“I work my rent.”
“Oh, you don’t own your own place?”
“Nope. Never have, never will.”
“That’s a very short-term attitude. I’m going to assume you don’t have a pension so what are you going to do for an income when you retire?”
“I retired a long time ago.”
“Eh? You said you were a fixer — that’s surely a full-time job, isn’t it?”
“More of a … what’s the word … vocation.”
“And that’s why you don’t want paying?”
He takes a long drag on his cigarette before answering.
“Let’s just say I have different life goals from most folk, and none of them require money.”
“Okay, but if you change your mind, my offer stands. Where do we start then?”
“Why are you asking me? This is your gig.”
Bluntly put, but not an unfair statement, considering I haven’t given it any thought myself.
“I’m going for a piss,” he adds. “You’d better think on, before someone else does.”
He flicks his butt away and leaves me to do exactly that.
Now the buzz has left, all that remains is the stark realisation there are no tantalising clues or obvious leads to pursue. Beyond what Clement told me, I know the sum total of not much, and that’s not exactly a solid foundation to build a story.
Clearly Allen Tamthy is a non-starter as I don’t even know who he is. That just leaves the notebook itself as my only source of inspiration.
One question immediately comes to mind: how did it end up in Dennis Hogan’s jacket pocket?
I think back to my days working with Eric, and what he’d do in this situation — this is just the kind of mystery he used to revel in but Eric had a highly analytical mind whereas I’ve always tended to go on gut feeling. On this occasion, my gut is telling me I might need to search for answers in a place I hoped never to revisit.
I stub out my cigarette and head back in.
Clement has returned from emptying his bladder and is seated at the table, topping it up again.
“Same again?”
“Go on then, doll.”
“It’s Emma, by the way.”
“What is?”
“My name — I presumed you’d forgotten as you keep referring to me as ‘doll’.”
“Just my way. Does it bother you?”
Only a few weeks ago, I overheard a conversation between a female customer and the manager of my local supermarket. The customer was complaining the male checkout operator called her ‘love’ on at least two occasions — an affront to her feminist principles, apparently. I remember feeling so sorry for that poor checkout operator whose only crime was being friendly. My feelings for the customer extended to a simple conclusion: she was a pernicious twat.
I flash Clement a smile. “No, it doesn’t bother me.”
After a quick trip to the bar, I return to the table and a belated thought strikes me.
“When you said I’m not to leave your sight, Clement, what exactly did you mean by that?”
“Trust me — I don’t wanna watch you taking a shit.”
“Yeah, that’s reassuring, but what about the rest of the time?”
“You got a sofa?”
“Err, yes.”
“It’s now mine, at least until this is over.”
Perhaps I was a little too keen to secure Clement’s assistance, and didn’t take his first condition as a cue for him to move in.
“I’m not sure I’m entirely comfortable with that.”
“And you reckon I am?”
“It’s just … I haven’t lived with anyone for years, and the last guy I lived with I’d known slightly longer than twenty-four hours.”
“It’s your call, doll, but remember what happened in that alley earlier — next time it might be your bedroom, and it won’t be some dopey kid waving a knife around.”
As I think of a way to backtrack, my phone chimes with the arrival of a text message. Welcoming the chance to think of anything but sharing my home with Clement, I delve into my handbag.
The message is from a withheld number …
Place the notepad on the table and leave. This is your last chance to walk away unscathed.
14.
Sometimes, people don’t like what you write. Emails, letters, and messages on social media websites — whatever the medium, I’ve received just about every threat a warped imagination might conjure up. It comes with the job and I’ve long since accepted that.
This is different. This feels close, and unnervingly real.
I slowly turn my head and scan the bar. A run-down backstreet pub on a Thursday evening, and not one of the two-dozen patrons look out of place: wiry old men with nicotine-stained fingers, bald men with beer bellies and crude tattoos, and a couple of cackling harpies with bottle-blonde hair. Every one of them lost in their own depressing world.
I nudge the phone across the table so Clement can read the message. After a quick glance, he repeats my action and scans the bar.
“This is it, doll — a chance to walk away and forget all about Clawthorn.”
I should be scared, but there is an altogether different emotion blocking fear’s path.
“Do you like theme parks, Clement?”
His blank stare suggests not.
“I do. Put me on the tallest, fastest rollercoaster and I’m in my element.”
“Not with you.”
“That message was sent to scare me but it’s had the opposite effect — it proves I’m on to something big, and that excites me.”
“You’re getting a cheap thrill from being threatened?”
“Not exactly. I’m getting a thrill because this is what I’ve been waiting for my whole career. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
“And your lifetime could be cut short if you don’t leave the bleedin’ notebook on the table.”
I could, and probably should, heed Clement’s advice and walk away; just as Neil Armstrong should have listened to those who warned a trip to the moon was fraught with danger, and stayed home. Nobody achieves anything worthwhile without risk, and the greater the reward, the greater that risk.
I’ve received a threatening text message. I’m not about to be shot into space atop a tube of burning rocket fuel.
“I can’t leave it, Clement. I just can’t.”
He shakes his head. “That sofa better be comfortable.”
My concerns about sharing my home aren’t quite so significant now. Whatever it takes, I’m all in.
“I can do better than a sofa. I’ve got a spare room with a sofa bed, and it’s all yours.”
I doubt the promise of a lumpy sofa bed is really his motive but with a resigned sigh and a frown, Clement appears to be in.
“Right, listen,” he orders. “We do this, you listen to me and do as I say. Clear?”
“Clear.”
“We’re gonna get up and leave now. Once we’re on the street, you stick to my side until we hail a cab. Got it?”
Clement appears to be revelling in his protector role and although it’s quite endearing, I’m not sure it’s necessary. No harm in humouring him, I guess.
“Understood.”
He gets to his feet and nods to indicate I should follow. I do as I’m told.
Once we’re back on the street, more scanning ensues as Clement checks for potential threats. Seemingly content with the risk level, he beckons me to walk by his side and we head in the direction of Paddington Station.
With London being home to more than twenty-thousand black cabs, finding a ride is rarely a problem. After waiting barely a minute, we’re being whisked away by one of those black cabs.
There’s little in the way of conversation as Clement stares out of the window while I wrestle with my consequences of my decision. They say it’s better to look back and regret the things you did, rather than the things you didn’t do. In this instance I hope I don’t regret not leaving the notebook ba
ck in the pub.
“What do you think he’ll do next?” I ask.
“Depends. Does he know where you live?”
“I don’t think so … wait …”
“What?”
“When I came home yesterday, I found my front door ajar. I thought I’d just forgotten to close it, but now I think about it I’ve got a horrible feeling someone might have been rifling through my father’s possessions.”
“You live with your old man?”
“Christ, no. It’s a long story but I’ll give you the highlights.”
Before I get the chance the cab pulls up on my street. I pay the driver while Clement gets out and surveys the neighbourhood.
“Do you think he’ll send someone to my flat again?” I ask, joining him on the pavement.
“Dunno, but it’d be a risky move. You call the Old Bill and it’ll shine a light on things he’d rather keep in the dark.”
“So, what are his options?”
“I’d guess he’ll find your soft spot and exploit it. You got any family local?”
“No.”
“Friends?”
“Spread far and wide.”
“We’ll have to wait and see then, doll. What’s for dinner?”
How he can even think about food is beyond me but at very least I owe him a decent meal.
“We’ll order a takeaway. Come on.”
We make our way around the back of the coffee shop and I’m relieved to find the door still securely locked. As I step inside another concern comes to the fore.
“You’ll have to excuse the mess. I wasn’t expecting guests.”
“I’m not a fussy man. I’ll lay my head anywhere.”
I return an embarrassed smile and head up the stairs, with Clement’s heavy boots thumping the treads close behind.
We reach the top and Clement insists on checking the rooms while I stand like a lemon on the landing. He only takes a few seconds to peer through each door, until he gets to my bedroom.
“Nice pants,” he comments over his shoulder.
“Uh?”
“Hanging on the radiator. You should get yourself a clothes horse.”
I switch the landing light off to hide my flushed cheeks.
“Erm, drink?”
“Yeah.”
He closes the bedroom door and I just catch his smirk before I cringe my way to the kitchen. I then learn there’s only so long you can stare into a near empty fridge.
“Wine okay?”
“I’d rather gargle my own piss. Got any beer?”
“Afraid not, but I’ve got spirits: vodka, whisky, and I think there’s some tequila somewhere.”
“I’ll take a whisky. Straight, no ice.”
I grab a wine glass and a tumbler from the cupboard as Clement leans up against the door frame — it’s never looked smaller.
“Lived here long?” he asks.
“Long enough.”
“I worked in Kilburn for a bit; a few streets away I think.”
“Really? Where?”
“A club. Don’t think it’s there anymore.“
“I didn’t even know there was a club nearby. What was it called?”
“The Canary Club.”
I pour our drinks and hand Clement his whisky.
“I trust it wasn’t anything like the Clawthorn Club.”
“Only if they had strippers.”
“Nice. And what was your role there, dare I ask?”
“Owner had a problem with some mob intimidating the girls — a protection racket.”
“Let me guess: you did it for the perks?”
“Not gonna lie to you.”
As interesting as Clement’s work history is, we have more pressing matters to attend to.
“Let’s go through to the lounge.”
He follows me back across the landing, and after a quick check to ensure I haven’t left a threadbare thong on the radiator, I beckon him in.
“Grab a seat.”
He casts a lazy gaze across the walls and furniture before lowering himself into the armchair. I kick my shoes off and flop down on the sofa.
“Not what I expected,” he says.
“In what way?”
“Hardly any pictures, bare walls, no knickknacks … it’s more like a bloke’s pad.”
It’s a fair assessment. I’ve never considered it a home; to me, it’s just somewhere to while away the lonely evenings and lay my head at night. It serves that purpose well enough.
“It takes more than one person to make a home, Clement.”
“I’ll drink to that,” he replies, raising his glass.
I have to concede it’s nice having someone to raise a toast with, even if that someone is a hulking stranger blessed with the social graces of a troglodyte.
“Come on then, doll — tell me the full story. And I’m starving so make it quick.”
“I’ll order dinner first. What do you fancy?”
“Chow mein.”
“How adventurous. Do you want ketchup with that, or are you more of a brown sauce man?”
“Either, both. Don’t give a shit.”
I grab my phone and open the takeaway app. It only takes a few seconds to order-in a chow mein and my personal favourite: Szechuan chicken noodles.
“It’ll be here in forty minutes,” I remark, placing my phone down on the coffee table.
“Eh? You didn’t speak to anyone.”
“It’s an app. I don’t need to speak to anyone.”
“You just prod that thing a few times and food turns up?”
“Pretty much.”
“Fuck me. Maybe I do need one.”
Dinner sorted, my guest quickly moves the subject on, and poses a question.
“I’m struggling with somethin’. How did Tamthy know we were in that boozer?”
“Perhaps he had someone watching us.”
“I didn’t see anyone suspicious.”
“That excuse for a mugger could have followed us?”
“Only if he had a death wish.”
“I’ve seen people do some pretty stupid things when they’re desperate for money, Clement.”
My phone chimes to signal the takeaway are processing my order. I know without looking at the screen — it’s an app I use far too often.
As we wait for our food to arrive, I relay the diabolical tale of Dennis Hogan, and how the notebook ended up in my possession.
“You’ve never even met your old man?” Clement asks.
“Nope. Never have, and never will now. I’ve seen a photo of him, and that’s about it.”
“I’m sorry, doll.”
Considering I’m a virtual stranger, Clement’s apology carries more sincerity than I would have expected.
“Thanks, but it’s no loss.”
The doorbell rings and as I’m about to get up, Clement clambers out of his chair.
“Best I go,” he says. “Just in case.”
Before I can argue, he’s already gone. I suspect his sudden show of gallantry is as close to sweet as Clement ever gets.
Any fears of the caller being someone other than the delivery driver prove unfounded as I hear the door open and close within seconds. The sound of Clement’s boots clomping up the stairs soon follow. He appears in the doorway clutching a paper bag.
“Grubs up.”
I get up and take the bag from him. “Sit down. I’ll bring it through.”
Once I’ve decanted our food onto plates, I return to the lounge and hand Clement his insipid-looking meal.
“Nice one.”
I turn the TV on to mask the sound of Clement destroying his chow mein. Once half the plate is empty he pauses for a sip of whisky, and poses a question.
“Does Tamthy know what you do for a living?”
“He contacted me using my work email address so I presume so. Why do you ask?”
“Just trying to figure out what his next move will be.”
“And why is my job relevant?”
>
“Threat level. If I were Tamthy, I’d be a damn sight more worried about a journalist having that notebook rather than say, a barmaid or a bus driver.”
“But as far as Tamthy is concerned, I don’t know what Clawthorn really is.”
“But you tried to find out, didn’t you, and that’s my point. You’re digging around and the lengths he’s already gone to prove the notebook is more than just a score pad for a bleedin’ card game.”
I ponder Clement’s conclusion as he forks another skip load of food into his mouth. I can’t argue with much of what he said, and it’s now clear the moment I posted those photos on Twitter, I unwittingly brought myself to the attention of Allen Tamthy.
“What do you suggest we do?”
“At the moment, Tamthy is a ghost. We need to know who he really is before we can deal with the bloke, and the names in that notebook are our best bet.”
“And you think the members of Clawthorn are going to tell us anything? Seriously?”
“I’ve got a very persuasive interview technique, doll. People tend to get quite chatty within a few minutes.”
“Do I want to know what’s involved in that technique?”
“Nah, you don’t.”
“Thought not.”
I shoot him a look of disapproval but it’s wasted as he turns his attention back to the chow mein. It proves a short return.
“Cheers, doll,” he remarks while stifling a burp. “Not bad.”
What little appetite I had already sated, I drop my fork on the plate and place it on the coffee table.
“You finished?” he asks.
“I’m not very hungry.”
“Do you mind?”
“Err …”
Too late. I watch on as Clement makes light work of my Szechuan chicken noodles. If he’d actually bothered to savour the taste, he might have realised they have a kick.
“Flamin’ Nora,” he puffs, after the last mouthful is gone. “That was a bit spicy.”
“That’ll teach you. And congratulations.”
“For what?”
“Being the only man on earth under the age of fifty to still use the term Flamin’ Nora.”
“Everyone says it.”
“No, Clement — they really don’t.”
With no discernible response, I retrieve my handbag and extract the source of my troubles — one tatty, leather-bound notebook.
“I guess it’s time to start our offence.”
Clawthorn (Clement Book 3) Page 11