FRAMED

by Lynda La Plante

  “It’s ten-thirty, tapes sealed and on their way to HQ.” He listened for a moment, shook his head. “Nope. Nothing. A lot of chess, Monopoly, and Scrabble. Okay.” He turned to his takeover and stretched. “Another riveting session comes to an end,” he said, fighting down a yawn, already more than hallway convinced that his talent and energies were being wasted on a nothing-doing case. Next morning Von Joel and Larry made their circuit of Regent’s Park as usual, running stride for stride, breathing in unison. An unmarked patrol car trailed a short distance behind them, Frank Shrapnel driving. It was an idyllic morning, clear and crisp; apart from a few other joggers the park was virtually empty.

  “Like Siamese twins, them two,” Shrapnel muttered to his partner in the car. He yawned. “I can’t take much more of these early sodding mornings.” He looked along the path and nodded. “Okay, they’re coming back.” He picked up the radio handset and switched it on. “DI Shrapnel at oh-seven-hundred hours, sixth day. Still no contact. Returning to base, over.”

  The joggers drew level with the car, which was now stationary. They were both spent, heaving for breath. Von Joel leaned over the hood, something concealed in the curved palm of his hand. Shrapnel got out of the car and opened the rear door, checking to right and left.

  “Come on, Eddie,” he prompted, “get in.”

  Getting into the car, still panting heavily, Von Joel performed a realistic stagger and threw the object from his free hand under the car.

  “What time did we make this morning, Frank?” he said, rolling into the backseat. “Did we knock anything off?”

  Shrapnel checked his watch. As Larry got into the car the toe of his trainer touched the object Von Joel had dropped. It was a matchbox. As the car drove off toward the exit the back wheel went over the matchbox, flattening it.

  Across the park Lola nudged Charlotte.

  “I think he dropped something. Did you see him drop something?”

  “Wait,” Charlotte said, restraining Lola. “Let the car move out of the park. Don’t go yet! Wait … Okay.”

  Lola, tracksuited and hooded as before, started running. She took the same route as Larry and Von Joel, keeping her head down, watching the ground. She stopped after a couple of minutes, looked toward Charlotte and shrugged. Then she began running again, stopped, ran back, stopped, tied her shoe lace. When she straightened she threw back her shoulders, took a deep breath, and ran as fast as she could back to the car.

  “Well?” Charlotte leaned across from the driving wheel, looking anxious. “Did you find something?”

  Lola was panting for breath, sitting half in and half out of the car, unable for the moment to speak. Charlotte raised her binoculars and gazed across the park, carefully adjusting the focusing ring.

  “That park attendant,” she said, “he’s a cop. They’re all over the place. Something about this isn’t right.”

  “Matchbox,” Lola gasped. She held it up. “It’s been flattened, the patrol car ran over it. I told you he dropped something… .” She slid her thumb under the mashed edge of the box and pried it partly open. “Oh, wow, he did—look!”

  Lola carefully peeled the box apart, exposing four sheets of Bronco toilet paper folded neatly together. Every inch of sheet, on both sides, was covered with fine, close handwriting.

  22

  On Monday morning DCI McKinnes came out of the Superintendent’s office at St. John’s Row station and bore down on DI Shrapnel, who was getting a coffee from the machine in the corridor.

  “We’ve only got him until Friday, Frank.” It had been a foregone conclusion, but McKinnes still managed to show pained surprise. “After that they’re pulling the whole operation. What in Christ’s name is he waiting for?”

  Shrapnel peered into his coffee cup before he tasted it. He made a face.

  “Jackson’s doing his stuff,” he said. “If he tells him one more time we’re taking him to Reading, it’ll sound like the record’s stuck.”

  “Eddie Myers is broke.” It was a phrase McKinnes repeated often, like a litany, as if saying it would set wheels moving. “His girls cleaned him out, he’s got to want that cash more than ever. So why the delay? Why doesn’t he make a move?”

  “Maybe he can’t, Guv. He’s bound to have clocked the backup we’ve got on him.”

  McKinnes lowered his head a fraction, usually a sign that he was considering something, or that he was about to throw a temper fit.

  “Frank,” he muttered, “let’s you and me go for broke. Tip him off. Let him know he’s only got one car with him tomorrow.”

  Shrapnel looked uneasy, but he nodded anyway.

  “And Frank—be subtle, don’t let Jackson know.”

  “You’re the boss,” Shrapnel sighed. “But, Guv, this is in the book, yeah?”

  McKinnes stiffened indignantly. “It’ll be in the book, Frank. Now piss off.”

  By that evening the mechanism of Von Joel’s plan was moving. He leaned by the living room window during a chess game, waiting for Larry to make his move. The curtain was strategically pushed aside. He checked his watch: ten o’clock precisely. Larry muttered something, vocalizing the strategy behind the move he was about to make. Von Joel grunted a response but he wasn’t listening; his ears were tuned to the road outside and the whisper of traffic sounds.

  At almost a minute past the hour a car engine started up nearby; it ticked over and stopped. It started again, ticked over and stopped. A third time it started, ran for a few seconds, then stopped. At that point Von Joel watched the window carefully. He saw car headlights come on, then go off. The same thing happened two more times. He smiled and moved away from the window. Larry glanced at him with a faintly smug smile. Von Joel crouched down, examining the board. It was obvious that Larry believed he had the opposing king in check. With one move Von Joel turned the game around.

  “You can’t beat me, I’m a master.” He laughed. He ruffled Larry’s hair and began singing: “The sun will come out tomorrow …”

  Larry stared at him.

  “One car and just you and me …” Von Joel’s voice dropped to a rich bass. “Tomorrow is only a day away!” He laughed again and swept a hand toward the board.

  “Checkmate!”

  f

  Early the following morning they made their usual circuit of Regent’s Park, running in unison, Larry watchful, Von Joel apparently unconcerned with anything but maintaining his pace.

  It was a cool morning with a layer of mist on the ground, broken into swirls here and there by birds and the occasional scampering squirrel. The night’s moisture still lay on the air, filtering out traffic smells, enriching the scent of flowerbeds and hedgerows. Strenuous exercise in such an atmosphere, Larry now realized, paid benefits that went beyond physical health.

  As they rounded into the home stretch Von Joel began to move ahead, staying in step with Larry, simply lengthening his stride by fractions to gain a few inches of lead. Fifteen yards ahead of them the patrol car was waiting, engine running, back door open, only the driver inside.

  Von Joel put on a spurt as they neared the car. He jumped in through the door, dragging Larry behind him. Larry slammed the door shut and the car pulled away.

  Von Joel moved very fast. He jerked up his left hand, handcuffed to Larry’s right, and brought it down over the driver’s head, laying the chain of the cuffs across his throat.

  “Keep driving!” he yelled. His right hand came forward, holding a small vegetable knife. He pressed the point against the side of the driver’s neck. “Pass the key of the cuffs to Jackson.”

  The driver began to struggle. Von Joel’s eyes swiveled aside.

  “Tell him to do it, Larry!”

  In that position, his right arm extended over the front seat, Larry was helpless.

  “Give me the key, Tom,” he said.

  The driver looked panicky as the pressure of the chain increased and the knife point threatened to puncture his neck. He fumbled in his pocket and got out the key. The car swerved
as he passed it back to Larry.

  “Keep driving straight on,” Von Joel said, “and don’t try to be a hero. Chuck your radio handset on the floor. Come on! Now flick on your radio control. Good man!”

  Larry unlocked the cuffs and Von Joel eased his hand free. He flexed his fingers, keeping his eyes on the road. “Now I want you to stop the car.” He pressed the point of the knife deeper into the driver’s yielding skin. “Quickly!”

  The car swerved to a stop, the tires screeching. Following Von Joel’s orders, Larry got out and opened the front passenger door.

  “Now listen carefully,” Von Joel said, still gripping the driver’s shoulders. “You slide across the seat, son. Facedown. Then you crawl out of the car. Wait …” He reached inside the driver’s jacket and pulled out his personal radio. “I’ll take that. Right. Stand well back on the pavement, Larry!”

  The driver crawled across the seat facedown, as he was told, and lowered himself headfirst out onto the pavement. Von Joel scrambled over into the front seat and got behind the wheel.

  “You in or out, Larry?” he barked. “You’ve got three seconds.”

  Larry jumped in beside Von Joel. He threw the engine into gear and the car leapt forward. Behind them, far enough back to be inconspicuous, an unmarked police car took up pursuit and passed a radio message to the surveillance flat opposite the safe house. As soon as the message was passed to DI Shrapnel he came running out of the apartment block and headed for a patrol car parked at the roadside. He was shouting into his portable radio as he yanked open the car door.

  “It’s going down! It’s on! We’ve got him halfway around Regent’s Park Inner Circle! Move! Car four is on him right now! Yes!”

  Von Joel was driving with his foot near the floor.

  “Where’s the siren?”

  “Eddie, this is crazy,” Larry said. “Why go into Baker Street? You’ll smash into somebody.”

  Von Joel got the siren howling and a second later the blue light started flashing.

  “You’ve got five seconds, Larry. Get your wire off.” He jabbed Larry in the ribs. “Do it!”

  Two minutes later, as Shrapnel’s car got on the tail of Von Joel, Shrapnel called to DCI McKinnes.

  “Mac? We’re keeping off the car radios. He’s ditched the driver, he’s got Jackson with him. Looks like they’re going for the Baker Street exit from the park. Over.”

  Seconds later McKinnes and three plainclothes officers came running out into the car park at St. John’s Row. McKinnes was yelling orders as they went to their separate cars.

  “Maintain patrol radio silence! All units switch to scramble position yellow! He’s in Baker Street, we’ve got Jackson’s wire. He’s feeding us the route.” He paused with his car door open. “The bastard will be changing cars somewhere close to Baker Street. Warn all cars—stand by. Do not—not—apprehend. Stay well back!” He threw himself into the car “Got the prick!” he snarled.

  Von Joel drove the patrol car down the middle of Baker Street, siren blaring and light flashing. Other traffic cleared a way as he screamed south. He cut the siren and the light as he swung left into Paddington Street, nearly overturning the car. Along Paddington Street he slowed down, turned into the NCP parking lot entrance, stopped at the barrier, and took a ticket. He drove to the third level and parked the car.

  “Right, Larry—out!”

  As they left the car two unmarked patrol cars drove along Paddington Street and past the parking lot, heading on into Marylebone High Street.

  Von Joel stepped up close to Larry and roughly slapped at his chest. He pulled out the wire, dropped it on the ground and crushed it under his foot. He patted Larry’s cheek.

  “Okay. You in or out, Larry? Five hundred grand?”

  “I’m in, Eddie.”

  “Good. Follow me.”

  They crossed to the opposite side of the parking level. Von Joel stopped by a parked red Granada with the parking slip stuck on the inside of the windshield. He bent down and felt under the front nearside wheel arch. A moment later he held up a bunch of keys with an alarm control attached. He opened the driver’s door.

  “Let’s go.”

  He drove smoothly down the ramp to the pay kiosk and stopped. As he leaned out the window to settle with the attendant, Larry took a coin-sized bumper beeper from his pocket and stuck it under his end of the dashboard. Von Joel told the attendant to keep the change. When the barrier went up he drove out and turned right onto Paddington Street.

  Two minutes later, a radio controller was reporting to DCI McKinnes that Von Joel’s progress was now being plotted on the Central London grid. Meanwhile DI Shrapnel was inside the NCP parking lot on Paddington Street, where the parked patrol car had been reported.

  Shrapnel got on the radio. “He’s ditched the car. He’s still got Jackson, and we’ve got the remains of his wire.”

  DI Falcon came running across the tarmac.

  “It’s a red Ford Granada,” he panted. “Registration number . . He had to gulp for air. “Last three letters ATK.”

  Shrapnel was meanwhile receiving a message through his earpiece. “Great!” he turned to Falcon. “We’ve got a bleeper. Jackson’s doing his stuff.“McKinnes issued a message from his car. “Okay, we can now open radio channels. Get that car number out, let nobody touch it, or go near it, or tip the bastard off. I’m heading for the City. Get everything set up, over.”

  The radio controller’s latest bulletin went out as McKinnes ended his message.

  ‘Target car crossing into Grosvenor Square. Red Granada, two occupants. We have the registration number, feeding back to grid. Myers wearing a red tracksuit, Jackson wearing dark blue tracksuit, over.”

  At that moment Von Joel was steering the Granada into a small mews turning adjacent to the Connaught Hotel. He took a sharp right and drove down into a multilevel parking lot. The maneuver was noted by the driver of a pursuing patrol car who transmitted the information back to radio control. Von Joel parked the car and got out, waving for Larry to follow him. He ran toward the lifts but bypassed them and led the way down the stairs to the next level.

  He stopped and looked along the rows of parked cars. Beside him Larry did the same, realizing that since they stopped running in the park and jumped into the patrol car, there hadn’t been one reflective thought in his head. It had been pure reaction every inch of the way. He hadn’t even felt concerned for his safety as they tore through the traffic, he had been too fiercely ensnared in the unfolding events. Von Joel took out the bunch of keys that had been left with the Granada. He flicked the alarm access switch and waited. Nothing happened. He looked about him sharply, turning, moving from foot to foot.

  “Are you going to nick a car?” Larry said.

  “Do you think I m a thief? Von Joel walked past a few cars and stopped. ‘This is the lower basement, isn’t it?” He flicked the alarm access switch again. Ten yards away the headlights of a green Jaguar sports car blinked. “Oh, very nice …”

  Larry looked up and down the parking level, anxious to see a sign of life or find some way to leave a clue. He was suddenly aware that Von Joel was watching him.

  “Larry, don’t mess with me. If you don’t want in on this, you can opt out now.”

  “What are you on about?” Larry gaped at him, all innocence. “I’m just looking out for us, okay?”

  Von Joel strode to the Jaguar and opened the trunk. He took out a large canvas bag and looked inside. Gesturing again for Larry to follow him, he led the way toward the door that connected directly with the hotel. When they reached it Von Joel stopped, turned, and realarmed the car with the remote.

  “Can’t trust anyone these days,” he muttered.

  He led the way to the men’s lavatory in the hotel entrance, issuing instructions as he went.

  It was an ornate area, spacious, with plenty of marble and polished brass. Stepping out of a cubicle five minutes after he went in, Larry looked like any of dozens of Connaught clients who would use the lava
tory during the day. He wore a gray business suit and a white shirt; for the moment he was carrying the tie. His tracksuit was over his arm.

  At the row of sinks Von Joel was shaving. He looked striking in a dark gray pinstriped suit, a blue shirt with a white starched collar, and an old Etonian tie. A leather briefcase was propped on the wall nearby, and beside it a black garbage bag.

  “There’s only one pair of shoes,” he told Larry. “Still, we can’t have everything, can we?” He patted his face with a towel. “Okay, give me the case, and stuff the old gear in the trash can.”

  Larry handed over the briefcase, bundled his own clothes on top of Von Joel’s things in the bag and took it to the trash can. He shoved the bag inside, but left part of it sticking out at the top. Von Joel did not miss that.

  “Push it down, Larry.” He waited until the bag was completely out of sight inside the can. “Are you hungry? They do a good breakfast at the Connaught.”

  Larry put on his tie. As he tightened the knot he looked at Von Joel, standing there in his pinstripes, clutching his briefcase. He turned and looked again at his own reflection in the mirror above the basins.

  “I don’t believe this.”

  “You’d better,” Von Joel told him, “because you’ll have to get used to the good life.” He tapped the briefcase. “Okay—there’s passports, plane tickets—I got three extra tickets, for your wife and kids.” They left the gents and headed toward the dining room. “The plane leaves from Stanstead,” Von Joel said. “This time tomorrow we’ll be in Canada.”

  f

  McKinnes, by this time, had reached the City and was sitting in his patrol car in an alley twenty yards from the Rotherhill Merchant Bank. From where he sat he had a clear view of the building. Concealed nearby were motorcycle officers and two unmarked cars. A surveillance team, on ladders, was cleaning windows on the building next to the bank. DI Shrapnel leaned in through the window of McKinnes’s car.

  “Anything on the Granada yet, Frank?”