Loose Head

by Jeff Keithly

  “Can you describe him?”

  “Late forties, bald on top, dark beard with a white streak, dirty white anorak, very tall – nearly as tall as you, DI Abbott. He had a Glaswegian accent.”

  “Right.” Brian looked at me, eyebrows raised; we rose to go. “Just one more thing, Lord Palmerston. You’re right-handed?” Leicester nodded, perplexed. “Can we have a look at your right shoulder, please?”

  Leicester stepped back, suddenly outraged. “Look I’ve answered your questions. What’s my shoulder got to do with anything?”

  “It’s just to satisfy us on a point of interest. Your shirt, please?”

  With a wordless glare for me, Leicester slipped his sweatshirt over his head. There was a fading, yellowish contusion on his right shoulder. “May I ask where you acquired that?” Brian asked mildly.

  “It was weeks ago, in one of the matches in Vegas. You remember, Dex. I was on the ground for five minutes or so.”

  I considered. Bob was a hard, fearless runner and tackler, and there had been two or three occasions when he had taken injury time, but I could recall nothing specific to his shoulder. When I said nothing, Leicester snorted contemptuously. “You know, Dex, when this nightmare began, I thought we could count on you. I really did. But you’re not really one of us, are you? In the end, you’re still just a scholarship boy.”

  I stood very still. “Count on me for what, exactly, Bob?”

  “Discretion. Understanding. Delicacy. But you see this differently. It’s your big chance for glory, isn’t it? And nothing – and nobody -- is going to stand in your way.”

  There were a hundred things I wanted to say in response to that. All the petty slights, all the backhanded sneers over my working-class background, from many of my teammates, over all those years, rose suddenly like hot mental bile. But then a thousand acts of kindness, of camaraderie, of friendship, came to soothe the burn. “After all this time, I would have thought you knew me better than that, Bob,” was all I said. Brian and I let ourselves out.

  A few minutes later, we were in Brian’s Ford, heading back to Hendon. “Think he’s conning us?” he asked after a thoughtful silence.

  “Don’t know,” I replied truthfully. “He does have a lot to lose. But I do know one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That over the next few days, one of us is going to be spending a great deal of time befriending the homeless in Millwall Park.”

  Chapter 16

  Any detective worthy of the name must learn to trust his subconscious. While the conscious mind is a marvelous instrument, able to process, sort and draw conclusions from mountainous quantities of raw information, it usually lacks the ability to integrate such a vast, squirming mass into a coherent conclusion. In any investigation, it’s the subconscious that does the heavy lifting when it comes to telling us what it all truly means.

  We had now interviewed all four major suspects – the victims of John’s blackmail -- and so far, my subconscious was maddeningly silent. In general, this is a sign that more information is needed. Brian and I agreed that it would be worth our while to interview the other Hastewicke Gentlemen, and to winnow through Weathersby’s personal life and business relationships, using financial and phone records, looking for anyone who may have wished him harm.

  It was a monumental task, undertaken under crushing pressure to solve the case immediately, if not sooner. Not a day went by that Wicks or Oakhurst, or both, didn’t drop by to criticize our lack of tangible progress; both Brian and I grew harassed and testy.

  Slowly a matrix took shape on the department’s HOLMES system: the complex web of contacts and personal relationships, actions and transactions, the trifles, in Dickens’ immortal words, that make the sum of a man’s life. We tracked alibis, purchases, payments, phone and email contacts, interview answers. After a week, we seemed no closer to an arrest than we had when we started.

  “What we’ve got so far,” Brian sighed, “is diddly jack squat. So far as we know, Weathersby wasn’t seriously involved with anyone, romantically. All of his ex-girlfriends seemed genuinely happy to see the back of him. He was in debt only to reputable financial entities – there were no Artemis Pauls lurking in the background. There were certainly rival collectors who despised him, but none homicidally. His ex-wife’s alibi checked out, so she’s in the clear. Parliament isn’t in session, so I don’t see a political motivation. If it was a terrorist act, no one’s stepped forward to claim the gold star.”

  Things were less clear when it came to our four primary suspects. All four of their alibis were essentially unverifiable, although Brian had spent some time in Millwall Park in an effort to find the old dosser Leicester claimed to have given money to. Harry Barlowe had a history of violence when drinking, but he hadn’t been drunk that night, so far as I or his wife could tell, and lived so far from the murder scene that it would’ve been nearly impossible, logistically, for him to have gone home, then returned to Notting Hill in time.

  “What about firearms residue?” Brian asked. “It only lasts 24 hours on the skin, but much longer in clothing.”

  “Already thought of that,” I said. “FSS have collected every scrap of clothing from our four suspects. They’re analyzing it now.”

  Brian frowned. “None of them seem stupid enough to keep whatever they may have worn that night laying about. Still, can’t hurt to check. What about CCTV?”

  “Nothing promising thus far, except a case of bug-eyes for young Vesta. He did have quite a good view of a couple having an energetic shag in a car off Lansdowne Road, at least until the windows fogged up. I’ve given him recent photos of Bernie, Seagrave, Leicester and Barlowe, but so far none of them have turned up on surveillance video after the party broke up. No furtive shapes climbing the garden fence, either – as luck would have it, the camera covering the Rosmead Road entrance to gardens is broken, and there aren’t any cameras inside.”

  My partner shook his massive head in disgust. “Bloody typical. You’d think the world’s most extensive CCTV network would make our jobs easier, until you actually have to depend on it. There was one thing, though.” He rummaged through the stack of folders on his desk, selected a blue one. “What d’you make of this?”

  I perused the file. One line caught my eye. “Forensic found a smudge of a peculiar granitic soil in the carpet near the French doors, typically found in the foothills of the French Alps near Annecy. Interesting.”

  “Know whether any of your mates has been to France recently?”

  I shook my head, and leaning back in my chair, considered. “All right, Brian.” It was time to ask the fundamental question. “You’ve talked to them all. What do you make of our four prime suspects?”

  He ran his fingers through his unruly hair. “Bernie Plantagenet’s an unstable wreck, but he seems harmless. Roger Seagrave runs deeper – I don’t know what he’s capable of. Harry Barlowe was the most open of the four, and the circumstantial evidence is in his favor, but he has a history of violence. Bob Leicester has the most to lose, the most resources to help him to do something about it, and he’s ruthless when it comes to losing. None of them has an airtight alibi; they all had enough at stake, potentially, to justify a murder. Yet they all knew that killing Weathersby wouldn’t solve their problem, because of his backup disks. It doesn’t make sense.”

  I flourished a file. “Well, here’s something that might help narrow things down – the last month’s phone records for all four, plus Weathersby. Let’s split them up.” I handed Brian his half of the stack, together with a list of the Hastewicke Gentlemen home, office and mobile numbers to compare it to.

  By the end of the afternoon, we discovered that a dozen team members had called Weathersby at some point in the preceding month. Only four – Seagrave, Barlowe, Leicester and Bernie Plantagenet – were in contact more than once. And only one of the four called Weathersby on the night of his death, at shortly before 2 a.m. The call lasted four minutes, and not for the first time, I
wished British Telecom had the ability to record and archive every call made on its network.

  “Why Bernie?” Brian asked as we motored toward Millwall Park. We had agreed to take one more sweep through the park, looking for Bob Leicester’s possibly mythical panhandler, before turning the job over to the local constabulary. “Why’d he call Weathersby the night of the murder? He’d already paid. His money was long gone. What would’ve been the point?”

  “Who knows? Bernie was twat-faced by the time I left the party. Maybe he just called to tell Weathersby what he thought of him. Maybe he thought of some pretext, so he could go back to Penhurst House and blow John away, before he could hurt anyone else.”

  “All right, say that’s true – why would Weathersby agree to a rendezvous? What could they possibly have to talk about that was so urgent?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll have to ask Bernie, I suppose. But I have to be honest – I don’t see how it could’ve been Bernie. If they’d arranged to meet, Weathersby would’ve been waiting for him to arrive.”

  “So?”

  By now we’d left the car and were strolling the twilit path through the park toward the Thames. I could see the lights of Copperfield House, Leicester’s abode, glowing a mile or so to the north.

  “You saw the crime scene, Brian. Whoever shot John was waiting for him, the gun already loaded.”

  “We don’t know that for sure, Dex – that’s just a theory. What if Bernie, or whoever it was, was sitting by the gun and Weathersby turned his back for a moment, or went to the toilet and came back just in time to get a .50 calibre surprise?”

  “Fair enough.” We paused to admire the lights of Greenwich shimmering on the ponderous flood. “So we’re back to square one.”

  Brian gave a snort of disgust. “We were never on square one. We haven’t even started the bloody game! We know it’s got to be one of the four, but it could’ve been any of them, and so far, we’ve no way to so much as prove or disprove anyone’s alibi! I’ve talked to all the taxi companies, by the way. None of them has any record of a pickup from any of our suspects’ houses after 7 p.m. the night of the murder.”

  At this moment, a shadowy shape detached itself from the landscaping and shambled toward us. “Spare some change?” he asked, holding out a filthy American-style baseball cap.

  Glaswegian accent. Tall, balding, bearded. Brian produced a crisp five-pound note. “We can do better than that, but you’ll have to earn it.”

  The old dosser gave him a look of disgust. “Ah may be homeless, but ah’m not a man-whore – try Old Compton Street if you’re lookin’ for a fancy boy. And anyway, ya’d have tae do a lot better’n five pound.”

  With a grin, Brian produced his warrant-card. “Get your mind out of the gutter, old-timer – you’re not my type either. We just want to ask you a question.”

  The homeless man took a dancing step backward. “You’re The Man! They see me talking tae you, they’ll piss in me ears when I’m asleep!”

  I was mystified. “Who will?”

  “The watchers! They see all and know all.”

  Brian was losing patience. “Look. D’you want the fiver or not?”

  With a furtive glance around, the grizzled Scotsman moved closer. “All right, all, right – what d’ya want tae know?”

  “A week ago. A man was walking along the embankment, late at night. Prosperous-looking bloke in a track suit, about our age, with a goatee, thinning on top. Says you begged a tenner from him.”

  “Ya mean Lord Palmerston?”

  Brian was startled. “You know him?”

  “Everybody knows him. Walks here a lot! He’s a generous man, Lord Palmerston. He was in quite a state, as ah recall. Slipped me a tenner, but he barely knew what he was doin’.“

  ”Do you remember what night that was? What time?”

  “Last Wednesday night, or early Thursday mornin’, ‘round two or three.”

  Brian paused. “And how do you remember so exactly?”

  “It no every night someone slips me a tenner, is it? And the next day, Man U beat Chelsea.”

  I pondered this disquisition while Brian jotted down the homeless Scotsman’s vital info. If this story was true, it provided Leicester, whom I had considered one of our strongest suspects, with a nearly uncrackable alibi for the night in question. Which was only par for the course, I reflected.

  II

  When I returned to the office early the next morning, Oakhurst, predictably, was not pleased at our lack of progress. He was even less pleased by our activities of the night before. “Stop trying to prove your friends are innocent, and start trying to find out who’s guilty, by God!”

  I smiled inwardly at his discomfiture. “With all due respect, DCI Oakhurst, how are we supposed to identify the guilty until we eliminate the innocent? To do that, we have to try to confirm or disprove everyone’s alibi – that’s just basic police procedure.”

  “Don’t lecture me about procedure, detective inspector!” He ran a hand over his meaty face. “Do you have anything positive to report?”

  Reluctantly I informed him of Bernie’s late-night call to Penhurst House on the night of the murder; Oakhurst sat up in his chair. “And where does this Plantagenet live?”

  “Belgrave Square,” I replied.

  “Just a mile or two from the crime scene! Fancy that.”

  “He does live closer than any of our other suspects, yes. But sir, I’ve known Bernie Plantagenet for thirty years. He’s the most inoffensive soul on the team. He isn’t capable of murder.”

  Oakhurst’s eyes gleamed. “I was unaware that you’d become a behavioral psychologist, detective inspector. Who really knows what a man’s capable of, when extreme pressure is applied?”

  I paused, considering. “I suppose you’re the expert there. Sir.”

  Oakhurst laughed that one off. “What about you then, DI Abbott? Do you share DI Reed’s confidence in Plantagenet’s innocence?”

  Brian looked at me uncomfortably. “At this point, we’re both keeping an open mind, sir. I must say I agree Plantagenet’s the least likely of the four main suspects. For one thing, he was quite drunk the night of the party – that’s been confirmed by multiple eyewitnesses. It would have been very difficult for him to cope with the alarm, or the weapon.” Brian explained our various theories of the murder, recapping our earlier discussion about the logistics of loading the rifle while Weathersby was in the room, and the various ways that difficulty might have been circumvented.

  “So it could have been Plantagenet,” said Oakhurst, steepling his fingers.

  “Technically. It’s possible, I suppose.” Brian frowned. “But there’s one more difficulty. There would’ve been no reason for Weathersby to agree to a 3 a.m. meeting – what would be the point? He already had Plantagenet’s money. What could’ve been so important? Weathersby would’ve had to be suspicious. And besides, Plantagenet knew what would happen if Weathersby was killed. Why spring the very trap he’d just paid to avoid?”

  Oakhurst shook his head. “You’ve just told me he was drunk. The prisons are full of normally-reasonable people who have committed regrettable acts of violence while intoxicated. I believe DI Reed’s judgment is clouded by his friendship with the suspect, and it’s influenced your own. Plantagenet clearly had motive for murder. His shoulder was bruised. He called the victim just before the crime occurred. His fingerprints were found at the scene, and on the rifle. And he lived within walking distance of the murder scene. No.” As I opened my mouth, he held up his hand. “I don’t want to hear it, DI Reed. I warned you what would happen if your close association with the suspects in this case interfered with your investigation. I’m still making up my mind what to do about your clear dereliction of duty. While I do, you will arrest Plantagenet and bring him in. Today. This morning.”

  My eyes filmed with hate, I could only sit in rigid, stunned silence while Brian rose heavily to his feet. “Very well, sir,” I heard him say.

  For a moment,
I dreamed of hurdling Oakhurst’ desk. I thought I could crush his windpipe before Brian pulled me off. Instead, I rose to my feet and departed without a word.

  Back in our cube, I managed a rueful grin. “Well, that went well.”

  Brian was pulling on his coat. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think Bernie’s our boy, either. But it’s not up to us anymore, is it?”

  “Apparently not.” I sighed. “Well, let’s get it over with.”

  Chapter 17

  In my third year at Hastewicke, I ran afoul of Harris Wopsley-Armstrong, “Whopper” to his friends, the worst bully in the school. Whopper was a tall, fleshy seventh-year, with a shock of greasy brown hair and a crop of acne so luxurious it looked as though someone had tap-danced on his face wearing golf shoes. At the start of term, he had transferred to Hastewicke from another school, where, it was whispered, he had committed acts of violence so appalling that only his father’s immense wealth and exalted position had saved him from criminal prosecution.

  Predictably, far from moderating his behavior, the incident seemed only to have emboldened him. Immediately upon his arrival at Hastewicke, Whopper instituted a reign of terror among all the younger boys.

  His favored victims were, naturally, anyone he considered his social inferior, which was pretty much everyone. He had a special place in his wizened reptile heart for the scholarship boys, and proceeded to make our lives hell on earth.

  Whopper took a creepy, almost sexual pleasure in the anticipation of his atrocities. Once he chose his next victim, he would simply stare at him, sometimes for weeks on end, with dead, glassy eyes and a half-smile that promised nothing but pain. You’d glance up during dinner, and there he’d be, at the next table over, staring unwaveringly. Over the next week or two, you’d see him everywhere – in the halls, in the quad, in the toilets – just staring at you, and smiling that cruel serial-killer smile. I had seen boys piss themselves when they encountered him unexpectedly. Eventually, he would catch his victim in some lonely spot, and beat him until he cried for mercy.