Wrong'un (Clement Book 2)

by Keith A Pearson

  “Sorry. I don’t understand. Why would she even make that allegation?”

  “Who knows. Maybe she just lost the money and assumed you took it. In any event, there’s no actual evidence of a crime having been committed, which is why we never arrested you. You do understand we have to follow-up on allegations, no matter how spurious.”

  I realise my frustration is being targeted in the wrong place.

  “Fair enough. Could you tell me her name though; the woman who made the allegation?”

  “I’m sure you know we can’t do that.”

  I do know, but I’m struggling to think straight, such is my annoyance.

  “Would you like a lift back?” Perry asks.

  “No, thank you. I could do with a walk to clear my head.”

  I’m offered a half-hearted apology and led from the interview room by the young detective.

  “Am I likely to hear anything further?” I ask as we walk back through the corridors.

  “Very unlikely, unless of course you are guilty and some actual evidence comes to light.”

  “Well, I’m not, so I’ll assume this is the end of it.”

  We reach the main entrance and he shakes my hand.

  I leave Charing Cross Police Station, with more unanswered questions than when I arrived.

  9.

  I cross The Strand and cut through a series of back roads until I reach the north bank of the Thames. I stop for a moment to survey the London skyline and gather my thoughts, most of which are spiked with irritation and disappointment.

  Simmering at the surface is Gabby’s attempt to sully my good name. How dare she cast such aspersions when it was her who skulked away in the night.

  But then, the disappointment. I have never understood how some people can engage in an act so intimate yet treat it with such wanton detachment, as if meaningless. Then again, I engaged in that act with somebody I barely knew and gave scant thought to the consequences. A victim of my own lustful hubris.

  I have to accept disappointment in myself as much as Gabby. The difference is that she is gone and I have to live with myself. I should really try and put this tawdry affair behind me and move on — sometimes it’s better to have unanswered questions than unpalatable answers. I text Rosa to say I’m on my way back, and with a bracing autumnal wind behind me, I set off under the Golden Jubilee Bridge towards Westminster.

  By the time I arrive back at the office, it’s lunchtime and Rosa isn’t at her desk. I have little appetite so settle for a cup of tea and two long-overdue aspirin. I check my emails and reply to half a dozen before Rosa returns.

  She hurries over to my desk, still decked in her grey tailored overcoat.

  “Is everything okay, William?” she asks, clearly concerned. “Debbie said you went to Charing Cross Police Station.”

  “Just a misunderstanding. It’s dealt with now.”

  “Right. Have you eaten?”

  “No.”

  She undoes the clasp on her handbag and withdraws a paper bag. “Chicken salad with Dijon mustard,” she says, handing it to me.

  In one second, all my pent up irritation dissipates.

  “How did you know?”

  “Jake in the sandwich shop. He said you always order the same thing.”

  “Of course,” I chuckle. “Thank you, Rosa.”

  “It’s no trouble,” she replies coyly. “I better get on.”

  She hangs up her coat and returns to her desk.

  Despite my lack of appetite, I don’t want to appear ungrateful so I eat the sandwich at my desk. Every mouthful tastes bitter; tainted with guilt. Would Rosa have been so kind, so considerate, if she knew of my shameful behaviour last night? A ridiculous notion but it almost feels like I cheated on her in some way.

  What was I thinking?

  I conclude I’d rather live with the unrealistic dream that is Rosa rather than the nightmare which was Gabby.

  I call across the office. “Have you heard anything from the event organisers about that list of delegates?”

  “Not yet. Do you want me to chase them up?”

  “No. Email them again and say we no longer need it.”

  That, as far as I am concerned, is that. Back to reality. Back to my blissfully mundane life.

  Two lengthy meetings fill my afternoon, followed by a concerted effort to clear the telephone list. By the time Rosa leaves I’ve dealt with all but one caller.

  I shut my computer down and check tomorrow’s diary; more meetings and a debate on immigration which is bound to attract a full house considering the current Brexit sensitivities. My party opened Pandora’s Box with the decision to hold a referendum and I know many of my colleagues now wish we could slam the lid shut and hide it in the back of a cupboard. The United Kingdom is now anything but united.

  I switch the lights off and leave the office.

  More often than not, I prefer to walk back to Blackfriars at the end of the working day. A brisk walk under dusky skies is not only good exercise, but offers a rare chance to think. There is much to think about this evening; mostly an introspection of my life.

  If I’ve learnt anything from last night, it’s that I long for companionship more than I realised. It is the only explanation why I acted so out of character. I believe it was John Donne who said no man is an island, and like many quotes, there has to be some truth in it. What I can do about my isolation is another matter.

  A colleague once suggested I should try online dating, and I did briefly consider it. However, I have always held the view that fate will intervene, and one day I will meet my soul mate. There is little appeal in allowing a computer algorithm to usurp fate and I’ve always been content to carry that belief. Last night’s events have brought home just how long I’ve been waiting and my belief has been somewhat undermined.

  As I turn from the bustle of Holborn into the quieter backwaters of Furnival Street, I consider whether it’s maybe time to be proactive. For this evening at least though, I will continue my single life in the sanctuary of Fitzgerald’s bar.

  I push open the door and pause for a moment to sniff the air. The scent of home cooked food and ale greets me. Fitzgerald’s first opened just over a century ago and has probably provided a place of refuge for thousands of men like me over the decades. Without question, its heyday was during the sixties and seventies when it was a fashionable members club. Nowadays, the backstreet location dictates a more flexible policy on who they allow in. Thankfully, that same location also ensures tourists, city types, and most of my colleagues aren’t aware Fitzgerald’s even exists.

  I approach the bar and perch on a stool while I wait to be served. At the far end sits Stephen; an actor who, to the best of my knowledge, hasn’t worked since the nineties. He always takes great pride in his appearance although he seems hell bent on destroying his once handsome features with excessive alcohol consumption. I don’t know how he earns a living as he seems to spend every waking hour in Fitzgerald’s — always the first in at opening time and the last to be ushered out before the doors close at night.

  “Evening, William” he slurs, waving an errant hand in my direction.

  He’s already quite intoxicated it seems, and I’d rather avoid a conversation. I reply with a nod and then cast my gaze across the room as if I’m looking for someone.

  It’s a quiet night and only five of the two dozen tables are occupied. Beyond the hushed chatter from the tables, Elton John’s Rocket Man is playing on the juke box in the corner. The juke box, an old Rock-Ola model, is full of vinyl from the seventies and embodies the spirit of Fitzgerald’s to a tee — stuck in the past. The landlord for the last twelve years, Frank, has something of an obsession with the bar’s glorious past, although his thirst to protect that heritage borders on neglect.

  “Alright, William. Usual?”

  I turn back to the bar where Frank is already pulling a pint of Old Speckled Hen.

  “Evening, Frank. What’s the special tonight?”

  “Br
aised beef casserole. Bloody lovely it is,” he replies, his jowly chops wobbling as he speaks. I suspect Frank’s face has always looked older than his years — it’s grizzly and furrowed, and not improved by his lack of hair. Yet despite the looks of a bulldog, Frank possesses the friendly nature of a Golden Retriever, albeit a bald, overweight Golden Retriever.

  “Splendid. I’ll take one of those too.”

  One of the main attractions of Fitzgerald’s is the food. The menu consists almost entirely of British classics, lovingly cooked from scratch by Frank’s wife, Jeanie. Unlike most of London’s eateries, they don’t call gravy, jus, and chips are served in a bowl rather than arranged in some Jenga-like formation. Some might call it old fashioned but I prefer authentic, unpretentious.

  I hand Frank a twenty pound note and as he jabs away at the till, the door to the kitchen swings open behind him. I would have expected to see Jeanie emerge, carrying plates laden with food. However, the man stood in the doorway could not be more different from the landlord’s diminutive wife.

  “Oi, Frank,” the man grunts. “Where’s the bleedin’ key for the cellar?”

  Frank slaps my change on the bar and waddles over to the man. I think it would be fair to say Frank is of average height yet he’s at least six inches shorter than the hulking brute by the doorway. The two men converse for a second before the big man disappears back through the door.

  Frank returns to the bar and offers an apologetic smile. “Sorry about that, William. We’re still working on his front of house skills.”

  “Clearly. I hope he’s not your new chef.”

  “No, Jeanie is still in charge of the kitchen,” he chuckles. “He’s just helping us out, doing a few odd jobs and the like. Apparently he used to work here before, as security.”

  “Really? I don’t recall ever seeing him, and he’s not the sort of chap you’d forget in a hurry.”

  “You wouldn’t have. It was before my time, so a good few years back. Interesting bloke though; he knows more about the history of this place than anyone I’ve ever met. And don’t go telling anyone, but he’s happy to work for a decent meal, free beer, and a few quid here and there.”

  “Rest assured, Frank, I won’t be reporting him to the Work & Pensions Minister. I quite like the way my facial features are currently arranged.”

  “Probably wise,” he replies before he waddles back down the bar to serve Stephen his umpteenth drink of the day.

  I grab my pint and wander over to my usual table in the corner, opposite the juke box. I like to eat my meal alone and then I usually return to the bar and chat with Frank and a few of the regulars for an hour or so. It’s not much of a social life but it does help to keep loneliness at bay during the long evenings.

  I take a seat, facing across the room, and pluck an abandoned copy of The Times from the adjacent table. I scan the main headline with little interest and flick through to the inner pages. Unsurprisingly, the news is almost exclusively negative. Not what I need this evening.

  I drop the paper on the table and sip my pint as the juke box emits a series of clunks and whirs. Seconds pass and the gentle crackle of a needle on vinyl leaks from the speaker. I am by no means an expert on seventies popular music, but I instantly recognise the record, Baker Street, for one simple reason — my mother played it a lot when I was a child. In fact, the juke box is stocked with dozens of records I recall from my childhood, before I started school. I wasn’t consciously aware of what I was listening to at the time but the voices and the rhythms became indelibly ingrained in my young mind. Perhaps the home cooked food and music from my childhood is why I feel so at ease here. There is comfort in familiarity.

  Time passes and I’m quite happy just to sit back, sip my ale, and listen to the eclectic sounds of Rod Stewart, Suzi Quatro, and Wings.

  I’m just about to fetch another pint when Frank appears with a tray containing an oversized bowl.

  “Enjoy,” he says, placing the bowl in front of me. It smells divine and only then do I realise just how hungry I am.

  “Thank you, Frank. Looks delicious, as always.”

  “Tell Jeanie when you’ve finished, unless you don’t enjoy it, in which case I’d keep quiet.”

  “Noted.”

  Frank leaves me to eat and within the first few mouthfuls, I’m confident I’ll have no cause for complaint; not that I ever have.

  I read the sports pages of The Times as I eat. Typically the news is less depressing, assuming England haven’t played rugby, cricket, or football in the proceeding twenty four hours.

  The juke box continues to play suitable background music and I enter a semi-conscious state as I read the paper and savour Jeanie’s home-cooked fayre. I’m halfway through reading an interesting article on grass roots football when I catch a flicker of movement from the corner of my eye. I drop the paper and almost choke on a mouthful of braised beef. It seems I have an uninvited dinner guest.

  “Good evening, William.”

  I swallow hard and try to regain my composure.

  “What are you doing here, Gabby?”

  10.

  There is no immediate answer to my question as she sips from a glass of white wine. Her navy business suit has been replaced with jeans and a brown leather jacket, and her dark hair styled differently. It irritates me to admit it, but the more casual look only enhances her physical appeal.

  She puts her glass down and unzips her jacket to reveal a low-cut blouse.

  “How are you?” she asks.

  “How am I? How do you think I am?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I asked.”

  I realise my fork is still in my hand. I toss it into the bowl and wipe my mouth with a napkin.

  “Let me see,” I eventually reply, my voice dripping with indignation. “I was abandoned in a hotel room last night, and this morning I was escorted to Charing Cross Police Station where I was accused of theft. So please, take a guess how I am.”

  “Oh, yes, that,” she replies in a dismissive tone. “Still, I knew they wouldn’t press charges so no real harm, eh?”

  Her casual manner is unsettling but I want answers.

  “If you knew they wouldn’t press charges, why bother? Did you even lose any money?”

  “Actually, no, I didn’t, but on an unrelated matter, did you sleep well?”

  “What?”

  “Last night. You were out like a light when I left — snoring away in the altogether.”

  I feel my cheeks redden. “Why did you leave like that?” I snap back.

  “Well, you were dead to the world so I didn’t see much point in hanging around.”

  I reach for my pint and swallow the last mouthful.

  “Same again?” she asks.

  I throw her a look which I hope makes my position clear. Whatever her game, I have no interest in playing it.

  “Don’t be like that, William. Let me get you a drink — I suspect you’re going to need it.”

  Before I can respond she gets up and saunters over to the bar. I consider leaving but my pride won’t tolerate being chased away.

  Gabby returns and places a full pint in front of me. She sits down and takes a quick sip of wine.

  “So, William. Shall we get down to business.”

  “Business? What business?”

  “Hansworth Hall. I’d like to buy it.”

  I stare at her, open mouthed. Of all the things I might have expected her to say, an offer to buy my family home would not have figured highly.

  “What? It’s not for sale, and even if it were, I doubt very much you could afford it.”

  A thin smile crosses her lips as she dips a hand in her jacket pocket. A pound coin is extracted and placed on the table in front of me.

  “See. I can afford it. You’re going to sell Hansworth Hall to me…for a pound.”

  Despite the thin smile, there is enough conviction in her voice to suggest she isn’t joking. I can only therefore conclude she’s mentally unhinged.

&n
bsp; I fight to keep my voice level. “You’re insane, woman. I’d like you to leave now, please.”

  Her face twists into a picture of mock indignation. “But what about our deal?”

  “I’m not going to justify that with an answer. Leave. Please.”

  Much to my surprise, she plucks the pound from the table and gets up. Just when I think she’s about to turn and walk away, she leans over the table.

  “Here’s the situation, William,” she spits. “You are going to sell Hansworth Hall to me, and I am going to pay a pound for it. Today’s events were simply an aperitif to whet your appetite. I guarantee you’ll be begging me to buy that house once the main course arrives.”

  I don’t appreciate either her trite analogy or threats. Something inside my head snaps and before I can stop myself, my hand is gripping her wrist.

  “Listen to me you stupid woman. I don’t know who you are or what’s going on in your head, but if I hear from you again, you’ll regret it. Clear?”

  “I’d let go if I were you,” she replies, her voice level, measured.

  I stare up at her, seething, my hand locked around her wrist, grip tightening. She remains calm and glances towards the bar. “See that big guy over there,” she says, nodding towards Frank’s odd job man, leant up against the bar. “When I bought your drink, I told him we were splitting up because you’re prone to violent outbursts. If I were to scream now, he’d be over here in a shot, and I don’t think that would end well for you.”

  I release my grip. “Go. Now,” I growl through gritted teeth.

  She winks at me. “I’ll be in touch, real soon.”

  With a flick of her hair, she walks away. The odd job man at the bar watches her leave before returning his attention to his half empty glass.

  I take a second to calm myself and reach for my own glass. It’s only then I realise my hand is shaking, such is my anger. A deep breath helps to alleviate the excess adrenaline and I gulp down half the content of my glass. The ale lacks sufficient alcohol to really take the edge of my agitation — I need something stronger. I neck the rest of the pint and head to the bar.