Framed

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. “Minton 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?”

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.

“Check the kids,” she said. “I don’t want them barging in.”

Lawrence went to the door. He paused, looking at Susan.

“You fancy anything apart from me?” he said. “I’m a bit hungry.”

The boys were fast asleep. Larry closed their door softly, crept downstairs and put on the kitchen light. He opened the fridge. The shelves were crammed; there were meat pies, fish fingers, beef burgers, instant custard, cream cakes, cans of Coke and two bottles of gold-top milk. He shut the door again.

The cupboard shelves offered a variety of tins: baked beans, beans and sausage, burgers and beans, savory mince, spaghetti hoops, meatballs in gravy, and frankfurters. He shut the cupboard, looked around and spotted the fruit bowl. He helped himself to an apple.

As he put out the light again he peered through the window. A uniformed policeman was walking slowly down the street behind the house.

The homecoming did not work out as he had expected. From the moment he reentered the bedroom, munching his apple, the mood of events drifted from marital intimacy toward tight-lipped hostility. All he had done, as far as he could recall later, was remark that they should eat healthier food. Susan had taken exception to that, regarding the comment as a slur on her talent as a cook, a black mark on her dietary judgement and a thumbs-down on her overall capability as a housewife. In his defense, and to set the record straight, Larry told her what he had been learning about nutrition and health, and how he had found the practice as convincing as the theory. That did no good, in fact it appeared to make Susan worse. After that the interchange descended into bickering, the pair of them taking turns at defending themselves as they lay side by side in bed, not touching.

“The kids happen to like baked beans,” Susan said, “and if you had wanted salads I’d have got some in, only I didn’t even know you’d be home!”

“Susan, there’s no need to get uptight, I just said—”

“I know what you said, but the kids won’t eat vegetables.”

“I’m sorry, it’s just, well, sometimes you should try a few rice dishes.”

“Rice!” Susan punched the mattress at her side. “You want rice, go down to the Chinese or the Star of India. And anyway you’ve lost weight, for all this oh-so-special cooking you’ve been dished up.”

“I needed to lose it. I’m fitter than I was when I—”

“Oh, are you!” Susan’s voice cracked, her temper giving way. “Some job! What are you doing with this guy? I thought you were supposed to be interrogating him.”

“I work out with him too,” Larry said, trying to keep the tone reasonable. “We sorted out a program—”

“I have enough workout getting the kids their breakfast and taking them to school,” Susan wailed, “and then I come back to all the housework, the washing, the ironing—”

“All I meant was, you should find the time,” Larry said, “time for yourself.” He turned to her, putting out his arm. “Come here.”

Susan didn’t move. She lay on her back, rigid, talking up at the ceiling.

“I don’t believe I’m hearing you straight, Larry. What time are you talking about? I don’t have any time.”

He tried to kiss her.

“Don’t.” She pushed him roughly away. “Just leave me alone.”

By breakfast time they were almost talking again. Their exchanges were brief but polite. Susan explained that her day, up until mid-afternoon, was already planned, and plans for the boys were naturally incorporated. Larry said that was fine by him, there was shopping he wanted to do. Susan looked at him strangely, but made no comment.

He was back home by four. In the hallway he stopped and listened. Over the noise of the TV in the living room he could hear the boys yelling. He went straight upstairs to the bedroom with his shopping. From the largest Harrods bag he took a new camel jacket, unfolded it carefully and hung it in the wardrobe. He then folded the bag as small as it would go and stuffed it into the bottom of the waste basket. Taking the other bags with him, he went downstairs to the kitchen.

“Oh, you’re back, are you?” Susan was ironing. She held up the cotton shirt she had almost finished. “This isn’t yours, is it?”

“No,” Larry put his bags on the worktop. “I borrowed it — spilled some food over mine.” He realized he sounded evasive, in spite of trying not to. “I’ll cook dinner if you like.” He smiled appealingly. “I thought maybe we could take a walk first, take the kids over to the park.”

Susan raised her eyebrows in mute surprise. She carried on ironing, watching Larry askance as he unpacked groceries from his bags. He had bought wild rice, celery, a large lettuce, a fresh chicken, grapes, herb tea, sea salt, Dijon mustard, and other items Susan couldn’t identify because the labels were either too small or nonexistent. She found herself becoming annoyed again.

“After dinner, if you fancy,” Larry said, making space on the cupboard shelves, “we could maybe go out. They’ve got the new Alien film on—”

“I’ve seen it,” Susan said. “Anyway, it’d be nice if you spent a bit of time with the lads.” She watched Larry fish about at the back of one of the shelves. “What are you looking for?”

“We got any nuts?”

“Only you. Here’s the shirt.”

Larry took it from her and laid it carefully on the back of a chair.

“Who did you see the film with?” he asked, then like Susan herself he moved on without waiting for an answer. “Spinach,” he said, poking about in the vegetable basket by the sink. “Have we got any spinach?”

“The kids hate it,” Susan said, trying not to sound edgy.

She packed up the ironing board and began leafing through the newspaper, keeping herself from flaring up. Larry turned to the deep freeze, heaved up the lid and stared inside. He shook his head at the contents.

“You know,” he said, “everything you’ve got in here has additives, or preservatives, or both.”

Susan rustled the paper, pretending she hadn’t heard.

Later, sitting on a bench at the playground in the public park, they watched Tony and John on the swings while Larry delivered a condensation of his newly acquired knowledge about nutrition.

“Take vitamins,” he said. “They’re absolutely essential for growth and development in kids, and for sustained health in grown-ups. The body can’t make them itself, so we have to get them from our food.”

“Is that a problem?” Susan asked coldly.

“No, it’s not, but see, it’s possible to eat a whole load of junk and get hardly any vitamins at all. On the other hand, if you know where to get your vitamins, you can take small, lightweight meals that are packed with all the goodness you need.”

Susan yawned, waving to Tony and John as they left the swings and moved across to the roundabout.

“Vitamin A,” Larry pressed on, “that’s vital for normal growth, clear vision, clear skin. You get it in large amounts from sardines, herring, liver, and fish liver oils. Vitamin B is really a whole complex of different vitamins — they control the release of energy from starchy foods, and they promote a healthy nervous system. You get Vitamin B in different forms from cereals and all fresh meat but especially offal, and from fish roes, yeast, milk, and eggs. Vitamin C is the one that helps to make healthy skin and connective tissue. It helps you to absorb iron too.”

“Listen...” Susan stifled another yawn. “Since you’re suddenly such an expert, how come they don’t go on about fiber the way they used to? One time, it seemed the know-alls were saying if you didn’t eat plenty of fiber you’d drop dead prematurely from any one of a dozen different things. Now you hardly ever hear about it.”

Larry assured her fiber was still as vital a component of a healthy diet as it ever had been.

“You see, you are what you eat. Now, without the correct amount of fiber, natural fiber—”

“Oh, shut up,” Susan said, without malice. She smiled at him. “I’ll race you to the swings.”

She got up and ran across the path and onto the grass, Larry galloping behind her. She skirted the sandpit and rushed to the row of swings, jumping onto an empty one. Larry caught up and tried to climb on behind her, standing, gripping the chains.

“It won’t take the weight of us both,” Susan giggled. “Just push. Go on. With all that natural fiber in you, let’s see how much wind you’ve got...”

She howled with glee as Larry pushed the swing, sending her high, legs flailing as she came down again. Larry extended his arms, bending them ready to take the impact and push her even higher. He glanced aside as the swing met his hands; he bent his elbows a fraction more, then pushed with all his strength. At the same moment an alarm sounded in his head. He stepped back from the swings, staring. Young John was talking to a man by the roundabout. As Larry watched, the man bent down and appeared to be offering John something.

The swing came back, but Larry didn’t push it this time. Susan twisted around and saw him running toward the roundabout. He got to John’s side and almost knocked the man off his feet. From Susan’s point of view the incident looked ugly; the man stepped back, stumbled and fell. John began to cry.

Susan stopped the swing and got off. She ran across the playground.

“Larry... Larry, what are you doing?”

He was hanging onto John, frantically looking around for Tony. He saw him by the chute and waved.

“Come here! Tony! Get over here!”

Susan ran up, looking puzzled. She watched the young man pick himself up off the ground. She glared at Larry.

“What did you do that for?”

“He was messing around with John.” He turned aside anxiously. “Tony! Tony!”

“He wasn’t messing around with him,” Susan said, shaking her head, looking at Larry now as if he were something pitiable. “You know who that is, don’t you?”

Larry frowned. “It’s Freda’s boy, from the newsagent’s. He’s simple. All the kids know him. What did you hit him for?”

At one stroke Larry felt like a monster. He looked at the cowed, hesitant lad getting up and moving away to the swings.

“I didn’t hit him, all right? I just... I just...”

“I just think it’s time we went home,” Susan said coldly. “Come on, love.” John was still snuffling. “Daddy didn’t know it was Eric...”

Tony finally came and joined them. Susan took both boys by the hand and walked away toward the gates. Larry, not able to explain why he had overreacted, stood for a moment to catch his breath and let his emotions recede. As he finally went after Susan and the boys, he glanced across at the stricken Eric, who was watching him from behind the swings.

“Sorry, mate. No harm meant, okay?” Eric gave a small wave, making Larry feel ten times worse.