Who Sent Clement?

by Keith A Pearson

  I decide to adopt a new strategy — act dumb and say as little as possible.

  “Can’t help you.”

  “Come on, Miss Baxter,” he huffs. “We know somebody else was in your home. We’ve dusted your entire kitchen for fingerprints and there is one set we can’t account for. And those same fingerprints were on the phone used to call the ambulance, so who do they belong to?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Right. Well, maybe this will help jog that memory.”

  He nods to DC Marsh. She pulls out her phone and taps the screen a few times. She holds the phone towards me, close enough I can see the grainy still photo; almost certainly pulled from a CCTV camera.

  “Who is he?” she asks, pointing to Clement’s pixelated face. “The image was captured in the town centre. This man, and you, together.”

  Shit. Shit. Shit. What do I say?

  I press my fingertips into my temples and close my eyes. I don’t know how the detectives will interpret this action, but I need to buy some time.

  Seconds turn into a minute and their patience wears thin.

  “Who is he, Miss Baxter?” DC Marsh repeats.

  Something of Clement’s prior advice strikes me — If I’m going to lie, keep it close to some version of the truth.

  “He was…he was…an odd job man,” I splutter.

  “And does he have a name, this odd job man?” DI Brampton asks.

  “Cliff.”

  “Cliff?”

  “Yes.”

  “Cliff what?”

  “I don’t know his surname. Honestly.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Not sure. I think he said he was originally from North London.”

  “And does he still live in North London?”

  “No. He said he moved around a lot.”

  “Okay. So how did you meet him?”

  “He just turned up at the shop one day.”

  Clement’s technique is surprisingly effective, and with every question I answer, the detectives become increasingly frustrated. I confidently offer a version of the truth that sounds believable but provides no real answers.

  They eventually give up.

  “If you hear from this Cliff character, Miss Baxter, it is imperative you tell us. We understand he might well have been acting in self-defence, but we need to hear his side of the story.”

  The detectives stand and offer me their token wishes for a speedy recovery. DC Marsh then slides her business card onto the table by my bed and they leave.

  The moment the door swings shut, I drop the card in the bin.

  I have no idea how I managed to busk my way through their interrogation, but their departure brings some sense of closure, at least on any further probing by the police.

  It doesn’t however, bring any closure on Clement. The fact the police are looking for him might explain why he’s gone to ground, but for somebody as resourceful as Clement, I don’t understand why he hasn’t made any effort to let me know he’s okay.

  Eleven days and not a peep.

  As I lie back on the bed, a swarm of emotions buzz around my mind. Of all those emotions, one cuts deeper than the rest — sadness.

  As much as I don’t want to face the only conclusion I can possibly draw, I have to.

  Clement is gone and he’s not coming back.

  47

  Saturday brings an end to my sixteen day stay in hospital.

  It also brings down a curtain on any lingering hopes I’ll ever see Clement again.

  I’ve spent an unhealthy amount of time just staring at the door, and every time it opened, I prayed a big man in double denim would wander in.

  It was never Clement.

  As much as I’d rather be anywhere else, I have tried to make the most of my stay. I managed to plot a semi-decent outline for my new novel, and in turn, I had the opportunity to reflect on everything I’ve been through.

  An incredible, ridiculous, unbelievable journey, alongside an incredible, ridiculous, unbelievable man.

  But now that journey is over and I must move on. Alone again.

  On Monday, I called Howard and confirmed my instructions to proceed as quickly as possible with the sale of the shop. All being well, that sale should conclude next week. I have no idea what Sterling is going to do with a book shop, but I suspect Baxter’s Books has probably sold its last copy of Fifty Shades of Grey. Saying that, I suspect Baxter’s Books has sold its last copy of anything, as I won’t be returning. I’ve only been discharged on the strict understanding I convalesce at home for the next three weeks.

  Mum and Stanley have insisted they move into my spare bedroom for the time being. They’ve both been so good to me, and Stanley in particular has been an absolute hero through all of this. Considering my appallingly brattish behaviour towards him, he had every reason to turn his back on me, and my mother. I doubt he’ll ever win an award for businessman of the year, but his heart is very much in the right place.

  Now, the moment has arrived I can leave this damn place. I sit on the edge of the bed, waiting for my lift.

  Dr Potter enters the room.

  “How’s my favourite patient this morning? All set?”

  I confirm I am with a half-hearted smile and a nod.

  “Good, good.”

  He spends ten minutes listing all the things I can and cannot do, with greater emphasis on the latter.

  With his job done, we shake hands and I offer my thanks for all his care. His is not a job I envy one bit.

  As the doctor leaves, Stanley arrives — a vision in corduroy and tweed.

  “Morning, Bethany.”

  “Morning, Stanley.”

  He approaches the bed, still noticeably uncomfortable in my company.

  “It’s just me I’m afraid. Your mum was going to come with me but she’s still busy back at your place.”

  “It’s fine, Stanley. What’s she doing?”

  “The police left the kitchen in a bit of a mess. She wanted everything looking nice for you.”

  “Ahh, right. Bless her.”

  He picks up the bag containing my nightclothes and toiletries. “Shall we?”

  “Yes, but I wanted to say something first, Stanley.”

  “Oh. What have I done now?”

  I gingerly stand up and shuffle over to him.

  “I wanted to say thank you, and I’m sorry for the way I’ve behaved. Mum is very lucky to have you in her life. We both are.”

  His ruddy face blossoms into a deep shade of scarlet. “There’s really no need,” he says quietly.

  “There is, and I think I owe you a hug, don’t you?”

  I put my arms around him before he has a chance to answer.

  I complete the hug with a peck on the cheek. As I step back, Stanley looks like he’s about to cry. Soppy old sod.

  “Come on then, Stanley. Let’s go home.”

  He offers me a ride in a wheelchair, which I decline. The hospital has provided me with a set of crutches and I need the practice. My leg doesn’t hurt that much and the gunshot wound is healing nicely, but I can definitely feel it if I put too much pressure on my right leg for any amount of time.

  We take a slow walk to the exit.

  “You wait here and I’ll go fetch the car.”

  “Sure.”

  Stanley heads off to the car park and I take a seat on a bench just outside the main doors. It’s been raining, and a frigid wind is gusting, but the relief of being outside the hospital walls tempers the miserable weather.

  I watch people come and go, perhaps hoping I might spot a big man amongst them. I spot a few, but they’re not the big man I’m looking for. I wonder just how long I’ll keep looking. A few days? A few weeks? Will I ever accept Clement walking out of my life as abruptly as he entered it?

  I guess I have to.

  A silver Honda pulls up to the kerb and Stanley hops out.

  “Your chariot awaits, my lady.”

  He opens the passenger door and t
akes my arm as I delicately lower myself in. My crutches are deposited in the boot before Stanley takes up position in the driver’s seat.

  “Let’s get you home.”

  I take a final glance at the hospital and offer a silent prayer I never have reason to return.

  Stanley pulls away and I let myself relax a little.

  Within a few minutes it’s clear Stanley can’t handle sitting in silence, and he makes an attempt at small talk.

  “I quite enjoyed working in the shop. Will you be sad to see it go?”

  “A little, but unfortunately it’s had its day. Time to move on.”

  “Won’t you miss the customers?”

  “Not really,” I chuckle. “Although they weren’t all bad.”

  “I thought they were all fairly pleasant, despite the fact I didn’t have the first clue what I was doing.”

  “You’re right, they are, and I’m probably being unfair. I guess when you’ve stood at that counter as long as I have, you get a little tired of…I don’t know, people I suppose.”

  As we pull up to a roundabout, he turns to me and smiles. “I know what you mean.”

  He pulls away and we continue on our way.

  Stanley’s driving style could best be described as cautious, and the journey is taking significantly longer than it would if I were at the wheel. Maybe this would have irritated me once, but I’m now happy to sit and watch the world drift past. Ever so slowly.

  “Oh, by the way. Some chap called in with a box of books.”

  “Eric?”

  “Yes, that’s the chap. I wasn’t sure what to tell him, so I said you’d give him a call when you were up to it.”

  “Right. Thanks, Stanley.”

  “And another chap left a parcel for you.”

  “Okay.”

  “I suspect he found himself in trouble when he got back to the depot.”

  “Why?”

  “He forgot to ask for a signature.”

  “Those guys are on such tight schedules. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “Probably.”

  “What did you do with it?”

  “Oh, I took it back to your place.”

  The last thing I want is shop stock cluttering up my home, but it would be churlish to say anything.

  “Okay. It’s probably a customer order. I’ll deal with it once I’m back on my feet.”

  “I don’t think it’s for a customer.”

  “No? Why’s that?” I reply wearily.

  “He said…let me think. Oh, yes, that’s right. He said I should make sure you get it because it was really important. That’s why I dropped it at your place.”

  “Knowing my luck, it’s probably a court summons for an unpaid bill.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve had too many of them myself,” he replies. “And speaking from bitter experience, I hope for your sake it’s not.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll have the money to settle all my bills as soon as the shop sale goes through.”

  We get within a mile of Elmore Road and Stanley stops at an amber traffic light.

  “Was there anything else I need to be aware of, Stanley? Any problems?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Your friend, Juliet, popped in on the Friday, and I told her you were in hospital. I hope that was okay?”

  She never did get to see Clement. I owe her an apology and an explanation.

  “And that was it really,” Stanley adds. “I left the parcel on your kitchen table, like the courier asked.”

  “Okay, thanks, I’ll deal…hold on. He asked you to put it on my kitchen table?”

  “Yes. He was quite insistent on it.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “Um, let me think.”

  He thinks, and the lights change to green. He slips the car into first gear and moves away.

  “Stanley? Did he say anything else?”

  “No. That was it.”

  “So let me get this clear. He delivered a package and told you it was important, and to put it on my kitchen table?”

  “More or less.”

  I’ve got a horrible feeling that parcel might contain something far worse than a court summons. The one thing about sitting around in a hospital room. With nothing to occupy your mind, your imagination is allowed to run wild. After learning of Mr Black’s unfortunate passing, it dawned on me that his brother might want to seek revenge of his own.

  Clearly the courier was not from a reputable parcel company. God only knows what horrors await me in that parcel.

  “This man, Stanley. Did he use a walking stick, or walk with a limp?”

  “No, not that I recall.”

  “Can you remember what he looked like? And please think carefully because it might be connected to the man who shot me.”

  “Oh, good grief,” he splutters. “Do you think so?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Now you come to mention it, he did look like trouble.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, he was bloody enormous for one thing. Hands like shovels.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Um…yes, there was one other thing. He had a huge droopy moustache. I’ve never trusted a man with a moustache, they’re…”

  Oh, my God!

  “Was he wearing a denim waistcoat?” I screech at poor Stanley.

  “Yes. Yes he was, and a sweater that looked like it had shrunk in the wash.”

  “Stanley — put your foot down. I need to get home.”

  Stanley’s idea of putting his foot down is travelling a fraction over the speed limit. If it weren’t for the fact we’re less than a mile away from my house, I swear I’d have throttled him.

  He eventually pulls into Elmore Road and painstakingly reverses into a parking space.

  “Can you grab my crutches, please?”

  “Of course. Shall I go and fetch your mother first?”

  “No, Stanley,” I bark. “Please. The crutches.”

  He doesn’t need telling twice and within seconds he’s at my door, crutches in hand.

  “Thanks, Stanley, and sorry for snapping. I just want to get inside.”

  “It’s forgotten already.”

  By the time I reach my front door, the crutches have become more an accessory than a practical walking aid.

  My key is in my bag, inside the house, so I’m forced to rap the knocker and wait for my mother to answer. Stanley brings up the rear, carrying my bag.

  “She’s probably up to her elbows in flour,” he says.

  “What? Sorry?”

  “I think she wanted to cook you something nice for dinner, you know, after all that hospital food.”

  I turn and reach for the knocker, and the door swings open.

  “Darling,” my mother squeals. “Welcome home.”

  She takes my bag from Stanley and immediately sends him off on a mercy mission for the eggs she forgot. I throw him a smile before I hop through the door.

  Stanley dealt with; she closes the door and starts clucking. “How are you feeling, darling? Is your leg okay?”

  Aghhhh!

  “It’s all good, thanks, Mum. I need to get something from the kitchen, though.”

  Before she can pose any further questions about my wellbeing, I begin limping down the hall towards the kitchen.

  “Shall I take your bag upstairs, darling?”

  “Yes, please,” I call back to her, not really giving a stuff what she does with it. I have much more important matters to attend to.

  The second I step through the kitchen door, my sense of urgency is arrested. Although everything looks more or less the same, thanks to my mother, the spectre of what happened on that evening looms large. I take a moment to regain my composure, and cast aside the mental image of Mr Black, taking his last breaths here in my kitchen. It sounds horrible, but I’m just glad he hung on long enough to die elsewhere.

  As a cold shiver subsides, I hop over to the table which is laden with an assortment of packet
s — ingredients for whatever my mother is cooking. I collapse onto a chair and frantically scan the table. My eyes lock onto a plain brown package, about ten inches long by eight inches wide, and less than an inch thick. My name has been scrawled on the front in pen.

  With complete reverence, I gently lift the package from the table. I’m almost too scared to open it.

  I turn it over and gently pick the packing tape from one end. As it curls away, I hear the wardrobe door creak open from my bedroom. I guess my mother has decided to unpack and put away the contents of my hospital bag. That buys me a few minutes of peace to deal with whatever is beyond the brown cardboard.

  With the packing tape removed, I slide my fingernails under a flap and prise the package open.

  What the hell?

  A book?

  I have no idea why Clement would send me a book, unless of course, it’s hiding something else.

  If he’s paranoid about the police finding him, what better way to get a message to me? They wouldn’t think anything of a book shop manager receiving a book. Very clever, Clement.

  I flick it open and my eyes scan the inside of the cover. Nothing. Nor is there anything on the next.

  I turn another page to find a few lines of scribbled text.

  Alright Doll

  Sorry I couldn’t hang around but things didn’t turn out the way they were supposed to. Seems there’s no place in heaven for a bad man, even when that bad man had good intentions. I never meant to kill that arsehole, but shit happens and he probably deserved it. I won’t be shedding any tears. Anyway, hope you enjoy the book. Don’t ask me why, or how, but that voice in my head said you were supposed to have it.

  Stay lucky.

  Clem

  PS: I did pop into the hospital to check you were okay, and some black nurse chick told me you were on the mend. Shame I was in a hurry — she had a cracking pair of knockers.

  I drop the book on the table.

  That’s it. He’s gone. Definitively.

  That in itself is hard to take, but of greater concern is that his delusions have clearly worsened. All that crap about heaven and voices. He desperately needs help and I’m powerless to do anything. And why the hell does he think I want a bloody book? Christ, I’ve got a whole shop full of the damn things.