“What’s your problem, old man?” Clement growls. “You get some sort of kick out of threatening women?”
Sterling chortles to himself. He’s either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.
“How chivalrous, but this is none of your business, unless you’re interested in a job? I could do with a little extra muscle now I’m two men down.”
“Yeah, as if I’d ever work for an arsehole like you.”
“Your loss. Anyway,” Sterling says, turning to me. “Where were we?”
“You were going to take the money and leave me in peace.”
“Nice try, Miss Baxter. But I’m sure I was about to send a text message, wasn’t I?”
I glance across at Clement, hoping he’ll intervene. He remains worryingly impassive.
“Look, I’ve got your money. Just go will you?”
Sterling looks to the ceiling and shakes his head. “I’m not a patient man, Miss Baxter, but for the sake of clarity, I’ll confirm your options. You either bring Patterson to me by Monday, or you agree to sell your home. I assume you’d rather not explore the third option.”
“I don’t know how many times I have to tell you — I don’t know where Karl is.”
“In which case, you only have one option…unless you’d like me to send that text message instead?”
He slowly moves his hand towards his blazer pocket, smirking all the way.
It appears Clement has nothing to offer as he continues to stand motionless, gawking at Sterling almost as if he’s star struck. What the hell is wrong with him?
“Okay. I’ll sell the house,” I murmur through gritted teeth.
“Good. I’ll have the necessary paperwork delivered to you tomorrow. And if you mess me around, or attempt to delay the process, that text message will be sent.”
He offers his hand to me, knowing full well I’d rather stick my hand up a cow’s arse than reciprocate.
“No? Oh well, there’s no accounting for manners with some people.”
With a final leer, he turns to leave. He makes two steps before Clement throws him a question.
“I’m told you used to be some sort of big shot in London during the sixties. That true?”
It seems Sterling can’t resist an opportunity to brag.
“I was, which is why I’m not a man to be crossed.”
Clement approaches Sterling and stoops down to inspect the side of his face. The old man edges backwards, clearly affronted at the invasion of his personal space.
“How did you get that scar?” Clement asks.
“None of your damn business.”
“He said he got it in a motorbike accident,” I call across.
“Really? That’s interesting.”
Without clarifying what he found so interesting, Clement marches across the shop, locks the front door and drops the key in his pocket. He then folds his arms and takes up a position like a nightclub bouncer.
“What the hell are you doing, man?” Sterling yells.
“Thought we’d have a quick chat. Get to know one another.”
“Unlock the door. Now.”
“Don’t piss your pants, Sterling. It’s in your best interests to hear me out.”
“I’ll count to five and if you don’t unlock the door, Miss Baxter’s mother won’t be the only one in grave danger.”
“Nah. I don’t think so. And you’re the only one currently in danger.”
Sterling’s face reddens as his control of the situation slowly ebbs away.
“Your scar? Motorbike accident, eh?” Clement asks as he edges closer to Sterling.
“What? Yes.”
“Funny that, because it looks a lot like a Glasgow smile.”
Sterling shuffles backwards in an attempt to maintain his distance from Clement.
“What’s a Glasgow smile?” I ask.
“It’s like a branding, doll. A semi-circular cut from the corner of the mouth to the ear, which is why folks call it a smile. It’s a gangland thing, usually done to people who grass, and other scumbags. Ain’t that right, Sterling?”
“I…I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Are you sure?”
Sterling turns to face me. “I’m warning you. Tell him to unlock the door or, so help me God, I will send that text message.”
The confidence in his voice is gone, replaced with a distinct sense of urgency. As intimidating as Clement is, I don’t understand why Sterling has withered to a shell of his arrogant self.
“He’s bluffing, doll. He ain’t gonna do a thing.”
Sterling dips his hand into his pocket and extracts the mobile phone again. With a shaky hand, he tries to unlock the screen.
“I’ve had enough of this. I’m calling my men in.”
Clement peers out of the window towards the Bentley.
“Those two?” he sniggers. “What are they gonna do? Challenge me to a game of dominoes?”
“They’ll call the police. You’re holding me here against my will.”
“Go on then. Get them to call the police — let’s see how that pans out for you.”
Sterling switches his focus from the phone to Clement.
“I’m not bluffing. This is your last chance — open the damn door.”
“In a minute. But first I want to put a proposition to you. You run a property business don’t you?”
“What of it?”
“I’ve got an investment opportunity for you. This place is up for sale, ain’t it doll?”
I nod.
“And what’s the asking price?”
“Forty thousand,” I reply.
“Maybe you’d like to buy it, Sterling?”
“Why the hell would I buy a book shop?”
It’s a question I’d like answered too.
Clement fixes a fierce stare on the old man. “Why? Cos’ I said you’re going to buy it. Let’s say…double the asking price?”
Sterling appears to find some resolve. “Are you insane, man?” he scoffs. “Not a chance.”
Clement strokes his moustache and poses a question in my direction. “What do you think, doll? Am I insane?”
Sterling turns to me, his sneering face now a picture of bewilderment. I still don’t have the first clue what Clement is up to, but I’m happy to play along as it appears to be making Sterling uncomfortable.
“Between you and me,” I say in a hushed voice. “He might well be insane.”
“We gotta deal then?”
Sterling’s head snaps back in Clement’s direction. “No, and I’ve had enough of this. Unlock the door.”
“No can do.”
The two men appear to have reached an impasse. Clement moves across the floor and leans up against the counter. He looks totally relaxed while Sterling appears paralysed by indecision. I don’t understand why, despite his threats, he still hasn’t called the police.
“Just forget Patterson,” Sterling suddenly blurts. “I’ll take the money and you can have the contract.”
Clement reaches across and grabs the carrier bag of cash from the counter.
“Here you go then. Gimme the contract first.”
Sterling steps forward and pulls the contract from his pocket. He tentatively holds it out and it’s snatched from his fingers. Clement then passes the contract to me and holds the bag of cash out at arm’s length.
Sterling reaches for the bag but Clement pulls it away and drops it back on the counter.
“Bad luck, Norris. We’re keeping it.”
What? Who is Norris?
Sterling’s mouth drops open, his face plastered with much the same fear as a man being told he has only weeks to live.
“What’s the matter, Norris? You look a bit peaky.”
Sterling’s face is now so white I can barely see the scar. His lips twitch as if he’s trying to reply but he appears unable to find any words.
“Sorry, Clement,” I interject. “Why are you calling him Norris?”
“Cos’ th
at’s his real name, and he certainly was a big shot in London…amongst the nonces.”
I stare at Sterling, and then at Clement. “I’m not with you.”
The big man is more than happy to explain. “The moment I saw him, I knew I’d seen his face before. Couldn’t quite place it though. His real name is Norris Durbridge, and he got his Glasgow smile during a four year stretch in Wormwood Scrubs.”
“Prison?”
“Yeah. Norris here had a thing for young boys, didn’t you Norris? Thing is, most prison inmates aren’t keen on nonces and like to dish out a bit of extra punishment. And a Glasgow smile is reserved for the lowest of the low.”
Sterling suddenly finds his voice. “No…you’re mistaken,” he splutters.
“Shut up, Norris. With a beak like that, you’re not easy to forget. Your ugly mug was all over the papers — what was it they called you? Norris the Nonce, wasn’t it?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Don’t bother denying it. We can easily check with Beth’s goggly thing.”
“Google,” I suggest.
“Yeah, that.”
Backed into a corner, Sterling, or Norris, or whatever his name is, decides attack is his best form of defence.
“This is preposterous,” he huffs. “Your claims are slanderous and I have a very good lawyer. I’ll sue you both for every penny you have.”
“It ain’t slander if there’s proof you’re Norris Durbridge.”
“And what proof could you possibly have?” Sterling taunts. “Anything and everything tying me to that man is long gone.”
“I’m sure you’ve done a good job burying your past. But there’s one thing you’ve overlooked — fingerprints.”
“What?”
“Your fingerprints on the contract you just handed me. I’d bet my last quid they’re an exact match for Norris Durbridge’s.”
The look on Sterling’s face is almost worth twenty thousand pounds.
“So, Norris, if you wanna try taking us to court for slander, go ahead. I’d love to see your fancy lawyer explain that.”
Checkmate.
With his short-lived defence already in tatters, Sterling visibly shrinks.
“You know nothing,” he whimpers. “It was a fit up. I’m innocent.”
“Bullshit. All seven boys testified against you. All liars were they?”
“The police were corrupt and they coached those boys. You weren’t there — you don’t understand what it was like back then.”
“Don’t I?”
No, Clement. Please don’t.
He stares intently at Sterling for a second, and poses another question.
“You ever watch the programme Mastermind, Norris?”
Sterling nods.
“Well, if I ever got to sit in that big chair, my specialist subject would be London in the sixties and seventies. I know exactly who you are and I know what you did, so you’re wasting your breath trying to tell me otherwise.”
Nicely done.
Clement moves from the counter and stands a few feet in front of Sterling, looming over him, both physically and, I suspect, psychologically. The man who walked through the door with a confident swagger only ten minutes ago is no more. The arrogant, despicable old man, broken without a single punch being thrown.
“Let’s not piss around here,” Clement scowls. “You’re not gonna walk away with any cash, but you are gonna buy this place for double the asking price.”
I can almost hear the cogs turning in Sterling’s head. He has nowhere to run.
He avoids eye contact with Clement and mumbles a response. “And if I don’t?”
“Your dirty little secret will become public knowledge. We’ll see how popular you are with your mates in the police once they know who you really are.”
Silence.
From my position behind the counter, I’ve stood and watched this drama unfold, almost in disbelief. One moment my mother’s life is being threatened. The next, I’m about to be offered another winning lottery ticket, courtesy of the carrier bag of cash and Sterling’s imposed purchase of the shop. And much like my entire journey with Clement, I’ve felt a little bit like a passenger on a runaway train — staring out of the window as good fortune and bad fortune zip past.
Now it’s time to get off and take control.
I move from behind the counter and approach Sterling. He now looks every one of his seventy-plus years.
“Do we have a deal then, Sterling?” I ask. “Or do you prefer Mr Durbridge?”
“It appears I don’t have much choice,” he mumbles, his voice barely audible.
“Sorry. I didn’t catch that.”
He won’t even look at me. Coward.
“Yes. I’ll buy your damn shop.”
“Good. And in return, I’ll resist the temptation to post details of your indiscretions on Facebook.”
“I want a non-disclosure agreement signed,” he mutters as a final act of defiance.
“Fine. Oh, and Sterling, I want this done and dusted within two weeks. Understood?”
He moves his head a fraction, barely discernible as a nod.
“My estate agent is Howard Grant. I’ll expect you to make your formal offer by lunchtime tomorrow.”
As I savour the moment, Clement moves up behind me and delivers a coup de grâce in his gravelly voice. “One thing before you crawl back to your hole, Norris. I’ll be watching you, just in case you have any ideas about retaliation, or doing a runner.”
Sterling remains mute, head bowed.
Clement continues with his hands placed protectively on my shoulders. “And if anything happens to Beth or her mother, or you don’t come good and buy this place, I’ll blow your secret myself. Then, once you’ve suffered the humiliation, I’ll hunt you down and I will kill you. Clear?”
David Sterling nods, and Norris Durbridge asks if he can leave.
Pathetic.
Clement retrieves the key from his pocket and strides over to the door. He unlocks it and holds it open.
“Seeya then, Norris.”
Sterling doesn’t need a second invitation and scurries out of the shop, back to the confines of his Bentley. I doubt he’ll find safety there, or anywhere else now.
Clement shuts the door and locks it.
“Did that just happen?” I ask, still trying to process events.
“Yeah, it did.”
“Incredible. I’m honestly lost for words.”
“That’d be a first.”
I skip over to Clement and, standing on the very tips of my toes, plant a kiss on his cheek.
“You never cease to amaze me, you know?”
“It was nothing.”
I gaze up at him. “I still don’t think I can quite believe it. What were the chances of Sterling having such a dark secret, let alone you recognising him?”
“Yeah, fancy that,” he replies, his eyebrows arched. “Was it enough to change your mind?”
“About what?”
“You don’t remember?”
“Remind me.”
“When I first pitched up here — I asked if you believed in miracles.”
“Oh, yes. Right.”
“And you said you didn’t.”
“Did I?”
“Yeah, you did. And now?”
“I…err, don’t know. I believe I’ve been extremely lucky.”
“Yeah, right,” he snorts, shaking his head. “Nobody is that lucky, doll.”
44
It’s over. Done.
The feeling isn’t too dissimilar to the moment I received my university exam results in the post. A distinct line in the sand, separating two periods of my life. So much effort, culminating in one moment of elation.
No more looking back. Everything to look forward to.
But the one key difference between overcoming David Sterling, and passing my exams, is luck. At university, my destiny was in my own hands. If I studied hard, I knew what the outcome would be. This time, and d
espite Clement suggesting otherwise, I have been gifted some incredibly good fortune.
And that, as far as I am concerned, is all it is.
The rationale behind that assumption is also drawn from my time at university.
Danny, boyfriend number two, was a historical literature buff. Besides the occasions when he was busy fellating his tutor, he always had his head stuck in a book. He had a particular passion for the life and work of Byron, and amassed an encyclopaedic knowledge of the man. I’d even go as far as to say Danny was obsessed with Byron. Whenever he talked about him, which he did a lot, he spoke as if he actually knew him. And when he waxed lyrical about an event in Byron’s life, he did so as if he’d actually been there.
It’s now clear Danny and Clement share a similar trait. One painted a convincing picture of life in nineteenth century Europe, while the other paints an equally convincing picture of London in the sixties and seventies.
It is, I would venture, not too much of a stretch to assume Clement has studied his subject to the same obsessive level as Danny. With that in mind, it is also not too much of a stretch to assume Clement might have studied the crimes of Norris Durbridge.
Call it a freakish coincidence, a stroke of luck, or ridiculously fortuitous, but there is a rational explanation to Clement and Norris Durbridge occupying the same room. Hell, for all I know, Clement found Sterling and worked out he was Durbridge before he turned up at my shop that evening. It isn’t inconceivable that Sterling inadvertently brought Clement to me, rather than the other way around.
Muddy waters perhaps, but what is clear is that Juliet’s visit tomorrow can’t come quickly enough.
For now though, I’m going to kick back, take stock, and get raucously drunk.
“I reckon we deserve a few drinks, Clement. Don’t you?”
“Could be my last night here, so yeah, I do.”
I choose to ignore his prophetic comment and grab the bag of cash from the counter.
“And we don’t need to worry about the tab this time,” I say, shaking the bag.
“Good. I’m overdue a proper hammering.”
I dread to think how much alcohol might be required to fulfil that hammering. Erring on the side of caution, I extract two fifty pound notes from the bag and tuck them into my pocket.
“We’ll go back to my place first. I want to grab a quick shower and change.”
Who Sent Clement? Page 38