Ironically his comment is a red rag. I get out of the car and slam the door.
“Step over here and say that again,” I growl.
His smirk disappears, a fraction of a second before he does, quickly followed by the sound of his door locks clunking shut.
I bend down and glare through the passenger’s window. “Pussy!”
Argument settled I get back in the car.
“Feel better?” Clement asks.
“Yes, thank you. I can’t stand chauvinistic pricks like that. No offence.”
As the queue finally edges forward, I take a second to reflect upon my own statement.
“Why did you stay in the car, Clement?”
“Did you want me to rush to your rescue?”
“Not at all.”
“What’s your point, then?”
“Most men would have jumped out of the car and started rowing with the other bloke.”
“I ain’t most men.”
“You’re not wrong there, but you didn’t answer my question.”
“You were dealing with that dickhead so what was the point in me getting involved?”
“Because men like you feel compelled to stick up for us helpless woman.”
“Men like me?”
“Chauvinists.”
“Fuckin’ typical,” he huffs, folding his arms. “And you’re supposed to be a journalist. You wanna try reading a dictionary every now and again.”
“Sorry?” I scowl.
“If memory serves, ain’t a chauvinist someone who thinks women are less capable, less intelligent, than blokes?”
“Err, I …”
“Look, doll — you’ve got more balls than most blokes I know, and you’re smarter than most blokes I know. That’s why I stayed in the bleedin’ car. Does that make me a chauvinist?”
“Well, obviously not, but your language does.”
“No, it don’t,” he snaps. “It’s just words. I can’t help the way I talk, but it don’t mean I’m a caveman.”
I’ve clearly touched a raw nerve and for the first time since we met, Clement appears genuinely incensed. I can understand why.
I give it a moment to let his angst settle, before swallowing some humble pie.
“Sorry, Clement. And thank you.”
“For what?”
“Sorry for being a judgemental cow, and thank you for the compliments.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“I mean this in a positive way, but you’re much more … complex, than you first appear.”
“You don’t know the half of it, doll.”
“Hopefully you can fill me in once we’ve exposed Clawthorn.”
“We’ll see.”
I wouldn’t say he was sulking but there’s little in the way of conversation for the rest of the journey. For my part, I keep quiet because I’m trying to get my head around the man seated next to me. In the course of my career I’ve met all manner of people: the kind, the vile, the heroic, the deluded, the compassionate, and the stupid … plenty of stupid. Even though I’ve only known Clement a few days, I’m certain I’ve never met anyone like him before.
By the time we reach our destination, Abbots Langley, I’m no less perplexed.
“We’re just a few minutes away,” I comment as we pootle through the centre of the village.
“Good. I need to stretch my legs.”
The sat nav directs us to take a left, and after a hundred yards along a featureless semi-rural road, a right into a narrow lane. Our destination, Juniper Cottage, is situated at the very end of the lane, apparently.
As we close in on the cottage, I become aware just how sweaty my palms have become over the last few miles. Distracted by Clement I haven’t given much thought to the reason we’re making this journey. Now we’re only seconds away from our destination my hammering heart offers a reminder.
I slow down to a crawl as we cover the final yards of tarmac; an open meadow to our left with a thicket of trees beyond. To the right, Juniper Cottage sits beyond a tall hedge and a five-bar gate. I pull into the turning circle at the very end of the lane and kill the engine.
“Well, we made it,” I chirp nervously.
“Not a bad spot, doll. Quiet, no immediate neighbours, and no passing traffic.”
“Christ, you sound like a serial killer on a recce.”
“Trust me: I don’t want anyone dying on us.”
Not entirely convinced, I get out of the car. Apart from the sound of a light breeze brushing the greenery I’m met by near silence. The sudden thunk of Clement closing the passenger’s door doesn’t help my nerves.
He ambles over. “Right, listen, doll. You’re gonna knock on the door while l stand to the side. When he opens it, confirm it’s him and move to the right. I’ll deal with the rest. Got it?”
“What if he’s not alone?”
“If someone else opens the door, just say you’re lost and looking for directions.”
“Yes, but he might answer the door and his girlfriend could be in the kitchen for all we know.”
“Let me worry about that.”
I follow Clement towards the gate.
Once we clear the hedge we’re granted a full view of Juniper Cottage. It’s not as twee as the name suggests; a fairly stout, symmetrical box in red brick with a door in the centre and windows either side. More importantly though, the white BMW on the driveway indicates someone is home. Hopefully, that someone is Thomas Lang.
We head up the paved pathway to the front door and Clement steps to one side. The door itself is one of those white plastic affairs with a spy hole in the centre. It might be low-maintenance but it ruins the aesthetic of the Victorian structure.
“Ready?” Clement whispers.
“No,” I whisper back, but press the doorbell anyway.
Seconds tick by until I hear footsteps on floorboards. A brief pause before the latch is turned, and the door opens.
A man stands in the doorway and smiles. A distinguished-looking man with grey eyes and a thick head of grey hair; neatly parted at the side. Like the man himself, the tunic has been retired, replaced with a pale-blue sweater.
“Can I help?”
“Mr Lang?” I confirm.
“Yes.”
I take an exaggerated step to my right. Puzzled, Thomas Lang’s gaze follows me, and that split second of distraction allows Clement to make his move.
It happens in a blur.
The former policeman is knocked off balance as Clement barges straight past him into the hallway. By the time he’s steadied himself, it’s too late and Clement has gained entry. Once the shock has subsided, the inevitable questions arrive.
“Who the hell are you?” he yells. “What do you want?”
His shouting is likely to attract unwanted attention. Whilst his focus is on Clement I step into the hallway and close the door.
“We just want a word, Mr Lang,” I say calmly.
The narrow hallway offers few options for escape. I’m blocking the front door while Clement is stood the other side of Lang, blocking his route back down the hallway.
“Do you know who I am?” he snarls.
“Yeah, we do,” Clement replies. “And that’s why we’re here.”
Thomas Lang isn’t a small man — around six foot tall and broad shouldered, although he’s carrying the excesses of a desk job. Nevertheless, any man who has spent years policing the streets of London can clearly handle themselves. He looks at Clement, and then at me. I’m patently the easier option and he lunges towards the door handle.
He doesn’t make it.
Clement grabs a handful of his sweater and drags him backwards. In one fluid movement, he spins Lang around and pins him up against the wall; his forearm pressed up against the older man’s windpipe.
“That wasn’t clever.”
Clement then drops his free hand towards Lang’s crutch and grabs him in a place I, as a woman, can only speculate to be highly sensitive.
Lang
confirms it by letting out a yelp.
“We’re gonna have a quick chat, Tommy boy,” Clement exclaims. “You try anything, or lie to me, and I’ll rip your knackers off and shove them down your throat. We clear?”
Lang nods as best he can with Clement’s meaty forearm wedged under his chin.
“Good. Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Now, what do you know about the Clawthorn Club?”
“The what?”
Clement turns to me. “Show him, doll.”
Presuming he means the notebook I delve into my handbag and pull it out. A quick flick through the pages to Lang’s name.
“This ring any bells?” I ask, holding the notebook up so Lang can see the page.
“I … no.”
The veins in Clement’s hand spasm as he tightens his grip. Lang responds with a guttural howl.
“Let’s try again. What do you know about the Clawthorn Club?”
“I … I can’t … they’ll ruin me.”
“Listen, mate — I’ll ruin you if you don’t start talking.”
“We know about Lance Nithercott,” I interject.
We don’t actually know much about what happened to Lance Nithercott but hopefully Lang doesn’t see through my bluff.
“I had no choice. Lance was a liability … he was pissed all the time.”
“Where can we find the Tallyman?” Clement asks, getting back to the point of our visit.
Lang’s eyes widen, and not because his testicles are being crushed.
“I don’t know … I swear … nobody does.”
“Alright. Who is he?”
Lang closes his eyes and gulps hard. After a few ragged breaths, he opens his eyes again.
“I’ll tell you what … you want to know, but please … I can’t breathe.”
Clement removes his arm, and then the hand clamped on Lang’s crotch.
“Sit down,” he orders. “You try anything and I’ll use this.”
I’d forgotten all about Jaydon’s knife but Clement pulls it from his pocket and holds it inches from Lang’s face.
“Okay, okay,” he gasps, before sliding down the wall and pulling his knees to his chest. He makes for a pathetic sight, and it’s hard to imagine he was once the second most powerful policeman in London. However, despite the obvious threat Clement poses, I get the feeling Thomas Lang’s fear is rooted elsewhere.
I take a couple of steps forward and squat down so I can look him in the eye.
“Why are you so scared?”
“I don’t know who you are, or what your game is, but you have no idea what you’re dealing with.”
“That’s why you’re going to enlighten us.”
“If he finds out I’ve spoken to you, I’m … it’s all over.”
“He?”
“This Tallyman character, whoever he is. Other men have talked, in the past, and their lives have been destroyed.”
“Like Lance Nithercott?”
He squeezes his eyes closed and slowly nods.
“Come on, Thomas,” I urge. “Let’s hear it.”
He opens his eyes and breathes a heavy sigh. “Okay, what do you know about the Clawthorn Club?”
“Not a lot, so tell us everything.”
“I don’t know for sure, but I think it shut down nine or ten years ago as all the members were either old men, or dead. But a year or two before I retired, one of my more ambitious colleagues in the Serious Organised Crime Agency got a lead on one of the members and started joining up the dots. I was told to derail his investigation but there was only so much I could do without drawing further attention. Because I failed, I had to repay my debt by tying up a loose end.”
“I’m guessing Lance Nithercott was that loose end?”
“I didn’t kill him. It was an accident.”
“Some bleedin’ accident,” Clement remarks.
“I just wanted to scare him so he’d stop talking. Lance had a drink problem and as that worsened, he started blabbing about Clawthorn in the pub, and he became a person of interest to my colleagues in SOCA. I was told to shut him up, or my own favours would be revealed in the press.”
“Your favours?”
“Three of them, and I wish to God I’d never accepted the first one.”
“What was that first favour?”
“Are you mad?” he spits. “I’m certainly not going to tell you.”
“Fair enough, but you are going to tell us what happened to Lance Nithercott.”
The defiance is short lived as his head bows forward.
“I didn’t mean it,” he says in barely a whisper.
“Tell us, Thomas.”
He looks up, and straight into my eyes. I’ve interviewed enough people in my career to spot the signs of true remorse, and I would hazard a guess Thomas Lang needs to unburden his guilt.
“I … I bundled him into the boot of my car one night, and drove to that motorway bridge. The idea was to just dangle him over the edge so he got the message but I … I messed up. I was holding him over the concrete barrier and he managed to throw a punch … should have seen it coming but I didn’t. I was dazed and lost my grip on his arm for just a second … by the time I tried to grab him it was too late … he just fell.”
I glance up at Clement. The slightest nod confirms he also believes Thomas Lang’s confession.
“What happened with the investigation into the Clawthorn Club, Thomas?”
“I was told they hit a dead end but the file was to remain open. Apparently they had a handful of suspects in mind but evidence was proving hard to come by. My best guess is the Tallyman knew his days were numbered and tried to bury every shred of evidence that the Clawthorn Club ever existed … except one thing it seems. How did you come by the notebook?”
“That doesn’t matter. What matters is finding the man it belongs to.”
“Whoever you are, and whatever your motives, I’m sorry, but you’re wasting your time. The Tallyman is a ghost.”
“He’s no ghost, Thomas. He’s very much alive, and he’s now coming after me.”
“In which case, I pity you. Once that man has his claws in you there is no escape.”
“We’ll see about that. Tell me: what does he look like?”
“Christ knows. I’ve never met him.”
“What? How can you not have met him?”
“The Clawthorn Club worked under a blanket of complete secrecy. If you had a problem, you sent a letter to a PO box and waited for a response. If there was another member in a position to help, the Tallyman would arrange a meeting between the two parties, but he never attended. And no names were ever revealed unless it was absolutely necessary. I did a few favours, and for at least two of those favours I only knew the recipients initials, and neither knew my full name. It was almost impossible to identify other members because the Tallyman wanted to ensure there was no opportunity for potential blackmail. Ironic really, as down the line he was the one doing the blackmailing.”
“To be clear: you don’t know the names of any other members then?”
To reinforce the need for honesty Clement cracks his knuckles.
“None that are still alive — I swear. Only the Tallyman knew the full names of every member, and to the best of my knowledge, only a handful of people knew his true identity.”
I stand up and look at Clement hoping he might have picked up on something we can use to move forward. Our dishevelled former policeman has filled in a few gaps but the Clawthorn canvas is still worryingly blank.
Clement shakes his head. There’s only one question remaining I can ask.
“Thomas, does the name Dennis Hogan mean anything to you?”
“Kind of,” he sighs, “Only by notoriety.”
“Meaning?”
“I don’t know much, and what I’ve heard is mostly anecdotal, but Dennis Hogan was apparently one of the original members of the Clawthorn Club back in the late sixties.”
My already rock-bottom opin
ion of my father reaches new depths. At least his possession of the notebook now makes some sense.
“Carry on.”
“Hogan was one of the few people who knew the true identity of the Tallyman — to everyone else, he went by the name of Allen Tamthy, which was just a pseudonym.”
“So I’ve discovered.”
“Apparently Dennis Hogan had a major fall out with the Tallyman and ended up in prison when he tried to leave.”
“I think you’ve got your wires crossed. Dennis Hogan left the Clawthorn Club because he was sent to prison for raping and murdering a prostitute.”
Thomas Lang looks up at me as if I’ve failed to grasp the punchline of a joke.
“That’s not strictly accurate,” he adds “Rumour has it Dennis Hogan went to prison because the Tallyman framed him.”
19.
If Clement were to suddenly punch me in the gut, it would have less impact than Lang’s revelation.
“He was set-up?” Clement confirms.
“Apparently, and sentenced to eighteen years. Again, if the rumours are to be believed, Hogan threatened to blow the lid on what was going on, and by that point the Clawthorn Club had enough members with real influence. I presume getting Dennis Hogan sent down also proved a potent example of what would happen if anyone else tried exposing its secrets or breaking the rules. Perhaps you can now understand why I took that trip with Lance Nithercott — it wasn’t through choice.”
Wide-eyed, I stare across at Clement. For a man who barely knows me, he appears to have quickly developed a knack for reading my body language.
“Let me get this straight: Dennis Hogan had a falling out with this Tallyman bloke and he ends up doing bird for eighteen years?”
“That’s what I was told.”
I have no interest in anything else Thomas Lang has to say.
“I … I need to go.”
Clement bends down and growls something to Lang — presumably a threat to never mention our visit — but I don’t wait to find out.
Escaping the claustrophobic hallway doesn’t help. I could run into the middle of the open meadow and the walls would continue to close in on me.
I stagger back across the driveway and out the gate. The bonnet of my car provides a convenient place to sit while I attempt to process what I’ve just discovered about my father.
Clawthorn (Clement Book 3) Page 15