Free Framed by Lynda La Plante Page A

Andy's cheer coincided with the ringing of the telephone. He snatched up the receiver, continuing to watch the game. "Yeah? Uh-huh, this is Andy . . ." His eyes remained on the TV screen, but his smile dropped away as the caller spoke. The seriousness of the message brought him slowly to his feet. By the time the caller was finished speaking, Andy had completely lost interest in the football. He put down the phone, his face twisting with rage as he drew back his big foot and brought it forward quickly, smashing the television set.
Some time later, in a cozy restaurant in London, a man called Donald Lather was having dinner with his companion for the evening, an attractive and highly pneumatic blond lady who, the head waiter confided to his subordinate, possessed a room-temperature IQ. Lather smiled at his young companion as he dabbed his mouth with his napkin. He reached for his wineglass and sipped, noticing a man approach, a person he knew. The man nodded curtly, leaned across the table, and whispered something to Lather. He then moved off again. Lather shot to his feet, pushing the table aside and toppling his glass of wine. The contents landed in his companion's lap, making her squeal. Without glancing at her he threw a wad of banknotes on the table and marched out of the restaurant.
The next day, in another part of town, Harvey Hutchinson, in cap and donkey jacket, was arranging fruit on his street corner cart when his brother, Tommy, came forward and spoke briefly to him. They exchanged words for a couple of minutes, then Tommy hurried away. Harvey watched him go with a look of panic on his face.
That afternoon an antiques dealer, Ronald Fairclough, was behind the counter in his shop with a jeweler's glass in his eye, examining a fine nineteenth-century ruby-and- garnet necklace he had just bought for a criminally low price. A shadow fell across the counter and Ronald looked up. Tommy Hutchinson had come in. The glass dropped from Fairclough's eye. He looked terrified.
Later still, in his used-car lot, Willy Noakes was being pushed in his wheelchair between rows of vehicles with price stickers on the windshields when a man ran up to the chair, grasped the handles, and leaned close to Willy, whispering urgently in his ear. The man was Donald Lather. As he turned and rushed away again Willy looked about him distractedly, trying to wheel himself forward, failing, trying again, and finally giving up. He stared after Lather, his face taut with fear.
In a hairdressing salon not far from the car lot, a tough-faced blond woman called Doreen Angel sat under the dryer with a cup of coffee in her hand and a magazine on her knee. An assistant came forward and held up a portable telephone, indicating there was a call for Doreen. Looking surprised, Doreen ducked her head out from under the dryer and put the telephone to her ear. She identified herself, listened for a moment, then, to the assistant's surprise, she dropped the cup of coffee.

f

Approximately three weeks after his return from Spain, Larry Jackson received his credit-card statement. He studied it at the kitchen table while Susan washed up the boys' breakfast dishes. "My God! Do you know how much that Suzuki jeep worked out at?" Susan shrugged, slipping a plate into a slot on the drainer. "You'll get it back, won't you?"

"I'm not so sure. They're being tight-arsed about the phone calls, and they said I never got permission to rent a car."

"I don't believe it!" Susan slapped down the dishcloth. "It just serves you right!" She screwed up her face, something she did so often nowadays it was practically a reflex. " 'This'll mean promotion,' " she squeaked, imagining she was impersonating Larry.
"It will," he told her. "We'll just have to wait."
The telephone rang. Susan went to the hall and answered it. Larry leaned back in his chair, trying to hear what she was saying.
"Is that for me?" he shouted.
He heard the receiver being put down.
"Yes," Susan said, coming back.