Framed (3 page)

Larry wished he'd taken her there and then on the beach, because somehow in the overcrowded bedroom, with two kids sleeping within two feet, it cramped his style. Susan half wished he had too. If he'd been a bit more forceful she wouldn't have really minded, but they did make love, muted, afraid that every bed creak would wake one or other of the boys. They were both sweating, and Susan's sunburn hurt. All in all it was a fiasco. They lay beside each other, and were about to go to sleep, when they had to stifle their laughs as the creaking began from the room above, creaking and moaning with obvious abandonment, and the more it carried on, the more Susan got the giggles. At last the orgasm came as they heard the couple moaning and groaning with each thrust of their bedsprings. Then they heard the shuffle of footsteps as
¹
one or other sex machine went to the toilet, and as it flushed, they heard their own toilet repeat the action. Susan yawned, nodding off. "You'll have to talk to the manager, Larry, it's disgusting. . . ."

Larry eased the sheet away from his body; he was boiling up, and there was little air from the open balcony. He couldn't sleep, but didn't want to get up and paddle through the bathroom, didn't want to disturb Susan as she was already asleep, her hands cupped together, like one of the bovs. He leaned up on his elbow to look down into her face; he could see the red blotches on her skin, the swimsuit straps, and her hair was damp at the nape of her neck. He gently traced her cheek with his finger, and lay back. He loved her deeply. They had been teenagers at the same school, and had married at eighteen, the full works, white wedding, four bridesmaids, and by then he had already joined the Met. It was a good marriage, and they had two beautiful boys. Susan was training to be a hairdresser when the first baby came, so she had given up her job and remained at home. She had never gone back to work. He liked that, liked the fact that she was at home waiting for him, looking after his sons. The house was always immaculate, she was very house-proud, and often did the decorating herself, sometimes assisted by her dad, who ran a paint shop and gave them wallpaper and paint for nothing. He concluded it was a good thing he had going, he was contented. . . .

Larry closed his eyes and his thoughts drifted back over the evening. He could hear himself telling Susan about Eddie Myers, how he had said, "I just remembered him ... he was that kind of bloke," and that he was very impressionable . . . that was all true. What he had not said was how all the excitement surrounding Edward Myers had been at fever pitch, all the lads desperate to get in with the
in
crowd. There had been so many arrests, so many men named by Myers, that most of the officers attached to the case had never even seen him. The arrests went down all over London, and Larry would not have actually met him if it hadn't been for some problem paperwork, and so he had been instructed to take over the statements to . . . Larry tried to recall the officer heading the Eddie Myers arrest; he frowned, irritated that the name wouldn't come to him, because everyone had bandied it around, in fact it had been the main topic of conversation for weeks, months even, especially after Myers's escape. "McKinnes." Larry said it aloud and smiled, recalling the big man that had been pointed out to him; it was McKinnes, and he had been in deep water after Myers's escape from custody. Rumor had it that the escape had destroyed McKinnes's career and little had been heard of him since.

Larry turned on his side. About six months after the escape he had been at Bow Street magistrates court, taking a leak, when an officer had nudged him, and pointed to a window, a small narrow window high up in the wall.

"Myers got through that, must have dislocated his shoulder, how the hell he did it no one knows, he's a hell of a size, but somehow he squeezed out of there . . . soddin' magician."

Larry had been impressed; it really was a small aperture, and he was a fair size himself. He reckoned he'd never have got his head through, never mind his entire body. He turned onto his back, and pictured himself, recalling the day he had met Myers. He was in the corridor, St. John's Row station, carrying the file for McKinnes, looking in one room after another asking for McKinnes. He had been instructed to go up the next flight of stairs and to turn right at the top, and as he was hurrying up, two stairs at a time, he was confronted by two uniformed officers like tanks. They simply shoved him aside. His body was pressed against the wall and he saw the thick, heavyset McKinnes appear at the top of the stairs. He turned, gestured to someone behind him, snapping out an order.

"Excuse me, Inspector! I've brought these over from Hounslow."

McKinnes peered at Larry, held out his big, square-knuckled hand, virtually snatching the file. It was then Larry looked upwards, and saw Edward Myers. Handcuffed, between two plainclothes detectives, the three had difficulty moving down the narrow stairs together. Myers was pushed slightly ahead. He seemed to find it all amusing. He was smiling, his body relaxed and perfectly coordinated. He passed within inches of Larry, and it was not until he was abreast of Larry that Myers turned his attention to the young, nervous uniformed police constable.

. . . Edward Myers had dark, almost coal-black hair, a slight bend to the bridge of his nose, which seemed to accentuate his chiseled cheekbones, and his smile revealed perfect white, even teeth. He smiled at Larry, but there was no possibility of Larry returning the seemingly friendly gesture, because he was struck by Edward Myers's eyes. Dark as his hair, they appeared to be almost black, hard, and piercing, and they looked through Larry, beyond into the wall. They scared the living daylights out of him, there was such arrogance, such audaciousness in that single fleeting look, and Myers seemed to know how unnerved Larry was, because he laughed, a deep, gurgling laugh, which continued as the men pushed him farther down the stairs and out of sight.

Larry had slightly embroidered this interaction in the canteen to almost having a conversation with the Super Grass, and as the escape happened shortly afterward, Larry was only too ready to tell anyone who cared to listen that he had actually confronted Myers. Now, in the stifling hotel bedroom, his imagination ran riot. Imagine what it would mean to be the officer that brought him back! Be the man to trace him, discovering he wasn't dead, but alive. As he fell at last into a deep, sweating sleep, he was seeing himself being congratulated, his back patted, his hand shaken by his Guv'nor, as he was made

Detective Inspector Lawrence Jackson. . . .

f

Larry went to Marbella Police Headquarters early the next morning, and after identifying himself he was granted the information he asked for, though rather coolly. The registered owner of the Rolls Corniche was Philip Von Joel, a dealer in art and antiques. He had a couple of galleries in the area. His home was in the mountainous country to the north of Marbella; it cost Larry a little more persuasion to get the address. He had the feeling—more than a feeling, an annoying near-certainty— that Mr. Von Joel was being discreetly shielded by the local
policia.

When he left police HQ he took a taxi out along the narrow mountain road indicated on his photocopied map. It was a bumpy ride on a steady gradient that took half an hour and brought them, after the dust and dirt of the journey, to a magnificent place, a villa larger and more opulent than any of the beauties they passed on the way up.

The entrance was fronted by tall iron gates, flanked by railings set into a surrounding wall that maintained security without obscuring the view. The house itself was mainly Moorish in design, but with deep-sloping tiled rooftops that echoed some of the finer architecture in Barcelona. It filled its setting generously, branching off in double-storied wings from a shadowy, cool-looking central
logia.
Gazing at the arched entrance and the splendid balconies, Larry was reminded of pictures he had seen of tycoons' so-called Spanish homes in Bel Air. This looked better than any of them. It was also, he reminded himself, the real thing.

He wandered around the side, getting a closer look, pushing his face to the railings to see the swimming pool, the lush stretches of lawn, the opulence of the sculpted shrubbery that formed shadowy enclosures around the gardens. He tried to catch the attention of a gardener working near the wall, but the man could have been blind and deaf for all the notice he took.

Larry went back to the front gates and stood for a minute gazing up at the blank windows. He could sense somebody watching, but no one challenged him or came to ask if they could help. Somewhere in the grounds he heard dogs bark. Along the lane from the villa he noticed a large double-doored building set back from the road. He strolled up to it, trying to look like just another nosy tourist. There was a discreet plaque outside:

philip von joel arte y antiguedades: almacen

He stood sweating at the open doors, peering into the cool interior. It was a warehouse of Aladdin's cave proportions, crammed with objects he couldn't begin to name. Antique furniture stood in tight rows, every item numbered and labeled with a handwritten description. There were dressing chests, tallboys, mahogany fauteuils and Dutch, German, and English side tables from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Beyond them were Victorian davenports, tambour and rolltop writing tables, and gate-leg tables in yew, rosewood, and mahogany. There were cases packed to their glass fronts with jasperware, Staffordshire and Royal Worcester figurines, rare Castilian dolls, jugs and ewers, decanters and snuff boxes in a variety of semiprecious metals. Hanging from the walls and beams were paintings, mirrors, and decorative tabletops; Indian and Persian rugs were folded in thick piles across banisters and low beams.

Amongst it all Larry suddenly spotted a solitary living soul, an elegant Spanish woman sitting at a desk. He approached her.

"You speak English?"

She nodded.

"Is Philip Von Joel around, at all?"

"Today he will probably be at his gallery in Benabana," she said carefully, as if the words might be damaged if she jostled them. She handed Larry a card with the address of the gallery. "May I ask if you have business with Mr. Von Joel?"

"Maybe," Larry said. "Thanks for your help."

Benabana was another dusty ride away, a shorter one this time, bringing them through winding outskirts to a tidy, narrow main street of traditional Andalusian shops and houses, freshly painted and handsomely maintained.

Business around here was obviously good. Larry saw the gallery straightaway, halfway along the street, the name on a sign projecting from the wall. The driver pulled up near the entrance and Larry got out.

The gallery was closed. He cupped his hands around his eyes and peered inside. The place could have been transplanted from Bond Street. It was large and airy with dark, shiny furnishings, the walls hung with expensive-looking pictures.

The sign on the door definitely said
cerrado,
but Larry tried it again just in case. It didn't budge. He stood there, waiting for someone to come past, conscious of how damp and parboiled he must look. A young woman eyed him cautiously as he stepped forward and asked her, in English, if she knew where he might find Mr. Von Joel.

"Puerto Banus," she suggested, pointing back down the mountainside.

The driver had heard and was revving the engine as Larry got back in the car. He groaned with the exertion, feeling the need of a soothing beer. As he leaned back against the warm vinyl he told himself his time hadn't been wasted. He was learning in advance about Von Joel —or the possibly counterfeit character using that name— and he was getting the feel of the man's local stature. On the other hand, he could just be kidding himself. Local stature was one thing; proving Von Joel was a fake and doing something about it was something else again. The morning could have been a complete waste of time.

Puerto Banus was an eye-opener, smart and modern, and the harbor was a noticeable step up from its counterpart along the coast at Marbella. The craft tied up here— everything from speedboats and launches to the biggest seagoing yachts—were the toys of an international coterie who came and went throughout the year, a tight society of seriously rich sybarites with the ultimate blessing: they could not suffer material loss, since everything they possessed, however costly, could be replaced.

A barman directed Larry to a shopping lane behind the harbor, a stretch of exclusive boutiques and shops, one of them with the name Philip Von Joel above the high main window. The gallery was as well-appointed as the place at Benabana, and it was larger.

He wandered in through the open door. There was activity, for a change. People were moving through the rooms carrying easels, trestles, and chunky wooden and metal sculptures. Other people were hanging pictures, chattering and singing as they worked. The air was thick with the aromas of varnish and beeswax.