Framed (21 page)

He whistled as he hurried along the road, relishing the continuing change in himself and the widening of his horizons. He felt powerfully elated. Knowledge, he thought,

was a wonderful thing. And so was herbal tea.

f

At three-thirty that afternoon, as Larry parked his car outside the house, Susan was sitting at the kitchen table, tittering girlishly at a story DC Colin Frisby was telling her. He was on his hands and knees on the floor by the sink, trying to repair a faulty cupboard door. He found the position no drawback to his style. When he talked to a woman he used his head a lot, moving it this way and that to accompany his parade of expressions; he used different expressions to give his face some animated appeal. He was sure women loved the way he did that.

"No, no, straight up," he protested, as Susan laughingly dismissed a detail of his yarn. "She said, 'Well, if you think you've got the right girl, search me.' So I'm doing the business and it's pat-pat here, pat-pat there, and my Guv'nor walks up: 'Morning, ma'am,' he says . . ." Frisby froze for the punch, his face a masterpiece of loveable fallibility. "She was the new DCI! No kidding!" He waited until Susan's delighted giggles died away. "You got a screwdriver at all, love?"

In the meantime Larry had let himself in. He opened the door from the hallway and came into the kitchen. The presence of DC Frisby was a surprise. Larry froze by the door."Hi!" Susan got up, waving a hand toward the visitor. "I persuaded him to fix the door on that cupboard." She kissed Larry's cheek, a light touch of her dry lips. "How are you feeling?" She nodded at Frisby again, who was smiling chummily. "When he came back yesterday, he—"

"I'm fine," Larry told her, his elation gone, a coldness moving in his stomach. "I'll pick up the kids if you like."

"No need, they've got football practice until seven. Do you want a cup of tea?" Susan turned to Frisby. "Refill, Colin?"

Frisby was doing an impression of a man suddenly engrossed in a tricky job. Larry asked Susan to give them a second together. Susan went out, pulling a face at Frisby.

"Thanks for dropping by," Larry said when the door closed.

Frisby mumbled something.

"McKinnes put someone on my kids' school, is that right?"

Frisby nodded, eyes half-lidded, implying he knew more.

"Well"—Larry gave him a buddy-buddy wink—"don't let me interrupt you." He glanced at the cupboard. "Now you've started, you might as well finish."

Frisby nodded again. Larry left the kitchen and went upstairs, taking the bag of herbal preparations with him before Susan poked her nose in and started grilling him. When he had tucked the stuff in the bottom of the wardrobe he stood by the window, hearing Susan and Frisby talking downstairs.

"Little fart."

Larry heard Frisby laughing again, Susan's voice answering him about which way she wanted the cupboard to hang, and it irritated him—he didn't really know why. Frisby and he had never particularly got on and now he seemed to be making himself well and truly at home. Larry was about to go downstairs again, when he thought, "Sod it, I'd never get that ruddy cupboard fixed anyway." Instead he wondered how he was going to get all Von Joel's herbal kit into the hospital without DI Shrapnel or one or other of the officers asking him what the hell he was doing. He reckoned a few pounds of grapes'd cover the bag. He knew he shouldn't be taking even the grapes in, but somehow he felt he owed Van Joel, and besides, he told himself, the stuff'd probably get him cured and out of the hospital faster.

As he passed the kitchen, calling out that he was on his way, Frisby was standing back admiring his handiwork with the cupboard door. Susie beamed from the doorway.

"It's on the other way around now, much better than the old one, means I don't keep banging the fridge."

"Great, I'll see you later then."

She gave him a kiss and went back into the kitchen, not even seeing him off. Larry slammed the front door. Maybe having Frisby around was a good thing, they needed the hall redecorated. Maybe he'd mention it to the snide bastard when he saw him at the station. Frisby was certainly making himself at bloody home.

Larry stopped off at the local grocers and bought two and a half pounds of black grapes. He balanced the bag, carefully placing it on top of the herbal medicines in the plastic carrier bag, and went on to the hospital.

15

A moment before the door opened Von Joel was joking with the late-duty nurse, coaxing her to undo a couple of buttons at the top of her uniform. When he heard Larry Jackson outside talking to the Sister he lay back and closed his eyes. His smile faded away. The nurse looked at him curiously.

Larry came in almost on tiptoe, peering at the still figure on the bed.

"Is it okay?"

The nurse nodded. "But don't be too long." She smoothed the bedclothes, leaned close to Von Joel. "Will you want a sleeping tablet tonight?"

"You know what I want," Von Joel said, his voice barely audible.

The nurse left the room, smiling secretively. Larry lifted the bag, showed off his grapes, and then placed them on the bedside table. He then looked down at the cabinet and stuffed the herbal gear inside. As he did so, Von Joel opened his eyes.

"Stuff you wanted from the herbalist," Larry said, pulling a chair up to the bedside and sitting down. "The Professor said to use the arnica as directed—there's liquid, a pot of cream, and some of it in tablet form. He sent you a few herbal teas, too, and other stuff. I got the items he put on the list from a pharmacy. There's instructions with everything."

Von Joel smiled his thanks. He seemed very weak. His eyes followed Larry's every move with a strange unfathomable hooded stare, as if he didn't quite trust him. It was a bit unnerving, seeing him so vulnerable, so dependent.

"Listen"—Larry glanced at the window—"nick any hospital labels you can get your hands on and stick them on the packets and bottles. If it gets out that I brought in anything, I'll be for it." He sat back and folded his arms. "So. How's things?" Larry gave a gentle smile, unsure of himself. A guilty feeling was lurking behind the smile he tried to make so casual.

Von Joel's dark eyes kept searching Larry's face, and when he spoke his voice was husky with emotion.

"Sometimes . . ." He stopped and frowned. "It's something in your eyes but sometimes, you are
so
like my kid brother."

Larry shifted uncomfortably. Without warning or any obvious reason, Von Joel's eyes filled with tears.

"I need to talk about something, Larry. It's not about grassing, nothing to do with that. It's just—just something I want you to know. About Mickey, my brother."

Larry felt even more uneasy now. He unfolded his arms, then folded them again when he couldn't think what to do with his hands.

"That stiff they found in Italy," Von Joel said, "it was Mickey. And listen—I didn't kill him."

There was a pause. Von Joel closed his eyes, breathing carefully, tears coursing down his cheeks. Larry leaned forward, about to say something, but Von Joel spoke again.

"We were sent to foster homes, me and him, but he got a raw deal. I was adopted by a well-to-do couple, they used to travel a lot. I lived in Canada, New York. . . ." He opened his eyes and smiled wanly. "She was a flake, but they treated me okay—well, for a while they did. But Mickey, poor bastard . . ." He wiped his eyes with the back of his free hand. "The people he was put with, they beat the living daylights out of him. He kept on running away, and nobody tried to find out why or where he was running to. He kept all my postcards—it was as if they were all he had of me, all he possessed of a real family."

Larry pulled a tissue from the box on the bedside cabinet and handed it across.

"He was always trying to find me, and he got so messed up. In his head, you know? He was on the street, boozing, doing dings. Mickey was a born loser. He died one." Von Joel's head jerked around on the pillow. He looked directly at Larry. "I've got that stolen money stashed. McKinnes must have told you about it."

"Come on, now," Larry warned him, "don't—"

"Mickey was the only one I could trust with picking it up. I gave him my word he'd be okay. . . ." Von Joel let out a shaky breath, drawing his hand down over his eyes. "All he had to do was get his act together."

"Listen . . ." Larry was getting agitated. "You shouldn't be telling me this."

"I couldn't get back into England to collect. I was trapped, hunted by the cops, and by the blokes I'd screwed. So I needed Mickey. The dough was stashed in the trunk of a girlfriend's car." With a half smile he added, "In a police pound."

He started to cough, his chest rattling ominously. Larry helped him sit further up against the pillows.

"All he had to do," Von Joel went on, "was deposit it in a safety box, then fly to Italy to join me, bringing the key with him, of course. I had to know it was safe, you understand? Then, when the heat was off me, I'd collect it."

Larry had given up trying to protest. He would save it for later. Meanwhile he sat and listened. He was fascinated.

"I had hired a boat, it was moored off the harbor, and I waited for him. See, I couldn't be sure Mickey could handle bringing the cash, I didn't want to get him in trouble. Anyway, I waited most of the night, and then, after hours of just sitting there, I heard him. He was singing, actually singing, and shouting out my name. He was so eager to see me, waving his arms around, standing up in his little rowboat, drunk out of his mind. He'd already dipped into my dough, he'd got a flashy suit on. He kept on yelling, 'We did it, Eddie, I did it, Eddie . . ."' Von Joel's eyes pressed shut for a second. "Then he fell."

"Christ," Larry breathed.

"I jumped in, of course. The current was a real bitch. I couldn't see anything, everything was cloudy and murky. I was in the water for hours trying to find him. For a while I could actually hear him, 'Eddie? Eddie? Eddie . .

Larry had to lean forward to catch the words choked in Von Joel's throat. "He was calling me, kept on calling me, and it got fainter and fainter, but I couldn't see him, I couldn't find him, and I clung on to the stupid bloody boat he'd rowed out in, hanging on, hoping I'd see him, find him. . . ." His voice was no more than a whisper. "I never found him, Larry, I never found him. I kept up the search all night, but he just disappeared. . . . My brother, in that fuckin' stupid suit, and all the past, our past, kept coming back, like when we were kids crying and holding on to each other because we had no one else. I could see him, Larry, when he was . . . eight, maybe less. He had this spiky hair, you know, the kind that no matter how many matrons spit and lick it down, still sticks up at the back, and I remember him sayin' 'Don't go, Eddie, stay with me.' But when I was adopted, they didn't even let us say good-bye. Mickey was up in a window, shouting out, 'He's my brother, don't take my brother away . . .' and I couldn't wait, never even turned back. I just wanted to get the hell out of that shit hole!"

Larry didn't know what to say, so he remained silent, watching as Von Joel continued. His voice was flat, unemotional now.

"The Coast Guard found his body two weeks later. I went to identify him. Then it came to me. Why not let Mickey be me? That was when I did the switch—my watch, my wedding ring. . . ." Von Joel shook his head. "The key went in the ocean with Mickey and it stayed there. That's the crazy part! The dough, it's still sitting in the bank vault."

Larry picked at the edge of the bandage on his hand.

"Why are you telling me this?" he said.

"When you smile you remind me of Mickey. No other reason."

Von Joel rubbed his damaged shoulder while Larry tried to see matters straight, tried to ignore the distortions of flattery and sentimentality.

"I've never killed anyone, Larry. I fence cash, I make deals, but I never hurt anybody. On my life. But Mickey . . ." Von Joel's voice dropped to a whisper. "I still hear him some nights, calling out for me, and I can't find him." He shook himself. "I'm not all bad." He sighed. "At least I saved you, Larry."

"I'm glad you did," Larry said, wondering how much of this he should tell McKinnes.

Next morning, talking to the chief in the busy operations room at St. John's Row, Larry decided to keep the details of his visit sketchy. He told McKinnes that Von Joel was fairly weak but appeared to be mending. He added that there was no apparent breakdown in the rapport he and the prisoner had established during their time together in the safe house.

"I think he relies on me, in a way," Larry added.

"Keep up the visits," McKinnes told him. "It's good he trusts you." A telephone on the desk beside them rang.

McKinnes snatched it up. "Yep!" He covered the mouthpiece. "Nothing on the shooter we found," he told Larry, half listening to the caller. "Ballistics are still working on it. Serial number's been filed off, of course." He jerked his head at the door. "Go home. Take a break." He stiffened suddenly, giving the caller his full attention. "What? Shit! No, no, nobody's mentioned it. I've got no option then, have I? I'll sort it."

McKinnes slammed down the phone as DI Shrapnel appeared to tell him the car was ready. McKinnes pulled him aside.

"They need all the safe cells," he muttered. "They've got a bunch of IRA suspects coming in off the boat. We're going to have to find a place for Myers." He watched Shrapnel make a sour face. "You think I like it?"

"Do they get priority, then?" Shrapnel demanded as they moved away. "This is a bad time, Jimmy. We need all the men we've got. . . ."

Larry watched them go. All at once he was feeling ignored again. Excluded. He had forgotten what an unpleasant sensation that was.

He looked around the room, watching men and women hurrying around in overlapping circuits, waving paper at each other and shouting down telephones, sustaining the drama of a top-level operation against the frenetic background of computers and radio links and fax machines. Larry wanted to be a part of this productive maelstrom. He needed to be a cog, because involvement was essential to his sense of himself. He was not one of nature's loners.

He stared at a deskful of stacked files and photographs, wondering at the amount of activity one man could set in motion. It occurred to him that maybe there was something to be said for loner status after all. Especially when there was no alternative. At its best, solo operation made for focused efficiency. And properly handled, it meant the incidental glory did not have to be shared.

He had an idea.

f

The Sheffields' house was small and neat, with a smell like a freshly opened tin of wax polish. Moyra Sheffield showed Larry into the lounge, explaining that she had been about to have elevenses when he rang the doorbell. While she went to the kitchen Larry put his coat over the back of a sofa and sat down.

He looked around the room, imagining himself in a G-Plan advert where they had used too much colored ink. The floral curtains had the same pattern as the matching two-seater sofas; the carpet was floral, too, though darker and with larger flowers. There was a strenuous sense of pairing and mirroring, as if nothing could be allowed to stand out on its own. The window ledge and sideboard were crowded with vases, posy bowls, and tiny porcelain knickknacks; in the corner was a display cabinet filled with Capo di Monte.

Moyra reappeared carrying a tray. She set it down on the coffee table in front of Larry. The teapot, cups, saucers, and a plate of chocolate biscuits were arranged on a crisp linen cloth.

"There we are then. . . ."

She poured the tea, put a cup in front of Larry, and sat on the sofa beside him. She placed a plastic-covered photograph album on his knees. He waited for an explanation; when none came he opened the album. On the first page was an eight-by-ten color print of a man and woman standing arm in arm, smiling frozenly at the camera. At first the faces didn't register.

"That's me and Eddie on our wedding day."

She had been an attractive girl, Larry noticed. The man beside her was practically unrecognizable. He hadn't exactly aged since the picture was taken. It was more dramatic than that. Time had worked a transformation. Or
something
had.