The two detectives stepped forward and confronted the prisoner, Shrapnel a discreet step behind McKinnes. They worked as a team and although the master-servant nature of the relationship was obvious, they did look rather alike. Both were bald; Shrapnel had attempted a cover-up with strands of long side hair plastered across the top of his head. They were near-identical in stature and physique, down to such details as their potbellies and large feet. Both men smoked heavily, cigarettes in McKinnes’ case, small cigars for Shrapnel, and their professional style — thrustingly physical, with rhythms of speech to match — suggested an identical permanent urgency, whatever they happened to be doing. In looks McKinnes was the more formidable; he was bearded, with disturbingly mandarinlike features and hard, probing eyes. Shrapnel had a more bland, fat-man’s face, which made it easy for him to hide what he was thinking.
They stood staring at Myers.
“Hello, Mac,” he said, smiling and nodding to McKinnes, ignoring Shrapnel. “Still got the same raincoat, I see. How have you been keeping?”
“In shape,” McKinnes snapped. He jerked his head at the door. “Let’s go.”
The following morning Larry Jackson was summoned to the Superintendent’s office. The interview was swift, too swift for Larry, who was finding himself more and more alert to brush-offs.
“Congratulations!” the Superintendent said brightly, then switched his attention to the papers on his desk. He looked up again, the matter of praise over and done with.
“Okay, Jackson, you’ve got two weeks’ leave. Take it. Make up for your vacation.”
Larry wet his lips. “I’ve got a lot of extra expenses,” he said. “There were phone calls and—”
“We know, Sergeant. Just fill out the expense sheets as per norm.”
The telephone rang and the Superintendent snatched up the receiver.
“It’s not just that,” Larry explained. “If Eddie Myers turns informer again... I mean, I found him, I’d like to see it through...”
“Yes,” the Superintendent snapped into the telephone, “I’ll be right with you.” He put a hand over the mouthpiece and narrowed his eyes at Larry. “I’ll keep it in mind,” he said.
Larry had no option but to go.
At approximately that moment a slim, hard-jawed man wearing an expensive gray suit and a fawn Burberry was being shown into the gloom of Von Joel’s cell. He was Sydney Jefferson, an accomplished and expensive criminal defense lawyer. He waited in silence as an officer closed the door behind him.
Von Joel was stretched out on the hard bunk, one arm across his face.
“How am I doing, Sydney?” he said.
Jefferson hesitated for dramatic effect, flaring his nostrils delicately at the damp odor of the cell. He looked at Von Joel as if he might be something unpleasant to approach.
“You want it straight?” he said. “You are in it up to your armpits.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got five minutes, so let’s keep all this tight. You’ve a custody hearing in the morning. Normal routine stuff. There’s not a ghost of a chance of bail — the charge of absconding from custody last time will hold you.”
Von Joel eased his legs over the side of the bunk and sat up. He clasped his hands and looked at his lawyer.
“I can’t go down, Sydney. There’s not a jail in this stinking country I’d survive ten minutes in.”
“You can’t avoid it,” Jefferson said impassively. “The question isn’t whether, but for how long.”
Von Joel stared at his knuckles, frowning.
“Will they bite on a deal? Did you feel it out?” He looked up again. “What do you think?”
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.