Loose Head (9 page)

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 cards 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 show. “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.”

“Why, John? Why me? We’ve been mates for years.” Bernie hated the note of pleading in his voice, but he couldn’t stop it. “I’m your son’s godfather, for Christ’s sake! How could you do this to me?”

“I told you, Bernie.” John’s toothy grin failed to touch his eyes. “It’s business. I need money as much as the next man. More than the next man, truth be told. Either you swim with the sharks, or you’re lunch. It’s all the same to me. The others will be all the more eager to pay up once they see what happens to you.”