by Jeff Keithly
I thumbed through the forensic report on the Penhurst House crime scene. The techs had found Bernie’s, Harry Barlowe’s, Seagrave’s and Leicesters’ prints – and mine – in various places around the room. Hardly surprising, since we’d all been there the night of the murder, and that was the room in which Weathersby had transacted his business.
Interestingly, Finch-Hatton’s rifle had not been wiped clean. There was a squirming mass of overlapping fingerprints on the stock, the barrels, the trigger and breech – Weathersby’s, mine, Bernie’s, Leicester’s. All were at least partially identifiable. Others – presumably the previous owner’s and his friends’ – weren’t in the SO4 database.
This, and the fact that the neither the French doors through which the killer had gained entrance, nor the alarm box he had so expertly circumvented, had been wiped clean, suggested that the murderer had worn gloves. Still, I made a note to check with forensic regarding any unidentified prints.
The forensic report went on to say that the techs’ minute examination of the garden beyond the French doors had yielded a single clue – a partial footprint in the narrow strip of flower bed bordering the five-foot-high iron-tipped brick wall that separated Montpelier Garden from the street. It was a logical spot for the killer to have gained entrance and egress – a quiet residential street, with another communal garden over the way. All forensic could tell from the print, blurred by rain and partial to begin with, was that it came from a man’s shoe, size 11 or 12.
My phone rang. I was somewhat disappointed to hear Wicks’ voice, rather than Oakhurst’s. “Stop by my office, DI Reed. We’ve things to discuss.”
I tucked my case notes and the various reports – forensic, coroner’s, ballistic and investigating officers’ – under my arm and strode to Wicks’ fourth-floor office,
“Sit down,” he said testily as I entered. “I’ve just heard that DCI Oakhurst has been suspended from service, pending DPS investigation. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Reed?”
I caught him up on the events of earlier that afternoon. As he listened, leaning back in his chair, eyes focused on a framed commendation on the far wall, a grin of malicious pleasure tugged at the corners of his aged-lined mouth. I wondered, not for the first time, just how old Wicks really was. I knew he was a widower and childless. At that moment, I realized, abruptly, just how important the competence and integrity of the Metropolitan Police Service were to him.
Then he noticed my appraising glance, and his appreciative expression morphed into one of severe approbation. “Reed, you cretinous arsewipe! Why didn’t you bring this to me?”
“If I may speak candidly, DCI Wicks?”
“Speak!”
“I was reluctant to bring the matter to your attention without proof. Once I obtained it, things moved too quickly to bring you in. The DPS boys were waiting at my desk, suspension order in hand.”
Wicks was aghast. “Those sheep-sucking pencil-pushers! How dare they threaten to suspend one of my detectives without speaking to me first?”
“If I’m not mistaken, sir, they had DCI Oakhurst’s enthusiastic support.”
“Yes.” He favored me with a sharky, yellow-toothed grin. “And now the worm has turned. But enough of that – duty before pleasure. Where are we with the Weathersby case?”
I brought him up to speed on the status of the investigation. “It’s frustrating,” I said at length. “We’ve at least four suspects with ample motive for murder, but precious little physical evidence. One of the uniformed officers did find a neighbor who happened to be awake at the time of the murder – he’d had a row with his wife and couldn’t sleep. His view was partially obscured, but he did see a man hurrying away from the house a minute or so after the shot.”
“Description?”
“Tall – significantly taller than the wall surrounding the property, which is five foot high. White male, dark overcoat, dark hair. It was too dark to make out anything else.”
“Well, that’s helpful,” Wicks observed acidly. “Come on, DI Reed. There must be one ray of sunshine.”
I considered. “DI Abbott is following up a potential lead.”
“What is it?”
“Something he discovered when he interviewed Richard Devillers, the Hastewicke Gentlemen fullback.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
I shrugged apologetically. “He hasn’t told me what it is, sir – didn’t want to spoil the surprise, at least not until he had the evidence in hand.”
Wicks whinnied in disgust. “Communication, DI Reed! I detest mysteries. Do try to keep me up to date.”
“I will, sir.”
“And Reed?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Don’t make a habit of getting your superiors sacked.”
II
I was savoring my walk home through the frosty November night, leaves crackling underfoot, thinking of Jane, when my mobile rang. “Reed,” I said.
“Dex, it’s me.”
“Brian! Where are you?” I could tell from the cadence of his voice that he was walking somewhere, not driving.
“ I left Devilliers a couple of hours ago, and I’ve been checking into a few odd bits and pieces. You won’t believe what I’ve found!”
“I could use some good news,” I admitted.
“How’s this – I think I’ve solved the case! I know who killed Weathersby!”
I almost dropped the phone. “Steady on, man. It isn’t Devilliers?”
“No. But you won’t believe it when I tell you – it’s a real shocker! Meet me at the Chandos and I’ll fill you in.”
I could’ve strangled him. “Tell me now!” I cried.
He chuckled. “All in good time.”
“Brian, you bastard...” I began. Then suddenly, I could hear voices at his end. “Hey, mate, got a light?” said a youngish male voice.
“No,” I heard Brian say. “Sod off, I’m on the phone.”
“Sod off, is it? I think a lesson in manners is in order, me droogs.”
Suddenly, biff! came the unmistakable sound of a blow, followed by an eardrum-shattering clash as the phone fell to the pavement. From a distance, I heard Brian roar “Back off, you lot! I’m a copper!”
Another voice cried “And we don’t give a shit, DCI Abbott!” Then came a veritable hailstorm of impacts – fists and boots thudding into flesh, accompanied by heart-rending cries of pain – Brian’s pain. Mocking laughter drifted over the ether.
I stood rigid with shock. “Brian, where are you?” I raved.
“Good one, me droog!” I heard from afar.
“Kick him again, Georgie!”
“Go on, Alex, don’t be shy – e’s still got a coupla gnashers left!”
“Shit, Dim, ‘is mobile’s still on!” Then – crunch! And in the eerie suspiration of dead air, like a dying man’s last breath, I heard my partner’s silent plea for help.
Chapter 22
They found him in an alley called Denmark Street, just off the Charing Cross Road, not far from Seagrave’s house and only steps from his car. He was still alive – barely. My frantic call to Central Command put every on-duty Metropolitan Police officer in London on high alert. One of their own was down, and they wouldn’t rest until they found him.
Less than 20 minutes later, a uniformed officer found Brian lying in a pool of blood, eyes open, unresponsive – but breathing. His crushed mobile lay on the pavement next to him, along with several of his teeth. An ambulance arrived within five minutes, and Brian was whisked to University Hospital. They were already operating on him when I arrived, volcanic with rage and grief.
The nurses refused me entrance to the operating theatre. As I turned away, I saw the departmental chaplain hurry in, tugging on his cassock and surplice, and my heart turned to ice. Then the door opened again, and I saw Brian’s wife, Fee, and summoned all my strength.
She came to me in a staggering rush; for a moment, all we could do was cling to one another.
“What happened, Dex, what happened?” she cried into my shoulder. “Who could’ve done this to my fine boy, my lovely boy?”
I turned her away from the priest, who was preparing to enter the operating room. “I don’t know, Fee. I was on the phone with him when it happened. It sounded like kids – four or five of them. It might’ve been random – I just don’t know.” But in my heart, I knew it hadn’t been a chance encounter. And we don’t give a shit, DI Abbott!
“Dex.” She dried her tears and looked at me soberly now. “He will be all right? It was just a beating. Brian’s as tough as they come.”
I took her hand, guided her to a couch. “Fee, his skull’s fractured. They ruptured his spleen. He’s bleeding internally.” I fought for control. “I won’t lie to you. The nurse told me Brian has a 50 percent chance of living through the night. If they can control the internal bleeding, and the pressure inside his skull, and keep him from convulsing, he has a chance. Fee, I’m so sorry. I should’ve been there for him. I let him down. I let you down.”
“Don’t be an ass!” The anger in her voice shocked me out of my self-loathing. “Brian thinks the world of you! How many times has he told me you’re the best partner he’s ever had?”
“Thank you, Fee. Believe me, that means a lot...” I had to pause for a moment. “He’s not just my partner – he’s my mate. I’m going to find out who did this to him – and why.”
I felt a hand at my elbow. DCI Wicks was there. “What the hell happened, Dex?” With grave consideration, he included Fee in our conversation. “Fee, I’m so sorry. What do we know?”
“Brian called to say he thought he’d solved Weathersby’s murder, but before he could tell me what he’d found, he was attacked.” I relayed the conversation I’d overheard.
“Droog?” said Wicks. “Alex, Georgie and Dim? Sounds like A Clockwork Orange to me.”
“Sir?” I asked, brain fogged by the enormity of the night’s events.
“The novel by Anthony Burgess!” Wicks barked. “Made into a movie by Stanley Kubrick. So violent it was banned in the U.K. Still, it’s found a cult following. I’ll get the word out to the uniforms.”
Wicks pulled out his mobile, sorted through his speed-dial numbers, punched one in. “Ah, DCI Wilkinson – Wicks here. You’ve heard about DI Abbott? Yes, he’s in surgery now – he’s pretty battered. DI Reed was on the phone with him when it happened – says there were four or five of them. Called each other droogs. That’s right, straight out of A Clockwork Orange. Ring any bells? Any gangs that fit the motif? Bowler hats, one false eyelash, that sort of thing? Well, get on it, as a special favor to me. I want these bastards strung up by their dangly bits, and right smartly. It was one of our own, Keith.” He looked at me. “What did they call each other?”
“Alex, Georgie and Dim.”
He relayed the information into the phone. “That’s right, Keith – top priority. Thanks, I will.” He folded the phone away. “That was Wilkinson in Gang Enforcement. Says he doesn’t know anyone offhand who fits the bill, but he’s calling everyone in. If anyone can find them, Keith can.”
“Thank you, DCI Wicks. Why would anyone... did this have anything to do with the case you’ve been working?”
“I don’t know, Fee,” I said truthfully. “But I’m going to find out.”
A nurse came then, with some papers for Fee to sign, and I took the opportunity to ring Jane. I got my answering machine. “Jane – if you’re there, pick up – it’s me.”
A brief pause, and I heard her voice. She sounded deliciously sleepy. “Hullo, Dex. Is everything all right? You’re so late – I’ve been worried.”
“It’s my partner, Brian – he’s been attacked. I’m at University Hospital now.” I looked around, to make sure Fee wasn’t within earshot. “He’s not expected to live. Listen, Jane. I don’t know what happened yet. But I don’t know when I’ll be home, and in the meantime, I don’t think you should stay there alone. I’d rather you went to your house tonight.”
“Dex! You’re not in danger?”
“No. But I’d rather err on the side of caution until we get to the bottom of this. You’ll do as I ask?”
“Of course, darling. But Dex?”
“Yes?”
“You will be careful?”
“As always.” Then the great leap into uncharted territory. “I love you, Jane.”
A pause. “I love you, Dex.”
Good – that was settled, then. “I’ll ring you when I get in,” I said.
I rang off and looked at my watch. To my surprise, two hours had passed since I had arrived at the hospital. I went to sit next to Fee, wordlessly took her hand.
A doctor in bloodstained scrubs found us an hour and a half later. “Mrs. Abbott?” he said gently.
“Yes?” said Fee, summoning all her strength. I could feel her trembling, and pulled her close.
“I’m Dr. Sanjee. Your husband’s a strong man. A weaker man would have died from the injuries he sustained. But I think he’ll live.”
“Oh, thank God!” cried Fee, burying her face in my shoulder, and gave way to the mercy of tears.
“He has a lot to live for,” I observed.
“Ah. You’re DI Reed?” I nodded. “They told me you were here. I’ll be honest with you – it was touch and go for awhile. He’s lost a lot of blood. His spleen is ruptured, he has four broken ribs, a broken hand, radius and ulna, multiple skull fractures and intercranial swelling. That’s what has me worried at the moment – if we can bring the pressure down, and keep him from convulsing, he should be OK. Eventually.”
“I desperately need to ask him some questions,” I said. “How long before he’s conscious?”
Dr. Sanjee regarded me sadly. “He may not regain consciousness.”
“What? You just said...”
“I said that if his intercranial pressure comes down, he should be OK, but that’s going to take time. How much time, it’s impossible to say yet. He may regain function. Some function. Eventually. But he’s severely concussed. He’s in a coma, DI Reed, and likely will be, for at least a week. You, and Mrs. Abbott, must prepare yourself for the fact that, even if he does recover, he’ll never be the same. He won’t be able to return to work. He’s finished as a policeman.”
I ran a weary hand over my face. Fee looked up from my shoulder, soaked with her tears, and searched my face with the utmost compassion. “I’m so sorry, Dex,” she said.
“Don’t be,” I replied, blinking back tears of my own. “Now he can open that restaurant he’s always talking about.”
Fee managed a halting laugh. “Yes. And we’ll still expect you every Monday. But now you’ll have to pay.”
II
Fee and I sat with him until dawn, watching the regular, soothing motion of his ventilator, listening to the encouraging beep of the heart monitor. His great friendly face was so battered – lips swollen, eyes puffy and blackened, head bandaged, a sutured gash stretching halfway across the forehead that contained the information I so desperately needed.
“You should go home,” I said at length. “Talk to the girls, get some sleep.”
“You should, too,” she yawned. “It’s been a long night. Go home to whomever it was you called.”
Fee was more observant than I had realized. She had fixed me up with half a dozen friends over the years, and had never given up on her dream of someday godmothering my offspring. She considered me a catch, for some reason, and she looked at me knowingly now.
“What?” I asked. “She’s just a friend.”
Fee snorted – giddy from relief and lack of sleep. The nurse had just told us that Brian was doing exceptionally well, considering the severity of his injuries. “Have you shagged her?” she asked.
“None of your business! I don’t shag and tell! Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get to the office.”
“The office! Dex, you’ve been up all night!”
“I’ll stop at home for a shower and a change of clothes. But
there’re things to do, Fee.”
“Yes.” She touched my face gently. “You’ll find who did this, Dex?”
Just for a moment, my fury flickered anew. “Oh, yes. And when I do, they’ll be sorry they ever drew breath.”
III
Two hours later, much refreshed after a stop at home, I pushed through the revolving doors of Devilliers’ firm, Ardenwood Financial Planners, on Bishopsgate Street near the Bank of England. A dignified woman of mature years showed me through to his office. “Dex!” Devilliers cried, rising to greet me from behind a solid mahogany desk that looked as though it had been purchased at some former prime minister’s yard sale. The view out his windows was of the Tower of London and the Thames; obviously the financial trade winds had blown profitably for Dick in recent years. “I thought I might see you this morning. The attack on your partner’s been all over the news! D’you know what happened yet?”
“No,” I said, “we don’t. It might’ve just been kids. But it may also be connected to John’s murder. What did you and Brian talk about, yesterday?”
“You don’t know?”
I shook my head. “No. I was on my way to meet him when he was attacked. He just said he’d seen you, that he was looking into a secondary line of inquiry, something that might relate back to the Weathersby investigation. But he did say that whatever you’d told him might be vital to solving the case. What, specifically, did you discuss?”
Devilliers had been, as I have had previous occasion to mention, Ian Chalmers’ closest mate on the Hastewicke Gentlemen. I had always suspected him of being a little jealous of my own close friendship with Ian, and my status, to a certain extent, as Ian’s protégé in the forward pack. Now Devilliers regarded me shrewdly. “How unfortunate for you, Dex.”
“Unfortunate in what sense?” I asked.
“Because whatever inferences DI Abbott may have gathered from our conversation, he didn’t confide them to me. I understand he’s in a coma?”