39. SUSPECT 2: The Eagles

Not those Eagles

Seriously, though; not those Eagles.

There are three brothers, (all born within 10 months of each other, so there was something very dodgy going on in that house). Paul Eagle, Wesley Eagle and Danny Eagle. Paul was rarely seen in the Pips; special occasions, Christmas, the odd random thirst where he’d walk in and everyone would be surprised to see him and Paul would mistake this forthrilled. He was a copper, for a while a sergeant for the county but then eventually he moved to England and became a detective and then went to work at the training college in Gloucester. He was a humourless bastard, but not entirely unlikeable. If you got him talking about his collection of Northern Soul 7-inches you could see some flesh on his bones, but also, he had no worries about the esoteric layers he was willing to crush you with on the subject. In short, it was no sorry thing that he turned up so infrequently at the bar. The very epitome of “small doses...”. Wesley was the opposite. Often in the bar and much less to offer. A professional golfer he had that lean figure and weathered complexion. Looked older than he was by ten years. He wore very expensive immaculately pressed casual sportswear and a baseball cap as if he’d always just come down from a tournament (he was always instructed to remove the cap once he entered the bar - Alden rule: no hats at the bar). He was dull to speak with, but many found him interesting. Moses resented that, but he sometimes found himself in conversation with him too, straining to turn Wes to anything but golf. There was something very clear to Moses about Wes and that was that he didn’t believe in anything at all. He swayed and turned with glassy eyes on whatever subject was up in a group, and he’d offer up the strongest form of compliance he could muster. At any given point, Wes could be a Marxist Lenninist, a Stalinist, a Bennite, a Blairite, a Brownite, a lover of soul, reggae, folk, punk, and indy, and would even try his hand at classical if Moses was telling the story about his grandfather playing him the Planet Suite when he was five years old. Paul, however, never hid the fact he voted Tory, admired Thatcher, and that he looked down his nose at everyone he drank with in the Pips. He would stand near the flip top, his chin raised, the lager not adding an inch to that washboard midriff, like he as advertising a cologne; “Arrogant Wanker: For Men”. But it wasn’t either of these two Moses was offering up on his list of suspects. No, it was the third brother, Danny Eagle. Danny was at every party, knew every man, had slept with so many women - almost all of whom had first slept with Paul. He was flash, sometimes even dressed like a dandy, quiffed up his hair and wore silk kerchiefs and tweed jackets; sometimes he wore an Iron Maiden t-shirt and leather jacket. Danny was an adopter of other people’s group styles, a magpie, a drag artist, but he didn’t seem interested in depth of any kind. He would backtrack at the first sign of it. He managed to get a gig writing album reviews for a local events magazine but after three issues they let him go because, quote, “we can’t just keep publishing articles on Modest Mouse.” Danny owed everyone money. Drips of cash, a tenner here, twenty there, he knew what he was doing by cadging a skim of the boys’ late evening budget likely to be forgotten or written off particularly when asking for that amount back when overdue made the lender look like a right tight bastard. He knew what he was doing. I’ll give it back to you on Thursday when my money goes in. Always be specific. Notnext week. Pick a day. Pick a time of day. After lunch when I’ve seen this guy about a thing. He always knew what he was doing. His brother Paul would keep an eye on Danny when he was in and he would cut him down to size easily, one prick stabbing a bigger prick in the back before an audience. Until you pay me back the four hundred quid you owe me, Danny, I don’t think you are entitled to an opinion on that. Watch a man deflate in real time. But Danny had the brass knackers to laugh it off and carry on spending the twenty he’d just had off Potter or some sap who had a job rent to pay and all that lamo shit. Moses often found himself in the uneviable position of liking Thatcherite Paul for what he did to grifter Danny in front of people. It was just a way to clip his wings at Danny’s most flamboyant moments. And Danny was gregarious. With wide arms. People liked him, or at least they believed they liked him. Moses didn’t like him. There had a been a time. Long ago. But Moses had hardened to people like Danny. Maybe it came down to something Vardaman had told him. Danny had gotten a girl pregnant. He tried to get her to have an abortion but she didn’t want one. She didn’t really want Danny in her life, but she wanted the baby, and when it came down to it, she thought the existence of the baby might have moved Danny to be the man she wanted him to be. But Danny stood firm. Nobody was going to stop him being the cunt he wanted to be. The news of the pregnancy sent him off on a week-long bender, any excuse, and he was in constant companionship of a man knowns as Maxi the Priest who looked like he might have fronted a Free cover band but in actually fact had nothing to him, nothinginhim, was hollowed out, most likely by drug use but there was a chance he started off much like a bird bone skeleton. Maxi was good looking, and so he attracted women for a time, but any spark in his eye was a misinterpretation of pub lighting hitting the glaze across his irises. Maxi gambled, though, and five hundred quid on the Derby around this time meant Danny Eagle was on his hip, or the other way around. Danny was very good at taking point, sticking his chest out as if he had full pockets. “I can’t figure out if he’s celebrating or panicking,” Moses said at the time, Danny across the bar with Maxi in a headlock whispering pissed up profundities into his ear, Maxi nodding, frowning, and mouthing fuck yeah dude. That’s when Vardaman said it, as he and Moses looked at the them down the long line of the Pips bar. He said Danny had told him the baby wasn’t his. Vardaman said he had looked at Danny hard to see if he was joking. Danny chewed his bottom lip. So why is she saying it’s yours, Vardaman said, trying not to emphasise the obvious insanity associated withwantingDanny Eagle to be the father of your child. “She’s trying to cover the truth,” Danny said. “What’s the truth?” Vardaman had wished he never asked by the time Danny had completed his made-up-on-the-spot answer. “Her brother,” Danny said. “Raped her.” Vardaman knew immediately Danny was lying, that he was making this up, instinctively as well it was obvious to anyone who gave a glance at Danny’s body language, his wide eyes darting around the room, his jiggly knee jerks and his sweaty palms he kept rubbing along the tops of his legs. Vardaman asked him to repeat it to be sure. Danny was even more clearly lying the second time he said it. When Moses called Vardaman up for repeating the story, Vardaman fell clearly into line with Moses thinking if he was indeed ever remotely likely to believe Danny. Yes, it was a lie, and a disgusting one at that. But that being that kind of cunt doesn’t make you a murderer and doesn’t get you on Moses’s list; at least not until Moses remembered that the girl Danny Eagle had gotten pregnant, the one he’d said was having her brother’s baby, was Aaron’s cousin. The worst thing about all this, Moses had figured, is that if it turns out Danny Eagle killed Aaron, it would self-defence, and he wouldn’t just be tossed into the river where he belonged.