While I’ve got my photo album open the notorious shots taken at Kenton Stables last November scroll into view. Not much use for them now. I delete all but three: those featuring Clement. I think back to our conversation yesterday and what he said about fate.
A thought occurs.
Whilst I don’t believe in fate, I do believe there’s more to the big man than meets the eye, and an exposé about the life of an underworld fixer might be just the kind of story my career desperately needs.
There’s only one minor glitch — I have no idea how to find him.
Just for the sheer hell of it, I type ‘Clement’ into Google and conduct an image search. If I scoured the results for a solid week I wouldn’t reach the end. Why didn’t I get his phone number, or at least his full name? I have nothing to go on … or do I?
Tapping my pen on the desk I consider the ramifications.
Fuck it.
It takes five minutes to find what I’m looking for and, when I do, I’m taken aback by the name of the residence I’m about to call. I plan what I’m going to say and dial the number.
A distinctly middle-class voice chirps a greeting. “Good morning, Clement House.”
“Mr Huxley?”
“Speaking.”
“My name is Emma Hogan and I was hoping you might be able to help me.”
“That depends,” he replies suspiciously. “Who are you Ms Hogan?”
If I tell him I’m a journalist, this conversation will be over before its even started.
“I’m calling about a mutual friend.”
“And who might that be?”
“Clement.”
The line falls silent.
“Mr Huxley? Are you still there?”
“I’m here,” he finally replies in a low voice.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“You know Clement?” he asks, his tone guarded.
“I met him yesterday.”
“Where?”
“To cut a long story short, we had a chat for a few hours but I lost him in the crowd at Waterloo Station.”
“Is he … okay?”
“I can’t really answer that Mr Huxley. As I said, we didn’t speak long enough for me to really get a measure of the man.”
“Right. Forgive the blunt question but why are you calling me?”
“He told me he helped you with a problem. Is that correct?”
I let the question hang.
“He did.”
Despite the gnawing temptation to ask about Kenton Stables, I can’t risk saying anything which might put William Huxley on the defensive. I stick to my plan.
“Well, I also have a problem and I could really do with Clement’s help.”
“That may be so, but you haven’t answered my question. Why are you calling me?”
“Because I have no idea how to find him.”
“And you think I do?”
“That’s what I’m hoping.”
“I don’t,” he sighs. “But trust me, Ms Hogan — if you genuinely need his help, Clement will find you.”
“Err, okay. Is there anything else you can tell me about him?”
“I think this conversation is over.”
“Sorry?”
“If Clement offers you help, take it, and be grateful. Beyond that, I have nothing more to say.”
“But …”
“Good day, Ms Hogan.”
He hangs up.
I sit back in my chair, perplexed. It’s not the strangest telephone conversation I’ve had with a source but it’s certainly up there. Huxley’s tone throughout the call felt oddly familiar. In the past I’ve had to interview people who’ve witnessed all manner of tragic events from fatal road accidents to terrorist bombings, and they all spoke in the same shocked, subdued tone. With Huxley, though, there was something else — something I can’t put my finger on.
Frustrated, I throw my pen across the desk. It seems I’ve wasted months fretting over the wrong lead, as it’s now clear Clement is the one with a story to tell, not William Huxley.
My computer chimes the arrival of an email. I glance at the screen to see who’s pestering me but don’t recognise the sender’s email address. The subject is a single word: Notebook.
I open the email …
Dear Ms Hogan
My name is Allen Tamthy and I saw your post on Twitter regarding the notebook.
I must confess I have an ulterior motive in that I’m quite interested in purchasing the notebook from you; if you’d entertain selling it? I wish I could tell you something exciting about the name Clawthorn but it’s actually just an old English card game. It was popular for a brief period in the seventeenth century but fell from favour in lieu of simpler games.
There was a brief resurgence in the popularity of Clawthorn in the early sixties and your notebook is actually an official score pad from that period. I’m an avid collector of Clawthorn memorabilia, hence my interest.
To cut to the chase, I’d be willing to pay £350 for it. If you’re interested, I’m in London for a few days and willing to pay cash.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Regards, Allen Tamthy
Now the names and tally system make sense. Not only has my curiosity been sated, but it appears some sap is willing to pay good money for the notebook. I email Allen Tamthy back, telling him I’d be willing to do a deal at four hundred quid, and I can meet him after work.
Clearly keen, his reply arrives within a minute …
I’m happy to pay £400. I’m in a meeting near Paddington most of the afternoon but I should be free by seven o’clock. There’s a wine bar called Marco’s on Spring Street where we could meet, if that’s convenient for you?
I reply to confirm we have a deal, and I’ll meet him at the wine bar at seven. Suddenly my day feels a little less shit.
Buoyed by another unexpected windfall, and because I’ve got so much work to catch up with from yesterday, I work like a beaver for the rest of the day. It’s not work I’m proud of, but it’s work nonetheless. I even stay at my desk until half-six — not because I’m committed, but because Paddington is halfway between work and home so I can head straight from the office to the meeting with Allen Tamthy.
After a lazy stroll to Hyde Park Corner tube station, I hop on the Piccadilly Line and then the Bakerloo Line, arriving at Paddington with five minutes to spare. Low cloud and dusk combine to greet me as I emerge from the Tube. I check the map on my phone to confirm Marco’s Wine Bar is just a few minutes’ walk away.
Spring Street turns out to be no different from any other London backstreet, in that it consists of a mix of flats, shops, takeaways, and a pub. Without even seeing it, I know Marco’s will be much more down-market than the wine bars around Belgravia and Chelsea.
As it transpires, it’s so down-market it appears to have gone out of business — the lack of lights and bailiff's notice in the window offering conclusive proof of the fact. Clearly Allen Tamthy isn’t a regular and probably isn’t even aware our meeting place won’t be serving chilled Prosecco this evening, or any evening.
Seeing as he’s due in a minute or two I decide to wait rather than arrange an alternative venue. As the day’s workload catches up with me, I lean against a brick pillar adjacent to the door and contemplate how I can spend Mr Tamthy’s money.
A new handbag? A spa weekend? A phone upgrade …
“Move an inch and you’re dead, bitch.”
Before I can even process the warning, let alone react, something sharp digs into my rib cage.
“Yeah, it’s a knife,” the voice confirms. “And I’ll fucking use it if you don’t do as you’re told.”
12.
The only part of my body I dare move are my eyes. They widen, and flick left and right, but there’s no potential saviour anywhere to be seen. I could scream but to what end? Panicking a man with a knife surely isn’t a good idea. I should talk to him;
try to calm the situation.
“Look, I don’t …”
His next move takes me by surprise as a hand grasps the collar of my coat and yanks hard. Within a split-second I’ve left the relative safety of the street and I’m stumbling backwards into the dark alleyway adjacent to the wine bar. Somehow, I move my feet quickly enough to maintain balance, until an outstretched leg proves an effective trip hazard.
I sprawl backwards landing hard on my backside. The pain is accompanied by the stench of damp, and stale piss.
Shock eventually gives way to fear, but that fear is tinged with a grim acceptance. All these years walking the streets of London — it was always a statistical probability I’d be the victim of a mugging one day. My luck has run out, it seems.
I look up at my assailant — a genuine streak of piss — tall, and rake thin. Despite his hooded top, there’s no disguising his distinctive face: acne-scarred, sunken eyes, and an unkempt goatee beard. However, his tardy grooming is not my biggest issue. That would be the six-inch knife he’s waving around.
The alley is narrow so there’s no chance of scrambling to my feet and escaping his clutches. I just want to get this over with.
“What do you want?”
“Gimme your bag, and your phone.”
His accent is one I’ve heard a thousand times — the accent of a disaffected, sink estate, youth. It’s strangely reassuring but his youth and accent confirm the motive here is almost certainly financial; a drug habit to fund, no doubt. If he’d been older and more articulate, the motive might be decidedly more sinister.
I tug the strap over my head and hold up the handbag. Like a feral dog being offered a scrap of food, he cautiously reaches forward and snatches it away.
“Gimme your phone.”
The cost of the phone is immaterial. What I’d rather avoid is the tedious inconvenience of setting-up a new one.
“Look, it’s just a cheap Android model. It’s not worth anything.”
“Gimme the fuckin’ phone!”
“Fine,” I snap, reaching for my pocket.
I take my eyes off the youth for a second, and in that second a shadow suddenly swallows all but a few slithers of light from the street.
My head snaps up, and the source of the shadow now stands in the same patch of ground previously occupied by the youth. The youth himself is now pinned to the wall; held in place by an outstretched arm.
I clamber to my feet and double-check my eyes aren’t deceiving me. They’re not, and an involuntary gasp escapes.
“Clement!”
“Alright, doll.”
The big man’s demeanour is strangely relaxed, considering the circumstances, whereas the streak of piss is wide eyed and petrified. As deeply satisfying as it is to see him suffer, I can’t imagine he’ll last much longer with the big man’s hand clamped around his throat.
“Youth of today,” Clement tuts. “No respect.”
“Um, you do realise he’s suffocating?”
“He’ll last a few seconds more. You okay?”
“I think so.”
I grab my handbag from the floor as Clement turns back to the youth.
“You still hanging in there, sunshine?”
“I don’t think he’s in a position to answer.”
“Fair point.”
He releases his hold on the kid’s throat and grabs a fistful of his hoodie. “I think you owe my friend an apology.”
“Careful,” I urge. “He’s got a knife.”
“Had a knife.”
With his free hand, Clement delves into his pocket and pulls out the knife. He then turns back to the youth.
“Did nobody tell you not to fuck around with big boy’s toys?”
It seems fear has robbed him of words and all he can do is shake his head.
“Shame.”
Clement turns to me. “Step aside, doll.”
I do as instructed and watch on as Clement grabs the youth’s hoodie with both hands.
“See ya, dickhead.”
He then hurls him down the alley with such force it’s like watching an Olympic shot-putter throwing a grapefruit. Open mouthed, I watch in shock as the young man bounces across the litter-strewn ground.
My shock turns to relief as he then sits up and whimpers a few profanities.
“Christ, Clement. You could have killed him.”
“If I wanted to kill him, he wouldn’t be sat there with just a few cuts and bruises.”
No doubt true.
“But, thank you,” I puff. “I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t shown up.”
My gratitude prompts an obvious question. “But how did you …”
“I followed you.”
“Why?”
“Let’s just say I had a feeling you might need help at some stage.”
“A feeling? Do you follow many women on the off-chance they might be mugged?”
“Nah. This is a first.”
“I don’t know whether to be flattered or concerned.”
“I’d stick a few quid on concerned.”
I flash him a smile but it’s not returned.
“What were you doing here?” he asks.
“I was supposed to be meeting a guy in the wine bar next door.”
“The wine bar which isn’t open?”
I nod.
“At what time?”
“Seven.”
“And where is he?”
I check my phone. It’s now ten past seven and there’s no text message or email from Mr Tamthy. I poke my head out of the alley and look up and down the street but there’s no one loitering around.
“He’s either running late or a no-show.”
Clement strides down the alley. Looming over the youth, he barks a question.
“What’s your name, dickhead?”
The terrified youth stammers an answer. “Jaydon.”
“Listen up, Jaydon — I’m gonna ask you a question, and if you bullshit me I’ll tear you a new arsehole. Got it?”
Jaydon nods.
“Did you just randomly decide to mug my friend here?”
“Yeah.”
“Wrong answer.”
Clement reaches down — perhaps to deliver another throttling — and the kid reacts by shuffling backwards on his buttocks. Unfortunately for him, there’s nowhere to go.
“Alright, alright,” he pleads. “Some geezer said she’d be here. He gave me a hundred quid and said I could have another hundred when I handed over her bag and phone, and I could keep any cash she had.”
“What geezer?”
“Dunno his name. I was walking out the bookies on Napier Road and he called me over to his motor.”
“How were you supposed to tell him when the job was done?”
“He said he’d call me in an hour.”
“What did he look like?”
“I dunno, bruv. Like, ordinary.”
“Ordinary?”
“Yeah, apart from his nose. It was well crooked.”
“Was he old, young? Black, white?”
“White and … I dunno … old, and fat as fuck.”
“How old?”
“Mate, I dunno. Could have been fifty, could have been seventy for all I know … I’d taken some ket so my head was mashed.”
“What motor was he driving?”
“Didn’t pay much attention … it was black, maybe a Merc or an Audi.”
Clement squats down and clicks his fingers. “Gimme the hundred quid.”
“What?”
“You heard. I won’t ask again.”
“I’ve already spent forty.”
“Give it.”
Jaydon mutters something unintelligible and digs a hand into his pocket, pulling out three twenty-pound notes which Clement quickly snatches away.
“Consider this payment for a life lesson: crime don’t pay, unless you’re any good at it, and you ain’t, sunshine.”
Clement throws the kid a parting glare before amblin
g back up the alley.
“Fancy a drink, doll? His round.”
Nothing would be more welcome than a stiff drink, but not before I take my turn to glare at the kid.
“Not such a big man without your knife, are you? Stupid little prick.”
Restoring some measure of dignity, I follow Clement out of the alley.
“Feel better for that?” he asks.
“A little.”
“Good. There’s a boozer just up the road.”
I’ve never felt unsafe on the streets before and it infuriates me I now find myself walking as close to Clement as I can. That in itself is troubling; I’m putting my faith in a man I only met yesterday. Maybe it’s delayed shock, but it’s a safe haven I’ll take for the moment.
“You know you were set up, doll?”
“Eh? How do you know that?”
“The kid was waiting for you. Muggers don’t tend to hang around in alleyways hoping some bird just happens to stop by.”
“Why would anyone set me up?”
“You tell me. You must piss off a lot of people in your job.”
I think back over the last few months. It doesn’t take long to establish I haven’t written anything interesting, let alone capable, of pissing anyone off.
I’m still scouring my mind when we step through the door of a pub I’d usually try to avoid — the kind of shithole where football hooligans flock pre-match.
We head straight for the bar and Clement orders a pint.
“What you having, doll?”
“Brandy, neat. Make it a double.”
He gives my order to the trashy barmaid. She flutters her false eyelashes in return but Clement’s attention appears focused on her cleavage.
Drinks acquired, I follow him over to a table by the window.
“Is she your type?” I ask as we sit down opposite one another. “The barmaid?”
“Nah. She’d do for a night but she’s all tits n’ lips. Nothing upstairs.”
“What a charming turn of phrase.”
“You asked,” he shrugs.
Clawthorn (Clement Book 3) Page 9