“Lucky sod’s on it,” Falcon muttered to Summers. “What did I say, eh?”
“I’ll tell you, Larry,” McKinnes said as they reached the foot of the stairs. “Okay if I call you Larry?”
Larry nodded, feeling a fluttery sensation in his stomach. The abrupt reversal of rejection had done something to his digestive system.
“Well, what we’ve got to date, Larry, is making our hair stand on end. You with me?”
Larry nodded again, adjusting his grip on the overnight bag. He thought quickly about his views on the case, feeling some input was expected.
“You come up with anything on the body that was buried as Myers?” he said.
“Hang on, son. One thing at a time, eh? We’re still negotiating for him to turn Royal. That doesn’t mean we got the go-ahead, not like in the old days. It’ll be up to the magistrate.”
They reached the exit to the parking lot. McKinnes pushed open the door and strode across the yard to a black security wagon. Larry could see Von Joel’s face at one of the ventilated windows. McKinnes checked that the driver was all set, then marched to a Granada parked in front of the wagon. He waved for Larry to follow him. He opened the back door, looked around him and decided to light a cigarette.
“A lot of blokes in the frame,” he said reflectively, “would like to cut Eddie Myers’s balls off, never mind slitting his throat.” He nodded at the back seat. “Get in. We’ve got a sealed court.” DI Shrapnel appeared. “You met Frank,” McKinnes said offhandedly to Larry. He turned to Shrapnel. “Let’s go.”
Shrapnel had ignored Larry. He walked around to the driver’s seat and got in, starting the engine as McKinnes eased into the front seat. Larry noticed a second patrol car lined up at the rear. Without any apparent signal the convoy suddenly moved off, fast, the unmarked Granada in front, patrol car at the rear, and the holding wagon sandwiched between them, all sirens blasting.
As they rounded the corner onto the main road McKinnes turned to Larry.
“Sergeant, about the floater in Italy... we only got the frigging ashes, his wife had him — or whoever the poor bastard was — cremated, so it’ll be circumstantial evidence. We need more.”
“If he didn’t bump the guy off,” Larry offered, “he’ll sure as hell know who did.”
“That doesn’t concern us right now, son. Believe me, I want Eddie Myers stitched up.”
Larry thought this might be a good time to ask the question uppermost in his mind.
“Why have you brought me in?”
Shrapnel shot McKinnes a bored look.
“I want him kept sweet,” McKinnes said. “And I want him to keep spewing up what he’s got. He asked for you personally, Larry boy.”
“What does that mean?” Larry asked, baffled.
“He wants you to sit and hold his hand,” Shrapnel grunted, exchanging looks with McKinnes again.
The profound truth dawned sharply on Larry. He was on the case. Jesus. He was really on it! He sat back in his seat, feeling a smile spread.
In the front Shrapnel began to laugh. McKinnes controlled himself briefly, then he grinned, and after a second he began to laugh too.
Larry felt his smile fade, wondering what they knew that he didn’t.
An hour in the sealed court was like four anywhere else. By eleven forty-five Larry was having trouble staying alert. He preferred courts full of people, plenty of faces to dwell on. Variety kept him attentive.
This gathering had the atmosphere of a funeral for somebody who had died friendless, with only a handful of acquaintances grudgingly mourning him. Four uniformed officers guarded the door; Von Joel, handcuffed, was on the podium with his head bowed. His lawyer, Sydney Jefferson, sat in the front pew. Larry and DI Shrapnel were on a bench at the side.
The magistrate, an attractive middle-aged woman with steady eyes and a no-nonsense mouth, sat with her head resting on her hands, a large file open in front of her. She turned the pages slowly, listening carefully to McKinnes, who was standing to her left with a copy of the same file.
“As you can see, ma’am,” he said in his gravest courtroom voice, “pages ten, eleven, and up to page fourteen give details of the fifth offense. This was a particularly violent robbery, and Constable Walter Cronk was shot at point-blank range. To date we have been unable to produce the evidence to enable us to arrest the five suspects named at the top of page fifteen. These suspects have all been questioned over a number of years in connection with the said offense. Edward Myers has supplied us with a detailed route and layout of the robbery, plus the names of four fences used to distribute the money, and he has admitted to being a party to laundering the said moneys.”
The magistrate looked up.
“Did Myers also benefit from the proceeds of the named robbery?”
“Yes, ma’am, he did, and we have access to his private accounts. His lawyer has produced bank statements and details of all financial transactions over a period of five years, proving without doubt that Myers was, even though on the run, very active in laundering moneys from illegal sources.”
McKinnes paused to clear his throat.
“If I may draw your attention to the next page...”
“The Highfield armed robbery,” the magistrate said, making a note. “Continue.”
The officers by the door were wilting but trying gamely not to show it. Sydney Jefferson, on the other hand, had been vigilant throughout, making notes as the various pieces of evidence were discussed. Frank Shrapnel, too, had made a lot of notes. Von Joel, standing with his eyes fixed on the floor, might well have been in a trance.
“This man, the suspect numbered thirteen on your list,” McKinnes said, “disposed of the shotgun used in the robbery. Myers has been very cooperative and is willing to take us to the location. Page sixteen gives details of the bullion raid at Gatwick Airport, June 1987. There are three named suspects. None have been interrogated as a result of the continuing investigation, but they will now be brought in for questioning.”
Larry found himself staring at Von Joel, fascinated by his air of detached calm, the way he managed to look as if he wasn’t really part of the proceedings. As Larry stared, Von Joel turned his head slowly. Their eyes met and Von Joel smiled. Larry looked away sharply.
“The men named by Myers,” McKinnes went on, “have no previous criminal connections, or associations with any of the afore-listed suspects. None have police records and they appear on the surface to be honest, hard-working citizens. The information divulged by Edward Myers is therefore deemed to be of great importance.”
During the lunch break Larry found himself in the toilet at the same time as DI Shrapnel. As Larry washed his hands he glanced at the Inspector.
“So what’s next?”
“Jefferson will have his say,” Shrapnel muttered, stepping away from the stall. “Then we wait for the outcome. In the old days none of this was bloody necessary, as you know. We could make the deal and get on with it.” He went to the mirror and combed his sparse hair. “Now everything’s in favor of the criminals. The deal’s on record, so he’s protected.”
“No mention of the murder,” Larry said, running his hands through his hair. “Doesn’t that come into this?”
“A few flash bastards made promises,” Shrapnel said, as if he hadn’t heard. “When they couldn’t keep them the grasses started screeching, withdrew statements, et cetera, et cetera. Now we have to go through this farce, we’ve got to have him segregated, keep him sweet...”
“What’s he after? I mean, he absconded, he’s going to have to do time, isn’t he?”
“Let’s find out,” Shrapnel said, pulling open the door.
It took Sydney Jefferson an hour to reach the stage where he could draw together the points of his client’s case and submit them to the magistrate in something resembling a summary. The fatigue in the courtroom had become almost tangible. Von Joel sat in the dock looking tired and drawn. McKinnes drooped in the front bench with his elbows on his knees; Shrapnel and Larry Jackson were behind him, Shrapnel alternately yawning and sighing.