Framed by Lynda La Plante Page B

security holding area at St. John's Row, deeper than he had ever been before, down spiral stairs and along passages lined with numbered cells.
At the bottom of the final staircase they reached an entrance which was, McKinnes explained, the door of the safe house where Von Joel was being held. He pressed a button by the door. There was an answering buzz from the intercom. He leaned close and spoke into it.
"DCI McKinnes and Detective Sergeant Lawrence Jackson."
The door swung open. DI Shrapnel stood there, nodding with a proprietory air. He stepped aside as they went in and closed the door behind them.
"How did he take it?" McKinnes asked.
"Moody," Shrapnel said. "Calling the magistrate a hard-nosed bitch and so forth. He'll play ball, though. He knows a reduced sentence is in the cards, so he's just going to have to behave himself."
McKinnes turned to Larry. "You've got a lot of reading to catch up on, son." He tapped the bundle under Larry's arm. "Familiarize yourself with all these old files."
They moved along the passage to a small room equipped for sound surveillance. Larry put down the files and looked around.
"Here's the radio controls," McKinnes said, "and the tape recorders. We do it in shifts, come and go without aggro, you won't know we're here."
"Where is he?" Larry asked.
"Unpacking," McKinnes said. "You live together, eat with the guy, and you get to know him better than your own bleeding mother." McKinnes grinned, poking Larry in the chest. "End of it, you'll never want to see him again or hear his name mentioned, because that bastard doesn't move out of here day or night—nor do you!"
The three of them proceeded on a tour of the house.
"You're not going to believe this," Shrapnel said when they got to the kitchen. "He's made out a list, says he eats proteins and carbohydrates only, never together. He wants wild rice—what the hell is wild rice? I mean, I know brown rice—"
"Get him what he wants," McKinnes grunted. "What the bastard eats isn't my concern."
"But we've got a freezerful of food! It's all been costed and ordered. I mean, fresh fishl Who's going to schlepp out for that?"
"Discuss it with the Super, right?" McKinnes went to the door, beckoning Larry. "Come on."
Shrapnel stayed where he was, examining Von Joel's list.
"Peppers, zucchini, carrots. No red meats. No frozen foods. Who does he think he is?" "Always remember," McKinnes told Larry, leading him into the sitting room, "when you start a session, make sure you give the exact time— a.m., p.m ., and the date. . . ."
The sitting room was spacious and well furnished, the kind of room that invited relaxation; the only rather eerie element was the absence of windows.
"Always give names of officers on duty," McKinnes continued, crossing the room to the opposite door, "but watch everything you say because it's being fed back to base. When this switch is on"—he pointed to a discreet unit on the table—"it'll pick up at quite a radius. Fart in the bathroom and we hear it." He turned, rubbing his hands. "Okay, let's go to the sleeping quarters."
He led Larry along a gray passageway, pushing open various doors and letting them go as he passed.
"This is where you'll be bunking. . . . Bathroom there . . . toilet ..."
He stopped before a closed door and pushed it slowly open. Gucci luggage was stacked against the wall.
"The guest is here. Let's hope for your sake he doesn't snore."
Von Joel appeared in the doorway wearing slacks and a cashmere sweater. He reached for a suitcase.
"Got any decent hangers?" he said. "Wooden ones?"
"There's a gym next door," McKinnes said, ignoring him, leading Larry away.
Shrapnel caught up with them as they were surveying the layout of rowing machines, weights, and cycling equipment. He was still studying Von Joel's list.
"You ever heard of something called yannis? He doesn't drink straight tea, only herbal, and whatever this yannis is, it's a coffee replacement. I've never heard of it. Oh, yeah, that's another thing—he