Framed

20

Frank Shrapnel walked into Larry’s bedroom at the safe house and found DI Falcon turning out the contents of the drawers and sorting through Larry’s belongings. Shrapnel stood back from the doorway a moment; he had a feeling he wasn’t catching Falcon doing anything he hadn’t been told to do. There was nothing furtive about the way he was tossing that room.

“What’s all this about?” Shrapnel said lamely. “Larry’s with the Guv’nor this morning.”

“Yeah, I know.” Falcon paused with his hand in a drawer. “Mac said to give his room a thorough once over...” He picked up a camomile tea box and flipped open the lid. He sniffed. “Bloody hell!” He stared at Shrapnel. “Do you know what this is?”

Shrapnel cocked his head to read the box.

“High-grade marijuana,” Falcon said. “Jackson must be out of his head.”

Shrapnel looked profoundly shocked. And worried. Later, when a certain amount of dust had settled, DCI McKinnes explained the new situation. He delivered the explanation in the Superintendent’s office at St. John’s Row station, pacing back and forward in front of the Superintendent as he spoke, puffing hard on his cigarette.

“He admits he went to the Hyde Park Hotel, and he admits he went to the bloody opera with the women. I think he got it on with the Spanish bird.”

“The ruddy idiot.” The Superintendent was white-lipped, imagining he could already feel waves of repercussion. “This is getting out of hand. It’s insanity.”

“Unbelievable,” McKinnes agreed. “I don’t know what the hell he thought he was trying to do.”

“Whatever, Mac — get rid of him.”

McKinnes stopped pacing.

“No can do,” he said, his voice rich with regret. “I need the bugger. And I reckon Myers is going to need Jackson to get his money.” He spread his hands. “Give me audio on the place. Give me surveillance. Let’s wire the prat up.”

The Superintendent stared. “Are you crazy? Bloody Jackson’s screwed up not just once but... Listen, if we don’t watch it, he’s going to take us both down.”

McKinnes stubbed out his cigarette and lit another one.

“I got down on my sodding knees for this,” he said, “and I’ll go down on them again. I won’t let Jackson foul up, I promise you. Just let me finish what I started. I’ll be right here...” He tapped his shoulder. “You know why I want Eddie Myers.”

“You’ve already got him, Mac.”

“No!” McKinnes said it vehemently, almost glaring at the Superintendent. “No, I haven’t. Not all of him. But I will have.” He looked straight at the Superintendent and pointedly tapped his shoulder again. “Because I’ll be right there... Okay?”

Ten minutes later McKinnes was marching along the corridor with Larry beside him. DC Summers, running as usual, caught up with them by the lift.

“Boss,” he panted. “Sydney Jefferson’s downstairs.”

“He can wait.”

Summers melted away. McKinnes pressed the lift button. He and Larry waited. Larry was partly in the picture, far enough to know he was in the kind of trouble that did not easily go away. He also knew, without being told, that Colin Frisby was an element in his predicament. One look at Frisby’s devious mug in the operations room had made it crystal clear.

“You must never coerce,” McKinnes said now, keeping it strictly business. “You just listen and ask pertinent questions, but do not encourage or make suggestions about any part of the robbery to Myers. Any unrecorded information you are privy to can go against you. You must at no time appear to aid or give incitement to any illegal activity. You taking this in?”

“Yes, Mac.” The lift arrived. Larry got in. “Ah, about everything... I’m sorry, I want to—”

“All I want is Myers, son. I put myself right in front of the firing squad keeping you on this.” McKinnes pointed straight up. “Get up there! And get your sodding head straightened out!”

The lift door closed. McKinnes turned along the corridor and saw Sydney Jefferson being shown into an interview room by DC Summers. When Jefferson saw McKinnes striding toward them he stopped in the doorway.

“Chief Inspector McKinnes,” he called, “I’ve been waiting for over an hour. It is my right to have access to my client—”

“Is it?” McKinnes didn’t break step. “He can’t just hop on a bus, you know. It takes a lot of organization. Just have patience. Myers’ll be here.”

McKinnes strode on past. Jefferson went into the interview room and sat down. As Summers came out McKinnes gestured to him. He ran to catch up.

“Search Jefferson,” McKinnes said grimly. “Down to his Y-fronts if necessary.”

Upstairs in the Radio Control Division a departmental technician gave Larry rudimentary instructions in the deployment of bugs and body wires. On a trestle table in front of them was an open briefcase with plastic foam compartments. Beside it were a number of miniature receivers, several two-way bugs and a pair of radio microphones. Two of the department’s specialists hovered nearby, watching the tackle on the table like hard-eyed mother swans keeping an eye on their young.

“Try not to touch the heads,” the technician said, pointing to the radio mikes. “They’re very delicate. This one you use for outside work only, it’s got a good wide radius. This is the internal one, it’s good for two miles, then it distorts. Tape it to your chest or just here...” He pointed to his armpit. “Now, every time you set yourself up for the day, check with this.” He held up a small black box fitted with a dial indicator. “If the needle remains between these two points, you’re on air.”

Larry nodded, taking it all in, trying to be a professional in the teeth of his anxieties; after today’s events, he couldn’t shake a gnawing suspicion that the alterations to his life — so sudden and so many — had plunged him into bad currents.

“Do remember,” the technician said, packing the gear into the briefcase, “this is valuable equipment. Try not to damage any of it.”

“I’ll do my best,” Larry promised.

I’ll maybe even do better than that. He had to motivate himself. If he could make this phase of the operation work without confusion, the prestige might rub out some of the black marks that had accumulated against him.

Two floors below, meanwhile, DCI McKinnes and the Superintendent were looking at a street map.

“I’ll need men across the road,” McKinnes said. “We’re sorting a good surveillance flat and a surveillance vehicle. The entire flat will be wired and—”

“This is costing, Mac.” The Superintendent’s faraway look had been there since McKinnes came back with the map. “I had to put it before Fretlow, and he had to take it even higher. My budget’s wiped out.”

“Are you saying I can’t go on?”

The Superintendent looked cagey. The whole truth about his negotiations with the brass would not be forthcoming.

“They want — and I knew this would come up — they want Myers taken to the Reading Secure Unit.”

“So I lose him?” McKinnes didn’t hide his indignation. “Doesn’t matter that he’s planning a bloody robbery?”

“Oh, come on, now, Mac...”

“Jefferson says his girls are cleaning him out. He’s got to go for it.”

“We don’t know that for sure.” The Superintendent smiled sourly. “You just want him to.”

“You said it.” McKinnes glared at the window. “Five years I’ve waited for this.”

Twenty minutes later DI Shrapnel, DI Falcon, and DC Summers looked up from one of the desks in the incident room to face DCI McKinnes as he marched in. They looked sheepish.

“Frank,” McKinnes said, “I want Jefferson tipped off that Myers has just two more weeks in our custody. In the meantime we hold Myers here until I’ve got the safe house wired...” He stopped, taking in the group expression. “What’s up?”

Falcon held up a camomile tea box. “We found this in Jackson’s bedroom.”

McKinnes looked at the box with a so-what expression. Shrapnel put it down and held out a box of Black Magic chocolates.

“These were in the kitchen,” he said. “I can have the lab boys check them out. They could have drugs in them, I don’t know how the hell he got them in—”

“The chocolates were for my wife,” McKinnes snapped. The three detectives looked at each other. McKinnes snatched up a plastic bag from the tea box and sniffed it. He appeared to freeze.

“It’s marijuana,” Shrapnel said, pronouncing it mari-jewana.

“I know what it bloody is, Frank!”

Larry appeared. He was carrying a briefcase, gingerly, as if there were eggs in it.

“I’m all set to go back, Guv,” he said.

“Oh, are you?” McKinnes turned to him, holding up the bag of grass between finger and thumb. “What’s this, Jackson? It was found in your room at the safe house.”

Larry stared, his throat tightening. For the moment he couldn’t summon an excuse. He went on staring, his hopes of redemption melting. There was no way to avoid the obvious. His life was turning to shit.

Jefferson was tight-lipped with fury. His ratlike eyes were gray as flints. He had been searched, left waiting, and no one had listened to his clipped demands as to how long it would be before he had access to Von Joel. Then, just as he was about to really fly off the handle, the thud of footsteps heralded Von Joel’s arrival. Two uniformed officers remained in the room throughout the short interview. Jefferson had demanded the meeting as his client’s right. Von Joel, as agreed, had signed over power of attorney to Jefferson, giving him access to Von Joel’s bank accounts. DI Falcon sat in on the meeting. In fact the room was so filled with bodies, it became stifling. Every single move that went between Von Joel and Jefferson was watched. Each document Von Joel was required to sign was checked carefully. The men watched and listened almost gleefully as Jefferson informed Von Joel that both his girlfriends were, as he had told McKinnes, cleaning him out. They had used his check cards, and spent thousands on a suite at the Hyde Park Hotel... Jefferson, however, appeared to the onlookers to be more worried about his own fees being met, and when they heard the amount due to him, the men exchanged shifty looks.

Von Joel’s appearance had slightly shocked Jefferson. He seemed quiet, exceptionally subdued. There was stubble on his chin, a scruffiness about him that Jefferson had never detected before, but he made no reference to the obvious discomfort of his client, and the fading bruises on his face. The cuffs were never removed, even when Von Joel signed the documents. Falcon noticed that Von Joel seemed almost about to crack up, especially when Jefferson repeated the amount of money the girls had got away with, and admitted that he was unsure how long he could continue taking care of Von Joel’s business transactions since Von Joel was broke.

Jefferson gave Von Joel a strange half smile. “The villa in Spain was bought in Lola’s name. Well, the little bird has it on the market, and there is nothing you or I can do about it. The Monterey was in the other girl’s name and that, too, is on the market. Again, as they have proof of ownership, I cannot stop the sale going ahead.”

Von Joel swore under his breath about cheating bitches, and kept his head bent down, as Jefferson checked over the papers, preparing to return them to his briefcase. The locks snapped shut.

“Any complaints? Food all right, is it? They’re getting your vitamins to you?”

Von Joel nodded, then sighed. “I am held in a shit hole, but apart from that I don’t have too many complaints. There’s no exercise area, and I’m getting sick. I need some fresh air. Can you arrange for me to have at least a walk? I’d like a run if possible. The place is close to Regent’s Park, somebody must be able to arrange it. Can you talk to McKinnes? I’m going crazy in that dump.”

Jefferson nodded, said he would do whatever was possible, but he doubted if Von Joel would be allowed out for a morning jog. He gave a twisted smile. Falcon couldn’t help but smile as well; bloody nerve of Von Joel, asking to go friggin’ joggin’, next it would be a night out at the theater.

The meeting lasted no longer than fifteen minutes. A report was sent back to McKinnes that nothing unforeseen had happened, apart from Von Joel looking like hell, and obviously being depressed. The news of Von Joel’s girlfriends stitching him up good and well traveled fast, and everyone couldn’t help but laugh. So much for the Super Grass, his own little darlin’s were rippin’ him off, and his brief was doing an even better job.

McKinnes had a few moments with Jefferson, and he almost laughed in Jefferson’s face when he passed on Von Joel’s request that he be allowed to go running or walking to get some fresh air. Jefferson carefully made no reference to the fact that Von Joel had let slip the location — that he was being held within the vicinity of Regent’s Park. McKinnes almost told Jefferson to piss off, but then excused himself, and walked out into the corridor. Von Joel wanted a run, did he? Or was he already planning to do a runner? Maybe they should let out the leash a little bit more. If they kept an eye on him, maybe, as McKinnes had said, he’d give them a lead.

After seeing Von Joel at the police station, Sydney Jefferson called on Lola and Charlotte at the Hyde Park Hotel. Their business was brief, hardly more than an update, concluding with Jefferson’s account of the meeting at St. John’s Row station. As he was preparing to leave Lola asked him if Von Joel had asked after his girls.

“Every word we said was monitored. And he’s not supposed to be enamored of the situation, is he?” Jefferson smiled. “You’re taking him to the cleaners, remember?” He picked up his attaché case, went to the door and opened it. “I’ll contact you here as soon as I get a result.”

“But you haven’t found out where they’re keeping him,” Lola said.

“I did my best,” Jefferson replied testily. “All I know is what I told you, he’s somewhere close to Regent’s Park. And McKinnes agreed that he could exercise early each morning.” He looked from one girl to the other. “The rest will be up to you.”

Early that evening Larry fitted bugs in the safe house, under the moody eye of Frank Shrapnel. He worked his way along to the kitchen, taking his cues from sketchy notes he had made at the station. Throughout the flat he had positioned each bug so that its pattern of receptivity overlapped that of at least one other bug in the vicinity. He wore an earpiece as he worked, to monitor signal strength and pick up any howl that might result from putting bugs too close to one another. He walked slowly around the kitchen with the last-but-one device, a transceiver the size of a ten-pence piece, deciding where to put it.

“Testing, testing...”

Shrapnel checked the dial on the small black box. The needle moved gently between the two markers. He gave a thumbs up. Larry stripped the wax paper from the adhesive on the back of the bug and positioned it under the overhanging trim at the base of a wall cupboard.

“Look,” Shrapnel said throatily, finally spitting out what had obviously been on his mind, “thanks for not spilling the beans about the herbal tea. If Mac and the lads had got to hear...”

Larry prodded him. He pointed to the dial on the box. Shrapnel slapped a hand over his mouth. Larry handed him an earpiece.

“It’s called skating, Frank — on very thin ice. I just hope I don’t fall through the cracks.” Larry moved close to the nearest bug and spoke directly to it. “Just one more, in Myers’s bedroom, then that’s it. Over.”

By five-forty the safe house was comprehensively wired. In the surveillance flat in a block across the way, reel-to-reel tape machines, binoculars, cameras, and dark-light monitoring equipment had already been set up. A surveillance team was in place.

At nine o’clock Von Joel was finally brought back to the safe house by a posse of plainclothes policemen. He was taken directly to his bedroom and locked in.

After undressing for bed, he turned off his light and stood by the window. He could see the solitary officer posted near the entrance to the block of flats, and it was easy to spot the unmarked patrol car at the roadside with two men sitting inside, silhouetted against the lamplight. All very reassuring, he thought, but there had to be more than that. The ball game, after all, was changing.

He waited.

Long minutes passed, then a man came along the street and stopped by the police car. He bent low and spoke to the men inside. When he moved away he entered the apartment block opposite.

Von Joel began examining the windows of the block one by one, taking his time, scanning each of them from top to bottom, side to side. Halfway up the block his eye was held by a dark-draped window with a tiny gap between the curtains. In the gap was the small but telltale glint of a camera lens.

“Gotcha!” Von Joel whispered.

He went to bed.

At ten the following morning there was a team changeover in the surveillance flat. The officer taking over the audio equipment was removing his jacket when the night-shift officer, still wearing headphones, beckoned him to the table. He turned up the sound on the external monitor speaker.

“Listen to this.”

They sat motionless, scarcely breathing, as Larry’s voice said, “Five hundred grand for me and five for you, that right?”

The policemen leaned closer to the equipment, their faces tense. There was a rattling sound, then Larry spoke again.

“Six,” he said. “Okay, that’s me to go. I’m feeling lucky.”

The officers looked at each other, smiling foolishly as they realized Larry and Von Joel were playing Monopoly.

Over in the safe house the two men sat cross-legged on the living room floor with the Monopoly board between them. Von Joel had a notepad; as he talked and played he simultaneously drew pictures and made notes.

“Now,” he said slowly, shaking the dice, “do I go for the bank?” The dice landed. “Oh, yes! Double six! Very nice. Walk straight to the vaults.” He made his move on the board. “Very easy access, and nobody gets hurt. You saw for yourself, it’d be no problem.”

“Hang on,” Larry said. “One, two, three — that’s jail.”

“No way,” Von Joel said, staring at the board. “It’s not as if I would be stealing. It’s my money. Your turn.” He watched as Larry threw the dice. “Oh, very nice! Double four. But not good enough, my friend. Check my score. You see — when you’re desperate something always turns up.”

He handed Larry a drawing of the interior of the bank, the same one Larry had visited with Lola. He studied it, marveling at the detail.

Von Joel gasped suddenly.

Larry looked at him. “You okay?”

Von Joel blinked, rubbing the side of his head.

“Give me a hand up, would you? I feel lousy.”

As Larry helped him to his feet Von Joel swayed, holding on with one hand, letting his slack knuckles slide and trail across Larry’s arm and chest, feeling for his wire.

“I think I’ll go and lie down, I don’t feel so good. How could my little girls do it to me? I’m sick, Larry, sick...”

Over the next hour his condition appeared to get worse. The pallor of his face made his tan a light waxy brown; his eyes were dark-rimmed and feverishly bright. At eleven o’clock Shrapnel decided to call in a police doctor. He came at once and made a thorough examination. Afterward, standing at the front door with Larry, he explained the position.

“If his headache continues, he should be whipped back in for another X-ray. There’s nothing I can do, really. He says he won’t take aspirin or codeine.”

“Has he got a temperature?”

“One degree above normal, that’s all. But keep an eye on him. If it goes any higher then he should be in hospital.”

Behind the locked bedroom door, as they spoke, Von Joel was on his feet. From under the bed he fished out a bottle of water. He uncapped it quietly, shook it over the pillow and bedclothes, then used it to soak his hair. When he was finished he recapped the bottle, put it back in its hiding place, and climbed into bed.

When he was found in his sorry condition half an hour later, babbling deliriously to himself, Larry and DI Shrapnel changed the bed linen and his night clothes.

“That’ll hold him for now,” Shrapnel said. “No sense making a lot of fuss unless we have to.”

It happened again, two hours later. They changed the bed, dried Von Joel off and decided, one more time, to give the condition a chance to put itself right. It was a long shot, but it was preferable to telling the boss and getting embroiled in one of his rages. Both Shrapnel and Larry knew that if Von Joel’s illness persisted, they would catch the blame.

At nine in the evening Larry came into the kitchen. Shrapnel was there in his dressing gown, standing by the cooker waiting for a pan of milk to boil.

“His bed linen’s soaked again,” Larry said. “I don’t like the look of him. We should contact Mac.”

“You call him,” Shrapnel said.

“No. I’m not taking the responsibility. You call. That man should be taken to the hospital.”

Von Joel was behind the bedroom door, listening. The talking in the kitchen stopped, then he heard footsteps coming along the passage. He turned in the darkness and made a run for the bed. His toe slid under a rip in the old rug and he went down, hitting his face on the bedside cabinet. Pain flared in his nose and the cabinet fell over with a crash.

“Shit!”

He threw himself into the damp bed and tried to pull the covers up over him. He touched his nose and felt warm blood.

“Oh, nice one...”

As the door was unlocked he flopped back on the pillow, half in and half out of the bed. The light came on and Shrapnel stood there, gaping at the sight of Von Joel, spread eagled on the bed, his eyes closed, blood streaming from his nose.

“Oh, Jesus, Larry...” Shrapnel was stunned. He turned and yelled. “Larry! Get in here!”

Larry came hurtling along the passage. He stopped in the doorway, holding the frame, staring. Shrapnel went forward and slapped Von Joel’s face.

“Don’t,” Larry snapped. “Don’t do that.”

“He’s bloody unconscious!” Shrapnel was panicking, flapping his arms. He glared at Larry. “He’s soaking wet — look at the sheets.” He glanced again at the deathly still face, at the blood channeling down from the nose across the mouth and neck. “I’ll call an ambulance,” he said. He ran off up the passage.

Ten minutes later an ambulance with Von Joel and Larry inside was blue-lighting westward across London. Shrapnel followed in a patrol car. In the back of the ambulance an attendant leaned across Von Joel, trying to stabilize him against the shocks and bumps of the racing vehicle.

They had been traveling a couple of minutes when Von Joel sat up. He grinned across at Larry, who had been panicking nearly as badly as Shrapnel

“I’m okay,” Von Joel told the attendant, who stared, not seeming to comprehend. “Larry” — Von Joel looked around the man’s bulk — “I need to talk. Get him to sit up front!”

The attendant was looking from one to the other. He narrowed his eyes at Von Joel and asked him what was going on.

“Shut it! Tell him, Larry.”

It took Larry a moment to gather himself. He turned to the attendant and nodded curtly.

“Do it,” he said.

The man edged reluctantly into the driving cab, his eyes darting from Larry to Von Joel.

“It’s okay,” Larry assured him, getting out his warrant card. “This is my ID. I’m a police officer. Now shut the door. Do it!”

The attendant huffily slid the door shut. Larry put the ID back in his pocket and got out his handcuffs. He told Von Joel to hold up his hands and clasped the cuffs on him.

“I’m going to give you one last chance,” Von Joel said.

Larry sat back. “You’re giving me?”

There was room to cultivate some drama in the situation. Larry had taped on the outdoor transmission gear before they left the safe house. He knew he would be picked up loud and clear.

“Eddie, when they hear about this, do you know what McKinnes will do to me? You bastard!” Larry let that part soak in, then he said, “You want to talk?”

“Half a million,” Von Joel said calmly. “That’s what I will be giving you, Larry. You could spend the next twenty years in the force and never make that much.” His voice was warm and beguiling as he pushed himself up on the bunk, leaning closer to Larry. “I’m offering you the chance of a lifetime. You’ve only got one life, and already you’re halfway through it.” He held Larry’s eyes. “You’ve got a map, it’s a walkover. Listen to me, Larry... I’ll arrange passports, tickets. If you want your wife and kids along, that’s fine by me.”

Von Joel gasped suddenly, his face twisting. “No violence,” he said, panting softly. “No guns. We walk in and take it, Larry.”

He gasped again, then dropped back, his eyes rolling upward and closing.

“Eddie?” Larry shook him carefully. “Eddie, are you messing me around?”

There was no way to know if this was more playacting, but Von Joel appeared to be unconscious. Larry went to the front and banged on the partition door. The attendant turned and glared at him.

“Get back in here. He’s passed out.”

Attempts to bring him around did not work. He still appeared to be unconscious when they arrived at the hospital. He was rushed directly to an X-ray suite; X-rays and CAT scans were taken, then he was transferred to an observation room in Accident and Emergency, where monitors were set up.

When McKinnes arrived, his face congested with anger, he ignored Larry and DI Shrapnel and demanded that someone in authority tell him what kind of state his prisoner was in. After some administrative flurrying he was taken into an X-ray viewing room and introduced to a radiologist who tried to clarify the position.

“If you’ll take a look at these...” The doctor pointed to a row of backlit X-rays, showing Von Joel’s skull from a number of angles. “There’s no fracture, but you can still see the indentations from the crash.”

McKinnes stared at the plates, discerning nothing.

“You don’t think he’s conning us, do you?”

“Does he have a reason to?”

McKinnes shrugged.

“This is from when he was first brought here.” The doctor hooked a frontal skull plate on to the viewing screen, “he’s very lucky his skull wasn’t crushed. Lucky, too, that there was no cervical or brainstem damage. Given the degree of impact his skull actually withstood, and taking tonight’s episode into account, it would be reasonable to assume he’ll continue having spasmodic blackouts and severe headaches for some time to come.”

“But...” Panic sparkled behind McKinnes’s eyes. “He’ll be all right, will he? To stand trial, that is?”

“Unless he blacks out,” the doctor said, half smiling. “It could happen again, as I said, but it’s not really a debilitating factor, and he’s a fit man, in very good shape...”

Later, McKinnes sat down with Larry in the corridor outside Von Joel’s room. Behind them, through an opening in the curtains, Von Joel was clearly visible, lying on the bed with a blanket over him. His face was turned aside, his eyes closed.

Larry explained to McKinnes what had happened earlier in the day, immediately before Von Joel had been taken ill. He showed the boss the map.

“That’s the bank. See, he’s marked out the escape route. He used the Monopoly game for cover — have they got it on tape?”

“Yes, they have,” McKinnes nodded. “Did he talk in the ambulance?”

“What?” Larry stared at him.

“Was he unconscious? We didn’t hear a word, Jackson, just a lot of static...”

“In the ambulance?” Larry blinked. “You said you got it on tape. I’ve got the mike taped to—” He touched the front of his shirt and shot to his feet. “Shit...”

McKinnes stared as Larry frantically patted his shirt and pulled it out of his trousers.

“Shit! Aw shit!” He looked helplessly at McKinnes. “It’s got loose, I... Christ...” He threw up his hands. “I don’t know where it is.” He stood there with his shirttails hanging below his jacket, trying to think. “I put it on, I remember, Frank was there. Then we helped carry Von Joel out of the bedroom to the stretcher...” He looked at McKinnes, distraught. “It must have come loose around about then. I just don’t know where it is.”

Larry turned and stared at Von Joel, a thought occurring to him. Von Joel’s eyes remained closed.

“He was unconscious when you took him out of the flat,” McKinnes said, standing up and facing Larry. “So I take it he didn’t say anything in the ambulance. Is that right?”

Larry bit back his panic, wondering which way to jump.

“I had the cuffs on him, Mac.”

McKinnes sniffed, dismissing that as irrelevant guff.

“Did he say anything in the ambulance? Or do I have to go and bloody ask the ambulance attendant? Did he or didn’t he?” McKinnes’s color began to rise. “Was he or wasn’t he unconscious?”

“Yes,” Larry blurted. He swallowed hard. “And no, he didn’t say anything.”

McKinnes nodded. He turned and walked away. Larry glanced into the room. The pale head turned slowly on the pillow until it was facing the door. The eyes opened, staring eerily. And then Von Joel smiled.