I cover the entire length of the alleyway and there’s no sign of a door either. To add to my concern, the flank wall of the bookshop eventually gives way to an eight foot high security fence, presumably erected to stop squatters taking up residency in the empty shops. Clearly not the big guy’s destination.
Bugger.
I scan the area to my right but there’s just a car park for the office building adjacent to the bookshop, and not much else.
Another scream builds. How the hell did I lose him? I was so close.
All I can do now is retrace my steps and double-check I didn’t miss anything. Worst case scenario, I’ll have to check the electoral role for every property within a hundred yards, and hope Stuart doesn’t call my bluff when I present him with a list of names. It’s a damn sight more legwork, and guesswork, than I hoped for.
I turn around, and I’m greeted with a sight startling enough to summon a gasp — the big guy stood just feet away.
He glares down at me. “Alright, doll.”
9.
My mind explodes into activity but my body is frozen. The big guy presents a large and impenetrable barrier between my position and the alleyway.
I am in so much shit right now.
“I … ugh.”
Words fail.
“Why are you following me?” he asks.
His voice perfectly matches his appearance: hefty and rough.
He takes two steps forward; keeping his almost unnaturally blue eyes locked on mine.
You don’t survive life on an inner-London housing estate, or indeed this job, by being a shrinking violet. However, this guy is on a whole different scale of intimidating.
“Back off,” I gulp. “Or I’ll scream.”
“Don’t much give a shit. By the time the Old Bill arrive, you’d have told me why you’re following me, and I’ll be gone.”
Another step.
“So, what’s it gonna be? Easy way or the hard way?”
Maintaining eye contact, I slip a hand into my pocket in search of the phone I pray is there. It isn’t.
I wait for him to take another step but he suddenly freezes.
As I scan my surroundings for a possible means of escape, the big guy remains rooted to the spot, motionless like a showroom dummy. Seconds pass and I wonder if he’s maybe suffering a seizure, such is his lack of movement and vacant expression.
Then, as quickly as his trance arrived, it passes.
He eyes me up and down. “What’s your name?”
“Emma.”
My reply appears to have a positive effect as his expression eases from fucking terrifying to just scary.
“Look, I ain’t gonna hurt you. I just wanna know why you’re following me.”
Is there any sense in lying to him? I’ll throw him a bone and see if he bites.
“William Huxley.”
“What about him?”
“I was there; that afternoon at the stables.”
He shrugs his shoulders. “So?”
“I just want to know what happened.”
“Why?”
“I’m a reporter.”
“Should have guessed. Which rag?”
“The Daily Standard.”
“Don’t read it myself. The sports section is pony.”
“I’ll pass on your feedback.”
The merest hint of a smile passes his lips. It slips away just as quickly.
“Listen, doll, Bill Huxley is a decent bloke so if you’re digging for dirt, you’re looking in the wrong place.”
“And I’m supposed to take your word for that, Mr …?”
“Call me Clement.”
At last, I have a name, if that actually is his name.
“And yeah, you should take my word for it,” he continues. “Unless you wanna waste your time, or piss me off.”
Pissing him off doesn’t seem sensible, but why should I take his word for anything? I need answers, and they’ll only come by pushing my luck.
“I don’t suppose you fancy a quick drink, Clement?”
“No offence, but you’re a bit on the old side.”
I scramble for a suitable response. “I beg your pardon?”
“Just saying. You must be knocking fifty.”
Fear walks off and indignation arrives.
“I’m forty-six, you cheeky bastard.”
“I was close.”
My turn to glare. “And don’t flatter yourself — have you looked in a mirror lately?”
He smiles again, revealing a row of nicotine-stained teeth.
“Go on then. I’ll have a pint if you’re buying.”
“I’m not asking you on a date,” I snap. “It’s just a drink.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
I roll my eyes. The dynamic has shifted and although I don’t feel quite so intimidated, I need to remain wary.
“There’s a pub by the station. Shall we go there?”
“If you like.”
I nod towards the alleyway. “No offence, but I’d rather walk behind you. I don’t like surprises.”
“Suit yourself.”
He turns and lumbers back down the alleyway. I wait until he reaches the end before following; keeping my eyes on him all the time. He appears fairly nonplussed by my cautious behaviour.
I emerge onto the pavement unscathed. Saying that, I now have to make conversation as we walk back through the town centre.
“Do you mind me asking: how did you know I was following you?”
“Because you’re shit at it.”
“Oh.”
“You know when a train goes through a tunnel, the windows turn into mirrors, right?”
“Um.”
“And shop windows do a similar job.”
“Guess I need to go back to detective school.”
“Yeah, you do.”
If Eric was still alive, I’d kill him for omitting such obvious advice.
“I don’t suppose there’s any harm in asking if you live around here?”
“Nah. Too dull for my liking.”
“Are you visiting someone then?”
“Nope.”
“Here for work?”
He glares down at me. “You’re a nosey mare, ain’t you.”
“I’m a journalist. It’s my job to be nosey.”
“Guess so.”
“So, why are you here?”
We turn the corner, and as I’m about to give up on an answer he finally delivers one.
“I was looking for something.”
“Did you find it?”
“Nah, but I found something else.”
“Care to elaborate?”
He shakes his head and strides on at a pace — perhaps hoping I’ll be too breathless to ask any more questions. It’s a strategy that works and I’m almost perspiring by the time we reach the pub.
Clement, to my surprise, holds the door open before following me through to the bar.
“What can I get you?” I ask him.
“Pint.”
I order a pint of lager and a glass of wine. I’ve got a feeling this day might be a write off as far as the office is concerned. I make a mental note to text Damon with an excuse I’m yet to concoct.
Clement has already found a table by the door and made himself comfortable. There’s no further chivalry as I teeter towards the table with our drinks.
“Cheers,” he says, finally relieving me of the pint glass.
“Yeah, you’re welcome.”
He either doesn’t pick up on my sarcastic tone, or chooses to ignore it. I take a seat opposite.
“Do you mind if I record our conversation?”
“I do, so no.”
“Oh, fair enough.”
There’s no sense in skirting the reason we’re here so I get straight to the point.
“Can you tell me anything about what happened that day at the stables?”
“Some bird died,” he replies in a low voice. “Nothing else to say.”
�
��How did she die?”
“Accidentally.”
“I saw her. She had a knife sticking out of her chest.”
“And I’m telling you, it was an accident.”
His defence is delivered forcibly but not aggressively. I don’t know him well enough to tell if he’s lying but there’s no point asking the same question over and over again.
“Okay, I’ll take your word for that but why was William Huxley even there?”
“Bad luck,” he shrugs. “But he did nothing wrong. You’re gonna have to take my word on that.”
When someone is lying they find it hard to maintain eye contact but Clement has no such problem. Seated so close, I get the full impact of those eyes and they’re completely at odds with the rest of his face — like two brilliant sapphires sunk into the leather of a battered satchel.
“Listen, doll. I know you’ve got a job to do, but Bill is one of the good guys. You need to drop this.”
I have no intention of dropping anything just yet. It’s time to switch strategy and use the technique which has successfully brought other sources to heel — empathy.
“Tell me, Clement, where are you from?”
“North of the river, same as you.”
His answer takes me by surprise. “How did you know I’m from North London?”
“You’ve had an education?”
“I went to university, yes.”
“Working-class roots?”
“Err, yes.”
“Thought as much. I reckon you’ve been trying to bury the accent most of your life.”
Clearly there is a brain behind the brawn, and a perceptive one at that. Back in the days, when I actually gave a shit about what people thought of me, my council estate accent felt like a stigma. I purposely hung around with well-spoken students at college and Uni in the hope I’d eventually pick up the tone of middle-England. It kind of worked, or so I thought.
“Alright, smartarse — you got me. I live in Kilburn but grew up in Haringey.”
“You can take the girl out of London, eh?”
“Yeah, yeah. Anyway, what about you — what’s your story?”
“Long … and complicated.”
“I’m not in a hurry.”
He takes a gulp of lager before answering. “Another time.”
That avenue closed, I change tack. “Can I ask: what does a man like you do for a living?”
“This and that.”
“Suitably vague.”
“My life is suitably vague.”
“So I’m discovering. I’m guessing you’re not a nine-to-five kind of guy, though?”
“Nope.”
His hands say as much; like gnarly bunches of bananas with too many scars to count.
“Some kind of security work?”
“Of sorts.”
“For bands, you know, when they’re on the road?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Your outfit for one. And it’s been a while since I’ve seen such impressive sideburns. Let me guess: you handle security for one of those old rocks bands like The Who or Led Zeppelin?”
Rather than answer, he looks around the bar, while taking another swig from his glass.
“Am I even warm?” I press.
“I’m a fixer,” he finally relents. “Amongst other things.”
“Oh, interesting. And what kind of things do you fix?”
“Problems.”
“And did William Huxley have a problem he needed fixing?”
It’s a risky move but it feels an appropriate moment to make it.
“You really need to let it go.”
“Tried. Can’t.”
He suddenly sits forward and rests his elbows on the table, our faces only three feet apart.
“You believe in fate?” he asks.
“Not really.”
“Neither did I, but I’ll tell you something for nothing — I reckon there’s a reason you followed me today and it ain’t because of Bill Huxley.”
“Eh? Yes it was.”
“That’s what you think, but I’d wager a few bob it’s for another reason. You just don’t know it yet.”
Has he just delivered the mother of all cheesy chat-up lines? Maybe he does have a thing for older women after all; although he’s barking up the wrong tree with this older woman.
“Right,” I scoff. “I think I’ll rely on my own judgement over fate, thank you very much.”
He replies with raised eyebrows before necking the final half of his pint.
“We’ll see. Anyway, I’m off.”
“Wait … what? But …”
He gets to his feet and slings the rucksack over his shoulder.
“Gotta get back, doll. Places to go and people to see.”
“Back where?”
“London.”
“So have I. Can we continue our conversation on the train?”
“Sit with me if you want but I need some shut-eye. I’m working tonight.”
Before I can even stand up, he’s already half way to the door. I empty my glass and scuttle after him.
I continue that scuttle all the way to the platform.
“Thanks for waiting,” I pant.
“The train is due any minute. Didn’t wanna miss it.”
Proving his point, a train approaches in the distance.
A minute later, we’re seated opposite one another in an overly warm carriage with Clement seemingly settled in for the journey back to London.
“Before you nod off, can I ask you one final question?”
“Make it quick.”
“The thing you came here looking for — was it in that bookshop?”
“Dunno. Maybe.”
“What was it?”
“That’s two questions.”
“Come on, Clement.”
He lets out a long sigh. “A book, if you must know.”
“You came all the way here for a book? Have you heard of Amazon?”
“I’m not a total idiot. It’s a river somewhere in South America.”
“Ha ha … very funny.”
He doesn’t share the joke and stares out of the window, stony faced.
“What kind of book was it?”
“A bible,” he mumbles.
“You don’t strike me as the religious type.”
“Yeah, well, that’s me — full of surprises.”
He then sits back in his seat and shuts his eyes. Conversation over, I guess.
I’ve never been able to sleep on any form of transport so, after texting Damon to say I’m chasing an unexpected lead, all I can do is stare out of the window and listen to Clement’s heavy breathing.
As much as I don’t want to, I can’t help but stare at my travel companion. It would be true to say he’s an odd one and, as offensively blunt as he is, it’s strangely refreshing. What isn’t so refreshing is his complete refusal to discuss William Huxley. It’s also perplexing why a clearly working-class man is prepared to defend a wealthy, former Conservative politician. Unless, of course, he is telling the truth and there’s no story to be told.
I have a horrible feeling my itch will never be properly scratched.
With nothing better to do, and before the signal dies again, I check for emails on my phone and quickly wish I hadn’t. In amongst the usual dross is an email from Damon with yet another brief for an interview with a z-lister. This time it’s the wife of a Premier League footballer I’ve never heard of, and relates to the launch of her own fashion label.
How the fuck does this kind of tripe constitute news? Did I miss the meeting where proper investigative journalism was struck from the job description and replaced with making the unimportant important? And who the hell wants to read it anyway? Not me, for sure, and I certainly don’t want to write it.
As much as it kills me, I invest half-an-hour, and much patience due to the sketchy mobile signal, researching the former model, Madison Marsh. At least I’ll be able to tell Damon I’ve done something
constructive with my day if he asks.
“What’s up, doll? You’ve got a face like a slapped arse.”
I look up from my phone to find Clement has woken from his slumber.
“Are you always so charming?”
“Always. So, what’s up?”
“Nothing really. Just work stuff.”
He then looks at me — the wrong side of a socially acceptable glance. The carriage feels a degree or two warmer.
“Must be interesting, your job?”
“It was, once. Not so much these days.”
“Is that why you’ve got your knickers in a twist about Bill Huxley?”
“A bit. Good stories are hard to come by.”
He appears to ponder my answer before gazing out of the window again. Seconds pass before he changes the course of our conversation.
“What’s your surname?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Same reason you followed me — curiosity.”
“It’s Hogan.”
“That’s a Paddy name, ain’t it?”
“It’s an Irish name,” I frown. “If that’s what you mean.”
“So, your family are Paddies?”
“Will you stop using that word.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s derogatory.”
“No it ain’t. I had a Irish mate, Shaun, and we always called him Paddy. He didn’t mind.”
“He probably did, Clement, but I’d guess he was too scared of you to say anything.”
“Doubt it. He was a tough bastard.”
“Was?”
“He just upped sticks and went back home one day. Said he wanted to join the IRA.”
I shake my head. “Shut up.”
“What have I said?” he replies indignantly.
“Enough with the Irish stereotypes. Next you’ll be telling me your mate loved a drop of Guinness, and potatoes for breakfast.”
“Funny you say that …”
“Stop.”
“Alright. I was only making conversation.”
An uncomfortable silence descends. Too uncomfortable.
“To answer your question, I have Irish family on my father’s side. I never met my paternal grandparents but they were from Cork and came over just after the war.”
“What was your old man’s name?”
“Dennis. Dennis Hogan.”
“Right.”
Clement then shuts his eyes again choosing sleep over conversation for the remaining fifteen minutes of our journey.
Clawthorn (Clement Book 3) Page 7