Framed

8

Larry was ready at nine-thirty, seated in the lounge with pencils, pens, and notepads lined up and the condenser microphone in position. Von Joel appeared at nine thirty-three. He was carrying a bottle of mineral water and a pair of white underpants.

“You want to wear these?” He tossed the pants to Larry. “I noticed your smalls were still wet.”

Larry let the pants lie where they were on the chair beside him. He checked his watch pointedly as Von Joel put his bottle of water on the table.

“They’re handmade for me in Paris, Larry. I don’t know why there isn’t a company in England that designs decent underwear for men. I see these disgusting Y-fronts in the shops here — worse, stretch bikinis. And the colors... oh, man... But those, you can wear linen pants over them, they don’t make that line at the sides. Try them — you’re medium, aren’t you?”

“You want to shut the door?” Larry said.

Von Joel nodded pleasantly, closed the door and came back. He took the cushions from the couch, put them on the floor and sat on them.

“One good thing,” he said. “You don’t smoke. McKinnes and his sidekick in there, they make me sick to my stomach. Fifty a day or more. Chain-smoking. McKinnes used to cough his guts up every morning. Man, I thought, why do you do it to yourself? Why? He’s addicted to nicotine, of course—”

“You know the routine,” Larry said briskly. “When I set the tape on, you will be recorded. Everything you say will be transcribed, all details fed—”

“I know the score.” Von Joel leaned on the coffee table. “Have you smelt his breath? McKinnes? The thought of having to sit in close proximity to his stench was—”

“You need notebooks, pens? No?” Larry pressed a switch on the base of the mike. “Say a few words, just to see if we’ve got a decent level.”

Von Joel nodded, thought for a second, then began singing If You Want to Make a Fool of Somebody. Larry stopped him after a couple of lines. The intercom squawked for a second, then Shrapnel’s voice came on. He told Larry the level was fine.

“I’m all set,” he said. “Ready when you are.” Larry wet his lips and began to speak. “I am Detective Sergeant Lawrence Jackson. The time is one-nine-thirty-five a.m. I am” — he coughed, cleared his throat — “situated in room 4d secure unit provided by the Metropolitan Police, St. John’s Row station. This is a recorded interview, recorded information to be used by the Metropolitan Police.” He cleared his throat again. “Would you please state your real name, age, and address at the time of your arrest...”

In the radio link room DI Shrapnel sat by the master recorder with a cup of coffee. On the table beside him were sandwiches and a Mars bar. He eased down in the chair as Von Joel began to speak and the needles in the level meters danced.

“Right,” he breathed, “here we go again. All yours, sunshine...”

Several floors above them, the incident room was packed with uniformed and plainclothes officers, plus Flying Squad, Robbery Squad, and Drug Squad personnel. At the table in front of the blackboard DCI McKinnes briefed them.

“The most important part of the operation,” he said, “is coordination. You each have separate sections of Edward Myers’s statements. You will each be allocated your suspect. We go on one swoop. Arresting officers look for cash, but collect any evidence of apparently legitimate spending — receipts, car log books, hire-purchase documents, mortgage agreements.”

He paused to suck hard on his cigarette and blow out a long blue plume of smoke at the ceiling.

“We’ve got five teams and we’ve been allocated four armed marksmen. Rut treat it quietly — it’s imperative we take precautions. Use your special channel radio network and check the coded call signs. We must at all times conceal the scale and nature of the operation. They’ve got VHF receivers and scanners to listen in on our network. Remember that and act with appropriate caution.” He ran his gaze along the rows of intent faces. “Okay? I’m on the big fish, George Minton, because I’m the Guv’nor.”

As the operation got under way, Von Joel sat relaxed in the safe house, his voice soothingly confidential as he beguiled Larry Jackson with more stories from the hoard he carried in his head.

“Willy Noakes arrived in Marbella early summer 1987. June. He approached me because he had been given the tip-off that I was semi-interested in financing deals. To be more specific, Willy was a small-time con artist who on occasions carried messages to Spain from certain other parties. He acted as a money courier and contact man for George Minton.”

In 1988, according to Von Joel, Willy Noakes was in Spain to set up a jewelry robbery at Christie’s, an operation that eventually netted 2.3 million pounds. Noakes approached Von Joel to see if he wanted to be involved, but he declined, mainly because too many people were needed; the more personnel involved, the more danger there was of something going wrong before, during, and even after the event.

“They had to have one driver to block the access,” Von Joel explained. “That meant hiring a big furniture van. They had to have someone inside, maybe two men, acting as possible buyers. They needed a big fence to deal with the stones, and it was at the very least a four-man raid. So all in all you’re looking at nine, ten bodies involved. So I passed on it.”

Kenny Greason, Donald Lather, Roger Fairclough, and Doreen Angel, he added, were the money.

“But the guv’nor of them all, the main man, was Min-ton. George Minton.”

“He financed the robbery?” Larry asked.

“He assisted in setting the robbery up,” Von Joel replied, speaking carefully, underlining the fact that he knew Larry was new to the investigation of crime at this heady level. “They all got a cut of the profits. Main slice went to Minton, next cut to Freddy Farmilow, who fenced it. They were in Switzerland the same night the robbery took place. The stones were carried by...”

He paused, closing his eyes, pressing his fingers to his forehead.

“Stones were carried by...?” Larry prompted.

“Girl,” Von Joel said, opening his eyes. “Can’t remember her name. Worked at Christie’s until six months after the robbery. She had a boyfriend, a rock musician. The stones went over in the band’s equipment. The band didn’t know. The girl was paid ten grand.”

“You’ve not mentioned this girl before?”

“Like I said, I can’t remember her name.”

“Can’t remember her name.” Larry played up the scepticism, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek.

“No,” Von Joel said flatly.

“Going back to your previous answer, you said this girl, the one you cannot recall the name of, was paid ten thousand...”

Von Joel’s recall was operating at a different level from Larry’s line of inquiry. He was fishing deep, dredging for names.

“The drivers,” he said, snapping his fingers softly, encouraging the flow of memory. “Little Harvey Hutchinson, his brother Tommy — and Willy carried the shooter. It was a fake.”

Larry was impressed. He looked at the notes he had scribbled.

“Can we just go over each name again?”

“Sure.” Von Joel bowed his head, concentrating. “Kenny Greason, Donald Lather, Roger Fairclough... ah... Doreen Angel, Harvey Hutchinson, Tony Avis, George Minton...”

As Von Joel continued to lay the foundations for further police action, a few miles away George Minton was standing in the hall of his comfortable home, the telephone receiver pressed to his ear, listening to a Spanish housekeeper trying to explain in her basic English that her employer was not available.

“Senor Von Joel is not at home, please. Senor Von Joel away, si? London, si, si...”

Minton put down the receiver, picked it up again and dialed. He lit a cigarette, sucking the mixture of air and smoke deep into his lungs as he waited. The phone at the other end was picked up. No one spoke, but someone was listening.

“He’s not in Spain,” Minton said. Now a voice at the other end spoke softly. Minton shrugged. “I don’t know, but I don’t like it. Can you check around?” He listened again. “She doesn’t speak frigging English, so she could be confused, but she said London.” He nodded at the receiver, frowning. “Yeah, that’s what I thought...”

At ten past one Von Joel was still talking, still listing names and dates and events. When it came to figures, Larry noticed, his memory operated like a fast-access database.

“As far as I can recollect, the moneys went like this — Lloyds Bank job, ’76, fifty grand. There was another Lloyds one at Kennington, ’69, a grand. Security Express, March ’89, one million. Barclays Bank Ladbroke Grove, April ’90, that was eighty-one grand.”

“This Rodney Bingham,” Larry said, his throat dry now, “as far as I can make out, you’ve not mentioned his name in connection with answer number twelve on page forty — can we go back to that question?”

In the radio link room DI Shrapnel sat forward sharply, grabbed a file and thumbed through the lists of names. He found what he wanted and jotted a note: Number 8 — Rodney Bingham.

“Eighth man was Rodney Bingham,” Von Joel’s voice said over the tape monitor. “He fenced cash from the Security Express job. The money went over to Torremolinos... On the Wembley job I don’t know. Willy and Farmilow got carved up, I do know that.” There was a pause, then Von Joel said, “I’m hungry.”

In the radio link room Shrapnel rolled his eyes. “Hungry?” he muttered, staring at the tape machine. “Sold nine men down the nick, and the bastard’s hungry.” He leaned forward, pressed the intercom. “Call a break,” he said.

Larry and Von Joel went to the kitchen. Von Joel began putting together an elaborate salad. Larry poured a can of spaghetti into a bowl and stuck it in the microwave.

“So,” Von Joel said, chopping carrots at an impressive speed, “how does the first morning feel like it’s going, Larry? I put nine in the frame for you. That’s a man every half hour.”

“You tell me how it feels.”

“About as fit as your stomach after that.” Von Joel nodded at the spaghetti. “You want some salad? I’ve made enough for two.”

Larry declined. When the microwave pinged he scooped a stiff tangle of the spaghetti onto a plate, got a fork from the drawer and started eating.

“What about Sam Kellerman?” he said, keen to keep the talk on business lines. “You didn’t say anything about Kellerman on that last job, but he’s in Dartmoor, he admitted it.”

Von Joel didn’t appear to be listening. He had taken vinegar, lemon juice, and pepper from the cupboard and now he was searching along the shelves, pushing items aside, growing agitated as he failed to find what he was looking for. Finally he slammed the cupboard door shut.

“I specifically asked for Moutarde de Meaux,” he said, his teeth barely parting. “This” — he held up a small jar of Colman’s English — “is not French mustard.”

Larry blinked at him. “It’s mustard, isn’t it?”

Von Joel hit the cupboard so hard with the flat of his hand, the rim came away and crashed to the floor. He turned on Larry, his face twisted with rage.

“I can’t make my dressing...” he hissed. Larry almost choked. He couldn’t believe it, Von Joel going ape shit because of a jar of ruddy mustard. He was about to stand up, just in case Von Joel went for his throat.

DI Shrapnel sauntered into the kitchen. He looked at Larry, then at Von Joel. There was no response from either of them. He got a plate and put half the remaining spaghetti on it.

“Everything okay?” he said.

Von Joel walked to the door. He paused, looking at Larry. “When we break, no questions. And incidentally, Sam Kellerman was innocent, he wasn’t on that job.” ToShrapnel he said, “Fill our friend in, will you? Tell him everything’s got to be taped.”

He walked out. Shrapnel looked at Larry questioningly.

“He can’t make his salad dressing.”

Shrapnel went and closed the door.

“My heart bleeds,” he said. “What do you make of him?”

Larry shrugged. He tipped the bulk of his lunch into the waste disposal, then opened a carton of creme caramel.

“You taken a look at his gear?” Shrapnel said. “You don’t think he’s queer, do you?”

“Eh?” Larry froze with the spoon halfway to his mouth. “He had great-looking women in Spain.”

Shrapnel appeared to have forgotten the spaghetti. He opened the fridge, lighting one of his little cigars as he nosed around inside. Loud operatic music started suddenly. Shrapnel looked up, shaking his head.

“He’s playing that crap again. And I don’t know about you, but the stink of those joss sticks gets on my chest.”

Larry nodded absently, watching Shrapnel flick his ash on the floor.

At two-fifteen Larry went into the gym. Von Joel was there. He had on a pair of boxing gloves and was hammering a punching bag. Larry got himself into the line of vision and looked at his watch.

“Go again in about ten minutes,” he said.

Von Joel nodded and slammed a straight left into the bag. He stepped back, breathing through his mouth.

“You ever boxed?” he said. “Good exercise...”

Larry began to say something, then checked himself and walked out.

Foreground police activity, meantime, carried on at top speed. In the incident room the fax machine didn’t stop, the telephones rang continually, and the drafted-in clerical staff found themselves each doing the work of three people, instead of two as they had been led to expect. To one side of McKinnes’s desk a man sifted a mountain of files, on the other side two officers worked at computers. McKinnes was on the phone.

“We need more details,” he was saying, waving his free hand, making a smoke trail. “He’s a flash git in the city. We also need more information on the weapon they used, and more details on the fence. What? Okay!”

He threw the receiver down and looked around sharply, taking in the activity, checking for slack. Telephones warbled and jangled, data was steadily added to the corkboards, and keyboards clacked without a break. On the far wall was a collection of mug shots of men already named by Von Joel. McKinnes was staring at them, memory working, as a WPC came in with a stack of files and put them on a desk.

“Maureen...” McKinnes beckoned her with a curled finger. “Our boy was throwing a wobbly about some mustard. Have a word with Sergeant Jackson, sort it out...” He turned to the fax machine, stared at the output, then looked up and addressed the room at large: “Has anybody found out Minton’s address yet?”

The telephone on his desk rang. The WPC picked it up. Across the room, DC Summers waved to attract McKinnes’s attention.

“Mac...” The familiarity was tolerated at times of stress and high activity. “Willy Noakes is in Brighton. He’s in a wheelchair and his wife says he’s got a doctor’s letter to say he shouldn’t travel...” Summers checked his notes. “He had bypass surgery two years ago. What you want me to do?” Before McKinnes could say anything, Summers added, “I hear we didn’t get Minton.”

“Oh, you heard, did you?” McKinnes glared at him, scratching his beard. “Whole goddamned pack runnin’ around like blue-arsed flies and the prick’s moved! You bring in Noakes in his chair or his walking frame or whatever. Just get him locked up.” He turned, yelling at the whole room again. “Anyone raced Bloody George Minton’s residence? See if he’s on the polling lists! The bastard’s bound to vote Conservative!”“Guv?” The WPC held up the phone. “Sergeant Jackson.”

“Give me a minute,” McKinnes said to Summers, and grabbed the receiver. “Larry — get cracking. We want more details and fast. He gave us the wrong info on bloody Minton! We want an address! What?” He listened, frowning. His eyes widened. “Jesus! Yes! Yes! He’ll get his sodding mustard all right!”

Von Joel continued to talk late into the evening. By nine-thirty he was growing tired, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his head resting in his hands. By that time Larry was on the floor, too, with cushions propped behind him.

“Arnold French, Jimmy Sullivan, and George Minton were on the job. Minton organized the gig — he’s got a brother-in-law who works in the baggage terminal at Gatwick. The bag never went through customs, it went straight on the plane to New York.”

Von Joel stopped. He yawned, stretched, and stood up. He lit an incense stick, which struck Larry as oddly inappropriate at that point.

“At Kennedy,” Von Joel continued, “he paid a baggage handler twenty-five thousand dollars to take the bag off the truck from the plane. Minton’s crew made the plates. The dollars were in small denominations to begin with — tens, fives, ones, but in November, the exchange day, the bag contained samples of fifty-and hundred-dollar bills. Two million dollars.” Von Joel stopped and stared at Larry. “You should use deodorant,” he said sharply.

Larry didn’t respond, but his neck and ears turned pink.

“Where did you fit into all this?” he asked.

“I took five hundred thousand,” Von Joel said, “laundered it through my antique store and art galleries. Minton’s got a time-share deal, an apartment block. I got twenty-five percent — cash. Minton’s your big fish.”

Larry looked up.

“You gave us a bum address. He’s not at Weybridge.”

“Oh, I remember...” Von Joel rubbed his head wearily. “He moved. Try Totteridge. What time is it? I can’t think straight.”

The intercom clicked. Shrapnel’s voice came on.

“Call it quits for the day, Sergeant.”

“Thank you, Frank,” Von Joel said. He leaned over the intercom, winking at Larry. “When I say I’m tired, that’s your cue. Means I could be getting scrambled, doesn’t look good on the transcripts — right, Frank?”

They waited in silence for the tape machine to be turned off. Von Joel looked at Larry again.

“You play chess?”

“No.”

“Checkers? No? Scrabble?”

“No,” Larry said curtly, standing and stretching.

“Rummy? Poker? Bridge?”

Larry shook his head.

“Do you fuck?”

“What?”

“What do you do, Larry, to let off steam? You play squash?”

“I’ll go and fix something to eat.” Larry went to the door. “What do you want?”

“I won’t eat with—” Von Joel pointed in the direction of the radio link room. “And I’ll cook my own.”

“Suit yourself.” Larry opened the door. He glanced at Von Joel before he left. “I, ah, I’m on the boxing team.”

He went out, closing the door. Von Joel laughed softly. He brought up his fists, did a quick one-two and some nifty footwork that brought him to the door. He moved like a dancer, really light on his feet considering his size. He listened a moment, could hear Jackson and Shrapnel conferring. He wondered if Shrapnel was telling Jackson about the conversation. Von Joel had been asking nonchalant questions about sports, though looking at Shrapnel’s bulk he doubted if he had ever done any, and then he had asked about Jackson. Shrapnel had mumbled that he was on the boxing team, but then Von Joel had changed the conversation fast, discussing his vitamins. He already knew Jackson liked boxing; he was testing, feeling around for anything that could get him closer to the boy, because he had so little time. He had to get under his skin, and he had to do it fast.

Von Joel moved away from the door, began a slow, strange walk around the room, like a caged animal, every muscle tensed, then relaxed as he kept up the slow, steady pacing, until he stopped, turned on his back, and lay flat. He stared up at the ceiling, his breathing gradually calming down after the exertion, until he held each breath for six beats and released it... He liked to feel the thudding of his heart, counting the beats, as he slowly began his relaxation program, feeling the flow ease through his body. As each limb relaxed, his body grew heavy, and then he closed his eyes. Von Joel slept, a clean, dreamless, fifteen-minute sleep, giving not a single thought to the list of men, some of them his friends, whom he had just betrayed.