FRAMED

by Lynda La Plante

  “Traced it to an NCP parking lot.” Shrapnel looked up and down the street. People were beginning to arrive for work. “Waiting for feedback. I thought you might want to see this.” He took a plastic bag from his pocket. Inside was a kitchen knife. “Myers used this. Blunt. It’s a potato peeler.” As he leaned into the car to hand over the bag he said, “Those window cleaners ours?”

  “Yeah. And the road sweeper, and the motorbike courier. We’ve got every airport covered. If we lose him this time, Frank, I’ll find a way to cut my throat with that potato peeler.” McKinnes looked at his watch. “Well, they open in fifteen minutes.”

  Shrapnel turned to go, then paused as McKinnes pressed his radio earpiece closer to his ear, his face screwed up with the effort of listening.

  “They’ve got the Granada.” He listened some more.

  “What?” He stared at Shrapnel. “No sign of them. They reckon they’re on foot.

  f

  At a table in a red velvet-lined booth at the Connaught Grill, Von Joel sat with his face behind a menu. Larry, sitting opposite, watched the early customers come and go. A waiter arrived at the table and Von Joel lowered the menu.

  “I’ll order for you,” he told Larry. “A little smoked salmon, scrambled eggs … unless you fancy kippers? Do you want a kipper, or do you just feel like one?” The waiter flipped open his pad. “Buon giorno,” Von Joel said. “Come sta?”

  “Molto bene, grazie,” the waiter smiled.

  Von Joel proceeded to order in flawless Italian.

  “Un colazione omellete ala parmigiana.” He pointed to Larry. “Uovo strapazzate, e salmone, un’ aqua minerale, e due caffe. Grazie.”

  The waiter went away. Larry continued to look around, feeling shut in by the booth. Now that there was time to think, he could take in the scale of this operation—and the depth of his involvement. He was sweating. Von Joel, by contrast, looked perfectly relaxed. He reached into his inside pocket and brought out a folded envelope. He opened it and removed a key.

  “Voila!” He held it out on the palm of his hand, showing it to Larry. “One bank deposit key. Like I said, no guns, no violence, we just walk straight in.” He kissed the key. “One million.”

  The sight of the key and the prospect of what it could unlock made Larry even more shaky. He clasped his hands tightly on the tablecloth. His leg was trembling violently, though he was too distracted to notice. “I reckon old Mac wanted me to go for the cash,” Von Joel said. “I wonder if that thirty grand Reward is still on offer. His retirement bonus, eh?” Leaning forward, he put his hand over Larry’s knee and squeezed. “Relax,” he said softly. Larry nodded, trying hard, his eyes watering with the pain of Von Joel’s grip. For one moment of stark, brutal clarity, he realized he could be hurtling down a road with no way back. He pictured his sons and felt a clutching panic in his chest. Across the table Von Joel went on smiling.

  23

  Cars were piling up at the parking lot exit barrier. Horns were being sounded impatiently and drivers were shouting. Police instructions, to begin with, were that no one should be allowed to leave; that order was quickly countered by DCI McKinnes via radio control, who pointed out that the persons being pursued were not to be detained under any circumstances. A new order was passed to the attendants at the barriers: note the registration numbers of any cars with two males inside, and be particularly watchful for men in tracksuits.

  At nine twenty-five Von Joel backed the Jaguar out of its row and drove it to the exit ramps. As daylight hit the windshield he put on a pair of mirrored shades. He was carefully scrutinized as he paid the attendant. A uniformed policeman standing nearby turned and looked at the car, too, then carried on talking to a pedestrian. Apart from glances of incidental admiration, no one paid special attention to a stylish Jaguar sports car with one equally stylish occupant.

  A few minutes later, as DCI McKinnes continued to watch the exterior of the Rotherhill Bank, a message was passed along by radio control. McKinnes listened, sighing, watching the buildup of traffic around the bank. He pressed the transmission switch and relayed the message.

  “They’ve changed clothes,” he said. “They found their running gear. Say a few Hail Mary’s, will you?”

  In a small side street in the West End, Von Joel stopped the Jaguar and got out. He waited for a vagrant to finish searching a trash can and move on, then he opened the door. Reaching over into the tiny rumble seat he pulled out a blanket and uncovered Larry Jackson, painfully doubled over and packed into a space scarcely big enough for a child. His head came up as if it were on a spring. He was red-faced and gulping air.

  “Christ, I was suffocating.”

  He scrambled into the passenger seat as Von Joel got back behind the wheel and threw the engine into gear. They drove down through Covent Garden into Kingsway and out onto Aldwych, heading east along the Strand toward the City. Von Joel drove slowly, carefully, doing nothing to attract attention. Larry began to look puzzled.

  “I didn’t come this way before,” he said.

  “Remember,” Von Joel told him, “you leave the chat to me. Keep your eyes on the cashier, there’s an alarm bell at his feet.”

  They moved on up Fleet Street, then Von Joel began taking the car through narrow back turnings. At one point, unwittingly, they drove right behind the alley where McKinnes was parked. Von Joel carried on driving as Larry stared at him.

  “You just drove past the bank.”

  They carried on for a couple of streets, then drew up at a traffic meter with a yellow bag over the top. Larry looked out, taking his bearings. They were directly across the street from Millways Merchant Bank.

  Von Joel got out, took the bag off the meter and threw it in the back of the car. He fished in his pocket for change and started feeding coins into the meter. Larry got out, almost getting the door knocked off by a passing cyclist, who told him he was a dizzy prat.

  Von Joel brought the meter clock around to one hour, then he leaned down and reached into the car. He flipped open the glove compartment and took out something— Larry couldn’t see what—and slipped it into his pocket.

  He stood staring at Larry for a moment. “You’re not going to chicken out on me, are you?”

  Before Larry could respond Von Joel was distracted by a police patrol car heading toward them. They watched it cruise past. Larry was sweating. Von Joel slammed the car door shut.

  “The keys,” Larry said. “The keys are in the ignition!”

  “We might have to make a quick exit,” Von Joel said, taking Larry’s arm, leading him across the road.

  As they entered Millways Bank, radio control was passing another message to DCI McKinnes in his car outside the Rotherhill Bank.

  “Suspect could have been using a red Scirocco, a white Mini, or a green Jaguar XJL. We have no reg on any of the vehicles—but they were driven by one or two males. Guy in the green Jag was alone, but the parking attendant thinks it could have been our man, over.”

  “Bloody marvelous,” McKinnes said with a grunt, lighting another cigarette.

  Von Joel and Larry stood side by side at the safety deposit section in the Millways Bank, waiting while a tidy young City clone, the safety deposit clerk, inspected their credentials. Having gone over everything twice, he looked

  up-

  “Well,” he said, delivering a bland banker’s smile, “everything seems to be in order, Mr. Jackson. If you will just wait one moment, I’ll have to get authorization from the manager.”

  Larry was appalled. They had a phony account in his name!

  He felt his face color as the clerk approached the manager, a small balding man standing behind a grille.

  “Just look front, Larry, and ease up,” Von Joel said, his i lips hardly moving. “We go through the door straight ahead of you. Don’t forget the briefcase.”

  They watched the manager examine the papers, look across at them, say a few words to the clerk and nod. The clerk came back to the deposit section. He pressed an electro
nic switch and the dividing door opened.

  “Mr. Jackson, if you would come this way, please.”

  They followed him through the office section and into a narrow stone-walled corridor painted an institutional shade of green. They made their way to an old-fashioned hand-operated lift with a metal grille front. Beside the lift was a narrow stone staircase. The clerk pressed a buzzer to call the lift. After a moment it began clanking up. Von Joel whistled softly as they waited. Larry was too nervous to do more than stand there. When the lift arrived the clerk drew the grille open and stepped aside to let Larry and Von Joel go in ahead of him.

  “A slightly tight squeeze, I’m afraid, gentlemen …”

  The grille closed and they moved slowly down to the basement level. Larry noticed the plethora of cables and junction boxes in the lift shaft; they obviously served the main alarm system. He also realized how sensibly the | vault approaches had been designed. A high-speed exit was out of the question down here; it was easy enough to get down, but getting a few people away from the place quickly would be no easy matter, since the only way out was via the lift or the narrow stone steps.

  The lift jolted to a stop. The clerk drew back the grille and stepped out. He waited for Larry and Von Joel to get out, then he started to close the grille again.

  “Leave it open,” Von Joel said, very softly.

  “I can’t do that, sir. No one else can come down.”

  “Exactly,” Von Joel calmly reached into his pocket and removed something wrapped in a yellow cloth. He took off the cloth. It was a gun. What s your name?”

  The clerk jerked back, frightened. Von Joel pulled him close again.

  “Your name, I said …”

  “Jeffrey Archer.”

  “Well,” Von Joel said flatly, “we’re in good company. Now, Jeffrey, you do as I say, and you won’t get hurt.” He indicated the corridor ahead of them and they started walking. “I know every alarm pressure pad, so let’s keep this nice and easy.”

  Larry had his eyes glued on the gun.

  “Do as he tells you,” he told the clerk.

  They walked to a studded security vault door. Archer rang the bell.

  “Now the code, Jeffrey,” Von Joel said, putting the muzzle of the gun against Archer’s neck. “Five digits.”

  Trembling, Archer tapped in the code on a keypad by the door. A mechanism clicked; there was a hum and another click, then the door slid open. They went inside. Von Joel told Larry to wedge the door as soon as the man in charge of the vault was immobilized.

  “You’re doing very well, Jeffrey,” he told the clerk. “Let’s just keep it calm and relaxed.” The terrified clerk looked as if he was about to faint, and received a hard, vicious slap. It jerked his head to one side and brought him around.

  “Give us a nice smile.”

  The poor man managed a trembling, quivering smile.

  “That’s it, you are doing very well, Jeffrey.”

  A second clerk appeared at the halfway desk. Behind him were the security bars, behind those the vault cages.

  “Mr. Jackson?” he said, and Larry managed a nod. “Could I have your key, and your documents?” Larry passed them over. “Thank you. Now if you’d sign here, and here.” He smiled apologetically at Von Joel. “I’m afraid only one person is allowed into the cages.”

  Von Joel let him see the gun held against Archer’s neck.

  “Put your hands on the desk,” he snapped. “Larry, hop over and pull him away from the alarm.”

  Larry wedged the door and slid over the desk.

  “Don’t step on it!” Von Joel warned.

  Larry pushed the terrified clerk against the wall. He heard a moan and turned. Archer was taking off his clothes. His trousers were already at his ankles as Von Joel helped him off with his jacket.

  “Him, too,” Von Joel said, pointing to the other clerk, i

  During the next three minutes, as both clerks were tied up with their own clothes and had their socks stuffed in their mouths, word reached DCI McKinnes that a green Jaguar XJL had been spotted parked a couple of streets away from his position.

  In the vault area of Mill ways Bank the briefcase was open on the floor now, revealing a crowbar, a parachute-silk bag, passports, and airline tickets. As Von Joel bent over the case Larry shoved him.

  “You never said anything about using a gun!”

  Von Joel took a pair of surgical gloves from a pocket in the bag and pulled them on. He glared at Larry.

  “I haven’t used it. Yet.”

  “Give it to me!” Larry demanded. “I want it! Give me the gun!”

  “Shut it! All I want is my dough!” Von Joel grabbed the vault clerk by the shoulder and pushed him toward the rows of security boxes. “Okay,” he said, “let’s start. Which of these go back six years? Come on, we don’t want to waste time.”

  Larry took a quick look at Archer, still securely tied up, then he scurried after Von Joel. The clerk had indicated a row of boxes and Von Joel had jimmied one of them open already, tipping the contents—bundled paper, leather cash books, photographs, cash, jewelry—across the floor. He turned back for the next box, pulled it down and split it open. Within five minutes the floor was littered with broken and twisted boxes and their scattered contents.

  Out by the halfway desk where he had been left, Jeffrey Archer was easing down the wall, inch by inch, his movements slow and painful. Directly across the floor from him

  was an alarm pressure pad. Von Joel split open the top of another box just as the telephone rang. He froze. Larry, who was pulling the boxes off the shelves, stood staring with a box held aloft.

  “Right, come on.”

  Von Joel grabbed the clerk and dragged him to the telephone. He pulled the wadded socks from the man’s mouth. The telephone rang again. Von Joel’s hand hovered over the receiver.

  “Answer it. Take a deep breath, say nothing’s wrong, you’ll be upstairs in two minutes.”

  The man nodded, his tongue frantically wetting his mouth. Von Joel lifted the receiver and put it to the clerk’s ear.

  “Hello? Yes, sir, I’m sorry. Nothing’s wrong.”

  He nodded and Von Joel put down the receiver. Larry immediately started breaking open fresh boxes while Von Joel stuffed the gag back into the clerk’s mouth.

  Out by the desk, Archer was inching ever closer to the pressure alarm. On the street outside, a police patrol car had just glided slowly past the parked Jaguar. The officer sitting by the driver radioed McKinnes and told him the vehicle was empty. McKinnes told them to keep an eye on it.

  Down in the vaults Von Joel was pushing the clerk back down on the floor when Larry shouted excitedly.

  “Blue bags! Blue cloth bags! I’ve got it! I’ve got it!”

  Von Joel ran to where Larry was hoisting the bags of money out of a box. Between them they began ramming the money into the parachute-silk bag.

  Archer was now very close to the alarm pressure pad. On an impulse he threw himself the remainder of the distance. He clipped the pad and felt it give. The alarm screamed.

  Von Joel reached for the gun.

  “No!” Larry shouted, seizing his arm.

  Von Joel shoved him away, picked up the loaded bag, and started running for the lift. “Briefcase!” he yelled over his shoulder. “Get the case!”

  Larry stopped, gathered up the briefcase, and snapped it shut. When he got to the lift Von Joel was already inside with the grille closed. Larry heaved it open and Von Joel tried to stop him, shoving with his free hand, the gun poking out past the side of the grille. Larry drew back the grille two inches and swiftly jammed it forward again, cracking the steel edge against Von Joel’s wrist. The gun hit the floor and Larry snatched it up. As he straightened he saw the lift rising. He tugged at the grille but it had locked. He looked left and right, panic-stricken, the alarm deafening him. He mopped sweat from his forehead and took a tight grip on the gun, seeing Von Joel’s feet disappear above the upper margin of the lift doorway. Aban
doning reason, he took a deep breath and hurled himself at the narrow stone staircase.

  As the lift arrived at ground-floor level the manager went forward. Von Joel eased the grille open and stepped out fast, hanging on tightly to the bag.

  “We’ve been stuck down there!” he shouted, still moving. “The lift’s not working, didn’t you hear the alarm?”

  For just a moment the manager was thrown, but then he ran after Von Joel into the main banking hall. At that moment Larry reached the top of the stairs with the gun in his hand.

  “Oh, my God, no!” the manager howled. “No!”

  Larry tried to appeal for calm, waving the gun. “It’s all right!”

  Von Joel had reached the main doors leading to the banking hall. They opened and he was out of the secure area, moving fast, heading for the exit. Larry ran after him. People scattered around them, running for cover. Von Joel realized the sight of the gun was panicking them.

  “Stay down,” he yelled. “Stay! Don’t move and you won’t get hurt!” He was almost at the exit. “Please stay down! Back off and you won’t get hurt!”

  He made it to the doors just as they were swinging shut, a guard blue in the face as he heaved against the reinforced structure. Von Joel made a spurt and got outside.

  “I’m a police officer!” Larry yelled, running at the doors. “Nobody’s going to get hurt!” The door was open less than a foot. “Police!” Larry shouted at the guard. “It’s okay!”

  The scattering, screaming clerks and customers were in hysterical chaos, but even so the guard hesitated. Larry hurtled out onto the street after Von Joel.

  “Eddie!”

  Von Joel was across the street, shoving the bag in through the open car door. He started clambering in behind the wheel just as a police patrol car came screaming down the street in reverse, heading for the bank.

  “Eddie! Wait! Wait!”

  Larry ran into the road and was almost hit by the patrol car. He jumped clear as it swerved and stopped.

  “Get in the car!” Von Joel shouted. “Give me the gun, you asshole! It’s a dummy! Just get in the bloody car!”