Framed Read Free Page A

down. Outside a bar he accosted a waiter, borrowed his pen, and wrote the number on his hand— MA 2179 BD.
Deflated suddenly, he wandered back along the road. He checked his watch and decided to find out if the fax had been sent to London. He was leaving the hotel manager's office when Susan caught up with him. She was dragging Tony by the arm. John walked dolefully behind them.
"He was playing table tennis," she announced, her tone implying it was a borderline sin. "You'll have to talk to him, Larry. Where've you been, anyway?"
He ignored the question, pocketing the fax okay slip the manager's secretary had handed him. He gave his sons the heavy-father look.
"Right. Pair of you. Bed. No arguments."
He watched them walk away, feeling sorry for them, as he often did. He turned to Susan and suggested they use up the remains of the evening in the hotel cocktail bar. The idea was agreeable enough to make her smile, slightly.
They took a table near the center of the room. A group from Bradford at the next table were discussing the dangers of going out on a pedalo without proper protection from the sun, and how easy it was to get a bargain from certain street traders so long as you were firm with them.
Raising his voice to make himself heard above the neighbors and the guitarist, Larry told Susan about seeing the white Rolls and realizing it was Myers behind the wheel. She sucked on the straw sticking up from her fruit-decked drink and frowned thoughtfully. Then she smiled.
"This has got rum in it," she said.
"I'm sure it was Eddie Myers," Larry said. He tasted his drink and made a face. "I was on his arrest, you know It was when I was still in uniform."
Susan flapped her hand, her eyes swiveling to the next table. She didn't want people knowing he was a policeman.
"He's a grass," Larry confided, leaning forward and lowering his voice. "An informer. Put away God knows how many blokes. The thing was, we knew he had more than a million stashed. And then he escaped from custody."
Susan's attention flitted around the other tables. Larry broke off to hail a waiter, who indicated he would be there in a minute. Larry got back to his story.
"That was in 1985, had to be about November. I was on the arrest of one of the guys he named, and just after that I passed Myers in the corridor, this close. He was laughing. Maybe that's why I remember him."
The waiter came across and hovered, eyebrows raised inquiringly.
"Room seventy-six," Larry told him over Susan's head. "Same again there, and a beer for me. Lager." The waiter nodded and moved off. Larry leaned close again. "Now listen to this. Three years ago, might be more, nearer five I suppose—"
"I'm not really interested," Susan said.
Larry didn't seem to hear. He looked around then leaned closer still. "We get notification from Italy they got a floater, right? Been in the drink for weeks. The body was eventually ID'd as Eddie Myers. So that's that. All his files are finito —understand?"
The waiter returned with his tray and put two cocktails, a beer and a lager on the table.
"Aw, here now, hang on . . ." Larry waved his hand over the glasses, staring at the waiter's uncomprehending face. He tried to find the words to explain. The waiter moved impatiently from foot to foot. Larry sighed. "Never mind," he said. He picked up the beer and took a gulp. 'That's better." He looked squarely at Susan. "It was Eddie Myers I saw today. I swear it."
Susan glanced aside, her mouth closed around her straw.
"You still don't understand, do you?" Larry said. "Eddie Myers's wife ID'd the body. He's supposed to be dead!"
Later, after more explanation and a widening of Susan's indifference, which Lawrence continued to misread, they walked along the beach hand in hand, hearing the occasional seabird beyond the sounds of the sea and the grunts and giggles from the darkness around them.
"His wife had the body cremated," Larry said. "Eddie Myers, good night."
"Did you see her?" Susan asked. "His wife?"
"I don't