I never imagined this: wealth, comfort, luxury.
The pain brings me back. I realise I’ve been biting my bottom lip so hard I can taste the metallic tang of blood.
However Dennis Hogan died, I hope it was long and painful. I hope it hurt so much he sobbed into his pillow like I used to when the kids on the estate taunted me about my charity shop clothes and home-cut hairstyle. And when he knew his time was up, I hope he felt the same cold weight of loneliness I endured. If there is any comfort to be gained, it’s knowing karma might have fucked him good and proper at the end.
I put the lid back on the box and swallow the lump in my throat.
This is closure, girl. He’s gone for good.
Two at a time, I carry the boxes to the car. With the back seats folded flat, all twelve fit with a little room to spare. I head into the dressing room and open each of the four fitted wardrobes; three of which are thankfully empty.
The one wardrobe I have to clear houses a dozen suits hanging from the rail, and at the bottom, as many pairs of shoes. I pick up a pair of highly-polished black leather brogues. Like the pullovers, they have a feel of quality about them — probably hand-made I’d guess. I check one of the suit jackets and it comes as no surprise to find a label for Huntsman — a renowned Saville Row tailor.
I take a step back and appraise the find. The contents of this one wardrobe alone must have cost close to thirty grand, and whilst I’m happy to make the odd donation to a charity shop, not on this occasion — Dennis Hogan owes me. If I recall correctly, there’s a shop in Maida Vale which purchases quality, second-hand clothes and I reckon they’d pay at least a grand for this haul. That would easily fund a week in the sun which would go some way to banishing my blues.
Perhaps it was worth the trip, despite the pot of resentment receiving another thorough stir.
Carrying four pairs at a time, I transfer the shoes from the wardrobe to the front seat of my car. I then return and remove four of the suits which I lay carefully on top of the boxes. Two more trips and the job is done. I text Miles DuPont before slamming the boot lid shut.
If the traffic is kinder on the return journey, I should be home by ten thirty and back at work before Damon gets suspicious. The one perk of this job is you typically spend a lot of time out of the office so a few skived hours aren’t likely to be noticed.
The same white Mercedes speeds down the road and pulls up behind me. It feels appropriately rude for me to drive off without saying goodbye: so I do. Sometimes, the most childish of gestures bring the most satisfaction.
The traffic is indeed kind, and I make it home within half-an-hour. I toy with the idea of leaving everything in the car and dealing with it tonight, but in this neighbourhood I wouldn’t risk leaving a half-eaten sandwich on view, let alone a stash of expensive clothes.
I drape the first clutch of suits over my arm while reaching up to close the boot lid. As I stretch, something is dislodged from one of the jacket pockets and falls to the floor. I squat down and pick up a passport-sized notebook, bound in dark-blue leather. Plain on one side, there’s a single word embossed in gold leaf on the other — Clawthorn.
The word is meaningless, and the notebook could therefore contain anything from poetry to train timetables for all I know, or currently care. I toss it into the boot.
The twelve journeys up and down the stairs are a painful reminder just how unfit I am — maybe I should invest some of my windfall in a gym membership. I did join a gym five years ago, but after three months of non-attendance, I decided it probably wasn’t for me. Cancelling my membership proved more stressful and acrimonious than any divorce. On second thoughts, I think I’ll stick to the holiday.
I lock the car and, still panting, head off to the Tube station.
Once I regain my breath, the walk in tepid sunshine proves a boon to my mood. There are many things I can’t control but I can avoid slipping any further into the current malaise which has blighted my year thus far. The trouble with life is it’s easier to count your curses rather than your blessings, and this self-pitying episode doesn’t sit well. If I don’t get a handle on it, there’s only one way I’m heading.
By the time I reach the station, I’ve pulled myself together sufficiently to make a promise: I’m not going to let Dennis Hogan, or Damon, or any other tosser drag me down. As I descend the stairs I wish I had my headphones with me so I could listen to Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive, or Respect by Aretha Franklin. I make do by playing them in my head as I stride purposefully across the ticket hall.
As I walk I reach into my handbag for an Oyster Card which is rarely where I left it. After much rummaging, I finally locate it. Just as I look up to regain my bearings a tall figure walks directly across my line of sight towards the ticket barrier.
“Holy shit,” I inadvertently blurt.
Heart pounding, my brain catches up and processes the memory — it’s the big guy from Kenton Stables.
Today just got a hell of a lot more interesting.
8.
The buzz returns.
I was warned not to contact William Huxley but nobody said anything about contacting other witnesses to what happened that afternoon in Surrey. The big guy, whoever he is, was slap bang in the middle of events. I have a one-time opportunity to follow the only remaining lead.
I watch him for a few seconds to be sure I’m not mistaken. The same huge frame and broad strides, and he’s even wearing the same bell-bottom jeans and denim waistcoat, although the pullover he wore that day has been replaced by a black t-shirt. The only other difference is a battered rucksack slung over his shoulder.
It’s definitely the same man and I definitely need to know who he is.
I scurry towards the ticket barrier as the big guy passes through. By the time I reach that barrier and slap my Oyster Card on the reader, he’s already at the top of the escalator which leads down to the Piccadilly Line.
I step forward but the gate doesn’t open. I turn around and tap the reader with my Oyster Card again. My effort is met with a red light.
“You okay there, Miss?”
An attendant approaches from the opposite side.
“No, I’m not. The bloody reader doesn’t recognise my Oyster Card.”
“We’ve been having problems with that gate. Try the next one along.”
I frown at the attendant, and consider asking why the hell the gate is still open, but time is not on my side. I slide along to the next gate and pass through with no problem.
Reaching the top of the escalator, I just catch sight of the big guy stepping off at the bottom. Desperate not to lose him, I have to barge past several tourists stood side by side, breaking escalator etiquette. I reach the bottom but the big guy has disappeared from view. Assuming he’s taking the Piccadilly Line, there’s only one way he could have gone. Adrenalin pumping, I set off in that direction.
I finally reach the end of the tunnel and cuss under my breath. To my right there’s a stationary train waiting at the eastbound platform; the doors are currently open but they could close any second. Is the big guy on board, or is he waiting on the westbound platform to my left?
Heads or tails?
With no thought to the reason why, I dart to my right and just evade the closing carriage doors.
I scan the faces of my fellow passengers as the train pulls away. If the big guy is on board he’s not in this carriage. With about a dozen stops before the train terminates, my best tactic will be to peer out of the open doors at every station and hope I spot him — that’s assuming he’s even on the train. If he isn’t, I’m on a wild goose chase all the way to Cockfosters.
We reach Green Park.
I stand on my tiptoes and peer up and down the platform as passengers scurry to and from the carriages. Fortunately, my foe is big enough I’m sure he’ll be easy to spot if he’s amongst them. There’s no sign of him.
The tactic is repeated at Piccadilly but this time I do spot him exiting the next carriage down.
>
I leap from the train and, keeping a safe distance behind, follow the big guy as he makes his way towards the Bakerloo line.
I’ve followed people before and it was Eric who taught me there’s a right way and a wrong way. The trick is to tell yourself you’re heading the same place as the person you’re following, and to focus on something ahead of them in case they suddenly turn around. If you get caught and they make eye contact, you might get away with it the first time but the second time will raise suspicion.
Undetected, I follow him all the way to the southbound Bakerloo platform where he turns to the right and leans up against the wall. I turn left and stand behind an American couple arguing over a map.
The train arrives a minute later and I hold back to confirm which carriage he enters. I then dart across the platform and hop into the next carriage along.
We set off and pass through Charing Cross and Embankment. The big guy remains on the train.
The next stop is Waterloo; always chaotic as it’s the access point to the busiest railway station in the country.
The doors open and a swarm of passengers fill the platform. Even on my tiptoes, and craning my neck, I can’t see beyond the melee. Then some kind soul disembarking bumps into me from behind. I never was any good at ballet and my lack of balance is telling. Stumbling out of the carriage, I just manage to avoid a confused pensioner trying to embark.
As I regain my balance and turn around, the carriage doors close. All I can do is watch on as the train pulls away.
“Shit.”
Like a lost meerkat, I frantically turn my head in every direction and scour the faces around me. As I’m simultaneously swept along in the crowd, it quickly becomes apparent I’m wasting my time with so many bodies blocking the view.
I want to scream. I fucking had him and, just as quickly, I’ve lost him.
I’ve waited six months to feel it again, but I can already sense the buzz fading away. I know the void will feel particularly empty this time.
With frustration ebbing towards resignation, there’s little else I can do other than go with the flow and follow the mass stampede towards the platform exit. I’m late enough for work as it is and the only option is to take a cab. The fifteen minute journey should be just enough time to conduct a post-mortem on my lost opportunity.
I finally break through the bottleneck at the exit.
Two sets of escalators later and I arrive on the cavernous main concourse of Waterloo railway station; no place for those with a fear of open spaces or crowds.
I wander towards the exit where the black cabs congregate but I don’t reach my destination. As I pass a group of boisterous teenagers, I catch a passing glimpse of denim in my periphery. My head snaps to the right, just in time to catch the big guy striding towards a platform entrance, only twenty yards away.
“Gotcha.”
A couple of the teenagers stare at the odd woman talking to herself.
Ignoring their sniggers, I turn my attention back to the big guy as he passes through the ticket barrier. The digital sign above the platform entrance confirms the destination and departure time — four minutes.
It is at this point any sensible individual would concede defeat and head home — perhaps some questions really are destined to remain unanswered. However, my curiosity has always taken a front seat over sensibility.
A quick dash to the nearest machine where I purchase a return ticket for the same train. With only a minute to spare I slide through the barrier and make my way to the first carriage.
The train terminates in a suburban commuter town — just under an hour away. As I flop down on one of the few remaining seats, several thoughts occur: firstly, I really need the loo, and secondly, I haven’t given any consideration to how I approach the big guy, or indeed if I even should approach him.
One of the many, many anecdotes Eric relayed to me over the years now feels relevant.
Back in the early nineties, Eric heard rumours about a politician who was allegedly taking bribes in return for asking specific questions in Parliament. Weeks of surveillance followed as Eric tried to unearth a lead. Then, one evening, he struck gold as the politician met with a man at a bar in Soho, and the two men surreptitiously exchanged envelopes beneath the table. Although Eric didn’t know it at the time, it would transpire the man was a lobbyist by the name of Gavin Whittaker.
Eric then followed Whittaker across London but lost his nerve and broke cover too soon. He approached Whittaker just as he was about to hail a cab in Mayfair and, ignoring Eric’s questions, the lobbyist simply hopped into a cab and fled. In hindsight, Eric admitted he should have established Whittaker’s identity before pouncing, and that mistake killed his one and only lead.
A few months later, one of the national papers broke the ‘cash for questions’ scandal — a massive scoop at the time. Eric was gutted.
Sitting here now, I could be on the verge of unearthing another scandal, and I can’t afford to waste such a monumental stroke of luck. William Huxley has escaped the truth once but I’m sure as hell not going to let it happen again. If my luck holds, I can follow the big guy, and hopefully establish who he is. On first impressions alone, he looks the very embodiment of trouble, and that in itself begs the question: why was such a man involved with a Tory politician?
A series of beeps break my thoughts as the doors close. The train pulls away.
I give it a few minutes and head to the loo. ‘Disgusting’ just about covers the experience.
With an empty bladder I work my way through the second carriage. It’s quite an art trying to look for someone without making it obvious you’re looking for someone; not aided by the swaying motion of the train.
I clear two more carriages but there’s no sign of the big guy. He’s not in carriages four or five, either.
By the time I clear the first class carriage, I’m starting to doubt myself. I did see him, didn’t I? And if he went through the ticket barrier, where else could he have gone?
I enter carriage seven with more apprehension than I anticipated.
Then, I spot it — a battered Chelsea boot at the end of a denim-clad leg, stretched into the aisle. It takes a real effort not to punch the air in celebration.
I take a seat close enough to keep an eye on him but not so close he’s likely to spot me; particularly as our seats are both facing forward. All I have to do is sit and wait.
The adrenalin dissipates with every passing station as the big guy remains planted in his seat. It has to be said: waiting and watching is tedious. I take to staring out of the window as the scene beyond transitions from industrial buildings to suburban housing, and then to green fields and woodland. I pull out my phone to check how far we are from London but the signal is too sketchy.
We stop at the penultimate station before the train terminates, and the big guy doesn’t move. I now know where he’s heading, and in eight minutes time I’ll be able to get off this bloody train and continue the pursuit.
The buzz resurfaces.
The eight minutes drag but eventually the train slows to a stop. I know very little about the town I’m about to visit, which suggests there isn’t a great deal worth knowing. That might be about to change.
The big guy gets to his feet and stretches. This is as close as I’ve been to him and while I could tell he was big, at this distance he looks positively enormous. Enormous and … something else. I can’t put my finger on it but there’s a gravity to the man which seems to extend beyond his physical size. Whatever it is, I can’t deny it isn’t intimidating. I need to be careful.
The doors open and he stoops out of the carriage. I wait a few seconds before I follow.
The station is small with only two platforms and one exit. There are just enough passengers milling around that I don’t stand out; my charcoal-grey overcoat and black trousers adding to my anonymity. Cautiously, I make my way through the barrier and ticket office.
I reach the station forecourt and pause a moment, pr
etending to check my phone. The big guy is already striding away, but now I no longer have the same crowd cover as in London, I need to keep my distance to avoid detection. Twenty yards should do it.
Counting down those yards, I step off the kerb and follow.
Within a minute I spot a sign for the town centre, and the big guy crosses the road in the direction of the sign. It looks likely that’s where he’s heading. Hopefully there will be more people to hide amongst.
My guess proves right as we turn into a pedestrianised street lined with shops. It’s interesting to watch the reaction of the locals as many stare up at the big guy as he passes. In fairness, he does himself no favours with the whole double denim vibe. He ignores most of the locals but occasionally returns a glare. It’s enough to quickly shift every set of eyes in the opposite direction.
He reaches the end of the pedestrianised street and takes a right turn. I scamper up to the corner and check he’s a safe distance away before I follow. The sight doesn’t fill me with confidence as the street in question is narrow, and virtually deserted as far as I can see. Best I stay on the opposite pavement.
My fitness gets another test as the big guy’s strides become more purposeful. He passes a row of empty shops, and suddenly slows his pace while staring up at the weathered sign above the last of those shops: Baxter’s Books.
I find cover in the sheltered doorway of a building opposite and watch on as the big guy ambles up the alleyway to the right of the former bookshop. Clearly he’s not here for the retail experience and, with little else around, I reckon the alley is his final destination. I’d wager it gives access to a flat above one of the shops.
A smile creeps across my face — it looks like I’ve succeeded where Eric failed. All I need to do is check the alleyway and I’ll have the big guy’s address. From that I’ll be able to source a name, and then use my influence over Stuart to check if that name has a criminal record.
I wait a minute to be on the safe side and then cross the street.
Remaining cautious, I poke my head around the corner and check the alleyway is clear. As I hoped, there’s no sign of the big guy.
Clawthorn (Clement Book 3) Page 6