Loose Head (16 page)

Funny, the things that stick in your mind during traumatic events. For me, it was a snatch of conversation: “Damn you, Dex! You should’ve tipped us off sooner! We might’ve saved you!” Oakhurst’s voice. I knew he had betrayed me then, double-crossed me in order to further his own ambitions, and claim sole credit for a once-in-a-career bust. Obviously he didn’t think I’d survive. Fortunately, he was wrong.

It took six months for me to recover sufficiently to resume my duties. By then, Oakhurst had already made Detective Chief Inspector – the youngest in Metropolitan Police history – on the strength of his role in organizing this mammoth drugs bust and for his cool head in saving the life of an over-impetuous fellow officer. What I didn’t know was that, in the leadup to the raid, he had done his damndest to cut me out of the picture entirely with our superiors – to them, it was all his sources, his initiative, his hard work, that had started the ball rolling. By the time I left hospital, his version of events – that I had insisted on a daring solo entrance, over his strenuous objections, and that only his prompt action had saved my life and captured the suspects – was more or less set in concrete.

I couldn’t prove, of course, that Oakhurst had set me up, so I made no official challenge to his version of events. However, I made sure that the truth of what had happened that night received a wide airing among the rank-and-file. DCI Wicks, for one, believed me, and, after my recovery, transferred me to Hendon Specialist Crime Directorate, that fascinating catch-basin for the crimes that didn’t really fit – or transcended – the usual categories. Much to Oakhurst’s annoyance. It was at Hendon SCD that I had met Brian.

One day, the elevator doors opened, and Oakhurst stepped in. The doors closed, the lift moved downward. We were alone. Oakhurst studiously ignored me; finally I spoke. “It won’t be today, and it might not be tomorrow. But I know what you did, and there will come a day, you self-serving bastard, that you’ll wish you’d never joined the Metropolitan Police.”

Oakhurst merely nodded, an infuriating little smirk twisting his fleshy lips, as if to say, “Fair enough, mate, have a go, then.” And that was how we’d left it – until now.

“And now he’s got you by the balls,” Brian observed cheerfully. “What’re we going to do about it, then?”

“There’s no ‘we,’ Brian. This is my fight. And I don’t know yet what I’m going to do. But I know what I won’t do – I won’t cooperate on this report of his. Oh, I’ll feed him a few stories, just enough to jolly him along. But I’ll resign before I make my mates’ behavior on tour a matter of record in this case.”

Brian stopped and looked at me very seriously indeed. “That’s exactly what he wants you to do, Dex, so that’s exactly what you won’t do. He wants you to resign, he’s begging you to give him grounds for disciplinary action. Don’t you see? Then anything you have to say about Oakhurst and Docklands just becomes the ranting of a disgruntled former subordinate. And you’re wrong about one other thing. This is my business. You’re my partner, and you’re also my mate. If Oakhurst goes after you, then he’s going to have to deal with me as well.”

We had arrived at Harry’s studio, a sprawling former stable building ‘round the corner from the Horse Guards Parade. Harry answered our ring covered in fine white dust, his eyes ringed like a raccoon’s from the protective goggles that now hung by a strap from around his neck. “Hullo, Dex, come on in – don’t mind the mess. You must be DI Abbott.” Harry shook hands. “Dex has told me a lot about you.” And he ushered us inside.

The studio was a vast open room, brick-walled, with skylights every 10 feet or so dispelling the gloom. A block of white Carrara marble 10 feet on a side dominated the center of the space, surrounded by a snowstorm of fine rock chips; the rough figures of a man astride a great winged horse struggled to escape their stone prison. “My God, Harry, it’s immense! I had no idea you worked on such a scale!”

Harry shrugged. “It’s my largest to date. Taken me three months just to get this far.”

“And how long to finish it?”

“A year.” He caressed the rough marble with casual affection, brushing away a few stray chips. “The roughing-out is the easiest bit. It’s the detailing and finish-work that really take the time.”

“And once you’re finished, what then? You have to try to sell it?”

“It’s already been sold, to a museum in Greece. All my work’s commissions these days. But that’s not why you’re here.” He indicated a sofa and chairs against the far wall. “Sit. Let’s talk.”

Harry took a bottle of cold water from the fridge, offered the same to us, then opened his and drank deeply. “Look, Dex, I’ve spoken to some of the other lads. I know why you’re here. You’ve seen the video John took, and you know what a fool I’ve been. I’d like to keep this from Sarah and the kids if that’s possible – that’s why I paid John’s... fee. I know her. Our marriage will be over if she finds out.”

“Harry,” I began. “This...”

“No, Dex, hear me out. I know you have to find John’s killer. And I know we’re all suspects – all of us who were being blackmailed. You have to do your job, and that trumps any personal considerations. Even the fact that I didn’t kill John probably won’t be enough to shield me from the consequences of my own stupidity. All I ask –“ and here he looked up, eyes pleading “– is that if you know Sarah is going to learn about what I did in Vegas, that you let me know first. So I can be the one to tell her. If I had any guts I’d just tell her now. But I can’t – not if there’s a chance she doesn’t have to know. Look, I know how pathetic that sounds, Dex. But it’s all I’ve got left to cling to at the moment, I’m afraid.”

I considered. “That’s fair enough, Harry. And I’ll do everything I can – everything – to protect the privacy of those we interview. I will tell you that this is a very high-profile case, and it’s going to take some nasty turns before all is said and done. But I won’t drag anyone through the mud unnecessarily.”

“That’s fair, by God. And now –“ for the first time during this interview, Harry smiled. “What d’you want to know?”

II

The interview had lasted an hour; like Seagrave, Harry had stated forthrightly that he and his wife had left the Chalmers Memorial bash at just before 1 a.m. and gone straight home to bed. One item in his favor was the fact that he and Sarah lived in Essex, about an hour’s drive from Notting Hill even under the most favorable traffic conditions. Weathersby’s housekeeper had stated that the shot rang out at 3:01. Assuming Harry was telling the truth – and my instincts said he was -- it would have been almost impossible for Harry to have arrived home, then returned to Penhurst House within that time. Harry had added that raising the money had been no problem; his income was large and fluctuated widely from year to year, depending on his output. Sarah wouldn’t have noticed £100,000 more or less.

“Must be nice,” Brian grinned on our way back to the office. “Now what’s bothering you?”

“Nothing vital.” In truth, something had occurred to me, something from the past that I hesitated to raise even with Brian. But he, at least, deserved to hear the truth. “Let me start by saying that I don’t think Harry’s our boy. But – and this is just between us – back when Harry was drinking, he had... a bit of an unpredictable side.”

“Unpredictable how?” Brian stopped to regard me suspiciously.

“Let’s just say you didn’t want to provoke him. His nickname on tour was ‘The Human Hand Grenade’ – you never knew when he might go off, and who he might damage when he did. One night in Wellington, about five years ago, I watched him and Weathersby sit down with a bottle of gin apiece. Weathersby used to like to egg Harry on, you see, encourage him to drink, just for the hell of it. Anyway, they had a contest, to see who could finish his bottle the fastest. Harry drank his in 15 minutes flat. Then a few of the boys went out to hit the pubs.

“A couple of hours later, Harry was sitting at the bar when one of the local lads started giving Harry grief about his earring. You saw it, tasteful little gold hoop – only time Harry takes it off is on the pitch. Anyway, this kiwi wouldn’t leave it alone. Keeping in mind that Harry’s had a bottle of gin and a half-dozen pints, he’s quite friendly at first – tells the kid he’s an artist, and all artists wear earrings. Then the kid blows smoke in his face and tells him all artists are fags.

“Well, about this time, Ian Chalmers and I started edging closer – we’d seen Harry in action before. But we were too slow. Before we could react Harry had this kid on the ground, with his hands around his neck. His mates were screaming, glasses shattering – absolute pandemonium. Ian and I get there, and try to pull him off, but we can’t – Harry’s unbelievably strong, you saw him. By this time, the kiwi’s turned purple, his tongue’s sticking out, eyes bulging, it was horrible. Took three of us to pry Harry’s hands from around the poor bugger’s neck. If we hadn’t...” I let the sentence trail away.

“You think he would’ve killed him.”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. But I do know that the next morning, Harry didn’t remember a thing about it – couldn’t figure out how he’d gotten those scratches on his face. I’m just glad he’s come to his senses and stopped drinking.”

“And you’re wondering whether to put that story in your report to Oakhurst?”

“No. I’m not wondering. I won’t be including it. But I thought you had the right to know.”

“Dex, I told you, you can’t...!”

“Look Brian.” Even my own partner took an involuntary step back from the fury in my eyes. “I’m not giving that to Oakhurst. Harry didn’t kill Weathersby. He wasn’t drinking the night of the Chalmers Memorial – he was with his wife. I saw him with my own eyes, spoke to him. He’s not the Human Hand Grenade any longer. And anyway, there’s no way he could’ve got to Essex and back to Notting Hill inside of two hours.”

To Brian’s credit, he accepted my decision – for now, at least. “All right, mate, all right – calm down! But I’m telling you this for your own good. You’re not just playing with fire. You’re playing with C-4!”

Chapter 14

Timothy Bernard Plantagenet, Lord Delvemere, was in his element. He sat in the honeyed late afternoon sunshine, drinking in its warmth, in the raucous, palm-fringed beer garden of the Las Vegas Golden Oldies rugby tournament. He had a glass of local ale in his hand, a long Cuban cigar between his teeth. The tournament final had just ended, the Hastewicke Gentlemen had won, and he felt as relaxed and alive as he had in months.

All around him, still in their grass-and-blood-stained rugby kit, stood the triumphant Hastewicke Gentlemen, and the Old B.A.T.S., gracious in defeat, were keeping them well-supplied with beer. Bernie sat between Vince Maitland, the Hastewicke blind-side flanker, and Roy Tasker, the Old B.A.T.S. second row, a Scottish ex-pat whom he and Vince had known and played against for more than 30 years.

“It’s all a matter of perspective,” Roy was saying. “For example, mah years of rugby experience have taught me to forgive the stamping you gave me at the bottom of that ruck, and even stand you a pint after the game.”

“Of course, I wouldn’t have put the boots to you if you hadn’t been biting my leg,” Bernie observed with a smile.

“At least I flossed before the match,” Roy replied, eyes twinkling. “Ah, it’s grand tae see you lot.”

“D’you ever miss the U.K., Roy?” Vince asked.

“Are you kiddin’?” Roy laughed. “San Francisco’s a great city. Got a condo lookin’ out over the bay, a cracking job, more money than ah can spend, and the women! Did you know that sixty percent of the single men in San Francisco are gay? Sixty percent! And probably twenty percent o’the married men! D’you have any idea how much rampant totty that leaves for me? Ah’m thinkin’ of gettin’ married just tae ease the strain on my todger.”

Vince laughed. “Good idea! You’ll live longer.”

“At least, it’ll
seem
longer,” Bernie observed wryly. “But really, Roy, you’ve got to come on tour with us next time. Think of it – two weeks of rugby and fuck-all in Hong Kong, with tickets for the Sevens. We could use you in the forward pack now that Henry Neville has retired.”

“Old Gouger’s retired at last, has he? Well, ah’d love tae come – email me the dates and ah’ll look at mah schedule.” Roy grinned and raised his glass. “Well, here’s tae your lovely wife, then, and hopin’ she’ll let us come along on tour.”

“Us?”

“Aye. Ya must know old Vincey here shags her mercilessly whenever you’re away...”

There had been so many afternoons like this in the last 30 years, filled with the laughter of friends, genial post-game chaffering, and good ale. Sometimes, Bernie felt he lived a sort of Bertie Wooster life – no financial or job worries to furrow the brow, thanks to a generous inheritance; the lifestyle of a lord; a wife who truly was his best friend; and, thanks to his continued connection with the Hastewicke Gentlemen, the opportunity to see the world with a most congenial set of mates.

If he was Bertie Wooster, then Jane was his Jeeves. The idea of marriage had never really crossed his mind, but one day, there she was – flat on her back in Hyde Park with the wind knocked out of her. He had seen the big gelding shy and throw her, and had run across to see whether she was all right. She was struggling for breath; he had gentled her and made her lie back down with her arms over her head. “You’ve had the wind knocked out of you. Just relax, your breath will come,” he had told her soothingly.

“Are you... a doctor?” she had wheezed when at last she could speak.

“Me? Good lord no.” He had laughed at the idea. “I play rugby. This sort of thing happens all the time.”

“Are all rugby players trained in first aid, then?” she had asked as he helped her to her feet. “What do you do when, say, someone gets a limb torn off?”

He considered. “Not sure, really – pop it back in the socket and give them a sling, I should think. Did have a mate who ruptured a testicle once – had to have it removed, and replaced with a prosthesis.”

“That’s horrible!”

“Umm. Of course we offered his doctor an enormous bribe to pop in an extra, so he’d have three, but for some reason he refused. No sense of humor, doctors.”