As they turned from the cashier a teller approached Lola, obsequiously smiling. He said if she would like to see the safety-deposit facilities she should follow him. She nodded, hooking her arm through Larry’s. As they followed the man toward a large oak door, Lola was chattering again.
“You know how much that suite at the Hyde Park is per night?” She rolled her eyes. “But Papa insists he knows I am safe there, he can always find me. He has a few pieces of jewelry from the family, so sometimes I sell something for him...”
“If a suite at the Hyde Park Hotel costs anything like that dinner...” Larry laughed, feeling extraordinarily at ease with Lola, and with himself. “You know, I almost had heart failure, honest I did...”
A couple of hours later, in the incident room at St. John’s Row, DI Shrapnel brought DCI McKinnes the news that the doctor supervising Von Joel’s progress had said he could be moved. McKinnes nodded, adding the information to an influx he was juggling, trying by every means he could muster to make things happen. He tapped the shoulder of a WPC who was passing.
“Get another check on the driver of the truck,” he told her. “See if there’s any kind of tie-in with Minton.” He turned and saw DC Colin Frisby walk in. “Oy! Frisby! Anything out of order at Jackson’s?”
“Well...” Frisby came across, looking wary. “Jackson’s wife said he didn’t come home last night. Something up, is there?”
The telephone rang and Shrapnel answered it.
“We’re moving Myers,” McKinnes said distractedly, to no one in particular. He stared at Frisby suddenly, as if he had just heard him. “What did you say?”
“Guv,” — Shrapnel covered the mouthpiece — “it’s the Super. He wants you ASAP.” McKinnes scowled and turned away, muttering that he was going to get a sandwich first. “He’s on his way up,” Shrapnel told the Superintendent, and dropped the receiver.
“Frank...” It was DC Frisby again. “Is Jackson off the Myers case? If he is, can you get me to replace him?”
Shrapnel raised his finger and flicked his own ear.
“Too much of this, Frisby,” he said, “can land you in it.”
In the Superintendent’s office McKinnes was required to furnish a case update. It would have been easier if his men were still acting on fresh information, or if the existing evidence and circumstantial developments would come together in a way that equaled progress. Matters were not static, but they were moving too slowly. The Superintendent didn’t want to hear that, so McKinnes did all he could to make it sound as if significant breakthroughs were imminent. He ate a sandwich as he delivered his report, gesturing with a still-sealed cup of coffee in the other hand. When he had talked himself dry-throated he tugged off the cap from the plastic cup and spilled coffee down his jacket.
“Shit!” he spluttered, spraying crumbs. “You got a tissue?”
The Superintendent handed one over. McKinnes dabbed at himself, managing to spill coffee on the desk as he put down the cup and the tatters of the sandwich.
“That shooter killed the security guard,” he assured the Superintendent. “That’s enough to hold Minton. I think he was on the job and I think Eddie Myers has more. Now we’ve got him back, I’ll put the pressure on him.”
There was no more to report about the case. McKinnes moved to the door before the Superintendent could think of any questions that might detain him.
“Oh,” — as he pulled the door open he pretended to remember something unimportant — “Jackson’s off the case, he’s too inexperienced.”
The Superintendent frowned. “Have you got a problem with him?”
“Nothing I can’t handle. Give these youngsters an inch and they’re ruddy Perry Masons...”
The Superintendent turned to the desk as McKinnes left. He looked down and sighed, gazing at the spilled coffee and the mutilated remains of the sandwich.
As the day wore on, Larry Jackson’s awareness of his position began to harden. Away from Lola — she was busy, things to do, people to see — he no longer walked with his feet an inch above the ground, though terra firma wasn’t so hard as it might have been. In spite of a new layer of resilience he found himself missing the case again, craving the involvement. There was, too, the aggravation of being cut off from contact with Von Joel, which was no small nuisance.
He got home deliberately late. He picked at a semi cold dinner alone in the kitchen, while Susan and the boys watched television in the living room.
At nine o’clock the phone rang. He wandered out to the hall and answered it. It was Lola. All at once he was on the defensive, watching the door to the living room. He was so nervous about being caught he could hardly hear what she was saying. The change in him hadn’t gone so deep as he had thought. There was still a chicken, a small one, flapping about in his psyche.
“I can’t,” he snapped into the mouthpiece. “I’m sorry.”
What was she suggesting, anyway? What exactly was a scene? “No, really, I can’t, and don’t call again. I said I can’t.”
He looked up and saw Susan come into the hall.
“I’ve got to go,” he snapped. “Good-bye.”
Susan watched as he practically threw down the receiver.
“I’m going to make some cocoa,” she said. “You want some? I said the kids can stay up and watch the end of the film.” She nodded at the telephone. “Who was that?”
“Just work,” Larry said — too fast, he was sure. “No, thanks.”
The telephone rang again. He snatched it up.
“Hello?”
Susan walked into the kitchen as Lola began begging him to come to the hotel.
“Cut it out!” he grated through his teeth.
She was babbling at him, her voice a fluctuating squeak in the earpiece. He swore silently toward the ceiling. This wasn’t romantic adventure, it was bloody-minded mischief. It was troublemaking. He had heard about coppers driven half mad by girlfriends deciding to make problems for them at home. It nearly always started with the telephone.
“I said no! Don’t call me here again!”
He slammed down the phone. Susan came out of the kitchen.
“Did you say you wanted one or not? Only we don’t have much milk...”
The phone rang. Larry grabbed it.
“I said no!” he snapped without listening. “I mean it! Stop messing around!”
He pressed the cradle buttons, released them, and left the receiver lying on the table. Susan came close, staring at him.
“Is someone threatening you? Us? Larry? Who was it?”
“Just leave it off the hook for a while!”
“You wouldn’t lie to me about it, would you?” Susan’s eyes had their prehysterical glint. “They suspected someone would try and—”
“It’s nothing!” Larry hissed. “Nothing at all!”
“Don’t snap at me! I don’t know what’s got into you, but whatever it is, don’t take it out on me and the kids.”
“I’ll get them to bed,” Larry muttered, heading for the living room.
“I’m just making their cocoa,” Susan said. “Did you want one?”
“Jesus Christ!” Larry stiffened, staring at the living room door. “How many more times? No! No! I don’t want any frigging cocoa!”
Susan was lying in bed, face turned to the wall, eyes tight shut and not asleep. Larry got in beside her, turned off the bedside lamp, and bashed his pillow.
“I said I’m sorry. There’s no need to act like this!”
Susan gritted her teeth. “Like what? How am I acting, Larry?”
“You know.”
“No, I don’t know,” she snapped.
“Yes, you do, and I said I’m sorry.”