FRAMED

by Lynda La Plante

  Von Joel’s appearance had slightly shocked Jefferson. He seemed quiet, exceptionally subdued. There was stubble on his chin, a scruffiness about him that Jefferson had never detected before, but he made no reference to the obvious discomfort of his client, and the fading bruises on his face. The cuffs were never removed, even when Von Joel signed the documents. Falcon noticed that Von Joel seemed almost about to crack up, especially when Jefferson repeated the amount of money the girls had got away with, and admitted that he was unsure how long he could continue taking care of Von Joel’s business transactions since Von Joel was broke.

  Jefferson gave Von Joel a strange half smile. “The villa in Spain was bought in Lola’s name. Well, the little bird has it on the market, and there is nothing you or I can do about it. The Monterey was in the other girl’s name and that, too, is on the market. Again, as they have proof of ownership, I cannot stop the sale going ahead.”

  Von Joel swore under his breath about cheating bitches, and kept his head bent down, as Jefferson checked over the papers, preparing to return them to his briefcase. The locks snapped shut.

  “Any complaints? Food all right, is it? They’re getting your vitamins to you?”

  Von Joel nodded, then sighed. “I am held in a shit hole, but apart from that I don’t have too many complaints. There’s no exercise area, and I’m getting sick. I need some fresh air. Can you arrange for me to have at least a walk? I’d like a run if possible. The place is close to Regent’s Park, somebody must be able to arrange it. Can you talk to McKinnes? I’m going crazy in that dump.”

  Jefferson nodded, said he would do whatever was possible, but he doubted if Von Joel would be allowed out for a morning jog. He gave a twisted smile. Falcon couldn’t help but smile as well; bloody nerve of Von Joel, asking to go friggin’ joggin’, next it would be a night out at the theater.

  The meeting lasted no longer than fifteen minutes. A report was sent back to McKinnes that nothing unforeseen had happened, apart from Von Joel looking like hell, and obviously being depressed. The news of Von Joel’s girlfriends stitching him up good and well traveled fast, and everyone couldn’t help but laugh. So much for the Super Grass, his own little darlin’s were rippin’ him off, and his brief was doing an even better job.

  McKinnes had a few moments with Jefferson, and he almost laughed in Jefferson’s face when he passed on Von Joel’s request that he be allowed to go running or walking to get some fresh air. Jefferson carefully made no reference to the fact that Von Joel had let slip the location— that he was being held within the vicinity of Regent’s Park. McKinnes almost told Jefferson to piss off, but then excused himself, and walked out into the corridor. Von Joel wanted a run, did he? Or was he already planning to do a runner? Maybe they should let out the leash a little bit more. If they kept an eye on him, maybe, as McKinnes

  had said, he’d give them a lead.

  f

  After seeing Von Joel at the police station, Sydney Jefferson called on Lola and Charlotte at the Hyde Park Hotel. Their business was brief, hardly more than an update, concluding with Jefferson’s account of the meeting at St. John’s Row station. As he was preparing to leave Lola asked him if Von Joel had asked after his girls.

  “Every word we said was monitored. And he’s not supposed to be enamored of the situation, is he?” Jefferson smiled. “You’re taking him to the cleaners, remember?” He picked up his attache case, went to the door and opened it. “I’ll contact you here as soon as I get a result.”

  “But you haven’t found out where they’re keeping him,” Lola said.

  “I did my best,” Jefferson replied testily. “All I know is what I told you, he’s somewhere close to Regent’s Park. And McKinnes agreed that he could exercise early each morning.” He looked from one girl to the other. “The rest will be up to you.”

  f

  Early that evening Larry fitted bugs in the safe house, under the moody eye of Frank Shrapnel. He worked his way along to the kitchen, taking his cues from sketchy notes he had made at the station. Throughout the flat he had positioned each bug so that its pattern of receptivity overlapped that of at least one other bug in the vicinity. He wore an earpiece as he worked, to monitor signal strength and pick up any howl that might result from putting bugs too close to one another. He walked slowly around the kitchen with the last-but-one device, a transceiver the size of a ten-pence piece, deciding where to put it.

  “Testing, testing …”

  Shrapnel checked the dial on the small black box. The needle moved gently between the two markers. He gave a thumbs up. Larry stripped the wax paper from the adhesive on the back of the bug and positioned it under the overhanging trim at the base of a wall cupboard.

  “Look,” Shrapnel said throatily, finally spitting out what had obviously been on his mind, “thanks for not spilling the beans about the herbal tea. If Mac and the lads had got to hear …”

  Larry prodded him. He pointed to the dial on the box. Shrapnel slapped a hand over his mouth. Larry handed him an earpiece.

  “It’s called skating, Frank—on very thin ice. I just hope I don’t fall through the cracks.” Larry moved close to the nearest bug and spoke directly to it. “Just one more, in Myers’s bedroom, then that’s it. Over. “By five-forty the safe house was comprehensively wired. In the surveillance flat in a block across the way, reel-to-reel tape machines, binoculars, cameras, and dark-light monitoring equipment had already been set up. A surveillance team was in place.

  At nine o’clock Von Joel was finally brought back to the safe house by a posse of plainclothes policemen. He was taken directly to his bedroom and locked in.

  After undressing for bed, he turned off his light and stood by the window. He could see the solitary officer posted near the entrance to the block of flats, and it was easy to spot the unmarked patrol car at the roadside with two men sitting inside, silhouetted against the lamplight. All very reassuring, he thought, but there had to be more than that. The ball game, after all, was changing.

  He waited.

  Long minutes passed, then a man came along the street and stopped by the police car. He bent low and spoke to the men inside. When he moved away he entered the apartment block opposite.

  Von Joel began examining the windows of the block one by one, taking his time, scanning each of them from top to bottom, side to side. Halfway up the block his eye was held by a dark-draped window with a tiny gap between the curtains. In the gap was the small but telltale glint of a camera lens.

  “Gotcha!” Von Joel whispered.

  He went to bed.

  f

  At ten the following morning there was a team changeover in the surveillance flat. The officer taking over the audio equipment was removing his jacket when the night-shift officer, still wearing headphones, beckoned him to the table. He turned up the sound on the external monitor speaker.

  “Listen to this.”

  They sat motionless, scarcely breathing, as Larry’s voice said, “Five hundred grand for me and five for you, that right?”

  The policemen leaned closer to the equipment, their faces tense. There was a ratding sound, then Larry spoke again.

  “Six,” he said. “Okay, that’s me to go. I’m feeling lucky.”

  The officers looked at each other, smiling foolishly as they realized Larry and Von Joel were playing Monopoly.

  Over in the safe house the two men sat cross-legged on the living room floor with the Monopoly board between them. Von Joel had a notepad; as he talked and played he simultaneously drew pictures and made notes.

  “Now,” he said slowly, shaking the dice, “do I go for the bank?” The dice landed. “Oh, yes! Double six! Very nice. Walk straight to the vaults.” He made his move on the board. “Very easy access, and nobody gets hurt. You saw for yourself, it’d be no problem.”

  “Hang on,” Larry said. “One, two, three—that’s jail.”

  “No way,” Von Joel said, staring at the board. “It’s not as if I would be stealing. It’s my
money. Your turn.” He watched as Larry threw the dice. “Oh, very nice! Double four. But not good enough, my friend. Check my score. You see—when you’re desperate something always turns up.”

  He handed Larry a drawing of the interior of the bank, the same one Larry had visited with Lola. He studied it, marveling at the detail.

  Von Joel gasped suddenly.

  Larry looked at him. “You okay?”

  Von Joel blinked, rubbing the side of his head.

  “Give me a hand up, would you? I feel lousy.”

  As Larry helped him to his feet Von Joel swayed, holding on with one hand, letting his slack knuckles slide and trail across Larry’s arm and chest, feeling for his wire.

  “I think I’ll go and lie down, I don’t feel so good. How could my little girls do it to me? I’m sick, Larry, sick …”

  Over the next hour his condition appeared to get worse. The pallor of his face made his tan a light waxy brown; his eyes were dark-rimmed and feverishly bright. At eleven o’clock Shrapnel decided to call in a police doctor. He came at once and made a thorough examination. Afterward, standing at the front door with Larry, he explained the position.

  “If his headache continues, he should be whipped back in for another X ray. There’s nothing I can do, really. He says he won’t take aspirin or codeine.”

  “Has he got a temperature?”

  “One degree above normal, that’s all. But keep an eye on him. If it goes any higher then he should be in hospital.”

  Behind the locked bedroom door, as they spoke, Von Joel was on his feet. From under the bed he fished out a bottle of water. He uncapped it quietly, shook it over the pillow and bedclothes, then used it to soak his hair. When he was finished he recapped the bottle, put it back in its hiding place, and climbed into bed.

  When he was found in his sorry condition half an hour later, babbling deliriously to himself, Larry and DI Shrapnel changed the bed linen and his night clothes.

  “That’ll hold him for now,” Shrapnel said. “No sense making a lot of fuss unless we have to.”

  It happened again, two hours later. They changed the bed, dried Von Joel off and decided, one more time, to give the condition a chance to put itself right. It was a long shot, but it was preferable to telling the boss and getting embroiled in one of his rages. Both Shrapnel and Larry knew that if Von Joel’s illness persisted, they would catch the blame.

  At nine in the evening Larry came into the kitchen. Shrapnel was there in his dressing gown, standing by the cooker waiting for a pan of milk to boil.

  “His bed linen’s soaked again,” Larry said. “I don’t like the look of him. We should contact Mac.”

  “You call him,” Shrapnel said.

  “No. I’m not taking the responsibility. You call. That man should be taken to the hospital.”

  Von Joel was behind the bedroom door, listening. The talking in the kitchen stopped, then he heard footsteps coming along the passage. He turned in the darkness and made a run for the bed. His toe slid under a rip in the old rug and he went down, hitting his face on the bedside cabinet. Pain flared in his nose and the cabinet fell over with a crash.

  “Shit!”

  He threw himself into the damp bed and tried to pull the covers up over him. He touched his nose and felt warm blood.

  “Oh, nice one . .

  As the door was unlocked he flopped back on the pillow, half in and half out of the bed. The light came on and Shrapnel stood there, gaping at the sight of Von Joel, spread eagled on the bed, his eyes closed, blood streaming from his nose.

  “Oh, Jesus, Larry …” Shrapnel was stunned. He turned and yelled. “Larry! Get in here!”

  Larry came hurtling along the passage. He stopped in the doorway, holding the frame, staring. Shrapnel went forward and slapped Von Joel’s face.

  “Don’t,” Larry snapped. “Don’t do that.”

  “He’s bloody unconscious!” Shrapnel was panicking, flapping his arms. He glared at Larry. “He’s soaking wet —look at the sheets.” He glanced again at the deathly still face, at the blood channeling down from the nose across the mouth and neck. “I’ll call an ambulance,” he said. He ran off up the passage.

  Ten minutes later an ambulance with Von Joel and Larry inside was blue-lighting westward across London. Shrapnel followed in a patrol car. In the back of the ambulance an attendant leaned across Von Joel, trying to stabilize him against the shocks and bumps of the racing vehicle.

  They had been traveling a couple of minutes when Von Joel sat up. He grinned across at Larry, who had been panicking nearly as badly as Shrapnel

  “I’m okay,” Von Joel told the attendant, who stared, not seeming to comprehend. “Larry”—Von Joel looked around the man’s bulk—“I need to talk. Get him to sit up front!”

  The attendant was looking from one to the other. He narrowed his eyes at Von Joel and asked him what was going on.

  “Shut it! Tell him, Larry.”

  It took Larry a moment to gather himself. He turned to the attendant and nodded curtly.

  “Do it,” he said.

  The man edged reluctantly into the driving cab, his eyes darting from Larry to Von Joel.

  “It’s okay,” Larry assured him, getting out his warrant card. ‘This is my ID. I’m a police officer. Now shut the door. Do it!”

  The attendant huffily slid the door shut. Larry put the ID back in his pocket and got out his handcuffs. He told Von Joel to hold up his hands and clasped the cuffs on him.

  “I’m going to give you one last chance,” Von Joel said.

  Larry sat back. “You’re giving me?”

  There was room to cultivate some drama in the situation. Larry had taped on the outdoor transmission gear before they left the safe house. He knew he would be picked up loud and clear.

  “Eddie, when they hear about this, do you know what McKinnes will do to me? You bastard!” Larry let that part soak in, then he said, “You want to talk?”

  “Half a million,” Von Joel said calmly. “That’s what I will be giving you, Larry. You could spend the next twenty years in the force and never make that much.” His voice was warm and beguiling as he pushed himself up on the bunk, leaning closer to Larry. “I’m offering you the chance of a lifetime. You’ve only got one life, and already you ‘re halfway through it.” He held Larry’s eyes. You’ve got a map, it’s a walkover. Listen to me, Larry–-I’ll arrange passports, tickets. If you want your wife and kids along, that’s fine by me.”

  Von Joel gasped suddenly, his face twisting. “No violence,” he said, panting softly. “No guns. We walk in and take it, Larry.”

  He gasped again, then dropped back, his eyes rolling upward and closing.

  “Eddie?” Larry shook him carefully. “Eddie, are you messing me around?”

  There was no way to know if this was more playacting, but Von Joel appeared to be unconscious. Larry went to the front and banged on the partition door. The attendant turned and glared at him.

  “Get back in here. He’s passed out.”

  Attempts to bring him around did not work. He still appeared to be unconscious when they arrived at the hospital. He was rushed directly to an X-ray suite; X rays and CAT scans were taken, then he was transferred to an observation room in Accident and Emergency, where monitors were set up.

  When McKinnes arrived, his face congested with anger, he ignored Larry and DI Shrapnel and demanded that someone in authority tell him what kind of state his prisoner was in. After some administrative flurrying he was taken into an X-ray viewing room and introduced to a radiologist who tried to clarify the position.

  “If you’ll take a look at these …” The doctor pointed to a row of backlit X rays, showing Von Joel’s skull from a number of angles. “There’s no fracture, but you can still see the indentations from the crash.”

  McKinnes stared at the plates, discerning nothing.

  “You don’t think he’s conning us, do you?”

  “Does he have a reason to?”

&nbs
p; McKinnes shrugged.

  ‘This is from when he was first brought here.” The doctor hooked a frontal skull plate on to the viewing screen.” “he’s very lucky his skull wasn’t crushed. Lucky, too, that there was no cervical or brainstem damage.

  Given the degree of impact his skull actually withstood, and taking tonight’s episode into account, it would be reasonable to assume he’ll continue having spasmodic blackouts and severe headaches for some time to come.”

  “But …” Panic sparkled behind McKinnes’s eyes. “He’ll be all right, will he? To stand trial, that is?”

  “Unless he blacks out,” the doctor said, half smiling. “It could happen again, as I said, but it’s not really a debilitating factor, and he’s a fit man, in very good shape …”

  Later, McKinnes sat down with Larry in the corridor outside Von Joel’s room. Behind them, through an opening in the curtains, Von Joel was clearly visible, lying on the bed with a blanket over him. His face was turned aside, his eyes closed.

  Larry explained to McKinnes what had happened earlier in the day, immediately before Von Joel had been taken ill. He showed the boss the map.

  “That’s the bank. See, he’s marked out the escape route. He used the Monopoly game for cover—have they got it on tape?”

  “Yes, they have,” McKinnes nodded. “Did he talk in the ambulance?”