“Well?”
“I’ll cut to the chase. This is an official disciplinary meeting and, as such, you have the right to ask for a third-party to be present, such as a union rep, colleague …”
“Whoa! Back up a minute, Damon. You’re giving me an official warning because I was half-an-hour late?”
“If you let me finish …”
“For the record,” I interrupt. “I was late this morning because I just found out my father died.”
Bombshell delivered, I sit back in my chair and await the look of shame and grovelling apology.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he continues. “But that has no relevancy to the reason for this meeting.”
“Of course it does. I was late because I had to deal with the estate agent who let my father’s flat.”
Technically, I’m not lying about the reason — just the day it happened.
“This has nothing to do with your timekeeping.”
“What then?”
He glances at the computer screen. “At 11:22am yesterday, our call logs show you rang a charity based in Sandown on the Isle of Wight. Correct?”
I had no idea our calls were being logged.
“Um, possibly.”
“And one of the two directors of that charity is a certain William Huxley.”
“Err …”
Ohh shit.
“Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t I send you an email six months ago, strictly forbidding any communication with William Huxley?”
“You might have done.”
“I know I did, and I also know you read it because our IT guy checked the mail server.”
He’s got me bang to rights, and no amount of dead relatives are going to get me out of this hole.
“Alright,” I sigh. “You got me, Damon. Give me a slap on the wrist and we can both get on with our day.”
“There won’t be any wrist slapping.”
“Great. I’ll be on my way then.”
“You are suspended with immediate effect.”
“I … sorry?”
“And your employment contract will almost certainly be terminated next week once we’ve concluded a formal investigation and collated all the evidence.”
The words ‘suspended’ and ‘terminated’ reverberate in my head as I sit and stare at Damon.
“What?” I gasp. “No.”
“You brought this on yourself. There’s only so long you can break the rules before those rules come back and bite you on the arse.”
“This is …”
“Unfair? No, it’s not. We’re doing everything by the book.”
Book or no book, if he thinks I’m going to roll over without a fight, he’s sadly mistaken.
“This is bullshit and you know it. Yes, I spoke to Huxley but it was on a completely unrelated matter — it had absolutely nothing to do with what happened six months ago. And, if you refer to your precious call logs, you’ll see I was only on the phone to him for a minute or two.”
“Doesn’t matter. You were explicitly told not to communicate with him, and you were made fully aware of the consequences.”
“No, I’m not having that. This is just the petty excuse you’ve been looking for to get rid of me: isn’t it?”
He leans forward and rests his elbows on the desk.
“As much as I’d love to take credit, this came from above. It seems your fan club in the boardroom has had enough of your behaviour.”
His revelation is like a pin prick to my defiance, and I can almost feel myself deflating in the chair.
“I’ll give you two minutes to pack up your personal possessions,” he continues. “And someone will escort you off the premises.”
“But, Damon … please …”
“Don’t waste your breath. It’s out of my hands.”
He gets to his feet and nods towards the door. “Let’s get this over with.”
Still in a daze, I slowly get up and turn to leave.
“Oh, Emma,” Damon chirps. “One final thing.”
I turn around.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve always wanted to say this.”
“Say what?”
He raises his arm and points a finger in my direction. A lazy grin then forms on his face.
“You’re fired.”
16.
It would be fair to say that being fired is an awful experience.
In my case, the firing was particularly awful for three reasons. Firstly, I had to do the walk of shame across the office, carrying a cardboard box whilst my colleagues watched on. Secondly, I had to make that walk whilst a tearful Gini watched on like an abandoned puppy. And, to cap it all, Damon delegated the job of seeing me off the premises to a smirking Bridget.
As I stand on the stairs outside the office, still holding my box, I remind myself I haven’t technically been fired yet. On the scale of delusional silver linings, it’s right up there with such greats as there’s plenty more fish in the sea and it’s the taking part that counts.
Fucking hell.
Fuck. Fuck. Fucking hell.
I can almost feel a dozen sets of eyes looking down at me from the first floor windows, and I can imagine what they’re thinking: there goes poor old Emma Hogan — the last of the dinosaurs.
Head up, shoulders back, I walk away with no idea where I’m going or what I’m to do. I cover thirty yards of pavement when the shame steps aside leaving space for another concern.
After a quick scan of the street, I seek sanctuary in the doorway of a restaurant that won’t open for another two hours. I pull out my phone and call Clement’s new phone. It rings, and it rings.
“Come on, come on.”
I’m about to give up when he finally answers.
“Doll?”
“Where are you?”
“In a cafe near Hyde Park. What’s up?”
“I’ve been fired. Can you come and meet me?”
“Yeah, where?”
“I’m stood outside the Bella Luna restaurant near the office.”
“Gimme five minutes.”
I expect him to hang up but instead, the line beeps with the pressing of random buttons whilst Clement swears under his breath. Eventually, he finds the correct button to end the call.
There’s nothing I can do other than stand and wallow in a pool of negative thoughts. It doesn’t take long for several questions to bubble to the surface. What reason did anyone have to check my call logs, and who made the decision? I can’t believe Damon has been checking them for the last six months and then suddenly struck lucky. I make scores of phone calls every day — would he really spend hour after hour trawling those records in the vague hope I might suddenly call William Huxley? He dislikes me, but not that much.
Besides, he did say the order to sack me came from above, and that is a grave concern considering events over the last few days.
My phone chimes to signal a text message has arrived. I tap the screen and open it.
The disciplinary issue will go away if you return the notebook and forget Clawthorn. You are in over your head — walk away.
I read it twice: dumbstruck.
The questions I asked myself only moments ago have been answered; only to be replaced with a more worrying series of questions. Assuming the text is from Allen Tamthy, how the hell did he know I’ve just been disciplined, and how did he get that information so quickly?
There’s only one possible answer: someone in the office must have told him the moment I left.
“My God.”
The more I think about that, the more questions arrive. Was Tamthy behind the investigation into my call logs? Did the so-called Tallyman call in a few favours of his own?
I read the text for a third time. There’s no sender’s name but the text ends with an anonymous PO box address. I know from previous experience it’s near-impossible to trace who that box might belong to.
“Alright, doll?”
Startled by the sudden boom of
Clement’s voice, I almost drop my phone.
“Jesus. You scared me.”
“Sorry. You okay?”
“Not really.”
“Me neither. I had to leave half my breakfast.”
I glare up at him. “How awful for you.”
“Yeah, it was. Shall we go back to your place? You can tell me what happened on the way.”
Without any prompt he reaches down and picks up my cardboard box. I’m beginning to learn Clement has a knack of seamlessly switching from insensitive arsehole to gentleman in an instant.
“Thank you.”
As we walk, I recount what happened in Damon’s office, and the text message I received barely minutes after I left the building.
“Are you gonna admit it now, doll?”
“Admit what?”
“When I told you the truth about Clawthorn, you thought I was bullshitting.”
“No, not exactly.”
“Come off it,” he scoffs. “You thought this was a game and I was just exaggerating the risk.”
“I probably underestimated the threat.”
“Yeah, you did.”
“But this is so personal, so close to home. I feel … violated.”
“I’m gonna keep saying it — you’re not dealing with the boy scouts here. These fuckers have eyes and ears everywhere.”
“As I’m learning.”
“Still, as threats go, it could have been worse,” he suggests.
“Worse? I’m being blackmailed, threatened, and someone at The Daily Standard is clearly involved. How could it possibly be any worse?”
“Lots of ways to keep someone from snitching. They could have grabbed you off the street, taken you somewhere quiet, and sliced your nipples off with a rusty razor blade.”
I don’t know if it’s possible for boobs to physically shudder, but mine make the effort.
“That’s twisted. You’ve been watching too many Mafia movies, Clement.”
“Yeah, that’ll be it.”
“But I take your point, I suppose. Question is: what do we do next?”
“It’s up to you. At least you’ve got an easy way out, if you want it.”
On the face of it, I do — I could easily send the notebook back and return to work next week as if nothing happened. However, I’m now beginning to realise that Clement wasn’t exaggerating the risks of investigating the Clawthorn Club. But as that risk increases, so does the potential reward for exposing whoever is involved, including a board member at The Daily Standard.
“If I do send it back, it won’t be over, will it? Someone will be constantly watching over me and I’ll have to live with the threat of being sacked for some minor indiscretion, and that’s assuming I even get my job back.”
“I suppose you’ve got a bit of time on your side if you wanna keep digging around. Even if you send the notebook back today, it won’t get there until Monday at the earliest.”
With three entire days now at my disposal, and nothing more to lose at this point, perhaps he’s right. At the very least it’ll stop me dwelling on my impending unemployment.
“You got any plans this weekend, Clement?”
“I stopped making plans a long time ago.”
“Great. How do you fancy joining me for some good old-fashion investigative journalism?”
“Will there be alcohol involved at some stage?”
“Almost certainly.”
“Count me in.”
Just over an hour after we began the outbound journey, we complete the return leg, and arrive back at Kilburn station. We head straight for the flat despite Clement complaining about his unfinished breakfast.
“There’s a cafe down the road. I’ll treat you to egg and chips once we’ve decided what we’re doing.”
“If I make it that far,” he grumbles.
In lieu of breakfast, I make him a cup of tea once we’re home, and throw in a couple of chocolate digestives for good measure. Seemingly satisfied for the moment, we convene in the lounge.
“You gonna call that Stacey bird, then?”
“Yes, but I need to work out what I’m going to say. It’s not fair to drag her into this so I don’t want to mention anything about Clawthorn if I can help it.”
“Assuming her old man was a member.”
“I’ve checked. There’s not one other person in the Greater London area with the name Nithercott. It has to be him.”
“Fair enough. What’s your angle, then?”
“His suicide.”
“Go on.”
“I’ve been thinking about it, and I reckon Stacey must have considered the same question I did: why would a suicidal man living in the centre of London head fifteen miles out to a motorway bridge and kill himself there? Why not stay at home and down a bottle of pills, or take a five-minute walk to an Underground station and throw yourself in front of a train?”
“You suggesting it weren’t suicide?”
“There’s one way to check if he had a motive for killing himself.”
I reach into my handbag and pull out the notebook. A quick flick through the pages and I locate what might well be Lance Nithercott’s tally.
“Zero favours in the ‘given’ column and two in the ‘received’ column. Perhaps he was being pressurised to pay his dues and that’s why he turned to drink. Stacey said his work dried up which would have meant there was no way to repay his favour.”
“It’s a theory, doll.”
“It’s all we’ve got at the moment.”
“Better make that call then.”
I finish my coffee and stare at the phone screen for a moment. With no other leads this is a one-shot deal. With that in mind, and knowing how sensitive Stacey was regarding the subject of her father, I’ll need to tread carefully.
I call her number and it rings five times before she answers.
“Hello, Emma.”
“Oh. Hi, Stacey.
Surprisingly, it appears she saved my number in her address book.
Before I can say another word, Stacey starts gushing about my article, which was apparently published yesterday. Despite her positive feedback, I didn’t even want to put my name to it, let alone see it out in the wild.
“I’m so glad it helped, Stacey. And thank you for being so candid during our meeting.”
“No, I should be thanking you for keeping your word about my dad. Not many journalists would have been so sensitive.”
“Um, yes, that’s actually why I’m calling … about your dad.”
“What about him?”
“When we talked, I got the impression you felt there was more to his death than the coroner’s report indicated.”
“Did you indeed?” she replies, her tone now wary.
“Am I wrong?”
“With respect, Emma, are you heading somewhere with this?”
“I’ve been thinking about it, and you might be right.”
“Based upon what evidence?”
“It’s not something I really want to discuss over the phone. Is there any chance I can pop over and see you?”
“I don’t know,” she sighs.
“Look, it’s just a chat, and you have my word: whatever is said, it’ll remain between us. I don’t have an angle here, Stacey.”
A nervous few seconds ensue as all I hear is her breathing.
“Alright, Emma. I can see you at one o’clock but I don’t have long.”
“Thank you. I’ll see you then.”
I end the call and turn to Clement. “We’re on.”
“Nice one, doll. And I’ve been thinking — while you’ve got the notebook out, you might wanna check the names against the people in your office. Someone there must have tipped-off Tamthy about you being sacked.”
“Possibly,” I reply, mildly annoyed I didn’t think to do it. “But there must be about thirty people in the newsroom, and probably as many board members and associate directors. That could take a while to check.”
“I thought comput
ers did all that shit these days.”
Clement is once again ahead of my thinking.
“You know something: you’re much smarter than you look.”
“And you’re much sarkier than you look.”
“Thanks.”
I dash into the bedroom and retrieve my laptop.
“Okay, I’ll just set-up a spreadsheet. Can you read out the names for me?”
I pass him the notebook and, one-by-one, enter each of the surnames into a column, with additional columns for the corresponding tally.
It takes a while, but with the data digitised, all I need to do is find a list of names for everyone associated with The Daily Standard. I open a browser and go straight to the personnel directory on the website. Thankfully, it lists all the staff, directors, and associate directors.
After a bit of cutting, reformatting, and pasting, I’m left with another column in my spreadsheet.
“Okay, I just need to run a formula and it’ll highlight any names which appear on both lists.”
Clement replies with his now-familiar blank stare.
I hit the enter button.
“Ugh,” I groan. “You want the good news or the bad news?”
“Just spit it out, doll. This is boring as fuck.”
“Okay. The good news is we have a result. The bad news is that there are three names which appear on both lists: Smith, Grant, and Brown.”
“So, whoever is working with Tamthy is one of those three.”
“Alas, it’s not that simple. There are three men at The Daily Standard with the surname Smith: my immediate boss, Damon, and two directors. There’s also a Terence Brown listed as an associate director, and the last name, Grant, is Danny Grant but he’s just an intern so I think we can rule him out.”
“So we’re left with four possibilities? Three Smiths and a Brown?”
“We are.”
I return to the spreadsheet and copy the names of the four contenders into a new column. Along with Damon and Terence Brown, we’ve also got Jeremy Smith, a main boardroom director, and Roger Smith, an associate director.
“You got any inkling which one it might be?” Clement asks.
“To be honest, I don’t know anything about the directors but the obvious candidate is my boss, Damon Smith. He’s the one who sacked me and would have therefore been in pole position to share the news with Tamthy.”
Clawthorn (Clement Book 3) Page 13