Wrong'un (Clement Book 2)

by Keith A Pearson

  “Going for a piss,” Clement suddenly blurts.

  Before I can tell him not to be too long, he’s already striding away. I turn around and the woman is still stood in the same position, staring across the concourse towards Clement as he disappears into the crowd. I watch her with growing curiosity as she taps her forehead and chest in the sign of a cross. Her eyes remain transfixed at the crowd, her mouth agape.

  I step across to her. “Are you okay, Madam?”

  She turns to face me. Despite the heavy application of makeup, there is no hiding the fact she’s well beyond state pension age. Her long hair has clearly been dyed blonde and set in a style far from age appropriate.

  “Sorry, sweetheart?” she replies in a raspy voice, her accent suggesting East London roots.

  “I was just checking you’re okay. You look a little lost.”

  “I’m…um…yeah, fine sweetheart. It’s just…that friend of yours is the spit of a bloke I used to know. Spooked me for a moment.”

  I know so little about Clement, I’m intrigued enough to pursue the conversation.

  “You know him?”

  “Him?”

  “Yes, the man I was with.”

  “Course I don’t.”

  “You’re sure he’s not the man you used to know?”

  “Bloody right I am,” she scoffs.

  “But my friend looks like him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s quite…distinctive, isn’t he?”

  “I know, and that’s what made me stop. Thought I’d seen a ghost.”

  “And you’re absolutely sure he’s not the man you knew?”

  “I went to his funeral, back in the mid-seventies, so yeah, I’m sure.”

  “Right, um, sorry for your loss.”

  “Long time ago sweetheart but I still think about him every now and then. We were close for a while, if you know what I mean.”

  She winks at me. I inwardly shudder.

  It appears our conversation has descended into pointlessness. I have neither the time nor the patience to continue it.

  “Well, it was nice meeting you.”

  She returns a smile, revealing a row of yellowed teeth. “And you sweetheart.”

  As I edge backward towards the bench, the woman looks to the skies. “God bless you, Clement,” she mumbles, and promptly scuttles away into the crowd.

  It’s my turn to stand motionless, mouth agape. Did I just hear what I thought I heard? Did she say Clement?

  I return to the bench and try to process what just occurred. Logic quickly dictates there can only be two possible conclusions: either I misheard her, or it’s pure coincidence her now-dead friend looked like Clement and shared his name. My mind starts running through the alphabet, formulating names that might rhyme with Clement, like perhaps, hearing the name Tim instead of Jim. Nothing comes even remotely close to the name Clement. I don’t think I misheard the woman.

  That leaves only one other explanation — coincidence.

  “You ready?”

  Clement has returned from the toilets.

  “What? Right, yes.”

  We make our way to the platform without conversation. I’ve now established Clement only talks when he has something worth saying, while I have nothing I feel ready to say.

  Our train is already waiting and we wander to the far end of the platform where the carriages are less crowded. We take our seats, facing one another, and wait in silence as the seconds tick by to departure.

  No matter how hard I try, the conversation with the woman remains an itch I can’t scratch. I can’t resist.

  “Did you by any chance see that woman who walked past?”

  “Where?”

  “On the concourse, by the bench. Blonde hair, probably in her seventies.”

  “Nope.”

  “Right.”

  The train edges away while I carefully consider my next words.

  “I had a chat with her while you were in the toilets.”

  “Triffic. Get her number did you?”

  “Not that kind of chat. She was a little shaken so I just checked if she was okay.”

  He puffs his cheeks. “Is there a point to this, Bill?”

  “She said…she recognised you, or at least thought she recognised you.”

  “Good for her.”

  “But as it turns out, she mistook you for an old friend who died in the seventies.”

  A shrug of the shoulders and he turns his attention to the window.

  “I mean, that in itself isn’t particularly strange, but she said a little prayer for her friend as she left. And what was strange, is that her friend happened to be called Clement.”

  Another disinterested shrug.

  “What are the chances, eh? A man who apparently looked exactly like you, and with the same unusual name. That’s quite some coincidence, wouldn’t you say?

  He shakes his head. “Alright, Bill. You got me,” he says, his hands raised in mock surrender. “Her name is Marion and I shagged her a few times back in the day, but then I carked it. Now, I’m back from the dead, and for some bleedin’ reason I’m stuck helping idiots sort out their problems.”

  His voice is laced with sarcasm and annoyance; enough to rein in my questioning.

  “Okay, I was only saying, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, well,” he grumbles. “I don’t know what you expect me to say to something like that.”

  It’s a fair point and on reflection, what did I expect him to say? Coincidences, no matter how unlikely, happen every day. Perhaps it would be best to change the subject.

  “If you don’t mind me bringing it up, you never clarified if Clement was your first name or surname.”

  “Take your pick. I’m not fussed.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you can call me Clement or Mr Clement. I don’t give a shit either way.”

  I choose neither option, and keep quiet. Enough conversations have now ended the same way and it’s clear Clement is at his most prickly whenever I ask personal questions.

  I make a few half-hearted attempts at conversation over the remaining thirty minutes of our journey but Clement’s mind appears elsewhere.

  We eventually pull into Hounslow station and make our way out onto the street. I pull my phone from my coat pocket and check the directions to the address Judith found.

  “It’s a ten-minute walk away.”

  Before Clement can reply, the sound of jet engines roar above us. I look up to see the huge and distinctive silhouette of an Airbus A380, almost hanging in the mottled grey sky. London’s busiest airport, Heathrow, is located in the borough of Hounslow and for all the commercial benefits, it must be one of the noisiest places in the country to live.

  I gesture with a nod to the right and set off. Clement follows, his attention split between the pavement and the aircraft above us. It’s afforded the same level of fascination as the old underground train on the Isle of Wight. Perhaps he spots planes as well as trains? I don’t ask.

  The navigation app leads us through a series of streets lined with scruffy terraced houses and takeaways of every kind. We turn a corner, to be greeted by the sight of three tower blocks on the opposite side of a busy dual-carriageway.

  “There should be an underpass that way,” I say, gesturing down the road. “And it looks like we’re heading towards those tower blocks.”

  Clement nods and a minute later we descend into the dimly lit tunnel beneath the road. The smell of stale urine, and graffiti-ridden walls are a stark reminder I’m a long way from the sanctuary of my cosseted world. If I wasn’t with my intimidating companion, there is no way I’d walk this route on my own.

  With some relief, we exit the underpass and continue along a path bordered both sides by low concrete walls and scrubby patches of grass.

  “Might wanna stop waving that thing around,” Clement suggests, nodding towards my phone.

  Sage advice. I memorise the remaining three hundred yar
ds to our destination, and tuck the phone into my pocket.

  “I can quite see why Judith was suspicious,” I remark as we close in on the nearest block. “It’s not exactly the kind of place a law firm would operate.”

  “I doubt they care too much for the law around here.”

  “Quite.”

  We pass three youths sat on a wall; all dressed in the customary attire of hooded tops and baggy jeans. Suspicious eyes watch our every step but a glare from Clement prevents their intimidation going any further than unintelligible mumblings.

  The path leads us out onto a narrow road, running along the front of all three tower blocks; the first of which is directly in front of us.

  “We’re looking for flat ten, Derwent House.”

  I assumed each block would be clearly signposted. If ever there were any signs, they’re long gone. It takes five minutes of searching stairwells and landings to establish the first block is not Derwent House, courtesy of a young woman waiting at the lift with a pushchair.

  “Nah, bruv,” she says. “Derwent is next along, innit. This is Orwell.”

  I resist asking if it was named after the author, George Orwell. I doubt the young woman knows or cares.

  “Thank you for your help.”

  “Gotta be worth a smoke, ain’t it, bruv?”

  Clement furnishes her with a cigarette. She takes a puff and throws a question at me.

  “What are you then?” she asks. “Debt collectors?”

  “No. We’re just here to have a chat with someone.”

  I realise my casual reply sounds more sinister than I intended.

  “Don’t matter if you are. Nobody got nothing round here.”

  She then turns her attention to the lift, and thumps the control panel with frustration. “Pissin’ lift never works.”

  “Would you like us to help you down the stairs?” I ask.

  She eyes me suspiciously then glances at her watch. “Yeah, but don’t try nothin’.”

  I don’t know quite what she thinks we’ll try but Clement picks up the pushchair and carries it down the two flights of stairs. As we descend, the young woman checks her watch again and tuts.

  “Are you late for something?” I ask.

  “Food bank closes in fifteen minutes.”

  “Oh.”

  We reach the narrow road outside the block and Clement carefully lowers the pushchair to the pavement. The young woman nods at him and zips her coat up. She sets off without another word.

  “Wait,” I call after her.

  She stops and looks back at me. “What do you want now?”

  I scoot over to her and pull out my wallet. “Here,” I say, handing her a twenty-pound note. “Just in case you don’t make it in time.”

  She looks around and eyes the note, still in my fingers. “You ain’t one of those old man pervs are you? I ain’t into that shit, bruv. Got my boy to think of.”

  “Um, no. I’m not.”

  “What you giving me cash for then?”

  “We held you up so it only seems fair to recompense you for your trouble.”

  “I ain’t no charity case.”

  “I’m sure you’re not. If it makes you feel any better, consider it a loan. You can pay me back when that young man of yours graduates university.”

  For the first time since we bumped into the young woman, something of a smile creeps across her face.

  “You reckon he could go to university?”

  “He can do anything. His life is a blank canvas.”

  She takes the note and tucks it in her coat pocket. “Thank you.”

  I stand and watch her hurry off along the pavement. I know the statistics are not in that young child’s favour, and at best, there’s only a ten percent chance he’ll secure a degree, but the opportunity is there.

  “Never thought I’d see the day,” Clement crows from behind me.

  I spin around. “What?”

  “A politician doing someone a favour. Gotta be a first.”

  “We’re not all expense-swindling narcissists,” I bark back. “Some of us do actually care about other people.”

  “Alright, Bill. Calm down. If I didn’t think you were a decent bloke, I wouldn’t be here.”

  Sadly, Clement is not alone in the misconception us politicians are out of touch with people’s everyday issues. That’s the inherent problem with running a country; while trying to help the many, people like that young woman slip between the cracks. No parent should have to resort to using food banks and it fills me with shame that they clearly need to.

  “What’s up?” Clement asks.

  “Oh, nothing. I was just thinking some of my colleagues would benefit from visiting this place. Might make them realise that not everyone is enjoying the prosperity we preach about.”

  “Amen to that,” he replies. “But ain’t we got something else to be dealing with first?”

  Somehow my own troubles don’t feel quite so significant. Nevertheless, if I don’t deal with Gabby then I won’t be in a position to help anyone.

  “Come on then.”

  28.

  Derwent House is a carbon copy of Orwell House, and flat ten is on the first floor. An open landing gives access to eight front doors; all in a varying state of neglect. Somebody’s idea of music blares from a flat at the far end of the landing. There’s no discernible tune, just a throbbing bassline.

  We reach flat ten and stand side by side in front of the door. A patch of bare wood on the frame suggests there might have once been a doorbell. As Clement reaches for the knocker, I hold my hand up to intimate he should wait.

  “What?” he asks.

  “What exactly are we going to say?” I reply in a hushed voice.

  “Depends who answers the door.”

  “Well, what if this Miss Douglas answers? It is her flat.”

  “I reckon that girl had the right idea. We’ll say we’re debt collectors, looking for Gabby Davies.”

  “Right, but her name isn’t Gabby.”

  “Eh?”

  “It’s Gabrielle. Gabby is a shortened version.”

  “Whatever.”

  He raps the door knocker and we both take a step backwards. Seconds pass and there’s no obvious sign anyone is about to answer. Clement raps the knocker again, only harder.

  A voice echoes along the landing. “She ain’t there no more.”

  We turn to our right to see an elderly man poking his head around the door of the adjacent flat.

  “Oh, right,” I reply.

  “Are you the filth?” he spits.

  “The what?”

  “No mate,” Clement interjects. “We’re old friends. We were in the area and thought we’d pop by to say hello.”

  “Not very good friends, are you” the old man snipes.

  “What?”

  “She had a stroke. Social services moved her out, back in the summer.”

  “Do you know which month?”

  The old man scratches a stubbly chin. “Let me think. Must have been early June cos’ I went into hospital for a week at the end of the month, and she was gone before then.”

  “Right. Don’t suppose you know where they moved her?”

  “That care home on Adam Street. Personally, I’d rather die at home caked in my own shit than end up in one of those places.”

  “Good for you, mate. Have you seen anyone coming or going from this place?”

  His eyes narrow as he glares at Clement. “You sure you’re not the Old Bill?”

  “Do I look like Old Bill?”

  “Nah, you don’t. But your mate there does.”

  “Trust me. He ain’t a copper.”

  “Can’t abide the tossers,” the old man continues. “Never around when you need ‘em, always around when you don’t.”

  “Tell me about it,” Clement replies. “But as we’re not the police, you mind telling us if you’ve seen anyone?”

  “Nah, not seen a soul but I’ve heard some noises though, so someb
ody’s been in there. Probably the family fighting over her stuff, the thieving bastards.”

  “When did you last hear anything?”

  “Can’t be sure, what with the fucking noise around this place all hours, but maybe a few days ago.”

  “Right. Cheers, fella.”

  The old man and Clement swap nods before the curmudgeonly pensioner disappears back inside his flat.

  “Interesting,” Clement mumbles.

  “Is it? I’d say we’ve just lost the only lead we had.”

  The moustache receives a customary stroke.

  “You said letters were being sent here?”

  “Yes. Rosa’s reference letter.”

  “And when was that sent?”

  “Roughly eight or nine weeks ago.”

  “Sometime in August then?”

  I catch up with Clement’s train of thought.

  “Ah, right. Somebody received and replied to the reference letter some two months after this Miss Douglas moved out.”

  “Exactly. And who was here a few days ago?”

  “Could have been Rosa.”

  “Why her?”

  “Maybe, like the old man said, she’s slowly clearing the place. I’m sure the council are keen to have their property back.”

  Clement steps across to the large window on the left of the door and tries to peek inside.

  “It’s the kitchen but I can’t see much beyond the net curtains.”

  “So, what do we do now?”

  “We could have a look inside? There might be something in there that leads us to Gabby.”

  “And how do we do that without a key?”

  He returns to the door and shakes the handle. “This thing won’t put up much resistance. A firm shove and the catch should pop.”

  “Absolutely not,” I hiss. “We’re not breaking in.”

  “Suit yourself. We’ll just head back and sit on our arses till Friday then.”

  “I’m not saying we should do nothing, but I can’t be involved in a criminal act.”

  “Right. So knobbing your own sister is perfectly legal then?”

  “I thought we’d agreed never to mention that?”

  “I agreed nothing.”

  We reach an impasse, but every minute we stand here doing nothing only wastes precious time. We either walk away or I let Clement break in, and hope there is something in the flat to justify breaking the law.