Framed (27 page)

Charlotte, under Von Joel's instruction, began to run the small gallery; Lola ran the larger one. He would make fleeting appearances, and often he would disappear for days on end. They never knew where he was, and he never divulged his whereabouts. There was the vast antiques warehouse, and shipments were constantly arriving, but neither Charlotte nor Lola had any knowledge of that part of his business. The galleries ran at a loss, but it did not seem to concern Von Joel, and it was never the girls' job to bank or settle the accounts. Money was never short, it was always in supply, and in their innocence both girls believed him to be a man of private wealth. They rarely, if ever, met any of his contacts or friends, and they had no idea that he was laundering vast amounts of stolen money, that he was a criminal. Von Joel used his powerful Monterey boat on weekends, sometimes for simple fishing trips, and then the girls were welcomed aboard. At other times he made it clear he wished to be alone. They knew he was well known in Marbella, and many evenings watched from the balcony as he drove out in the Rolls, waving to them as if they were his children rather than one his mistress, the other besotted and desperate to become his lover. They even saw him occasionally with other women, older, sophisticated women, but he never brought them back to the villa. Social invitations were stacked on his desk, he was exceptionally popular, and his art shows were always well attended, the champagne flowed, and he was as charming to every guest as he was to his two little girls. Lola did not seem to mind, but it became torture for Charlotte. Her eyes followed him, jealous, envious of any woman he was attentive to, until, after one of his art shows, she could not stand it a moment longer.

Perhaps the champagne had given her the courage, but she went to his bedroom, didn't even knock, but walked in. He was lying facedown on his bed, deeply asleep. The pure Egyptian cotton sheet was draped across his buttocks, his lean muscular body stretched out, his arms wide. Charlotte let her nightdress fall to the ground, drew back the sheet, and slipped in to lie beside him. He stirred, half turned, and rolled over.

"I love you, I love you . . ."

He looked into her determined, quivering face, reached up, and traced her cheek with his forefinger.

"Do you now?"

"Yes, and I can't bear it another day, another hour, without being close to you. I want you. . . ."

"Do you now?"

"I don't know what you feel, if you like me, I don't understand you, I don't understand what you want."

He leaned his head on his elbow, looking down into her young, beautiful face. "You are living in my home. Doesn't that mean anything to you—that you are inside my home, my territory."

"I don't understand why . . . why you let me here, when you don't seem to ... I know about you and Lola, so why have you got me here?"

"Don't you like it here?"

"Yes, I've never been so happy . . ."

"Ah, you are happy, are you?"

"No, no, I am ... I want . . ." She just couldn't get the words out, couldn't say she wanted him.

"What is it you want?"

"You, I want you . . ." She'd said it.

He spoke so softly, it was hardly audible. "I am here."

There were no more than seven or eight inches between them, but he never moved. He kept on looking at her, watching her. She felt as if she were about to explode. Did she only have to reach out? Was it that simple ... ? She could feel her short, sharp, panting breaths. She moved a fraction closer, closer . . . she could feel the heat from him, was about to touch him, when she drew back.

"No, you come to me . . ."

She threw the sheet aside and all her sexual frustration turned into blazing anger. Did he want some slave, was that what he was after? The clothes? The villa? She wanted to hit him as he lay there smiling, watching her, playing around with her when he knew, knew how she felt.

" 'I am here!'
... Is that all? . . . Fuck you!
I'm not some kid you can turn into your little whore! Is that what you want? ... Is that what you've done to Lola?
I'm leaving ..."
He rolled onto his back and laughed. She threw herself at him, fists flying. He was so strong he simply gripped her wrists tightly, and drew her down beside him. He bent his head to bury it in her neck, and emitted what sounded like a low growl. His bite was hard, hurting her, and she struggled, kicked out at him. Then he released her wrists, and gently cupped her face between his hands. He kissed her. He was a gentle lover, an aggressive lover, a man who made love to the sweetest creature he had known in years, a frightened little girl he had turned into the woman he wanted. He knew she would never betray him and that was more important to him than anything else. He lived on an edge, always looking over his shoulder, and now he had and knew he had another pair of eyes that would watch his back, that would join with Lola's like his two guard dogs; his two beauties would be wary of strangers, be protective, guard him, obey him.

Late the following morning Charlotte went down to breakfast. Lola was sitting, eating a thick wedge of home-baked bread. The coffee was steaming, the kitchen smelled of fresh-ground coffee. Maria was singing somewhere in the villa. There was the aroma of fresh beeswax and the gentle perfume of the hanging blossoms on the verandah. The dogs barked lazily. Lola turned, her face smeared with Maria's homemade jam. She looked at Charlotte, threw her bread aside, and held out her arms. Charlotte felt the sweet, sticky kisses on her cheeks, and then Lola drew her to the table and pulled out a chair.

Charlotte could not remember a time when she had felt more complete, happier, and above all safe. The villa was so strong, like a fortress, and it was ... for the first time it felt like her home. Beneath the table Lola's bare feet rested against Charlotte's, and she smiled. . . .

"He's swimming, and then we are going to the boat. He is going to take you fishing."

There was no jealousy between the two girls. They both loved him, both felt loved. It was enough. What might have happened at a later date they would never discover,

because the following week Philip Von Joel was arrested.

f

Charlotte eased herself into the bed beside Lola, and lay on her side. Lola cuddled up close, slipping an arm around Charlotte, drawing her into the curve of her body.

"It'll be all right, we'll find a way to see him. If he was able to get messages to us here, then we'll be able to help him, I know it."

"I hope so," whispered Charlotte. "I don't think I can live without him."

f

When Larry got home it was well after one. He was standing in the darkened bedroom, taking off his jacket, when Susan snapped on the bedside lamp. She peered at him through puffy slits.

"McKinnes called," she said. "It was urgent. He's left his home number. Where've you been? It's after one . . ."

"I had some reports to finish," Larry said, pulling off his tie, hating being there.

Susan threw back the bedclothes and swung her feet over the side of the bed. She stood up, reaching for her dressing gown. Confrontation time, he thought. Again. He went to the door.

"Where have you been?" Susan demanded.

He paused. "I just told you."

"But McKinnes couldn't find you!" Larry walked out, leaving his jacket over a chair where he had dumped it. Susan picked it up and took it to the | wardrobe. She smoothed the collar, disturbing something in the fabric. Perfume. She sniffed. Her brows tightened. She felt the pockets and pulled out three ticket stubs. She could hear Larry down in the hall talking on the phone. She stared at the flimsy slips of paper. Her mind i raced, but it had no direction. She was mystified. The door opened and she jumped. She hadn't heard Larry put down the phone.

"Something happened?" she said, pocketing the stubs.

"It must have," Larry said. "He wants me."

She put her arms around him so swiftly and tightly that she surprised herself.

"You're not going anywhere tonight," she told him.

He looked at her awkwardly. She stood on her toes, lips puckered to kiss him on the mouth. He turned his head aside; it happened, he couldn't avoid it. Susan released him and stood back.

"I'll check on the boys," he said.

Susan watched him walk out of the room again. She sighed, though it was hardly a sigh of resignation—she

would never resign herself to being kept in the dark. She I slid back into bed and pulled the bedclothes up tight under her chin. She was careful to stay well over on her own side.

Next morning at eight-thirty McKinnes took Larry to the new safe house. Although it was clear that Larry had been reinstated, McKinnes had not actually said so, and he had not hinted at any reason. Larry thought it best, for the time being, to let events unroll without asking questions.

They sat in the unmarked patrol car for a minute, looking out at the sordid apartment block. Larry couldn't believe it.

"Are we here?" he said, knowing they must be.

McKinnes sniffed. "What do you expect? A five-star hotel?"

Larry turned sharply, his defenses up, then realized it
¹
was only McKinnes's baleful humor. The chief, fortunately, was hung over and didn't notice the little flare of paranoia.

They got out of the car and entered the building. McKinnes used two keys to open the door of the apartment where Von Joel was being held, then he stood aside. He said he would be in touch later.

Larry went in and closed the door behind him. He found DI Shrapnel in a room that had obviously been designed for occupation by a child. A folded, forlorn-looking cot stood by the window; a tiny gas fire was built into the begrimed wall opposite. The two men nodded at each other. Their relationship, still profoundly basic, precluded the need for introductory daintiness. Shrapnel dangled a key.

"We keep him locked up when we're off duty. This one's for you, I keep the other. There's two blokes out front, one at the back and another near the main entrance."

Larry took the key. "How is he?"

"Same as ever." Shrapnel shut the door. "I want to ask you something," he said, his eyes hooded.

"What?"

"This herbal stuff, is it all for real?"

Larry made a face that didn't say yes or no.

"You see"—Shrapnel moved closer, as if somebody might overhear—"I've had this problem, for years ..." He broke off, cleared his throat. "This is personal, Jackson."

"I appreciate that."

"The thing is, I can't get it up, know what I mean? And he . . ." He jerked his thumb at the wall. "Well, have you ever heard of this—he said I can get them from this guy he knows." He fished a slip of paper from his pocket. "Patches. Put them on my dick. Tet . . . tetzozerone or something."

Larry looked at the paper. "Testosterone," he said.

"Yeah, that's it." Shrapnel took back the paper. He looked embarrassed. 'They all know I've got the droop." He shrugged. "Fact of life, nothing to be ashamed of. It's overrated anyway.'

"Sorry?" Larry turned. He had been looking out the window. "What did you say?"

"Sex. I said it's overrated."

"No, it isn't, Frank. Get the patches."

After a hurried cup of coffee, which Larry promptly wished he had never drunk, he went along the passage and unlocked the door to Von Joel's room. Von Joel was standing on his head against the wall. He came down, smiling. Larry went in and closed the door.