Who Sent Clement?

by Keith A Pearson

  Hello. I am here, you know.

  Somebody should tell the doctor that being shot does not rob the victim of their hearing.

  He disappears and my mother perches herself on the edge of the bed.

  Beyond Clement’s whereabouts, there are a number of other questions I need answers to. I ask her for another cup of water, which I quickly down, and then try to ask those questions while appearing as lucid as I’m apparently supposed to be.

  “The shop…”

  “Don’t worry, darling. Everything is in hand.”

  “In hand?”

  “Stanley has been opening up and keeping things ticking over for you. Oh, and he’s been dealing with your agent chap.”

  “Howard?”

  “That’s him. When were you going to tell me you were selling up?”

  “I only decided last night.”

  “I don’t think it was last night, darling. You’ve been in here for over a week.”

  “Eh? What day is it?”

  “Friday.”

  Eight days. Shit.

  “Have I had any visitors?”

  “A few. Your friend, Juliet, popped in, and a lady from one of your book clubs. Sorry, I can’t recall her name.”

  “Are you sure nobody else has visited?”

  “Well, I’ve been sitting here every day, with Stanley of course, and we haven’t seen anyone else. I have to say, darling, he’s been an absolute rock.”

  I may have seriously misjudged Stanley. And I may have also seriously misjudged Clement. Why hasn’t he been to see if I’m okay?

  “Is Stanley coming in today?”

  “He’ll be here this evening.”

  “Good. I need to thank him.”

  While I might still have unanswered questions, it seems my mother has some questions of her own she’s keen to pose.

  “Do you remember what happened, darling?”

  I do, but that doesn’t mean I wish to share it with anyone.

  “Not really.”

  “I mean, how on earth did you manage to get yourself shot?”

  “I…don’t know.”

  “This is like something you only read about in the papers, but you never expect it to happen to your own daughter, in her own home of all places.”

  I don’t know what to say to her. Truth is, there isn’t anything I can say without having to explain the whole back story. And that would mean trying to explain the unexplainable.

  “I’m sorry, Mum.”

  “It’s okay, darling. You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”

  Her voice is strained and I’m suddenly struck by just how exhausted she looks. Whatever I’ve been through in the last eight days, my poor mother looks like she’s been through an equally arduous ordeal.

  “You okay, Mum? You look shattered.”

  “I’m fine, darling. Don’t worry about me. You just concentrate on getting better.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “And I’ll tell the police they’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

  “The police?”

  She bites her bottom lip — a tell-tale sign she’s opened her mouth without thinking.

  “Yes, darling, they’re…err, quite keen to talk to you. They did ask me to call as soon as you woke up.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, um, no particular reason.”

  I know when my own mother is lying.

  “Mum? What do they want?”

  “Honestly, darling, I really wouldn’t worry.”

  Her attempt to dismiss my concern is as half-hearted as it is futile. When somebody tells you not to worry, it’s usually a sure sign there’s something to worry about.

  “Christ, Mum. Tell me, please.”

  I know she doesn’t want to tell me, but she also knows I won’t stop asking.

  “A man, err…”

  “Mum?”

  “They found a man in your kitchen.”

  “What?”

  “And he died, I’m afraid.”

  “Who? What man?”

  “I don’t know darling. They wouldn’t tell me.”

  “They must have told you something.”

  “Not really. Just that it was a middle-aged man.”

  “What did he look like? What happened to him?”

  “I honestly don’t know. I promise you.”

  A middle-aged man, dead. No sign of Clement in eight days.

  The machine next to my bed screams an alarm. I gasp short, shallow breaths as my panic-stricken mother looks on. My heart feels like it’s about to burst from my chest and that only serves to increase my own level of panic.

  We stare at one another, eyes wide. Different fears but the same obvious distress.

  The door bursts open and a nurse shoos my mother from my side. She silences the screaming machine and takes my wrist.

  “Beth. Look at me,” she orders. “Take slow, deep breaths.”

  So easy to say.

  “Come on, Beth, look at me. Breathe in. Breathe out. Nice and slowly.”

  I focus on her hazel eyes, her smooth ebony skin. There’s a slight Caribbean lilt to her voice and the tenor is almost melodic.

  “That’s it, my girl. Breathe. Breathe.”

  Gasps become gulps as my lungs finally draw in air. My racing heart eases and I find some rhythm to my breathing. It’s still laboured, but I no longer feel like I’m about to suffocate.

  “What’s wrong with her,” my mother cries.

  “Nothing to be alarmed at, my love. I think she’s had a little panic attack.”

  The nurse glances across at the machine and pats my hand.

  “You did good, my girl. You feeling okay now?”

  The symptoms might be under control but the root cause is far from cured. I nod as I continue to consciously control my breathing.

  Words are exchanged between the nurse and my mother but they drift over my head, unheard. My mind is already elsewhere.

  Scene by scene, patchy memories are sifted as I try to reach any conclusion other than the one that just triggered a panic attack.

  I can see Clement’s hand on the fridge door. He yanked it open and it struck Mr Black. The gun went off and…God, that pain. Then what? I fell forward and it couldn’t have been more than a second before my head hit…the table.

  I wince at that memory.

  But what did I see? There was Clement’s boot, heading in the direction of Mr Black, I think.

  Did it ever reach him? Was there another gunshot?

  I ignore the pounding in my head and try to eke out whatever remains. There has to be something, anything.

  There is neither something or anything. There is nothing. I was no longer conscious when whatever happened to Clement, happened. I can search those memories for the rest of my days but it’s a futile exercise.

  No matter how big he is, how tough he is, gun trumps man every time. And coupled with Clement’s failure to visit, there is only one conclusion I can draw.

  “Beth? What’s the matter, darling?”

  My mother’s voice breaks through.

  “Why the tears?”

  As much as I want to unburden myself, this is a cross I’ll have to bear alone.

  My friend. My grief.

  46

  Tiredness arrives without warning, and I’m instructed to rest. I don’t want to sleep but I have no energy to resist.

  It scares me that I might wake up and not remember the last hour. I’ll return to this unfamiliar room and I’ll repeat the same cycle of confusion, dread, and damning realisation.

  So tired though.

  I slip away.

  There is no natural light in the room so time becomes blurred. Sleep comes when it comes. I awake when I awake.

  In between, I encounter a series of groggy vignettes in which various characters come and go: my mother, Dr Potter, nurses, and Stanley. The one person I want to see only visits when I slip back into another fitful sleep.

  And the cycle continues for three more day
s. Apparently.

  By Monday morning, I feel stronger. I eat a little, I drink weak tea, and I’m deemed fit enough to be moved to a room with a window. When you’ve been deprived of natural light and non-conditioned air for days on end, even a cold draught and a view of a dreary sky is welcome.

  As a nurse bustles around the room, my mood is not as cheery as it should be for somebody who has seen off a brain injury and a gunshot wound.

  It’s been eleven days since Clement’s death. There is a constant dull ache in my chest, and when nobody is around, I allow myself to shed a few tears. Grief is hideous, and no more so than when you’re forced to bottle it and drink alone.

  To make matters worse, the police will be here shortly. They’ll have questions; plenty I’m sure. They’ll get no answers from me though.

  I’m hoping Dr Potter will deem me fit enough to go home by the end of the week. With the prospect of fourteen sleepless hours ahead, I’m sure boredom will arrive soon, and quickly outstay its welcome. I have a TV, magazines, and Mum brought me a notepad and pen, but it’s not enough. I have a Clement-sized hole to fill and I don’t think I can properly grieve, or move on, while I’m trapped in this magnolia limbo.

  There is also the small question of the shop sale to deal with. Stanley, bless his heart, has been liaising with Howard, and while he awaits my confirmation to proceed, the legal groundwork is already well underway. I’m maybe ten days and a few pen strokes from eighty thousand pounds and a new career.

  The fact Sterling actually kept his word does surprise me. I don’t know if he’s aware of what happened, but if he is, I’d bet he prayed I wouldn’t pull through. With Clement gone, I am the last person alive who knows his dirty secret. It’s a stick I intend to wave until that money is in my bank account.

  My only enemy now, is time.

  Long hours, watching TV and reading magazines while I try to distract myself from thoughts of Clement.

  I reach for the remote control and switch the TV on. The Jeremy Kyle Show — God help me.

  Twenty minutes into it, and just as I’m about to discover if Daz really is the father of Tanisha’s baby, the door from the main corridor opens.

  “Miss Baxter?”

  “Yes.”

  I switch the TV off.

  “Detective Inspector Brampton and Detective Constable Marsh.”

  The man offering the introductions, DI Brampton, is every bit a caricature of a TV detective. He looks like he slept in his suit, and I’m guessing he probably isn’t as old as his craggy features suggest.

  The two detectives march across the room and stand side-by-side at the edge of my bed. Warrant cards are shown, and sympathetic smiles are offered before they each pull up a chair.

  As they sit, I size up DC Marsh. She’s the polar opposite of Brampton. Fresh-faced and younger than me by a few years, I’d guess. Her ill-fitting, navy blue trouser suit does nothing for her. Together, they look an unlikely partnership. But if I’ve learnt anything of late, it’s that not all partnerships are what they first appear.

  “How are you feeling?” DI Brampton asks.

  If I never hear that question again, it will be too soon.

  “I’m okay.”

  “And you’re up to answering a few questions?”

  “Yes, although I’m not really sure what I can tell you.”

  “Don’t worry. Anything at all would be a help.”

  DC Marsh pulls a notepad from inside her jacket, and flips it open. I’m not sure if it’s a rank thing or a sexist assumption that she should be on secretarial duties.

  “Let’s start at the beginning shall we?” DI Brampton begins. “Tell me what you remember about that Thursday.”

  I had already guessed this would be their opening question. Clearly I can’t tell him I was in the shop, busying myself with a former gangland fixer; the two of us blackmailing a local businessman who just happened to be a notorious sex offender.

  “Just a normal day. I closed the shop and went home.”

  “Right. Then what happened.”

  “I remember walking through the door, hanging my coat and handbag up, and then I went into the kitchen.”

  “And then?”

  “Sorry. Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “No.”

  DC Marsh stops scribbling and DI Brampton frowns.

  “So let me get this right. You had a perfectly normal day at work, and then you went home?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you hung up your coat and handbag, and then went into the kitchen?”

  “Yes.”

  “And from that point, you have no memory?”

  “I don’t know what to say, Inspector. That’s all there is.”

  “Okay. Let’s leave that for the moment and concentrate on what we do know.”

  He loosens the knot in his tie and crosses his legs.

  “We found a man in your kitchen, close to death. Unfortunately, he died on the way to the hospital.”

  His blunt statement hits me like a sledgehammer. Perhaps that was his intention.

  “You weren’t aware of a man in your kitchen when you entered?”

  “No.”

  I can feel the panic returning. I consider switching to a ‘no comment’ strategy, but I fear that will only fuel their theory I’m not telling the truth.

  “Does the name Kenny Bingham mean anything to you?”

  “No. Should it?”

  “Considering he was the man in your kitchen, maybe.”

  “I…I’ve never heard of him.”

  Clement is, or was, Kenny Bingham? Why did he use a false name, unless he had good reason to?

  “Well, the late Mr Bingham was certainly known to us, Miss Baxter. He has a long list of convictions going back almost twenty years.”

  Nausea starts to build. I reach across to a table by the bed and grab a glass of water. As I lift it to my mouth, I have to consciously stop my hand from shaking.

  I take a few sips while the detectives watch on. They can smell my trepidation — I’m sure of it.

  Nauseous and fearful I might be, but the need for answers is overwhelming.

  “What convictions, Inspector?” I ask in a feeble voice.

  “Where to start? Lots of petty stuff when he was young, but more recently he’s been on our radar for a whole host of offences: demanding money with menaces, grievous bodily harm, and extortion, to name but a few. Unfortunately, witnesses willing to testify against Mr Bingham have been in short supply.”

  DI Brampton then turns to DC Grace. “So whoever killed him probably did us a favour, eh?”

  DC Grace concurs with her boss by nodding slowly.

  “But, we still need to establish what happened to him,” he continues. “We can’t be having gun crime on our patch, Miss Baxter.”

  “No,” I mumble.

  Their rap sheet doesn’t tally with the man I knew. Maybe that’s the problem — I never really knew Clement.

  “So you’re absolutely sure you’ve never heard of Kenny Bingham?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, maybe you don’t know the name, but perhaps the face might be familiar. Can we show you his photo?”

  I fear I won’t be able to look at Clement’s photo without breaking down, but what possible excuse could I use not to?

  No way around it. I nod.

  DC Marsh delves into her pocket again, this time withdrawing a piece of paper. She unfolds it and hands it to me.

  I tentatively take the sheet of paper.

  “That’s Kenny Bingham,” she says.

  I steel myself and snatch a quick glance at the picture.

  No. That’s Mr Black.

  I cannot imagine a picture of Kenny Bingham, or his alter-ego, Mr Black, has ever provoked such joy, such relief. It takes a monumental effort not to let those emotions show on my face.

  “Sorry. I’ve never seen him before.”

  “Are you totally sure?” DI Brampton asks.

  “Po
sitive.”

  As another lie slips a little too easily from my mouth, it triggers two questions of my own. What happened after I hit my head on the table, and where the hell is Clement now?

  I hand the picture back to DC Marsh. The two detectives swap glances and DI Brampton exhales a deep breath.

  “Well, Miss Baxter. We have quite the mystery on our hands and very little to go on. I was kind of hoping you might be able to fill in a few blanks for us, but your memory loss is…how can I put it…disappointing.”

  “I’m not sure what you want me to say.”

  “Are you absolutely sure you entered your house alone?”

  “Yes, of course I’m sure.”

  “And that is our problem. Somebody killed Kenny Bingham, Miss Baxter, and yet you say you entered your home alone.”

  There is more than a hint of an accusatory tone in his voice.

  “I hope you’re not suggesting I killed him.”

  “No, I’m not. That much we can be pretty certain of.”

  I need answers just as much as DI Brampton does, although to different questions. Despite my best efforts to portray a calm, indifferent exterior, I’m sure he’s experienced enough to read my body language, which says something different.

  “You’re curious, Miss Baxter?”

  “Sorry?”

  “I detect you’re curious how we can be certain you didn’t kill Bingham.”

  “Erm…”

  “We know you didn’t kill him because of the way he died.”

  The detective leans forward in his chair and looks me straight in the eye.

  “Somebody punched him in the head with such force, his brain bled out before the ambulance reached the hospital.”

  I reach for the cup of water again. Anything to mask my internal horror.

  “And I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, Miss Baxter, but that somebody had to be significantly bigger and stronger than you.”

  He sits back in his chair and a tense silence fills the room. I continue to sip at my water while I process DI Brampton’s revelation.

  “Now, we know it was Bingham who shot you, because of the residue on his hand,” he continues. “But we’re no closer to establishing who killed Bingham.”

  “Or, who rang for an ambulance,” adds DC Marsh.

  “That’s right. And whoever did call used your home phone. A man with a distinctive London accent if that helps?”