Loose Head (26 page)

“Oh, thank God!” cried Fee, burying her face in my shoulder, and gave way to the mercy of tears.

“He has a lot to live for,” I observed.

“Ah. You’re DI Reed?” I nodded. “They told me you were here. I’ll be honest with you – it was touch and go for awhile. He’s lost a lot of blood. His spleen is ruptured, he has four broken ribs, a broken hand, radius and ulna, multiple skull fractures and intercranial swelling. That’s what has me worried at the moment – if we can bring the pressure down, and keep him from convulsing, he should be OK. Eventually.”

“I desperately need to ask him some questions,” I said. “How long before he’s conscious?”

Dr. Sanjee regarded me sadly. “He may not regain consciousness.”

“What? You just said...”

“I said that if his intercranial pressure comes down, he should be OK, but that’s going to take time. How much time, it’s impossible to say yet. He may regain function. Some function. Eventually. But he’s severely concussed. He’s in a coma, DI Reed, and likely will be, for at least a week. You, and Mrs. Abbott, must prepare yourself for the fact that, even if he does recover, he’ll never be the same. He won’t be able to return to work. He’s finished as a policeman.”

I ran a weary hand over my face. Fee looked up from my shoulder, soaked with her tears, and searched my face with the utmost compassion. “I’m so sorry, Dex,” she said.

“Don’t be,” I replied, blinking back tears of my own. “Now he can open that restaurant he’s always talking about.”

Fee managed a halting laugh. “Yes. And we’ll still expect you every Monday. But now you’ll have to pay.”

II

Fee and I sat with him until dawn, watching the regular, soothing motion of his ventilator, listening to the encouraging beep of the heart monitor. His great friendly face was so battered – lips swollen, eyes puffy and blackened, head bandaged, a sutured gash stretching halfway across the forehead that contained the information I so desperately needed.

“You should go home,” I said at length. “Talk to the girls, get some sleep.”

“You should, too,” she yawned. “It’s been a long night. Go home to whomever it was you called.”

Fee was more observant than I had realized. She had fixed me up with half a dozen friends over the years, and had never given up on her dream of someday godmothering my offspring. She considered me a catch, for some reason, and she looked at me knowingly now.

“What?” I asked. “She’s just a friend.”

Fee snorted – giddy from relief and lack of sleep. The nurse had just told us that Brian was doing exceptionally well, considering the severity of his injuries. “Have you shagged her?” she asked.

“None of your business! I don’t shag and tell! Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get to the office.”

“The office! Dex, you’ve been up all night!”

“I’ll stop at home for a shower and a change of clothes. But there’re things to do, Fee.”

“Yes.” She touched my face gently. “You’ll find who did this, Dex?”

Just for a moment, my fury flickered anew. “Oh, yes. And when I do, they’ll be sorry they ever drew breath.”

III

Two hours later, much refreshed after a stop at home, I pushed through the revolving doors of Devilliers’ firm, Ardenwood Financial Planners, on Bishopsgate Street near the Bank of England. A dignified woman of mature years showed me through to his office. “Dex!” Devilliers cried, rising to greet me from behind a solid mahogany desk that looked as though it had been purchased at some former prime minister’s yard sale. The view out his windows was of the Tower of London and the Thames; obviously the financial trade winds had blown profitably for Dick in recent years. “I thought I might see you this morning. The attack on your partner’s been all over the news! D’you know what happened yet?”

“No,” I said, “we don’t. It might’ve just been kids. But it may also be connected to John’s murder. What did you and Brian talk about, yesterday?”

“You don’t know?”

I shook my head. “No. I was on my way to meet him when he was attacked. He just said he’d seen you, that he was looking into a secondary line of inquiry, something that might relate back to the Weathersby investigation. But he did say that whatever you’d told him might be vital to solving the case. What, specifically, did you discuss?”

Devilliers had been, as I have had previous occasion to mention, Ian Chalmers’ closest mate on the Hastewicke Gentlemen. I had always suspected him of being a little jealous of my own close friendship with Ian, and my status, to a certain extent, as Ian’s protégé in the forward pack. Now Devilliers regarded me shrewdly. “How unfortunate for you, Dex.”

“Unfortunate in what sense?” I asked.

“Because whatever inferences DI Abbott may have gathered from our conversation, he didn’t confide them to me. I understand he’s in a coma?”

“He is,” I said shortly. “I need your help.”

“I don’t know how much help I can be,” Devilliers replied. “He was all over the map. Asked me about Seagrave, about Leicester, about Harry Barlowe, and about Bernie. He wanted to know about some of the other blokes on the team as well – George Waters, Gleeson, Jester Atkinson. I handle all of their financials.”

“What was the context of the discussion?”

Devilliers sighed heavily. “He wanted to know whether I’d seen or heard anything to indicate that Weathersby had blackmailed anyone else in the years since Ian.”

“And?” I asked impatiently. It had been a long and sleepless night.

“Despite my responsibility to protect my clients’ confidence, I told him the truth – in the last 10 years, there have been two unusually large and unscheduled payouts from the Hastewicke funds I manage. One for Gleeson, and one for Atkinson. I don’t know what they were for – I didn’t ask.”

“And that’s all you discussed? There was nothing else that might’ve had a bearing on the Weathersby case?”

“No,” he replied, regarding me with what seemed to be faint amusement. “You’ve never invested with me, Dex – I wonder why. I’ve done very well for our teammates over the years.”

“Precious little to invest, compared to the financial heavyweights on the Hastewicke Gentlemen,” I replied.

“Ah,” he said, nodding as if I’d just confirmed a long-standing suspicion. “So that’s what all this is about.”

“All what’s about?”

“Your determination to destroy the club,” he said with sudden and unexpected bile. “The leaking of the blackmail videos. Your arrest of Bernie. Your relentless prying into the private affairs of everyone on the team.”

I managed to master my emotions before speaking. “That does seem spectacularly unfair under the circumstances, Dick. Criminal investigations – especially murder inquiries – do require a certain amount of ‘relentless prying!’ I didn’t leak the videos – as a matter of fact, only yesterday I helped find the man who did – he’s now facing a criminal investigation. How can you think that, Dick? The last thing I want to do is to destroy the club – the Hastewicke Gentlemen have been one of the greatest sources of pleasure in my life! I’ve done everything I can to protect the club since this investigation began, to such an extent that I’ve been threatened with disciplinary action for withholding evidence! And I arrested Bernie because I was ordered to do so – not because I believe he’s guilty!”

Devilliers regarded me through slitted eyes. “If you say so, Dex.”

“I damned well do say so! But I can’t change the facts! And the fact of the matter is, John Weathersby is dead! At least four of our teammates – and now, from what you’ve just told me, possibly more – had an excellent reason to kill him. My partner, whom I greatly esteem, has been brutally assaulted and may not live, perhaps because he was close to solving this case! Those are facts, Richard! If you think I’m manipulating this situation because I wasn’t quite as well-born as the rest of you, you don’t know me as well as you think you do!”

I was suddenly very tired. I rose to go. “I’m sorry,” I said in a somewhat more moderate tone. “I shouldn’t have bellowed at you. It’s been a very long and trying night. Please call me if you think of anything else that might be relevant to the attack on DI Abbott, or to the Weathersby case.”

“I will, Dex.” He shook my hand. “I… I’m sorry for what I said. Trying times for all concerned.”

I nodded, and knew the truth I had feared since this case began: that whatever the outcome, my many happy days as a Hastewicke Gentleman were now at an end. I made my way past Devilliers’ dignified assistant, and envied her serenity.

I was strolling back to the car, not really focused on any one particular clue, letting my subconscious sort through the countless details of the Weathersby investigation and hold them up for fit against the attack on Brian, when suddenly it hit me. Weathersby’s alarm system. I had long puzzled over this detail, because so far as I knew, none of our four principal suspects had any aptitude for electronics. But there was one Hastewicke Gentleman who did – who was, in fact, a very successful electronics entrepreneur. Brian had asked Devilliers about him only yesterday: Jester Atkinson.

Chapter 23

In the early days of the Hastewicke Gentlemen, our unquestioned star player was flanker Dennis Hardy. He was 6'3", 18 stone, with calves as large as my thighs and thighs as thick as my torso. He was a churning, low-to-the-ground monstrosity with ball in hand, and an aggressive, ball-ripping tackler as well. A gentle man off the pitch, when he stepped between the lines, boots on, he became a remorseless, conscienceless maniac, and played the game of rugby with a ferocious disregard for his own – or anyone else’s – health. He averaged nearly two tries a game; I once saw him score seven in a match.

We were playing in the final of the 1986 Aspen Rugby Fest against the Chicago Rugby Club when, early in the first half, Hardy, planting his foot to sidestep someone, caught a cleat on a sunken sprinkler-head. With a sickening pop, the ligaments in his knee snapped like rubber bands. He was carried from the pitch in agony and whisked to hospital. We didn’t know it at the time, but Dennis Hardy would never play rugby again.

Though rugby is a brutal game, it is played exclusively on natural grass, and such catastrophic injuries are surprisingly rare. The loss of our most dynamic player threw us into a funk; by early in the second half, we found ourselves down 30-12.

During an injury stoppage, Ian Chalmers called the forwards into a huddle. “You’re all playing like castrated sheep!” he roared. “Quit moping! It’s time to elevate your own game! You, John, and you, Harry, and you, Vince! And especially you, Dex! It’s time to take personal responsibility – we didn’t come 4,000 miles to lose!”

On the very next play, a line-out, Ian called his own number, skied high in the air to wrestle the ball away from the bloke opposite him, then burst through the Chicago line like a rhinoceros with balls aflame. Weathersby and I thundered at Ian’s heels as he bowled over three would-be tacklers, then, at the last instant, fed me with a perfect pass. I drew in the last two Chicago tacklers before slipping the ball to Weathersby, who carried a Chicago player on his back as he touched down the try between the posts.

As we trotted back to halfway to receive the ensuing kickoff, Ian patted me affectionately on the head. “Always remember, Dex,” he told me, ever the teacher. “Whenever things look darkest, that’s when your own flame has to burn the brightest.”

II

I went straight to Wicks’ office. “Come!” he bellowed in response to my knock. “Ah, Reed – how’s Brian?”

“No change, which at this point qualifies as good news. His intercranial pressure’s still dangerously high. If it doesn’t recede soon, they might have to trepan him.”

Wicks looked shocked. “Cut a hole in his skull? I thought that went out with the Incas!”

“Apparently it can be quite effective in cases like this, sir. In any event, he’s resting as comfortably as possible, for a man with 17 broken bones.”

`“Seventeen broken bones.” DCI Wicks’ ancient eyes gleamed with vindictive purpose. “Time to start putting some stick about, I think. Any word from Crimes Scene or the canvassers?”

I held up a pair of files. “Nothing from canvass. Forensic have turned up one or two interesting items from the crime scene. But sir, there’s something else, on the Weathersby case. It may be related to the assault on DI Abbott.” Quickly and succinctly, I filled him in on my interview with Devilliers.

“Interesting,” said Wicks. “So Oakhurst may have been on to something after all – perhaps Weathersby did blackmail other of your teammates. Ah, well,” he said acidly. “Every so often, even a blind sow gets porked.” He rose. “Let’s talk to the team.”

A few minutes later, we stood before the assembled throng in the ready room. “Right,” said Wicks. “What’s the latest on DI Abbott?”

DI Charleton stood. “We’ve found no witnesses, sir,” she said uncomfortably. “The attack took place in a windowless alleyway, in a business district after business hours. No residences within earshot – whoever attacked DI Abbott, they chose their ground well. We’ve put out a Crimestoppers bulletin, asking anyone with information to phone in, but so far, no promising leads.”

“Forensic?” Wicks asked.

DI Taylor came forward. “It was a pretty grotty alleyway. But we did find this.” He held up a tiny, clear evidence envelope. “A single false eyelash, which would tend to corroborate the
Clockwork Orange
hypothesis. We were able to lift some skin cells and a single human eyelash. No matches so far with our DNA database, but these things take time.” He held up another, larger bag, this one containing a bloodied brick. “We also found this. Apparently, it was used to inflict many of DI Abbott’s more traumatic injuries.”

“Prints?” I asked hopefully.

“Ever try to lift prints from a brick, Dex?  Unfortunately, the surface is too rough and porous to lift a clean image.”

“Keep on the DNA people, Tom. DIs Morton and Rivers, I want you to liaise with DCI Wilkinson over in Gang Enforcement – see if he’s had any luck with the
Clockwork Orange
angle, and give him any help he needs. I want you to find those sadistic bastards and bring them to me. Now, leaving Brian’s assault for a moment, DI Reed has some new information on the Weathersby case.”