Framed

9

At seven forty-five on Wednesday evening, as Larry lay reading on his bed at the safe house, there was a tap on the door. It opened and Von Joel put his head around the edge.

“Come next door,” he said. “Come on...”

Larry got off the bed warily, hanging on to his book. He followed Von Joel into his bedroom, noticing the change at once. The process of simplifying and rearranging had given the place a powerfully masculine feel; in the candlelight it looked Spartan and austere. Pillows were nested on the mattress on the floor. A punching bag swayed near one corner and along the wall books and videotapes were stacked neatly. Laid out on a white cloth in the middle of the floor were rice dishes in bowls with chopsticks beside them. Nearby was an ornate chess set on a thick rectangle of marble.

Von Joel lowered himself slowly until he was cross-legged on the floor. He picked up a bowl and held it out to Larry.

“I’ve eaten,” Larry said.

“I’m not offering you dinner. Sit. Sit down, I’ve got something to show you...” Von Joel took a black re-mote-control unit and pointed it at the television set in the corner. “Tapes of all the ex-heavyweight champions, from chat shows and interviews.”

The screen image was a momentary scramble of lines and colors, then it stabilized into a picture of Mike Tyson. He was laughing. Larry looked away sharply.

“Another time,” he said. “I’m reading.”

Von Joel tilted his head to read the title of Larry’s book.

“Dick Francis. Ah well, better than Catherine Cookson. That’s what they lumbered me with.” Von Joel picked up a pair of chopsticks. “The last guy must have been a psychopath.”

Larry glanced at the TV again. In truth he wanted to stay but wasn’t sure if he should. Of all his enthusiasms, boxing was the one that endured and held his interest whatever his state of mind. Just then he could have used the distraction of the tapes, but protocol had to be considered — and also, he didn’t want to look like a pushover.

“Best world heavyweight in history,” Von Joel said. “He’s a giant, and he’s twenty-five years old. Look at the size of his neck. And his feet. He’s like a human tank.”

Von Joel grabbed a pillow and threw it to Larry. It landed at his feet. He looked at it, thought, Well, this once won’t hurt, and sat down awkwardly, keeping his eyes on Tyson.

“He’s also crazy,” he told Von Joel. “You follow the rape trial?”

The bedroom door opened. DI Shrapnel looked in and stared at the tableau of the two men sitting on the floor with rice bowls, watching television. He went away again without a word.

“Try this...” Von Joel passed Larry a bowl. “I know you’ve eaten, but just try it. It’s wild rice, a little tomato, onion, lot of seasoning. Here.” He passed over a set of chopsticks. “Use these.”

Larry had to take his time. He could use chopsticks, but not particularly well. He got a small portion of the food into his mouth and chewed it carefully.

“This is great,” Von Joel said, pointing his chopsticks at the television set. “Watch old Muhammad Ali get under Foreman’s skin.”

“You ever see him fight?” Larry said. “Ali, I mean?”

“I was at Las Vegas, man... And you know, even now when he comes into the arena there’s a standing ovation. He was the King.”

Larry gazed at the screen as he ate. Von Joel watched him, smiling. Larry held the chopsticks halfway along their length, as if he were using a fountain pen. Von Joel gripped his at the very end. Larry noticed this; Von Joel saw that he noticed.

“I was in Japan,” he said, “had dinner with this sumo wrestler. Halfway through dinner, he turns and says something to his business associate. I said, What was that he said. And he explained. See the way I hold the sticks? He said I must be a prince. I use them from the top, see? I didn’t know it was royal.”

Larry looked at the screen again, chewing steadily. It was as if he had been doing this all his life.

“When I was a kid,” he said, “I didn’t rate Ali. Now... I’m still not sure. He turned it all into a circus. And Tyson — he got twenty million for his last fight. All that dough, and he screws up.”

Von Joel laughed.

“Wasn’t the dough that screwed him, Larry. It was the screwing.”

“You think what he did was funny?”

Von Joel’s grin faded. He shook his head. “You and your wife,” he said, “got a good scene, have you?”

“Leave my wife out of it.”

Von Joel smiled again and continued to eat. He looked around as Shrapnel passed the door carrying his dressing gown and a hamburger. Larry swallowed the mouthful he had been chewing, started to pick up more, and paused.

“Why have you refused to see your wife?” he asked, half expecting an answer like the one he had just given.

“I’m dead,” Von Joel said. “She buried me.”

“Moyra, isn’t it?”

Von Joel leaned forward and picked up another bowl.

“Try this. It’s shrimp and fresh vegetables — steamed.”

Larry took a portion on the chopsticks. The food was almost at his mouth when a piece fell off and landed on the front of his shirt.

“Shit! It was clean on today.” He picked away the food, seeing the stain it left. “Will it come out?”

“Yeah, sure.” Von Joel cocked his head at Larry. “You out of clean shirts?”

Later, inspired by the videos and the running chat about fights and fighters, they went to the gym and worked out for half an hour. At the center of Larry’s mind the enigma of Von Joel was growing steadily. How could this man, he wondered, this awful man with his horrendous history — a history that quite possibly included murder — be simultaneously the charming, gifted, civilized individual whose company, Larry had to admit, was among the most interesting and enjoyable he had ever shared? Where, in an extensive life of crime, had Von Joel found the time to acquire his culture, his armory of talents, his sheer breadth? Larry was still wary — he intended to make himself stay that way — but he could no longer fail to acknowledge that this was an exceptional man. And tonight there was a pleasing shift in their relationship. Von Joel, it appeared, was not nearly so good a boxer as Larry, though it did not occur to Larry to wonder if he was being led to believe that.

“See, what you’re not doing is carrying the punch through,” Larry said, panting, shining with sweat as they broke and stood back from one another. “If you hit like this...”

He threw a punch at the air, putting his bulk squarely behind it, letting the centered mass of his upper body be the driving force behind his arm.

“Weight has always got to be forward, see? It means your punch is carrying the whole body weight. Feet apart, that’s important. Come on now, let’s see you again.”

Von Joel took up his stance in front of the bag and asked Larry if he was doing it right. Larry nodded, told him to go for it. Von Joel launched a powerful punch, sending the bag swinging.

“That’s it!” Larry said. “Feel the difference!” He took the bag between his hands, beginning to imagine himself every inch the coach. “Don’t swivel your hips, keep the feet apart... and again!” He took the shock as another punch landed on the bag. “Good one! Yeah!”

Von Joel stepped back, wiping sweat from his face. He grinned.

“Tell you what, Larry — you work out with me half an hour a day, and I’ll teach you how to play chess. Deal?”

“Okay.” Larry nodded, pulling himself back, still trying to keep the semblance of a proper distance, the copper-villain divide. It was becoming harder. “I better get some sleep,” he said uneasily, moving to the door. “Homework to do, as well...”

At the door he half turned, gave Von Joel a shy smile and walked out. Von Joel held the big black leather punching bag as if it were a woman. Hugging it to him, he brushed his lips against the leather; he was breaking through, he knew it, could feel it, and he planted a kiss on the hard leather and chuckled. Then he stepped back and gave a perfect punch, a hard single uppercut, that dented the bag and sent it swinging... that punch he would save for the right time, the right place.

Early that morning DCI McKinnes, in a buoyant mood, had stepped out of a patrol car near the front of an elegant house in Totteridge and paused, standing back to admire the house, the neat garden, and the immaculate Jaguar standing by the front door.

As he stood there two children came out wearing school uniforms and carrying satchels. They were accompanied by an attentive, attractive woman who was obviously their mother. She got into the driver’s seat of the Jaguar and the children climbed in the back. A moment later they drove away.

“Well, now,” McKinnes said expansively, turning to the patrol car and tapping the windshield with a rolled-up warrant, “that’s the wife, so we got the right sodding place this time.” He bent down and looked at the officers in the car. “We all set? Let’s go then. Two around the back.”

Two officers ran to the rear of the house and McKinnes marched up to the front door with two others. He rang the bell, waited, then rang it again. They waited for a count of thirty, then McKinnes gave the signal to break down the door. It was a strong door and it had to be smashed to pieces before they could get into the house. When finally they did get in, they found no one there.

That had happened before nine o’clock in the morning. At ten to eight in the evening McKinnes was again driven up to the front door. A police van was visible at the side of the house and a second patrol car, DC Summers leaning against the hood, was parked in front beside the Jaguar. McKinnes wound down his window.

“He showed up yet?”

“No.” Summers shook his head glumly. “Not a sign of him. His wife’s giving us an earful. We got his passport and a wad of money. If he took off, he can’t get far.”

“Did he play golf today like she said?”

“He had a game booked for nine-thirty this morning, but he never showed.”

“Anyone check his locker?” McKinnes registered the empty look on Summers’s face. “At the bloody golf club!” he explained. “They have lockers, maybe he’s got gear stashed there.” He opened the door and struggled out of the patrol car. “Go on,” he told Summers, “do it now, I’ll have a word with his wife. I could do with a cup of tea.”

“She’s not offering,” Summers said.

The front door was open. McKinnes let himself in and immediately saw Mrs. Minton standing in the hallway, sobbing into a handkerchief. There were sounds of heavy, serious movement from the region of the kitchen, where police officers were removing the fittings and methodically using hammers to tap lengths of pipe as they were uncovered. When Mrs. Minton spotted McKinnes her eyes hardened. She clutched the handkerchief against her breast.

“I’m telling you again,” she said, a tremor behind her voice, “I don’t know where he is. He went out to play golf early this morning and I’ve not seen him since. How many more times do I have to tell you?”

Three officers came past carrying bags and boxes. McKinnes stood by the front door, watching them go out. He turned to Mrs. Minton again, his face almost sad.

“The thing is, love, he didn’t play today,” he said. “So we’re just going to have to hang around until he comes back, or you can tell us where he’s gone.”

“I don’t know where he is!” Mrs. Minton screeched. There was a rumble, then a crash from the kitchen. She looked behind her fearfully. “You bastards!” She glared at McKinnes. “They’re bloody pulling down my new kitchen units! What d’you think he’s done, eh? Swum down the frigging drain?”

“What about making a pot of tea?” McKinnes suggested. His pager buzzed. He took it out, canceled it. “Can I use your phone?”

“No, you bloody can’t!”

McKinnes leaned out the open front door and waved to catch the attention of the officer in the squad car.

“See what the Guv’nor wants, will you?”

Two more officers emerged from the kitchen carrying wooden panels. Mrs. Minton rounded on McKinnes again.

“I want you and your lot to sod off!” she yelled. “I’m keeping a record of every scrap of damage. They broke the door down. If you’d waited I’d have been home. That’s a solid wood door, made to measure, and you can get it replaced — that’s five hundred for bleeding starters.”

DI Falcon appeared from the kitchen. He held up two thick wads of banknotes.

“Guv? We hit the jackpot. Fake pipe.” He handed the money to McKinnes. “I’ll get on to HQ,” he said, heading for the front door, “we’ll need some photos...”

There was a flicker of uncertainty in Mrs. Minton’s eyes. She swallowed visibly and folded her arms, keeping up her front.

“I know nothing about that,” she told McKinnes.

“Tell them back at base we’ll hang on here,” McKinnes was telling his driver outside. “We just struck lucky.”

Somewhere upstairs a child began to howl. McKinnes listened straight-faced, looked pointedly at Mrs. Minton, then turned and examined the alarm by the front door.

“This working, is it?”

“Yeah.” She moved to the stairs. “It’s connected to the local police station. All right if I go up to see my kids? They already turned their bunks upside down this morning”

“You didn’t have it on this morning?” McKinnes said. “The alarm, that is.”

“I was only taking the kids to school!”

An officer came forward and handed over another bundle of bank notes. McKinnes took them. Mrs. Minton, halfway up the stairs, stopped in her tracks and watched.

“How much more is there?” McKinnes murmured, weighing up the bundle. “A lot?”

“I’d say so, sir,” the officer said, nodding.

“Good. Keep at it then...”

He lightly thumped the stair paneling with the side of his fist, turned to walk into the kitchen, then stopped. He moved further along the paneling, struck it again, and frowned. He turned to the officer in the kitchen doorway.

“Get this down.”

The man set to the job at once with a claw hammer and a chisel. DI Falcon came back carrying a roll of plastic bags.

“The Super’s a bit edgy about us not finding Minton,” he said. He jerked his head toward Mrs. Minton, who was watching stiffly as the stair panels were prized away. “Her local police station called in...”

McKinnes watched as a complete section of panel came away. There was a door behind it. McKinnes looked up at Mrs. Minton.

“You know you’ve got a cellar, love?”

Her face had frozen.

McKinnes paused long enough to tell DI Falcon the business with the Superintendent could wait until morning, then he crossed to the door and turned the handle. The door opened. A light filtered up from the cellar. McKinnes smiled.

Five minutes later Mrs. Minton stood in the hall, crying as she watched her husband being handcuffed. Officers emerged from the cellar carrying bundles of papers and bulging plastic bags.

George Minton was shaking with anger. As the cuffs were tightened on his wrists he glared at McKinnes.

“Who put the finger on me?” he demanded. “Come on, you bastard, you wrecked my house, what’s it to you?”

McKinnes waved to his men and they took Minton away.

“You tell whoever it is,” Minton shouted, “he’s a dead man! You hear me, you son of a bitch? He’s a dead man!”

McKinnes looked over Minton’s drawing room. Ready to go back to the station, he half turned, crooked a finger to a uniformed officer, and pointed to a photograph.

“I want that; get Mrs. Minton to give us the okay.” It was a framed photograph of two men seated in what looked like a bar, somewhere like Bermuda. A row of boats could be seen behind the bamboo and ferns. Both men were suntanned, both wearing evening suits. Min-ton’s was black, Edward Myers’s jacket was white, and he had one arm around Minton, smiling to the camera. Minton was laughing.