Clawthorn (Clement Book 3)

by Keith A Pearson

  Clawthorn

  By Keith A Pearson

  For more information about the author and to receive updates on his new releases, visit…

  www.keithapearson.co.uk

  Copyright © 2018 by Keith A Pearson. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Important Author’s Note

  Clawthorn is the third instalment of a series. You’ll appreciate (and understand) the story to a greater degree if you’ve read the first two novels in the series: Who Sent Clement? and Wrong’un. Both novels are available from Amazon in ebook and paperback format.

  If you’ve already read both, welcome to Clement’s next adventure…

  1.

  My legs are cold and the polyester skirt too tight around the waist. I should have followed my instincts and worn the navy-blue trouser suit. Fuck funeral etiquette.

  The organist concludes the service with a stirring rendition of Amazing Grace as the pallbearers lift the coffin and edge their way down the aisle of the packed village church.

  Contained in the polished walnut casket is my old friend and colleague, Eric Birtles. Actually, it isn’t Eric, but an already decomposing mass of flesh and bone. According to the priest, Eric’s soul is already heading off to some wonderland in the clouds. I kind of hope he’s right but suspect he isn’t.

  The pews at the front clear one by one as the mourners shuffle down the aisle. There are a few faces I recognise but most of the congregation are strangers.

  As the pallbearers pass my pew, I look to the floor and start counting to sixty in my head. Once that minute has passed I dare to look up; just in time to catch sight of a few stragglers at the end of the sniffling conga as they head into the vestibule. The church falls silent.

  I’m not keen on either people or religion; ergo, I’m no fan of funerals, and this one isn’t over yet.

  Wearily, I get to my feet and traipse outside.

  Unsurprising for November but fitting for the day, the sky is a sombre shade of grey. The mourners are already five deep around the grave and that suits me. I can stand on the periphery and disappear the second this farce is over.

  I shuffle close enough to afford myself a reasonable view of Eric’s forever home and watch on as the casket is lowered into the grave. The priest then continues with a quote from Corinthians, apparently.

  “Behold, I show you a mystery: We shall not all sleep; but we shall all be changed.”

  Rather than listen to a priest going through the motions, I let my mind drift towards memories of Eric, and happier times.

  I left Manchester University in 1993 armed with a first-class degree in English. Determined to forge a career as a journalist, I cut my teeth working for a provincial newspaper in a sleepy market town. Six long years passed before I accepted I was never going to win a Pulitzer Prize reporting on village fetes and charity fundraising events. I then managed to land a job at a national but I was so far down the food chain I could have proven the identity of Jack the Ripper and nobody would have taken me seriously.

  Then, Eric joined the team and took me under his wing.

  Thirty-one years my senior, he was already an established hack and a winner of countless awards — I learnt so much from the man. Eric treated journalism like archaeology, and believed the truth had to be slowly and meticulously unearthed. We were partners in crime for seven years before the paper closed its doors and we went our separate ways. Eric retired and I secured the best job I could find, which wasn’t a particularly good job but it paid the bills.

  “We therefore commit his body to the ground.”

  I return to reality. The priest bends down, grabs a handful of soil, and scatters it into the open grave.

  “We come from dust; we return to dust.”

  Beginning with Eric’s widow, the mourners then take turns throwing soil into the hole — when you think about it, a ridiculous gesture.

  With no great finale, the funeral comes to an end. Slowly, the crowd disperses as thoughts turn to the wake, and the drowning of sorrows no doubt. This is my cue to exit.

  I manage a dozen steps across the damp grass before a voice calls out. “Good Lord. Emma Hogan, as I live and breathe.”

  It’s a voice I recognise but I’d rather ignore. Unfortunately, I’m too close to pretend I didn’t hear.

  I turn around and feign a smile. “Oh, hi, Alex.”

  It must be nine or ten years since I last saw my former colleague, Alex Palmer. He hasn’t aged well.

  He waddles over and pecks me on the cheek.

  “You’re looking well, Emma. How’s life treating you?”

  “Not bad, thanks. You?”

  “I’m in fine fettle, thank you.”

  An awkward silence ensues as Alex searches for a conversation starter, and I search for an appropriate excuse to leave.

  He wins the race with a moronically obvious statement. “Terrible, wasn’t it — what happened to poor Eric?”

  Is there a non-terrible way to die? Drowning in a fishing lake wouldn’t have been my choice but if you want to put a positive spin on it, at least Eric died doing what he loved. I think he’d have chosen that way.

  I try to look grave. “Truly awful.”

  Alex shakes his head before moving the conversation along. “Are you going to the wake? It’d be lovely to catch-up.”

  No, Alex. It really wouldn’t.

  “Ah, I’d love to but I’ve got a prior engagement back in London.”

  “You still live and work in town?”

  “Yep, for my sins.”

  I check my watch and Alex takes the hint. He plucks a business card from his pocket and hands it over.

  “Give me a call and we’ll have that catch up.”

  “Will do. Good seeing you, Alex.”

  Both lies slip effortlessly from my lips.

  I scurry away just as the clouds decide to emit a fine drizzle.

  By the time I make it back to the overcrowded car park, my hope of making an early escape is already scuppered. Rather than join the queue of cars waiting to exit, I sit in silence as the view beyond the windscreen blurs into a series of obscure shapes. If there really is a God, he couldn’t have chosen a shittier afternoon to send Eric on his way.

  Long minutes pass by as the gloomy weather and occasion suck at my soul. Before I know it, and without being conscious of any specific trigger, I feel a tear roll down my cheek. It’s quickly followed by another, and another.

  A crushing realisation sweeps over me — Eric is gone. The man who was more of a father to me than Dennis Hogan ever was — the despicable excuse for a father I’ve never met, or ever want to meet.

  I choke back my tears and search the glove box for a tissue. Grief is a wicked emotion, and I’ve suffered enough of it over recent years to know how it plays. It lurks in the dark corners of your mind, and just when you think it might have finally left, it resurfaces at the most unlikely moments. Eventually, you accept it will never leave, and although the sharp edges dull, it still taints every subconscious thought for months, for years.

  Pull yourself together, woman.

  I take a moment to heed my own instructions. The rain stops and the last of the cars clears the exit. Time to head home.

  The inbound journey through the Surrey countryside was fraught, due to my tardy departure from London. Now, I can take my time and appreciate the rural scenery. Although I hated the job, the time I spent working for the provincial newspaper offered a welcome change from living in London. When I left, I promised one day I’d escape the concrete and the crowds and see out
my days in some rural idyll. The reason Eric is now buried in the village of Alford is he retired here, and I can see why.

  For now, though, I have a career of sorts which keeps me tied to our capital.

  As I pootle through the country lanes, my thoughts turn to Alex Palmer. He was never a handsome man but the years have added pounds and stripped hair. I wonder what he thought of me. Have I changed that much? My hair is short and butter-blonde, which helps to conceal the grey, and I’ve managed to maintain a relatively slender frame due to good genes on my mother’s side, rather than through diet or exercise. My face, however, is certainly showing the years; probably because I like a drink and the occasional cigarette. Some might call it ‘lived-in’.

  Notwithstanding how either of us have physically fared, seeing Alex is a reminder that time is marching on at an alarming rate. And with every passing year, that time seems to gather pace. I did go through a stage of telling myself I hadn’t even reached the midway point of my life, but after my forty-sixth birthday I had to concede living to ninety-two might be a stretch.

  I acknowledge I’m depressing myself and switch the radio on.

  The sat nav informs me I need to take the next turning on the right. I comply, and turn into another narrow lane with no clear line of sight due to the meandering tarmac and high hedgerows. I’d rather avoid a head-on collision with a tractor so keep my speed low. The lane snakes left, and then right, before a long stretch of clear road allows me to up my speed.

  The hedgerows peter out affording me a view of the surrounding fields and leafless trees. I’m sure the view is glorious in the summer but under a doleful sky it feels grim and foreboding.

  I catch the slightest flash of blue light in the corner of my eye. It comes and goes in a blink.

  Dabbing the brake pedal, I glance at the wing mirror. That glance becomes a prolonged stare once I identify the source of the blue light — three police cars parked on an open patch of ground next to a scattering of single-storey buildings.

  As any good journalist will tell you: one police car is probably nothing but two or more, particularly if their lights are still strobing, and there might just be something worthy of reporting. In this case, three police cars are too much of a temptation.

  I find a suitably wide stretch of verge and pull over.

  A familiar feeling arrives as I step out of the car. Eric used to call it ‘the buzz’; a sudden rush of adrenalin as your journalistic sixth-sense piques. He told me it was the only thing he missed after he retired, and why he took up fishing. Apparently, it requires the same saintly levels of patience before you finally experience the thrill of a catch.

  I trot back down the lane as the buzz builds.

  As I reach the open patch of land, I notice a sign almost buried in weeds: Kenton Stables. That answers one question. The reason why three police cars have been summoned to a rural stable yard remains unanswered, and my curious nature doesn’t do unanswered.

  A uniformed police officer arrives on the scene.

  “Can I help you, madam?”

  He’s young, and therefore inexperienced — just the kind of police officer I like.

  “I was just wondering what was going on.”

  “There’s been an incident.”

  The word ‘incident’ is like cat nip to a journalist.

  “Oh. What kind of incident?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t say, Ms …?”

  “Hogan, and it’s Miss. I was supposed to be meeting a friend here. We always go riding on a Tuesday afternoon.”

  He eyes me up and down. “Is that your usual riding attire?”

  “No, silly,” I giggle like an air-head. “I’ve just been to a meeting. My friend is bringing a change of clothes.”

  “What car does she drive?”

  Shit.

  “Oh, I’ve never been good with makes of car. It’s a white saloon.”

  I follow the officer's eyes as he scans the car park. Besides the police cars there are two other vehicles; neither of which matches my description.

  “Looks like she’s not here,” he says flatly. “And I’m afraid the stables will be closed for the rest of the day.”

  “Right.”

  “Have a good afternoon, Miss Hogan.”

  His pleasantry is my cue to leave. I may have underestimated the young officer but I’m not ready to give up just yet.

  “Nobody’s been hurt have they, officer?”

  “As I’ve already said, I’m not at liberty to divulge any information.”

  The answer to my question pulls into the car park; in the form of an ambulance.

  For a moment, the officer appears torn between dealing with a nosey bystander and more pressing duties. He splits the difference and asks me to leave before striding off towards the ambulance.

  I watch on as he gesticulates at the paramedics. This is my chance.

  There are two wooden structures some twenty yards ahead of me; most likely stable blocks. A path runs between the structures and I can see several other police officers milling around which suggests it’s the focal point of whatever incident they’re investigating. I’ll get short shrift if I head that way so my best option is to skirt the far boundary of the right-hand stable block. From there, I can remain hidden while watching the action unfold.

  I risk another glance at the still-occupied young officer and make a dash towards the corner of the car park. The perimeter boundary is provided by a thicket of brambles which virtually abuts the stable block. However, there appears just enough space between the thorny barricade and the stable-block wall for me to squeeze through.

  Another glance towards the police officer and he’s now leading the paramedics wherever they need to be. Even the slightest turn of his head and he’ll spot me. That threat proves the final push and I squeeze myself through the narrow opening, pressing my back against the damp wooden panels to avoid the wall of thorns.

  I’m five foot six, but the thicket is at least seven feet high while the stable-block wall is higher still. As I shuffle sideways, I can only thank my lucky stars I don’t suffer from claustrophobia. I do, however, suffer from wearing inappropriate footwear, and the cold mulch reaches my ankles. The sixty-quid shoes become another in a long line of sacrifices I’ve made for this career.

  Whatever this incident is, it better be worth it.

  Inch by inch, I edge closer to daylight. Not for the first time in my life I question what the hell I’m doing, but true to form, I press on in pursuit of answers.

  Finally, I reach the end where I can peer around the corner; safely protected from view by the stable-block wall and surrounding undergrowth.

  I recoil after taking my first peak.

  Whatever is going on, it’s happening in one of the stalls barely twenty feet from my vantage point. If anything, I’m too close and I need to be cautious. I squat down so I’m not directly in the line of sight and peek around the corner again. My timing is spot-on as the paramedics lead out an elderly man, and a woman who appears to have Down’s syndrome. Before I can extract my phone and take a photo, they turn their backs on me and shuffle away. The waiting ambulance could be their destination but as they’re both walking, rather than occupying a stretcher, I can only assume they’re not the reason three police cars and half-a-dozen officers are in attendance.

  As the couple disappear from view, I scan the wider area. A paddock, hemmed in by railed fencing, occupies most of the immediate view. Maybe sixty yards away a police officer is talking to a man in a navy-blue coat. I can’t see the man’s face but he appears animated as the officer scribbles notes.

  I return my attention to the officers stood by the stable block and their lack of urgency suggests whatever brought them here is now over. Am I simply witnessing an over-reaction by the local police? There doesn’t appear to be anything untoward going on, so why the cordon tape?

  My attention is then pulled back to the scene as a man bursts through the stable door and marches across the open space t
owards the paddock. If his huge frame wasn’t distinctive enough, he also happens to be dressed like an extra from The Sweeney, complete with bell-bottom jeans and a denim waistcoat. Hot on his heels, and at least a foot shorter, is a woman with sharp features and a somewhat pissed-off expression.

  The two of them head towards the police officer still taking notes from the man in the navy-blue coat.

  Words are exchanged and the conversation appears heated — perhaps I haven’t missed the action after all. I pull my phone from my jacket pocket and, using the camera app, zoom in as close as the lens will allow.

  Just as the camera finds focus, the man in the navy-blue coat turns to his left. I finally get to see his face.

  “Holy shit,” I gasp.

  The man in question is William Huxley. The William Huxley.

  2.

  Eight hours ago, I wouldn’t have recognised William Huxley if I passed him in the street — just another faceless backbench politician. However, after a damning front page revelation in a national newspaper this morning, I suspect Mr Huxley’s days of anonymity are behind him.

  The revelation was as scandalous as it gets, centring on an allegation from Huxley’s half-sister that she’d indulged in an incestuous relationship with the Tory politician — one of those rare stories that can make a career, and I read it with envious eyes.

  As of this afternoon, when I left London, nobody in the press had managed to track down William Huxley, let alone secure a comment from him. By some miraculous fluke, I’ve found him in the middle of nowhere, and seemingly in more hot water. Not that I believe in such things, but it’s almost as if Eric has bestowed this rare opportunity as a parting gift.

  The buzz reaches new heights as I watch on and snap several photos of William Huxley.

  Judging by the way the uniformed officer has stepped back from the discussion, and her plain, functional attire, I’d wager the stern-looking woman is a detective. Her initial focus was on the big man but Huxley quickly intervened and the two of them are now embroiled in an animated discussion. The politician then reaches into his pocket and holds something up. Whatever it is, it provokes a deep scowl from the woman. She spits a few more words before spinning on her heels and heading back towards the car park.