Loose Head by Jeff Keithly Page A

arrived at Hendon on Tuesday morning, Brian had already come and gone. A note on my chair told me that Sir Steven Barnes, Weathersby’s solicitor, was in court until this afternoon. Brian would be waiting for him when he returned, hoping to persuade Sir Steven to voluntarily hand over the contents of locker 182; in the meantime, he was cracking the whip over the murder squad’s outside inquiries team to gather up all relevant CCTV tapes and canvass results. The note said  Brian would meet me at Bernie’s later that morning.
     
    Brian and I had agreed to join forces, given the overlap in our two separate investigations. The time had come to ask my teammate some rather searching questions about both Artemis Paul and John Weathersby, an ordeal I was, quite frankly, dreading.
                    I spent the morning hunched over the computer in my office, adding Artemis Paul’s recently-transcribed interview to the growing web of evidence on the case in the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System (HOLMES). As I did so, I marveled, not for the first time, at man’s ability to forgive himself his own trespasses. Artemis Paul considered himself a singularly astute and competent businessman, which, in his own callous way, he was. What he chose to ignore was that, in pursuit of his and his family’s daily bread, he had ruined countless lives. And then, when the breath of justice at last threatened to collapse his monetary house of cards, he was prepared to murder a policeman to keep it intact a little while longer. To him, that had just been another business decision, like adding a couple of cases to the week’s whisky order. I stoically suppressed my loathing and fear, and kept working.
    At the appointed hour, I stood once more on Bernie’s doorstep in Belgrave Square. Brian was late, which was not unusual. I had just raised my hand to the knocker when the door was opened inward by a shortish, heavy-necked, hard-faced man, who saw me with surprise and, I thought, dismay. He looked familiar; I never forget a face, but I’m crap with names. Then it came to me. “Dean!” I said. “Dean Thatcher! What brings you here, of all places?” For it was Dean who had taken my elbow at Blue Hour, Dean who had guided me to Artemis Paul’s inner sanctum, Dean whose manly bundle I had squeezed just before I’d been belted unconscious. “And why haven’t you returned my phone calls? We were so close once.”
    Dean shoved past me. “Fuck off, copper.” He started to depart, but instead encountered Brian, blocking the stairs with a brooding expression on his bearded face. His racquet-sized hand closed around Dean’s biceps and jerked him back like a pit bull on a leash.
    “I believe my partner asked you a question. Would you care to answer it here, in the open air, or at Hendon nick, with the tape recorder turning?”
    “I didn’t get your messages,” he lied sullenly.
    “And why are you here?” I asked gently.
    “Business,” he replied. “Plantagenet – “ his pronunciation of the name dripped scorn “– had some business with Mr. Paul.”
    Dean tried to nonchalant it, but he was starting to look decidedly uncomfortable. “Not anymore,” I said. “Artie’s no longer in business, and all debts are forgiven. If we find out you’ve gone freelance, collecting from Paul’s clients and pocketing the cash, we’ll squash you like a bug.”
    I stuffed one of my business cards into Dean’s breast pocket. “I’ve still got some questions to ask you about Martin Wallace. You’ll be at Hendon at 9 a.m. tomorrow to answer them, or I’ll be getting a warrant for your arrest. And Dean – “ I got right up in his face, so there was no mistake about this “– Stay away from Lord Delvemere. And his wife. The only reason I’m not arresting you now is I know it wasn’t you who bashed me over the head back at Blue Hour. Leave now, before I change my mind.” Then Brian and I shut the door in his face, and I turned