Wrong'un (Clement Book 2)

by Keith A Pearson

  I stare at the bank statement in Clement’s meaty hand. It is quite a revelation but my addled brain can’t fathom out what we do with this new information.

  As if reading my mind, Clement makes a suggestion. “We need to find this Kenneth bloke.”

  “Why?”

  “He was the only one involved who ain’t trying to blackmail you. And cos’ he’s a bloke, I can beat the shit out of him if he don’t answer our questions.”

  I’d rather not consider how well versed Clement is in the art of torture, but he does have a point about Kenneth being our best bet for answers.

  “So the question is,” he adds. “How do we find the bloke?”

  I rummage in my pocket and pull out my phone. “I think I might know somebody who can help.”

  “Who?”

  “Judith Dixon. She looked after my father’s personnel needs and this Kenneth guy might be listed as Susan’s next of kin on her old work records. If he is, there should also be an address.”

  I scan the contacts in my phone.

  “You know it’s Saturday, right?” Clement says.

  Such is my excitement at our discovery, I hadn’t even stopped to think what day it is.

  “Dammit. Of course.”

  “Afraid you’re gonna have to wait until Monday, Bill.”

  I sit and tap my phone screen. I can’t sit on this until Monday so I need another angle.

  “I’m going to call her anyway.”

  “And say what?”

  “It’s only been a few days since Judith dug out Susan’s record so it might still be fresh in her mind.”

  I don’t hold out much hope but it beats doing nothing. I continue to scroll through my contacts until Judith’s number pops up. It rings for what feels like an age.

  “Hello, William,” she eventually chirps.

  “Morning, Judith. I’m so sorry to call you on a Saturday. I hope I’ve not caught you at a bad moment?”

  “Not at all. I’ve just got back from walking the dog.”

  I’m forced to swap small talk for a few minutes before I can broach the reason for my call.

  “Do you remember Rosa asking for some information from a personnel file the other day? It was for my father’s former personal assistant, Susan Davies. I was going to send her some photographs.”

  “Oh, yes. I do recall.”

  “Great. I know this is an odd question, and it’s probably a long shot, but I don’t suppose you recall who Susan’s next of kin is?”

  “I’m afraid my memory isn’t what it once was. Sorry, William.”

  “I understand, Judith, and there’s no need to apologise.”

  That’s plan-A derailed. Time to move on to plan-B.

  “Do you remember Susan at all?”

  “Vaguely, and the only reason I do is because I got into a bit of an argument with your father about her.”

  “Really? Why was that?”

  “Susan left without giving notice. Apparently your father was perfectly willing to let her go but it was a breach of contract and he should have consulted with me first.”

  Her revelation comes as no surprise. I bet my father wanted rid of Susan the moment she dropped her pregnancy bombshell.

  “Sounds like my father. He never was one for following rules.”

  We swap a few anecdotes about my father before I decide there is nothing further to be gleaned from Judith today. I apologise again for interrupting her weekend and make one final request.

  “Would you mind looking up Susan’s next of kin when you get back to the office on Monday?”

  “Of course. I’ll get on to it first thing.”

  “Thank you, Judith.”

  “And I’m sorry Susan never got to see those photographs. Such a tragedy.”

  I only half catch her comment as it was delivered in such a throwaway manner.

  “Sorry, Judith…what was a tragedy?”

  The line goes quiet.

  “Judith?”

  “You don’t know?” she finally replies in hushed voice.

  “Know what?”

  “I’m sorry, William. I thought you knew, and that’s why you wanted details of her next of kin.”

  I draw a deep breath in an attempt to contain my frustration. “Judith. Whatever it is you think I know about Susan, I’m afraid I don’t.”

  Another pause, followed by a long sigh. “I’m sorry, William, but Susan Davies died in a car crash twelve years ago.”

  24.

  My backside meets the edge of the bed again; more a shocked stumble on this occasion.

  “Susan Davies is dead?” I reply in disbelief.

  I glance across at Clement to check he heard. His expression is what I’d expect from someone who has just returned from visiting an apparently dead woman.

  “Yes, I’m afraid she is,” Judith confirms.

  “Are you sure?”

  “We sent flowers to her funeral, so yes, I’m sure.”

  I struggle to keep my voice level. “So why on earth did you tell Rosa she was happily living on the Isle of Wight?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Rosa asked for Susan’s address and you emailed her an address in Sandown, on the Isle of Wight.”

  “Yes, William,” she replies, her tone now defensive. “I know where Sandown is, thank you. But I can assure you I did no such thing.”

  “Wait. You never emailed Rosa?”

  “No, I did, but not with an address. My email pretty much said what I just told you; that Susan Davies died twelve years ago.”

  My head pounds with confused thoughts, to the point where it’s no longer possible to simultaneously hold a conversation and think clearly.

  “I…err…I’m sorry, Judith. Clearly there’s been a mix up my end so I’ll give you a call on Monday when you’re back in the office.”

  I say goodbye and end the call.

  “Did I hear that right?” Clement asks before I have chance to catch my breath.

  I nod.

  “So that woman we went to see ain’t Susan Davies?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Interesting,” he mutters while stroking his moustache.

  Silence descends while we process Judith’s revelation.

  Clement is the first to break it. “Who’s Rosa?”

  “She’s my PA.”

  “Your what?”

  “Personal assistant, like a secretary.”

  “And what’s she got to do with all of this?”

  The fact I’m unsure how to frame my answer, is telling. “I don’t know.”

  “Tell me what you do know then.”

  I think back to my conversation with Rosa and attempt to relay as much as I can recall.

  “I asked Rosa to email Judith in order to find out Susan’s address. When I got back from a meeting, she gave me a slip of paper with the address in Sandown.”

  “Right.”

  “But Judith was very insistent she told Rosa that Susan had died.”

  “So why would this Rosa woman give you some bullshit address if she knew Susan was dead?”

  I don’t have an answer and my expression says as much. Clement wanders over to the window and stares out. Silent seconds pass before he turns around and leans against the ledge.

  “You reckon she’s working with Gabby?”

  It’s a reasonable conclusion but not one I can readily accept.

  “I know it looks bad but she could just as easily have made a mistake.”

  There is a distinct lack of conviction in my reply and Clement immediately picks up on it.

  “I’m guessing she’s good at her job?”

  “Very.”

  “That’s one hell of a fuck up then, Bill. I might believe it was a mistake if she’d got an address wrong, but she was told the bloody woman was dead.”

  “I know, I know. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  After a brief pause, he continues the interrogation. “How long has she worked for you?”
<
br />   “Less than three months.”

  He shakes his head. “Jesus.”

  I can guess at what he’s thinking and suspect we’re drawing the same conclusions, albeit mine are more informed. The fact my previous PA left in such a hurry, with no real explanation yet able to recommend Rosa, suddenly feels like another part of Gabby’s grand plan.

  It doesn’t take much imagination to guess why she’d want somebody in my office. One by one, the dominoes topple.

  Firstly, there was Rosa’s insistence on delaying the new lease on Hansworth Hall, which ensured it could be sold without complications. Then there was the mix up with my arrival time for the speech which put me in a chair next to Gabby for over an hour. And then that damn video, which could have only been emailed to my colleagues by someone who knew how our email system works.

  But as damning as the evidence might be, I simply can’t correlate Rosa’s actions with her overall demeanour. If it does transpire she’s been working with Gabby, there has to be an explanation.

  That assumption points my train of thought in a different direction.

  “Perhaps Gabby is blackmailing Rosa too.”

  “Wouldn’t put it past her. Seems a bit over the top though.”

  “We’re talking about Gabby here, and she’s planned everything else so meticulously. Blackmailing Rosa would allow her access to information she couldn’t otherwise get. It does make sense.”

  I’m not sure if he’s convinced but it appears his thoughts are already heading off on another tangent.

  “What about the woman in Sandown?” he asks.

  “The woman who definitely isn’t Susan Davies?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about her?”

  “Who the hell is she, and why was she happy playing the part?”

  “I’m guessing she’s some stooge Gabby hired. If you think about it, it’s pretty obvious our first move would be to speak to her mother.”

  Clement nods in agreement.

  “But why bother sending us to the Isle of Wight?” I add. “What possible reason would Gabby have for pretending her mother is still alive?”

  “Buggered if I know, but maybe she’s just messing with us so we waste time. You know, like a distraction.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “But, thinking about it, she’s given us a lead.”

  “How so?”

  “The problem is, we know bugger all about Gabby. We don’t know where she lives, where she works, who her friends are, or anything really.”

  “Agreed.”

  “So we don’t have any leverage. We can’t fight back cos’ it’s like trying to punch a shadow.”

  “Right. And what leverage do we have that we didn’t have twenty minutes ago?”

  “The woman pretending to be her old dear. She’s obviously in cahoots with Gabby and we know where she lives — that’s our best point of attack.”

  “Please don’t tell me you want to go back to Sandown.”

  “We need to know who that woman really is. Once we know that, we’ve got leverage on Gabby.”

  There are many reasons I don’t want to go back to the Isle of Wight, not least because I feel like death. Thankfully, my desire not to return does serve up an alternative solution.

  “I’ve got a better idea. Come with me.”

  I lead Clement downstairs to the dining room which serves as a home office.

  “Grab a chair.”

  He does as instructed and we sit side-by-side at my desk. I switch on a computer almost as archaic as the one in my office.

  “What’s this idea then?” Clement asks.

  “Rather than asking her who she really is, we check her electoral role entry online. That’ll give us her full name.”

  “How does that help? We need more than her bleedin’ name.”

  “Once we know who she is, we can search for her on the social media platforms and on Google. Very few people can avoid leaving a digital footprint of some sort online. We just need to find that one piece of information that connects her to Gabby.”

  He stares at me blankly. “I have no idea what most of that means.”

  I return his blank stare. “You really are a technophobe, aren’t you?”

  “Again, no idea.”

  “Honestly, Clement. I thought I was a dinosaur when it came to technology but I’m virtually Steve Jobs compared to you.”

  “Steve who?”

  “Steve Jobs, the founder of Apple?”

  “I thought The Beatles founded Apple.”

  “No…what? They did, but that was a different company called Apple.”

  “So what’s so special about this Steve Jobs fella?”

  “Good grief,” I groan. “I was just making a point. All you need to know is he was very clever, and now he’s very dead.”

  “I know the feeling,” Clement mutters in reply.

  I roll my eyes and count to five in my head in an attempt to quell my annoyance. “What is it with you and all these odd comments?”

  “What odd comments?”

  “About death and such like? You’ve made several throwaway comments on the subject.”

  “Nothing. Forget it.”

  “No, Clement,” I snap. “Quite frankly, it’s becoming more than a little disturbing. Is there something I should know?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like, are you on the run for murder or something? You keep mentioning death as if you’re overly familiar with the subject.”

  “Just forget it, Bill. And for the record, I’m not on the run.”

  The computer finally boots up, sparking a reminder I have more pressing questions that need answers.

  “Anyway, let’s get back to Susan Davies shall we?”

  I conduct a search on Google for electoral role records and click through to a website which allows users to search by either name or property address. I enter fake Susan’s Sandown address and strike the enter key.

  As much as I love living in the country, the one downside is the woefully slow broadband connection. It takes an age for the next page to load but I’m relieved it shows the address we’re after. Annoyingly, I have to register to view the occupant’s name, and that involves a tedious process of entering my details and making a payment.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m returned to the home page where I have to search the Sandown address again. More single finger strokes are applied to the keyboard before I strike the enter key again.

  “Here we go.”

  We both stare at the screen as a spinning disc indicates the information is loading. The home page goes blank while the browser waits for the results page to load.

  “Bloody broadband.”

  Slowly but surely, the real name of the woman from Sandown is revealed.

  “Barbara Jones,” Clement mumbles.

  “Oh dear.”

  “What? Does that name mean something to you.”

  “It might just be a coincidence. It’s a very common surname.”

  “Bill?”

  “Rosa’s surname is Jones.”

  “Bloody hell. And you reckon it’s a coincidence?”

  The tone of his voice suggests he doesn’t.

  “I don’t know what to think, Clement.”

  The evidence against Rosa is stacking up. I picture her face, in all its beauty, and then compare it to the woman we met in Sandown. The eyes, the nose, the shape of the brow — if you stood the two women side by side and asked ten strangers if they were related, I’d wager eight of those strangers would say they were.

  “I think you need to face facts, Bill. Your girl is up to her neck in this.”

  Even if I could explain away her involvement this week, which I can’t, knowing the two women share a surname and similar facial features eliminates any lingering doubt. They have to be related, which means Rosa has to be involved in Gabby’s plot.

  The nausea returns.

  “I need water.”

  I get up and stagger through
to the kitchen. Leaning against the sink, I turn the tap on and scoop handful after handful of water towards my mouth. I gulp down seven or eight mouthfuls before I stop. It succeeds in flushing the bile but a bitter taste remains.

  How could I have been so stupid, so blind?

  Those little signals Rosa gave me; the ones I foolishly misinterpreted as signs of affection, were simply wicked lures. The technique might have been more subtle but she played me in much the same way Gabby did. The worst of it is, I allowed them both to do it. So desperate for companionship, I made it easy for them to exploit my loneliness, and they did so with cold indifference.

  “You alright, Bill?”

  I turn around. Clement is stood in the doorway.

  “Not really. I’ve been a bloody fool.”

  “We’ve all been there, mate.”

  Well intended as his words are, they offer little in the way of consolation.

  “No point beating yourself up about it, though,” he adds, stepping into the kitchen. “The only way you’re gonna feel better is if we stick it to that bitch.”

  I suppose he’s right. No good dwelling on the symptoms when I need to find a cure. Not for the first time, I consider how things might pan out if I involve the police. Not for the first time, I conclude it’s a non-option.

  “How do I stick it to her then?”

  “First, we need to lay a trap for your girl, to make sure she’s definitely involved.”

  “You suspect she might not be?” I ask hopefully.

  “Nah, I reckon she’s bent as a nine-bob note, mate. We just need to be sure.”

  Hope thwarted, I decide our planning needs an injection of caffeine. I put the kettle on while Clement takes a seat at the kitchen table.

  “You any good at acting?” he asks.

  “Can’t say I’ve ever tried. Why?”

  “Cos’ Monday morning, you’re gonna need to pretend you don’t know anything about that Rosa’s involvement.”

  “But surely we should be confronting her with our allegations?”

  “And then what? She goes to ground and we lose our closest tie to Gabby.”

  The thought of going through the motions with Rosa, like it’s just another day, fills me with dread.

  “I’m not sure, Clement. At this precise moment I want to scream at the woman. I really don’t know if I’ll be able to act as if nothing has happened.”