At ten-thirty Larry was in the kitchen reading his chess book while Von Joel cleared up. Among the detritus on the worktop was an ashtray full of cigarette and cigar stubs, and on top an empty matchbox. Von Joel palmed the box as he tipped the other rubbish into the swing-top bin.
Across the way, the late shift was preparing to take over in the surveillance flat. The senior surveillance officer made his customary radio contact with control before handing over.
“It’s ten-thirty, tapes sealed and on their way to HQ.” He listened for a moment, shook his head. “Nope. Nothing. A lot of chess, Monopoly, and Scrabble. Okay.” He turned to his takeover and stretched. “Another riveting session comes to an end,” he said, fighting down a yawn, already more than hallway convinced that his talent and energies were being wasted on a nothing-doing case. Next morning Von Joel and Larry made their circuit of Regent’s Park as usual, running stride for stride, breathing in unison. An unmarked patrol car trailed a short distance behind them, Frank Shrapnel driving. It was an idyllic morning, clear and crisp; apart from a few other joggers the park was virtually empty.
“Like Siamese twins, them two,” Shrapnel muttered to his partner in the car. He yawned. “I can’t take much more of these early sodding mornings.” He looked along the path and nodded. “Okay, they’re coming back.” He picked up the radio handset and switched it on. “DI Shrapnel at oh-seven-hundred hours, sixth day. Still no contact. Returning to base, over.”
The joggers drew level with the car, which was now stationary. They were both spent, heaving for breath. Von Joel leaned over the hood, something concealed in the curved palm of his hand. Shrapnel got out of the car and opened the rear door, checking to right and left.
“Come on, Eddie,” he prompted, “get in.”
Getting into the car, still panting heavily, Von Joel performed a realistic stagger and threw the object from his free hand under the car.
“What time did we make this morning, Frank?” he said, rolling into the backseat. “Did we knock anything off?”
Shrapnel checked his watch. As Larry got into the car the toe of his trainer touched the object Von Joel had dropped. It was a matchbox. As the car drove off toward the exit the back wheel went over the matchbox, flattening it.
Across the park Lola nudged Charlotte.
“I think he dropped something. Did you see him drop something?”
“Wait,” Charlotte said, restraining Lola. “Let the car move out of the park. Don’t go yet! Wait... Okay.”
Lola, tracksuited and hooded as before, started running. She took the same route as Larry and Von Joel, keeping her head down, watching the ground. She stopped after a couple of minutes, looked toward Charlotte and shrugged. Then she began running again, stopped, ran back, stopped, tied her shoe lace. When she straightened she threw back her shoulders, took a deep breath, and ran as fast as she could back to the car.
“Well?” Charlotte leaned across from the driving wheel, looking anxious. “Did you find something?”
Lola was panting for breath, sitting half in and half out of the car, unable for the moment to speak. Charlotte raised her binoculars and gazed across the park, carefully adjusting the focusing ring.
“That park attendant,” she said, “he’s a cop. They’re all over the place. Something about this isn’t right.”
“Matchbox,” Lola gasped. She held it up. “It’s been flattened, the patrol car ran over it. I told you he dropped something...” She slid her thumb under the mashed edge of the box and pried it partly open. “Oh, wow, he did — look!”
Lola carefully peeled the box apart, exposing four sheets of Bronco toilet paper folded neatly together. Every inch of sheet, on both sides, was covered with fine, close handwriting.
22
On Monday morning DCI McKinnes came out of the Superintendent’s office at St. John’s Row station and bore down on DI Shrapnel, who was getting a coffee from the machine in the corridor.
“We’ve only got him until Friday, Frank.” It had been a foregone conclusion, but McKinnes still managed to show pained surprise. “After that they’re pulling the whole operation. What in Christ’s name is he waiting for?”
Shrapnel peered into his coffee cup before he tasted it. He made a face.
“Jackson’s doing his stuff,” he said. “If he tells him one more time we’re taking him to Reading, it’ll sound like the record’s stuck.”
“Eddie Myers is broke.” It was a phrase McKinnes repeated often, like a litany, as if saying it would set wheels moving. “His girls cleaned him out, he’s got to want that cash more than ever. So why the delay? Why doesn’t he make a move?”
“Maybe he can’t, Guv. He’s bound to have clocked the backup we’ve got on him.”
McKinnes lowered his head a fraction, usually a sign that he was considering something, or that he was about to throw a temper fit.
“Frank,” he muttered, “let’s you and me go for broke. Tip him off. Let him know he’s only got one car with him tomorrow.”
Shrapnel looked uneasy, but he nodded anyway.
“And Frank — be subtle, don’t let Jackson know.”
“You’re the boss,” Shrapnel sighed. “But, Guv, this is in the book, yeah?”
McKinnes stiffened indignantly. “It’ll be in the book, Frank. Now piss off.”
By that evening the mechanism of Von Joel’s plan was moving. He leaned by the living room window during a chess game, waiting for Larry to make his move. The curtain was strategically pushed aside. He checked his watch: ten o’clock precisely. Larry muttered something, vocalizing the strategy behind the move he was about to make. Von Joel grunted a response but he wasn’t listening; his ears were tuned to the road outside and the whisper of traffic sounds.
At almost a minute past the hour a car engine started up nearby; it ticked over and stopped. It started again, ticked over and stopped. A third time it started, ran for a few seconds, then stopped. At that point Von Joel watched the window carefully. He saw car headlights come on, then go off. The same thing happened two more times. He smiled and moved away from the window. Larry glanced at him with a faintly smug smile. Von Joel crouched down, examining the board. It was obvious that Larry believed he had the opposing king in check. With one move Von Joel turned the game around.
“You can’t beat me, I’m a master.” He laughed. He ruffled Larry’s hair and began singing: “The sun will come out tomorrow...”
Larry stared at him.
“One car and just you and me...” Von Joel’s voice dropped to a rich bass. “Tomorrow is only a day away!” He laughed again and swept a hand toward the board.
“Checkmate!”
Early the following morning they made their usual circuit of Regent’s Park, running in unison, Larry watchful, Von Joel apparently unconcerned with anything but maintaining his pace.
It was a cool morning with a layer of mist on the ground, broken into swirls here and there by birds and the occasional scampering squirrel. The night’s moisture still lay on the air, filtering out traffic smells, enriching the scent of flowerbeds and hedgerows. Strenuous exercise in such an atmosphere, Larry now realized, paid benefits that went beyond physical health.
As they rounded into the home stretch Von Joel began to move ahead, staying in step with Larry, simply lengthening his stride by fractions to gain a few inches of lead. Fifteen yards ahead of them the patrol car was waiting, engine running, back door open, only the driver inside.
Von Joel put on a spurt as they neared the car. He jumped in through the door, dragging Larry behind him. Larry slammed the door shut and the car pulled away.