Clement strokes his moustache a few times. “Bit too obvious, don’t you reckon?”
“I honestly don’t know, and that’s the problem. With four candidates we can’t be sure.”
“Back to plan-A then. We visit this bird and hope she says something worth hearing.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“Twenty-five more letters in the alphabet.”
There are, but we’ve only got three days to run through them, and then I’ve got to make a decision I really don’t want to make.
17.
Clement plumped for two eggs, double chips, and four rounds of buttered toast. I went for a ham and tomato sandwich on brown bread.
He finishes his lunch first.
“Your cholesterol levels must be horrific.”
“My what?” he frowns.
“You don’t know what cholesterol is?”
“Should I?”
“If you don’t want to drop dead from a heart attack next week, then yes, you probably should.”
“Don’t worry about me, doll — I’m immortal.”
“That’s what my friend, Eric, thought, and I went to his funeral six months ago.”
“You wanna get going?” he replies, moving the subject away from his unhealthy lifestyle. Typical man.
“I suppose we’d better, before you have a stroke.”
We leave the cafe and head towards the Underground station; Clement pounding the pavements at a pace I struggle to match.
“Are you walking so quickly to prove a point?” I pant.
“Nah, just keen to get there.”
The sprint ends on the Bakerloo line platform. Two short train rides and fifteen minutes later, we emerge onto the street outside South Kensington Underground station.
“How far is it?” Clement asks.
“Assuming we walk at a civilised pace, less than ten minutes away.”
We set off towards Sydney Street and the walk proves an opportunity to quiz Clement.
“Seeing as you now know so much about me, are you going to open up a little.”
“Not sure what you mean.”
“I don’t exactly know much about you.”
“What do you wanna know?”
“Are you single, married? Got any kids?”
“Single. And no kids.”
“Any plans to have any?”
“Not now, but I did, once. Think that ship has sailed, doll.”
“Not necessarily. People are leaving it a lot later in life to have kids these days. I’ve got friends in their early forties and they’re only just starting a family.”
“What about you?”
“Too late for me. I think the alarm on my biological clock has already sounded. It’s different for men, though, isn’t it? You can keep sowing your seed for another few decades.”
“You can if you’re Mick Jagger.”
“Very true,” I chuckle. “And on that subject, what sort of music do you listen to?”
“Anything but the shit on the radio these days.”
“It’s awful, isn’t it? The one positive about never returning to The Daily Standard is I won’t have to listen to my colleague’s dreadful music in the staffroom again.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“They’re kids, Clement, and they have no taste. One time I was chatting about music to this young lad, Archie, and I mentioned Paul Young. He didn’t have a clue who Paul Young is — can you believe that?”
“Who is he?”
“Archie?”
“No, Paul Young.”
I stop dead in my tracks.
“I’m sorry — did you just ask me who Paul Young is? He had five top-ten singles.”
“Never heard of the bloke.”
“Sod off, Clement,” I jeer. “How could you possibly not have heard of Paul Young? He was huge in the eighties.”
“Honestly, doll. The name don’t mean a thing.”
“Okay, what about Howard Jones, or Nik Kershaw. You’ve heard of them, right?”
“Must have passed me by.”
“Christ, did you spend your teenage years living in an Amish community?”
“Something like that.”
I roll my eyes and we walk on.
A few minutes later we turn into Sydney Street.
“It’s at the end of this road,” I confirm.
One aspect of our visit I haven’t given a great deal of thought to is how Stacey will feel about including my companion in our conversation.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Clement, but do you think it would be better if you wait outside?”
“Why?”
“We only have one chance to get Stacey talking, and I’m concerned she won’t open up if you’re there.”
“Do you know what you’re gonna ask her?”
“I’m just going to play it by ear.”
“Alright, I’ll hang around outside but don’t spend all afternoon in there — I know what you chicks are like when you start rabbiting.”
“Oh, I’m a chick now am I? Is that a promotion?”
“Go on,” he orders with a glint in his eye. “Piss off.”
Not wishing to encourage his disparaging language I bite back a grin. “I won’t be long.”
As it transpires Stacey opens the door and declares she only has fifteen minutes anyway. I’m ushered through to the kitchen again but there’s no offer of a drink or much in the way of small talk as we sit down at the table.
With so little time I need to tread the fine line between sensitive and succinct.
“I know you’re busy, Stacey, so I’ll get to the point. I’ve been working on a story and your father’s name came up.”
“What story?”
“That doesn’t matter but I will say it raises questions about his suicide.”
“Go on.”
“I know this is hard but have you asked yourself why he drove all the way to that motorway bridge?”
“He didn’t drive. He sold his car months before as he was always too drunk to drive it.”
“Oh, okay. How did he get there then, and more to the point, why would he choose that method to end his life when there were simpler options closer to home?”
“No idea. I asked both the investigating officer and the coroner — they couldn’t offer a reasonable explanation.”
“Was foul play ever considered?”
“No, there wasn’t any evidence to suggest it.”
“Not at the time maybe.”
Her eyes narrow. “I’m not with you.”
“Do you know if your dad was a member of any clubs?”
“He played golf, and I think he was a member of the Freemasons for a few years. Why do you ask?”
“His name was on the members list of a club I’m investigating. For your own protection, it’s best I don’t go into the details but I know, for sure, the man who runs that club is not adverse to levying threats and breaking the law.”
“And you think this man might have had something to do with Dad’s suicide?”
“I can’t say at the moment, but it would be useful to know if your dad had a connection to any other members.”
“And how would I know that?”
“I’ve got a list of the other members of that club and I was hoping perhaps one or two of the names might ring a bell with you. Perhaps someone who was in regular contact with your father in the months leading up to his death.”
“I think you might be clutching at straws here, Emma. Dad was a near-recluse towards the end. The only time he went out was either to the pub or the off licence.”
“It’ll take two minutes.”
“Go on,” she sighs.
I retrieve the notebook from my handbag and open it flat on the table to hide the cover. I begin reciting the names.
“It’s just a list of surnames?” Stacey interrupts.
“I’m afraid so.”
She shakes her head but I press on. Ten pages. Twenty pages. T
hirty pages. Not even a hint of recognition at any name.
By the time I reach the midway point I can already sense Stacey’s patience is about to break. I speed up.
“Connor.”
No reaction.
“Ross.”
No reaction.
“Patterson.”
No reaction.
“Lang.”
The merest flicker of recognition.
“Stacey? Does the name Lang ring any bells?”
“It does,” she replies dismissively. “But the Lang I knew never met my dad.”
My heart sinks and frustration mounts. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, because I only met him after Dad died — Deputy Commissioner, Thomas Lang, oversaw the investigation into Dad’s death.”
“Deputy Commissioner?”
“Yes. Why is his rank relevant?”
“Oh, it’s just unusual for an officer of that standing to oversee a routine suicide.”
“Dad still had a public profile so I guess they just wanted to demonstrate they were taking his death seriously. I think it was just a PR exercise; wheeling out the big guns to make it look like they gave a damn.”
As I process Stacey’s revelation, a memory barges its way to the front of my mind. The pub in Paddington, and Clement’s first disclosure about the true nature of Clawthorn. I’m sure he mentioned the membership included high-ranking police officers.
The buzz takes hold but I try not to let it show on my face. If there is even the slightest chance the man who investigated Lance Nithercott’s death is a member of the Clawthorn Club, I can’t let Stacey know. She’s too headstrong and too emotionally invested, and therefore likely to blow the lead before I get a chance to follow it up.
“Emma?”
“Sorry, Stacey. Ignore me — if this guy never met your dad then he’s not our man.”
With her frown deepening by the minute I go through the motions of reading out the rest of the names in the notebook. Not one of them sparks her memory.
“So, is that it?” she grumbles as I return the notebook to my handbag.
“Afraid so. I’m sorry to have got your hopes up.”
“So am I, Emma,” she snaps, getting to her feet. “I’d like you to leave now.”
Stacey makes no effort to hide her disappointment as I’m unceremoniously corralled back down the hallway and out the door. I turn to say goodbye but the door is slammed shut before I get the chance. It doesn’t look like I’ll be writing Stacey Stanwell’s autobiography after all.
I turn back to the street as Clement ambles over.
“Eight minutes. I’m impressed, doll.”
“I don’t think Stacey was so impressed.”
“Didn’t go well?”
“Not for her perhaps, but I might have something.”
“Let’s walk.”
As we head back up Sydney Street, I relay what I learnt about the man who oversaw Lance Nithercott’s suicide.
“I agree, doll. No way would a senior suit get involved in a routine suicide, unless …”
“Unless perhaps, he wanted to steer the investigation in a certain direction. It’s just a theory, but what if Lance Nithercott didn’t jump from that bridge, but he was taken there and … assisted? It would explain why he didn’t just end it all at home with a bottle of pills.”
“Lots of ifs and maybes.”
“I know, but the surname Lang isn’t that common, and we know there’s no other Nithercott in Greater London. It’d be quite a coincidence wouldn’t it? Both men with names in the notebook, and one of them overseeing the apparent suicide of another.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“It’s worth looking into Lang a bit, don’t you think?”
We pause on the corner and I google Deputy Commissioner, Thomas Lang. The first result is a picture of a distinguished-looking man with grey eyes and a thick head of equally grey hair, neatly parted at the side. Clearly an official Met Police photo, he’s sporting a black tunic with suitable levels of insignia for an officer of his rank. Below his picture, a Wikipedia entry offers an interesting development in the Deputy Commissioner’s career.
“He’s now retired.”
“I suppose that makes it a bit easier.”
“Makes what a bit easier?”
“Interviewing him.”
“Oh.”
Up until this point we’ve been on the defensive, but if we’re to make any progress we need to switch to an offensive strategy. However, I have an inkling how Clement might enforce that strategy.
“We can’t break the law, Clement.”
“Who said anything about breaking the law? I’m just sayin’ we pay the bloke a visit and have a chat.”
“And you think he’ll just break down and confess to being involved in Nithercott’s suicide, and being part of a corrupt club?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“If he wants to spend his retirement in a wheelchair, or not.”
“Yeah, that’s what I was afraid you might say.”
“You can’t fuck around with these people, doll. Fear is the best weapon in situations like this.”
“Like this?”
“You wanna expose Clawthorn, you’ve gotta rip it apart link by link.”
“And you think Lang is the weakest link?”
“At the moment, he’s the only link.”
“I know, but he’s not long retired and there won’t be any further investigation if we end up being guests of his former colleagues.”
“Which is why we can’t afford to pussyfoot around — we’ve gotta scare the shit out of the bloke otherwise he’ll just call in his mates.”
“I get what you’re saying, but …”
“Tamthy didn’t exactly play nice when he sent that dipshit to mug you, did he?”
That much is true. I still have a purple bruise on my lower back to prove it.
“Alright. We’ll do it your way, but promise me you won’t go overboard. I don’t want our only potential link to Clawthorn to end up in the mortuary.”
“I don’t do promises, but I do know what I’m doing.”
I’m glad one of us does.
18.
Finding an individual’s address is meat and drink to a journalist, so by the time we reach South Kensington Underground station, I’ve already established Thomas Lang lives in a village near Hemel Hempstead; twenty-five miles north of London.
Only two questions remain: when and how?
“No time like the present, doll.”
“How do we know he’ll be in?”
“Dunno how things work these days, but most folks usually just pick up the phone.”
“And say what, Clement? Hi, Mr Lang — just checking you’re in so we can pop by and rough you up a bit.”
“No need for sarcasm.”
“Yes, well, in lieu of just heading up there and knocking on his door, sarcasm is all I’ve got.”
“Then it’s Hobson’s choice. Do you know if he’s married?”
“I’ll check.”
A quick look on Wikipedia provides the answer.
“He divorced four years ago and there’s no mention of a partner.”
“That’s good. Means he probably lives alone.”
“Okay, so we’re just going to wing it?”
“Guess so. You got a motor?”
“You’d rather go by car?”
“Yeah. If he ain’t in, at least we’ve got somewhere to wait rather than hanging around on the street.”
Decision made we descend into the station.
It’s just before two o’clock in the afternoon by the time we arrive back at the flat. We head straight to the car and I enter Lang’s address into the sat nav.
“It’s just over half-an-hour away.”
“Thank fuck for that. Not exactly roomy in here, is it?”
“Shall we take your car?”
“Don’t have one.”
“Quit complaining then
.”
I reverse out of the parking space while Clement tries to get comfortable.
“Why does every bird drive a tiny motor?”
“It’s not our cars, Clement, it’s your bulk — what the hell did your mother feed you?”
“Not a lot.”
“Maybe it’s genetic. Was your dad a big man?”
“I know as much about my old man as you do about yours.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I got over it a long time ago.”
I could push the subject but I know I wouldn’t want to answer the questions I’d like to ask Clement. Turning the stereo on ends both the temptation and the silence.
“Fancy some Paul Young?”
“No, ta. Got any Slade?”
“You really are obsessed with the seventies — what gives with that?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t you think it’s a bit odd for someone your age? Actually, how old are you exactly?”
“Forty-something.”
“So, you were born in the seventies, like me. Can’t say I remember a great deal about that particular decade, though.”
“I do,” he sighs. “Like it were yesterday.”
“Yeah, but you were just a kid. All I remember is Christmas adverts for toys I’d never own, and the awful tinned meat we seemed to live on.”
“Tinned meat?”
“Spam, corned beef, and some awful pork monstrosity in jelly. God, just the thought of it makes me want to gag.”
“I used to love those pies in tins. You can still buy them, you know.”
“You can still buy Showaddywaddy albums, Clement — doesn’t mean you should.”
I slow down as two lanes of traffic merge into one. A guy in an Audi tries to force his way into the queue ahead of me. I’m not having it and keep tight to the bumper of the car in front. He reacts by blaring his horn.
Opening the window I yell some motoring advice. “Back off, arsehole.”
The line of cars comes to a halt and the Audi driver takes the opportunity to respond to my advice. He gets out and leans across the roof of his car.
“What the fuck is your problem?”
He’s exactly what I expected: in his forties with a ruddy face and thinning hair. And a micro-penis … probably.
“My problem, mate, is you trying to muscle your way past the queue.”
“Stop being such a drama queen,” he yells back. “What is it: got the painters in?”
Clawthorn (Clement Book 3) Page 14