“How was the pub?” I ask out of politeness. I’d rather she left me alone to get better acquainted with the pastry.
“It was a blast. You should have come.”
I sense a detailed summary of who did what, and how hilarious it was, is about to follow. Thankfully, the ringing phone on my desk saves me.
“Sorry, Gini. Better get this.”
I grab the receiver a little too enthusiastically.
“Emma Hogan.”
“Ahh, at last,” a cut-glass male voice booms. “You’re a hard woman to track down, Miss Hogan.”
“Am I?”
“Yes. I’ve had to be quite the detective to find you.”
He’s very well spoken for a stalker.
“And who exactly are you?”
“My apologies. My name is Miles DuPont and I work for a firm of estate agents in Chiswick.”
“Right.”
“I’m calling about the flat in Mulberry Court.”
I scour my mind in the hope of making a connection. Nothing comes, but it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve received a call regarding a lead on a long-forgotten story.
“You might have to refresh my memory, Mr DuPont.”
“Please, call me Miles.”
“Okay, you’ll still need to refresh my memory, Miles.”
“It’s a bit awkward, really.”
“What is?”
“The flat, or more specifically, the chattels.”
“Chattels?”
“Yes.”
I look up at Gini and roll my eyes. She gets the message and heads back to her desk.
“Sorry, Miles, but I don’t have the first clue what you’re talking about.”
“Oh dear, I feared as much. Whilst I don’t wish to cause any embarrassment, we can’t let this go on much longer.”
“Let what go on any longer?”
“The chattels, and their removal.”
I’ve never met Miles DuPont so it’s quite hard imagining his face, but I try. I then imagine slapping it, repeatedly.
“Listen, Miles,” I sigh. “I don’t know anything about a flat in Mulberry Court, or any chattels. You’ve obviously got your wires crossed.”
“Oh dear. That is a possibility, although there was a picture of you in the sitting room and it looks remarkably similar to that on The Daily Standard website — hence my assumption.”
My imagined slapping edges towards punching.
“A picture of me in what sitting room?”
“The sitting room in Mr Hogan’s flat, at Mulberry Court.”
“Mr Hogan?”
“Dennis Hogan? I assume he’s related to you?”
The line falls silent. Even the mere mention of my father’s name stirs a pot of simmering resentment.
“Listen to me,” I growl. “Whatever issue you have with my sorry excuse for a father, I suggest you speak to him about it.”
“That’s not exactly practical, which is why I called you.”
The final strand of patience snaps. “Let me make this clear for you — Dennis Hogan is nothing to me, so if you’re looking for someone who gives a shit, you’ve called the wrong woman.”
“But, you do realise …”
“Did I not make myself clear?”
“Miss Hogan,” he barks, clearly losing his cool. “Your father is dead.”
Silence returns.
“Sorry … what?” I blurt.
“Forgive me,” Miles replies, his calm tone returning. “That was insensitive. I assumed the police would have told you. I feel awful now.”
Miles might well feel awful, but I’m struggling to decipher my feelings. There is shock, for sure, and that might explain why none of the usual suspects are present.
“Are you okay, Miss Hogan?”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you happy to continue the conversation or should I call back?”
“I said I’m fine, or I will be when you explain the reason you’re calling me.”
“Yes, of course. Your father let a flat from us back in January. Five weeks ago we received a call from the police asking if we had a spare key. Apparently Mr Hogan’s milk delivery had been stacking up on his doorstep and his neighbours became concerned, bearing in mind his age. I’m sorry to say that the police found your father’s body.”
It’s strange how the human mind works as my first thoughts turn to my status — I am now officially an orphan. It’s an odd word, and one I’d usually associate with impoverished children from Dickensian novels. I lost my mother when I was just nineteen and, now both my parents are dead, I suppose it’s now a label I can attach to myself.
“Okay, understood,” I reply without a trace of emotion in my voice. “And what exactly is the problem with the flat?”
“Your father’s chattels. They need to be removed from the flat so we can re-let it.”
“By chattels you mean his possessions?”
“Precisely. The flat was let fully furnished so it’s just his clothes and a dozen boxes of other items. We didn’t want to remove anything without at least making some effort to contact Mr Hogan’s next of kin.”
“Hence the call?”
“Indeed.”
“But how did you establish I was his next of kin?”
“Ah, yes,” he chirps. “We found three scrapbooks containing hundreds of old newspaper reports; stories going back twenty years or so. It was one of my colleagues who noticed you were the credited reporter on every one of those clippings, and that’s how we tracked you down. I assumed the police would have made the same connection, but clearly not.”
For a moment I’m taken aback by the revelation my father kept a scrapbook of my old reports. As for the police, knowing how many people die in this city every day and how stretched police resources are, it doesn’t surprise me I wasn’t informed.
“I appreciate you calling, Miles, but dispose of everything as you see fit.”
“Well, yes, we could, but someone will have to pay for that service.”
“What? Just take it out of the deposit.”
“I’m afraid we can’t do that. Against our advice, the landlord struck a deal with your father whereby he agreed to pay the entire tenancy up front in lieu of a deposit.”
“Just do what you like. It’s not my problem.”
“It kind of is, as you’ve confirmed you’re his next of kin. Unless you collect his possessions, I’m afraid we’ll have to bill you for their removal.”
In that single sentence, and with his true motive for calling revealed, Miles has validated my already low opinion of estate agents.
“How much?” I snap.
“Oh, only two or three hundred pounds.”
“No bloody way. I’d rather come over and dump his crap in the bin myself.”
“Can you do that today as we do have a number of interested tenants lined up for viewings?”
“Are you kidding me? I can’t just drop everything at a moment’s notice.”
“When can you come?”
“I don’t know. Next week maybe.”
“Too late I’m afraid. We really need the flat cleared within the next day or two.”
Seething, I open my diary and check my schedule for tomorrow morning. There’s nothing I can’t postpone.
“Fine,” I snarl through gritted teeth. “I’ll come over tomorrow at nine.”
“Excellent, and once again, I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Hogan.”
“Yeah, right. Email me the details.”
I spit my email address and slam the receiver down before I say something I’ll regret, or not.
As I struggle to quell the anger, my mind swings between the two men responsible: Miles DuPont and Dennis Hogan. DuPont might be a complete arsehole but our paths would never have crossed if it wasn’t for my father. Even in death, that man continues to spike my hackles.
Despite the all-encompassing anger, another emotion joins the fray — one I would not have expected — disappointment. Per
haps a tiny part of me still hoped that one day I might receive an explanation why my father did what he did. My time to have children has passed but even so, I can’t imagine how anyone could commit such a terrible crime, knowing they had a wife and new-born daughter at home. What kind of man could do that?
It’s a question I’ve asked, and answered a thousand times — a deplorable shit of a man.
Growing up a curious child, I obviously asked Mum why I didn’t have a father. She told me he was a bad man, and we were better-off without him. When I got older, I asked the same question; many, many times, as I recall. One day, not long after I’d turned sixteen, she finally relented and sat me down for a conversation I’m sure she didn’t want to have. Mum confirmed Dennis Hogan was sent to prison when I was just four months old, and the reason why. Even as a sixteen year-old, I had enough awareness to tell how much resentment and pain Mum still harboured, and coupled with the damning truth about Dennis Hogan, I promised myself from that moment onwards I would never let that man back into our lives.
What I didn’t realise is that in the intervening years since my mother passed away, I would gradually inherit all her pain and resentment. Knowing your father raped and murdered another woman is near-on impossible to forget, or come to terms with. I’ve managed neither.
I head to the coffee machine; silently chiding myself all the way. Haven’t I wasted enough emotion on that man over the years?
No more. Dennis Hogan might now be dead but my father died a long, long time ago.
Despite my best efforts to focus on work, the call from Miles DuPont has poked at scars still to heal. While I can put my father to one side, my mind continually drifts back to my childhood and, inevitably, to my mother — the other woman he wronged.
Susie Hogan was more than my mother. She was my best friend, and my hero. After Dennis Hogan was sent to prison, and our family home repossessed, the council moved us to a sink estate in Haringey, and there she brought me up single-handedly. I don’t remember having much, but I knew I was loved; and if it hadn’t been for that love, and her unwavering support, I dread to think how my life might have turned out.
We both thankfully escaped the estate in Haringey. I went off to university and Mum eventually found herself a decent man and re-married.
It breaks my heart she only had twelve happy years with Ian.
I was planning her sixtieth birthday when it happened. A car mounted the pavement early one evening and struck her at forty miles an hour — she didn’t stand a chance. The driver, pissed out of his tiny mind, served a little under three years for stealing my mother’s life.
I’ve lost count how many times I’ve prayed that fucker meets an equally horrible end. Of course, nobody ever listened and he now lives in a nice little semi in suburbia, together with his wife and kids. And they say crime doesn’t pay.
Perhaps it’s the residue of my earlier telephone conversation but sorrow and anger continue to jostle for position. It’s early days but the life of an orphan isn’t much fun. Neither, come to think of it, is that of this journalist, and my day comes to an end in the same way every work day ends — a frenetic scurry to get stories to the relevant editor followed by a collective sigh of relief.
Much of what will appear in print tomorrow won’t be news but opinions presented as news. The same people will buy their copy of The Daily Standard and pour over our work, content the narrative fits their own world view. The paper will end up in the bin by which point we’ll be readying fresh pulp for the following day. The cycle will continue and nothing will change because nobody wants it to change.
When I finally leave the office, it feels like my head is ready to explode; if my heart doesn’t get there first.
I need a drink.
7.
The journey from Kilburn to my dead-father’s flat in Chiswick is a stark reminder why I avoid driving in London’s morning rush hour. Six miles of hell played out to a soundtrack of blazing horns and sweary cyclists. Being stuck in traffic is bad enough but as I’m essentially being blackmailed into making the journey, I enthusiastically participate in the honking and the swearing.
Trying to grasp some positivity at least the sun is making an effort as it burns through the early morning haze.
I trundle along Chiswick High Road and consult the sat nav — not far to go. The range of shops I pass don’t perhaps reflect the affluence of the residents. I expected more artisan bakeries but, still, they’re definitely a step up from the retail options in Kilburn.
I’m ordered to take the next right and finally escape the crawl. A left turn at the junction and fifty yards before another right turn. That turn leads me into a tree-lined avenue in which Mulberry Court is apparently situated. The sat nav counts down the yards until I pull up to the kerb.
Despite the twee name, in my head I’d pictured Mulberry Court as a grim block of flats with all the architectural charm of a sanatorium. I certainly wasn’t expecting to find a grand Edwardian house behind wrought-iron security gates.
A white Mercedes pulls up behind me and a suited man gets out. Everything about him screams estate agent. He walks up to the side of my car as I lower the window.
“Miss Hogan?”
I recognise the voice, and the face is eminently more slappable than I imagined — thin, weasely, and capped with slick black hair.
“Yep,” I nod, before opening the door.
Miles DuPont then has the temerity to shake my hand and thank me for turning up. Like I had a choice.
“What I’ll do is let you in and leave you to it. Just call me when you’re done.”
Cold comfort but at least I won’t have to put up with his smug face longer than is absolutely necessary.
“Fine.”
“Shall we?”
He aims a small box at the gates which then slowly swing open. I follow him through the gates and across an expanse of cobbles towards the equally expansive front door.
“Your father’s flat is on the ground floor.”
I half nod, half shrug.
As Miles fiddles with a bunch of keys, I take the opportunity to appraise Mulberry Court. They clearly spared no expense when the house was converted into flats. From the ornate arches above the windows to the antique-brass door furniture, everything looks like it was lovingly restored to retain the originality of the building. The only obvious exceptions are the security cameras on the gate and by the front door.
“What’s the rent on a place like this?”
More a question I was asking myself but it escapes my mouth.
“Three thousand a month.”
“Christ. Why so expensive?”
“Location primarily, plus the size and quality of the accommodation. Also, as you’ll see, the developer spent a fortune on security and that added piece of mind comes at a price. Unfortunately, areas such as these offer rich pickings for burglars, so the developer ensured Mulberry Court had all the latest deterrents.”
He opens the door and steps into a hallway with an exquisitely tiled floor and high ceilings. Pangs of envy arrive when I compare it to the featureless box I call home.
Another key is selected and the door to flat one opened. Immediately, a shrill beeping sound escapes.
“Bear with me while I deactivate the alarm.”
The beeping ceases, and I’m invited across the threshold onto a polished wooden floor which extends about twenty feet.
“One of my colleagues gathered all your father’s possessions together and put them in the master bedroom.”
I follow Miles as he leads me into a bedroom bigger than my entire flat.
“This place is stunning,” I coo.
“It is quite lovely. I’m sure your father was very happy here.”
I ignore his insincere words of comfort.
“Everything is there,” he says, pointing to a dozen boxes stacked in the bay window. “Apart from his clothes in the wardrobe.”
I turn around, expecting to see a wardrobe. I find a chais
e longue and an oak tallboy.
“In the dressing room,” he adds, pointing to a door.
“Right.”
“I’ll leave you to it then. I don’t wish to hurry you but I do have a gentleman arriving in thirty minutes and he’s been desperate to view the flat for a few days.”
“Why make him wait?”
“Company policy. If anything were to go missing from your father’s possessions, we’d be liable.”
“You should have let him view the flat — he might have nicked everything and saved me a job.”
Ignoring my barbed suggestion, he hands me a business card and confirms he'll leave the gate open whilst I load the car. I watch him slither away and conclude he’s the polar opposite of what I consider an attractive man.
The front door slams shut and the ensuing silence is absolute; probably due to triple-glazed reproduction windows. Beyond the silence, there’s a faint scent lingering in the still air — cologne perhaps? If it is, it’s not the same pungent, sickly-sweet cologne worn by Miles DuPont but a woodier, more masculine scent — the kind an older guy might wear.
It is, I conclude, the scent of my father — a man I never knew, yet I can almost feel his presence.
In an effort to distract myself from a sudden and unexpected cold shudder, I get on with the job in hand and approach the stack of boxes in the bay window. I remove the lid of the top box and I’m met with a waft of the same woody, masculine scent; only stronger. The box is full of clothes, presumably removed from the tallboy. I extract the top garment; a deep-red, lambs-wool sweater which has a quality feel to it. There’s a similar one underneath, only black, and another beneath that in a shade of forest green. I check the labels and all three sweaters are sized medium but different brands: Ralph Lauren, Hugo Boss, and Giorgio Armani.
Clearly my father had expensive taste and, coupled with the eye-watering rent he paid for the flat, an income to fund it. That conclusion fuels my hatred.
I used to counter the pain of my father’s absence by imagining he was suffering a dreadful life. I pictured him working some menial job where the hours were cruel and the pay low. I had visions of a grotty bedsit with damp walls where he’d endure restless nights atop a piss-stained mattress. I wanted him to suffer in the same way my mother and I suffered.
Clawthorn (Clement Book 3) Page 5