Wrong'un (Clement Book 2)

by Keith A Pearson

  “Well, you’re gonna have to. Get it right and this could all be over within a few days. Get it wrong and it could well blow up.”

  “Blow up?”

  “If Rosa suspects you know anything, she’ll tell Gabby. And that crazy sister of yours is likely to either tell the world about your dirty secret or turn the screw tighter.”

  To use Clement’s own turn of phrase, hearing the words sister and screw in the same sentence makes my balls itch.

  “I’m not sure how much tighter she can…I mean, make matters worse.”

  “I bet you said that a few days ago, just before things got worse.”

  “Fair point.”

  “So like it or not, Bill, you’ve gotta go to work on Monday and act cool. I’ve got an idea how we can flush Gabby out so you just need to play the game for one day.”

  We sit at the kitchen table and Clement reveals what I have to do. It’s a simple enough plan that, if executed properly, could give us some leverage against Gabby. But one thing I’ve learn about my new-found sister is to expect the unexpected, so I mindlessly stir my coffee while contemplating the ways it could backfire.

  To quote the Boomtown Rats, I don’t like Mondays, and I fear this coming Monday is going to be particularly unlikeable.

  25.

  The 06:33 service to London Waterloo rattles through the Hampshire countryside. I check the weather app on my phone to keep my mind distracted from what lies ahead this morning. It forecasts a cold, bleak day. How fitting.

  We’ve yet to stop at any of the larger stations en-route so the carriage is sparsely populated. I suspect it was equally quiet on Clement’s returns to London Saturday afternoon. I hate to admit it, but I was disappointed he declined my invitation to stay for the weekend. Apparently he promised Frank he’d work on Saturday night so I was left to stew in my lonesome juices. For all his weirdness, his propensity for violence, and obscene flatulence, he’s the closest thing I have to a friend and ally at the moment.

  With little else to do, or perhaps to avoid dwelling on today, I spent much of the weekend either asleep or tending the garden. Typically, I would visit the village pub on a Saturday evening but I was in no mood for idle chit-chat with the locals, or alcohol. This morning, however, a nip or two of brandy would be most welcome — purely for Dutch courage.

  The train continues onward, stopping at Southampton and Winchester. A handful of commuters get off but more get on; resulting in a frenzied game of musical chairs. Every seat is eventually taken with a few dozen poor souls left to stand in the gangway. It’s best to avoid eye contact as they glare resentfully at those fortunate enough to have secured a seat.

  The rural scenery of Hampshire is long forgotten by the time we pass through Clapham Junction. My anxiety levels are now too high to pay much attention to the urban scenery as I go over my plan for the umpteenth time. It is not so much the implementation that worries me; more the fact I have to pretend my trusted PA is not colluding with my sister in an attempt to ruin me. I’m still not convinced Rosa isn’t also being blackmailed by Gabby but that theory is immaterial at the moment. Perhaps, if things go according to plan, I might be able to establish her motives. Until then, I have to assume she’s a voluntary participant, and that stings.

  With my mind elsewhere, the final leg of my journey passes in an instant. Before I know it, the platform at Waterloo fills the window and my fellow commuters bustle towards the doors. I remain seated; content to stay where I am until the last possible minute. If I could stay here all day, and pretend my life was as mundane as it was when I made this journey a week ago, I would.

  If only.

  When all but the most reluctant of commuters have left the carriage, I get to my feet and check my watch — quarter past eight. For once, the train has arrived on time and in a little under fifteen minutes I’ll be in the same office as Rosa.

  I step from the carriage and remind myself that fortune favours the brave. I need to be the latter if I’m to avoid losing the former.

  A minute later, I enter the raging mass of humans that is Waterloo station during rush hour. It’s no place for the meek; more a place where good manners and patience are forgotten concepts. I head towards the Underground entrance where I’m absorbed into a tightly packed shoal of commuters.

  After an arduous shuffle to the platform and a brief train ride, I’m spat onto the platform at Westminster.

  Nerves jangling, I dart down the walkway towards the Palace of Westminster, passing the bored policeman. I’m so focused on my role I forget my customary nod in his direction. I doubt his day will be any the worse for it.

  Much to my relief, I arrive at the office before Rosa. It affords me the opportunity to settle in and look busy, which in turn will feel more like a typical Monday morning. Once she’s made the tea and we sit down to go through the diary, it’ll be the moment to enact Clement’s plan. It’ll also be the moment I’m most likely to mess that plan up if I can’t maintain my composure.

  I open a random folder on my desk and stare at the first page of a report. I’m greeted by blocks of words my brain can’t decipher. Nevertheless, I continue to stare at the page as the seconds tick by and the growls from my churning stomach grow louder.

  “Morning, William.”

  “Morning,” I rasp, my mouth dry.

  Rosa smiles at me while removing her coat. “Sounds like someone needs a cup of tea.”

  Without waiting for an answer she heads off to the kitchen. I watch her shimmy away; her curvaceous shape captured by the clingy two-piece suit — my beautiful deceiver.

  I stare into space and reassure myself Clement’s plan is the only way out of this. To show our hand at this stage could push Gabby towards the worst possible outcome; an outcome where my antics are not buried on page eight but make front page news. I can almost feel the big man in the room, willing me to keep my nerve and follow his plan to the letter. As much as anything, I don’t want to report back to him that I made a mess of it. I doubt he takes bad news well.

  “All set to go through the diary?” Rosa asks as she places a cup on my desk.

  It’s just another Monday morning, William.

  “Sure,” I reply. “And thank you.”

  Rosa pads over to her desk and returns with her notepad. She sits in her usual chair on the opposite side of my desk and crosses her legs.

  This is it.

  “We might need to switch a few things around today, Rosa.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “Yes, I’ve got a meeting with Fiona Hewitt at nine.”

  She studies the planner on her phone. “It’s not on my schedule.”

  “No. She called me over the weekend and wants to talk through a few things. Probably wants to close the file on last week’s…unpleasant episode.”

  “Right. No problem.”

  “And while I’m with Fiona, I need you to do a couple of urgent tasks for me.”

  “Sure.”

  “Firstly, I want you to contact the estate agents in Hampshire. Ask them if the tenants are willing to renew the lease on Hansworth Hall on the same terms as before.”

  Please, Rosa. Just agree without complaint.

  A crease forms on her forehead. “But I thought we agreed I could handle the lease?”

  Her spiky tone confirms my fears.

  “I did, but circumstances have changed.”

  “How have they changed?”

  “With respect, Rosa, that’s my business.”

  Her cheeks adopt a ruddy hue as she glares at me. “Is it because you don’t think I’m capable?”

  “No, it’s because I want to know if the tenants are willing to renew the lease,” I reply firmly. “I simply want to keep my options open.”

  “But, William…”

  “It’s not up for discussion, Rosa.”

  I pick up my teacup and take a long sip, hoping she takes the hint. As I look over my cup, our eyes meet. Both her expression and body language are taut, but not quite enough yo
u could say she was angry. Simmering, definitely, but not angry.

  I put the teacup down.

  “And when you’ve done that, can you contact an estate agent in the Blackfriars area to arrange a valuation of my flat.”

  If I wasn’t looking for signs, I probably wouldn’t have noticed her eyes narrow a fraction.

  “Are you thinking of moving then?” she replies, her voice calmer than I expected.

  “Possibly.”

  “But why? It’s in such a great location, perfect for work.”

  “I know, but I won’t be here forever, and besides, it’s ridiculous having all that money tied up in property when it could be put to good use.”

  “Good use?” she replies, her expression now puzzled.

  “I’m thinking of investing in a charitable venture. I can rent a flat for the foreseeable.”

  Her silence tells me she has no way of countering my idea without blowing her cover. With the worst of the lies behind me, I take an exaggerated glance at my watch.

  “If you could get on with that for me, we’ll deal with everything else when I return from my meeting with Fiona.”

  Before she can question me any further, I get to my feet and neck the remains of my tea.

  “I’ll be about half an hour.”

  I turn and leave without another word. The bait has been set so all I need to do is wait.

  Feelings of relief and monumental disappointment follow me on the walk to Fiona’s office. I’m relieved the first part of our plan went off without any obvious suspicions being raised, but Rosa’s reaction quashed any lingering doubts about her involvement. My thoughts turn to her motivation and a few quick sums give me the answer — almost seven million pounds. I doubt Gabby is offering a fifty percent split but even so, there’s enough value in my properties for her to make Rosa a millionaire. I don’t suppose you need to look much further than money for her motive.

  I reach Fiona’s office and her secretary shows me in.

  “Morning, William. Please, take a seat.”

  The last time I sat in front of Fiona’s desk, it was to watch a pornographic video in which I was the male lead. I’ll take some comfort in knowing that whatever happens in today’s meeting, it couldn’t possibly be as bad as the last.

  As I sit, Fiona asks for a moment to finish sending an urgent email. I nod and watch on as her fingers furiously tap the keyboard. Whatever she’s typing, it summons a deep furrow to form across her already lined forehead. Fiona might be just six years older than me, but the responsibility of office has added at least another decade. It prompts concern I might be staring at the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.

  “Sorry, William.”

  “No peace for the wicked?”

  “Quite,” she replies with a strained smile. “And I must have been bloody wicked at some point.”

  She looks as tired as I felt on Saturday morning.

  “Are you okay, Fiona? I can reschedule if it’s not a good time.”

  “Truth be told, there’s never a good time but needs must.”

  “Right. If you’re sure.”

  She nods and opens a folder on her desk.

  “So, we were talking about that newspaper article, if I’m not mistaken?”

  “Indeed.”

  “If it’s any consolation, there hasn’t been much in the way of fallout. I’ve received a few emails from opposition members; the usual faux outrage, but that was to be expected. Other than that, your non-story appears to have died the death it deserved. You’ve been very fortunate, I must say — these things have a nasty habit of escalating.”

  If only you knew, Fiona.

  “Good to know.”

  “However,” she continues. “I’m hoping we don’t witness a second coming. Is there anything else I should know?”

  I shift awkwardly in my chair. “All you need to know is that the situation is in hand.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, I’m dealing with it. Suffice to say, somebody had it in for me, but I’m confident we’ve found a resolution.”

  “Good. I trust you, William, so please don’t give me any cause to regret that trust.”

  “You have my word I’ll do whatever is necessary.”

  Seemingly content, she scribbles a few notes and closes the folder. “I’ve done what I’m compelled to do. I’ve opened a file, and now it’s closed. Let’s hope it stays that way.”

  It’s a sticking plaster on a gaping wound but one less thing to worry about, I suppose. I take a quick glance at my watch and ready myself to leave when Fiona moves the conversation along.

  “But what I really wanted to talk to you about was the other thing we discussed.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Yes, that. Are you seriously thinking about resigning?”

  “Thinking about it? Yes. Seriously? I’m not sure.”

  She leans forward, resting her elbows on the desk. “You want my advice?”

  “I always value your advice. You know that.”

  Her once lustrous eyes fix on mine. “Do it, William. Do it.”

  Not what I was expecting.

  “Sorry? Aren’t you supposed to talk me out of it?”

  “Would you like me to?”

  “I…I’m not sure.”

  “Look at me. This is what’s in store if you don’t get out while you’re still relatively young.”

  “I don’t understand. You’ve reached a position of great responsibility. You’ve got respect, authority, a distinguished career.”

  “Yes, but do you know what I haven’t got?”

  I shake my head.

  “A bloody life.”

  Somehow, her confession seems to have aged her a few more years.

  “To get this office,” she continues. “I’ve sacrificed relationships, marriage, children, my family. And do you know what’s waiting for me when I retire?”

  “A sizable pension?” I offer in an attempt to lighten her gloomy outlook.

  “Yes, a sizable pension I can spend on furnishing an empty house. Or on dining alone in the best restaurants. Or travelling the world while staying in single rooms.”

  She reaches across the desk and clasps my hand.

  “You’ll never be your father, and I mean that in a positive sense, but there is still time for you to be William Huxley. If you’ve got even the slightest inkling you don’t want to be here, please don’t make the same mistake I did. Get out while you still can.”

  It’s not often I get to hear somebody speak with total sincerity in this building. This is one such occasion.

  “Bubbles within a bubble,” I reply. “I didn’t know you were so unhappy in yours, Fiona.”

  She finds a half-smile. “My choice, and I have to live with it. I’m sorry to vent in your direction but I wouldn’t be much of a friend if I didn’t tell you how I really feel. I’m not looking for sympathy; I just wanted to give you the benefit of my experience.”

  “I appreciate it, but is it really too late for you?”

  “Sadly, it is. I’ve passed the point of no return, so I might as well stay on the Westminster treadmill. You, on the other hand, still have options.”

  I have no doubt Fiona is right, and I should consider a life beyond Westminster. Ultimately though, I will only have options if I can meet the challenge still waiting for me beyond the door of this office.

  “As always, Fiona, I appreciate your candid advice.”

  We both stand, and just as I expect her to shake my hand, she steps around the desk and embraces me.

  “You’re a good man, William,” She whispers in my ear. “Too good for this place.”

  I leave her to deal with her unenviable workload and head back through the corridors. As I walk, I check my phone for messages. If Clement’s theory is sound, there should be one from Gabby. As relieved as I am to see there is, and even without reading it, Rosa’s involvement is now proven beyond all refutable doubt.

  Now all I can hope is that we haven’
t overplayed our hand.

  I stop, draw a deep breath, and read the message.

  26.

  I’ll give Gabby credit for getting straight to the point…

  Call me within the hour or I give the newspaper your name.

  It’s as much as I could have hoped for. When I discussed this plan with Clement, I feared it was too risky. Telling Rosa that I’m considering renewing the lease on Hansworth Hall, and I might wish to sell the flat, could have pushed Gabby over the edge rather than into the open, where we need her. It seems Clement was right, though.

  I head to the gents toilets and check none of the cubicles are occupied. Satisfied I have the place to myself, I call Gabby’s number.

  “Morning, brother.”

  “What do you want, Gabby?”

  “I’ll tell you what I don’t want, and that’s to be messed around.”

  An ironic accusation, considering I was the one sent on a wild goose chase across the Isle of Wight. And as tempting as it is to divulge that we know about her mother’s death, Clement rightly suggested we keep that information to ourselves in case we need it down the line. With his instructions in mind, I steer the conversation in another direction.

  “You’re the one who’s messing around, with that bloody newspaper. Why did you do that, Gabby?”

  “That was just a taster of what’s to come if you don’t play ball.”

  “I am playing ball.”

  “Why don’t I believe you?”

  “Believe what you like.”

  I can imagine her on the other end of the phone, struggling to hide what Rosa told her this morning. One slip of the tongue and her mole will be compromised.

  “So, where are the contracts?” she snaps.

  “I spoke to my solicitor on Saturday morning and he assured me they’d be sent out today.”

  I can almost hear the cogs whirring. “You better not be lying.”

  “I gave him your solicitor’s details. Rather than harassing me, you should be checking in with your solicitor.”

  After a brief pause, she returns to type and issues another threat.

  “If I find out you’re up to something, William, I’ll give the newspaper your name in a heartbeat. And you know what happens after that, don’t you?”