Framed

19

“They were in his jacket pocket,” Susan said, suppressing a little belch as she leaned across and handed the ticket stubs to Colin Frisby. They had been drinking wine for half an hour and now Susan believed she had had too much. In the circumstances it didn’t trouble her. “He was out until way after midnight.”

Frisby looked at the stubs, then at Susan. “Opera?” He had just been passing again and had decided to drop in so that he could, as he put it, “make sure everything’s all right.” Susan was glad he had called, she needed to talk to someone. Colin, for his part, was glad she had suggested the wine. Each time he visited, his mission went a little further toward its goal.

“The night before,” Susan said, pushing back a nonexistent strand of hair, “there were three calls. He said they were something to do with the case, then he left the phone off the hook.” She picked up another slip of paper, a receipt, from the table beside her. She handed it to Frisby. “The Hyde Park Hotel, of all places...” She took a big gulp of wine and wiped her lips with the side of her hand. “Colin, I wasn’t going through his pockets like some jealous idiot. It was just an accident.”

He nodded, frowning delicately, eyes crinkled, a look that said he understood perfectly. They were developing a nice self-righteous complicity, he and Susan. Larry’s deceit was a mystery they were determined to crack.

“No other calls?” Frisby said, looking at the receipt.

“No.”

“Anything else?”

Susan put down her glass. She brought her cupped hands up around her head, as if it were suddenly too much for her neck to support.

“I don’t even know why I’m telling you all this,” she said. She let her hands drop and looked at him. “It’s just, since he came back from Spain, it’s like I don’t know him.”

Frisby, sure of his timing, reached out and took her hand. He held it.

“You want me to check out this hotel receipt?”

“No.” Susan shook her head. “Forget it,” she said, sounding cold suddenly. “I wish I hadn’t told you.” She took back her hand and stood up. “I’ll make some coffee.”

She went to the kitchen. Frisby took out his notebook and jotted down the waiter’s number from the receipt. He put the notebook back in his pocket, took a swig from his glass, stood up and crossed to the mantel. He yawned, gazing at the framed family snapshots, making a mental note to bring the wine himself next time. Mood swings weren’t such a hazard with decent wine.

Larry unlocked Von Joel’s door quietly, hoping for a measure of surprise. It was late evening and there had been no sounds coming from the room, not even music. He turned the handle and threw open the door. Von Joel was sitting in the center of the room, his back to the door. He turned, smiling, and held up a joint. Larry saw the blue smoke in static layers above his head.

“Want a drag?”

“I don’t believe this.”

Von Joel drew hard on the joint and held on to the smoke, taking it deep into his chest. He let it out, still smiling.

“You better believe it,” he said. “You brought me the gear.”

Larry frowned, not understanding.

“My herbal medicine. Frank’s really getting into it. I make him tea with it in.”

“What?” Larry was appalled. “You mean he’s drinking the stuff? Oh, my God!”

His tough demeanor had fled. He stood there looking awkward and helpless. Von Joel began to laugh, a deep, friendly sound, warm and infectious. It rumbled on, and after a while it began to get to Larry. He struggled to keep his face straight, then gave in. He closed his eyes, shaking with mirth.

“Help yourself,” Von Joel said, indicating a small bag beside him. “You look as if you could do with a drag. You’re so uptight. Loosen up.”

Larry’s face straightened suddenly, as if someone had thrown a switch. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he said.

Von Joel opened the bag of grass. Larry leaned down and grabbed his wrist.

“Hey, steady!” Von Joel protested. “I’m just going to roll you one.”

He jerked his wrist free, bringing his arm up sharply so that his elbow struck Larry on the testicles.

“Aah! Jesus Christ...”

As Larry doubled over Von Joel jumped to his feet and held him tight with both arms.

“I didn’t lie to you, Larry...”

Larry pushed him away, using more force than was needed.

“Oh, I see.” Von Joel’s voice had gone cold. “Come on then...” He started squaring up. “You think you can take me?”

Larry backed off, still doubled over, catching his breath. He had no fears about his chances in a scrap. He just didn’t want to get into this.

But Von Joel was determined. He was in the boxing stance, bouncing on the balls of his feet, facing three-quarters-on to Larry, beginning to dodge around him. After a minute he realized Larry wasn’t going to be drawn. He ducked and dived a couple of times, throwing fall-short punches, then he straightened up and held out his hand. He was holding the door key.

“You want it,” he said, “come and get it.”

Larry tried to snatch the key. Von Joel clipped him on the shoulder, hard. Larry reacted with a fast right jab.

“Getting really pissed now, huh?” Von Joel bounced around, getting on Larry’s right side. “Come on...”

Larry moved forward, taking steady steps, delivering short hard punches to Von Joel’s head and shoulders. Von Joel moved back, still smiling, until he was touching the wall with his shoulder.

Larry stopped and put his hands up, indicating that was it, it was over. Von Joel sprang forward and landed a right hook on Larry’s chin. It sent him across the room and he couldn’t stop himself from crashing against the door.

“What’s going on in there?” Shrapnel yelled from the passageway. “You in there, Jackson? You okay?”

Larry rolled his head sideways against the door, panting.

“Go back to bed, Frank. We’re just having a bit of a workout.”

They listened, hearing Shrapnel confer with another officer. The voices faded and a door closed.

“I never lied to you about my brother,” Von Joel said quietly. “You want to check him out, go to Somerset House. You’ll find him. His name was Mickey but we had different surnames. Look up Johnstone, born Bradford, 1955. You should trust me, Larry.”

Larry fingered his jaw. Von Joel handed him the door key.

“I just want to be friends.”

Larry moved away from the door. “I’m not your friend, Eddie.” He opened the door and stepped out into the passage. “I’m on the other side.” He shut the door and locked it.

Von Joel sighed. He guessed Larry would never check out the new information about Mickey. He’d made it up on the spur of the moment anyway, but all he hoped for was that Jackson would trust him again. He had to get his trust back. It was imperative. The little prick was far too cocky... unless... did he know something that Von Joel didn’t? Trapped, cut off from any contact with the outside world, he felt the walls stifling him. He paced the squalid room like an animal. If Jackson had seen him, if any of them watching the safe house had seen him, they’d have been wary. The eyes were hard, his mouth clenched tight. He looked more dangerous, much more openly dangerous than he had ever allowed any one of them to see... Time was running out.

Next day, at the behest of DCI McKinnes, Larry joined him for lunchtime drinks at a pub in the Chalk Farm district. It was a place with a friendly feel, the kind of bar that was difficult to leave after a couple of pints. To enhance matters the Chief was in expansive mood, treating Larry like a favorite, candidly filling him in on the interdepartmental gossip and feeding him background on current events, finally getting around to the topic of the life and crimes of Eddie Myers, alias Philip Von Joel. When they finished their first drink Larry tried to order another round, but McKinnes insisted it was his.

“Two more pints, love...” He nudged Larry and pointed to a bunch of flowers and a box of chocolates on the bar beside him. “Don’t let me forget them, they’re for the wife’s birthday.”

He leaned back on his stool, easing out a fiver without taking his wallet from his pocket. When the fresh drinks came he paid for them, told the barmaid to have one herself, and turned to Larry again, picking up the narrative where he had left it.

“Have you any idea what Myers’s escape did to my career? Eh?”

He paused to have a coughing fit and stubbed out the half inch of cigarette that had brought on the attack. He drank down almost half a pint of beer and dabbed at his eyes with his handkerchief.

“They don’t pin it up on the notice board: DCI McKinnes is a schmuck. You just stay out in the cold, till the powers that be reckon you paid your dues.”

He stopped again, took out his cigarettes and lit one. He puffed thoughtfully, enveloping Larry in smoke.

“I paid mine,” he said, “and now I’m going out in the proverbial blaze of glory. We’re going to be set up for the trial way ahead of schedule.” He drank more beer, wiped his mouth. “Now it’s phase two. Myers thinks he’s done us proud — and he has, I admit that. But he also thinks he’s got away with murder. Like he got away with more than a million. It’s stashed somewhere, and nobody knows where it is, right? Right?”

“Right,” Larry murmured.

“Wrong. Eddie knows. See, he’s put a lot of men in the frame, they’ll all go down, and now we’ve clobbered Min-ton, he might even get less of a sentence — you with me? He won’t even need to frigging abscond. He’ll walk. Straight to his stash. Now, you found him, you’d better reel him in. Quick.”

So that’s what it’s all about, Larry thought. A pep talk. A soft-edged warning that he was expected to work even harder from here on in. Well, that was no skin off Larry’s nose — he enjoyed hard work if it got him somewhere. He gulped his beer, feeling he should contribute something to the meeting.

“He said there was a nurse, Guv, one of the staff nurses, that he’d been screwing.”

McKinnes erupted with sudden and harsh laughter. Larry nearly jumped.

“The bastard,” McKinnes said, when he was able to speak. He wiped his face. “Is that the truth? He was shafting one of the nurses?”

“That’s what he told me.”

McKinnes shook his head, muttering something, then picked up his glass and swallowed the remainder of his beer. He got off his stool and snatched up the flowers.

“So,” he said, wagging a finger at Larry. “Phase two — and this is your job — get to his hidden stash.” He winked. “I want to strip him down to the knuckles.”

McKinnes was chuckling as he walked out of the pub. Larry gulped down his pint and hurried to the door, then came scurrying back for the box of chocolates. He ran outside with it. McKinnes was nowhere in sight.

In another part of London, at the heart of Covent Garden, DC Frisby was presenting himself at the booking office of the Royal Opera House. He flashed his ID at the clerk and explained that he was trying to get details of a recent ticket purchase.

“I phoned earlier. The girl I spoke to said she would look up the booking for the particular night.”

“Oh, yes...” The clerk was looking at a sheet in front of him. “Three seats on the night of September 28th, yes?”

“Right.” Frisby nodded. “I want to know if they were paid for by check or—”

“Credit card,” the clerk said. “Mr. Philip Von Joel.”

Frisby stared. “Are you sure about that?”

“Yes.” The clerk passed over the sheet. “They were row E, 22, 23, and 24. Mr. Von Joel asked for a box, and the reason I’m certain of the booking is because we were to call the Hyde Park Hotel if a box became available.”

“Thank you very much,” Frisby said, turning away, his head buzzing with the implications.

That evening Larry and Von Joel had another game of chess. Von Joel was full of constructive aggression, playing strongly, at the same time encouraging Larry to try harder and take every opportunity that showed itself. As the game approached its close Larry nearly made a disastrous move and Von Joel jumped on him.

“No, Larry! Your rook, he’s supposed to act as a wall, to prevent my lone king moving out to the center of the board. Bring your king up. If you want to beat me, get your king to face mine, check it with your rook, you’ll force me back...” He watched Larry make the revised move. “That’s it.” Von Joel moved his king. “Good. Keep pushing me back to the edge of the board. Good. Now it’s... what?”

Larry turned aside and began thumbing through his Beginner’s Chess book.

“It’s checkmate, you don’t need the book.” Von Joel tapped his forehead. “Think. The defender has two ways of delaying. You can’t avoid the mate, you attack with the rook.” He sighed. “Look up ‘Waiting Moves.’ ”

Larry frowned, studying the book, cross-checking the information with the layout on the board.

“It’s cash,” Von Joel said, almost whispering. “Nearly one million, give or take a few grand, split it fifty-fifty.”

Larry stopped thumbing the book. He felt sweat break out on his face. This was informal, no tape was running.

“Larry, you and my little girl were this close to it.” Von Joel held up his finger and thumb, a fraction of an inch apart. “This close.”

They stared at each other. Von Joel looked down at the board again.

“The enemy king will return opposite your king. I’m defending, so force my hand. I’m making the attacker’s job easy.” Von Joel’s voice went low again. “Sitting there,” he said, “but we can’t get to it.”

“We?” Larry asked, trying to sound nonchalant. “You mean you and Lola?”

“No, I mean you, Larry, me and you.”

Larry stayed cool. He put his book aside, stared at the board, then reached forward and made his move. Checkmate.

“Good,” Von Joel said. He looked up. “You’re learning fast.”

Larry smiled, pleased with himself, in a nervous kind of way.

Late that night Susan Jackson stood in her sons’ bedroom, making sure they were asleep. When she left she closed their door soundlessly and tiptoed along the landing to her own bedroom. She slipped inside, closed the door, and put a stool in front of it. She turned to Colin Frisby, who was already under the bedclothes.

“There’s no lock,” she whispered. “I don’t want them waking up and walking in.”

“They didn’t see me come back,” Frisby said, by way of reassuring her. He lifted the side of the covers and leered, although he believed it was a grin. “It’s nice and warm.”

Susan dithered at the side of the bed. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Nor have I,” Frisby said. “Not with you, anyway.”

“Oh, thanks.” Susan sat on the edge. “You go to bed with all the people you’re supposed to be watching, do you?”

“No way. Some of them are blokes.”

They both smiled awkwardly. Frisby held out his hand. Susan took it.

“It’s not too late to change your mind,” he told her, kissing her hand. “I don’t want to.”

“Thank Christ for that,” he grunted. “Come here...” He drew her under the covers, his hands everywhere at once. “You’re driving me nuts...”