Von Joel sighed. He guessed Larry would never check out the new information about Mickey. He’d made it up on the spur of the moment anyway, but all he hoped for was that Jackson would trust him again. He had to get his trust back. It was imperative. The little prick was far too cocky … unless … did he know something that Von Joel didn’t? Trapped, cut off from any contact with the outside world, he felt the walls stifling him. He paced the squalid room like an animal. If Jackson had seen him, if any of them watching the safe house had seen him, they’d have been wary. The eyes were hard, his mouth clenched tight. He looked more dangerous, much more openly dangerous than he had ever allowed any one of them to see… . Time was running out.
f
Next day, at the behest of DCI McKinnes, Larry joined him for lunchtime drinks at a pub in the Chalk Farm district. It was a place with a friendly feel, the kind of bar that was difficult to leave after a couple of pints. To enhance matters the Chief was in expansive mood, treating Larry like a favorite, candidly filling him in on the interdepartmental gossip and feeding him background on current events, finally getting around to the topic of the life and crimes of Eddie Myers, alias Philip Von Joel. When they finished their first drink Larry tried to order another round, but McKinnes insisted it was his.
‘Two more pints, love …” He nudged Larry and pointed to a bunch of flowers and a box of chocolates on the bar beside him. “Don’t let me forget them, they’re for the wife’s birthday.”
He leaned back on his stool, easing out a fiver without taking his wallet from his pocket. When the fresh drinks came he paid for them, told the barmaid to have one herself, and turned to Larry again, picking up the narrative where he had left it.
“Have you any idea what Myers’s escape did to my career? Eh?”
He paused to have a coughing fit and stubbed out the half inch of cigarette that had brought on the attack. He drank down almost half a pint of beer and dabbed at his eyes with his handkerchief.
“They don’t pin it up on the notice board: DCI McKinnes is a schmuck. You just stay out in the cold, till the powers that be reckon you paid your dues.”
He stopped again, took out his cigarettes and lit one. He puffed thoughtfully, enveloping Larry in smoke.
“I paid mine,” he said, “and now I’m going out in the proverbial blaze of glory. We’re going to be set up for the trial way ahead of schedule.” He drank more beer, wiped his mouth. “Now it’s phase two. Myers thinks he’s done us proud—and he has, I admit that. But he also thinks he’s got away with murder. Like he got away with more than a million. It’s stashed somewhere, and nobody knows where it is, right? Right?”
“Right,” Larry murmured.
“Wrong. Eddie knows. See, he’s put a lot of men in the frame, they’ll all go down, and now we’ve clobbered Min-ton, he might even get less of a sentence—you with me? He won’t even need to frigging abscond. He’ll walk. Straight to his stash. Now, you found him, you’d better reel him in. Quick.”
So that’s what it’s all about, Larry thought. A pep talk. A soft-edged warning that he was expected to work even harder from here on in. Well, that was no skin off Larry’s nose—he enjoyed hard work if it got him somewhere. He gulped his beer, feeling he should contribute something to the meeting.
“He said there was a nurse, Guv, one of the staff nurses, that he’d been screwing.”
McKinnes erupted with sudden and harsh laughter. Larry nearly jumped.
“The bastard,” McKinnes said, when he was able to speak. He wiped his face. “Is that the truth? He was shafting one of the nurses?”
“That’s what he told me.”
McKinnes shook his head, muttering something, then picked up his glass and swallowed the remainder of his beer. He got off his stool and snatched up the flowers.
“So,” he said, wagging a finger at Larry. “Phase two— and this is your job—get to his hidden stash.” He winked. “I want to strip him down to the knuckles.”
McKinnes was chuckling as he walked out of the pub. Larry gulped down his pint and hurried to the door, then came scurrying back for the box of chocolates. He ran outside with it. McKinnes was nowhere in sight.
In another part of London, at the heart of Covent Garden, DC Frisby was presenting himself at the booking office of the Royal Opera House. He flashed his ID at the clerk and explained that he was trying to get details of a recent ticket purchase.
“I phoned earlier. The girl I spoke to said she would look up the booking for the particular night.”
“Oh, yes …” The clerk was looking at a sheet in front of him. “Three seats on the night of September 28th, yes?”
“Right.” Frisby nodded. “I want to know if they were paid for by check or—”
“Credit card,” the clerk said. “Mr. Philip Von Joel.”
Frisby stared. “Are you sure about that?”
“Yes.” The clerk passed over the sheet. “They were row E, 22, 23, and 24. Mr. Von Joel asked for a box, and the reason I’m certain of the booking is because we were to call the Hyde Park Hotel if a box became available.”
“Thank you very much,” Frisby said, turning away, his
head buzzing with the implications.
f
That evening Larry and Von Joel had another game of chess. Von Joel was full of constructive aggression, playing strongly, at the same time encouraging Larry to try harder and take every opportunity that showed itself. As the game approached its close Larry nearly made a disastrous move and Von Joel jumped on him.
“No, Larry! Your rook, he’s supposed to act as a wall, to prevent my lone king moving out to the center of the board. Bring your king up. If you want to beat me, get your king to face mine, check it with your rook, you’ll force me back… .” He watched Larry make the revised move. “That’s it.” Von Joel moved his king. “Good. Keep pushing me back to the edge of the board. Good. Now it’s … what?”
Larry turned aside and began thumbing through his Beginner’s Chess book.
“It’s checkmate, you don’t need the book.” Von Joel tapped his forehead. “Think. The defender has two ways of delaying. You can’t avoid the mate, you attack with the rook.” He sighed. “Look up ‘Waiting Moves.’ “
Larry frowned, studying the book, cross-checking the information with the layout on the board.
“It’s cash,” Von Joel said, almost whispering. “Nearly one million, give or take a few grand, split it fifty-fifty.”
Larry stopped thumbing the book. He felt sweat break out on his face. This was informal, no tape was running.
“Larry, you and my little girl were this close to it.” Von Joel held up his finger and thumb, a fraction of an inch apart. “This close.”
They stared at each other. Von Joel looked down at the board again.
“The enemy king will return opposite your king. I’m defending, so force my hand. I’m making the attacker’s job easy.” Von Joel’s voice went low again. “Sitting there,” he said, “but we can’t get to it.”
“We?” Larry asked, trying to sound nonchalant. “You mean you and Lola?”
“No, I mean you, Larry, me and you.”
Larry stayed cool. He put his book aside, stared at the board, then reached forward and made his move. Checkmate.
“Good,” Von Joel said. He looked up. “You’re learning fast.”
Larry smiled, pleased with himself, in a nervous kind of way.
f
Late that night Susan Jackson stood in her sons’ bedroom, making sure they were asleep. When she left she closed their door soundlessly and tiptoed along the landing to her own bedroom. She slipped inside, closed the door, and put a stool in front of it. She turned to Colin Frisby, who was already under the bedclothes.
“There’s no lock,” she whispered. “I don’t want them waking up and walking in.”
“They didn’t see me come back,” Frisby said, by way of reassuring her. He lifted the side of the covers and leered, although he believed it was a grin
. “It’s nice and warm.”
Susan dithered at the side of the bed. “I’ve never done this before.”
“Nor have I,” Frisby said. “Not with you, anyway.”
“Oh, thanks.” Susan sat on the edge. “You go to bed with all the people you’re supposed to be watching, do you?”
“No way. Some of them are blokes.”
They both smiled awkwardly. Frisby held out his hand. Susan took it.
“It’s not too late to change your mind,” he told her, kissing her hand. “I don’t want to.”
“Thank Christ for that,” he grunted. “Come here …” He drew her under the covers, his hands everywhere at once. “You’re driving me nuts …”
20
Frank Shrapnel walked into Larry’s bedroom at the safe house and found DI Falcon turning out the contents of the drawers and sorting through Larry’s belongings. Shrapnel stood back from the doorway a moment; he had a feeling he wasn’t catching Falcon doing anything he hadn’t been told to do. There was nothing furtive about the way he was tossing that room.
“What’s all this about?” Shrapnel said lamely. “Larry’s with the Guv’nor this morning.”
“Yeah, I know.” Falcon paused with his hand in a drawer. “Mac said to give his room a thorough once over …” He picked up a camomile tea box and flipped open the lid. He sniffed. “Bloody hell!” He stared at Shrapnel. “Do you know what this is?”
Shrapnel cocked his head to read the box.
“High-grade marijuana,” Falcon said. “Jackson must be out of his head.”
Shrapnel looked profoundly shocked. And worried. Later, when a certain amount of dust had settled, DCI McKinnes explained the new situation. He delivered the explanation in the Superintendent’s office at St. John’s Row station, pacing back and forward in front of the Superintendent as he spoke, puffing hard on his cigarette.
“He admits he went to the Hyde Park Hotel, and he admits he went to the bloody opera with the women. I think he got it on with the Spanish bird.”
“The ruddy idiot.” The Superintendent was white-lipped, imagining he could already feel waves of repercussion. “This is getting out of hand. It’s insanity.”
“Unbelievable,” McKinnes agreed. “I don’t know what the hell he thought he was trying to do.”
“Whatever, Mac—get rid of him.”
McKinnes stopped pacing.
“No can do,” he said, his voice rich with regret. “I need the bugger. And I reckon Myers is going to need Jackson to get his money.” He spread his hands. “Give me audio on the place. Give me surveillance. Let’s wire the prat up.”
The Superintendent stared. “Are you crazy? Bloody Jackson’s screwed up not just once but … Listen, if we don’t watch it, he’s going to take us both down.”
McKinnes stubbed out his cigarette and lit another one.
“I got down on my sodding knees for this,” he said, “and I’ll go down on them again. I won’t let Jackson foul up, I promise you. Just let me finish what I started. I’ll be right here… .” He tapped his shoulder. “You know why I want Eddie Myers.”
“You’ve already got him, Mac.”
“No!’ McKinnes said it vehemently, almost glaring at the Superintendent. “No, I haven’t. Not all of him. But I will have.” He looked straight at the Superintendent and pointedly tapped his shoulder again. “Because I’ll be right there … Okay?”
Ten minutes later McKinnes was marching along the corridor with Larry beside him. DC Summers, running as usual, caught up with them by the lift.
“Boss,” he panted. “Sydney Jefferson’s downstairs.”
“He can wait.”
Summers melted away. McKinnes pressed the lift button. He and Larry waited. Larry was partly in the picture, far enough to know he was in the kind of trouble that did not easily go away. He also knew, without being told, that Colin Frisby was an element in his predicament. One look at Frisby’s devious mug in the operations room had made it crystal clear.
“You must never coerce,” McKinnes said now, keeping it strictly business. “You just listen and ask pertinent questions, but do not encourage or make suggestions about any part of the robbery to Myers. Any unrecorded information you are privy to can go against you. You must at no time appear to aid or give incitement to any illegal activity. You taking this in?”
“Yes, Mac.” The lift arrived. Larry got in. “Ah, about everything … I’m sorry, I want to—”
“All I want is Myers, son. I put myself right in front of the firing squad keeping you on this.” McKinnes pointed straight up. “Get up there! And get your sodding head straightened out!”
The lift door closed. McKinnes turned along the corridor and saw Sydney Jefferson being shown into an interview room by DC Summers. When Jefferson saw McKinnes striding toward them he stopped in the doorway.
“Chief Inspector McKinnes,” he called, “I’ve been waiting for over an hour. It is my right to have access to my client—”
“Is it?” McKinnes didn’t break step. “He can’t just hop on a bus, you know. It takes a lot of organization. Just have patience. Myers’ll be here.”
McKinnes strode on past. Jefferson went into the interview room and sat down. As Summers came out McKinnes gestured to him. He ran to catch up.
“Search Jefferson,” McKinnes said grimly. “Down to his Y-fronts if necessary.”
Upstairs in the Radio Control Division a departmental
technician gave Larry rudimentary instructions in the deployment of bugs and body wires. On a trestle table in front of them was an open briefcase with plastic foam compartments. Beside it were a number of miniature receivers, several two-way bugs and a pair of radio microphones. Two of the department’s specialists hovered nearby, watching the tackle on the table like hard-eyed mother swans keeping an eye on their young.
“Try not to touch the heads,” the technician said, pointing to the radio mikes. “They’re very delicate. This one you use for outside work only, it’s got a good wide radius. This is the internal one, it’s good for two miles, then it distorts. Tape it to your chest or just here …” He pointed to his armpit. “Now, every time you set yourself up for the day, check with this.” He held up a small black box fitted with a dial indicator. “If the needle remains between these two points, you’re on air.”
Larry nodded, taking it all in, trying to be a professional in the teeth of his anxieties; after today’s events, he couldn’t shake a gnawing suspicion that the alterations to his life—so sudden and so many—had plunged him into bad currents.
“Do remember,” the technician said, packing the gear into the briefcase, “this is valuable equipment. Try not to damage any of it.”
“I’ll do my best,” Larry promised.
I’ll maybe even do better than that. He had to motivate himself. If he could make this phase of the operation work without confusion, the prestige might rub out some of the black marks that had accumulated against him.
Two floors below, meanwhile, DCI McKinnes and the Superintendent were looking at a street map.
“I’ll need men across the road,” McKinnes said. “We’re sorting a good surveillance flat and a surveillance vehicle. The entire flat will be wired and—”
“This is costing, Mac.” The Superintendent’s faraway look had been there since McKinnes came back with the
map. “I had to put it before Fretlow, and he had to take it even higher. My budget’s wiped out.” “Are you saying I can’t go on?”
The Superintendent looked cagey. The whole truth
about his negotiations with the brass would not be forthcoming.
“They want—and I knew this would come up—they want Myers taken to the Reading Secure Unit.”
“So I lose him?” McKinnes didn’t hide his indignation. “Doesn’t matter that he’s planning a bloody robbery?” “Oh, come on, now, Mac …”
“Jefferson says his girls are cleaning him out. He’s got to go for it.”
“We don�
��t know that for sure.” The Superintendent smiled sourly. “You just want him to.”
“You said it.” McKinnes glared at the window. “Five years I’ve waited for this.”
Twenty minutes later DI Shrapnel, DI Falcon, and DC Summers looked up from one of the desks in the incident room to face DCI McKinnes as he marched in. They looked sheepish.
“Frank,” McKinnes said, “I want Jefferson tipped off that Myers has just two more weeks in our custody. In the meantime we hold Myers here until I’ve got the safe house wired …” He stopped, taking in the group expression. “What’s up?”
Falcon held up a camomile tea box. “We found this in Jackson’s bedroom.”
McKinnes looked at the box with a so-what expression. Shrapnel put it down and held out a box of Black Magic chocolates.
“These were in the kitchen,” he said. “I can have the lab boys check them out. They could have drugs in them, I don’t know how the hell he got them in—” “The chocolates were for my wife,” McKinnes snapped. The three detectives looked at each other. McKinnes snatched up a plastic bag from the tea box and sniffed it. He appeared to freeze.
“It’s marijuana,” Shrapnel said, pronouncing it mari-jewana.
“I know what it bloody is, Frank!”
Larry appeared. He was carrying a briefcase, gingerly, as if there were eggs in it.
“I’m all set to go back, Guv,” he said.
“Oh, are you?” McKinnes turned to him, holding up the bag of grass between finger and thumb. “What’s this, Jackson? It was found in your room at the safe house.”
Larry stared, his throat tightening. For the moment he couldn’t summon an excuse. He went on staring, his hopes of redemption melting. There was no way to avoid
the obvious. His life was turning to shit.
f
Jefferson was tight-lipped with fury. His ratlike eyes were gray as flints. He had been searched, left waiting, and no one had listened to his clipped demands as to how long it would be before he had access to Von Joel. Then, just as he was about to really fly off the handle, the thud of footsteps heralded Von Joel’s arrival. Two uniformed officers remained in the room throughout the short interview. Jefferson had demanded the meeting as his client’s right. Von Joel, as agreed, had signed over power of attorney to Jefferson, giving him access to Von Joel’s bank accounts. DI Falcon sat in on the meeting. In fact the room was so filled with bodies, it became stifling. Every single move that went between Von Joel and Jefferson was watched. Each document Von Joel was required to sign was checked carefully. The men watched and listened almost gleefully as Jefferson informed Von Joel that both his girlfriends were, as he had told McKinnes, cleaning him out. They had used his check cards, and spent thousands on a suite at the Hyde Park Hotel… . Jefferson, however, appeared to the onlookers to be more worried about his own fees being met, and when they heard the amount due to him, the men exchanged shifty looks.
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