“Were you nodding off there, doll?”
Clement clambers into the car, a carrier bag in hand.
“No, I was…err, just thinking about a holiday.”
Once he’s seated, he delves into the carrier bag and withdraws a two-pack of scotch eggs.
“Dinner is served,” he says, tossing the package into my lap.
“Thanks.”
His hand returns to the carrier bag, and he pulls out a jumbo sausage roll. Then another. And a third.
“Partial to sausage rolls are we?” I enquire.
“My only vice,” he replies. “Well, apart from alcohol, and loose women, and cigarettes, and…”
“Okay, I get it.”
The conversation ends and we both set about demolishing our unhealthy snacks. It doesn’t take long to go from starving to stuffed.
Hunger sated, we set off on the final leg of our journey.
As we bowl along the motorway, my mind turns to the issue of converting our gold into hard cash. It’s not something I had seriously considered, primarily because I didn’t want to tempt fate, but also because I wasn’t convinced we’d ever find it.
“I was wondering, Clement, how are we going to sell the gold?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, where do you sell a whole bar with, shall we say, dubious provenance?”
“Back in my day, we’d just offer it to a local fence and they’d find a buyer.”
“A fence? That’s like a middle-man isn’t it?”
“More or less. If you wanted to dispose of hooky gear, you’d offer it to the fence with the right connections.”
“I’m guessing that’s not really an option now?”
“Nope.”
“So, what are our options?”
“Dunno. The people I used to work with are probably long gone by now. I thought you’d have some ideas.”
“Seriously? You thought I’d know the best place to sell a stolen gold bar? I run a book shop, Clement, not a crime syndicate.”
“Plan-B then.”
“Which is?”
“There are still pawnbrokers around?”
“Of course.”
“That’s where we start then. For every ten pawnbrokers, there’ll always another one willing to take moody gear if the money is right.”
“And how do we find the one in ten?”
“We make up a back story about how we got our hands on the gold, and ask.”
“Simple as that?”
“Money talks, doll, so as long as we leave a decent profit in it for them, there’s bound to be interest.”
“And why do we need a back story?”
“Cos’ we obviously can’t tell them the truth about where we found the gold. It might raise too many questions.”
I’d rather not ask my next question, knowing full well what the answer will be. I ask anyway.
“And what back story will we use?”
Clement shakes his head. “Jesus, doll,” he groans. “Can’t you come up with something?”
“Um, let me think about it.”
A succession of ideas flash through my mind, each one less credible than the last.
“Don’t over-think things, doll,” Clement suggests, noting my perplexed scowl. “Just take a real situation, and give it a twist.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you’re gonna bullshit someone, stick as close to the truth as possible.”
“How does that help?” I huff.
“All you need to do is take the truth — you found the gold bar in a tube station — then change the location to somewhere you’re familiar with.”
“Okay. Maybe my house?”
“Perfect. Now, where in your house would somebody hide a bar of gold? Somewhere you never look.”
A light suddenly ignites in my head.
“Under the floorboards.”
“There you go. Not so hard, was it? You found the gold under the floorboards at your house. If you wanna push it a bit further, ask yourself why you’d be nosing around under your floorboards. Suppose you could say you had a leaky pipe or something. You just pulled up the floorboards, and there it was.”
The light is now shining so brightly, I can feel my brain sizzling with inspiration.
“That’s genius, Clement,” I coo.
“Is it? I thought that’s how all stories were told. I ain’t read many books, but they were all just a variation of somebody’s truth.”
“What books have you read?”
“Like I said, not many. I read Animal Farm when it first came out.”
“In 1945?” I scoff.
“Yeah,” he replies dismissively. “And wasn’t that based on the Russian Revolution, or something?”
“Yes, it was. I’m impressed, Clement.”
“Don’t be. My point is, Orwell just took the truth and spun it into a story — a political uprising, but with farmyard animals instead of crazy Russians.”
“Any other books?”
“The only other one I vividly remember is Casino Royale.”
“Ian Fleming. His first James Bond novel.”
“Yeah. And did you know Fleming used to serve in the Navy as an intelligence officer?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there’s another one for you. He invented Bond as this suave, playboy spy, and sent him on the same adventures Fleming probably experienced. No doubt he sexed the details up a bit, but the core story was based on Fleming’s truth.”
Clement levers his chair back and stifles a yawn.
“So you see, doll, when it comes to spinning a lie, it pays to stick to the truth. It don’t take much creativity, and it’s far more believable.”
“Right. I see.”
And with his words of wisdom delivered, he decides to take a nap.
As Clement snoozes, my mind whirs as I apply his technique to the plot of novel eighteen. One by one, the various mental roadblocks become passable. The story itself is still weak, but at least I can see the road ahead. Then, as we pull off the motorway, I experience something of an epiphany — novel eighteen can stay on the shelf because I have an amazing idea for a nineteenth novel.
And when this is all over I’m going to start writing it, and I’m going to finish it, come hell or high water.
33
I awake to the pattering of rain on the window, and a squally wind whistling through the gaps in the softwood frame.
When I first started house hunting with Stuart, I insisted our new home had to have character. I wanted an authentic, period property, brimming with original features. However, that character came at a price.
Sash windows are lovely to look at but they’re a pain to open, they require frequent painting, and they aren’t particularly efficient when it comes to keeping the cold out. On mornings like this, chunky plastic frames do hold some appeal.
It’s a concession I might have to consider once my windfall is realised.
I sit up in bed and stretch. Monday morning — exactly one week ago, I awoke next to my fiancé, blissfully unaware of the shitstorm heading my way.
Now I have a different man in the house, and hopefully, calmer waters ahead. But first, there’s the slight issue of liquidising my new found asset.
I slip my dressing gown on and head for the bathroom.
By the time I’m showered and dressed, Clement is awake, and is stomping around the spare bedroom.
He eventually emerges, wearing nothing other than the oversized underpants I retrieved from Karl’s possessions. They’re anything but oversized on Clement.
“You finished in the bathroom, doll? I’m desperate for a shit and a shower.”
“Too much information, Clement. And yes, I have finished.”
He gives me a thumbs-up with one hand while simultaneously scratching his arse with the other.
“Can you not walk around the house in your underwear, please?”
My request is met with a grin. “Worried you might get a b
it hot under the collar, eh?”
“I think I’ll manage to contain myself, but a little modesty wouldn’t go amiss, would it?”
“You want me to get dressed, walk ten feet, and then get undressed?”
“I’ll find you a dressing gown.”
He shrugs his shoulders and strolls into the bathroom, closing the door behind him without another word.
Conversation over, I plod down the stairs and head for the kitchen in dire need of caffeine. While our weekend was ultimately worthwhile, it was both mentally and physically exhausting. I can’t say I slept particularly well last night, either — too many thoughts pinging through my mind saw to that.
I make myself a cup of strong tea and start prepping breakfast.
By the time Clement strides into the kitchen, the toast is ready and the eggs almost scrambled.
“Something smells good, doll.”
“It’ll be ready in two minutes. Do you want tea?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll sort it.”
He clatters around and then spends a long moment staring into the fridge.
“Where’s the milk, doll?”
“Are you blind?” I call across the kitchen. “I can see it from here. Second shelf down, next to the tomatoes.”
He leans in and plucks the dumpy carton from the shelf.
“Gotcha. I was looking for a bottle.”
“Not in this house.”
It’s been many a year since I last poured milk from a glass bottle. It must have been when I was a child, and the milkman delivered tepid milk to our doorstep every morning.
I transfer the scrambled eggs and toast to plates and place them on the table. Clement sits down, mug in hand.
“Nice one, doll. I’m bleedin’ famished.”
“You’re always famished.”
“There’s a lot of me to fuel.”
“Tell you what, as soon as we’ve found a buyer for the gold, I’ll treat you to a slap-up steak dinner.”
“Deal,” he splutters, his mouth already full of scrambled egg.
It doesn’t take long for Clement to clear his plate. I offer him a slice of my toast which he promptly accepts, folding it into his mouth in one piece.
“You’ll get indigestion.”
“Nah. I’ve got the constitution of an ox.”
I finish my breakfast as Clement slurps his tea.
“What’s the plan then, doll?”
“I need to go to the shop and we can work out a plan from there.”
“Fair enough.”
“And, I think there’s a pawnbroker in town. We could see if they’re interested?”
“Bad idea.”
“Why?”
“Too close to home. It’s not a good idea to try and flog dodgy gear on your own patch.”
“Right. Scrub that then. I’ll google some places in other towns.”
“You’ll do what?”
“Google pawnbrokers in other towns.”
“What’s a google?”
“It’s a search engine, you use it…never mind. I meant search, on the Internet.”
“If you say so. I’ll leave that one in your hands.”
With that settled, I start to clear the table.
“If you wash up, doll, I’ll dry.”
“I’m sorry?” I remark, somewhat taken aback.
“I’ll dry up.”
“Yes. I thought that’s what you said. I just assumed you weren’t domesticated.”
“Cheeky mare. I used to do all my own cooking and cleaning. Even darned my own socks.”
“I take my hat off to you, Clement. Sock darning is an impressive, if not redundant skill.”
“Are you taking the piss?”
The smirk on my face provides his answer.
I pass him the tea towel and crack on with the washing up, chuckling away to myself at the thought of Clement darning socks.
Once the kitchen is spic and span, Clement heads up to the spare bedroom to retrieve the rucksack containing the gold bar. After we sat and stared at it for half an hour last night, he insisted on stashing it under his bed for safe keeping.
And this morning, he’s equally insistent on keeping it with us, wherever we go.
“What if you lose it?”
“I won’t lose it.”
“But what if you do?”
“Doll, just relax. It’s safer with me than not.”
Decision made, we leave the house just after eight thirty and head for the shop.
The relentless wind and rain has forced most of the town’s residents into their cars this morning. The journey is a drag, not helped by Clement’s insistence we discuss the decline of brown-coloured cars on the road.
We pull up behind the shop five minutes before opening time and no closer to determining why nobody buys a brown car these days.
Although it’s far from a typical Monday morning, the opening routine remains the same: lights on, heating on, kettle on, front door unlocked.
I make us both a cup of tea and we sit in the staff room with the door to the shop open; not that I’m expecting a rush of customers.
“You wanna get on with your goggling then, doll?”
“It’s googling, and yes, I will.”
A quick search on my phone reveals there are eleven pawnbrokers within a ten mile radius. I narrow down the results by discounting any with a flashy website, or those which are clearly franchise operations; neither likely to be interested in a suspect gold bar.
We’re left with four contenders.
“The nearest one is six miles away, and then there’s another three slightly further afield.”
“We better crack on then, doll.”
“Now?”
“Why not? Not exactly busy in here is it?”
I almost object to closing the shop again, but it’s a nonsensical argument. At most, I might lose fifty or sixty pounds of trade if I close for a few hours; a drop in the ocean compared to the small fortune heading my way once we find a buyer for the gold.
“Okay. Let me just print off a sign for the window.”
Five minutes later, we’re back in the car with the sat nav set to our first port of call — Powell & Partners Pawnbrokers.
Thankfully, Clement is less inquisitive on our outbound journey and the miles pass quietly by.
We follow the sat nav instructions until we turn into the road on which Powell & Partners is located. It’s certainly not the most salubrious part of town. We pass rows of tatty terraced houses, interspersed with soulless apartment blocks, takeaway joints, and a bookmaker with a gaggle of unsavoury-looking characters standing outside. Waiting for opening time I assume.
“Quite the shit-hole, ain’t it?” Clement remarks.
It certainly isn’t the sort of area I’d choose to wander around on my own.
The sat nav counts down the final hundred yards until we reach a row of shops, set slightly back from the road with parking bays out front.
I turn into a bay and kill the engine.
Powell & Partners is the last shop in the row, next to a laundrette, an off licence, a kebab shop, and a tattoo parlour.
“I’m not sure about this, Clement. It’s not exactly an affluent area, is it?”
“Well, we ain’t gonna find a buyer in a legit area, are we? I’d say it looks exactly the right place for our purposes.”
Before I can argue, Clement gets out of the car, grabbing the rucksack from the footwell.
It looks like we’re going in, whether I like it or not.
I pull the sat nav from the windscreen and drop it into my handbag. After a quick scan to check no other valuables are in plain sight, I hop out of the car and join Clement on the pavement.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Nope, but let’s just get on with it.”
We make our way along the parade of shops towards the far end.
The exterior of Powell & Partners is certainly in keeping with the neighbourhood. The murky windows are covered in wire
mesh, with very little visible beyond. The sign above the door is well weathered, the paint flaking and patchy.
If the proprietor does have money, he doesn’t appear keen to invest any in his premises.
Clement pushes open the door and I follow him in, a bell ringing above the door to sound our arrival.
I’ve never had cause to visit a pawnbroker before, but I kind of expected it to look like a jewellers. Powell & Partners does not look like a jewellers.
The dull grey walls are bare, with the exception of a sign listing their terms of business, and a large circular clock. A partition wall has clearly been erected to split the shop into two sections. The front part, in which we’re standing, has a counter at the rear, with a sturdy-looking door behind. I can only surmise the owners don’t wish to display any of their merchandise to those who would prefer to steal rather than buy.
We cross the threadbare carpet towards the counter.
A doorbell has been fixed to the top of the counter, with a hand-written sign to indicate we should ring for assistance. Clement presses the button and a bell shrills beyond the door.
We wait.
“I don’t wish to judge,” I whisper to Clement. “But I can’t see this place having the money we’re after.”
“Maybe, but don’t go on first impressions. I don’t think this is the kind of area where it pays to be flashy.”
“I hope you’re right.”
We turn to face the counter again, and just as Clement is about to press the bell for the second time, the door opens.
A scrawny man, easily in his sixties, appears from the doorway.
“What can I do you for?” he asks, his voice as thin as his frame.
“We’re looking to sell something,” Clement informs the man. “But it might not exactly be legit. You interested?”
“What is it?”
“A solid gold bar. Hundred and fifty ounces.”
The man tilts his head slightly, a wisp of white hair flopping to the side as his eyes narrow.
“Stolen?” the man asks.
“Nah. My friend here will explain.”
I clear my throat and try to look sincere. I tell the man how I found the gold under the floorboards while attending to a leaky pipe.
I finish with a smile, relieved my scripted explanation sounded vaguely plausible.
Who Sent Clement? Page 29