Loose Head (22 page)

“Sit down!” Brian roared. “We’re not finished! You spoke to this... man, personally?” O’Toole nodded reluctantly. “Would you recognize his voice if you heard it again?”

O’Toole considered. “Possibly. But...”

“No buts. I’ll ring you this afternoon with some voice samples. If you recognize one of them, you
will
tell me.”

“But I can’t! The
Star
’s policy is absolutely clear – never grass a confidential source! They’d sack me!”

“Not if they don’t know you were
our
source,” I observed reasonably. “And anyway, you’ve just told us you don’t know your source’s name. How can you reveal what you don’t know?”

“But if I identify his voice, you’ll find him!”

Brian can look very menacing when he wants to. He leant forward, to tower over the suddenly-palsied O’Toole. “On the other hand, if you refuse to help us, you’ll also be sacked, when you’re prosecuted for waving your willie at someone’s helpless granny. And go to prison. Do you know what happens to sexual offenders in prison? Especially those who prey on the elderly?”

O’Toole shook his head mutely, face like a slapped ass. “Let’s just say you’ll be biting your pillow from now until Charles is king!” Brian hissed. “Now can we count on your cooperation?”

O’Toole trembled like the cornered rodent he was. “All right!” he muttered. “But this is a one-time favor, d’you hear me? And I don’t want to hear any more talk about prison!”

“Agreed,” said Brian, taking out a pen. “Now, what’s your direct line?

Chapter 19

It was pouring rain as I walked home, the kind of cold, drenching autumnal London downpour that makes you long for firelight, whisky and stew. Arriving home, I accordingly built a cozy blaze in the hearth, poured myself a stiff Bushmill’s with a couple of cubes of ice, hacked up a joint of lamb, some potatoes, leeks, carrots and swedes, and set them to bubble on the stove.

I considered my CD collection. Pink Floyd were too portentous. The Who were too intense. I settled on
Year of the Cat
by Al Stewart – erudite, introspective, melodious. Then, halfway through “On the Border,” the doorbell rang.

I was expecting some brave soul from the press. Instead, when I cracked open the door, I saw Jane. Shivering, drenched, and alone.

“Can you forgive a fool?” she asked miserably, water dripping from her nose. “I’ve been such a fool, Dex”

“You haven’t been a fool,” I said brusquely. “Come inside, before you catch your death.”

She was drenched to the skin and shivering, despite her leather jacket. Before she said another word, I steered her to the bedroom, handed her a towel and some departmental fleece, and closed the door. She emerged a few minutes later, auburn hair slicked back, enveloped in my voluminous sweats. I steered her to the fireside and, in its crackling warmth, placed a large whisky in her hand.

“Now,” I said. “What’s all this?”

She shook back her wet bangs. “What’s all this? Dex, I’ve just found out that the man I’ve been married to for a decade is gay! He’s been arrested for murder! I don’t know who he is anymore!”

“Well,” I said, struggling for fairness, “I wouldn’t read too much into his arrest. It’s just departmental politics – we’re under a lot of pressure. I shouldn’t tell you this, but we were ordered to bring Bernie in, against my better judgment.”

Jane shivered again, and I sat down next to her on the carpet in front of the sofa. I threw a fraternal arm around her shoulders. “Look, Jane,” I said, almost apologetically. “I’ve been at this game a long time. I don’t believe Bernie’s guilty. Just be patient. It will all work out in the end.”

“Yes,” she said, tilting her face toward mine, tears running down her cheeks. “But he doesn’t want me.”

“How could he not?” I said. “You’re the most desirable woman I’ve ever known.” And before I could react, she kissed me.

I tasted the salt from her tears, but I felt the urgency of her response. Her body arched against mine as she desperately sought warmth. “You’ve always been my temptation, Dex,” she whispered, clutching my hair. “Now I need you.”

She put my hands to her breasts, beneath the thick departmental fleece. My body responded involuntarily; I trembled at the silky smoothness of her warm bare skin, and the hard nubbins of her nipples. Jane moaned, then reached down to stroke my straining manhood through the fabric of my jeans.

Breathless with need, I slowly, ever so slowly, ran my fingers down her bare, flat belly, over the downy fleece of her sweatpants, to the hot cleft between her legs. She lifted her hips, and I slid the sweatpants off. She had unbuckled my belt; now she opened her legs and pulled me atop her, gasping as my tungsten-turgid shaft filled her. We started slowly, then moved faster and faster as unquenchable desire swelled our veins, roaring in our ears like the voice of a giant. At last we came together, like an unstoppable storm wave breaking upon a rocky and desolate shore.

Afterward, we lay in each other’s arms, utterly spent, content merely to listen to the hissing of the fire in the grate and the November downpour still hammering at the windows. “I shouldn’t have done that,” I said at length. “You came here for comfort. I’ve taken advantage of you.”

She smiled knowingly. “I came here for a good hard shag, actually. And perhaps for a bit of comfort as well.”

I sighed. For all my good intentions, I was helpless against her. “Well, it’s a bit late for regrets. Hungry?”

“Famished.”

I fetched steaming bowls of stew, crusty bread and butter, and a bottle of old Burgundy I’d put aside for a special occasion. This one seemed special enough. We at cross-legged in front of the fire, legs touching, eating ravenously, not saying much, content just to be together.

“So what about Bernie?” I asked at length.

“I don’t know,” she replied helplessly. “I don’t know what I feel anymore. It’s not his arrest, so much – I don’t believe he’s capable of violence. But he’s been so different these last couple of months – so distraught. He hasn’t been himself. Maybe I don’t really know him anymore.”

“What about his alibi? Do you know for a fact he never left the house once you’d returned from the party?”

Jane looked troubled. “He wasn’t in bed when I woke up. I found him down in his study, about half eight the next morning, shaking as he watched the morning news. He vomited when he saw the report about John’s death”

“And do you still love him?” I asked, keeping my voice casual.

“I... seeing that video was such a ghastly shock, Dex. We have a fairly regular sex life – I truly had no idea he was gay. If he managed to hide that from me for 10 years, what else has he been hiding? Once the trust is gone from a marriage, things are never the same again, are they?”

“You’re asking the wrong man – I’m not exactly a relationship expert, am I? I suppose you just have to give it time.”

“Dex.” She touched me gently on the cheek. “Can I spend the night? I can’t go back to that empty house. I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

“Of course. My house is your house.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “Thank, you, Dex.”

II

The rain had stopped by the time Brian picked me up very early the next morning; a pallid moon still chased its own reflection through the newly-washed streets of London. “You look surprisingly cheerful this morning,” he said, eyeing at me suspiciously.

“Yes, well – a clear conscience and a saintly life,” I lied. “Where to first?”

We had agreed to spend the early-morning, pre-rush hours driving between Weatherby’s house in Notting Hill and the abodes of our four suspects, to get a sense of their relative travel times.

“Might as well start at Bernie’s – it’s on the way,” I suggested. Brian obligingly steered a course through the light predawn traffic toward Belgrave Square. I operated the stopwatch as he then drove east on Pont Street, north along Sloane Street, then followed the Kensington Road west along the edge of Kensington Gardens. Brian swung north on Kensington Park Street to Notting Hill Gate, then north again on Ladbroke Grove to arrive at last at Lansdowne Crescent. “Fifteen minutes, 21 seconds,” I said. “Ample time to leave Belgrave Square, get here, do the deed at 3 a.m. and return home before Jane awoke.” I mentioned Jane’s information about finding Bernie in his study at 8:30 the following morning, though I omitted the fact that she had delivered it in the nude.

Seagrave lived on Tavistock Square in Bloomsbury, not far from the British Museum. He had not been in touch since the leak of the blackmail videos, but Catherine had left a voicemail on my mobile. “We’ve been your friends for years, Dex. For God’s sake, how could you let this happen? How could you not have told me?” A raggedly indrawn breath. “You have blighted my life.” The drive to their house, mostly along the Bayswater, Marylebone and Euston Roads, took 49 minutes. “That’s cutting it close, if he and Catherine left Weathersby’s at 1,” Brian observed.

Next we drove to Canary Wharf and retraced our route from the palatial Copperfield Building to Blenheim Crescent. “Sixty-six minutes,” I noted, clicking the watch. “If security have Leicester leaving the building at 2:05 and re-entering at 4:17, that leaves him exactly five minutes to disable the alarm, break into Weathersby’s house, call him down to the office, shoot him, and return to his car. That may be cutting it a bit fine, but I suppose it’s technically possible. He’d have had to pay off the old dosser in Millwall Park, of course.”

Brian snorted dubiously. “If Leicester’s responsible, he’s far more likely to have hired it out. We’ll have to do some digging there.”

We then looked at the map. Barlowe lived in Essex, near the town of Upminister. “If the fast train to Fenchurch Street was running, that’s about 35 minutes, give or take, but the train doesn’t run after 11. It’s conceivable that a knowledgeable cabbie might get him from Fenchurch Street  to Blenheim Crescent in time, but they’re a long way apart. By car, I don’t see any way he could get to Notting Hill inside of 90 minutes. I’d say Barlowe’s in the clear, if we can satisfy ourselves that he did indeed return home with Sarah that night.”

“I’ll see if I can reach her,” I said. “She left me a message yesterday, to tell me she’s filing for divorce. I think it’s safe to assume she won’t lie for him.”

Brian raised his eyebrows sympathetically. “And how was her mood?”

“Bleak,” I said, dialing the number. “And vengeful. Hello, Sarah? Dex Reed.”

“Dex. You’re the last person I want to talk to. What the hell do you want?”

“Ah. First of all, to apologize. I can’t tell you how badly I feel that you’ve found out like this.”

“Do you want to know how I found out, Dex? I turned on the morning news, as I was fixing the kids breakfast, and there was Harry, big as life, drinking until he vomited and fell off the couch! How could you not have told me?”

“I couldn’t tell you, Sarah. It’s part of an ongoing murder investigation.”

“Oh, yes,” she said bitterly. “It was a secret from me – mates on tour and all that. I warned Harry not to go on that tour! ‘Oh, no, it’ll be a good test for me, love.’ Well, he failed the test, didn’t he?”

“Everybody makes mistakes, Sarah,” I said gently. “I know he’s serious about getting sober. And I know he loves you and the boys. You mean everything to him.”

“My father was an alcoholic, did you know that, Dex?” She snorted. “It’s probably what attracted me to Harry in the first place, according to my therapist. My own dad beat me, Dex – he beat us all. And I vowed, never again.”

“I’m so sorry, Sarah.” It was all I could think to say.

“How long have you known?”

“About Harry’s drinking? Since a couple of weeks after Weathersby’s death, when the blackmail videos came to light. I never saw him drink on the tour.”

“I trusted him, Dex. I really did. Now I can never trust him again. Or you! How could you let this happen?” She was crying now. “How could you let the press get hold of this story? I’ve had to go into hiding just to keep from waking up to reporters on my doorstep, and paparazzi in the hedgerows!”

“I did everything I could to keep all of this confidential, Sarah. And I’m making it my personal mission to punish whoever leaked the videos – you have my word.”

There was a pause at the other end of the line. “Funnily enough, Dex, I believe that like nothing else you’ve said this morning, and I’m grateful. Harry always said you were the protector of the team. Whoever did this has made the pain and humiliation so much worse than they had to be.”

“I know.” I hesitated, groping for the right words. “Sarah, I don’t want to make things worse, but there’s something I have to ask you. We’re trying to eliminate Harry as a suspect in Weathersby’s murder.”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Dex! Weathersby caused all of this to happen – I hate him! He got exactly what he deserved! Isn’t there a law that says a wife can’t be compelled to give evidence against her husband?”

“Yes there is,” I replied. “And I’m inclined to agree about John. I can’t force you to answer, but I know you’ll be honest. What I need to know is this -- on the night of the party, did Harry return home to Upminister with you?”

“Of course he did!” Sarah’s voice was incredulous. “We went straight up to bed, for Christ’s sake – it was 2:30! Harry fell asleep before I did – he was absolutely knackered from work.”

“Thank you, Sarah. I’m sorry to bother you at a time like this. I hope you understand. And I’m truly sorry about all of this.”

I could hear her crying at the other end of the line. “It’s... all right, Dex. I’m sorry for the way I’ve treated you. It’s not your fault – I know you couldn’t tell me about Harry’s drinking. That’s between Harry and me. You’ve always been a good friend. I’m sorry I shrieked at you like a fishwife.”

“You didn’t, and please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

“I will, Dex.” And she rang off.

“Well?” Brian asked.

“I’m an utter prick, as if you didn’t know that already. Also, Harry Barlowe’s in the clear.”