Framed (8 page)

Jefferson paused, considering how he should frame his remarks to make Von Joel's predicament as clear as he could.

"There have been a lot of changes since you were last held." He stepped closer to the bunk. "It's a lot harder to negotiate now. You need to think about what went down in Italy. Understand me? That's a different scene all together. That's a murder charge."

"Bullshit," Von Joel grunted. "Brought it up, have they?"

"No, but they could. All I'm saying is, it's going to be harder bargaining this time. You've been out of circulation quite a while, remember. I don't come cheap—that's something else to bear in mind. Whatever you've got will have to be red-hot. They'd like you to go down for a long stretch, remember. McKinnes hates your guts, he was so desperate to get on this he was down on his knees begging—"

"How much, Sydney, you bloody leech?

"I don't know if you can afford me," Jefferson laughed softly. "There's a lot to do, I mean, I'll need to access your accounts—maybe you should grant me power of attorney. I like to be sure I'll get paid."

"I said how much, Sydney?"

"Retainer up four grand, and fifty to do the negotiations. Cash. Then bonus same deal as before."

"Okay." Von Joel nodded. "Call my place, will you? Make arrangements for Lola and Charlotte, put them up at the Hyde Park Hotel."

"Business that good?" Jefferson's eyebrows raised. He stepped back, hands behind his back, businesslike.

"I'll get the papers drawn up. What about Moyra? Do you want me to contact her?"

"No way." Von Joel shook his head sharply. "I don't want to see her."

"They'll want to question her."

"She knows nothing."

"She identified that stiff in Italy!"

"So what? Just keep her out of my hair, I've got enough on my mind. He rubbed his head, sighing, relenting. "Go easy on her. Tell them she . . . she knows nothing. . . ."

"Maybe they won't bring her in. The fewer people who know you're here the better." Jefferson leaned against the wall and folded his arms. "If you've got information, they'll want to make an application to the court for your testimony to be heard in camera. But you've a long way to go before that, because you'll have to come up with a lot more than last time." He stared at Von Joel. "Can you do it? Like I said, it's a lot tougher now. There'll be no putting you up in a luxury hotel—there's a new special unit in Reading."

Von Joel was examining his hands again.

"What was the name of the young guy," he said, "the one who booked me?"

"Jackson. Lawrence Jackson. It was a lucky break for the schmuck."

The key rattled in the door, signaling that time was up.

"Until tomorrow, then," Jefferson said, turning as the door opened. "Start thinking. Hard. Same as last time— names, dates, you know the procedure. But do remember, it's not going to be easy. I'll see how McKinnes reacts to your turning Queen's, and I'll get back to you."

When the door closed Von Joel lay back on the bunk. He put his arm over his face again and lay still, thinking, scheming. Then slowly he sat up again.

"Lawrence Jackson," he whispered, staring into the gloom.

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.

f

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."

f

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

65

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.