Framed Read Free

stagy exasperation. "All you had to do was sit there. How could you just walk off like that?" She spun suddenly, her antennae alerted. "Tony! Don't lean over the balcony!"
"It was him," Larry said flatly, reprising his only excuse. "I know it. If I could just get the photos blown up I could prove it."
"His head's the size of a pin, Larry. It'd cost a fortune. You wasted half a roll of film as it is." Susan spun again. "Tony! I am watching you!"
"Oh! The pair of you!" Larry put in, feeling it was expected. "Inside now." He moved close to Susan and put a kiss on her back. "I'm sorry." There was no way to tell if the apology was accepted.
Later, while Susan and the boys braved the dining room, Larry went to the manager's office and scrounged the use of a typewriter. He put together a brief message, inserting as much urgency as he could, and asked the manager to fax it to London straightaway. Surprisingly, the manager said he would be happy to oblige. He started to say something else just as the Tannoy clicked on; he held up a finger and let his mouth hang open, indicating he would resume as soon as the announcement was over.
"Hi!" a desperately pally voice yelled over the speaker. 'This is your Sun and Sea Tours representative. If you want to join the table tennis championship, come to Games Room Four. Games Room Four."
The message ended with another click. The manager beamed at Larry.
The toilet is okay now?" he said.
"It was the shower," Larry told him as he left. The traffic in the foyer was brisk. Susan stood there with John. She was agitated. Tony, she informed Larry, was missing.
"He went to look for you," she snapped. "The second sitting's gone in now. Where have you been?"
"Getting the shower fixed." They walked together to the door and out onto the steps. "I'll head along the beach and look for him," Larry said.
The sun was going down, the sky grading from light blue to rich cobalt at the horizon, streaked with pink and scarlet. People's faces looked burnished; the waves, dark now, glinting dull silver, made rhythmic breathing sounds against the shore. If there had been nothing on his mind, nothing at all to distract him, Larry would have liked to walk along the sand and watch the sun drop below the sierras, letting the night close around him like velvet. It was the kind of thing he would have done when he was single.
"Tony?" His voice died a few yards ahead of him, grounded by the dense air. "Tony! Come on now, your mum's worried . . ."
He was sure the boy would come to no harm, but he went through the motions of concerned behavior. Down on the beach he shuffled a couple of hundred yards to the west, then the same distance east, winding up approximately where he started. Apart from himself, a dog was the only other sign of life on the beach. He went back to the steps and climbed to street level, kicking sand from his shoes.
As he stood at the edge of the pavement a white Rolls-Royce Corniche glided past, the top down. He was halfway to noting the registration, out of habit, when recognition hit him again. He stared at the driver. It was him, the man from the speedboat. Myers. He seemed laid-back like before, his eyes behind shades this time, looking elegant as hell in a spotless white open-necked shirt.
The car was past in a second but Larry had it all clocked—the precise lines of the driver's face, the repeat certainty that it was Myers—even the Malaga plates. He began running, swerving and ducking past market stalls, keeping the Rolls in sight. It was doing no more than twenty but that was roughly twice what Larry could manage. As it turned right ahead of him he stepped into the road and was almost run down by a horse-drawn carriage. He leapt back, fighting to stay upright, apologizing to the scarlet-faced driver.
"Lo siento, senor . .
By the time he got to the corner there was no sign of the Rolls. He stopped, clamped his eyes shut, and made sure he had the number. He had, but he would lose it if he didn't get it