Loose Head

by Jeff Keithly

  I nodded. “And when we return from tour, John has the boys over, one by one, for a friendly drink. Then he brings out the computer, and treats them to a video replay of their worst indiscretions, complete with editing, soundtrack and popcorn.”

  “It’s diabolical, really clever – what better candidates for blackmail could there be than a bunch of wealthy nobs on rugby tour? I shudder to think what they might have got up to. They’d pay through the nose to keep it quiet.”

  I knew only too well how true that was, and suddenly felt a bit queasy as the magnitude of John’s sacrilege struck home. “Or resort to more primitive means of ensuring his silence. After all, the bond of rugby touring is firmly rooted in mutual sin. If he really did this, some might think John got what he deserved.”

  “But murder? Come on, Dex – that’s a bit harsh, just to keep a bit of slap-and-tickle from the wife.”

  “Some of us have more to lose than others.” Then a sudden thought occurred, and the plate I was washing almost slipped from my grasp. “But John.”

  “What?”

  “What blackmailer, playing for these stakes, would fail to have a backup plan? An insurance policy, if anything should happen to him?”

  Brian smiled grimly. “That codicil in his will. The left-luggage key.”

  I nodded. “Better get a Section 1 warrant.”

  “I’ll get DC Burnett on it first thing tomorrow.”

  It abruptly hit home just how ugly this could get. And for the first time in a week, I was inexpressibly glad Wicks had pulled me off this case.

  Chapter 7

  During the Hastewicke Gentlemen’s first tour abroad, to Australia and New Zealand in 1984, we had come up against a brutally proficient team called Waimeearoa on the North Island of New Zealand. About half of their lads were Pacific Islanders from Samoa and Tonga, magnificent specimens of manhood, tall, heavily-muscled and tattooed, with a well-deserved reputation for warm hospitality off the pitch and ferocious violence on it. They had been looking forward to the chance to rub our generally aristocratic English noses in the rich North Island mud for some weeks, and the large crowd at Waimeearoa stadium obviously shared their enthusiasm, roaring their approval of every crunching tackle and niggling cheap shot.

  The game was going splendidly in their favour; the score was 23-6 at half-time. When the match resumed, despite one of Ian Chalmers’ most inspiring halftime rants, Waimeearoa picked up right where they had left off. With the crowd howling with savage glee, the local lads were pushing for the try that would have clinched it when their fly-half dropped the ball and the ref signaled a scrum.

  The two forward packs – eight men each, upwards of 2,000 pounds of prime English and Kiwi beef apiece – came together like coupling railroad-cars, with a tectonic “Oomph!” Just as the scrum-half put the ball in, Winston Tuaasusopo, Waimeearoa’s gigantic second row, took advantage of the referee’s momentary distraction to deliver a crunching uppercut, between his own prop’s legs, that struck our tight-head prop, Harry Barlowe, right in the balls. Barlowe, bound into the scrum and pushing his guts out, never even saw it coming. He collapsed the scrum, writhing in agony, and as their number 8 picked up the ball, I saw red.

  Vince Maitland, our blind-side flanker, made a saving tackle on the number 8, wrapping him up before he could get the pass away. As they squelched into the mud, the ruck – the phalanx of players who converge to control the ball after a tackle – formed and with savage joy I saw Tuaasusopo pick up the ball.

  I wasn’t the only one who had seen the punch and where it came from. As I rocketed toward the massive Samoan, Ian Chalmers matched me stride for stride, wrapping a meaty arm around my waist. We hurdled the ruck together and drove Tuaasusopo backward into the mud, flat on his back. The ball bounced free but we scarcely noticed. United in vengeful purpose, we methodically stomped him into the mud, using our rugby boots, with their long aluminium studs, to shred his jersey and carve bloody furrows from his ankles to his sternum. I believe he still bears the scars. On the way by, I stumbled and deftly broke his nose with my knee.

  Tuaasusopo tottered from the field, nose streaming crimson, and did not return; when play resumed, Waimeearoa found that they had lost their momentum, while we had found ours. In the 80 minute of the match, a cunning kick from George Waters, our tubby but deft and useful little scrum-half, bounced magically along the touch-line and, at the last moment, up into my arms. I plunged over for the score, and we wound up sending the unhappy crowd home at the short end of a 30-26 score.

  Afterward, Ian had thrown an arm around my shoulders and handed me a beer. “This is why I love playing with you, Dex,” he said, teeth white in a faceful of mud. “Because you understand, so clearly, that you can never let the bastards win.”

  II

  When I arrived at Hendon on Tuesday morning, Brian had already come and gone. A note on my chair told me that Sir Steven Barnes, Weathersby’s solicitor, was in court until this afternoon. Brian would be waiting for him when he returned, hoping to persuade Sir Steven to voluntarily hand over the contents of locker 182; in the meantime, he was cracking the whip over the murder squad’s outside inquiries team to gather up all relevant CCTV tapes and canvass results. The note said Brian would meet me at Bernie’s later that morning.

  Brian and I had agreed to join forces, given the overlap in our two separate investigations. The time had come to ask my teammate some rather searching questions about both Artemis Paul and John Weathersby, an ordeal I was, quite frankly, dreading.

  I spent the morning hunched over the computer in my office, adding Artemis Paul’s recently-transcribed interview to the growing web of evidence on the case in the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System (HOLMES). As I did so, I marveled, not for the first time, at man’s ability to forgive himself his own trespasses. Artemis Paul considered himself a singularly astute and competent businessman, which, in his own callous way, he was. What he chose to ignore was that, in pursuit of his and his family’s daily bread, he had ruined countless lives. And then, when the breath of justice at last threatened to collapse his monetary house of cards, he was prepared to murder a policeman to keep it intact a little while longer. To him, that had just been another business decision, like adding a couple of cases to the week’s whisky order. I stoically suppressed my loathing and fear, and kept working.

  At the appointed hour, I stood once more on Bernie’s doorstep in Belgrave Square. Brian was late, which was not unusual. I had just raised my hand to the knocker when the door was opened inward by a shortish, heavy-necked, hard-faced man, who saw me with surprise and, I thought, dismay. He looked familiar; I never forget a face, but I’m crap with names. Then it came to me. “Dean!” I said. “Dean Thatcher! What brings you here, of all places?” For it was Dean who had taken my elbow at Blue Hour, Dean who had guided me to Artemis Paul’s inner sanctum, Dean whose manly bundle I had squeezed just before I’d been belted unconscious. “And why haven’t you returned my phone calls? We were so close once.”

  Dean shoved past me. “Fuck off, copper.” He started to depart, but instead encountered Brian, blocking the stairs with a brooding expression on his bearded face. His racquet-sized hand closed around Dean’s biceps and jerked him back like a pit bull on a leash.

  “I believe my partner asked you a question. Would you care to answer it here, in the open air, or at Hendon nick, with the tape recorder turning?”

  “I didn’t get your messages,” he lied sullenly.

  “And why are you here?” I asked gently.

  “Business,” he replied. “Plantagenet – “ his pronunciation of the name dripped scorn “– had some business with Mr. Paul.”

  Dean tried to nonchalant it, but he was starting to look decidedly uncomfortable. “Not anymore,” I said. “Artie’s no longer in business, and all debts are forgiven. If we find out you’ve gone freelance, collecting from Paul’s clients and pocketing the cash, we’ll squash you like a bug.”

  I stuffed one of my business ca
rds into Dean’s breast pocket. “I’ve still got some questions to ask you about Martin Wallace. You’ll be at Hendon at 9 a.m. tomorrow to answer them, or I’ll be getting a warrant for your arrest. And Dean – “ I got right up in his face, so there was no mistake about this “– Stay away from Lord Delvemere. And his wife. The only reason I’m not arresting you now is I know it wasn’t you who bashed me over the head back at Blue Hour. Leave now, before I change my mind.” Then Brian and I shut the door in his face, and I turned my mind to the delicate task at hand.

  Normally I’m not at all reluctant to ask questions of a most painfully intimate nature – how did you find out your wife was shagging your neighbor? When did you discover you were a rapist? Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to take things that didn’t belong to you? – that sort of thing. All part of the job.

  But in this case, the sharp blade of my investigatory instincts, honed to whittle away falsehood layer by layer, had most decidedly hit a knot. It was one thing to be privy to a thousand shameful secrets as a member of a rugby team. It was quite another to be faced with the prospect of winnowing through those indiscretions in the noonday glare of a criminal investigation. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t right. But it seemed I had no choice.

  When we were shown into his study, Bernie had the look of a man who had just finished a sand castle, and glanced seaward to behold a tidal wave rushing up the beach. Haggard and gulping whisky with a shaking hand, his expression brightened to one of pathetic gratitude when he saw me.

  “Bernie,” I said. “All right? No damage?”

  “No. But that day is coming, if I don’t pay Paul soon. Oh, Dex, what have I done?”

  I was glad to be able to give my old friend some good news. I explained that Paul had forgiven his debt, and Dean had been warned off. “I don’t think you’ll see him again,” I said. “If you do, just ring Brian or me – any time, day or night. We’ll sort it out.”

  “Thank God. And thank you, Dex – I owe you one.”

  My discomfort, if it was possible, increased; I fairly squirmed. “No you don’t. But Bernie, I have to ask. No, I’ll just tell you what we know. It was John, wasn’t it? John was blackmailing you. That’s why you needed the money.”

  He looked up at us, thinning hair disheveled, mouth slack with dismay. “Yes. How did you know?”

  “It wasn’t exactly rocket science, once we put the bits and pieces together. Did you pay him?”

  “Who, Weathersby? Yes, a hundred thousand, in hundred-pound notes, cash. He made me sit there while he counted them. Bloody humiliating.” Then he heaved a relieved sigh. “At least Jane won’t have to find out about this now. Will she?” And he looked up at me with pathetic hope.

  I hated to burst his bubble. But events were just moving too bloody fast. “Bernie, I don’t even know what you’ve done – why John was blackmailing you. If it’s not essential to the case we may be able to keep it under wraps. But you need to tell us everything, Bernie, so we can make that judgment.”

  “No. I... I can’t. If you find out on your own, well, I can’t help that. But Jane’s and my marriage – it couldn’t take the strain. Believe me, Dex, it just couldn’t take the strain. Dex, please – I’m begging you. We’ve known each other for a long time. Please let sleeping dogs lie.”

  I liked Bernie – I always had. And I hated to see him in such a state. But I had to be honest. “I can’t promise that, Bernie.” I carefully kept the anguish from my voice. “I wish I could, but this is a murder investigation now. A very high-profile murder investigation. John was in the House of Lords, for God’s sake! I’ll do whatever I can, of course, but under the circumstances, that may be very little.”

  “A murder investigation.” He looked back and forth between Brian and me, and, fresh dismay blooming in his face, seemed to dissolve into his armchair. “And now I’m a suspect, of course.”

  “It’s no longer my investigation, Bernie – I’ve been taken off the case. I don’t know where it will lead. But my best advice to you is to be as cooperative as possible. If you’ve nothing to hide, you’ve no worries, mate. Look, Brian’s my partner. I trust him with my life, and you can trust him as well. He’ll give you a fair shake.”

  Bernie shook his head stubbornly. “It was nothing criminal – that’s all I’m going to tell you. Dex – you’re my friend. Please.”

  “We’ll help you all we can. But first you’ve got to help yourself. Listen, Bernie – Brian has some questions he needs to ask you. Just basic things, about John, and the night he was murdered. I’ll leave you to it.”

  On my way past his chair, I gave Bernie’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. He winced, involuntarily sucking in his breath. “Shoulder trouble, on top of everything else?” I asked.

  “It’s just scrum shoulder – all those years at hooker. You know how it is for us front-rowers. Had two surgeries, and now the doctor says it’s arthritic.” I knew that Bernie had had his shoulder scoped six months previously; he had told me, however, that it was feeling much better. I hoped it was. I certainly wasn’t.

  III

  Bernie waved goodbye to Dex’s partner, DI Abbott, then returned to his study and poured himself another stiff whisky. It was all he could do to steady his hand enough to stop the strong spirit from slopping over the rim. It had been a hellish morning – first that thug, Dean, with his sneering innuendo and his colon-knotting threats. Then the session with Dex and his very astute partner. DI Brian Abbott had been impeccably gentle and deferential. But he had also made it abundantly clear that he would see through any attempt to obscure the truth.

  Bernie thought, for just a moment, what a blessed relief it would be to unburden himself, fully and completely, without restraint. Then his mind jerked back from the thought, like the tendrils of a sea anemone. Unthinkable. Jane – to say nothing of Dex and the other lads on the team – would never understand. His life, so orderly, so privileged, so comfortable, would for all intents and purposes be over. He sensed a grinding doom, like the face of a glacier, approaching, ponderous but inexorable. Somehow, some way, he had to get on top of this, and keep it down. Keep it from crushing all in its path. If only Dex was still on the case – he was a friend. A mate. He would understand.

  Bernie’s mind reverted, against his will, to the scene that was seared into his memory, the psychological equivalent of the cane-stripes he had occasionally collected at Hastewicke: that terrible night at Weathersby’s house. Two weeks before the Ian Chalmers Memorial, John had invited him ‘round for drinks, and, Bernie thought, to discuss the team’s plans for next year’s tour to Hong Kong. They had spent a few minutes at John’s laptop, going over his email correspondence with the various rugby clubs with which fixtures had been proposed. When they were finished, John had casually opened another folder, labeled “Vegas 2004,” containing digital images from the Hastewicke Gentlemen’s most recent tour.

  “Ah. Here’s something might interest you.” John clicked on a file called “Bernie in Vegas.” It was a video, and Bernie had watched its opening frames, showing the sitting-room in Suite 455, unfold with a whisky-befuddled lack of comprehension. Then the full horror of what he was seeing struck home, and he bounded to his feet as if a red-hot darning needle had suddenly been thrust through the seat of his chair.

  “What the bloody hell, John? I appreciate a good joke as much as the next man, but that’s not funny!”

  “Nor was it intended to be. Sit down, Bernie.” John flashed him that maddening white-toothed grin, and poured for them both from the decanter. “We have things to discuss.”

  Bernie sagged back into his chair, ashen-faced. “You unutterable bastard! You had the suite wired for surveillance! You’ll burn in hell for this!”

  Weathersby spoke soothingly as the images continued to unfold on the small but crystal-clear screen. “You’ve been such a bad boy, Bernie. I’d hate to think what Jane would say if she saw – that.” The scene had switched to the bedroom; for a moment, John allowed his distaste to s
how. “But – and here’s the important bit – she doesn’t have to know. It can just be our little secret.”

  Bernie tried to close his ears to the ecstatic groans and lascivious smacking sounds emanating from the computer. He tried to clear his mind, to come to grips with this world-tilting catastrophe. “What... what do you mean?”

  “I mean that, for the right price, I’ll wipe this off the hard drive. You can do it yourself, if you like. It will be as if this sordid encounter had never taken place.”

  “What price?”

  “Bernie! So eager! Really, it’s a pleasure doing business with someone so keen.” He paused for a refreshing sip. “I want £100,000, in cash, no larger than hundred-pound notes, by 5 p.m. Friday.”

  Bernie had never felt such fury, such utter betrayal. This couldn’t be happening! “Or else what?”

  John was very serious now. “Or else by 9 o’clock Monday morning, Jane will be in possession of this video. And by 10 o’clock, unless I’m much mistaken, you’ll need the services of a very expensive divorce solicitor. I happen to know one – in fact, I’ll give you his card, if you like.”

  “John. Listen to me.” Bernie tried to speak calmly, tried to keep the shame and rage from his voice. “I don’t have that kind of money just laying about. Everything I have is tied up in real estate – I can’t just sell it off! Jane would know! We’ve a monthly income from our holdings, but by the time everything’s paid, there’s next to nothing left over! I might be able to raise ten thousand or so, but £100,000? It’s out of the question!”

  “Pity. I can tell you from personal experience that divorce, for one in our position, is considerably more expensive than that. Think of it as a business proposition, Bernie. A hundred thousand now, or several million once Jane’s solicitors finish turning out your pockets. It’s up to you, but frankly, you’d be a fool not to take me up on this.”