Wrong'un (Clement Book 2)

by Keith A Pearson

  Eighteen stone of Clement finally connects with eight stone of Amy. The momentum of the man whips the knife away from Gabrielle’s jacket, and not a heartbeat too soon.

  There is, however, no control, and no direction to Clement’s momentum. It’s like watching a truck with no brakes slam into the side of a hatchback. There can be no second guessing how the carnage will unfold after the point of contact.

  Two bodies become one as they fall — gravity pulling them towards the floor and kinetic energy shifting them horizontally. Inevitably, they sprawl across the hay and crash against the wooden divider on the other side of the stall.

  Their journey ends with Amy almost buried beneath Clement’s vast frame.

  A shocked silence descends; only the police sirens audible. Even Archie appears stunned by what has just occurred, although he could just as easily be asleep.

  However, it doesn’t take long for the human shock to subside.

  Mr Davies scuttles across to Gabrielle and throws his arms around her. Conscious this wasn’t quite the introduction any of us wanted, I hold back while they sob into each other's arms. Perhaps if I were in the old man’s shoes, I might reconsider whether William Huxley is a fit and proper person to care for my daughter. As for Gabrielle, it’s likely she’ll now associate my face with the attempt on her life. God only knows how much this ordeal has damaged her, or our chances of a relationship.

  I turn my attention to Clement; on his haunches next to Amy, who herself looks to have been knocked unconscious. I watch for a second, expecting him to get to his feet, but suddenly he throws a fist towards the wooden divide. A loud crack explodes in the silence as the slat splinters.

  “Fucking hell,” he gasps. “No. No. No.”

  Judging by his display of mindless violence, I can’t imagine he injured himself in the fall. Curious, I step past Archie’s backside and stand over Clement. My new position affords a view of what prompted his reaction.

  “Oh, my God,” I splutter.

  Clement looks up at me, wide eyed. “This weren’t meant to happen, Bill.”

  Amy remains silent, almost certainly because the knife is now embedded in her chest to the hilt, just below the left breast. A flower of red blooms from the wound; absorbed into her pastel pink sweater.

  “Is she…” I can’t bring myself to finish the question.

  “As a fucking doornail,” Clement huffs.

  The knife appears to have entered Amy’s chest at an unfortunate angle. Perhaps unfortunate isn’t the right word — terminal might be more accurate as the blade tip must be dangerously close to her heart. Even so, I’d rather trust my basic first aid training than Clement’s assessment.

  I quickly kneel down next to Amy and feel her wrist for a pulse. I then check her neck before returning to her wrist. No pulse. The only other option is to listen for any signs of breathing. With my ear positioned within an inch of her mouth, I listen intently while trying to ignore the stench of whatever Mr Davies threw at her. Long seconds pass before I’m forced to concede the obvious.

  “Not good news,” I sigh. “No sign of life, I’m afraid.”

  “No shit, Dr Kildare.”

  I’ve lost count how many times I’ve wished Amy dead over the last week. Seeing her like this is a stark reminder to think more carefully about what I wish for. Looking at her face, it’s hard not to see glimpses of a terrified young girl; abused to such a degree she had no choice but to inflict death on her own father. For that, I can find sympathy, but her retribution for an inadvertent eviction, all those years ago, really wasn’t worth her vengeance. And now she’s paid the ultimate price for clinging to that hatred.

  Such a waste of life but my sympathy for a woman who tried to kill my sister, only seconds ago, is limited. Clement, on the other hand, seems particularly upset. Guilt maybe?

  “It wasn’t your fault, Clement. You weren’t to know this would happen — it was an unfortunate accident.”

  “Don’t matter. It’s fucked everything.”

  “Don’t say that. You saved Gabrielle’s life. I’ll be forever in your debt.”

  He clambers to his feet while mumbling another barrage of obscenities. Perhaps it’s shock rather than guilt.

  He stands over Amy’s body and clamps his hands to his head.

  “Clement? I think we should get you checked out. Shock can be nasty.”

  “Just leave me alone, Bill.”

  His tone is level but with enough intonation for me to back away. Whatever he’s going through, I think it would be wise to let the medical experts deal with it.

  With Clement lamenting over Amy’s death, and Gabrielle and Mr Davies consoling one another, I’m left alone — the irony isn’t lost on me. Just as I decide to exit the stall, the police finally arrive with two burly officers barging through the door.

  “Nice of you to join us,” I snap. “But you’re too late.”

  “What’s happened here?” one of the officers asks.

  “Long story,” I sigh “But nobody is in danger now, so come outside and I’ll fill you in.”

  I edge past them without waiting for permission, and wander over to the railed fence. They follow, and as more officers descend on the stable block, I tell them the sorry tale of how we all ended up here on a cold October afternoon.

  With notes taken, the two officers return to the stall while a young constable creates a cordon with striped tape. Standard crime scene procedure when a death has occurred, I’d imagine. I watch on from the fence as Gabrielle and her father are led out to an awaiting ambulance. A minute later, Clement appears; chased by a woman in civilian attire. I assume she’s from CID and it’s clear from his body language that Clement doesn’t welcome her attention.

  He looks around and spots me. With the detective at his heels, he strides over.

  “Bill,” he barks. “Tell this bleedin’ woman what happened so I don’t have to.”

  The female detective flashes her warrant card as she approaches. “Detective Sergeant Banner. And you are?”

  Despite her diminutive stature, the detective’s cold blue eyes, sharp features, and commanding voice ooze authority. I duly give her my name, together with a sixty second synopsis of what happened. Sergeant Banner then turns her attention to Clement who is now leaning against the fence and staring off into the distance.

  “Your name, Sir?” she demands.

  “Bastin. Cliff Bastin,” Clement replies.

  The detective scribbles his name down while I’m left puzzled as to why he gave it. Is that his real name?

  “And is Mr Huxley’s version of events as you remember them?”

  “Exactly,” he mumbles without looking away from the paddock.

  I can feel Sergeant Banner’s impatience simmering as she glares at the back of Clement’s head.

  “Detective,” I intervene. “My friend here is probably suffering from shock so I’d suggest interviewing him at a later date.”

  “And I’m suffering from a possible murder,” she snipes. “So I don’t really care what you suggest. He needs to start talking.”

  Her rudeness is both unnecessary and unprofessional. I withdraw my wallet and flash my own identification.

  “I said, detective, he’ll speak to you later,” I growl. “Now, unless you want me to call the Chief Constable, I suggest you back off. He needs medical attention.”

  Judging by her scowl, Detective Sergeant Banner is not used to having her orders thrown back at her. However, a potential rollicking from her boss proves deterrent enough.

  “Fine,” she snaps. “Get him seen to and then I will interview him.”

  The detective storms off without another word.

  I join Clement at the fence and stare at the bleak Surrey countryside.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “Not really.”

  “Do you…want to talk about it?”

  “It?”

  “What happened in there.”

  “Nothing to talk about. If I hadn’t
taken her down, she’d still be alive.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry it ended like that, but she was about to stab Gabrielle. You did the right thing, Clement.”

  “Maybe, but not everyone will see it like that.”

  “You mean the police? I really wouldn’t worry about them.”

  “I couldn’t give two shits about the police.”

  “Well, who then?”

  He doesn’t answer so I have no choice but to draw my own conclusion.

  “It’s not…the voice you’re worried about is it?”

  He snorts a hollow laugh before turning to face me. There is no mirth in his eyes. “Nah, Bill. The voice has gone.”

  “Oh, that’s good, right?”

  “No it ain’t. No voice, no chance of leaving this bleedin’ place.”

  “I’m sure we can get a lift back to the cottage.”

  “Not what I meant.”

  “Well, what then? If you didn’t talk in riddles, I might be able to help.”

  He pushes himself off the fence and strides away. He gets a dozen yards away before calling back to me. “You coming?”

  “Where?”

  “To get Frank’s car. I wanna get back to London.”

  “I’ll meet you back in the car park. Give me five minutes.”

  He continues on his way, swiping away the cordon tape before disappearing beyond the stable block.

  Left alone, I take the opportunity to gather my own thoughts.

  From the moment Clement slapped that newspaper on my kitchen table, this day has been the epitome of an emotional rollercoaster, culminating in the death of a woman whose real name I didn’t even know until a few hours ago. I’ve met a sister I didn’t know existed, who, due to my mistakes, is likely to need therapy for the rest of her life. I’ve met the man who was on the wrong side of my father’s infidelity; a man who must think I’m a complete liability as far as his daughter is concerned. And finally, my errant saviour; a man carrying an entire suitcase of issues.

  I might need more than a few weeks in Sandown to get over this.

  For now though, I need to find the stroppy detective and ensure she has everything she needs before I leave. No matter how cut and dried Amy’s death might have been, I know there will be many questions asked over many months. The wheels of the judicial system turn even slower than those of parliament.

  A puff of my cheeks and I trudge away from the fence. Five steps later, someone calls my name. I turn in the direction of the voice and my shoulders slump.

  “William,” Mr Davies calls again, striding towards me.

  Here we go.

  “Mr Davies. How is Gabrielle?”

  Perhaps an incendiary question, considering my actions put his daughter in harm's way.

  “She’s…okay,” he wheezes, coming to a halt.

  I give him a moment to catch his breath. No doubt he’ll need it to vent properly.

  “I…I wanted to thank you before we head off to the hospital.”

  “Thank me?”

  He draws a couple of sharp breaths. “Yes.”

  “I’m not sure I deserve any thanks, Mr Davies.”

  “Don’t be modest, William. I heard what you said in there.”

  “You did?”

  I have no idea what I might have said to warrant his praise, let alone forgiveness.

  “Yes, and I know you pleaded with that crazed woman to release Gabrielle; even forsaking your own safety.”

  “Well, yes, but it didn’t work.”

  “Not the point. The fact you put Gabrielle’s life ahead of your own tells me precisely what kind of man you are.”

  “Um…thank you, but how exactly did you hear what I said? I presumed you were waiting in the car park for the police.”

  “I had to go out onto the road to get a phone signal. On the way back I stumbled into Clement and told him what was going on. Thank God he was around because I don’t know what I’d have done without him.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, it was all his idea. We filled a bucket from the septic tank and waited outside the stable.”

  “I’ll have to have a word with him. He couldn’t have cut it much finer.”

  “We thought the police would arrive in time, but then we realised Gabrielle was in imminent danger, and that’s when Clement sent me in with the bucket.”

  “Quite a masterstroke, that.”

  “Yes, indeed” he replies. “Incredible what you can achieve with a bucket of horse piss and a man as inventive as Clement.”

  Despite his good-humoured assessment, it does little to mask concern for his daughter.

  “Anyway,” he continues. “I better get back to the ambulance before Gabrielle starts fretting.”

  “Will she be alright?”

  “I think so. She’s a resilient girl.”

  “I am truly sorry, Mr Davies. Please let her know that.”

  He offers me his hand. “If you think an apology is necessary, I think it would be better coming from you.”

  I take his hand. “Right, of course.”

  “Maybe in a few days' time you can pop over for lunch and meet your sister properly.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely, because you know what Gabrielle would love in her life, almost as much as another horse?”

  “No.”

  “A big brother, and you’ve more than earned that title. Give me a call in the morning.”

  No words have ever sounded sweeter. William Huxley — former politician, now someone's big brother; I’d call that a promotion. And such is the gravity of my new position, I have to bite my bottom lip to keep my emotions in check.

  “And feel free to bring Clement along,” he adds. “I’m sure Gabrielle would like to thank him properly, as would I.”

  “I’ll ask, but he can be a little…unpredictable.”

  “I don’t doubt that, but the invite is there.”

  With a parting nod, he turns and walks away.

  My inner glow stays for the entire duration of my conversation with Sergeant Banner. Not even her brusque interrogation can bring me down.

  Unfortunately, Clement is not in such good spirits by the time I return to the car park.

  “What took you?” he grumbles.

  “I was just dealing with that detective. Sorry.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “The truth, apart from your name. Do you want to tell me why you gave her a false name?”

  “What’s to tell?” he shrugs. “I don’t want the Old Bill knowing my name. Simple as that.”

  “Dare I ask why?”

  “I don’t trust ‘em.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “Yeah.”

  He’s clearly not in the right frame of mind for further questions on the subject.

  “Shall I see if there’s a cab firm locally?”

  “Nah. I could do with the walk.”

  “Fair enough.”

  We set off on the two mile walk back to Brooke Cottage. I’m no slouch but Clement’s long strides propel him forward at such a pace I’m panting within minutes and struggling to keep up. Even if I could manage a conversation, it’s clear my hiking companion is not in the mood for a chat.

  Clement’s pace setting ensures we complete a half hour journey in under twenty minutes. On arriving at Brooke Cottage, I collapse into the passenger seat of Frank’s car, sweaty, breathless, and suffering a mild stitch.

  Before I can offer to set up the navigation app, Clement is already tearing back down the lane.

  “Do you know where you’re going?”

  “I know where I’m not going.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Nothing,” he mumbles.

  I decide to leave the navigation to Clement. If he needs directions, he can ask. It’ll probably be the only conversation I get from him.

  We make it all the way to the A3 before he finally speaks.

  “Your sister okay?”

  “A
little shaken apparently, but otherwise she’s fine.”

  “Good.”

  “I spoke to Mr Davies. He’s invited me to the house for lunch in a few days' time.”

  “Happy families, eh?”

  “Early days, but I hope so. He also asked me to invite you.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “Don’t be so dismissive, Clement. He spoke very highly of you and simply wants to show his gratitude.”

  “No need.”

  “I can’t persuade you?”

  “Nope.”

  “But…”

  “Forget it, Bill.”

  That conversation brought to an abrupt end, I give it ten minutes before trying another line of questioning.

  “Have you made any decisions about what you’re going to do?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Can I ask what?”

  “You can ask.”

  “Okay. What are you going to do next?”

  “Wait.”

  “Wait for what?”

  “The next person who needs my help, and the next opportunity to go back.”

  “Back where?”

  “Where I’m supposed to be.”

  “And that’s where exactly?”

  “Not sure. But it ain’t here and it ain’t now.”

  37.

  Former Prime Minister, Harold Wilson, famously once said: “A week is a long time in politics.”

  It would be fair to say the last week has been a long time for me, both in politics and beyond.

  The soft glow of the setting sun beyond my office window proves a fitting end to my career. I check my watch and reflect on the final few minutes behind my desk in the Palace of Westminster. For the first time in a decade I have no one to call, nowhere to be, and no decisions to make. In truth, I have been a member of parliament in name alone since last Wednesday. That was the day I tendered my resignation, and I naively thought I could see out my notice period. Not so.

  Despite being proven innocent of any wrong doing, the press interest has been intrusive and relentless. It was therefore decided I should go on immediate gardening leave and I’m only here now to clear my desk and say a few goodbyes. And with both those tasks completed, it’s time to bid farewell to Westminster.