Susan was at the mirror, plastering cream on her face, a preliminary to removing her makeup.
“Where are you going?” she asked coolly.
“Prison,” Larry said, opening the door. “See you later — Dolores.”
DI Falcon was covered in insect repellent, and Summers had to ease his shoes off, as his feet had swollen. They were waiting for Myers to be brought out of the holding cell. Larry banged in, sweating, his shirt clinging to him, but he was elated.
“They’re bringing him up now...”
Summers tried to get his shoes back on as Falcon pushed the knot of his sodden tie up to his neck and slipped on his jacket. They could hear the footsteps in the stone corridor, and then they were confronted by Edward Myers. His hands were cuffed in front of him, his shirt was filthy, as were his trousers, and his face was dark with stubble. The two Spanish police officers stepped back to allow him to enter the room freely. He had the audacity to lean against the doorframe. He was not in any way angry and there was not a hint of bitterness. He just lolled, as if he had entered someone’s drawing room for a party. He looked from Summers to Falcon, and lastly to Lawrence Jackson, Detective Sergeant Lawrence Jackson, and then he gave that strange smile.
“So, what’s the weather like in London then?”
5
By noon next day arrangements were being made for a triumphal return to London with the prisoners in tow. Larry, DI Falcon, and DC Summers accompanied Von Joel to his villa to supervise the packing for the trip.
They had been there a little under an hour when Summers came down the main staircase to the hall and spoke to Falcon, who was studying a flight timetable.
“He says he s entitled to take as much luggage as he wants — is that right?” Summers looked about him, peering into the richly furnished rooms off the hall as if somebody might be listening. “We’re checking everything, me and Sergeant Jackson, but he’s got his housekeeper packing for him. Is that okay?”
“Any extra baggage weight,” Falcon said, “he pays. Just don’t let him near a phone. You unplugged all the extensions up there?”
Summers nodded.
“Right, then...” Falcon squinted at the timetable.
“There’s a charter at six, I’ll check if they got seats available.”
“Charter?”
The voice came from the top of the stairs. They looked up. Von Joel was glaring at them from the landing. He was still handcuffed but had shaved and was wearing a long white flowing robe.
“No way,” he boomed. “You won’t get me in one of those. I want a scheduled flight.”
Falcon stared at him, anxious to exert some authority.
“You go back any way we think fit, Myers. The British government’s paying for this.”
“Let me call my travel agents,” Von Joel said. “Any extra expense is down to me. You can’t say I haven’t been cooperative, but I won’t get on one of those clapped-out junk heaps.”
Falcon shrugged. “Fair enough. You got the number? I’ll call.”
When the packing was finished Von Joel’s house staff carried the suitcases — Gucci, matching — down to the hall. Larry wandered out onto the balcony beyond the master bedroom. The view was impressive, taking in the entire length of the swimming pool, the sweep of the garden, the wooded land beyond, and the main gates off to the right. As Larry watched he saw Lola drive up in a white Porsche and walk in through the gates, past the policemen on duty there.
Looking down, he saw DC Summers heading across the tiles toward the pool. He was wearing bathing trunks. He looked up and waved to Larry.
“Coming in?” he shouted. “Falcon said it was okay.”
Larry turned away, shaking his head. The curtain behind the balcony doors moved and Lola appeared. She leaned on the doorjamb, folding her arms and staring at him. He began to smile uncertainly.
“You little prick,” she said.
Larry gulped softly. She turned and disappeared into the villa again. Down at the pool Larry saw the white length of DC Summers dive into the water.
Falcon meanwhile was in the drawing room using the portable telephone, trying to make himself understood. Outside the door, on the balcony overlooking the stairs, Von Joel lay back in a chair with his feet on a heavy antique table, lowering his handcuffed wrists around Lola’s neck as she came to him, kissing him and making whimpering sounds against his cheek. Larry appeared and stood a short distance away, wary in case Lola turned the verbals on him again.
“What?” Falcon came out of the drawing room, interrogating the telephone. “Can you speak in English, please? Eh? Today... Tonight? What? Jesus!”
“I’ll do it,” Von Joel said. He took the receiver and spoke softly into it. “Julio? No, no hay ningun problema... Cuatro, si, de primera close.” He laughed. “De acuerdo, a mi cuenta.” He handed back the telephone to Falcon and looked at his watch. “Five o’clock flight. We’ve got plenty of time. I’ll have lunch served out on the patio.” He hooked his arms tightly around Lola and narrowed his eyes at Falcon. “Can I have fifteen minutes?”
Falcon nodded. Von Joel got out of the chair. He and Lola made their way toward the bedroom. Falcon turned, hearing Larry Jackson’s heavy sigh.
“You got a problem?”
“If the Guv’nor got to hear about this...” Larry shook his head. “It’s like a frigging CarryOn movie. He’s up there shafting his girlfriend, Summers is out doing laps in the pool—”
“Ease up, Larry,” Falcon grunted. “We got him, didn’t we?”
But it hardly feels like it, Larry thought, watching the DI walk away.
It was all so idiotically civilized. They were taking a villain, a right bad bastard, back to England to face the music, but first they were going to join him for lunch on the patio, just as soon as he’d finished giving his woman a seeing-to; after lunch — followed, no doubt by some fine coffee and a few brandies — they would get in the villain’s Rolls-Royce and accompany him and his Gucci baggage to the airport, where they would all board a scheduled flight to London. As if that wasn’t ridiculous enough, they would travel up front in first class, in seats paid for by none other than the fugitive from justice himself.
It was all haywire. As soon as Larry heard the news from the prison he had pictured Von Joel being bundled, scruffy and unshaven, into the back of a van, given a rough ride out to the airport then dragged unceremoniously onto a scabby old bucket of a plane where he wouldn’t be allowed to undo his seatbelt, and couldn’t take a piss until he was banged up in a shitty old cell at the other end.
“It’s all bloody wrong,” Larry muttered.
He heard a sound from somewhere in the villa; it was a woman’s voice, crying or laughing, he couldn’t tell which. Probably the sexy Lola, going vocal while she gave the Rronzed Rull something to remember her by.
He wandered out to the balcony and saw Summers still splashing away in the pool. He leaned on the parapet, skimming the discontent that cluttered his mind. He wondered how Susan would cope with getting back to England on her own with the boys. He wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about the vacation being cut short in the first place, but he could guess. There was bound to be a showdown, but his prospect of a promotion, and the more realistic salary that went with it, might be enough to keep the blood on the walls to a minimum.
Picturing his new status, Larry straightened suddenly, recalling what Falcon had said as he walked away.