Loose Head (29 page)

Brian looked peaceful and at ease, despite his forehead sutures and the cast on his arm; the nurses were already bandaging the pound coin-sized hole in his skull. “The next 12 hours will tell the story,” said Dr. Sanjee, stripping off his gloves “– if he has no more convulsions, if there is no infection, then he will recover.”

“Thank you, doctor,” I said. “For fighting for him.”

“It was my pleasure,” he said “– blokes like you and DI Abbot fight for us every day.”

IV

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” I told Fee as we sat next to John’s bed in the intensive care ward. He still looked terrible, but his color was better, and he was resting comfortably. He had had no convulsions since the surgery, which was a mildly encouraging sign. The danger in cases like these, so Dr. Sanjee had said, was that the convulsions would continue, with increasing frequency and intensity, until the patient died. There was always the possibility that Brian’s intercranial pressure could spike upward again, however, so they were monitoring him closely.

“I know,” said Fee, resting her head on my shoulder. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure. But thanks for keeping me company. When you’re not here, I talk to him – call him a stupid twat, tell him to get better, tell him how much the girls and I miss him.” She wiped her eyes. “It’s nice to have someone here who can answer me back.”

“Has the doctor spoken to you about what comes after?”

“Once Brian wakes up? Months of rehab, obviously, to get his strength and coordination back. It’s the mental part that’s dicey – there’s just no way to know what sort of state Brian will be in when he wakes up. There could be whole swaths of his memory gone – he might have to re-learn how to tie his own shoes and dress himself, Dr. Sanjee said. And Brian won’t be able to return to the force – you were there when Dr. Sanjee told me that.”

I nodded. “I’ll miss the big bastard. He’s been a champion partner. But it’s not worth risking his health over. Anyway, I’ll still come and beg dinner from you every Monday.”

“You’re always welcome, Dex. You know that. Perhaps one of these days, you can bring your new girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend, Fee. More of an old flame that’s flickered back to life.”

“Just goes to prove.”

“Prove what?”

“That there may be hope for the world yet, if someone as cynical, middle-aged and set in his ruts as you are can find true love.”

Chapter 25

The next morning, after stopping for a word with DCI Wicks, I went to see Bernie down in the holding cells. I told the guard on the door to follow me, then motioned for him to unlock Bernie’s cell. “You’re free to go, Bernie,” I said.

He rose slowly to his feet, haggard features painted with relieved disbelief. “I’m no longer under arrest?”

“No. You’ve been downgraded to a person of interest in the case.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you can’t leave the country, at least for the time being. Not until we lock up another suspect or the Metropolitan Police officially determine that it wasn’t you.”

We were walking out now. “And Jane?” he asked. “You’ve seen her?”

I nodded. “She’s moved out, Bernie. The video was a real shock – she had no idea that you’re... gay. Said she’ll ring you once you’re back home.” I didn’t mention that I had left her, only that morning, asleep in my bed.

During my walk to work, I had rationalized, coldly and pusillanimously, that there was no point in adding to Bernie’s burdens until Jane made up her mind what she was going to do. I knew that was the right decision, at least until she knew her own mind. But I still couldn’t look Bernie in the eye.

We stopped by the property desk; I waited as Bernie signed for and pocketed his keys, wallet and watch. Then we walked in silence to the foyer.

“Is she going to... divorce me?” Bernie asked at length.

“I don’t know, Bernie. I don’t think she knows. But there’s no sense borrowing trouble. Just talk to her, mate.”

“I will, Dex.” We stood in the open air now, traffic breezing by. Bernie turned his face to the wan November sun and breathed in the diesel fumes as if they were the fragrance of the best-kept rose garden in all of England. “Thank you. And thank you for this – you’ve saved my life, old man. I don’t know that I could’ve stood another week in that cell.”

“You’re tough, Bernie. You’ll get through this.”

“Ah, Dex.” He smiled sadly. “If only that were true. But thanks awfully, just the same.”

II

Afternoon came, and still I toiled over the printouts Brian had requisitioned. Months of portfolio statements, yield graphs, stocks performance statistics – Seagrave’s, Atkinson’s Bernie’s, Gleeson’s, Weathersby’s. There were even a few reports from Ian Chalmers’ estate, showing regular monthly payouts of £10,000 to Ian’s brother Richard in France.

I was damned if I could see what had fired Brian’s investigative instincts – with the exception of the previously-noted £100,000 withdrawals from the Atkinson and Gleeson accounts, all five statements showed monthly contributions and steadily-rising net worths. Dick Devilliers, it appeared, really was a financial wiz. Perhaps I did need to put my meager savings in his hands.

My desk phone rang. “DI Reed,” I said.

“Dex!” It took me a moment to place the voice – and when I did, excitement and hope set my heart pounding.

“DI Wilkinson,” I replied. “What can I do for you?”

“Can you come down to interrogation? There’s a few blokes I’d like you to meet.”

“You found them?” I asked in a voice hushed with hope.

“We did. Thought you might like to have first crack at the ringleader.”

“Keith, I could kiss you,” I said. “Be right down.”

DI Wilkinson stood in the hall outside the interrogation rooms, a stocky, balding man in his middle 40s, wearing a departmental training suit with his ID hanging from a chain around his neck. He was keeping a watchful eye on the comings and goings in the hall with the air of a border collie who had just seen his flock into the paddock. “Thank you, Keith,” I said, and meant it.

“Dex,” he said. “We’ve all been thinking of Brian, and of you. Just make sure you nail these bastards to the wall – they deserve it, many times over.”

“How’d you find them?” I asked.

“Made the mistake of achieving celebrity status,” he replied serenely. “Got themselves a manager, if you can believe it – thugs for hire. We’ve got him in custody as well, and he’s singing like the next Pavarotti – name’s Tony Grant. They’d been operating for several weeks, quite profitably, out of some club in the East End. The Helix. One of our informants grassed them royally – tipped us that their next victim was a music promoter who’d stiffed some house band. We put a detail on him, and waited for them to come to us.” 

After providing a few additional details, Wilkinson led the way into the observation lounge. I peered avidly through the one-way glass. A thickset, petulant-looking lad of perhaps 20 years of age sat handcuffed to the metal table, affecting an air of boredom. He had short bristle-blond hair, a fat lip and one gloriously-swollen eye. “That’s Alex,” said Wilkinson. “We’ve got his three mates in separate rooms – some of your colleagues in SCD’re giving them a right going-over even as we speak. They’re all younger than this one – the youngest is only 16. Alex here looks to be the brains of the bunch.”

“He looks a bit... battered,” I said happily.

“Yes...” Wilkinson smiled fondly. “He slipped getting into the car -- repeatedly.”

“Clumsy lad,” I said regretfully. “Thank you, Keith. I won’t forget this. “

”You don’t owe me, Dex. Brian’s a mate.”

III

When I entered the interrogation room, Alex favored me with a sneer. “Room service, is it? I’ll ‘ave a steak, medium rare, chips and a pint of lager.”

I sat down and studied him minutely, from the single gold stud in his left ear to the scabs on his knuckles. He had a pockmarked visage and lips like hovercraft-bladders, twisted into a habitual sneer of cold amusement; there was a nasty, jagged, recently-healed scar extending from his right temple to the bridge of his nose. I looked into his eyes – bloodshot, pale blue, slightly yellowed at the corners. A touch of liver trouble? Drink, perhaps, or pharmaceuticals.

I glanced at his previous, discovered assault with intent to commit bodily harm, burglary, and, interestingly, animal cruelty, in a case involving fighting dogs. I was pleased to see that Alex had recently turned 18, so there was no need for an appropriate adult to witness the interview.

I extended an arm and turned on the tape recorder. “This interview is taking place on 19 November, 2004, in interview room B at Hendon. Present are DI Dexter Reed of the Metropolitan Police Service Specialist Crime Directorate, Constable Angus McGrath, and Alex Lloyd Watkins, the suspect.” I turned to Alex. “DI Wilkinson cautioned you?”

“Yeh.”

“And did you understand your rights as he explained them to you?”

Yeh. ‘eard’em before. Know ‘em like the back of me ‘and.”

“Speaking of the back of your hand,” I said, “It looks like it’s seen some hard use lately. How’d you come by those scabs?”

Alex smiled benignly. “I was attacked in a club. Man’s got the right to defend ‘imself, don’t ‘e?”

“Looks painful,” I observed.

“You should see the other bloke.”

“What club?” I asked.

“The Helix, on Fashion Street.”

“Can anyone confirm that?”

“Me droogs.”

“Your droogs?” I asked casually.

“Me mates. Georgie, Dim and Fred.”

“Ah! Your mates. Well, at least they
were
your mates.”

“What d’you mean?” he asked suspiciously, voice betraying the first whiff of uncertainty.

“Because they’ve just told us you were hired to attack DI Abbott. They say this was all your idea.”

He looked at me intently, then laughed. “You’re full of shit.”

“We’ve also arrested Tony Grant. Your manager.” I made no effort to disguise my satisfaction. “And he’s singing like a bloody nightingale.”

I laid out the terms of the contract for Alex’s benefit, as I had it from Wilkinson. The
Clockwork Orange
boys had been hired to beat Brian to death by a man they had never seen before. He gave no name. The man had initially contacted Grant, their “manager.” Grant had arranged the meeting in exchange for a cut of the fee – £2,500 up front, another £2,500 following successful completion of the job.

“We know all about it, Alex. You may as well tell me what happened. I see two choices here. First, you can keep right on lying and messing me about. Or you can try to get out in front of this before the entire weight of it falls on you. Those are options A and B. Personally, I hope you choose option A.”

Alex looked away, grinning once more. “Ah, why not? I just turned 18 yesterday – I was still a minor when we did ‘im. Who was ‘e, your gay lover?”

“My partner. My mate. A good husband and the dad of two very frightened and miserable little girls. So believe me when I say that your future happiness depends completely on what happens in the next few minutes. Cooperate, and I’ll have a word with my mates at Prison Services, and chances are you and your droogs will be reunited behind bars. Hold out on me, and...” I spread my hands. “Belmarsh? Who knows? You may have a harder time making friends.”

Alex pursed his sausage-thick lips into a fountain of pink blubber. “Cooperate... how, exactly?”

“Who hired you?”

“‘Dunno, do I? Never laid eyes on ‘im before.”

“What did he look like?”

“Tallish bloke – inch or two taller than you. About your age. Clean-shaven. Posh accent. Gave us a picture of your partner and told us ‘e’d be at the Waterloo Building at 2 o’clock. Told us to follow ‘im, find a secluded spot, and go postal.”

“Hang on!” I said. “The man knew DI Abbott had an appointment at the Waterloo Building at 2 o’clock?”

“Yeh.”

“How could he know that?”

“‘Ow the fuck do I know? ‘E said ‘e’d be there, and ‘e wos. We waited for ‘im, and when ‘e came out, we followed ‘im. Easy peasy.”

“And the bloke who hired you – you’d recognize him if you say him again, yeah?”

“Oh, I dunno, mate.” Alex grinned insolently, a jack-o-lantern’s jagged-toothed grin, and I longed to smack it off his face. “Me memory ain’t quite what it used to be.” He tapped his forehead. “Too many blows to the old melon.”

A sudden thought occurred. “Wait here,” I said “– won’t be a sec.”

I went to my cube and stood for a moment, looking at Brian’s desk. I wouldn’t let them take his things away – not while there was still a chance he might return to the job. His side of the cubicle had already acquired a thin film of dust.

I went to my desk, picked out a Hastewicke Gentlemen team photo. Then I returned to the interrogation room and laid the photo before Alex. “Wot’s this?” he asked. “The Man-Boy Love Association’s annual beach outing? Detective – I never would’ve suspected such tendencies in you.”

It was a picture of the Hastewicke Gentlemen first XV on False Beach in Capetown, from 1992, the cloud-topped bulk of Table Mountain looming over our shoulders. “See anyone you recognize?” I asked.

“I recognize you,” said Alex contemptuously. “You ‘aven’t aged well, ‘ave you, DI Reed?”

“Is the man who hired you to assault DI Abbott in this photograph?” I asked patiently.

Alex leaned back and folded his arms. “Yeh. ‘E’s there.”

I spoke through gritted teeth. “Which one is he, Alex?”

“That’s valuable information.” He grinned again. “Tell you in the morning, after I’ve spoken with my legal advisor.”

For a moment, I just stared at him, then all my fury at recent events erupted, and I threw my chair aside and went for Alex. Eyes wide in terror, he retreated around the table, and I saw, just for a moment that while Alex derived great pleasure from inflicting pain, he didn’t relish receiving it.

“DI Reed!” Wicks stood at the door; his voice rang across the chamber like one of Hell’s bells. “You forget yourself! This isn’t
NYPD Blue
!”