by Jeff Keithly
“He said no,” DI Burnett replied. “Not surprising, really, since Weathersby told them all he’d ruin their lives if anyone else from the club found out.”
“Quite,” I said, thinking hard. “Check with the taxi companies – find out if there was a pickup anywhere near Atkinson’s house between 1:30 and 2:30 the night of the murder. Let me know what you find.”
“Will do, Dex.”
For a few minutes, I just sat, thinking hard. The more I thought about it, the more I suspected that Devilliers might not have been entirely candid with me. There had been a lot left unsaid – items Brian might have discussed with him during their interview but that, with Brian in a coma, I had no way of knowing, and that Devilliers had not volunteered.
I wished, not for the first time, that Brian’s memory was more like mine, so that he took a few more notes. His notebook, found in the breast pocket of his jacket the night he was attacked, was essentially a barren, featureless desert enlivened by a few cryptic scrawls. “Delvmr yes, Seagrv probably, Lester doubtful, Barlowe no” probably had to do with driving distance from their houses to the crime scene, and the relative probability that each suspect could make it home, then return to Penhurst House, within the allotted time-frame. But what the hell did “CC to Devilliers’ office?” mean? What message or document was being sent to Devilliers, and by whom? There was simply no way to know without talking to Brian.
The normal rules of investigation just didn’t seem to apply to this case. None of the four suspects stood to gain more than the others from Weathersby’s death. True, Seagrave and Leicester hadn’t paid the blackmail money, and so it could be argued that they had more at stake than Bernie or Harry Barlowe. But according to Devilliers, making the required payment would not have imposed significant financial hardship on Seagrave, and it certainly wouldn’t have on Leicester. Indeed, all four blackmail victims had substantially more to lose than to gain, financially and in terms of personal reputation, by Weathersby’s death. Those who did stand to gain financially – his ex-wife Tess and his children – had been in Cornwall at the time Weathersby was killed.
I became aware that my subconscious had at last, ever so quietly, begun to make its opinion known. Tempting though it was to assume that Leicester, Seagrave, Barlowe and Bernie Plantagenet had the most potent reasons to want Weathersby dead, my investigatory instinct was now pointing me in another direction: toward a past blackmail victim who had somehow gotten wind of Weathersby’s recent activities, and decided to put a decisive end to them in order to spare his teammates.
Before I left his office, Devilliers had provided me with two documents: single-page account summaries from some time in the past. I looked at them now. In November 1995, in the midst of an unbroken string of regular retirement contributions, Atkinson’s account showed a one-time payout of £100,000. He had already admitted being blackmailed by Weathersby. Kevin Gleeson’s account showed a similar payout in June 1998.
I rang Gleeson on his mobile and arranged to meet him at the Lamb in Conduit Street, near his office. Kevin was a real estate developer; since the early ‘90s, he was responsible for the conversion of many of waterfront London’s most disreputable warehouses into upscale lofts. I was waiting when he hove into view, looking prosperous and buttoned-down. He went to the bar for a pint, then joined me in my booth.
“Dex!” he said warily. “To what do I owe this honor?”
“It’s the Weathersby case, I’m afraid. I need to ask you a few questions.”
He nodded. “Ask away.”
I consulted my notebook. “In June of ‘98 you withdrew £100,000 from your account with Devilliers. May I ask why?”
Just for a moment, the voluble Gleeson looked flustered. “You may,” he said slowly. “Dex, you have to understand. That was a crazy time in my life. I was going through... personal difficulties. To be frank, I was in a spot of trouble – one of my female employees made a sexual harassment claim. The money was to make that go away.”
“Were you being blackmailed? By Weathersby?”
Kevin looked decidedly uncomfortable. “I think I’d better decline to answer that, until I consult my solicitor.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “But I will need to know, one way or another.”
“Was there anything else?” he asked.
“There was one other thing,” I replied, looking him in the eye. “When did you become aware that Weathersby was blackmailing Bernie, Leicester and the others?”
“Saw it on the telly, didn’t I? Same as everybody else!”
“None of them talked to you about it? There were no whispers before Weathersby was killed, before the story broke in the press?”
“I had... an inkling. From Seagrave. I’m pretty close to him, as you know, Dex. I knew he was worried about something. I asked him what it was.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said it was something that happened in Vegas – he was worried Catherine was going to find out. I tried to buck him up – the sacred rugby oath and all that. But he was worried, all the same.”
“The subject of blackmail never arose?”
“Not in so many words. Why do you want to know, Dex?”
“Because Weathersby’s murderer may have been a former victim, someone who wanted to silence him before he could harm his teammates.”
“Dex!” Gleeson turned paper-white. “You can’t think...”
“I’m not thinking at this point, Kev, and I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just assembling facts. Have you spoken to Devilliers in the last few days?”
“I did ring him... on the Wednesday, I think.” The very day Brian had been attacked.
“What did you discuss?”
“Financial stuff – I want to sell the business and retire next year. There’s a lot to talk about.”
“You didn’t discuss the Weathersby investigation, or DI Abbott’s appointment with Devilliers?”
“We might’ve discussed Weathersby, and he might’ve mentioned that your partner was coming to see him. It isn’t every day one of your teammates is murdered, for Christ’s sake!”
“No. It isn’t. One last question – you live in Mayfair?”
“You know I do, Dex. Hays Mews, just off Berkeley Square.”
“The night of the Chalmers memorial. You went straight home afterwards?”
“And slept like a baby. Why?”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“I’m afraid not.” Gleeson looked very uncomfortable now. “You know I live alone, Dex. Why, is it important?”
“Probably not.” I sighed wearily. “At this point, it’s just par for the course.”
Chapter 24
On Saturday week, the Hastewicke Gentlemen had agreed to play a match against the London Harlequin Gentlemen. Despite our years of close association, this entailed a certain amount of preparation; we had accordingly scheduled training sessions on the Tuesday and Thursday before the match.
Normally I would’ve been one of the first players to arrive at the training-ground. But the tone of my recent conversations with Devilliers, Seagrave, Gleeson and the others had given me cause to wonder whether I was still persona grata with the Hastewicke Gentlemen.
Then there was the blowback from the blackmail video leak. Since their various misdeeds had come to light, Seagrave, Bernie and Harry Barlowe were all facing messy, embarrassing and expensive divorces. Bernie, of course, was still behind bars. Seagrave’s firm were taking an extremely dim view of the adverse publicity they had received as a result of his sudden notoriety, and I’d heard whispers he was being pressured to accept early retirement.
Leicester’s was the juiciest case of all, naturally; the press were still running and re-running snippets from his video more than a week after it had first hit the airwaves, and I understood that the unexpurgated “director’s cut” was selling briskly via the Internet. The Magwitch Project’s board of directors had issued a statement saying that Bob would be relinquishing any
active role (carefully avoiding the phrase “hands-on involvement”) in the day-to-day operation of the centers, pending the outcome of the investigation into the ages of the girls involved.
I had good news for him there, at least – the Las Vegas PD had identified the two prostitutes from the tape and had faxed me their records. Despite their youthful appearance, both girls were safely over the age of consent, so at least there would be no statutory rape charges to contend with.
After a lengthy internal debate, I came to the rather depressing conclusion that the Hastewicke Gentlemen were my social life, with the exception of Brian, Fee and Jane, of course. Besides, some fresh air and a good, hard run would do me good. It could be that I wouldn’t be made welcome. It could even be that, given the recent misfortunes that had befallen the club, the Hastewicke Gentlemen no longer existed – since no one had bothered to ring me, I had no way of knowing. Fair enough – I’d rather know how things stood sooner, rather than later. And so as I had a thousand times before, I packed my rugby boots, socks, shorts and a practice jersey into a kit-bag.
Jane looked up from her book as I crossed the sitting-room. “You’ve decided to go?” she asked. “Are you sure that’s wise?”
I grinned ruefully. “No. But I could do with a good sweat – feel a bit stale. Anyway, it would be cowardly not to show up. If I don’t, they’ll just say nasty things about me behind my back.”
“What about the Service? Won’t they frown on you fraternizing with your suspects?”
“Probably. But I certainly won’t be discussing the case with anyone. Anyway, given the state of things, I might be the only one who shows up for training. I just need to find out where things stand – the club’s been too much a part of my life for too long to just quit.” I kissed her. “In any event, I’ll be home early – I’d rather spend time with you.”
I was a bit late in arriving at the training-ground; the lights were on and the boys were warming up with a game of touch. It was a cold, dampish evening, with clouds of icy breath ringing everyone’s heads and steam beginning to rise from those who had broken a sweat.
After stepping into my kit, I trotted onto the pitch and took up station to the outside of Roger Seagrave. Vince Maitland took the kickoff and raced upfield; he sidestepped Barlowe and passed to Seagrave on the burst. I kept up with him without difficulty, loping along and feeling the old muscles, joints and sinews begin to oil up nicely. Devilliers, on the other side, came up to tackle Seagrave. “With you!” I called. But when Seagrave saw it was me, the expected pass, which would’ve led to an easy score, never came. Instead, Seagrave turned the ball back inside to Atkinson, who was immediately touched.
This went on for some time – in 15 minutes of touch rugby, I never once received the ball. The only one who spoke to me was Barlowe, who came to run next to me as the team took a jog around the pitch. “Dex, I wanted to apologize for my tirade the other day, after the videos hit the press. I was... upset. But I shouldn’t’ve taken it out on you.”
“No apologies necessary,” I replied. “Of course you were upset. You heard we got the bastard who leaked them, that he’s lost his job and is facing a criminal inquiry?”
Harry nodded. “Yes. I’m glad you got him. Unfortunately, it came a bit late for me – the horse had already left the barn. Sarah’s taken the boys to live with her sister. I heard from her solicitor yesterday.”
“Harry, I can’t tell you how sorry I am. You must believe me – I did everything I could to keep the videos secret. But in a way it was my fault – Oakhurst, my supervisor, leaked them to get at me. Wanted me out of the Service. I’m sorry, Harry – there’s just no accounting for human malice.”
“No. And speaking of that...” Harry looked decidedly uncomfortable as we jogged along through the foggy half-darkness. “I overheard some of the boys before training began. There’s some talk of... well, of turfing you out. There’s no guarantee the Hastewicke Gentlemen will even continue to exist, after recent events. But some of our more influential members seem inclined to blame you for the club’s misfortunes. I don’t, and I wanted you to know that. As for my own problems, I’ve no one to blame but myself.”
“Thanks, Harry. And I’m truly sorry about Sarah. How’s it going with the booze?”
“No problem there. Haven’t touched a drop since Vegas.”
The lads had pulled up from their jog, and had gathered under one of the lights to stretch – at our time of life, stretching before exertion had become as necessary as breathing. Leicester wasn’t present tonight, I saw; nor, obviously, was Bernie. I noticed Seagrave, Gleeson, Devilliers and Vince Maitland standing in a knot to one side, looking my way and engaged in animated discussion. There seemed to be a definite lack of consensus; Vince looked decidedly annoyed, and kept shaking his head mulishly.
After a few moments, Seagrave approached. “Can I have a word, Dex?” he asked.
Wordlessly I arose from my convoluted position and followed him to join the others.
“We’ve been talking things over,” he said uneasily, “and as newly-appointed skipper, I’ve been asked to speak to you on behalf of the other selectors. We’ve agreed...”
“I haven’t!” Vince growled, arms folded, glaring at the other three.
“...that it would be in the best interests of the team if you were to resign from the Hastewicke Gentlemen, effective immediately.”
I’d known this was coming; still, it was a nasty shock. I’d thought of little else on the tube over, yet still felt unprepared and unsure what I wanted to say. Vince saved me the trouble. “The best interests of the team!” he snorted. “What a load of bollocks! It’s you lot who’ve made the mistakes, and now you’re looking for someone to blame! Dex is the heart and soul of the forward pack! If he goes, I go!”
The rest of the club had gathered ‘round, drawn irresistibly by our rising voices and unmistakable postures of belligerence. “What’s all this?” Harry Barlowe asked, shouldering forward. “Are you turfing Dex out?”
“He’s betrayed the club!” said Devilliers. “It’s his fault the videos were leaked!”
Barlowe regarded him balefully. “His fault? Dex is doing his job – collecting evidence to find out who murdered one of our teammates. It wasn’t Dex on those videos, it was us!” He glared at Seagrave. “I won’t punish Dex for my own stupidity. I’ll resign my own membership first.”
For a moment, there was pandemonium, as a dozen men shouted to make themselves heard – some defending me, others calling for my head. With profound sadness, I saw that the majestic clipper ship that was the Hastewicke Gentlemen, that had sailed so often and so joyfully around the world and back again, had struck a reef and was foundering. I held up a hand for silence.
“Ever since this investigation began, I was afraid it would come to this,” I said, and my teammates stopped braying at one another to listen. “And I’m sorry. More sorry than you’ll ever know. The best times of my life have been had with you lot – we’ve grown up together, won together, lost together, seen the world together, been through tough times together, and done a lot of stupid things together. John Weathersby’s the real reason we’ve reached this moment as a club. But reached it we have. So rather than prolonging the agony, I’ll just say, thanks for your friendship, and for all the good times. I resign my membership in the Hastewicke Gentlemen.” And without another word, I gathered up my kit, and left them bellowing at one another in the little pool of light.
II
“I’m so sorry, Dex,” said Jane later, as we lay abed. “I tried to warn you. It’s so much more convenient to blame you for the club’s problems than it is for them to blame themselves.”
“I know. But I’ve felt this coming for weeks now. Still, I had to try. And now I know.”
After we’d turned out the light, I lay there for awhile, watching a pane of moonlight move almost imperceptibly across the ceiling, head cradled on a forearm, enjoying Jane’s warmth and deep, contented breathing in the darkness nex
t to me. I knew that, in the eyes of my teammates, and the world, the fact that she was here with me, while Bernie was in jail, would be considered every bit as reprehensible as anything they’d ever done. And perhaps it was.
But the fact was, I didn’t care. I loved Jane, loved her with all the intensity it was possible for a middle-aged man, starved of meaningful affection his entire adult life, to feel. Yes, I’d betrayed Bernie, and Bernie was my friend. But Bernie had betrayed Jane first, and wasn’t even sure whether or not he wanted to be with her anymore. Too, she was a grown woman, and had the right to decide for herself whether she wanted to be with Bernie, or with me. For tonight, at least, she had chosen me, and for that I was profoundly grateful.
I hadn’t noticed falling asleep. But when the phone rang, what seemed only an instant after my last, contented thought, the pane of moonlight had moved halfway across the ceiling. I groped and found the receiver. “Reed,” I muttered.
“Dex – it’s Fee.” I sat up in bed at the panic in her voice. “Can you... it’s Brian. He’s convulsing. They don’t think he’s going to...”
“On my way,” I said, reaching for the bedside lamp.
III
I hurtled onto the ward just in time to see Dr. Sanjee disappearing into the operating theatre. An outraged-looking nurse blocked my path. “You can’t go in there. It’s...” I flashed my warrant card and shouldered through the double doors.
Dr. Sanjee shot me a glare from the sink where he was washing up as the nurse, red-faced in fury, seized my arm. “I said, you’re not allowed...”
“It’s all right, Nurse Thompson,” said Dr. Sanjee. “Give him a mask and gown. Stand over there, DI Reed – out of the way, and don’t distract me.”
A violent crash drew my attention to the gurney in the centre of the operating theatre. In the spectral glare of the halogen umbrella lights, Brian arched his back, veins bulging from his neck and forehead, eyes closed, thrashing from side to side like a gaffed marlin. One of his great arms had ripped free from its restraint and knocked over an IV trolley, A smallish doctor struggled to control Brian’s arm, only to be sent staggering backward. “DI Reed, could you do something about that?” Dr. Sanjee asked calmly.
