Wrong'un (Clement Book 2)

by Keith A Pearson

  I get within ten feet when the odd job man suddenly turns around and stares at me. I catch his eye for a split second and drop my head.

  By the time I reach the bar I’m feeling decidedly uncomfortable. It seems this already awful day still has the potential to deteriorate further if the odd job man chooses to fight Gabby’s fallacious cause. I keep my attention locked on the wall behind the bar while I nervously wait for Frank to appear. Seconds pass and I can almost feel the man’s stare. Perhaps I’m being paranoid but it might be a good idea to leave now.

  Before I can make that decision, the odd job man wanders behind the bar and stands directly in front of me.

  “I reckon Frank is busy. What can I get you?”

  I look up at him. His meaty arms are folded across his chest, his expression unreadable.

  “Large brandy, please.”

  He grabs a tumbler and holds it under an optic for a few seconds before placing it on the bar in front of me.

  “On me,” he says, returning his arms to a folded position.

  I look up at him again, daring to hold my gaze for more than a second. “Thank you.”

  His cold blue eyes stare back at me, and continue to do so as I take a gulp of brandy. The dark brown liquid brings a welcome burn, although not as intense as the burn of the big man’s gaze. I place the tumbler back on the bar and chance another look. Still, he continues to stare down at me. The silence is intolerable and I can’t bear it any longer.

  “Whatever she told you, it was a lie.”

  “Who?”

  “The woman who just left. She said she told you something about me.”

  “She didn’t say anything to me, mate.”

  I shake my head. Gullible fool.

  “I’ll tell you something for nothing, though,” he adds. “She’s a wrong’un.”

  As I look up, he’s stroking his moustache; some sort of retro affair framing his mouth like a horseshoe, and sandwiched between expansive sideburns. Coupled with his denim waistcoat, his general appearance seems to fit perfectly with the dated decor in Fitzgerald’s.

  “What makes you say that?” I hesitantly ask.

  “Just a little voice in my head,” he replies, absolutely dead pan.

  I don’t know whether he’s being serious or pulling my leg so I decide not to react and take another gulp of brandy, emptying the tumbler.

  “Same again,” he asks.

  As tempting as it is, something about the man makes me feel uneasy, and besides, I just want to go home, climb into bed, and try to forget about the last twenty-four hours.

  “No, thank you, but please, let me buy you one.”

  His lips curl into a slight smile. “Nah, you’re alright mate. Cheers for offering though.”

  I nod, and as I turn to leave, he holds out a pan-like hand.

  “Clement.”

  I shake his hand and for the first time, realise what it must feel like for a child to shake an adult’s hand.

  “William. William Huxley.”

  He releases my hand from his grip and fixes his blue eyes on me again. “I’ll see you around, Bill.”

  If anyone else had called me Bill, I’d have immediately corrected them. In this case, I think it would be wise to let it pass.

  “Goodnight…Clement.”

  He never clarified if Clement was his first or last name. I’m relieved when he nods at my assumption.

  I can feel his stare all the way to the door.

  The two-minute walk back to the flat provides a woefully inadequate window to assess the evening’s events. My mind is still ablaze with questions by the time I step through the front door. As tired as I am, sleep seems unlikely so I pour myself a brandy and slump down on the sofa.

  The room is as silent as any city dwelling is ever likely to be. The triple glazed windows do a decent job of keeping the worst of London at bay but there is always a faint background hum, occasionally pierced by the sirens of emergency vehicles.

  I sip at the brandy and try to untangle the nest of questions, searching for a loose end to grasp. Two questions eventually present themselves: who is Gabby and how did she know about Hansworth Hall?

  The first question is the same question I had this morning, and I might now have an answer if I hadn’t told Rosa not to bother with that delegates list. With little else to go on, I’ll have to ask her to go back to the event organisers tomorrow. As for her knowledge of Hansworth Hall, that’s an easier question to answer as I have a fairly visible profile online and there are several Wikipedia pages with information about the house and my family. It wouldn’t take Sherlock Holmes to establish my ownership of the house, or indeed the value.

  I take another sip of brandy and let my thoughts continue on their path.

  Although I might have partially answered the two most pertinent questions, they both lead to another: why is Gabby so certain I’d entertain such a ridiculous proposition as selling my family home for a pound?

  I can only assume today’s allegations to the police were meant to unsettle me, and a more serious allegation will soon be lodged, but what? There are no skeletons in my closet and I’ve always been extremely careful to avoid potentially compromising situations. As tawdry as it may have been, the fact we had sex in a hotel room is hardly tabloid gold — I doubt anyone could care less that an insignificant backbench politician had a one-night stand.

  As I let that fact settle, I feel slightly more confident Gabby’s gun has no bullets. In fact, there is something vaguely familiar about this whole set up.

  I seem to recall, some years ago, one of my colleagues becoming embroiled in a rather sordid affair after he slept with a woman at a conference. Unfortunately for him, he was married and therefore his blackmailer had leverage. I think his indiscretion only came to light after he tried to remortgage the marital home and his wife found out. I believe the term the newspapers used was honey trap.

  It now seems I am the intended victim of a similar plot. As distasteful as it might be, I suspect Gabby only slept with me in order to create leverage, in the hope I’d be stupid enough to sell a multi-million-pound property for a pound. If I don’t play ball, which clearly I won’t, I’m guessing her next move will be a threat to sell her story to the newspapers. I’ll give her some credit in that she probably thinks this is a win-win situation. Either I concede to her blackmail, or she sells her story to the newspapers in return for a sizeable cheque. What she has failed to realise is that no newspaper would pay anything for her non-story.

  I think it’s safe to say Gabby has overplayed her hand on this occasion. I’m no gambler, but even I know bluffing will only take you so far.

  Satisfied I’ve thwarted Gabby’s plan before it’s even been properly deployed, I down the remaining brandy in my glass and head to the bedroom. Tomorrow will be the last day I ever have to consider that damn woman.

  11.

  There is no place of greater sanctuary than one’s own bed, and I awake feeling significantly better than when I awoke yesterday.

  My morning ablutions are promptly completed and I take thirty minutes to prepare and consume a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs on toast with button mushrooms and grilled tomatoes. By the time I leave the flat, I feel positively chipper.

  Today will be the day I put that heinous woman in her place, and perhaps give fate a nudge to ensure I don’t find myself in a similar situation again.

  A threat to my buoyant mood arrives as I step out of the lift. My new phone hails the arrival of a text message with a cheerful, and annoyingly loud tone…

  Ready to do that deal? Gabby x

  I allow myself a wry smile. She has no idea I’m one step ahead of her. I intend to establish her surname with that delegate list, and then I will be the one making allegations to the police. I’ll let her sweat for now, though. I tuck my phone back in my pocket, her text unanswered.

  I arrive at the office before Rosa and in lieu of her kindness yesterday lunchtime, I make us both a cup of tea. She arrive
s just as I’m placing the cup on her desk.

  “Morning, Rosa.”

  She stares at the cup and then at me. “I hope that isn’t a sweetener, William. The first thing people do when there’s bad news is make tea.”

  “There’s no bad news this morning. Well, apart from the fact I need you to email those event organisers again.”

  “Again?”

  “I need that list of delegates after all. Sorry.”

  She doesn’t complain and dutifully makes a note on her pad. “Leave it with me.”

  We go through our morning routine and once I have my to-do list, Rosa returns to her desk. I have an hour before my first meeting and one pressing task to perform before I get down to my parliamentary work. I open Gabby’s message on my phone and compose a reply…

  No deal. And rest assured, your plan is going to backfire. Watch this space…

  I send it and sit back in my chair, content I now have the upper hand. My only disappointment is I won’t be able to see her face when she receives the text message. I place my phone on the desk, just in case she decides to promptly concede defeat, and get on with the planning for my meeting.

  The next hour passes quickly and as ten o’clock approaches, I gather up my files and folders.

  “Right. I’m off. I shouldn’t be more than an hour or so.”

  Rosa glances up from her monitor and acknowledges me with a nod; her elegant fingers continuing their dance across the keyboard.

  I leave the office and check my phone as I hurry through the corridors. My text to Gabby remains unanswered which I hope is a good thing. I don’t think she anticipated resistance and clearly there is no plan-B. I can almost imagine her frantically calling every newspaper editor and receiving short shrift from all of them. It’s a thought that amuses me somewhat.

  Unfortunately, my amusement is short-lived once the meeting begins and the committee chairman commences his Powerpoint presentation — over fifty slides containing an unfathomable series of charts, diagrams, and corporate jargon about core competences and untapped personnel streams. It is, to coin a phrase muttered by the chap sat next to me, “complete and utter bollocks.”

  The tedium eventually draws to a close as I mourn seventy minutes of my life I’ll never get back. Beyond the fact my brain aches, the meeting over-ran which will have a knock on effect for the rest of my day. I’m the first to leave the room once the meeting concludes.

  As I wander back to the office, I switch my phone back on and check for messages. Still nothing from Gabby but there is one unexpected message from Fiona Hewitt, the Parliamentary Commissioner for Standards. Six years my senior, I know Fiona well as we both entered office the same year, although her career path has followed an upward trajectory while mine has flatlined. She is, however, somebody I would class as much a friend as a colleague.

  Curious, I open her message…

  William — come to my office the second you get this. It’s urgent.

  My curiosity remains piqued. The Commissioner’s role is to regulate the conduct of all serving members of parliament, and any request for a meeting would usually be greeted with abject fear. However, my conduct is beyond reproach so I hold no such fear. It is most likely to discuss one of my colleagues — a few of whom continue to push the regulatory boundaries. I have no desire to play snitch, but I will certainly offer Fiona any assistance I can, especially if rules have been broken.

  I change course and head up to Fiona’s office.

  When I arrive, her secretary greets me with more a smirk than a smile. “Good morning, Mr Huxley. Please, go on in — she’s expecting you.”

  I ignore her odd reception and rap on the door to Fiona’s office, just out of politeness, and push it open. Fiona is stood behind her desk, as if awaiting my arrival. “Thank heavens you’re here,” she blurts. “Please take a seat, William.”

  Whatever crisis is behind my summoning, it has clearly flustered the usually unflappable Commissioner. Fiona continues to stand, even after I’ve taken a seat in front of her desk. She fingers a strand of grey hair while staring at the ceiling, as if deep in thought.

  “Fiona?”

  Seconds pass before she regains her focus and sits down. Her behaviour is now becoming a concern and I’m about to enquire about her wellbeing when she sits forward.

  “William. We have something of a problem.”

  “Right.”

  “And when I say we have a problem, what I mean is you have a problem.”

  “Do I?”

  Her eyebrows arch. “You don’t know what I’m referring to, do you?”

  “I don’t have the first clue, no.”

  “Oh dear, this is incredibly awkward. I’m not sure where to start.”

  “I usually find the beginning works.”

  I’ve always admired Fiona’s diplomacy skills but it appears she’s struggling to find the right words on this occasion.

  “I do have another meeting in an hour,” I add, hoping to add some urgency to proceedings.

  She sits back and puffs out her cheeks. “There’s no way to sugar-coat this, William, so I might as well get straight to it.”

  “Appreciated.”

  “Forty minutes ago, an email was sent to every recipient on the general communications list.”

  “The general communications list?”

  “Yes. Our IT department created scores of segmented lists, each containing various recipients for email correspondence. The general communications list contains the email address of everyone who works in the Palace of Westminster. It’s used for things like safety notices, security briefings, and any information we need everyone to see.”

  “Right.”

  “So, the email sent to the list was formatted in such a way it managed to bypass our spam filters. As best we can tell, everyone who works in this building would have received it.”

  “This is all very interesting, Fiona, but I fail to see how that is my problem.”

  “You clearly haven’t seen it, so let me show you the email.”

  She twists her computer monitor so we can both view the screen and then clicks her mouse a few times. An email pops up, containing just a single line of text…

  It is imperative that ALL parliamentary staff view this video — this is a matter of national security. CLICK HERE.

  The last two words are blue, indicating a link to a website.

  “Are you going to click the link then?” I ask.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, William. I can tell you what’s at the end of that link; there’s no need for you to see it.”

  “Well, if everyone received a copy of the email, I can easily check myself so you might as well click it.”

  She pauses for a moment but clicks the link, and immediately turns away from the screen.

  A browser window opens up to display a video player on a black background. A spinning disc whirls over the video player while it buffers. I glance across at Fiona but her attention is firmly fixed on the wall.

  I turn back to the screen just in time to see the start of the video.

  For the first few seconds I struggle to determine what I’m looking at. I lean forward to get a better view, and once I establish the what, the utter horror of the who hits home.

  From the centre of the eight-inch video screen, a familiar face stares straight down the camera lens — Gabby’s. The fact she is naked, and on all fours, is only the tip of the abominable iceberg. The intended star of this particular show is positioned beyond Gabby; on his knees, clasping her waist, and thrusting back and forth in a mechanical manner.

  Words finally escape. “Oh…Christ!”

  Already wishing the earth would swallow me whole, the action intensifies. My right hand slaps Gabby’s bare backside. Then again, and again. If the imagery wasn’t bad enough, the soundtrack completes my shame as I can clearly be heard braying Gabby’s name between breathless grunts.

  The browser window suddenly closes.

  I turn my he
ad to find Fiona’s hand on the mouse. “I think that’s enough, don’t you?”

  Elbows on the desk, my head falls into my hands — partly in despair, partly so I don’t have to look at Fiona.

  “I’m sorry. I did warn you,” she says, her voice firm but sympathetic.

  Her words fall away as my mind closes in on itself, much like it did after my mother passed. At this precise moment I would willingly join her. Without hesitation, I would grasp Death’s cold hand if it was accompanied by a promise to take me away from the living hell which awaits.

  Sadly, it is not Death who calls my name, but Fiona.

  “William. Are you okay?”

  I feel a hand on my shoulder as, one by one, my senses tune in to the world beyond my mind.

  “William?” she repeats.

  I look up. Fiona has moved from her chair and is now perched on the desk beside me.

  “I shouldn’t have let you see that,” she says. “I’m so sorry.”

  In a desperate search for composure, I squeeze my eyes shut and suck long breaths over gritted teeth. Seconds pass and the tightening knot of shame in my chest finally snaps, giving way to anger. I welcome it, embrace it. Anger can be controlled, funnelled, but shame knows no master.

  I swallow hard. “Fiona. The fact I saw it is inconsequential. What concerns me…no…what horrifies me, is who else has seen it.”

  “I know, and there is nothing you or I can do about that. We need to focus on damage limitation.”

  The anger continues to boil and it takes some effort not to vent at Fiona. “Damage limitation? Seriously? Don’t you think it’s a bit late for that?”

  “Not at all. Our IT guys managed to pull it from the server as soon as we realised what it was, and I’ve already sent out a warning to every member of staff, stating that the email should be deleted immediately. I also made it clear that anyone found to have forwarded it will face disciplinary action.”

  I shake my head. “How many people were on the original distribution list?”