I can sense the dynamic shifting, and her usually calm, controlled voice has a strained undercurrent. I might have wrestled control of this conversation, but she still has me cornered in every other respect. I need to keep that in mind.
“Everything is in hand, Gabby. Just leave me alone and you’ll get what’s yours.”
I hang up.
With one more fact to check before we can move forward, I call another number.
“Good morning. Hassard & Partners,” a female voice answers.
I ask to be put through to the senior partner, Dominic Hassard. After a short rendition of Greensleeves, I’m connected to the man I originally instructed to handle the lease on Hansworth Hall.
“Ah, Mr Huxley. I’m so glad you called. It’s been a while.”
“Yes, my apologies I’ve been a little tardy. I understand my PA has been dealing with the lease renewal?”
“Um, yes, she has,” he replies a little hesitantly.
“Can you just bring me up to speed on where we are please, Dominic?”
“Well, your PA gave strict instructions not to renew the lease, or to bother you with the matter for the next few weeks. She said you have some major parliamentary situation to deal with and shouldn’t be disturbed under any circumstances.”
“Right. And has she contacted you this morning?”
“I’m pretty sure she hasn’t, but if you can give me a moment I’ll check.”
I’m treated to more Greensleeves while he checks.
“We’ve not heard anything this morning, Mr Huxley.”
“Are you absolutely sure?”
“We’re not a large firm and there are only four of us in the office. Nobody has received an email or telephone call from your PA.”
“Okay, thank you, Dominic. Can I ask a favour?”
“Ask away.”
“Can you advise your staff not to accept instructions from anyone other than myself. If they receive any emails, just acknowledge receipt and forward them to my private email account. The same goes for any future communications from your office — everything must be sent to my private email account.”
“Of course. And can I ask, what is the situation with Hansworth Hall? The tenants are getting a little anxious and want to know if they should start looking for alternative premises.”
“Can you pass on my apologies and advise them I’ll be in a position to offer a definitive decision by the end of the week. Ideally, I’d like them to stay but there are a few issues beyond my control I need to address first.”
“I’m sure they’ll welcome that news. I’ll pass it on.”
I end the call.
As angry as I am with Rosa for her now obvious duplicity, I’m just as angry with myself for allowing it to happen right under my nose. There is a fine line between trust and naivety, and I’ve inadvertently wandered beyond that line.
I return to the office.
Rosa is sat at her desk and stops typing the moment I step through the door.
“Everything okay?” she asks, smiling up at me.
The nerve of the woman.
“Fine, thanks.”
I sit at my desk and sort through a random pile of paperwork in an attempt to portray normality.
“Did you email the estate agents in Hampshire for me?” I casually ask.
“I did, within five minutes of you leaving for your meeting.”
Her lie is faultlessly delivered. Cold comfort, but I doubt many would be able to see beyond her confident smile.
“Good. And the valuation on the flat?”
“All in hand. I asked an agent to pop round next Tuesday evening at six if that’s okay?”
“Oh, they couldn’t fit me in this week?”
“Apparently it’s a very busy time of the year.”
Another lie I’m sure, but it’s of little consequence. I really don’t wish to know the true value of the flat in case Gabby’s plot succeeds. Losing a home is one thing; knowing the exact monetary value of that loss is quite another.
She returns to her typing and I return to my paper shuffling. Just a typical Monday morning — two colleagues going about their business, with one of them involved in a multi-million-pound blackmail plot against the other. All perfectly normal.
I can’t bear it.
Every fibre of my being wants to confront her. I want her to know just how much suffering she’s brought to my door. I want to unleash the bitterness, the resentment, and the anxiety I’ve carried since Gabby entered my life. Why should I have to suppress my rage when one of the architects is just across the room from me?
I can scarcely bring myself to breathe the same air as the woman, let alone continue this charade of normality all day.
“I’m really not feeling too well. I think I might have to go home.”
“Oh dear,” Rosa replies with mock concern. “What’s wrong?”
“I suspect that bug is still lingering. Can you cope on your own for the rest of the day?”
“Of course,” she coos, perhaps equally relieved she won’t have to keep up the pretence either.
I collect my things and tell her to call me if there are any major problems. She looks up at me from her desk and assures me everything will be fine. Her expression, so angelic, so innocent, yet it’s just a mask. I can see that now.
I force a smile and leave.
Even though I’m greeted by a skyline of low black clouds outside the palace, it is a preferable view to Rosa’s lying face. I make my way on foot towards Blackfriars to meet with Clement. I assumed, like virtually every adult in the country, he would own a mobile phone and I’d be able to call him when I’d completed the first phase of our plan. I should have known better. When I asked for his number, I was greeted by a puzzled face and negative grunts. In lieu of no other practical option, I agreed to meet him at Fitzgerald’s at lunchtime. Seeing as it’s only mid-morning I’ll have to keep myself occupied for another hour or so.
I traipse through the streets until I find a quiet coffee shop. My timing is perfect as the first few drops of rain splatter on the pavement as I enter.
There is no queue and within minutes I’m furnished with a double espresso and a croissant. I place my late breakfast on a table near the window and take a seat. Beyond the glass, the rain is now teeming down. Some pedestrians had the foresight to carry an umbrella and those that didn’t are now scampering for cover in doorways. I sip my coffee, happy to be in the cosy confines of a coffee shop rather than just about anywhere else, but particularly outside.
Not wishing to dwell on Rosa, my thoughts turn to Fiona and her heartfelt advice earlier. I have always been slightly envious of her career; not because I had any personal aspirations for higher office, but more the fact she’s always had a clear ambition — and was willing to pay the price for it. I’ve never really questioned why I’m ambivalent to career advancement but I suppose it’s because I’ve always had financial security and I have no thirst for power or recognition.
However, Fiona might have achieved her career goals but in order to do so, she has sacrificed the very same things I’ve always craved — a meaningful relationship and a family. The difference is, I have sacrificed nothing and still achieved nothing.
What a waste.
My mind turns to Clement, in the hope I can draw some consolation from his seemingly humble existence. I’m not sure I can.
The fact he lives in a rented bedsit and works as a low paid odd job man suggests he isn’t motivated by money. Indeed, he hasn’t once mentioned my offer of payment or when it might be forthcoming. He is clearly intelligent, although he does a good job of hiding it sometimes, and possesses a certain charisma that particularly appeals to women, yet he’s obviously still single. And beyond all of that, I still don’t understand why he’s even helping me.
More than any man I’ve ever met, he is proving to be quite the enigma. Whether I ever get to decode him remains to be seen, but I must confess he has proven himself invaluable on more than
one occasion. I hope that value ultimately bears a positive result.
Fuelled by two further double espressos, I spend an hour mindlessly wallowing in my own thoughts. I conclude it’s hard to determine the right path when every one of them has a Gabby-shaped roadblock in the way. No option other than to deal with her before I can deal with the rest of my life.
Conveniently, I finish my third coffee a few minutes before Fitzgerald’s is due to open and after the rain has stopped. I leave a tip at the counter and make my way towards Furnival Street.
I arrive just as Frank is unlocking the front door.
“Bloody hell, William. You’re keen.”
“Remember that bad day I had last week?”
“Yeah.”
“It turned into a bad week.”
“Sorry to hear that, mate. I’m sure a few drinks will make the world a better place.”
He serves me half an ale and continues with his opening duties while I wait at the bar. Five minutes later, Clement arrives. He has a brief conversation with Frank before lumbering over.
“Alright, Bill.”
“I am now.”
He pulls up a stool and sits next to me.
“Well? How did it go?”
He listens intently as I give him chapter and verse on Rosa’s behaviour, and my conversation with Gabby.
“That’s that then,” he concludes. “We know for sure the two of them are working together.”
“As much as it kills me to say it, there can be no doubt.”
He nods in agreement. “So, you know what comes next.”
As uncomfortable as this morning was, the next part of Clement’s plan doesn’t sit well.
“Is there no other way?”
“Nope.”
“Fine,” I sigh. “But you’re just going to follow her, right?”
“Yeah, yeah. Trust me, Bill.”
Once we’d established Rosa’s involvement, we concluded the best hope of establishing some leverage against Gabby was through her. And that meant following Rosa from work in the hope she’d lead us to my sister. Obviously I couldn’t do it, even if I wanted to, so that left Clement as the only option.
“What concerns me, Clement, is you’re probably the most distinguishable man I’ve ever met.”
“I’m what?”
“You stick out like a sore thumb.”
“Yeah, but this is London. Probably the easiest place on the planet to hide in a crowd.”
“I guess I’ll have to trust you on that, but I want your word you won’t do anything other than follow her, even if she does lead you to Gabby.”
“Scout’s honour.”
“You were a scout?”
“Not gonna lie to you, Bill.”
I roll my eyes. “Just…please stay out of trouble. It’s my head on the chopping block here.”
I suspect the reason for my concern is because I’ll have to sit at home and sweat while Clement does my bidding. I’m no control freak, but this plan involves placing a huge amount of trust in a man I only met last week.
“I’m going to head home once I’ve finished my drink. Let’s meet back here at half four…”
The ringing of my phone interrupts me. I glance at the screen and scramble to think of an excuse when I see the caller is Judith Dixon.
I answer the call. “My humble apologies, Judith. I’ve been meaning to call you all morning but it’s been frenetic.”
“No need to apologise, William. You’re the one paying my bill.”
“I know, but that’s no excuse for my call Saturday. I hope you weren’t offended.”
“Not offended, just puzzled.”
“Really? Why puzzled?”
“I know you recruited Rosa yourself, but you know I have high standards and I like to look out for my clients. I was concerned how a seemingly competent PA could make such a glaring mistake.”
“Right, well, let’s just say her employment is under review.”
“In which case, I suspect my call might help with that review.”
“Go on.”
“The reference from her previous employer came in last week, and at first glance, it looked perfectly fine, albeit fairly brief. I was all set to file it until we had our chat on Saturday.”
“Okay.”
“Maybe I was just annoyed she’d messed up my message, but I thought I’d double check with her previous employer if there’d been any major issues. So I googled her previous company, Stephens & Marland, to find the email address for their personnel department.”
I’m only half listening to Judith while trying to sup my drink. A suspect reference is of little consequence compared to Rosa’s other indiscretions.
“The thing is, William,” she continues. “There’s no record of them anywhere online: no website, no social media profiles, no Companies House records, nothing.”
I put my glass on the bar. “Really? That’s highly unusual, wouldn’t you say?”
“I would, so I checked their address, thinking I might be able to pop in to their offices.”
“And?”
“The address is on a housing estate in Hounslow. As far as I can ascertain, Rosa’s previous employer doesn’t exist and the reference I sent out went to a private address.”
Judith now has my complete attention. I click my fingers in Clement’s direction and make a sign of a pen scribbling in the air. He reaches over the bar and grabs a pad and a pen.
“Can I have that address please?”
I scribble it down on the pad and assure Judith I’ll deal with Rosa. I hang up and turn to Clement.
“We might have an alternative to following Rosa.”
I open the electoral role website on my phone and enter the address in Hounslow. The result comes up almost immediately.
“What you got?” Clement replies.
“An address in Hounslow Rosa used for a fake reference. I know she lives in Islington so it’s not hers.”
“Who lives there then?”
“A Miss E. Douglas.”
“And who’s she?”
“No idea, but this might offer us another route to Gabby. You never know, she might be staying there and that’s why she had Rosa’s reference sent to that address.”
It would be too much to ask, but it feels a better option than tailing Rosa around the city.
“What do you wanna do then?” Clement asks.
“I think we should hop on the tube and head to Hounslow.”
27.
Twenty minutes after leaving Fitzgerald’s, we find ourselves back at Waterloo station. With time to kill before the next train to Hounslow, we pop in to Costa.
“What do you fancy, Clement?”
“Eh?” he mumbles, distracted. “Tea.”
“Something on your mind?”
“Nah, just thinking back to the last time I was in this place.”
“I didn’t think you drank coffee.”
“I don’t. A friend dragged me in here once.”
The chap behind the counter coughs to attract my attention. I order two teas.
“Do you want to grab a seat upstairs?” I ask.
“Nah. I’m gonna wait outside.”
He ambles away before I can ask why.
Two minutes later, I exit Costa and find Clement leant up against a wall. I hand him a cup and nod towards an empty bench.
“I’m going to grab a seat.”
He follows me over to the bench and we sit quietly, sipping our drinks as the world passes by. I’ve always held a mild fascination with the transience of train stations. When I’m not in any hurry, I’m actually quite content to sit and watch people heading in every possible direction for every possible reason: to visit loved ones, to say a final goodbye, to start anew, to escape. So many people with so many stories. I wonder how many of them are travelling with a heart as heavy as mine.
As I turn my thoughts back to our quest, I can’t help but breathe a resigned sigh.
“You know, Clement, I’
ve still got a major concern about this plan of ours.”
“Go on.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Do?”
“If…when we find Gabby.”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“It’s not up to us what happens when we find her — it’s up to her.”
“We’re going to threaten her?”
“Call it what you like, Bill, but if you’re gonna blackmail someone, you’ve gotta take the risk with the reward.”
“That’s what worries me. There doesn’t seem to be much at risk for Gabby.”
“Oh, there is,” he replies, confidently.
“What?”
He turns to face me. “Pissing me off.”
I take a sip of tea and ponder his response. A week ago, I would have vehemently objected to any sort of threat, even towards a woman as twisted as Gabby. But desperate times call for desperate measures. My sister has absolutely no scruples and if she wants to fight dirty, why shouldn’t I? However, my fear is that Clement’s brand of retaliation will involve physical violence.
“I’m not sure I want to know, but you’re not going to…hurt her, are you?”
“In my world, Bill, we have an unwritten rule; we don’t hit women.”
“So, in your world, how do you deal with women like Gabby?”
“Everyone has a weakness. A five-minute chat and I’ll know hers.”
“That sounds very much like you’re going to hurt her.”
“Nah. I’m just gonna make her think that I might hurt her. That’s usually enough to convince most people.”
“And if that doesn’t work.”
“It will, Bill. It will.”
I picture a situation where Clement might be threatening me. Would I offer any resistance? Would I risk enduring the full force of his wrath? I conclude only an idiot would ignore the obvious threat he poses. Gabby might be many things, but an idiot isn’t one of them.
I check my watch. “Fifteen minutes. Shall we take a slow walk to the platform?”
He necks the remains of his tea. “Yeah.”
As we stand, a woman passes by in front of us, some twenty feet away. She casually glances in our direction and does a double take before coming to an abrupt halt.
Wrong'un (Clement Book 2) Page 21