Loose Head

by Jeff Keithly

  “No, sir. You certainly don’t.”

  Wicks was pacing the office like the pendulum on a metronome, face like woman in third-stage labor whose husband has just told her she looks fat. “A bad position? It makes us look like we’ve all got shit for brains! My wizened buttocks are black and blue from the bollocking I’ve just received from the head of SCD! We will discover who leaked those videos, and his or her head will be on a spike before this day is out!”

  “I agree, sir,” I said seriously. “Only three copies of the disks exist. Mine are still under lock and key. Have you verified that the same is true of yours?”

  “Of course!” Wicks barked. “Do you take me for a cretin?”

  “Naturally not, sir. What about yours, DCI Oakhurst?”

  “They’re right here, where I left them last night,” he replied, and unlocking a file drawer, demonstrated that this was so. “And now, DI Reed, perhaps you can explain this to me.” And he laid a sheet of paper on his desk.

  It was a faxed copy of an incident report, from the Wellington, New Zealand police, dated April 12, 1999. My heart sank as I read it. It described a particularly nasty bar fight between local mechanic Andrew Marshall, age 28, and visiting English rugger Harry Barlowe, 40. The police had been inclined to prosecute, but one of Barlowe’s teammates, DI Dexter Reed of London’s Metropolitan Police Service, had intervened, managing to persuade the dubious local constables that Barlowe had acted in self-defense.

  I looked up. “Sir?”

  “This incident wasn’t in any of your reports.” Oakhurst addressed himself to Wicks. “Did I not tell DI Reed, in your presence, that any attempt to conceal information pertinent to the Weathersby investigation would result in the severest possible consequences?”

  Wicks frowned. “You did.”

  “This is a clear violation of departmental procedure. I intend to see that DI Reed answers for it.”

  “That’s at your option, of course. But later. Until we find out who leaked those videos, it’s all hands to the pumps.”

  “Quite. Well, DI Reed? What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “The incident report speaks for itself, sir. Barlowe was attacked in a bar, and he defended himself. I was there, helped break up the fight, and gave a statement to the police. They agreed it was self-defense. No criminal charges were filed. It isn’t relevant to the Weathersby case.”

  Oakhurst regarded me incredulously. “It isn’t relevant? It says here Barlowe might have killed the man if you hadn’t intervened! One of our primary suspects has a documented history of homicidal violence and you don’t consider that relevant?”

  “He didn’t start the fight. He was attacked, and he defended himself. That’s hardly what I call a history of homicidal violence. And in any event, I thought you were convinced that Lord Delvemere was the killer. Sir.”

  “A good investigator keeps an open mind, and isn’t afraid to change it when fresh evidence comes to hand! Did it not occur to you, DI Reed, that Barlowe might have felt not only himself, but his family, under attack from Weathersby? If he reacted to some drunken lout in a bar by attempting to choke the life out of him, how would he react to the threat of losing his family at the hands of an unscrupulous teammate?”

  I had no answer for that. I rose to depart.

  “It must have rankled all these years, DI Reed.”

  I paused, hand on the knob. “What’s that, sir?”

  “Being the lone scholarship boy on a team full of rich nobs. Having your nose rubbed in that lifestyle, but never really being a part of it.”

  “Is that just a personal observation, sir?” I spoke in a voice carefully neutral, noticing that Wicks had gone very still. “Or do you believe it to have some bearing on the case?”

  “Just an observation, detective.” And with an airy flutter of his fingers, he shooed me from the room.

  IV

  Still pondering this enigmatic exchange, I returned to my desk, to find that Brian had left a note: “Checking out a promising lead. Meet me for lunch at the Prospect of Whitby in Docklands.”

  I used the intervening two hours to pursue a promising lead of my own, involving a visit to the exquisite Emma Kwan of the computer crimes lab. When I left, the day seemed brighter, and I hummed as I cabbed it eastward along the Thames.

  Brian was waiting when I arrived. An extraordinarily fat bloke, so spherical as to be the same height lying down as standing up, shared his table. “DI Dex Reed – meet Cyrian O’Toole. Old mate of mine.”

  Everyone in London knew O’Toole; his scandal-raking scribblings were a daily must-read for every social climber in the city. He was the disgraced eldest son of one of the oldest and most conservative families in Britain, whose transgressions at Cambridge had caused his tradition-minded father to cut him off without a farthing. O’Toole, privy to a thousand family and near-family secrets, had embarked on a career as a journalist, and swiftly made himself someone to be feared and cultivated in equal measure. He was, so I had heard, extravagant in his tastes, ambiguous in his sexuality, brilliant, unscrupulous, and deeply insecure.

  O’Toole gave a small grimace of distaste as he slipped me a small, moist hand. “Delighted, detective. Now, can we get on?”

  “Certainly, certainly.” Brian was in high good humor. “I think you know that Cyrian’s the society columnist for the Star? He was the first to break the Weathersby story.”

  “Was he?” I said.

  “Yes, well...” O’Toole preened modestly. “It was, between us, quite a coup. Circulation numbers through the roof, my dear chaps! Our rivals shat themselves in fury! You could almost smell them from the newsroom!”

  “You buggered my investigation, and several of my closest friends,” I growled.

  O’Toole shed his skin of affability like a yearling anaconda, and favored me with a disdainful glare. “Be serious, detective. Did you seriously expect me to bury a story like this? In this day and age, when a good sex scandal can hit the web before the unfaithful husband’s dong is dry? This is blackmail and murder among the aristocracy, with video to boot! Stories like this make journalists’ careers.” He turned me a knowing wink. “Just like they make policemen’s.”

  “What about those they ruin?”

  O’Toole bulbous face flickered through scarlet and into magenta. “Listen, DI Reed. I didn’t ruin anyone’s career. They did that themselves. It was their...”

  “Speaking of ruined careers,” said Brian in his best commanding London bobby voice, “I seem to recall that you were grabbed up for indecent exposure a year or two ago. Something about an 80-year-old granny, I believe?”

  “Keep your voice down, for Christ’s sake!” O’Toole hissed. “I just stopped for a piss in her garden! Anyway, the charges were dropped!”

  “Only because, at the time –“ Brian laid a heavy emphasis on the latter word “ – one of my colleagues was persuaded not to pursue it. I believe the case could still be reopened. The statute of limitations is seven years.”

  “All right, all right, you’ve made your point,” said O’Toole, sweating visibly now. “What d’you want to know?”

  ]“Obviously,” I said mildly, “we want to know who sold you the videos.”

  “I can’t tell you that! It was a confidential source!”

  “Look, Cyrian. We know it was someone on the inside at Hendon. And they haven’t just embarrassed the MPS.” For just an instant, I allowed the rage roiling inside me to show in my eyes, fixed with unwavering intensity on his. O’Toole flinched backward involuntarily. “They’ve embarrassed me personally. And I will show no mercy to anyone who helps them get away with it. None.”

  O’Toole acknowledged my threat with a flick of a disdainful glance. “I couldn’t help you even if I wanted to, DI Reed. I don’t know who it was.”

  “What d’you mean, you don’t know?” asked Brian, leaning his massive forearms on the table.

  “I don’t know because it was an anonymous source!”

  “Jus
t tell us what happened,” I growled.

  “I got a call. Someone who said he worked at Hendon, and was in the middle of an investigation that would blow the lid off London! He told me about the case and the videos, asked how much we’d pay for copies!”

  “And how much did you pay?” I asked curiously.

  “A hundred thousand pounds up front, with another £100,000 if the information proved out. He left the disks in a blind drop, a rubbish bin near our offices. We made the second payment after we’d reviewed them, and seen they were dynamite.”

  “How was payment made?”

  “Electronic transfer. He gave us an account number, and we gave the order to our bank. Funny thing, though.” He narrowed his porcine eyes. “It was actually two different account numbers – a domestic one for the first payment, and a Swiss account for the second.”

  “We’ll need those account numbers.”

  O’Toole shook his head mulishly; a few drops of sweat spattered the tabletop. “I can’t. That would tell you who the source was as surely as if I’d given you his name myself.”

  “So it was a man.” Brian leaned backward, a thoughtful look on his face.

  “Yes, it was a man! But I’ve bugger-all idea which man! Now if you’ll excuse, me, I’ve got a very busy day today.” He rose.

  “Sit down!” Brian roared. “We’re not finished! You spoke to this... man, personally?” O’Toole nodded reluctantly. “Would you recognize his voice if you heard it again?”

  O’Toole considered. “Possibly. But...”

  “No buts. I’ll ring you this afternoon with some voice samples. If you recognize one of them, you will tell me.”

  “But I can’t! The Star’s policy is absolutely clear – never grass a confidential source! They’d sack me!”

  “Not if they don’t know you were our source,” I observed reasonably. “And anyway, you’ve just told us you don’t know your source’s name. How can you reveal what you don’t know?”

  “But if I identify his voice, you’ll find him!”

  Brian can look very menacing when he wants to. He leant forward, to tower over the suddenly-palsied O’Toole. “On the other hand, if you refuse to help us, you’ll also be sacked, when you’re prosecuted for waving your willie at someone’s helpless granny. And go to prison. Do you know what happens to sexual offenders in prison? Especially those who prey on the elderly?”

  O’Toole shook his head mutely, face like a slapped ass. “Let’s just say you’ll be biting your pillow from now until Charles is king!” Brian hissed. “Now can we count on your cooperation?”

  O’Toole trembled like the cornered rodent he was. “All right!” he muttered. “But this is a one-time favor, d’you hear me? And I don’t want to hear any more talk about prison!”

  “Agreed,” said Brian, taking out a pen. “Now, what’s your direct line?

  Chapter 19

  It was pouring rain as I walked home, the kind of cold, drenching autumnal London downpour that makes you long for firelight, whisky and stew. Arriving home, I accordingly built a cozy blaze in the hearth, poured myself a stiff Bushmill’s with a couple of cubes of ice, hacked up a joint of lamb, some potatoes, leeks, carrots and swedes, and set them to bubble on the stove.

  I considered my CD collection. Pink Floyd were too portentous. The Who were too intense. I settled on Year of the Cat by Al Stewart – erudite, introspective, melodious. Then, halfway through “On the Border,” the doorbell rang.

  I was expecting some brave soul from the press. Instead, when I cracked open the door, I saw Jane. Shivering, drenched, and alone.

  “Can you forgive a fool?” she asked miserably, water dripping from her nose. “I’ve been such a fool, Dex”

  “You haven’t been a fool,” I said brusquely. “Come inside, before you catch your death.”

  She was drenched to the skin and shivering, despite her leather jacket. Before she said another word, I steered her to the bedroom, handed her a towel and some departmental fleece, and closed the door. She emerged a few minutes later, auburn hair slicked back, enveloped in my voluminous sweats. I steered her to the fireside and, in its crackling warmth, placed a large whisky in her hand.

  “Now,” I said. “What’s all this?”

  She shook back her wet bangs. “What’s all this? Dex, I’ve just found out that the man I’ve been married to for a decade is gay! He’s been arrested for murder! I don’t know who he is anymore!”

  “Well,” I said, struggling for fairness, “I wouldn’t read too much into his arrest. It’s just departmental politics – we’re under a lot of pressure. I shouldn’t tell you this, but we were ordered to bring Bernie in, against my better judgment.”

  Jane shivered again, and I sat down next to her on the carpet in front of the sofa. I threw a fraternal arm around her shoulders. “Look, Jane,” I said, almost apologetically. “I’ve been at this game a long time. I don’t believe Bernie’s guilty. Just be patient. It will all work out in the end.”

  “Yes,” she said, tilting her face toward mine, tears running down her cheeks. “But he doesn’t want me.”

  “How could he not?” I said. “You’re the most desirable woman I’ve ever known.” And before I could react, she kissed me.

  I tasted the salt from her tears, but I felt the urgency of her response. Her body arched against mine as she desperately sought warmth. “You’ve always been my temptation, Dex,” she whispered, clutching my hair. “Now I need you.”

  She put my hands to her breasts, beneath the thick departmental fleece. My body responded involuntarily; I trembled at the silky smoothness of her warm bare skin, and the hard nubbins of her nipples. Jane moaned, then reached down to stroke my straining manhood through the fabric of my jeans.

  Breathless with need, I slowly, ever so slowly, ran my fingers down her bare, flat belly, over the downy fleece of her sweatpants, to the hot cleft between her legs. She lifted her hips, and I slid the sweatpants off. She had unbuckled my belt; now she opened her legs and pulled me atop her, gasping as my tungsten-turgid shaft filled her. We started slowly, then moved faster and faster as unquenchable desire swelled our veins, roaring in our ears like the voice of a giant. At last we came together, like an unstoppable storm wave breaking upon a rocky and desolate shore.

  Afterward, we lay in each other’s arms, utterly spent, content merely to listen to the hissing of the fire in the grate and the November downpour still hammering at the windows. “I shouldn’t have done that,” I said at length. “You came here for comfort. I’ve taken advantage of you.”

  She smiled knowingly. “I came here for a good hard shag, actually. And perhaps for a bit of comfort as well.”

  I sighed. For all my good intentions, I was helpless against her. “Well, it’s a bit late for regrets. Hungry?”

  “Famished.”

  I fetched steaming bowls of stew, crusty bread and butter, and a bottle of old Burgundy I’d put aside for a special occasion. This one seemed special enough. We at cross-legged in front of the fire, legs touching, eating ravenously, not saying much, content just to be together.

  “So what about Bernie?” I asked at length.

  “I don’t know,” she replied helplessly. “I don’t know what I feel anymore. It’s not his arrest, so much – I don’t believe he’s capable of violence. But he’s been so different these last couple of months – so distraught. He hasn’t been himself. Maybe I don’t really know him anymore.”

  “What about his alibi? Do you know for a fact he never left the house once you’d returned from the party?”

  Jane looked troubled. “He wasn’t in bed when I woke up. I found him down in his study, about half eight the next morning, shaking as he watched the morning news. He vomited when he saw the report about John’s death”

  “And do you still love him?” I asked, keeping my voice casual.

  “I... seeing that video was such a ghastly shock, Dex. We have a fairly regular sex life – I truly had no idea he was gay. If he ma
naged to hide that from me for 10 years, what else has he been hiding? Once the trust is gone from a marriage, things are never the same again, are they?”

  “You’re asking the wrong man – I’m not exactly a relationship expert, am I? I suppose you just have to give it time.”

  “Dex.” She touched me gently on the cheek. “Can I spend the night? I can’t go back to that empty house. I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

  “Of course. My house is your house.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “Thank, you, Dex.”

  II

  The rain had stopped by the time Brian picked me up very early the next morning; a pallid moon still chased its own reflection through the newly-washed streets of London. “You look surprisingly cheerful this morning,” he said, eyeing at me suspiciously.

  “Yes, well – a clear conscience and a saintly life,” I lied. “Where to first?”

  We had agreed to spend the early-morning, pre-rush hours driving between Weatherby’s house in Notting Hill and the abodes of our four suspects, to get a sense of their relative travel times.

  “Might as well start at Bernie’s – it’s on the way,” I suggested. Brian obligingly steered a course through the light predawn traffic toward Belgrave Square. I operated the stopwatch as he then drove east on Pont Street, north along Sloane Street, then followed the Kensington Road west along the edge of Kensington Gardens. Brian swung north on Kensington Park Street to Notting Hill Gate, then north again on Ladbroke Grove to arrive at last at Lansdowne Crescent. “Fifteen minutes, 21 seconds,” I said. “Ample time to leave Belgrave Square, get here, do the deed at 3 a.m. and return home before Jane awoke.” I mentioned Jane’s information about finding Bernie in his study at 8:30 the following morning, though I omitted the fact that she had delivered it in the nude.

  Seagrave lived on Tavistock Square in Bloomsbury, not far from the British Museum. He had not been in touch since the leak of the blackmail videos, but Catherine had left a voicemail on my mobile. “We’ve been your friends for years, Dex. For God’s sake, how could you let this happen? How could you not have told me?” A raggedly indrawn breath. “You have blighted my life.” The drive to their house, mostly along the Bayswater, Marylebone and Euston Roads, took 49 minutes. “That’s cutting it close, if he and Catherine left Weathersby’s at 1,” Brian observed.