brandy sauce, with bowls of spiced rice on the side and a chicory and watercress salad with a pink peppercorn mustard sauce—he had explained the scientific basis of his diet.

  “There are two main constituents in our food, Larry— proteins and carbohydrates. Proteins are essential constituents of your body; they make up the building blocks of muscles, tissues, and organs. Carbohydrates are the sugars and starches, the sources of energy. Now, we need both protein and carbohydrates in order to survive, no doubt about that, but the body digests and distributes them best if they aren’t mixed when we eat them. So, the rule is, never have proteins and carbohydrates at the same meal. The system likes to deal with them separately and it’s no trouble to make sure it does. You just have to be organized.”

  He dictated a list of dos and don’ts, which Larry scribbled down on the cover of one of his official notebooks.

  “Try to eat only one kind of protein or carbohydrate at each meal—fish, meat, eggs, or cheese for the protein, and bread, rice, pasta, or potatoes for the carbohydrate. Always buy food in season, it’ll be fresher and cheaper. You should eat a little salad of raw vegetables before every meal—that’s important for a lot of reasons; I’ll tell you about something called free radicals another time. Oh, and when you’re putting together your salad, try to pick two or more vegetables that have grown below the ground and combine them with the same number that have grown above the ground. What else? Oh, yes—when you’re cooking vegetables they should be steamed in their own juices with as little added water as possible. The exceptions are cauliflower and asparagus.”

  All that, plus sparkling conversation over the meal, and then this. Chess. Until now, Larry had managed to go through life without knowing the game. Apart from being able to identify the pieces by name he had never felt inclined to learn anything else, feeling it was inappropriate for the likes of him to get into a game that had such highbrow associations.

  He looked at the board now and smiled. In the space of two hours it had come to mean something. It was no longer an opaque code. With a minimum of concentration on his part, the arrangement of pieces translated itself into the lines of a strategy; the avenues of attack and defense, devious and tricky, were nevertheless apparent, they could be visualized. Already, the richness and density of the game were suggesting themselves to him.

  “That was a straightforward little exercise,” Von Joel said, replacing the pieces on the board. “Just something to

  get you started. Now then”—he rubbed his hands—“how about a swift Q and A session on the moves, then we’ll call it a night, huh?”

  Larry nodded. “Fire away.” He was enjoying himself.

  “Right. Tell me about the king.”

  “Ah …” Larry scratched his nose, staring at the board. “The king moves in any direction, one square at a time.”

  “The rook?”

  “He can move all the way across the board, as long as there’s nothing in his way. He has to do it in stra
ight lines.”

  “He moves on the rank and file. Correct. What about the bishop?”

  “He’s a long-range mover, too, but he does it diagonally.”

  “And the queen?”

  “A combination of the rook and bishop—she can move on any open line.”

  “One more. The knight.”

  “Let me get it right, now. …” Larry stared at the board again. “His move is a kind of L-shaped affair covering two squares at a time, one straight, one diagonal. He can jump over any black or white piece that’s in either of those squares, and if the piece is an enemy he can capture it.”

  “You catch on fast.” Von Joel put his hands behind his head and lay back on his cushion. “By the time I’ve finished with you, you’ll be able to teach your wife to play.”

  “I don’t think she’d fancy it.”

  Larry glanced sidelong at Von Joel, tempted to bring up the subject of his wife again, just as he kept making glancing references to Susan.

  “Did you teach your wife to play?”

  “Nah.” Von Joel stared at the ceiling. “We never got near enough to being emotionally or intellectually matched, if you get my drift.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I got married when I was eighteen. It was over after a few weeks; it was a mistake. She was a good girl, but”— Von Joel shrugged—“a night out for her was a trip to a home furnishings shop.” He shifted his head on the cushion and switched his gaze to the wall. “I was the end of her growth. She was satisfied with being married, didn’t want anything else except fixtures and fittings. I could never understand how she could look at one of those crap women’s magazines, and her voice would grate, ‘This is nice, Eddie.’ ” He held up his hand, forefinger and thumb an inch apart. “Her sphere was this big.”

  “She stood by you,” Larry pointed out.

  “So did my Labrador. She’s better off never seeing me. I hurt her enough.”

  He jumped up suddenly, crossed to the wardrobe, and swung open the door.

  “Feel this,” he said, bringing out a beautifully cut jacket. Larry came across, fingered the fabric gently. “That’s pure cashmere,” Von Joel said. “Two thousand quid. My wife would have had heart failure just running her hand down the sleeve.”

  “How much did those shirts set you back?”

  “Well, Maestro Fabriani made-to-measure linen shirts can go up to a few hundred each.” Von Joel snatched up a pale blue one. “Try this!”

  Larry shook his head, embarrassed by the generosity. He stared into the wardrobe, slightly appalled that one man could spend so much money on clothes. “Any time you want, Larry, just try something on.” Von Joel went back to the mattress and sat down. “I love women, Larry.” He smiled broadly, opening the fresh topic without preamble. “Young, fresh-skinned, tight-arsed women. Their lean limbs, that special shine on their hair—and the teeth, white perfect teeth. Their smell, Larry, nothing is as sweet … nothing compares with the beauty of a female body. The curves, that wonderful sweep from hip to thigh … Aaah! What am I doing to myself?” He clamped his hands over his eyes in comic agony, but underneath he was watching Larry. “Tell me about your wife, Susan …” He began to sing, “Oh, Susanne, won’t you tell me …”

  Larry turned from the wardrobe abruptly, checking his watch.

  “It’s late,” he said, and went to the door. “See you in the morning.”

  “Sweet dreams,” Von Joel said, laughing softly.

  As the door closed he got to his feet. He stood with his hands on his hips, face taut with concentration. Crossing to a calendar hanging on the wall he flipped through the leaves, studying the dates. All the days up to the present had been crossed off. As he stared his eyes became distant. His mouth tightened to a grim line. Anyone seeing him would have said he looked uncommonly tense, even dangerous.

  11

  On Friday morning the document traffic in the incident room hit a level that threatened to overwhelm every effort at containment. A flurry of case papers, generated by arrests based on Von Joel’s evidence, collided with a corresponding increase in the movement of information, most of it computer activity centered on the criminal record banks. New and updated information was input as fast as old data were retrieved; stepped-up surveillance of suspects produced an intake of queries and status reports that threatened to block the telephone and fax lines.

  DI Frank Shrapnel could not reach DCI McKinnes by telephone, so at ten-thirty he came up and delivered a summary of the progress report he would be presenting later in writing. McKinnes liked to do things that way, in case preediting was necessary. The meeting was conducted at the center of the pandemonium in the incident room. In view of the pressure on the Chief’s time Shrapnel kept his remarks brief, and ended on a welfare note.“I’m not putting it in the record, Guv, it’s just a suggestion—give Jackson the weekend off. Let him step aside for a breather. Not that anything’s up, you understand. He’s pretty fresh, they’re getting very pally, but that could be a problem if there’s no break. He’s doing the job every day, just the two of them down there head-to-head. Then they eat together, talk for hours every night—they’re hardly ever out of each other’s sight. It’s just an observation, Guv, it’s very claustrophobic down there—”

  “He should try it up here!” McKinnes waved his arm at the frenetic activity going on around them. “You hear about that dickhead Jefferson defending Bingham? We had nothing on the geezer, we had to pull him in on nonpayment of parking tickets! Jefferson looked a bit green around the gills. He’s as bent as hell, but he knows if he mouths off about Myers we’re all going to be in trouble. I’m pushing the dates forward to get Myers out to show us the location of the shooter, just in case.”

  McKinnes snatched a fax that was being pushed at him. He read it, his face turning red.

  “Shit!” He turned to Shrapnel. “Minton’s been released! Can you frigging believe it? Fifty grand bail!”

  A dark thought occurred to Shrapnel.

  “Have we got a good bloke on Jackson’s place?” he asked.

  Before McKinnes could reply the Superintendent appeared before them. He looked delicately pained.

  “I’ve just been told about the Bingham situation. It stinks. Represented by Jefferson, indeed …”

  “Not anymore,” McKinnes said. “Jefferson’s backed off, said he didn’t know it had anything to do with Myers. Jefferson’s an oily bastard, but he knows to keep his mouth shut.”

  “So how’s Jackson working out?” the Superintendent said. “He give us anything new?”

  “So far so good,” McKinnes said. “We got a lot in from last night. It’s all tallying up.” He waved the fax he had just read. “This is bad news about Minton, Guv. Nothing on that cash we found? It’s got to be hot.”

  “Nothing,” the Superintendent said.

  “Can’t we hold him on not declaring income, then? He said it’s his tax money. Twenty-five grand? Do me a favor.”

  The Superintendent, looking even more pained now, had picked up a clipped bundle of fax sheets and was flipping through them. He looked up sharply at McKinnes.

  “We better get onto that shooter fast, Jimmy. We need to nail him this time. He’s got very strong alibis and last time they held up.”

  DC Frisby appeared as the telephone rang. The Superintendent picked it up. Frisby handed McKinnes a sheet of paper, explaining that British Telecom had been asked to give details of all calls going out from Minton’s home.

  “I thought you’d better have a look, Guv,” Frisby said. “Second call down.”

  “Jimmy …” The Superintendent covered the telephone mouthpiece. “Good news. Bill Richards, Brian Tyler, and Henry Vosper have admitted their part in the Heathrow robbery… .”

  McKinnes looked up from the BT report, his eyes wide.

  “Minton’s been calling his pals in Marbella.” He showed the Super the sheet of paper. “These calls go back to just after we brought Myers over.” He stared at the paper again. “Minto
n must have been tipped off we got Myers.”

  “Put an extra man on Jackson’s home,” the Superintendent snapped. “And do it now.”

  “I’ll let Jackson off for the weekend,” McKinnes said.

  DC Frisby, a known opportunist, was all ears. On his single visit to the Jackson house he had managed to ease himself on to chummy terms with Susan. The chance of a second visit was not something he would pass up.

  “Can I do anything, Guv?” he said, his face creased with concern. “He’s got two kids—

  “I know!” McKinnes shouted. “You think I don’t know?”

  f

  Susan was creaming her face at the dressing-table mirror when she heard the front door bang. She froze, listening, her hands held in front of her, fingers up, like a surgeon at the operating table. The bedroom door opened suddenly and she jumped.

  “Hi!” Larry said brightly.

  “My God …” Susan almost put a hand over her heart, then remembered the cream on her hands. “Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?”

  “I didn’t know myself. The Guv’nor just said I could take home my dirty washing.”

  “Oh, he did, did he?” Susan stood up. “How long are you here for?”

  “I go back Sunday night.” Larry dumped his bag at the foot of the bed. He opened his arms. “Come here …” Susan stepped close and he wrapped his arms around her. “Missed me?”

  “What do you think?”

  They kissed, moving toward the bed. Larry noticed two women’s magazines open on the duvet; memory produced a jarring note. He closed his eyes, kissing Susan harder, pressing her down onto the bed. After a moment she disentangled herself.