Loose Head (30 page)

With the utmost reluctance, I righted my chair and forced myself back into it. Wicks spoke into the microphone. “Let the record show that Mr. Watkins has invoked his right to counsel. This interview is terminated at 8:21 p.m.” And Wicks, with a significant glare my way, pressed the “stop” button on the tape recorder.

IV

Seething with fury and impatience, I trudged home. Jane was sitting cross-legged before the fire, barefoot, looking ravishing in a soft turtleneck of starlight blue and a pair of old Levis. The kind with the fly buttons that pop so deliciously, effervescent with erotic promise, as you let your fingers do the walking.

She was drinking red wine. Seeing the look on my face as I crested the stairs, she poured me a glass and patted the floor beside her. “Poor Dex,” she said “– I don’t think I have to ask how your day was. Come sit beside me and tell me all about it.”

I shed my coat and did as she asked, gratefully accepting the proffered glass of wine. It swiftly disappeared as all my anguish spilled out. “I’m so close, Jane! So close to the truth! If only it was a hundred years ago – I’d have beaten it out of that smug little shit by now.”

I slowly became conscious of her luminous eyes, and her hand, gently stroking the kinks from my neck, and suddenly realized how wonderful, how completely, magically incredible, it was to have her here. To have someone to come home to, someone who listened, someone who cared with all her heart about my shitty day. I strategically nestled my head between her breasts, and she stroked my brow in a way that made my knees go weak. “Thank you, Jane,” I murmured. “For being here with me. Thanks for letting me vent.”

“No, thank you, Dex,” she said, and I felt her warm breath in my hair. “Now there’s something I need to say to you.” I looked up in alarm, but she pressed me back to her bosom. “Don’t worry, it’s not like last time. It’s just that I’ve been thinking about things, and I’ve suddenly realized something. I’ve been such a hothouse flower, Dex! For 15 years I’ve been protected, nurtured, kept warm and safe, glassed in with money, never worrying, never threatened -- but never growing. Never flowering. These last few weeks with you I’ve realized how much I’ve been missing. I’ve seen you dealing with the attack on Brian, your worry, your tenderness with Fee, and yes! It’s terrifying! But it’s real life, Dex! I’ve seen how John’s murder, and your situation with the rugby club, has affected you, how you’ve tried with all your heart to protect them, even as you tried to do your duty. Even as they’ve turned on you one by one. You’re a good man, Dex.”

She took a deep breath, and reached down to cover my mouth with her hand as I opened it to speak. “What I’m saying, Dex, is that I’m finished cowering in my little patch of ground, watching the world go by outside the glass. I’m saying I’m yours, if you’ll have me.”

She took her hand away from my mouth then, and I sat up. But before I could respond, the doorbell rang. “Excuse me,” I said. “Won’t be a sec.”

I opened the door to reveal a black-haired, fortysomething man with a salt-and-pepper goatee, clutching a notebook. I’d never seen him before. “Yes?” I asked in my least welcoming tone.

“DI Reed – please don’t slam the door. I’m Matthew Teller from
Details
online
.
I’ve heard about your involvement with the Hastewicke Gentlemen and with the Weathersby murder investigation. I’d like to tell your story. It must’ve been a helluva...”

“No comment,” I said, and gently but firmly closed the door in his face.

When I returned to the fireside, I found Jane, arms clasped ‘round her knees, staring raptly into the flames. Her eyes, as she turned to me, were merry.

“Bloody press,” I muttered.

“Occupational hazard for soon-to-be-famous detectives,” she observed teasingly. “Too bad, though -- I was just about to say that the sex has been brilliant as well.” And she twined her arms about my neck, and kissed me with a greedy, sloppy passion that threatened to suck out my soul.

I detached myself just long enough to utter one breathless sentence. “Yes, I’ll have you, please.”

She drew back, and regarded me joyfully. “Yes, I think you will.” And she slowly peeled off her sweater. She wore nothing underneath.

At that moment, the bell went again. I am, God knows, a mild-mannered and forbearing man, but enough is enough. “This could go on all night,” I said through gritted teeth. “Don’t move. If you hear the sound of blows, don’t be alarmed.”

I stalked downstairs to the entry and threw open the door. “I
said
, no bloody...” And then I stopped dead, the power of speech knocked clean out of me.

Ian Chalmers stood on my stoop – Ian Chalmers, my old friend and rugby mentor, dead for nearly two decades, but now returned to the living.

And pointing a gun at me – a black, businesslike Glock 17.

He wasn’t alone. Bernie Plantagenet, weaving drunk, clutched at the stair-rail for support, looking ready to topple into the hydrangeas at the first breath of wind. “Dex!” he said brightly. “Can you believe it? Iss old Ian, in the flesh! I was just... just having a quiet drink at home, and there was a ring at the bell, and there he was! I fell off my chair, I really did! He sug... sugges... he said we should stop ‘round and pay you a visit, and here we are!” He leant forward conspiratorially, enveloping me in a cloud of brandy-fumes. “You wouldn’t happen to have anything to drink, would you, old man? I think this calls for a celebration!”

“Hullo, Dex,” said Ian quietly. “It’s been a long time. I’ve missed you.” His eyes, and the Glock, pointed at my heart, never wavered. “Shall we go in?”

Wordlessly I stood aside. Ian motioned me up the steps first; I gave Bernie a hand. He stumbled and leaned against me, absolutely reeking of alcohol.

Jane, forewarned by our clumsy ascent, was fully dressed once more. “Bernie!” she cried. “And...my God.” Her voice sunk to a whisper. “Is it really you, Ian?”

“In the flesh,” he said easily. And then she saw the gun.

Chapter 26

Ian motioned with the gun for Jane and me to have a seat on the couch, seated himself in the armchair. “Sorry to just pop up like this, Dex. Must be a hell of a shock.”

I nodded. “You could say that. Why the gun, Ian?”

“Just so there’s no mistake about tonight’s agenda. No need to worry, as long as everyone behaves himself.” I felt Jane tremble as his gaze passed over her. “And herself.”

I studied him in the light of the reading lamp beside his chair. It had been more than 17 years since last I’d seen him, but I thought the years had changed him little – the same wry expression, the same blond thatch – a bit thinner on top, perhaps. He had the same erect bearing, which emphasized his height – about 6'5" – and sprightly step. He still retained his deceptive slimness and, I could only assume, his yew-like strength.

Ian was studying me as well, like an Egyptologist trying to puzzle out a particularly obscure hieroglyphic. “You look fit, Dex,” he said at length. “A bit more battered than last I saw you. A bit more... careworn, perhaps.”

“It’s been a long couple of months,” I replied. “First Weathersby, then my partner.”

Ian looked troubled. “Yes. Your partner. Brian, is it? Look, I’m sorry about that, Dex – couldn’t be helped. He was a bit cleverer than I reckoned – he’d found me out, you see.”

I suddenly felt light-headed. “It was you. I was on the mobile with him – he said he knew who killed John, but he wouldn’t tell me who. Then he was attacked.”

“John.” Ian’s look darkened. “That selfish, greedy bastard. He had no right to live. Not when I was dead to the world, and to everyone I’d ever loved.”

“Why don’t you tell me about it, Ian? It might help to talk.”

“Why not? We’ve plenty of time. You always did enjoy a good story, Dex. But first, I think Bernie needs topping up. Pour him a stiff one, and yourself as well.”

I went to the drinks cabinet; Ian watched me alertly as I splashed several inches of whisky into a pair of glasses, took one to where Bernie sat nodding in his chair. “Here, Bern. Cheers.”

“Ta, Dex.” He peered up at me, trying to focus. “Nice place you’ve got here. Could you... tell Jane when she’s ready to talk, I’m here.”

“Drink up, Dex,” said Ian. “All of it, then pour yourself another, and drink that off as well.”

Staring into the Glock’s unwinking black eye, I had little choice. The strong single-malt made a pool of liquid fire in my empty stomach.

“Where shall I begin?” Ian mused, as I resumed my seat next to Jane. “Ah, yes – Weathersby. You know he was blackmailing me, just before I died?”

I nodded. “Dick Devilliers told us.”

“Careless of him. Weathersby wanted £250,000. I didn’t have it. I was mortgaged to the hilt – everything I had was tied up in the firm, and then some. It had been a hellish year – we’d lost a lot of money. And then Weathersby... bloody tosser. Anyway, one day I hopped aboard my plane to fly to France. Halfway across the Channel, I parachuted out. The plane went into the drink. A French smuggler my brother knew fished me out – paid him a thousand pounds to pick me up. Richard met me on the dock at Le Touquet, drove me to Annecy, where I became Daniel Becket, mild-mannered exporter of wine, cheese and foie gras. Made a refreshing change, actually – Devilliers sent Richard money from my estate every month, so I was never under any pressure to turn a profit. In point of fact, and quite ironically, the export firm’s doing very well.”

I nodded, feeling a bit woozy from the whisky. “Then Devilliers told you Weathersby was up to his old tricks.”

“One afternoon Bernie here came to Dick’s office for a consult on his portfolio. He was in a right state – needed to find £120,000 from somewhere, without Jane finding out, to pay off... well, it was that Artemis Paul bastard who tried to kill you, wasn’t it? Saw it in the news. Bernie and Dick had a few drinks, and soon the whole sordid tale came spilling out. Dick made the mistake of putting an abbreviated version into an email to me. Your partner, Brian, found it when he tapped into Dick’s computer.”

Ian leaned back in his chair; his deep, melodious voice came from the shadows. “Which brings us to the night of John’s party. The Ian Chalmers Memorial.” He laughed bitterly. “That’s rich. Must’ve been his way of salving a guilty conscience. I stood in his garden for most of the night, watching you at your revels, longing to pop in and surprise you all. Even saw you and Jane when you came out on the terrace. Heard a bit of your conversation as well – enough to guess that I might find her here with you tonight.” There was a pause. “Do you have any idea what it’s been like for me, Dex? To lose the one thing in the world I truly loved, to be condemned to stand and watch you all, like a ghost?”

I flicked a glance at Jane. “Yes, I think I might. What happened then?”

“I waited until the last of you had gone. I cut the wires and bypassed the alarm – astonishing what you can find on the Internet these days. After the last guest had gone, John went into his study – I could see him working at his computer. When he got up for a piss, I broke the lock on the French doors sat down at his desk, loaded the rifle, and waited. When he came back through the door, I shot him.”

“Without a word?” I asked.

“I said, ‘Hullo, John. Kangaroo court is now in session. You’re guilty as hell.’ Then I pulled the trigger. I took his laptop, went back over the wall, walked down to Battersea Bridge and threw it into the Thames.”

“Any regrets?” I asked lightly.

“Only that I didn’t do it sooner.” Ian regarded me keenly. “You, of all people, understand the impulse, Dex. When someone would cheap-shot one of our teammates, it was always you and I who sorted them out. We’re the hard men. Tell me you’re not glad John’s dead, knowing what you now know.”

“I’m not sorry he’s dead, to be honest.” The whisky was running away with my tongue. “But Ian, you should’ve left it to me. I knew something wasn’t right about the Vegas tour. I’d have come ‘round to John in the end.”

Ian snorted contemptuously. “Would you have? I doubt it. Where were you when I was being blackmailed? Or Jester, or Gleeson?”

“I had no idea. You were my friend, but you never told me, did you?  If you’d have come to me, Weathersby would be in jail, we’d have found a way to keep you alive, and none of this would’ve had to happen. You should’ve come to me, Ian! I would have done anything for you! I’m not a bloody mind-reader!”

“So what was different this time? Why d’you think you would’ve tumbled?”

“Because I had Bernie – found out he’d borrowed money from Artemis Paul. I went to see him about it the afternoon of the party. When you killed Weathersby later that same night, then it became a murder investigation. I would have nailed John’s ass to the wall this time, Ian. But then you made all his victims – our mates – into suspects.”

“I wanted to stop him doing to them what he did to me – driving them to desperation!”

“No, you did that yourself, Ian,” I said bitterly. “By killing Weathersby, you triggered the very shitstorm they were hoping to avoid! How could you not know Weathersby had made backup copies of the videos, to be released if anything happened to him?”

“I was counting on you to stop that happening, Dex. And you came through magnificently! But then you allowed the videos to slip through your hands! You bloody well knocked them on! How could you have been so bloody careless?”

“Careless? Ian, when my superiors ordered me to make copies of the videos, I couldn’t very well refuse, could I? I took every precaution I could think of – that’s how we were able to nail the bastard who leaked them!”

“But by then, the damage was done,” he said coldly. “You should’ve just destroyed them, Dex!”

“I couldn’t do that, Ian. They were the primary evidence in a high-profile murder case! Yes, I’m protective of my teammates! But even I can’t cover up a murder! That’s too much to ask, even of me!”

“So what about me, then?” Ian asked lightly. “Are you going to turn me in?”

I thought about that. Despite my professional responsibility to bring his murderer to justice, no one would ever convince me John hadn’t had it coming. And Ian was officially dead – no one, save Brian, had ever so much as thought of him as a suspect. If it had just been between him and me, if I allowed myself to be guided solely by my own sense of justice, I would’ve been very tempted to just let Ian go, as long as Bernie, Seagrave, Barlowe and Leicester weren’t prosecuted.