Framed

6

For two weeks Von Joel underwent exhaustive interrogation by DCI McKinnes, backed by a team of subordinate officers headed by DI Shrapnel. They worked long hours, going over every major piece of information at least three times, documenting and annotating, using case documents, surveillance logs, mug shots, and even press reports to single out and verify names, dates, and events.

Five years earlier McKinnes had confessed he was surprised by the detailed accuracy and sheer volume of information this one man had been able to give them. This time McKinnes was astonished. A catalog of crimes — none of them minor — that had resisted prolonged, intensive, and costly attempts at solution were suddenly open books. Von Joel handed over the necessary information complete with the names of major perpetrators, particulars of contractors and fences, detailed MOs, and even, in several cases, complete lists of peripheral personnel like drivers and couriers. At every stage, wherever it was appropriate, he included details of his own involvement in the crime under scrutiny.

The pace of the interrogation was punishing on everyone concerned, but nobody worked harder than Von Joel.

Throughout the sessions he answered every question and racked his brain to come up with details, some incredibly petty and seemingly irrelevant, to shore up or authenticate areas of evidence that raised doubts with the officers checking his testimony.

Toward the end of the second week, Von Joel began to look weary. Lack of daylight and exercise, poor diet, and miserable accommodation were taking their toll on his stamina. He pushed himself nevertheless, maintaining the pace, continuing to come up with names and dates, hideouts, aliases, and the whereabouts of particular people and specific sums of money. On the Friday afternoon, as a surprise bonus, he revealed the identities of three “clean hands” operators, businessmen who bankrolled major heists and raked off percentages when the operations were successful.

At seven o’clock that evening a tired and bleary-eyed DCI McKinnes took a thick wad of paper from DI Shrapnel and pushed it across the table to Von Joel. Clearing his throat, McKinnes proceeded to speak in the dead monotone of a man repeating something he had said many times before.

“Will you now read over the notes of today’s interview,” he said, “and if you agree to the contents will you initial each answer, and sign each page.”

Von Joel began signing and McKinnes watched. When Von Joel joked that his pen was out of ink — he had signed so many pages of statement — he was given a fresh pen; his amusement was not mirrored at the other side of the table.

“During this interview,” McKinnes said, “is everything you have said and signed the truth?”

“Yes,” said Von Joel, nodding. For a moment both men looked at the masses of documents piled on the surrounding tables, the product of two weeks of intensive work.

“And you understand,” McKinnes went on, “that a confession to the police which also inculpates codefendants is not evidence against those codefendants but is treated as hearsay?”

Von Joel nodded again.

“If this pans out,” McKinnes said quietly, “we’ll try for a deal.”

Von Joel looked cautiously relieved.

Within days the ripples from the interrogation room began to spread, disturbing the lives of people who had believed, some of them for years, that they were safe and that their tracks were covered.

On his boat anchored in a Spanish harbor, a big heavyset man called Andy Ball sat watching a soccer match on a small color TV set. A goal was scored and Andy’s cheer coincided with the ringing of the telephone. He snatched up the receiver, continuing to watch the game. “Yeah? Uh-huh, this is Andy...” His eyes remained on the TV screen, but his smile dropped away as the caller spoke. The seriousness of the message brought him slowly to his feet. By the time the caller was finished speaking, Andy had completely lost interest in the football. He put down the phone, his face twisting with rage as he drew back his big foot and brought it forward quickly, smashing the television set.

Some time later, in a cozy restaurant in London, a man called Donald Lather was having dinner with his companion for the evening, an attractive and highly pneumatic blond lady who, the head waiter confided to his subordinate, possessed a room-temperature IQ. Lather smiled at his young companion as he dabbed his mouth with his napkin. He reached for his wineglass and sipped, noticing a man approach, a person he knew. The man nodded curtly, leaned across the table, and whispered something to Lather. He then moved off again. Lather shot to his feet, pushing the table aside and toppling his glass of wine. The contents landed in his companion’s lap, making her squeal. Without glancing at her he threw a wad of banknotes on the table and marched out of the restaurant.

The next day, in another part of town, Harvey Hutchinson, in cap and donkey jacket, was arranging fruit on his street corner cart when his brother, Tommy, came forward and spoke briefly to him. They exchanged words for a couple of minutes, then Tommy hurried away. Harvey watched him go with a look of panic on his face.

That afternoon an antiques dealer, Ronald Fairclough, was behind the counter in his shop with a jeweler’s glass in his eye, examining a fine nineteenth-century ruby-and- garnet necklace he had just bought for a criminally low price. A shadow fell across the counter and Ronald looked up. Tommy Hutchinson had come in. The glass dropped from Fairclough’s eye. He looked terrified.

Later still, in his used-car lot, Willy Noakes was being pushed in his wheelchair between rows of vehicles with price stickers on the windshields when a man ran up to the chair, grasped the handles, and leaned close to Willy, whispering urgently in his ear. The man was Donald Lather. As he turned and rushed away again Willy looked about him distractedly, trying to wheel himself forward, failing, trying again, and finally giving up. He stared after Lather, his face taut with fear.

In a hairdressing salon not far from the car lot, a tough-faced blond woman called Doreen Angel sat under the dryer with a cup of coffee in her hand and a magazine on her knee. An assistant came forward and held up a portable telephone, indicating there was a call for Doreen. Looking surprised, Doreen ducked her head out from under the dryer and put the telephone to her ear. She identified herself, listened for a moment, then, to the assistant’s surprise, she dropped the cup of coffee.

Approximately three weeks after his return from Spain, Larry Jackson received his credit-card statement. He studied it at the kitchen table while Susan washed up the boys’ breakfast dishes. “My God! Do you know how much that Suzuki jeep worked out at?” Susan shrugged, slipping a plate into a slot on the drainer. “You’ll get it back, won’t you?”

“I’m not so sure. They’re being tight-arsed about the phone calls, and they said I never got permission to rent a car.”

“I don’t believe it!” Susan slapped down the dishcloth. “It just serves you right!” She screwed up her face, something she did so often nowadays it was practically a reflex. “ ‘This’ll mean promotion,’ ” she squeaked, imagining she was impersonating Larry.

“It will,” he told her. “We’ll just have to wait.”

The telephone rang. Susan went to the hall and answered it. Larry leaned back in his chair, trying to hear what she was saying.

“Is that for me?” he shouted.

He heard the receiver being put down.

“Yes,” Susan said, coming back. “Somebody called McKinnes. Said for you to get over to the station.”

Larry shot to his feet.

“Did he say what he wanted?”

“No.” Susan picked up the credit-card bill and glared at it. “He just said for you to take an overnight bag.”

After ten minutes waiting at St. John’s Row station to see DCI McKinnes, Larry was suddenly being beckoned to follow him along a corridor. McKinnes issued a fragmented, unclear explanation as they walked.

“It all depends, you see, if the magistrate reckons we’ve got enough to warrant making a deal.” He paused to throw open a door and address the officers on the other side. “I’ll be at Bow Street. Tell Frank to meet me at the car, out back.”

Larry, baffled but entirely eager, caught up as McKinnes moved off again. They went down a narrow stone staircase, meeting DI Falcon and DC Summers coming up. They pressed themselves against the wall to let McKinnes and Larry pass. Larry did a swift up-and-down with his eyebrows, indicating he had no idea what was going on.

“Lucky sod’s on it,” Falcon muttered to Summers. “What did I say, eh?”

“I’ll tell you, Larry,” McKinnes said as they reached the foot of the stairs. “Okay if I call you Larry?”

Larry nodded, feeling a fluttery sensation in his stomach. The abrupt reversal of rejection had done something to his digestive system.

“Well, what we’ve got to date, Larry, is making our hair stand on end. You with me?”

Larry nodded again, adjusting his grip on the overnight bag. He thought quickly about his views on the case, feeling some input was expected.

“You come up with anything on the body that was buried as Myers?” he said.

“Hang on, son. One thing at a time, eh? We’re still negotiating for him to turn Royal. That doesn’t mean we got the go-ahead, not like in the old days. It’ll be up to the magistrate.”

They reached the exit to the parking lot. McKinnes pushed open the door and strode across the yard to a black security wagon. Larry could see Von Joel’s face at one of the ventilated windows. McKinnes checked that the driver was all set, then marched to a Granada parked in front of the wagon. He waved for Larry to follow him. He opened the back door, looked around him and decided to light a cigarette.

“A lot of blokes in the frame,” he said reflectively, “would like to cut Eddie Myers’s balls off, never mind slitting his throat.” He nodded at the back seat. “Get in. We’ve got a sealed court.” DI Shrapnel appeared. “You met Frank,” McKinnes said offhandedly to Larry. He turned to Shrapnel. “Let’s go.”

Shrapnel had ignored Larry. He walked around to the driver’s seat and got in, starting the engine as McKinnes eased into the front seat. Larry noticed a second patrol car lined up at the rear. Without any apparent signal the convoy suddenly moved off, fast, the unmarked Granada in front, patrol car at the rear, and the holding wagon sandwiched between them, all sirens blasting.

As they rounded the corner onto the main road McKinnes turned to Larry.

“Sergeant, about the floater in Italy... we only got the frigging ashes, his wife had him — or whoever the poor bastard was — cremated, so it’ll be circumstantial evidence. We need more.”

“If he didn’t bump the guy off,” Larry offered, “he’ll sure as hell know who did.”

“That doesn’t concern us right now, son. Believe me, I want Eddie Myers stitched up.”

Larry thought this might be a good time to ask the question uppermost in his mind.

“Why have you brought me in?”

Shrapnel shot McKinnes a bored look.

“I want him kept sweet,” McKinnes said. “And I want him to keep spewing up what he’s got. He asked for you personally, Larry boy.”

“What does that mean?” Larry asked, baffled.

“He wants you to sit and hold his hand,” Shrapnel grunted, exchanging looks with McKinnes again.

The profound truth dawned sharply on Larry. He was on the case. Jesus. He was really on it! He sat back in his seat, feeling a smile spread.

In the front Shrapnel began to laugh. McKinnes controlled himself briefly, then he grinned, and after a second he began to laugh too.

Larry felt his smile fade, wondering what they knew that he didn’t.

An hour in the sealed court was like four anywhere else. By eleven forty-five Larry was having trouble staying alert. He preferred courts full of people, plenty of faces to dwell on. Variety kept him attentive.

This gathering had the atmosphere of a funeral for somebody who had died friendless, with only a handful of acquaintances grudgingly mourning him. Four uniformed officers guarded the door; Von Joel, handcuffed, was on the podium with his head bowed. His lawyer, Sydney Jefferson, sat in the front pew. Larry and DI Shrapnel were on a bench at the side.

The magistrate, an attractive middle-aged woman with steady eyes and a no-nonsense mouth, sat with her head resting on her hands, a large file open in front of her. She turned the pages slowly, listening carefully to McKinnes, who was standing to her left with a copy of the same file.

“As you can see, ma’am,” he said in his gravest courtroom voice, “pages ten, eleven, and up to page fourteen give details of the fifth offense. This was a particularly violent robbery, and Constable Walter Cronk was shot at point-blank range. To date we have been unable to produce the evidence to enable us to arrest the five suspects named at the top of page fifteen. These suspects have all been questioned over a number of years in connection with the said offense. Edward Myers has supplied us with a detailed route and layout of the robbery, plus the names of four fences used to distribute the money, and he has admitted to being a party to laundering the said moneys.”

The magistrate looked up.

“Did Myers also benefit from the proceeds of the named robbery?”

“Yes, ma’am, he did, and we have access to his private accounts. His lawyer has produced bank statements and details of all financial transactions over a period of five years, proving without doubt that Myers was, even though on the run, very active in laundering moneys from illegal sources.”

McKinnes paused to clear his throat.

“If I may draw your attention to the next page...”

“The Highfield armed robbery,” the magistrate said, making a note. “Continue.”

The officers by the door were wilting but trying gamely not to show it. Sydney Jefferson, on the other hand, had been vigilant throughout, making notes as the various pieces of evidence were discussed. Frank Shrapnel, too, had made a lot of notes. Von Joel, standing with his eyes fixed on the floor, might well have been in a trance.

“This man, the suspect numbered thirteen on your list,” McKinnes said, “disposed of the shotgun used in the robbery. Myers has been very cooperative and is willing to take us to the location. Page sixteen gives details of the bullion raid at Gatwick Airport, June 1987. There are three named suspects. None have been interrogated as a result of the continuing investigation, but they will now be brought in for questioning.”

Larry found himself staring at Von Joel, fascinated by his air of detached calm, the way he managed to look as if he wasn’t really part of the proceedings. As Larry stared, Von Joel turned his head slowly. Their eyes met and Von Joel smiled. Larry looked away sharply.

“The men named by Myers,” McKinnes went on, “have no previous criminal connections, or associations with any of the afore-listed suspects. None have police records and they appear on the surface to be honest, hard-working citizens. The information divulged by Edward Myers is therefore deemed to be of great importance.”

During the lunch break Larry found himself in the toilet at the same time as DI Shrapnel. As Larry washed his hands he glanced at the Inspector.

“So what’s next?”

“Jefferson will have his say,” Shrapnel muttered, stepping away from the stall. “Then we wait for the outcome. In the old days none of this was bloody necessary, as you know. We could make the deal and get on with it.” He went to the mirror and combed his sparse hair. “Now everything’s in favor of the criminals. The deal’s on record, so he’s protected.”

“No mention of the murder,” Larry said, running his hands through his hair. “Doesn’t that come into this?”

“A few flash bastards made promises,” Shrapnel said, as if he hadn’t heard. “When they couldn’t keep them the grasses started screeching, withdrew statements, et cetera, et cetera. Now we have to go through this farce, we’ve got to have him segregated, keep him sweet...”

“What’s he after? I mean, he absconded, he’s going to have to do time, isn’t he?”

“Let’s find out,” Shrapnel said, pulling open the door.

It took Sydney Jefferson an hour to reach the stage where he could draw together the points of his client’s case and submit them to the magistrate in something resembling a summary. The fatigue in the courtroom had become almost tangible. Von Joel sat in the dock looking tired and drawn. McKinnes drooped in the front bench with his elbows on his knees; Shrapnel and Larry Jackson were behind him, Shrapnel alternately yawning and sighing.

“The information my client has produced is, and I quote, ‘of great importance.’ ” Jefferson paused to let the small drama of the point register. “At the same time it would, if it were to be discovered, place my client at great personal risk. He has been totally cooperative, agreeing to return to England from Spain voluntarily.”

“Mr. Jefferson,” the magistrate said, “your client absconded from custody five years ago. He was at that time acting as an informer and had spent sixteen months in police custody. His continued presence was of great importance, and subsequent to his escape from custody, charges against eight of the men now named yet again by your client were dismissed.”

“That is correct, ma’am.” Jefferson glanced at Von Joel, who was now leaning forward in the dock, listening intently. “I assure you my client has every intention of becoming a Crown prosecution witness again, and as his information shows, he will be a worthwhile witness. I ask for this to be taken into consideration at the trial of my client, as his principal motivation for divulging this information is to receive a reduced sentence. May I suggest—”

“I suggest,” the magistrate cut in, “that your client should have considered this when, at great cost to the government, he absconded from police custody.” She sat back in her high-backed chair and looked toward the dock. “Would the defendant please rise.”

Von Joel got up smartly, standing with his arms as straight as he could manage, his face devoid of expression. The magistrate stared at him for a second before she spoke.

“You have stated that you are prepared to give evidence against former colleagues in crime and to assist the police with their inquiries. Have you come to this decision of your own free will, without compulsion?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Von Joel said, “I have.”

McKinnes was sitting up now, watching the magistrate’s mouth as if it might leak a preview of what she would say next. Behind him Shrapnel and Larry stared, too, scarcely breathing.

“I am fully aware,” the magistrate continued, “that your principal motivation for giving evidence against your erstwhile colleagues will be the hope of a reduction in the sentence you are liable to receive.”

Von Joel nodded, the tip of his tongue flicking between his lips.

“However, I am not, at this stage, prepared to indicate any reduction of sentence.”

Von Joel’s face stiffened and he took a fractional, involuntary step back in the dock.

“Nevertheless,” the magistrate went on, “your continued assistance will be recorded and I agree to you being held in conditions of secrecy. This will enable you to continue assisting inquiries, until it is determined what action and charges will be brought against you. Take him down.”