Framed

12

On Sunday morning, after he had spent an hour working out in the gym, Von Joel had a leisurely breakfast in the kitchen. He then bathed, dressed, and went to the sitting room, where he sat cross-legged on the floor and played chess against himself. It was strange to have been quiet for such a long time, after so many days spent talking endlessly. It also seemed that time had gone into suspension and nothing moved; that was a feeling he did not like.

At mid-morning DI Shrapnel wandered into the room carrying a mug of coffee. A small cigar smoldered between his knuckles.

“Frank,” Von Joel said, without turning from the chessboard, “the air down here’s bad enough without you polluting it any further.”

Shrapnel, unconcerned, slurped his coffee.

“Sydney Jefferson waltzed in with your pal Bingham,” he said brightly. Von Joel was shocked. He felt himself stiffen, going defensive without trying.

“Let’s hope he keeps schtum,” Shrapnel said. “We need more information on Rodney, by the way. Have a think on it, will you?”

Von Joel stayed motionless, struggling to hide the tension that had gripped him. He waited until he heard Shrapnel leave the room, then slowly and very deliberately he leaned forward and swept all the pieces off the chess board.

Later that day, a similar tension began to make inroads on the nervous system of George Minton’s wife. She was with George at his junkyard, standing among the battered, rusting hulks, watching him as he made a detailed inspection of a vehicle that was not a wreck. It was a dark blue Transit van, recently painted and minus number plates; George walked around it, touching it, kicking the tires, peering at it like a trainer with a promising horse. As often happened, his wife felt she was being kept in the dark.

“One minute you tell me to get packed,” she said, her voice on the thin edge of hysteria, “next, I don’t know where the hell you are. George? Do I take the kids out of school?”

“Just get their passports and their gear packed,” he snapped.

Mrs. Minton’s imagination, fed by hard experience, began to frighten her.

“You’re in trouble, aren’t you?” She stepped closer to him. “Aren’t you?”

“I’m in it up to here!” he snarled, banging the side of his head. “But I’ll sort it. Now get out of my sight.”

He pushed her roughly away from him and stamped off toward the office. Mrs. Minton took a deep, shuddering breath, standing still for a moment, driving down the impulse to scream. She walked stiffly to the Jaguar. As she opened the door a thickset man in his late fifties came threading his way through the wrecks toward her. She recognized him, though she knew nothing much about him apart from his name — Jack. She opened her mouth to say something, a polite hello, but behind her George was beckoning from the office, urging Jack to hurry, which he did, ignoring Mrs. Minton. She got into the Jaguar and drove out of the yard.

In the office George spoke quietly and urgently to Jack.

“I don’t know how long I’ve got before I’m in the frame.” He looked around him at the piled wrecks, like a man preparing to say good-bye to something beloved. “Eddie Myers is rapping again.” He looked Jack straight in the eye. “You know what that means. That shooter’ll take you and me both down.”

“Are we going to get the shooter?” Jack said.

“No. We’re going to get Myers.”

If Larry Jackson were ever asked to say, honestly, what he considered to be the symbol of his marriage, he would probably think of confrontation — although he would say something else just to save face.

It seemed that everything turned into a showdown. Even a kitchen tap left dripping could come to a face-off. That Sunday evening, as he got ready to go back to the safe house, he found himself on the defensive again. He was standing in the living room in neatly pressed shirt and slacks, his new jacket over the back of a chair. His overnight bag was packed and at his feet. Susan stood three yards away, knuckles on hips.

“I wasn’t hiding anything from you!” Larry yelled. “Shit! I can’t do anything right this weekend. I just put the bag into the waste basket.” He spread his hands, trying for sweet reason. “It’s my money.”

Susan’s chin jerked as if she had been punched.

“You want to spend half your salary on a bloody jacket, it’s my business as well.”

Larry glanced at her, rummaging for a come-back.

“He’s filling your head with a load of rubbish,” Susan said. “He’s rotten. What kind of man rats on his friends? And ditches his wife?”

“I know what kind he is. This has nothing to do with him and you keep your mouth shut about him!”

Susan shook her head. She had her look of disdain on again, as if he were more to be pitied than shouted at.

“Who do you think I’m going to talk to about him? He doesn’t interest me, Larry.” She took a step nearer, her head tilting at a sharper angle. “But you be careful. Because he seems to interest you, and don’t try and tell me it’s all down to police business. He’s twisting your head. That’s what it was all about in the park, wasn’t it?” She glared at him. “Well? Wasn’t it?” Another thought seemed to occur to her, more urgent, making her angrier. “If you’re putting your kids or me in any danger, then—”

“Get off my back, Sue!”

“I’m not the one that’s on it!” she shouted as he grabbed his jacket and hurried out of the house.

Later, still feeling raw and put-upon, Larry stood in Von Joel’s bedroom and glumly submitted to an inspection of his new jacket.

“Why didn’t you use Fred the Stitch? Best tailor in London.” Von Joel fingered the material and frowned at the way the shoulders hung. His critical tone was light, but even so it annoyed Larry. “Fred makes all the suits for the Royals. I gave you his number, he’d have given you a good price...” He touched the material again. “How much?”

Larry turned away sharply. Von Joel looked surprised.

“What’s the matter with you?”

Larry didn’t reply.

“Aah,” Von Joel winked. “Didn’t get laid, is that it? Well, nor did I!”

Larry jerked open the door.

“I got laid all right, Eddie,” he said petulantly, slamming the door behind him.

The following morning DCI McKinnes and the Superintendent had a policy-and-progress meeting in the Superintendent’s office, facing each other across the cluttered desk. It wasn’t yet noon, but both men drank whisky, bowing to a departmental tradition that equated bold maneuvering with strong drink.

“We’re moving a hell of a lot faster than we anticipated,” the Superintendent said, summarizing the first half hour of their meeting. “Out of eighteen arrested, we’ve got eleven who are going to plead guilty. And the rest — they know we’ve got them dead to rights, it’ll just be a matter of time.”

“We don’t have it,” McKinnes said, swirling his Scotch, “not with this Minton on the loose. It wasn’t me that let the bugger walk...” He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “He knows we’ve got Myers, so the sooner we get him picked up for good, the better.”

“Of course.” The Superintendent’s thin features seemed to narrow a little further. “I don’t like taking Myers outside, Mac. But maybe we’ll have to.” He sighed. “I can’t budget dragging the whole bloody river.”

McKinnes nodded sympathetically.

“Myers could be bullshitting us — anything to get out and about. But he reckons if he sees the location it’ll jog his memory. And we need that shooter to get Minton.”

McKinnes took a measured swallow of whisky, drumming his fingers on the desk as it warmed its way to his stomach.

“What if we do it at dawn, cut down the risks? Can you arrange that?”

The Super thought about it, then nodded.

“Okay. I’ll get the river mob sorted. Now, I’m not pushing, Jimmy, but as matters are moving at a good lick, we’re going to have to start questioning Myers about that body found in Italy.”

“That’s got to be a complete and separate investigation,” McKinnes said, speaking with the firmness of a man who had thought the matter over thoroughly. “I’m taking it in three stages.” He watched the light sparkle golden in his glass. “One — get the lot of them ready for trial. Soon as we’ve drained Eddie Myers dry, we start to push him for the whereabouts of that one million cash he got away with...” He looked up, his eyes narrowing. “And I’ll squeeze him till he talks, because he knows he’s looking at fifteen straight. As a prosecution witness, he could get away with as little as five.”

McKinnes sat back, swirled his whisky once, then knocked it all back in one gulp. He gasped, his eyes moistening.

“I want him on trial,” he said, almost smiling. “I want to hear his sentence, want him to think he might even walk. Then, just as he’s going down to the cells” — he put his empty glass carefully on the desk — “I’m going to charge him with murder.” He smiled tightly. “I dream about that. Seeing that son of a bitch’s face. Lovely. What a retirement bonus.”

The Superintendent said nothing. He sipped his Scotch, showing no outward sign that McKinnes was beginning to worry him.