Free Framed by Lynda La Plante

"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.
The pace of the interrogation was punishing on everyone concerned, but nobody worked harder than Von Joel.
Throughout the sessions he answered every question and racked his brain to come up with details, some incredibly petty and seemingly irrelevant, to shore up or authenticate areas of evidence that raised doubts with the officers checking his testimony.
Toward the end of the second week, Von Joel began to look weary. Lack of daylight and exercise, poor diet, and miserable accommodation were taking their toll on his stamina. He pushed himself nevertheless, maintaining the pace, continuing to come up with names and dates, hideouts, aliases, and the whereabouts of particular people and specific sums of money. On the Friday afternoon, as a surprise bonus, he revealed the identities of three "clean hands" operators, businessmen who bankrolled major heists and raked off percentages when the operations were successful.
At seven o'clock that evening a tired and bleary-eyed DCI McKinnes took a thick wad of paper from DI Shrapnel and pushed it across the table to Von Joel. Clearing his throat, McKinnes proceeded to speak in the dead monotone of a man repeating something he had said many times before.
"Will you now read over the notes of today's interview," he said, "and if you agree to the contents will you initial each answer, and sign each page."
Von Joel began signing and McKinnes watched. When Von Joel joked that his pen was out of ink—he had signed so many pages of statement—he was given a fresh pen; his amusement was not mirrored at the other side of the table.
"During this interview," McKinnes said, "is everything you have said and signed the truth?"
"Yes," said Von Joel, nodding. For a moment both men looked at the masses of documents piled on the surrounding tables, the product of two weeks of intensive work.
"And you understand," McKinnes went on, "that a confession to the police which also inculpates codefendants is not evidence against those codefendants but is treated as hearsay?"
Von Joel nodded again.
"If this pans out, McKinnes said quietly, we'll try for a deal."
Von Joel looked cautiously relieved.
Within days the ripples from the interrogation room began to spread, disturbing the lives of people who had believed, some of them for years, that they were safe and that their tracks were covered.
On his boat anchored in a Spanish harbor, a big heavyset man called Andy Ball sat watching a soccer match on a small color TV set. A goal was scored and