Loose Head (23 page)

Chapter 20

Upon our return to Hendon station, I stopped by the basement holding cells to check on Bernie. He greeted me apathetically, struggling to arise from the thin mattress on a shelf that was the sole furnishing of the room. I saw that the guards had taken away his belt and shoelaces. “Bernie,” I said. “How’re you holding up?”

“Well enough, Dex. It’s... it’s sort of peaceful down here. Gives a fellow time to think.”

“Sometimes that can be a good thing,” I offered lamely. “Bernie, why’d you call John the night of the murder?”

He screwed up his face, in an effort to remember. “I did, didn’t I? I was pretty well twat-faced. I’ve a vague recollection of telling him what I thought of him – something about being buggered by Hitler in Hell. It wasn’t exactly
Blackadder
, when it came to wit.”

He looked at me curiously, until I began to feel even more distinctly uncomfortable. “You know, Dex,” he said at length, “I never worried about what you’d think. About me being gay. Somehow, I knew it wouldn’t bother you.”

“It doesn’t,” I said. “We are who we are. Who the hell am I to judge you? Anyway, you’re still the same old Bernie.”

“And you’re still the same old Dex. D’you know why it doesn’t bother you that I’m gay?”

“Bernie,” I said, “I...”

He waived his hand. “It’s because you’re so utterly sure of who you are. I never was, myself. You don’t feel compelled to judge people, because you can accept the fact that we’re none of us perfect.”

“Maybe it’s because I’m far from perfect myself,” I muttered. I took a deep breath. “Bernie, I...”

“Wait, Dex. I must say this. I can’t tell you how much better I feel just seeing you here. I’ve witnessed your passion for fair play for over 30 years.” There was a shrewd glint in his eye now, something of the Bernie of old. “If you thought I’d killed John, you wouldn’t be talking to me like this.”

“Let’s just say it wasn’t my idea to arrest you,” I said. “Look, I’ve got to go. D’you need anything?”

“Something to read, perhaps. And one other thing.” I looked up, hand on the door of his cell. “Jane. She must be gutted about all of this. You’ll look in on her, and give her a cuddle? Tell her I love her, and never meant to hurt her?”

“All right,” I managed. “But Bernie, there’s something I...”

At this moment, the guard arrived with Bernie’s lunch – bangers, mash and boiled cabbage. “Ah – lunch!” said Bernie brightly. “I’m famished! I’ll see you later, Dex?”

“Yes,” I sighed. “I’ll look in as often as I can.”

II

When I stepped off the lift on the fourth floor, Brian was there, an anxious look on his big sheep-dog's face. “Dex – there’re two blokes from DPS waiting at your desk. They say they want to talk to you alone – wouldn’t tell me what it’s all about.”

I was at a loss. The Metropolitan Police’s Department of Professional Standards investigated on-the-job misconduct. Suddenly, it came to me. “Oakhurst found the incident report on Barlowe’s bar fight in New Zealand.”

“Ah.” Brian grimaced; he hadn’t quit forgiven me for that one. “Right. In the meantime...” He held up a cassette tape. “I’ve got the voice samples we talked about. I’ll call O’Toole to see if he can tell me who sold him the videos.”

“Good luck,” I said.

I strode to my cubicle, determined to put this to rest once and for all. The DPS boys were waiting, as Brian had said. One, sable-haired, urbane and sardonic, leaned a lean buttock on my desk. The other, tall, younger, roly-poly, with an eccentrically-long goatee, seemed to be in charge. “DI Reed?” he said.

“That’s right. How can I help?”

“I’m DI Hackett, from DPS; this is DI Carter. Will you come with us, please?”

“Go with you?” I asked, genuinely puzzled. “Where?”

“Downstairs to the interview room – we need to take a statement from you.”

I shrugged philosophically. “Lead the way.”

I slouched confidently in my chair as we settled ourselves into the dreary interview room, a drab grey space whose walls seemed to ooze psychic pain. I knew what they were going to ask me, and felt serenely prepared.

Hackett turned on the recorder. “This is DI Bartholomew Hackett of DPS; in the room with me is DI Terence Carter, also of DPS, and DI Dexter Reed of Hendon SCD. It is now...” he looked at his watch, quite a nice one, from where I was sitting “...10:40 a.m. on November 10, 2004. We have advised DI Reed of his right to have his departmental representative, or a solicitor, present.” He looked at me expectantly.

“I decline, for now,” I replied. “Now what’s this about?”

“DI Reed,” said Carter, the worldly, sable-haired one. “Do you recognize this?” He produced a sheet of paper – a copy of a bank statement. I read it over carefully.

”It’s a savings account statement, obviously,” I replied.

“Whose savings account?” prompted Hackett.

I studied the paper anew, then felt the blood drain from my face. “The account number is mine,” I replied, but I’ve never seen this statement, or these figures, before.” The statement showed that £100,000 had been deposited to my account the day before.

“Let the record show that Exhibit H, DI Reed’s bank statement, was obtained under court order this morning,” said Hackett, whom I was liking less and less by the minute. He seemed very young and eager to take a piece out of me. “Can you tell us why this sum was deposited to your account, DI Reed?”

“Must be bank error. I’ve never had a hundred thousand together in my life. When was it deposited, and how?”

“Funnily enough,” said Hackett, with a curious challenging glint in his eye, “it was deposited just last night. By electronic transfer.”

“From what source, DI Hackett?”

By way of answering, he slapped down today’s edition of the
Star
. Beneath a three-inch headline – “BOYS WILL BE BOYS!” – the front page featured three lurid full-color freeze-frames from the blackmail videos: Seagrave locking lips with the lavish Lotta Rosie, a bare-chested Bernie French-kissing his old lover, and Leicester making his tartlets, the Magwitch Project’s logo clearly visible on their unzipped uniforms. Cyrian O’Toole’s venomous, mocking screed occupied most of the page below the fold.

“Are you telling me the money came from the
Star
?” I asked incredulously.

“Did you think we wouldn’t find out, DI Reed?” Hackett hissed. “I thought these men were your mates! How could you do this to them? At least Weathersby had the discretion to keep what he knew to himself!”

The sable-bearded Carter stilled his younger counterpart with a fatherly hand on the shoulder. “That’s enough, I think, Bartholomew.” As Hackett rose to pace, disgustedly, Carter sat down. He folded his hands and gazed earnestly across the table, like an evangelical about to ask whether I’d accepted Jesus Christ as my personal savior. “Why don’t you give us your version, DI Reed?” he urged.

“This is a frame-up, obviously.”

“Are you saying it wasn’t you who leaked the videos?”

“Are you daft? I’ve been friends with these men for more than three decades!”

“So had Weathersby,” Carter observed mildly.

I leaned across the table. The numbness that had followed the accusation had worn off, and despite my best intentions, I was becoming angry. “I’m not Weathersby,” I growled. “I’ve never betrayed a friend’s confidence. I never would, unless my duty as a police detective left me no choice. And I’m going to make very sure that whoever betrayed this confidence is very, very sorry.”

Carter leaned back. If my vehement denial had nonplussed him, he gave no sign. He steepled his well-manicured fingers.

“Allow me to put forward a theory, detective,” he said. “You attended the Hastewicke School as a scholarship boy, surrounded every day of your life by the sons of the wealthy, the privileged and the well-connected. As a member of the Hastewicke Gentlemen, you’ve gone on rugby tour with these men almost every year, to every corner of the world. You’ve spent time with them socially. In short, you’ve had your nose rubbed in a lifestyle to which you, a mere Metropolitan Police Service detective, can never aspire, at least on your current salary.”

He reached across the table to tap my hand. “Then Weathersby is murdered, and the blackmail videos that your teammates valued at nearly one million pounds fall into your lap. You’re an intelligent man, DI Reed. You saw... an opportunity.”

I looked from one DPS man to the other – Hackett triumphant, lip fastidiously curled; Carter fatherly and concerned.

“I see you’ve been talking to DCI Oakhurst,” I said, and saw the shaft strike home. “Perhaps you’re familiar with the history of our relationship.” That one hit the mark as well. “Mine wasn’t the only lap the videos fell into.”

“Do you seriously expect us to believe that you’ve been set up?” Hackett asked incredulously.

“Most competent investigators would consider that possibility,” I admitted. “You have your theory of the case, and I have mine. Come and see me this afternoon, gentlemen – I hope to have some alternative evidence you may find compelling. And now, if we’re finished...?”

  “DI Reed,” said Hackett, swelling with importance. “You are on suspension from this moment. You will not communicate with the press, except through the Department of Professional Standards. You will have no further involvement in professional duty until this case is resolved. Do you understand these instructions?”

“You don’t have the authority to relieve me of duty,” I said contemptuously. “Show me a signed administrative order, and I’ll comply. But for now, I’m in the middle of a murder investigation, and a major departmental scandal has just blown my case to hell. I’ve got work to do, so if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen?” And with that, I returned to my desk.

Brian glanced up apprehensively. “What the hell did they want?”

Rolling my chair over so that our knees touched, I whispered an account of my conversation with DIs Hackett and Carter. “Has O’Toole listened to the voice samples?” I asked.

“Not yet” said Brian worriedly. “He’s been dodging my calls.”

I swore, rose to my feet. “I need his information. Let’s pay him a visit.”

We found O’Toole in a staff meeting, smugly accepting the editorial board’s congratulations for his investigative triumph. The assembled
Star
editors and staff were just giving him a standing ovation when Brian and I arrived. Brian, mountainous and menacing, pushed his way to the gossip columnist’s side. “Mr. Cyrian O’Toole? Will you come with us, please?”

“Cyrian?” A tall, elegant 50ish man in a chalk-striped grey suit rose to his feet. “What’s this about?”

O’Toole stood whey-faced and paralyzed as Brian seized him by the elbow. “I...” he began.

“We have some questions for Mr. O’Toole, regarding an ongoing investigation,” said Brian in his best parade-ground voice. “Come along.”

“Let me call in our solicitors,” said the grey-suited man. “They can be here in half an hour or less.”

Brian paused, aware that the attention of a roomful of journalists was upon him. “Mr. O’Toole is not under arrest,” he said. “But if he would prefer to give his statement in the presence of counsel, or in front of you – “and here he turned to look O’Toole full in his bulbous face “– that is of course at his option.”

O’Toole looked from Brian to his editor, at a loss. Finally he shook his head, and seemed to regain something of his earlier swagger. “No,” he said bravely, “I will face this alone, for I have nothing to hide. They will never silence me!” And he left the room in our custody, under an escort of applause.

III

“Listen,” said O’Toole, when we’d gotten him into the back seat of the car. “I’ve had second thoughts. I should never have agreed to this. I can’t rat out a confidential informant. It simply isn’t done.”

Brian started the car. “Where are you taking me?” the gossip columnist bleated.

“To Hendon nick. We may as well get you processed.”

“Processed? For what?”

“For indecent exposure to the elderly, public nuisance and drunk and disorderly – that should do to be getting on with.. Dex, why don’t you ring Constable Goodspeed to check on that other matter.”

I flipped open my phone and hit auto-dial. “Goodspeed. DI Reed. Did you arrange the prisoner transfer we discussed? That’s right – Roto-Rooter Maitland. Right, fill him in – we’re bringing his new cellmate down. Right, see you in ten. Ta.”

“Wait!” O’Toole had turned shocky-pale and sweaty; for a moment, I feared he was on the verge of some sort of spasm. “You can’t do this!”

“We can and we will,” I said brutally. “You’ve left us no choice.”

“It’s really such a simple thing we’re asking, Cyrian,” Brian observed soothingly.

“All right! Stop the car! Let me hear the bloody tapes!”

“Are you sure?” Brian asked, driving on. “I’d hate for you to compromise your principles.”

“Don’t push your luck, detective,” said O’Toole in a steadier voice. “Regardless of what you may think, I do take my responsibilities as a journalist very seriously indeed.”

I punched a tape into the sound system. A man’s voice issued from the speakers, obviously a taped snippet of a phone conversation. “This is sample one,” I said.

“...unbelievable, really. Arsenal’re playing way over their heads. If they can beat Man U this week...”

O’Toole shook his head. “That’s not him.”

A second voice came on. “No, I think a change of scenery will do O’Toole a world of good! Soothing green walls, good conversation, an occasional constitutional beating, the regular insertion of ten inches of well-veined, manly...”

“Most amusing, DI Reed! No, it wasn’t you, either.”

We played the third sample. “...you seen the new secretary? Cor! I think he gave her the old elbow test – you know, the one where she puts her hands on her shoulders and walks toward the wall, and if her elbows touch before her knockers, she doesn’t get the...”

“What terrifically-stimulating conversations you must have around the water cooler,” O’Toole observed. “Still, there’s something familiar... no, I don’t think it was him.”