Loose Head

by Jeff Keithly

  “He is,” I said shortly. “I need your help.”

  “I don’t know how much help I can be,” Devilliers replied. “He was all over the map. Asked me about Seagrave, about Leicester, about Harry Barlowe, and about Bernie. He wanted to know about some of the other blokes on the team as well – George Waters, Gleeson, Jester Atkinson. I handle all of their financials.”

  “What was the context of the discussion?”

  Devilliers sighed heavily. “He wanted to know whether I’d seen or heard anything to indicate that Weathersby had blackmailed anyone else in the years since Ian.”

  “And?” I asked impatiently. It had been a long and sleepless night.

  “Despite my responsibility to protect my clients’ confidence, I told him the truth – in the last 10 years, there have been two unusually large and unscheduled payouts from the Hastewicke funds I manage. One for Gleeson, and one for Atkinson. I don’t know what they were for – I didn’t ask.”

  “And that’s all you discussed? There was nothing else that might’ve had a bearing on the Weathersby case?”

  “No,” he replied, regarding me with what seemed to be faint amusement. “You’ve never invested with me, Dex – I wonder why. I’ve done very well for our teammates over the years.”

  “Precious little to invest, compared to the financial heavyweights on the Hastewicke Gentlemen,” I replied.

  “Ah,” he said, nodding as if I’d just confirmed a long-standing suspicion. “So that’s what all this is about.”

  “All what’s about?”

  “Your determination to destroy the club,” he said with sudden and unexpected bile. “The leaking of the blackmail videos. Your arrest of Bernie. Your relentless prying into the private affairs of everyone on the team.”

  I managed to master my emotions before speaking. “That does seem spectacularly unfair under the circumstances, Dick. Criminal investigations – especially murder inquiries – do require a certain amount of ‘relentless prying!’ I didn’t leak the videos – as a matter of fact, only yesterday I helped find the man who did – he’s now facing a criminal investigation. How can you think that, Dick? The last thing I want to do is to destroy the club – the Hastewicke Gentlemen have been one of the greatest sources of pleasure in my life! I’ve done everything I can to protect the club since this investigation began, to such an extent that I’ve been threatened with disciplinary action for withholding evidence! And I arrested Bernie because I was ordered to do so – not because I believe he’s guilty!”

  Devilliers regarded me through slitted eyes. “If you say so, Dex.”

  “I damned well do say so! But I can’t change the facts! And the fact of the matter is, John Weathersby is dead! At least four of our teammates – and now, from what you’ve just told me, possibly more – had an excellent reason to kill him. My partner, whom I greatly esteem, has been brutally assaulted and may not live, perhaps because he was close to solving this case! Those are facts, Richard! If you think I’m manipulating this situation because I wasn’t quite as well-born as the rest of you, you don’t know me as well as you think you do!”

  I was suddenly very tired. I rose to go. “I’m sorry,” I said in a somewhat more moderate tone. “I shouldn’t have bellowed at you. It’s been a very long and trying night. Please call me if you think of anything else that might be relevant to the attack on DI Abbott, or to the Weathersby case.”

  “I will, Dex.” He shook my hand. “I… I’m sorry for what I said. Trying times for all concerned.”

  I nodded, and knew the truth I had feared since this case began: that whatever the outcome, my many happy days as a Hastewicke Gentleman were now at an end. I made my way past Devilliers’ dignified assistant, and envied her serenity.

  I was strolling back to the car, not really focused on any one particular clue, letting my subconscious sort through the countless details of the Weathersby investigation and hold them up for fit against the attack on Brian, when suddenly it hit me. Weathersby’s alarm system. I had long puzzled over this detail, because so far as I knew, none of our four principal suspects had any aptitude for electronics. But there was one Hastewicke Gentleman who did – who was, in fact, a very successful electronics entrepreneur. Brian had asked Devilliers about him only yesterday: Jester Atkinson.

  Chapter 23

  In the early days of the Hastewicke Gentlemen, our unquestioned star player was flanker Dennis Hardy. He was 6'3", 18 stone, with calves as large as my thighs and thighs as thick as my torso. He was a churning, low-to-the-ground monstrosity with ball in hand, and an aggressive, ball-ripping tackler as well. A gentle man off the pitch, when he stepped between the lines, boots on, he became a remorseless, conscienceless maniac, and played the game of rugby with a ferocious disregard for his own – or anyone else’s – health. He averaged nearly two tries a game; I once saw him score seven in a match.

  We were playing in the final of the 1986 Aspen Rugby Fest against the Chicago Rugby Club when, early in the first half, Hardy, planting his foot to sidestep someone, caught a cleat on a sunken sprinkler-head. With a sickening pop, the ligaments in his knee snapped like rubber bands. He was carried from the pitch in agony and whisked to hospital. We didn’t know it at the time, but Dennis Hardy would never play rugby again.

  Though rugby is a brutal game, it is played exclusively on natural grass, and such catastrophic injuries are surprisingly rare. The loss of our most dynamic player threw us into a funk; by early in the second half, we found ourselves down 30-12.

  During an injury stoppage, Ian Chalmers called the forwards into a huddle. “You’re all playing like castrated sheep!” he roared. “Quit moping! It’s time to elevate your own game! You, John, and you, Harry, and you, Vince! And especially you, Dex! It’s time to take personal responsibility – we didn’t come 4,000 miles to lose!”

  On the very next play, a line-out, Ian called his own number, skied high in the air to wrestle the ball away from the bloke opposite him, then burst through the Chicago line like a rhinoceros with balls aflame. Weathersby and I thundered at Ian’s heels as he bowled over three would-be tacklers, then, at the last instant, fed me with a perfect pass. I drew in the last two Chicago tacklers before slipping the ball to Weathersby, who carried a Chicago player on his back as he touched down the try between the posts.

  As we trotted back to halfway to receive the ensuing kickoff, Ian patted me affectionately on the head. “Always remember, Dex,” he told me, ever the teacher. “Whenever things look darkest, that’s when your own flame has to burn the brightest.”

  II

  I went straight to Wicks’ office. “Come!” he bellowed in response to my knock. “Ah, Reed – how’s Brian?”

  “No change, which at this point qualifies as good news. His intercranial pressure’s still dangerously high. If it doesn’t recede soon, they might have to trepan him.”

  Wicks looked shocked. “Cut a hole in his skull? I thought that went out with the Incas!”

  “Apparently it can be quite effective in cases like this, sir. In any event, he’s resting as comfortably as possible, for a man with 17 broken bones.”

  `“Seventeen broken bones.” DCI Wicks’ ancient eyes gleamed with vindictive purpose. “Time to start putting some stick about, I think. Any word from Crimes Scene or the canvassers?”

  I held up a pair of files. “Nothing from canvass. Forensic have turned up one or two interesting items from the crime scene. But sir, there’s something else, on the Weathersby case. It may be related to the assault on DI Abbott.” Quickly and succinctly, I filled him in on my interview with Devilliers.

  “Interesting,” said Wicks. “So Oakhurst may have been on to something after all – perhaps Weathersby did blackmail other of your teammates. Ah, well,” he said acidly. “Every so often, even a blind sow gets porked.” He rose. “Let’s talk to the team.”

  A few minutes later, we stood before the assembled throng in the ready room. “Right,” said Wicks. “What’s the latest on DI
Abbott?”

  DI Charleton stood. “We’ve found no witnesses, sir,” she said uncomfortably. “The attack took place in a windowless alleyway, in a business district after business hours. No residences within earshot – whoever attacked DI Abbott, they chose their ground well. We’ve put out a Crimestoppers bulletin, asking anyone with information to phone in, but so far, no promising leads.”

  “Forensic?” Wicks asked.

  DI Taylor came forward. “It was a pretty grotty alleyway. But we did find this.” He held up a tiny, clear evidence envelope. “A single false eyelash, which would tend to corroborate the Clockwork Orange hypothesis. We were able to lift some skin cells and a single human eyelash. No matches so far with our DNA database, but these things take time.” He held up another, larger bag, this one containing a bloodied brick. “We also found this. Apparently, it was used to inflict many of DI Abbott’s more traumatic injuries.”

  “Prints?” I asked hopefully.

  “Ever try to lift prints from a brick, Dex? Unfortunately, the surface is too rough and porous to lift a clean image.”

  “Keep on the DNA people, Tom. DIs Morton and Rivers, I want you to liaise with DCI Wilkinson over in Gang Enforcement – see if he’s had any luck with the Clockwork Orange angle, and give him any help he needs. I want you to find those sadistic bastards and bring them to me. Now, leaving Brian’s assault for a moment, DI Reed has some new information on the Weathersby case.”

  I filled them in on Atkinson – the possibility that he was a previous blackmail victim, that he had the necessary electronics knowledge to disable the alarm, and about his somewhat mercurial temperament.

  “Right,” said Wicks. “Here’s what we’ll do. DIs Burnett and Goodspeed, go and see Sir Chester Atkinson. Find out whether he’s got an alibi for the night of the murder, for starters, and ask him politely whether he was being blackmailed back in the late ‘90s. Find out where he lives, what time he left the party the night Weathersby was killed, what time he arrived home, whether anyone can verify that, and whether or not he could’ve returned to Penhurst House in time to kill Weathersby. That will do to be getting on with.”

  Chairs scraped, and the various members of the team went about their duties. I took a deep breath. “DCI Wicks,” I said. “Lord Delvemere. I don’t think he’s our boy. We did arrest him, at DCI Oakhurst’s insistence, but that was mainly to punish me. Lord Delvemere didn’t kill Weathersby. I’d like to release him”

  “Why do you say that?” Wicks’ parrot eyes regarded me keenly.

  I ticked off the points on my fingers. “One, I spent some time with him the night of the murder, and he was too drunk to cope with the logistical difficulties – getting over the fence, disabling the alarm, breaking into the study, loading and firing the rifle with such a high degree of accuracy. Two, he had nothing to gain – he’d already paid Weathersby, and he knew that if Weathersby died, the videos would be sent out anyway. That only leaves revenge for a motive. I’ve known Delvemere for three decades, drunk and sober. In my opinion, he isn’t capable of murder.”

  “And what if you’re wrong?”

  “We can confiscate his passport, make him post bail. But I’m not wrong about this.”

  “All right, DI Reed. I tend to agree, but I’ll need to clear his release with the powers that be. I’ll let you know. In the meantime, if Delvemere didn’t kill Weathersby, who the hell did?”

  I sighed. “I don’t know – yet. But we’re close, sir – the answer is there. But so far, it’s just out of reach.”

  III

  Just before he was attacked, Brian had waved a sheaf of papers at me, papers that had some relevance to his upcoming interview with Devilliers, which he had assembled with the help of someone in Computer Crime. I rang Emma Kwan.

  “I’m sorry, Dex – I don’t know what that was all about,” she told me. “I was out of the office on Tuesday. But I’ll see if I can find out who Brian was working with.”

  “Do, please,” I said. “I need to know what was on that printout. It’s important.”

  “I’ll talk to everyone here. How’re you holding up, Dex?”

  It was the first time anyone had asked. I was momentarily taken aback. “All right,” I replied. “Not so well, to be honest, Em. Equal parts homicidal rage and burning guilt that I wasn’t there to help him. I want to find the bastards who did this to Brian, and Weathersby’s killer. I have a sick suspicion the two are connected.”

  “I’ll ring you as soon as I know anything. And, ah, Dex.” There was an awkward pause.

  “What is it, Em?”

  “I was wondering – d’you... would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”

  For a moment, I didn’t know what to say. The delectable Emma Kwan, as beautiful as she was intelligent. How often had I thought of asking her the same question? But then I thought of Jane. “Em, you’ve made my day. Can I take a rain check? I’m going to be working late for the foreseeable future.”

  “Of course, Dex. When you come up for air, we’ll talk.”

  IV

  According to the call log for Bob Leicester’s mobile, he had called Tim St. Cloud, his chief of security, at 2:07 a.m. on the night of Weathersby’s murder. I had met St. Cloud on several occasions. He was ex-SAS, an uncanny dead ringer for Kevin Costner, highly competent in all of the deadly skills that become second nature to those Special Forces trained. Suffice to say that, despite the myriad of security challenges associated with a network of 23 facilities serving some of the most troubled youth in Britain, the Magwitch Project had never had a serious problem – no murders, no rapes, no violent assaults. It was a testament to Tim St. Cloud’s skill as a problem-solver.

  That competence, presumably, explained why Leicester had woken St. Cloud from a sound sleep on the night of Weathersby’s murder. I had perused St. Cloud’s file in preparation for my interview with him; in addition to top-of-the-line general security expertise, his skill set included clandestine insertion and extraction, computer infiltration, electronic wiretap and surveillance, and all sorts of deadly weapons training. No wonder Bob found him useful.

  I found St. Cloud at his desk at the Magwitch Project’s offices in Clerkenwell Street. I had called ahead; he waved me to a seat as he coped, via phone, with the latest crisis in the Leicester empire. “No. I’ve reviewed the case file, and we need to move him! He needs to be as far from her as possible! That’s right, Edinburgh! No, don’t argue with him – just tell him that’s how it’s going to be! Right! Ta.”

  St. Cloud rang off and turned his attention to me. He was handsome, fit, with a chin that might have been carved by Michelangelo and surprisingly warm golden-brown eyes. “Dex!” he said, leaning across his desk to shake hands. “How can I help?”

  “Actually, I’d hoped that Lord Palmerston might’ve had a word with you,” I said.

  “He did,” St. Cloud replied. “He said I was to answer your questions with brutal honesty.”

  “He called you the night of 11 October,” I said. “Late. What did he say?”

  “He said he was being blackmailed,” St. Cloud replied without hesitation. “Explained the circumstances. Asked me about the probability of success for a surgical strike – go in quietly, take the computer that held the videos, install a few listening devices, get out again. As a follow-up, we would monitor Weathersby’s activities – make sure that if he tried to mail out the disks, we would be ready to intercept them.”

  “And did you?” I asked. “Go to Weathersby’s, and steal the laptop?”

  “No,” St. Cloud replied. “The operation was set for October 12. That was the soonest I could get a team in place. But by then, Weathersby was already dead.”

  “And you, and your staff, had nothing to do with that?”

  “No.” St. Cloud regarded me levelly. “I was home that night, as my wife can attest. Bob’s phone call woke her up, and she didn’t get back to sleep for a couple of hours. I didn’t kill him, Dex, much as he may have deserved it. And as
my phone records will show, I didn’t call anyone else after Leicester called me.”

  “Where do you live?” I asked.

  “Portland Street, Southwark, near Burgess Park.”

  Frustratingly far away from Notting Hill and Blenheim Crescent. Par for the course in this case, I reckoned. “Thank you, Tim,” I said, rising wearily to my feet. I was suddenly very tired. “I’ll call you if there’s anything else.” But for now I could think of nothing. This case had more dead ends than a pub ashtray.

  V

  It was late afternoon when DIs Burnett and Goodspeed returned to the squad room. “We saw Atkinson,” said Goodspeed, a fit, 40-something detective who looked 10 years younger. “His alibi wasn’t that convincing, to be honest.”

  “What did he say?” I asked.

  DI Goodspeed consulted his notebook. “He said he left Weathersby’s party about 1:30, then went in search of adventure. He found it, apparently, at a club called Obsessions in Chelsea. Said he met two young women there and managed to talk them back to his flat, which is on the Fulham Road in South Ken. He didn’t know their names, and he’s never seen them since.”

  “Sounds like Jester,” I said, scrubbing a hand over my face. “What about the blackmail?”

  “He was surprisingly forthcoming about that,” said DI Burnett, blond and moustached, with a bodybuilder’s discomfort in shirt, tie and jacket. “Said Weathesrby blackmailed him back in ‘95. Atkinson was boffing the wife of one of his most important clients, and apparently she had influenced her husband to steer a fair amount of business Atkinson’s way. Somehow, Weathersby got it on video. Atkinson paid him £100,000 to hush it up.”

  “Did he know about the most recent round of blackmails? Seagrave, Lord Delvemere, Lord Palmerston, Harry Barlowe?”