Free Loose Head by Jeff Keithly

me without your lawyer.”
    “I know, she told me not to call you, but I’m so worried! I haven’t even been allowed to see him!”
    “Haven’t you.” I had a small brainwave. “You know his bail hearing’s this afternoon.”
    She sobbed again. “Yes.”
    “It’s against regulation but... perhaps I can arrange for you to see him. Just to set your mind at ease. But only for a moment, mind. You’ll be watched, but at least you’ll be able to have a private word with him. See for yourself how he’s doing, tell him how you and the children are holding up.”
    “You’d... you’d do that, for me?”
    “Yes. But don’t tell anyone it was me, all right?”
    “I won’t. Bless you, DI Reed.”
    And blessed I was. A scant few hours later, I found myself sitting across a steel table from Artemis Paul and his solicitor, a competent terrier of a man named Tom Jenkins, in a grimy ground-floor interview room at Hendon Station. Apparently my little gambit with Debra Paul had had the desired effect, and she had reminded him of his domestic responsibilities. “My client requested this meeting,” Vickery growled. “Against my advice.” 
    Artie Paul leaned across the table. The recorder was turning, and a uniformed officer stood silently against the door. Gone was the steely facade he had shown me at Blue Hour and aboard the Compound Interest ; he looked both shaken and stirred. Like he’d spent an hour in a paint-shaker, rather than a few minutes with his wife. “I only want to know one thing,” Paul said, and I noted with professional satisfaction the slight tremor in his voice. “If I’m a good boy, and I play the game, will it have an effect at my sentencing?”
    I considered. “Without consulting the Crown prosecutor, I can’t make any promises. But if you cooperate, based on my experience, I’d say offhand that you’re looking at 20 years and out. You’d have to be a model prisoner, mind. Not try to, say, collect any outstanding debts.”
    For a moment, Paul closed his eyes behind his lozenge-shaped spectacles. Then he nodded. “Done.”
    Vickery fairly blanched in horror. “Artie, no!”
    Paul removed his restraining hand. “This way there’s a chance I’ll see Debra and the girls again. And they can be a part of my life. Now.” He addressed me. “What d’you want to know?”
     
    We spoke for two hours, and Paul never looked up from his hands where they rested on the table. He told me as little as he decently could, and volunteered nothing, but when I asked a question, he told me the truth. Except about Martin Wallace – he steadfastly denied any involvement in his murder. I let it slide for now, knowing that, if we were able to prove Paul’s involvement in that crime, all bets, in terms of my estimate of his likely sentence, were off.
    Having shown him that this was the most advantageous course, given his present circumstances, for him, the person nearest and dearest to his own heart, at least Paul was talking to me. “One last question,” I said, as the interview wound down “– Lord Delvemere. He came to see you.”
    “Yes.”
    “Why?”
    “He needed money. Quickly. I lent it to him, at 10 percent a month.”
    “Ten? You charged me 30. Why 10?”
    “Because I knew he was good for it.”
    “How?”
    “Because he was a customer. A regular.”
    My brain, knackered by the length and intensity of the interview, suddenly ticked over. “Boris.”
    “Yes. Once a month, for the past three years. Like clockwork. Boris was a dead ringer for someone he knew at school, apparently.”
    I trembled inwardly at the ramifications of this information. “Did he tell you why he needed the money?”
    “No. He did say he didn’t want his wife to know.” Paul looked up at last. “Would you like my professional opinion?”
    I already knew what that would be, but he told me anyway. “He was being blackmailed. Seen it before – I know the symptoms.”
     
     
    III
     
    Each Monday evening, I have a