Ordinarily, the kind of casual chauvinism Clement just displayed would have me on my soap box. On this occasion, however, there are more immediate issues to debate.
“I’ve thought about what you said, Clement, and I can’t think of anyone who’d set me up.”
His eyebrows arch. “No one?”
“Honestly,” I plea.
“Alright. Who was the geezer you were supposed to meet.”
“Some anorak obsessed with old card games. We only swapped emails but he seemed harmless enough.”
“He didn’t show up, though.”
“No.”
“You got his number?”
“Err, no.”
“How did he arrange to meet you then?”
“He emailed me. I presume he got my email address from my Twitter profile.”
“But he didn’t give you a phone number? Ain’t that a bit odd?”
In hindsight, perhaps I let the chance to make a fast buck cloud my judgement.
“When you add it all together,” Clement adds. “This definitely smells like a set-up.”
I take a slow sip of brandy and let Clement’s theory sink in. Being mugged is one thing, but knowing I was lured into a trap is deeply disturbing, particularly as I can’t think of any motive.
“What was this bloke’s name?” Clement asks.
“Allen Tamthy.”
He sits back in his seat and stares into the space above my head, all the while stroking his ridiculous moustache. I wait patiently for a response but nothing comes.
“Am I boring you?”
“Eh?”
“You’re miles away, Clement.”
“I was thinking.”
“About what?”
“That name. I’m sure I’ve heard it before but … nah, it’s gone.”
“That happens at our age.”
“What does?”
“Forgetting things. Someone can tell me their name and I’ll forget it within ten seconds.”
“Yeah, well, some of us have to think a lot further back.”
“Don’t make excuses. You can’t be much younger than me, if at all.”
“Dunno. I’ve lost track.”
“Of your age?”
“Of my age, of my life.”
“’Course you have,” I scoff. “Some would call that getting old. Happens to the best of us, Clement.”
The scowl he casts my way implies a change of subject might be prudent.
“Do you think I should go to the police?”
“If you reckon they’ll do anything. Keep me out of it, though.”
“Why?”
“Cos I said so. I don’t trust ’em.”
From what I saw of Clement’s brief meeting with Sergeant Banner down in Surrey I suspect the feeling is mutual.
“I’ll just say a random passer-by intervened.”
“That works for me, but you know they’ll do fuck all?”
“They’re the police, Clement. They can’t just choose to ignore a threat to my safety.”
“You ain’t had many dealings with the Old Bill, have you, doll?”
“Err, not really, no.”
“You’ll make a statement, fill out some forms, and they’ll send you on your way.”
“I doubt that’s how they work.”
“What do you reckon they’ll do then?”
A few seconds thought undermines my rash defence. This is the same police force that came a distant second to a firm of estate agents when it came to locating my father’s next of kin.
“I, err …”
Realistically, what can they do? No direct threat has been made against me and I don’t even know why, or if, this character, Allen Tamthy, set me up.
“Well?” Clement prods.
“Maybe it’s just a coincidence. If someone really wanted to get at me, why send some junkie fuckwit to do it?”
“Cover.”
“Not with you.”
“Our little friend said some bloke approached him outside a bookies, and that he’d call him to collect your gear. That sounds like someone covering their tracks. Whoever that bloke was, he picked some random kid to turn you over because there’s nothing connecting them.”
“Hmmm … that all sounds a bit too cloak and dagger to be plausible.”
“Maybe, but either way the Old Bill won’t be arsed to investigate.”
“So, what can I do?”
“Be careful.”
“Thanks for that pearl of wisdom. I feel so much safer now.”
I finish the brandy and delve into my handbag in search of a stale packet of cigarettes I started two months ago. At times of high stress, a crafty smoke always calms my nerves. On this occasion, it has the reverse effect, as I can’t find the packet amongst all the junk. I start removing individual items to make the task easier.
“What’s that?” Clement asks.
“That’s the notepad Allen Tamthy was supposed to buy. I guess it was too good to be true — that’s four hundred quid I can kiss goodbye to.”
He picks it up; inspecting it closely. “Shit, doll.”
“What?”
Rather than answer immediately, he slowly flicks through the pages.
“Where did you get this?” he asks, his tone grave.
“It was in an old suit jacket belonging to my father.”
With a degree of reverence, he carefully places the notebook on the table and continues to stare at it.
“What’s so fascinating, Clement? It’s just a score pad for some lame card game.”
“No, it bleedin’ ain’t.”
“What is it then?”
“A fuckload of trouble. If this is what I think it is, I know who it belongs to.”
I can’t imagine much worries Clement but something has clearly unsettled him.
“Spit it out then. Who does it belong to?”
“The Tallyman.”
13.
I can’t control the cynic in me, and a snort of laughter escapes. “The Tallyman?”
Clement nods, his expression still grave.
“Right,” I scoff. “And would you say the Tallyman is like Batman, or more like Superman?”
“Nothing funny about Clawthorn, doll. Trust me on that.”
“If it’s not a card game, what is it then, smartarse?”
“You’re gonna need another drink.”
Much to my annoyance he gets up and marches over to the bar — I don’t like cliff-hangers. I continue searching for the elusive packet of cigarettes to fill the time. He returns just as I unearth a beat-up packet of Silk Cut.
“Here,” he says, handing me another brandy.
“Come on then. Don’t keep me in suspense any longer — who is this mysterious Tallyman?”
Ignoring my sarcastic tone, he sits down and takes a long draw on his pint.
“Right, doll. First things first — you can’t tell anyone you’ve got the Tallyman’s notebook, and I mean anyone.”
“Okay,” I huff, rolling my eyes. “Just tell me what it is for Christ’s sake.”
“Clawthorn is a club started in the late fifties,” he begins, his voice low. “Originally, it was for business folk, and they’d meet up to discuss whatever shit business folk talk about.”
“Like a networking club?”
“Dunno what that is, but if you say so. Anyway, sometime in the late-sixties, they decided to move in a different direction and started by culling the members who weren’t considered important enough, and adding new rules to keep the riff-raff out. I ’spose it was a bit like the Freemasons, but a damn sight harder to join. That’s when they adopted a new motto: favent, in gratiam.”
“Yeah, I’m not great with Latin.”
“It means: favour for a favour.”
“I’ll take your word for that. Carry on.”
“Basically, it became a place where the rich and powerful could swap favours. Rumour has it that members included cabinet ministers, heads of major banks, high-rankin
g police officers, newspaper bosses, High Court judges, and all manner of businessmen — anyone in a position of power and influence.”
“That doesn’t sound so scandalous. Why the secrecy?”
“They weren’t doing each other’s shopping, or lending the odd fiver, doll. These were men who had the power to get a court case dropped, or to crash a stock value, or to run a smear campaign in the papers. What kind of favours do you think they were doing for each other?”
“Are you saying the members were breaking the law?””
“Fuck breaking the law. If you were a member of the Clawthorn Club, the law didn’t apply to you. It was as corrupt as it gets.”
“And this infamous Tallyman character?”
“He was the top bloke, like a chairman, I suppose. He kept tabs on all the members to monitor their favours and make sure they were playing by the rules. The tally in the notebook shows how many favours were given and received.”
I pick up the notebook and flick through the pages. The letters G and R at the top of each page do tie-in with Clement’s claim.
“So, you’re telling me that all the names listed in this are high-profile individuals who were members of a corrupt club? Individuals who’ve broken the law to give and receive favours?”
“That’s about the strength of it.”
“Does this Clawthorn Club still exist?”
“Dunno, and to be honest, doll, even if it does still exist there’s no way you’d be able to find out.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not like a normal club — you won’t find their address in the Yellow Pages, and all the members were sworn to secrecy.”
“So how do you know so much about it?”
“I don’t know that much, but I do know … I knew certain people back in the day, and there were whispers about the Clawthorn Club all over the manor. Thing is, you hear the same whispers over and over again, there’s usually somethin’ in it.”
From my own experience, I don’t disagree. Some of my best reports were founded on the same snippet of gossip from different sources.
“No smoke without fire, eh?”
“Yeah, and there was a lot of smoke about the Clawthorn Club.”
“When was this?”
“A long time ago.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“I could, but it don’t matter — not to you, anyway.”
A twenty-five year career in journalism has made me a deeply sceptical woman. I couldn’t do my job without checking and double-checking facts, so whilst Clement’s claim is deliciously intriguing, it could be a fairy-tale for all I know.
“And you think I was mugged because this Allen Tamthy, or Tallyman, wanted his notebook back?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Ignoring the question about why it was in my father’s jacket pocket, why didn’t Allen Tamthy just buy it from me as we agreed? Why send the kid to steal my bag and my phone?”
“You’re the journalist, doll. You tell me.”
Surely four hundred quid is a drop in the ocean compared to the information in the notebook; assuming it is as Clement claims. He could have met me, handed over the cash, and I’d have walked away none the wiser.
“It doesn’t make sense.”
“One thing don’t: how did he even know you had it?”
“He said he saw my … oh, fuck.”
“What?”
“I posted photos of the notebook on Twitter.”
He pulls a face as if I’d just replied in Norwegian.
“I have photos of the notebook on my phone, including the inner pages with the names. That’s why Tamthy couldn’t just buy the notebook from me — he needed my phone as well.”
“Makes sense.”
“It does, assuming any of this is actually true.”
“You’ve got another explanation?”
“The absence of an alternative explanation doesn’t mean your story is the truth. And another thing, if this Clawthorn Club is so secretive, why the hell would Allen Tamthy use his real name?”
“He didn’t. Haven’t you worked that out?”
“Err, worked what out?”
“I said I’d heard the name before, and there’s a reason why it stuck in my head.”
“Go on.”
“Allen Tamthy ain’t a real name — it’s an anagram for ‘The Tallyman’.”
Rather than take Clement’s word for it I rearrange the letters in my head.
“Oh my God. So it is.”
“Believe me now?”
An involuntary smile creeps across my lips as the buzz awakens.
“If this whole Clawthorn Club tale is true, Clement, I could be sitting on the story of the century.”
He almost chokes on a mouthful of lager. “Are you fucking kiddin’ me?”
“What?”
“Did you not listen to a word I just said? Seriously, doll, you don’t wanna get involved with this, unless you’ve got a death wish.”
“You could help me. That’s what you do isn’t it — solve problems?”
“Yeah, and this one is easy to fix. You just drop it.”
“But what about the notebook? If it is what you say it is, this Tamthy character will still want it back.”
Clement sits back and scratches his head. Long seconds pass as I await an answer.
“He ain’t gonna give up on it,” he concedes. “Even if you tell him you’ve got rid of the notebook, I doubt he’d believe you — I wouldn’t.”
“So what can I do? I don’t fancy spending the next few weeks waiting to be mugged again.”
My answer comes in the way of more head scratching.
As Clement ponders, I think about turning what I’ve learnt into a story. I don’t have to think long to conclude I’m woefully short of enough evidence to even hint at what I now know. Stories of this magnitude can take months, if not years, of investigation and research. I’ve barely scratched the surface of this supposedly corrupt club and facts are thin on the ground.
“You know something, Clement, they say attack is the best form of defence.”
“They also say fools rush in. What’s your point?”
“My point is, why should I sit around and do nothing? I don’t want to be constantly looking over my shoulder while this Allen Tamthy character plans how to get his notepad back.”
“And what do you suggest doing instead?”
“Going after him.”
“And how are you gonna do that, doll?”
“Help me investigate the Clawthorn Club. If I can get some hard evidence about what went on there, the notebook won’t matter, and neither will Allen Tamthy, whoever he is.”
It’s a plea made from the heart rather than the head. I’m putting a huge amount of faith in a man I barely know, chasing a story that might be nothing more than a figment of that man’s vivid imagination. It’s a risk I’m prepared to take; the potential rewards are just too great to ignore.
Clement stares at his pint closely examining the beads of condensation trickling down the cold glass.
“I’ve got money, Clement. I can pay you.”
“It ain’t about the money,” he mumbles.
“What is it then?”
“I’m one bloke.”
“Yeah, but I bet you’re a resourceful bloke.”
He glances up and our eyes lock for just a second or two before he returns his attention to the glass.
“Fine.” I huff. “I’ll do it on my own.”
I grab the notebook and throw it into my handbag along with the pack of cigarettes. I then get to my feet, intent on leaving, when Clement reaches across the table and grabs my forearm.
“Two conditions,” he sighs.
I look down at his hand. Any other man grabbing me like that would get a slap for their troubles but Clement’s grip feels reassuring rather than threatening.
“Go on.”
“Firstly, you never leave my sight.”
“That could be
awkward when it comes to the bathroom.”
“This is serious, doll.”
“Okay, but obviously I have to go to work.”
“I’ll see you there, and be waiting when you finish.”
“I can live with that. And the second condition?”
“I need a phone — nothin’ complicated. Just in case you need to get hold of me in an emergency.
“You don’t own a mobile phone?”
“Never needed one.”
“So how do people get hold of you?”
“They don’t.”
He releases his grip on my arm. I retake my seat.
“We can pick one up in the morning. There’s a mobile phone shop near my flat.”
He nods.
“So, we’re doing this?”
“Looks that way.”
“Brilliant.”
Not quite the full buzz but I feel a flutter in my chest. Finally, something to get my teeth stuck into, although my partner’s solemn expression suggests he doesn’t share my enthusiasm.
“Are you absolutely sure you want to do this, Clement? You seem reluctant.”
“Not a case of wanting to, doll — it’s a case of having to.”
“Nobody’s forcing you.”
“Ain’t they?” he mutters, getting to his feet. “I need a smoke. You coming?”
I don’t need asking twice. The residue shock and two brandies has left a savage craving for nicotine.
We cross the bar and step through a door, leading into a scaled-down version of a prison exercise yard.
“What a lovely beer garden,” I comment. “The overflowing bucket of fag butts is a nice touch.”
Clement ignores my sarcasm and plucks a cigarette packet from his breast pocket. I wrestle one from my battered pack as he offers me a light.
The first drag is sublime, and whilst I accept it’s a terrible habit, I condone it by virtue I’ve cut down from ten a day to just four or five a month.
We stand and puff away in silence. With Clement seemingly unwilling to engage, I’m forced to rekindle our conversation.
“We’ll split any money, you know.”
“Money?”
“A story like this could be worth a small fortune.”
“I told you, doll, the money ain’t important.”
“Of course it is. We all need money, Clement.”
“All I need is enough for booze, fags, and food.”
“What about paying your mortgage?”
Clawthorn (Clement Book 3) Page 10