by Jeff Keithly
In the course of my research, I came across one interesting tidbit I had failed to notice the first time I had seen Bernie’s name on Paul’s client-list. I started to reproach myself for the oversight, then realized that it was because the list I’d seen had been a Computer Crime-lab compilation, not the information on the laptop itself. The missing item consisted of a single Christian name appended to the end of Bernie’s entry: “Boris.”
Brian appeared only intermittently in the course of the week; he was devoting the initial stage of his investigation to a meticulous examination of the house and crime scene, and of Weathersby’s personal and business affairs.
Late Friday afternoon, I returned from an interview with a singularly uncooperative but wonderfully-named male prostitute called Crevice Delver to discover Brian, morosely overflowing his chair. He consulted his watch. “I believe The Chandos is serving Sam Smith’s Museum Ale from the oak,” he said. “Care to join me for a pint?”
Twenty minutes later we sat in one of the old leather couches in the quiet upstairs bar of the Chandos, just up the street from the National Portrait Gallery, hands wrapped around cool, gently-carbonated pints of the working man’s friend. The malty elixir slid down my throat with marvelous ease. Brian set his empty glass down with a thud and a satisfied smacking of his meaty lips.
“How’s it going with Paul?” he asked. “The case proceeds?”
“At its current rate, I hope to bring Paul to trial before he dies of old age. He’s not talking – refuses to answer the simplest question on the grounds that it might incriminate him. His loan-sharking clients won’t admit they know him. His rent-boys are as closed-mouth with me as they’re open-mouthed in their daily duties; his kneecappers all claim to be bouncers at Blue Hour. And no one’s ever heard of Martin Wallace, naturally. Still, I don’t think he’ll wriggle out of it entirely.” I finished my pint. “What about you – any sign of John’s laptop?”
“Not a sniff of it.” He arose and fetched us two more of the same. “And not a sniff of motive, either. Although we did find his will.”
“And?”
“There was one rather suggestive codicil, added two moths ago. His solicitor was to use the key Weathersby had entrusted to his care to open a locker in Euston Station, and follow the instructions it contained to the letter.”
“What instructions?”
“We don’t know what’s in the locker, do we? More to the point, we have no idea which locker it is.”
I gulped meditatively. “Anything else?”
Brian scratched his short-cropped beard thoughtfully before downing another half-pint at a gulp. “I’ve been going over Weathersby’s financials. One thing doesn’t add up. His wife told us he’d paid £200,000, only last week, for the rifle that killed him. Yet over the last year or so, the markets have given his trust a walloping – his income was down, not up. And I don’t see a payout of that magnitude from any of his accounts.”
“He told me he’d scored on the futures market. But maybe it was cash – maybe he had a run of luck in Vegas. Funny he didn’t mention it, though – that was just the sort of thing John would’ve crowed about.”
“Her Majesty’s Customs would’ve had some probing questions if he’d tried to bring a wad of cash that large into the country without declaring it, though from all we know, Weathersby was far from risk-averse.”
“There’s another possibility. You’ve heard what his relationship with Tess was like. If I know John, he had assets squirreled away where Tess’ lawyers would never find them.”
“Offshore accounts, you mean – BVI/Caymans stuff?” He nodded slowly. “Could be. No paper statements – all wire transfers. All of the information would’ve been on his computer. I’ve a call in to the man who sold him the rifle – apparently he made a profit, because he’s been on holiday in Turkey since two days after the sale. When he gets back, maybe we can back-trace the source of the funds.”
“We?” I asked bitterly.
“Figure of speech, lad. But don’t worry. The situation is only temporary.”
II
In my 22 years as a policeman, first as a bobby, patrolling the recently-gentrified streets of Spitalfields, then as a detective constable, first in narcotics, then Major Crimes, now as a detective inspector in Specialist Crime Directorate, a sort of catch-all for the nastiest crimes no other MPS division wants to touch, I’ve discovered one surprising fact about the criminal mind: no one is completely bad, just as no one is completely good. No miscreant, no matter how twisted, how sociopathic, how indifferent to the misery he has caused, is utterly without redeeming virtue. Even Jack the Ripper probably visited his frail, wizened granny on occasion. I’ve known violent muggers who were volunteer Big Brothers; drugs dealers who were very active church members; I knew a pædophile once who was very kind to his elderly grandparents-in-law. And sometimes, for an experienced investigator, such information can provide a crucial advantage.
So it proved with Artemis Paul, though in his case, as with all genuine sociopaths, self-interest lay at the heart of his actions. There was only one other person he loved nearly as much as he fancied himself – his wife. Paul’s own mother had been a cruel and distant alcoholic. But he had found the ideal substitute in his wife, Debra, by all accounts a woman of rare steadfastness, warmth and solicitude. To her he was as devoted as it is possible for one in his mental condition to be, and her good opinion, as I was shortly to learn, meant a great deal to him.
As I sat at my desk on Monday morning, the buzz of the intercom suddenly rent the air. “There’s a Debra Paul on line 2,” said Jade, the department secretary. “Says she’s Artie Paul’s wife.”
“DI Reed,” she said when I picked up. She took a deep breath. “I know I shouldn’t be speaking to you without my solicitor present. And I know you can’t discuss the case against my husband. But I just want to know...” I could hear her voice catch as she struggled to master her emotions; then out it spilled in a rush. “Is he... is he being treated well? I know he tried to hurt you, but you have to understand that it was my fault. Whatever stupid thing he’s done, he did to protect me. And the children. I shouldn’t be talking to you, I know that. It’s just that I’ve heard...” and now came the choking sobs, “...what happens to people who try to hurt policemen.”
“Mrs. Paul, please,” I said, mentally patting her hand. “Your husband got a knot on his head during the fight on the boat. Beyond that, he’s fine.”
“You must hate him,” she sobbed. “But he’s a good man, you must believe me. A good husband. A good father. He didn’t tell me about his business. I thought he owned a club! I... I just can’t believe it’s come to this!”
“Mrs. Paul. I don’t hate your husband.” I wouldn’t be inviting him ‘round for drinks anytime soon, but that was beside the point. “But you’re quite right when you say you shouldn’t be talking to me without your lawyer.”
“I know, she told me not to call you, but I’m so worried! I haven’t even been allowed to see him!”
“Haven’t you.” I had a small brainwave. “You know his bail hearing’s this afternoon.”
She sobbed again. “Yes.”
“It’s against regulation but... perhaps I can arrange for you to see him. Just to set your mind at ease. But only for a moment, mind. You’ll be watched, but at least you’ll be able to have a private word with him. See for yourself how he’s doing, tell him how you and the children are holding up.”
“You’d... you’d do that, for me?”
“Yes. But don’t tell anyone it was me, all right?”
“I won’t. Bless you, DI Reed.”
And blessed I was. A scant few hours later, I found myself sitting across a steel table from Artemis Paul and his solicitor, a competent terrier of a man named Tom Jenkins, in a grimy ground-floor interview room at Hendon Station. Apparently my little gambit with Debra Paul had had the desired effect, and she had reminded him of his domestic responsibilities. “My client requested this m
eeting,” Vickery growled. “Against my advice.”
Artie Paul leaned across the table. The recorder was turning, and a uniformed officer stood silently against the door. Gone was the steely facade he had shown me at Blue Hour and aboard the Compound Interest; he looked both shaken and stirred. Like he’d spent an hour in a paint-shaker, rather than a few minutes with his wife. “I only want to know one thing,” Paul said, and I noted with professional satisfaction the slight tremor in his voice. “If I’m a good boy, and I play the game, will it have an effect at my sentencing?”
I considered. “Without consulting the Crown prosecutor, I can’t make any promises. But if you cooperate, based on my experience, I’d say offhand that you’re looking at 20 years and out. You’d have to be a model prisoner, mind. Not try to, say, collect any outstanding debts.”
For a moment, Paul closed his eyes behind his lozenge-shaped spectacles. Then he nodded. “Done.”
Vickery fairly blanched in horror. “Artie, no!”
Paul removed his restraining hand. “This way there’s a chance I’ll see Debra and the girls again. And they can be a part of my life. Now.” He addressed me. “What d’you want to know?”
We spoke for two hours, and Paul never looked up from his hands where they rested on the table. He told me as little as he decently could, and volunteered nothing, but when I asked a question, he told me the truth. Except about Martin Wallace – he steadfastly denied any involvement in his murder. I let it slide for now, knowing that, if we were able to prove Paul’s involvement in that crime, all bets, in terms of my estimate of his likely sentence, were off.
Having shown him that this was the most advantageous course, given his present circumstances, for him, the person nearest and dearest to his own heart, at least Paul was talking to me. “One last question,” I said, as the interview wound down “– Lord Delvemere. He came to see you.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He needed money. Quickly. I lent it to him, at 10 percent a month.”
“Ten? You charged me 30. Why 10?”
“Because I knew he was good for it.”
“How?”
“Because he was a customer. A regular.”
My brain, knackered by the length and intensity of the interview, suddenly ticked over. “Boris.”
“Yes. Once a month, for the past three years. Like clockwork. Boris was a dead ringer for someone he knew at school, apparently.”
I trembled inwardly at the ramifications of this information. “Did he tell you why he needed the money?”
“No. He did say he didn’t want his wife to know.” Paul looked up at last. “Would you like my professional opinion?”
I already knew what that would be, but he told me anyway. “He was being blackmailed. Seen it before – I know the symptoms.”
III
Each Monday evening, I have a standing invitation to join Brian and his wife, Fiona, and their daughters, Rose, 10, and Kate, seven, for dinner. Fiona, tall, well-fleshed, with sharp, laughing brown eyes enlivening a sculpted oval face, met me at the door of their Southwark row-house; I handed her two bottles of Oddbins’ best and gave her a wet one on the cheek. “Sorry to be such a bachelor,” I said. “Is there enough for me?”
“Need you ask?” she said wryly “– Brian’s cooking.”
My partner was sweating over the stove when I arrived, a well-splattered “Shag the Cook” apron straining to protect his ample girth. “Smells lovely,” I observed. “What’s on the menu tonight, then?”
“Roast loin of pork with apples and cream, Potatoes Anna and veggies, with a greengage cocagne and cream for a sweet.” He wiped the sweat from his massive brow. “I forgot to get wine. Did you bring some?”
Dinner was a great success, as always; the pork was roasted to a sweet aromatic perfection, crisp and fatty outside, tender and juicy within. Brian harbors a deep distrust of anyone else in his kitchen; he fervently believes that if you love to eat, as he does, you’d better learn to cook yourself. He’s a brilliant cook, and has often avowed his intent to open an unpretentious but hideously expensive restaurant, specializing in the cuisine of Normandy, when he tires of policework.
As always, I felt a familiar pang as we sat around the scragged-up old pine dinner table, a part of their merry and contented domesticity, but an outsider as well. Brian adored his girls, and the feeling was obviously mutual. Tonight, Fiona was wonderfully sarcastic, as always, and Katie and Rose were in rare form as well.
“Uncle Dex, have you and daddy ever arrested a cat burglar?” Rose asked me, as Fiona served up the cocagne, still warm from the oven and drowning in cream custard.
“Matter of fact I have – bloke by the name of Peter McCaffery. He was ever so clever, and robbed lots of nice houses while the people inside were sleeping. But he wasn’t as clever as your dad, and one night, when he climbed out the window with his bag of loot over his shoulder, we were waiting for him.”
“Why was he called a cat burglar? Did he have a tail and whiskers, like Tabby does?” And then, with the wonderfully mercurial mind of a 10-year-old, “I used to wish I had a tail, when I was a baby like Kate.”
“I’m not a baby, Rose!” Kate cried in a wounded voice.
“But you do have a tail,” I told her seriously. “It’s called a coccyx. It’s all that’s left of the tails we used to have, ages ago when we were still swinging through the trees.” She turned to have a look. “You can’t see it,” I smiled “– it’s under your skin, at the very end of your backbone.”
“Uncle Dex, are you having me on?”
“Daddy has a tail,” Kate interrupted brightly. “Only it’s on his front, and you can see it. When he’s in the bath. It’s called a penis.”
“Oh, lovely,” said Fiona drily. “Pity your parents aren’t here tonight, Brian.”
When we finished, I borrowed Brian’s apron to do the dishes. Fiona went to give the kids their bath; Brian joined me in the kitchen, and set a cup of coffee on the drainboard at my elbow. “Ta,” I said. “By the way, I may have found your motive.” I scrubbed energetically at a roasting-pan.
“Are you going to dazzle me with your wisdom, then, or make me guess?”
The random bits of evidence that had stuck in my brain had begun to come together, like the seemingly-unconnected lines on the easel of a portrait sketch artist I had once stopped to watch in Venice. “I saw Artemis Paul this afternoon. You remember my mate Bernie? Lord Delvemere? Paul said he was being blackmailed. He didn’t know who the blackmailer was. But I think I may.”
Brian leant forward. “I’m listening.”
So I told him about my conversation with Bernie, and his cryptic comment about Suite 455. “I thought he was just telling me Weathersby had been our ‘anonymous benefactor,’ and later that night, John confirmed he had been. But there was more to it than that. After all, knowing John, generosity on that scale would’ve been completely out of character. He was legendary for squeezing every pound coin until it screamed. I can’t remember the last time he so much as bought a round of drinks.”
An incident from our tour of Canada, six years previously, suddenly leapt to mind. One night in Vancouver, five or six of the lads, including John and I, were on our way to a Gastown restaurant for dinner. A grizzled, ancient homeless man had asked us for change. “We can do better than that, can’t we lads?” John had said, and, with a wolfish grin, invited the man to join us for dinner. John sat the poor old dosser down at our table, despite the disapproving glares of the staff, and proceeded to order the finest the house could provide, all the while regaling his guest with tales of his rugby prowess and amorous conquests. As we watched in awe, old Aqualung, unable to believe his good fortune, tucked in with a vengeance that left us fearing for his digits.
“John had just finished some sordid story, something about waking up tied to a strange bedstead with alligator clips attached to his scrotum, and ordered a large armagnac. Then he got up and went for a piss.
“We awaited his return. Then waited, and waited some more. But John was already back at the hotel, laughing that hyena laugh of his. In the end, he stuck us with the bill, not only for his own meal, but for the old wino’s tab as well. And that was John’s idea of a fine joke. On us,” I finished.
Brian pondered this moving anecdote. “So your point is...?”
“John wasn’t a generous man, except with himself. Look at how he treated Tess and his children. He begrudged them every pence. Why would he suddenly pay for a separate suite to provide a venue for the boys’ bad behavior on tour? He’d never done that before.”
The light of reason was slowly kindling in John’s bloodhound eyes. “You told me he was a man who always had to have the upper hand – an edge of some sort.”
“That’s right.”
“I finally spoke to the man who sold him Finch-Hatton’s rifle. Weathersby paid cash.”
“£200,000.”
“In used hundred-pound notes.” Brian tapped his teeth with a pencil, a mannerism he had when the old brain cells were firing at an especially rapid clip. The tapping stopped. “Your friend Weathersby was shearing black sheep.”
“I’m inclined to agree. And the Hastewicke Gentlemen were his flock.”
“What would you wager that, when I ring the security staff at your hotel in Vegas tomorrow, they tell me they found some recently-filled holes in the walls of suite 455? Holes for fiber-optic video cameras, the latest stuff, sited to cover every angle of the sitting room, the bedroom and the toilet?”