FRAMED

by Lynda La Plante

  McKinnes nodded sympathetically.

  “Myers could be bullshitting us—anything to get out and about. But he reckons if he sees the location it’ll jog his memory. And we need that shooter to get Minton.”

  McKinnes took a measured swallow of whisky, drumming his fingers on the desk as it warmed its way to his stomach.

  “What if we do it at dawn, cut down the risks? Can you arrange that?”

  The Super thought about it, then nodded.

  “Okay. I’ll get the river mob sorted. Now, I’m not pushing, Jimmy, but as matters are moving at a good lick, we’re going to have to start questioning Myers about that body found in Italy.” “That’s got to be a complete and separate investigation,” McKinnes said, speaking with the firmness of a man who had thought the matter over thoroughly. “I’m taking it in three stages.” He watched the light sparkle golden in his glass. “One—get the lot of them ready for trial. Soon as we’ve drained Eddie Myers dry, we start to push him for the whereabouts of that one million cash he got away with… .” He looked up, his eyes narrowing. “And I’ll squeeze him till he talks, because he knows he’s looking at fifteen straight. As a prosecution witness, he could get away with as little as five.”

  McKinnes sat back, swirled his whisky once, then knocked it all back in one gulp. He gasped, his eyes moistening.

  “I want him on trial,” he said, almost smiling. “I want to hear his sentence, want him to think he might even walk. Then, just as he’s going down to the cells”—he put his empty glass carefully on the desk—“I’m going to charge him with murder.” He smiled tightly. “I dream about that. Seeing that son of a bitch’s face. Lovely. What a retirement bonus.”

  The Superintendent said nothing. He sipped his Scotch, showing no outward sign that McKinnes was beginning to worry him.

  13

  At six o’clock on Tuesday morning Larry was dressed and ready to leave. He waited in the hallway outside Von Joel’s room with DI Shrapnel leaning on the wall beside him, smoking pensively, his eyes puffy from sleep. At five past six Shrapnel jerked his thumb toward the bedroom door and asked Larry if he thought Von Joel was on the level. Larry did not comprehend.

  “He gave me these folic acid capsules… .” Shrapnel took a small brown bottle from his pocket. “Said they induce hair growth. That’s what they’re for, apparently. Healthy hair …” He patted the sparse covering on his scalp. “You think it’s okay if I take them?”

  Larry shrugged. He didn’t feel like talking.

  “Last night,” Shrapnel went on, “he gave me vitamin B6. Supposed to induce dreaming. I went out like a light.”

  He put the bottle back in his pocket and looked at his watch. Suddenly he was in his customary mode, edgy, impatient. “What the hell is he doing?” He folded his arms and began tapping his foot. “We have him between us going out,” he reminded Larry. “Cuff him to you.”

  The bedroom door opened and Von Joel came out. He wore a track suit, a donkey jacket, and a black woolen hat. He held his hands out in front of him for the handcuffs.

  “Ready when you are,” he said, yawning. “Early for a trip upriver, isn’t it?”

  They left the safe house, walked ten yards along the passageway to the external door and came out at the back of the station. A Granada waited with its doors open. They walked across to it smartly, Shrapnel in front, shielding Von Joel who was cuffed on Larry’s left side. When they reached the car Shrapnel got in beside the driver; Larry and Von Joel slid into the back.

  The car moved off at once, entering the courtyard where McKinnes waited, seated in an unmarked car beside the driver. The main gates opened and McKinnes’s car turned out onto the narrow lane behind the station. The Granada followed closely. A third car moved out from an underground car park as they passed and slipped in tight behind the Granada. As the convoy picked up speed there was a movement at a window in a building overlooking the back of the station.

  “There’s something going down,” a voice announced over a radio link. “Shit! It’s him! They’re moving him, it’s Myers… . They’ve got McKinnes in a car up front, patrol car at the back. Our man is sandwiched between them. Steve! You on them? Steve?”

  Sudden loud static crackled across the frequency. It took several seconds to die down.

  “Can you hear me? HB to base. Hello?”

  The crackle came back, rising and falling in waves. Then, abruptly, it faded almost to nothing.

  “Are you receiving me? They’re heading out to the Edgware Road. Keep your eyes on the center car, a red Ford Granada… . Did you get that?”

  “I’m on him.” The reply came from a motorcyclist on a courier bike, heading into the narrow lane just as the convoy disappeared at the other end. “Looks like they’re going toward Marylebone Road.”

  There was an immediate response at George Minton’s yard, where “Big” Jack pulled back the gates and ran as fast as he could to the blue Transit van, a walkie-talkie clutched tightly in his hand. He leapt into the van, started the engine, and put the walkie-talkie to his mouth, thumbing the switch.

  “Where are you now?” He threw the engine in gear and accelerated one-handed to the gates. “I’m on my way… .”

  Inside the Granada, Shrapnel was growing tense. He turned to Larry.

  “Just remember, now—we wait for the signal, then go straight to the jetty. No dawdling.” He looked at Von Joel. “Pull your collar up. Here, wear these… .” He handed back a pair of dark glasses. “Pull your bloody hat further down…

  “Doesn’t suit me, luwie,” Von Joel lisped.

  Shrapnel wasn’t amused.

  The convoy reached Covent Garden, staying on the back streets, the motorcyclist still behind them, keeping his distance.

  “They’re heading past Bow Street,” he reported. “Did you pick that up? Where the hell are you? They just passed Essex Street… .”

  At that moment George Minton was shutting the gates of the yard from the inside. Securing them, he hurried off, weaving his way toward the rear of the sprawling piles of scrap. A minute later a car started up on a street behind the yard. It drove off fast.

  When the convoy had moved through the Aldwych it headed down toward the river. The streets were quiet, practically deserted. The biker had dropped back still further.

  “It’s Tower Bridge,” he reported. “They’re heading for Tower Bridge, moving down to the Embankment. …”

  The three cars took a side turn toward the riverside. A speedboat waited by a jetty. McKinnes jumped out of his car the instant it stopped and ran back to the Granada. He banged on the roof. Shrapnel was out immediately and a second later the rear door swung open and Larry climbed out, Von Joel moving smartly with him, collar up, hat pulled down to his eyebrows and wearing the dark glasses. The speedboat engine churned the water restlessly as the three men hurried along the jetty and climbed on board.

  George Minton’s voice came over the motorcyclist’s radio.

  “Can you hear me? Steve? What’s going down? I’m just coming into the Strand.”

  “They’re putting Myers on a speedboat, Guv. They’re heading downriver toward Tower Bridge. Should have brought water wings. What do you want me to do? We’d never keep up on the road side… .”

  “Wait,” Minton snapped. “I reckon they’ll bring him back the same way, so we’ll wait. Are you there, Jack?”

  “Right there, Guv,” Jack’s voice cut in.

  “I’m coming to you,” Minton told him.

  The wind off the river felt icy cold as it sliced across the deck of the speedboat where Von Joel stood handcuffed to Larry. Up on Tower Bridge the motorcyclist slowed and stopped, watching them pass under the bridge, then do a careful U-turn. The boat slowed down and its engine was cut.

  Von Joel studied the bridge, taking his bearings. He frowned, running his gaze left and right, drawing his jacket collar around his face to shield himself from the wind. Suddenly he pointed.

  “Okay, that’s the place,” he said.
“Between the arches. Minton dropped it from there.” He glanced right and left again. “Can you get closer?” he asked the man at the controls. “There was a barge he said was always anchored … That’s it, see.”

  The boat engine started again and they moved slowly toward the stanchion between the arches where a pleasure launch was anchored.

  “It’s going to be a bitch to drag this entire area,” McKinnes said. He turned to Von Joel. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. You drag there, you’ll find it.”

  McKinnes turned away and spoke on the radio.

  “Get the frogmen standing by, we’re dropping the markers … over.” He closed the mike switch and looked around, gazing along the bleak yellow-gray expanse of the river. “Let’s take him back,” he said. “We’re too vulnerable.” He opened the mike again and put it to his mouth, crouching, turning his back to the wind. “We’re not waiting on the search,” he reported. “Coming in now. Stand by.”

  The engine revved and the boat began to cut through the water again, heading back to the jetty. As they picked up speed Von Joel had his mouth to Larry’s ear, informing him again, teaching him.

  “Minton is a real fanatic about weapons,” he said. “He has a hell of a collection. Got a Smith and Wesson Model 39, with psionic suppressor—that’s a silencer, Larry. The gun was developed by the U.S. Navy Special Forces Seal Teams. They used them in Vietnam. They can take out sentries, guard dogs… . You need a special shoulder holster. De Santis in America make the best underarm holsters—they custom-build them… .”

  As the boat sped back along the river, the blue Transit van with Big Jack at the wheel was parked at the end of a side street that opened onto the main riverside road back to town. As he sat there a maroon Volvo saloon drew up alongside. The front passenger window rolled down and George Minton put his head partway through the gap. He was wearing a flat cap and his coat collar was turned up. He wore rimless spectacles.

  “Even if they change the return route,” he told Jack, “they’ve got to pass you. Steve’Il give you the go-ahead.” He winked, the merest movement of his eyelid. “You know what to do. Go for it. Steve’ll take you back to the yard. See you.”

  The Volvo slid away. Jack fired the Transit engine and backed up the narrow street.

  The speedboat returned to the jetty without incident. Larry and Von Joel got back into the Granada; this time Shrapnel got behind the wheel, the police driver taking the passenger seat. McKinnes got into the rear escort vehicle. From where he sat he could see Von Joel talking animatedly, still lecturing Larry about ballistics in the age of high-tech firearms.

  As the convoy prepared to move off, the motorcyclist, Steve, drove by on the main road at the end of the jetty. At some distance past them, and a couple of hundred yards from the road where the Transit waited, he veered to the right, stopped, got out his A to Z and stood with his head bowed over the opened pages. To all appearances he was a motorbike courier straddling his machine, checking a route.

  In the Granada, Von Joel paused in his explanation of metal resonance suppression. He sat back and smiled expansively.

  “How’s about stopping off at a nice little restaurant for breakfast? I know a good place two minutes from here. Savoy Grill. You ever been to the Savoy, Larry? Good service, very convenient for the theater.”

  “Get stuffed, Myers,” Shrapnel snapped from the front seat. “Is the back-up vehicle ready, Larry?”

  Larry peered through the rear window.

  “Not yet, he’s just moving up behind.” He waited. “Okay, we’re all set.” He looked at Von Joel. “What do you mean by wave suppression?” he said, taking up the thread of their discussion. “Something to do with the gun silencer, is it?”

  “In a way.” Von Joel nodded. “The sound signature from a weapon can arise from three main sources. One, the mechanical sounds of the working parts, right? Two, there’s the report of the cartridge and cases, and three,

  the supersonic crack of the bullet. The Model 39, Larry, makes virtually no extraneous sound. Its design diminishes the ballistic report… .”

  Larry nodded, intrigued, scarcely noticing as a dark maroon Volvo overtook the convoy, gaining speed to pass them and the opening where the blue Transit van waited. In the front passenger seat of the Volvo, George Minton sat with his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror, monitoring the police cars as his driver calmly tooled past them. Lying in Minton’s lap was the radio booster control, his hand resting on it lightly.

  From Jack’s position behind the wheel of the Transit, he saw a segment of the main road and the river beyond it. Buildings on his left prevented him from seeing the police convoy approach. He shifted nervously in his seat, staring at the empty road, gripping the wheel and glancing at the radio lying on the seat beside him.

  Out on the road Steve had a clear view of the convoy in the wing mirror of his motorcycle. He spoke into his mike loud and clear.

  “On the count of five, floor it. It’s the second car— repeat, the second car you see, and it’s heading toward you now …”

  The first car swept past the bike, then the second. The third was some way behind, traveling at a good observational distance.

  “Five,” Steve counted, “four, three …” He realized he had mistimed, the second car was too far from the road end. “No! No!” he yelled. “Hold it … Two, one … Go!”

  Steve dropped his A to Z, flipped down his visor and kick-started the bike. At that moment McKinnes was telling his driver to take a look at the motorcycle ahead. It was off and accelerating before they could reach it .As Von Joel was explaining about the loss of muzzle velocity caused by conventional silencing devices, Larry glanced out the window to his right and saw a blue Transit van come screeching out of a side road straight toward them. Shrapnel saw it at the same time and nearly swerved but there was no room, he was too near the river.

  “On the floor!” Von Joel yelled in Larry’s ear. “Move!”

  The Transit van loomed to their right, seconds from impact, the driver’s face gaunt behind the wheel. Von Joel tried to open the door on his left. Larry brought up both hands to protect himself, automatically jerking Von Joel across him. The van hit the side of the car with a bang and a jolt that lifted the right wheels clear of the road. Panels tore and glass smashed. The folded metal of the mangled door drew inward and hit the top of Von Joel’s skull. Blood spurted and gushed down over his neck and onto Larry’s chest where he lay pinned underneath.

  Shrapnel slammed the gas pedal to the floor. The car surged forward with the noise of metal grinding on metal, but the damage was done, the rear right side was caved in. The Transit van remained locked against the Granada, shunting with its reinforced bumper. Up ahead, Steve had his motorcycle directly across the road, revving, waiting for Jack to make a run for it.

  The third police car with McKinnes inside came screeching to a halt five yards ahead of the crippled Granada. McKinnes dived out and ran toward the Transit van, which was relentlessly grinding forward, dragging the Granada.

  Jack was pulling open the Transit van’s door, estimating his distance from the bike. He inched into the gap, ready to jump, watching McKinnes as he got nearer. He jumped. His body went forward toward the road, feet spread for the landing, then he abruptly changed direction as his sleeve caught on the door handle. His knees slammed the side of the still-moving van, his hands went up and the sleeve ripped with the tension. Jack went down, his back hitting the road a second before his head. The rear wheel ran over his chest and face with a sound like bursting fruit.

  McKinnes jumped into the van and pulled on the brake. Five seconds more and the Transit van would have sent the Granada through the wall and into the river.

  Up ahead Steve had seen what happened. For one horrified second he stood frozen, seeing the blood and brain smeared on the asphalt.

  “Jesus Christ almighty …”

  He jerked the bike around and screamed off, his head level with the handlebars, the tires l
eaving a skin of rubber on the road.

  “They got him!” Shrapnel was screaming, clawing at the Granada’s twisted metal. “They got Von Joel! Oh, shit! They got him! Larry! Larry!”

  Von Joel’s skull seemed to be cracked open, the blood was in a congealed nightmare mass over the top of his head, running in rivulets down his face and obliterating his features.

  Larry, in a state of shock, fumbled to feel for the pulse at Von Joel’s neck. His finger sticky with blood, he started crying, partly in shock, partly in genuine grief as he could find no pulse.

  “Oh, God!” He looked up at Shrapnel. “I think he’s dead.”

  The handcuffs were unlocked, two ambulance attendants carefully eased the unconscious man onto a stretcher, and Larry was assisted out of the crushed car, staring stupified at the ambulance as Von Joel was gently carried aboard.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he? I couldn’t feel any pulse. Is he dead?”

  Shrapnel seemed not to hear, his own face had deep lacerations from the smashed windshield, and an attendant was checking him over, encouraging him to accompany him to the second ambulance. The body of the driver was still crushed beneath the patrol car surrounded by a group of officers and attendants. They were ascertaining exactly how they should lift the car up and off him, as his body seemed to be ingrained into the wheels and front of the vehicle. He was obviously very dead, the blood was like dark, heavy pools, running like a river toward the water’s edge.

  Larry leaned against the car and his body began to shake with delayed shock. Again, as if replaying a video, he saw the Transit van coming for him, heard himself screaming, heard Eddie telling him to get down, and then, like a punch to his heart, he felt, as if it were happening again, the weight of Von Joel’s body covering him, protecting him, saving him.

  McKinnes walked slowly over to Jackson. The boy was ashen, his body shaking badly, and McKinnes put a fatherly arm around his shoulders.

  “Let’s get you to hospital, son, come on, get into the ambulance. There’s a good lad!”