Loose Head (13 page)

And yet he knew from past experience, and from treatment, that the threat of relapse was never far away. Indeed, it was at moments like this, when his confidence in his sobriety was greatest, that he actually teetered on the brink of doom.

Sarah hadn’t been overly keen on the idea of Harry’s joining the Vegas tour. Far from it. For two years she had insisted, with good reason, that he stay away from rugby. But he had seen it as the ultimate test of his sobriety, as well as a way to reinforce his resolve. After all, there are few more pathetic sights than the debauched buffoonery of late Saturday night on rugby tour, viewed through sober eyes.

III

Tonight was a good example. Harry sat in a booth at the Venetian, with a few of the lads: Weathersby, Dex Reed, Atkinson, George Waters, Kevin Gleeson, the Hastewicke Gentlemen’s portly inside centre. All except Reed, perhaps, were drunk; Weathersby was giggling, Atkinson was legless, Waters was rat-assed and Gleeson was, in Harry’s expert judgment, twat-faced. Their shouts of laughter, and occasional slurred and scandalous choruses of song, rang from the mirrored walls, and only their increasingly generous gratuities ensured a continued flow of drink. Harry had graduated from non-alcoholic beer to soda with lime.

Dex edged closer to make himself heard over the din. “How’s it going – the not drinking, I mean?”

“I’m quite happy to be off the stuff, thanks for asking, Dex,” Harry replied. “I never would have believed it two years ago, but I’m happier without it.”

“Isn’t it hard, though? Watching us neck down pints without a care in the world?”

Harry considered. “Situations like this aren’t a problem, Dex. I knew there would be drink about on tour, but when you know something’s coming, you can prepare yourself – steel your resolve, if you like. It’s the thing you don’t anticipate that throws you.” He looked thoughtfully into his glass. “Besides, everybody knows I don’t drink anymore. If I suddenly fell off the wagon, what would you all think of me? I’d just be a pathetic alky, wouldn’t I?”

Dex looked at him seriously; perhaps he was a bit ratted after all. “I do admire you, actually -- I don’t know if I’ve told you that. But surely you don’t care what a bunch of drunken idiots like us think of you, do you?”

At this moment, Kevin Gleeson staggered back from the bar, where he had been chatting up a lush chestnut-haired beauty in a skin-tight bodysuit of scarlet leather. He fell tipsily into the booth, knocking the table in the process; a full row of glasses went over with a crash, and several pints of ice-cold lager rushed toward Atkinson, seated in a captain’s chair at the end of the table. The lanky number 8 saw the onrushing flood and struggled, Laccoon-like to escape, but was defeated by the arms of the chair, and bellowed with shock and fury as the frosty torrent refreshed his groin.

“Good one, Kev,” Harry laughed. “How’d you fare with the Michelin Maid?”

“Swimmingly, mate, swimmingly, as one sperm said to another. I asked her whether she had any Irish in her; when she said no, I asked her if she’d like some.”

“You didn’t! Did she biff you one?”

“Nah. She wants me to call her later – look!” Gleeson flourished a bar napkin, emblazoned with a lipsticked telephone number. He downed half his pint at a quaff, gazed in admiration at his quarry at the bar. “Phwoarg! Look at that camel’s hoof! She’s hotter than Angelina in a thong!”

“Well done!” Dex glanced up. “But look, Kev – you’d better make your move – she’s talking to some bloke the spitting image of Clive Owen!”

Gleeson turned pale in horror. “Christ, you’re right – time to turn on the old charm. Harry -- you’re sober. Do us a favor –“ he snatched out his mobile and thrust it into Harry’s hands. “Call her for me.”

“Call her for you? What do you want me to say?”

“God’s bollocks, I don’t know... tell her I want to take her for a late dinner at Wolfgang’s, then show her the Blarney stones! No, wait! Be subtle! Be suave! Ask her to meet me for dessert!”

“What, a small helping of Irish trifle?”

“This is no joking matter, Dex! Please, Harry – I’m begging you!”

Sighing in amused vexation, Harry flipped open the mobile and punched in the number on the napkin. The things he did for the team. A recorded voice answered on the second ring. “The person you are calling was obviously not interested. For advice on personal hygiene, better grooming, or acceptable ways to approach females, please hold... sorry, all of our operators have better things to do than talk to you.” Harry hit “end,” then “redial,” and wordlessly handed Kevin the phone. The Irishman gave a cry of anguish; when he looked at the bar, both the woman of his dreams and Clive Owen were gone. “Ah, Jaysus,” he groaned. “How could she toy with me affections that way?”

Harry shook his head, hiding a grin, then turned back to Dex. “To answer your earlier question, Dex, believe it or not, I do crave your respect. Helps keep me sober, you see. What if, some day, one of you lot decide to go on the wagon? I’d hope you’d come to me – I’d like to help.”

It was a noble thought. But when he and a near-comatose Jester returned to their suite at the Bellagio, Harry encountered the note: “An anonymous benefactor wishes it to be known that Suite 455 has been booked through the weekend for the discreet use of any Hastewicke Gentleman. Time is available in four-hour blocks. Please book in advance with the tour secretary.”

This was a new wrinkle since last he was on tour. But it was nothing to do with him. He was here for the rugby, the companionship, and to reinforce his resolve never to drink again. He tossed the note aside, and went gratefully to bed. Today had been a good day.

The next day was Sunday, when the Hastewicke Gentlemen would play the Old B.A.T.S. – the Bay Area Touring Side, from Oakland – in the tournament final. Harry showered, then pulled on his kit, surreptitiously checking his jock-strap for signs of a foreign substance before snugging it into place. It seemed inert; thankfully, Jester had slept like the snoring dead last night.

Sunday dawned breezily blue, with the smoky scent of Indian summer in the air. The boys arrived at the pitch groaning and shambling; both the three matches they had played on Saturday, and Saturday night in Las Vegas, had taken a grim toll. Still, when the whistle blew, and the kickoff soared skyward from the foot of the B.A.T.S. fly half, they were ready to do business.

The two sides were evenly matched. Harry did his usual efficient work on the pitch – anchoring the scrum, lifting flawlessly in the line-outs, administering the occasional bone-jarring tackle, ripping the ball in the maul, clearing stray opponents from the ruck, sacrificing his body wherever it was needed. He wasn’t as mobile as Weathersby, the other Hastewicke prop; he made up for his lack of speed with an artist’s eye for the geometry of the game, never wasting a step, always around the ball.

Toward the end of the match, with Hastewicke leading 25-21, there was a scrum about 10 meters out from the Hastewicke try-line. The B.A.T.S. needed a try to win it; Harry heard the B.A.T.S. number 8 call “Blue 87!” He remembered the play from earlier in the game. The B.A.T.S. number 8, a gigantic Kiwi ex-pat named Karl Hammett, picked up the ball; Harry saw Dex Reed and Jester Atkinson launch themselves at Hammett, who, just before impact, dished the ball inside to his number 7. The flanker’s eyes widened as he saw a clear path to the goal-line.

But Harry had already torn himself away from the B.A.T.S. loose-head prop; he drove the ball-carrier sideways, into touch, just five meters from the line. The referee consulted his watch, then blew full time. The Hastewicke Gentlemen had won the tournament.

After the match, most of the boys were keen to start the evening’s celebration with an excursion to
O
, Cirque de Soleil’s erotic underwater extravaganza. Harry begged off – he was suddenly too knackered. He returned to his suite, called Sarah to tell her how it had gone. Then he curled up on the king-sized bed and cried.

Two hours later, he let himself into Suite 455 with the keycard Henry Bell had provided. He set the paper sack on the coffee table, fetched a glass from the bar. He turned on the TV, and poured himself a drink. The lads would never know. Sarah would never know. Tomorrow he would return to sobriety. But tonight, the whisky tasted like the immortality-conferring blood of some savage god, gulped directly from the vein.

That note. It was a thing he hadn’t anticipated.

Chapter 11

One thing I like about Brian, as a partner, is the way he complements me in the interview process. I’m a bit of a gabbler, and tend to cover a lot of ground, sometimes too eager to move on to the next question before the previous point has been fully explored. Brian mostly listens, occasionally lending an intimidating physical dimension to the proceeding. But his invaluable contribution comes at the end, in the aftermath of my own searching questions, as we’re all recovering from the intensity of the interrogation.

I can see him now, leaning on the doorframe of the Hendon lockup, his hand in the air, as if he were attempting to seize the truth before it fluttered, mothlike, out into the high street. “Just one more thing,” he says. “How did you come to...” or “Why did you say...” or “Why did she identify...” and, as often as not, his one small, insightful question would become the keystone of the prosecution’s case.

He has a rare talent for boiling a thing down to its essence. His abilities were in full flower today, as he laid the case before me. “What do we know so far?” he asked. “We know the deceased was blackmailing at least four of your mates. We can surmise that at least two of them had paid up by the time of the murder, because Weathersby paid £200,000 cash for the rifle that killed him. We know your mate Bernie was one of those who paid. In my view, at least, anyone who had already paid would slide down the list of likely suspects a notch – why kill him
after
you’ve paid, except for revenge?”

I thought about that. “To get your mates off the hook.” Brian nodded slowly, seeing the logic. “One thing bothers me, though – Bernie said John warned him that if anything happened to him, the disks would be sent out anyway. We have to assume that the others heard the same warning. Of course he’d made copies. Why kill him, and trigger the very disaster you were hoping to avoid?”

“Why indeed?” Brian had his pencil out, tapping his teeth again. “What else do we know? We know what Seagrave, Harry Barlowe, Leicester and Bernie were up to in Vegas; it’s right there in living colour.” He glared moodily at the stack of DVDs on his desk.”I don’t know about you, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to have sex anytime soon – some of it sort of put me off me feed.”

Brian sighed. “Right. We know that each of them could expect an expensive divorce and, in all likelihood, public humiliation if Weathersby’s material ever saw the light of day – more than ample motive for murder, for some. We know that whoever killed Weathersby has a working knowledge of alarm systems, and had to have a certain measure of physical strength to fire that gun. There aren’t many women who could’ve done it. It would also seem that the murderer took Weathersby’s Powerbook, which presumably contains the master video files. From the violence of the crime, we can surmise that whoever killed Weathersby wanted to make very sure he was dead, although it could be that they just used whatever weapon happened to be to hand.”

I nodded. “All four knew about John’s collection. They were all familiar with his house – and they were all there on the night of the murder. Is the fingerprint report back yet?”

Brian nodded. “Interestingly enough, nothing had been wiped clean. They found Weathersby’s prints, Leicester’s, Barlowe’s, Seagrave’s and Lord Delvemere’s at various points around the room, including the rifle. And yours.”

I nodded. “Not surprising – we know that’s where Weathersby did his business. What about the shell casings?”

“The casing in the gun had a partial of an unidentified thumb and forefinger – might’ve been the rifle’s previous owner. I’ve sent DI Miller over to take his prints. They did find your prints on one of the shells in the box.” He looked at me inquiringly.

“I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re wondering – I’m far too pure of heart to be blackmailed.” I felt a brief pang at the lie, but soldiered onward. “I handled one of the shells earlier that evening, when John was showing me the gun.”

“Ah. The bottom line is that it would appear that the killer wore gloves. To continue. Weathersby’s financials were a mess – it’s pretty clear why he needed the money. He’d been playing the market, and by this time last year, he’d managed to reduce the principal of his inheritance by half. At that point, he rolled everything over into a long-term IRA – safe as houses, but his income was down to £15,000 a month. Not bad for you and me, but for him, with two big houses to maintain, alimony and child support... let’s just say there wasn’t much mad money left over once all his bills had been paid.”

“So he’d been on an austerity budget for the last twelvemonth. That wouldn’t sit easily with a man like John – he hated to deny himself anything. Anyway, it isn’t his motive we’re concerned with.” I looked unhappily at Brian. “Could it have been a burglary gone wrong?”

He considered. “I don’t see how. You said the gun was unloaded when he showed it to you earlier in the evening. A burglar would’ve had to load it before they shot him. They wouldn’t’ve had the time if he’s just walked in on them.”

Unhappiness swooped down on me like a buzzard to a shit-wagon, but after all, I had known it would come to this. “What about CCTV?”

“Vesta’s on it. I gave him recent photos of the four we know were being blackmailed – Seagrave, Leicester, Barlowe and Plantagenet. The most obvious access point to the communal garden – Montpelier Garden, it’s called – and then to Weathersby’s French doors is on Rosmead Road. Unfortunately, there’s no CCTV camera there, for some inexplicable reason. Vesta’s checking to see whether any of our boys might’ve been caught leaving the crime scene on another camera nearby.”