Loose Head (20 page)

Chapter 17

In my third year at Hastewicke, I ran afoul of Harris Wopsley-Armstrong, “Whopper” to his friends, the worst bully in the school. Whopper was a tall, fleshy seventh-year, with a shock of greasy brown hair and a crop of acne so luxurious it looked as though someone had tap-danced on his face wearing golf shoes. At the start of term, he had transferred to Hastewicke from another school, where, it was whispered, he had committed acts of violence so appalling that only his father’s immense wealth and exalted position had saved him from criminal prosecution.

Predictably, far from moderating his behavior, the incident seemed only to have emboldened him. Immediately upon his arrival at Hastewicke, Whopper instituted a reign of terror among all the younger boys.

His favored victims were, naturally, anyone he considered his social inferior, which was pretty much everyone. He had a special place in his wizened reptile heart for the scholarship boys, and proceeded to make our lives hell on earth.

Whopper took a creepy, almost sexual pleasure in the anticipation of his atrocities. Once he chose his next victim, he would simply stare at him, sometimes for weeks on end, with dead, glassy eyes and a half-smile that promised nothing but pain. You’d glance up during dinner, and there he’d be, at the next table over, staring unwaveringly. Over the next week or two, you’d see him everywhere – in the halls, in the quad, in the toilets – just staring at you, and smiling that cruel serial-killer smile. I had seen boys piss themselves when they encountered him unexpectedly. Eventually, he would catch his victim in some lonely spot, and beat him until he cried for mercy.

And then one day, he fixed his demented stare on me. At first I ignored it, knowing, as one who had acquired a painful and intimate knowledge of bullies, that to show fear was a fatal mistake. This continued for a week or so, and, familiar as I was with the horrors Whopper had inflicted on his other victims, began to take a toll on my nerves. One Sunday morning, after chapel, I emerged to encounter him, leaning on a pillar, arms folded across his chest, just staring.

He was six inches taller than me and five stone heavier. I took a deep breath and strode across the quad. “If you’re trying to frighten me, it isn’t working,” I lied, trying to suppress the quaver in my voice.

He only grinned more broadly. “Is that a fact? Then why d’you sound like a girl?”

“Look – I’m warning you. Leave me alone, or you’ll be sorry you were ever born.” And I walked away, in a turmoil of anger and fear.

As I walked back to my house, Ian Chalmers materialized and fell into step beside me. “Dex! You look like you’ve just stepped on your own dong!” Since I had taken up rugby two years before, Ian, the youngest captain of the first XV in school history, had taken me under his wing. Now all my anxiety over my impending confrontation with Whopper came spilling out. Ian’s eyes narrowed. “Wopsley-Armstrong, eh? Yes, I’ve heard about him. Got kicked out of Eton for shoving a Coke bottle up someone’s bum – he’s a nasty piece of work.”

“Thanks,” I said gloomily. “You’ve given me ever so much to look forward to.”

“There’s only one way to deal with a bully, Dex,” Ian said seriously. “You’ve got to stand up to him. With a little help from your friends, of course.”

And so it was that, the next day, when Whopper followed me to the deserted rugby pitch, intent on violence, four black-clad shapes emerged from the wood bordering the field, carrying cricket bats. The four – Ian, the two second-rows and a prop from the first XV, proceeded to beat Whopper until he curled into a fetal position and shat himself. When it was over, Ian leaned close. “We don’t like bullies at this school, you cowardly turd. If you put one toe out of line from here on out, God have mercy on you. Not even your daddy will be able to save you.”

We walked back to our house together. “Thanks, Ian,” I said.

“Think nothing of it,” he said. “If you can’t stick up for your teammates, what kind of a mate are you?”

II

I had tried to stick up for my mates, to whatever extent I could, as this investigation proceeded. I would continue to do so. And I had taken certain precautions – precautions I thought might pay dividends over the longer haul. But try though I might, I had failed Bernie. I paused, one hand on the knocker. “I’m not sure I can do this,” I said to Brian. “It’s wrong.”

“I know,” he said. “But we’ve no choice. Anyway, the sooner done, the sooner mended.” I let the knocker fall.

Apparently, it was the maid’s morning off. Jane answered the door. “Dex! What brings you here?”

“We’re here on official business, I’m afraid, Lady Delvemere.” Brian pushed past me. “Is your husband at home?”

Jane shot me a confused look. “Yes, he’s just finishing breakfast. Shall I...”

I closed my eyes in anguish. “Look, Jane, I must see him.” I motioned for Brian to wait, and followed Jane into the morning room.

Bernie sat at one end of a long mahogany table, surrounded by orange trees in a glass-walled conservatory, a magnificent but untouched spread of eggs, bacon, kippers and toast before him. He looked up fondly at Jane’s approach. Then he saw me.

“Dex! What the hell! Can’t a fellow...” He trailed off.

“I’m sorry, Bernie,” I said quietly. “But I’ve been ordered to arrest you.”

The blood drained from his already-doughy face. “Dex! You can’t be serious!”

Just for a moment, I struggled for my life in a maelstrom of rage, shame and affection. Then, mercifully, the ship righted itself, and I was able to speak normally. ”Timothy Bernard Plantagenet, I arrest you for the murder of John Weathersby.”

“No!” Jane cried. “You can’t think...”

“I’m sorry, Jane,” I told her gently. “But I’ve no choice in this. I must caution you that you do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court. Anything you say may be given in evidence. Do you understand these rights?”

Bernie nodded, shoulders slumped, tears streaming down his stubbled cheeks. Jane looked from one to the other of us in horror. “Dex, how can you do this? What possible reason could Bernie have to kill John?”

“I’m sorry, Jane.” I moved to support Bernie, who looked ready to collapse. Clearly he had been unable to tell her about the blackmail, or about his activities in Las Vegas. “I can’t discuss the case. I will tell you, as a friend, that Bernie needs a barrister – a good one. You’ll see to that, won’t you?”

She read the anguish in my eyes and reacted. “Yes, of course.” She gave Bernie a pat on the cheek and a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, darling. We’ll soon sort this out.”

“I’m so sorry, Jane,” he choked, unable to look at her. “I’ve really put my foot in it this time.”

For a moment she looked at him, uncertain and fearful. I took him gently by the arm. “Don’t worry,” I told her – “I’ll look after him. Ring me when you’ve chosen a barrister, and I’ll make the arrangements.” And I led him from the room.

III

After we’d processed Bernie in, I started down to the holding cells to see him comfortably settled in. Brian held back. “Can you manage, or d’you want me to tag along?”

“What’s up?” I asked.

“We did agree that we’d interview the rest of your teammates, just to see if something turned up. I’ve an appointment with Richard Devilliers in 20 minutes.”

I nodded. “Go on – best to leave no stone unturned. Maybe something will turn up. I’ll hold the fort here.”

After making sure that Bernie had a cell to himself, I returned to my desk and unlocked the drawer where I’d stored the blackmail disks. I wanted to reassure myself that they were still secure, and they were. But as I contemplated the five innocent-seeming envelopes, I found myself wondering who had the most to lose in this case. Barlowe’s drinking bout was hardly the stuff of tabloid legend, but would, in all likelihood, cost him his marriage. Seagrave’s wild encounter with Whole Lotta Rosie was perhaps more headline-worthy, in the context of a murder investigation, and would also have a similar marital impact. Leicester, though unmarried, had the farthest to fall, from revered philanthropist to pervert – sensational public humiliation and loss of a multibillion-pound empire.

And Bernie? He had no career to lose, and a public outing, though potentially embarrassing, simply didn’t carry the same poisonous social stigma in these broadminded times. The prospect of losing Jane would be enough to give any man pause, but if I knew her, the revelation that Bernie was a bit confused, sexually, wouldn’t be enough to drive her away. She would stick by him, if he wanted her to.

Poor Jane. My premonition about heartache lurking just around the corner had proved devastatingly accurate. I considered our brief but intoxicating time together with a stab of guilt, thinking of the friend I’d betrayed, now sitting alone, fearful and guilt-riddled in turn, in an eight-by-eight cell. But he had had the joy of her, awakening next to her every day for 15 years, while I had never been able to find a woman to compare. If I was honest with myself, I could never regret our time together.

Still, the guilt of it whispered to me, like a snatch of song you can’t get out of your head. I wondered to what extent my desire to make amends to him for loving his wife had clouded my assessment of Bernie’s role in this case.

Things would be so much simpler if Bernie were to be convicted of Weathersby’s murder. Distressing, of course, for Jane, but I would be there to help her through the trauma.

But even as that ignoble thought occurred to me, I knew it was a phantasm. Things would never play out that way. If I’d ever been certain of one thing, as a copper, it was this: Bernie Plantagenet simply didn’t have it in him to kill another human being. No matter how much he deserved it. I also knew that I owed it to Jane to rectify this travesty of justice and prove Bernie’s innocence, even if it cost me my job.

IV

The phone rang just as I was preparing to leave for the day. It was Brian, in an ebullient mood. “Meet me at the Red Lion in Parliament Street,” he said.

“I’ll be there in 10 minutes,” I said. “What’s up?”

“Tell you when you get there,” he said, and rang off.

Chapter 18

“Your friend Devilliers told me Weathersby tried blackmail at least once before.”

Brian leaned back, loosening the tie from around his heavy neck like a reprieved prisoner shrugging out of the hangman’s noose. Then he regarded me with a certain smug satisfaction.

“When?” I asked. “On whom?”             

“On Ian Chalmers. Just before he died.”

“You’re joking,” I said. But somehow I wasn’t quite as surprised as I should have been.

“Not about this,” said Brian. “Sit down, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

It seemed that Devilliers had known of Chalmers’ blackmail for more than a decade. However, while Weathersby was alive, Devilliers had kept his silence, for fear that Weathersby’s information would damage Ian’s old firm, now a thriving concern. With both Ian and Weathersby dead, however, Devilliers had felt liberated to relate the following tale.

Ian had founded Trans-Channel Investments LLC, an investment firm specializing in continental and American stocks and securities, in 1990. However, in the year before he died, in 1993, the firm was fountaining red ink. Ian’s market forecasts had enjoyed an unprecedented streak of misfortune, and he had lost several of his most important clients, as well as a goodish chunk of his own investment in the firm. Some change of fortune was in order.

It came in the form of Cedric Ruskin, a former co-worker for whom Ian had covered up some unspecified past indiscretion. Ruskin now worked as an energy trader for Midlands Power. For the past several years, Midlands had been acquiring utilities and generating resources on the American west coast. They had also been buying long-term options on the energy spot market, betting on the come – that the growing demand for power in Silicon Valley, Seattle, Portland and LA would drive energy prices upward.

Midlands now controlled enough generation to tilt the razor-thin power supply balance on the American West Coast in its own favor. One night, a pint or two over his usual capacity, Ruskin revealed to Ian a secret plan to shut down two of Midlands power’s largest thermal generating plants in California for “emergency” repairs in late August, at the peak of summer electricity demand. The net effect of this highly illegal scheme was to cause spot-market power prices, and the company’s earnings, to spike. Ian, ever alert to his clients’ advantage, cashed in, to the tune of a record quarterly dividend. And so his firm was saved.

Somehow – Devilliers had been squidgy on the details -- Weathersby had found Ian out. One night, Weathersby had invited Chalmers ‘round for drinks, and shown him copies of certain incriminating documents, documents that, if they found their way into the hands of the regulators, would have meant disaster for Midlands Power, Trans-Channel Investments, and Ian’s reputation as a financial analyst. Weathersby told Ian that a payment of £250,000 would avert this sudden calamity.

Before he could pay up, the distraught Ian had died in a plane crash. Looking back now, I thought I knew how Weathersby had obtained his information. In the summer of 1993, Ian and Weathersby had been roommates during the Hastewicke Gentlemen’s tour of Australia and New Zealand. Weathersby, in his eternal quest for advantage, had obviously ransacked Ian’s computer. I remembered that, on that tour, our last together, Ian had seemed uncharacteristically preoccupied by business affairs. Ian was a trusting soul, and this was the price he had paid.

“Interesting,” I said to Brian, “but what’s the relevance to this investigation? That was a long time ago.”

“Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.”

“How d’you mean?”

“Ian was Weathersby’s first victim. Plantagenet, Barlowe, Seagrave and Leicester are the most recent. But what if Weathersby blackmailed others in between? You’ve told me he was always looking for an advantage. Wouldn’t those other victims, if they exist, want to spare their mates what they’d been through themselves?”