All of a sudden, the Dennis Hogan-shaped box which has safely contained all my hatred, all my bitterness, has been ripped open and the contents scattered.
“You alright, doll?”
I look up to find Clement striding over.
“No. I’m not.”
He sits down on the bonnet next to me.
“I take it you didn’t have the first clue?”
“No.”
“What do you wanna do about Lang? I could go back in and rough him up a bit — see if he knows anything else.”
“I don’t … let’s just get out of here.”
“Gimme the keys. You’re in no fit state to drive.”
Insurance, licence, who knows? I don’t, and nor do I care. I hand the keys to Clement and fall into the passenger seat.
The driver’s seat is rammed back as far as it’ll go and Clement clambers in. More adjustments to the seat are made, and then he fixes me with his blue eyes while turning the ignition key.
“You wanna talk, we’ll talk. You wanna sit and think, I’ll keep shtum.”
He yanks the seatbelt across his barrel-like chest and we set off.
Ten minutes in and my mind is so far elsewhere I haven’t even thought to set the sat nav. It doesn’t appear to matter as Clement navigates our journey in the old-school manner by following the road signs.
We reach the motorway and Clement breaks the silence.
“How you doin’, doll?”
“I think my head is fit to burst.”
“More bleedin’ questions, eh?”
“Too many.”
“It ain’t too late to knock this on the head. Send the notebook back and you can get on with your life.”
“Can I? An hour ago I probably could, but now … God knows. I’m so confused, Clement.”
“In which case, we gotta keep digging.”
“Where?”
“Ain’t that obvious?”
“Nothing is obvious at the moment.”
“It is, doll — your old man was probably one of the last blokes on earth who knew this Tallyman’s real identity. We dig into his past and see what turns up.”
“That’s not much of a plan.”
“No, it ain’t, but even if it don’t help us identify the Tallyman, you might find out what really happened. It’s gotta be better than not knowing?”
The only thing I know for sure is I know nothing for sure. If indeed we do have a soul, mine is a vacuum as all I thought to be true has been sucked away. In some twisted way I’d have preferred the bitterness and resentment, rather than this.
“I feel so … lost, Clement.”
He breathes a long sigh. “You’re not the only one.”
Without warning, he then suddenly tugs the steering wheel to the left and the car veers across two lanes of the motorway. Horns blare and tyres screech as we cut across the chevrons onto a slip road.
“What the fuck was that?” I yell, my chest pounding.
“This is the last services on this stretch. Thought you could do with a cuppa.”
“A cuppa? I could do with a bloody Valium after that manoeuvre — you could have killed us.”
“Not likely.”
In fairness, Clement’s erratic driving has succeeded in shifting my emotional state, if only temporarily.
We find a parking space and once the engine is switched off, I confiscate the keys.
“I think I’ll drive the rest of the way.”
“Suit yourself.”
“Why the sudden need for a cup of tea?”
“We need to have a chat — work out what we’re gonna do.”
“We could have done that in the car.”
“Could I have had a piss in the car?”
My puckered face provides an answer.
“Thought not. Let’s go.”
He extracts himself from the driver’s seat. It looks like I’m having a cup of overpriced coffee whether I want one or not.
We wander across to the coffee shop and I order our drinks while Clement goes in search of the toilets. He returns five minutes later looking less strained.
“Christ, you could have floated the Titanic on what I just pissed out,” he remarks.
“Thank you for painting that picture — just what I wanted to imagine while drinking a coffee.”
He sits down and peers into the paper cup.
“Is that tea?”
“Allegedly.”
“’Spose it’ll have to do.”
Trying to purge the image of Clement urinating, I return to the point of our pit stop.
“What you said in the car — about feeling lost too — why is that?”
“This ain’t about me, doll.”
“It kinda is, Clement. For some inexplicable reason you’ve chosen to help me and if I can return the favour in any way, I want to.”
“I help you, it helps me. That’s the top and bottom of it.”
“Perhaps you’d like to be a bit more specific? How does it help you?”
He shakes his head. “What is it with people these days?”
“I’m not with you.”
“You know, back in the day, folks just helped one another. Friends, neighbours, sometimes even complete strangers — it was called doing a good deed, and that’s how the world worked. Nowadays everyone has an agenda. What’s wrong with helping someone out just for the sake of it?”
I think back to the days when I was growing up on the estate. There are times we would have gone hungry if it hadn’t been for a neighbour helping out with the odd box of cereal or tin of beans. Every family on that estate lived near the breadline but goodwill was always in plentiful supply — people cared about each other back then.
“The good old days, eh?”
“Yeah, they were.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Clement, but you’re … you don’t seem comfortable with any part of modern life. Is there a reason for that?”
“I thought we were gonna talk about you?”
“It’s called deflection — handy for avoiding conversations I don’t want to have.”
“But we’re gonna have.”
Clement’s statement hangs long enough I have to respond. “I suppose so.”
He takes a sip of tea and grimaces.
“We’re gonna do this, right?”
“This?”
“Shift our attention to your old man.”
“Given the choice I’d rather rewind the clock back to last week when the name Clawthorn would have been meaningless.”
“And you say I’m trapped in the past.”
“I wasn’t being literal. I’m just … I don’t want to rake over the past — nothing good can come of it. Even if my father was set up, he’s dead, so what’s the point?”
“But you’ve gotta live with not knowing, and I don’t think that’s your thing, doll.”
“I didn’t have you pegged at the perceptive type.”
“Yeah, well, when you’ve been around the block as many times as I have, you get to know what makes people tick.”
“And you think you know what makes me tick?”
“Yeah, I reckon.”
I sit back and fold my arms. “Go on then — let’s hear it.”
“You’re afraid of the guilt.”
“Yeah, right,” I scoff. “What do I have to feel guilty about?”
“Spending your whole life hating your old man when maybe he weren’t the evil bastard you thought he was. And you can’t say sorry to a dead man. There won’t be no happy reunion — that’s what’s fucked your head up.”
“Twenty minutes ago I might have agreed with you, but I’ve had time to think. Even if he was set up, and we’ve only got hearsay from one man to suggest he was, what happened after he was released? He chose to stay away because he was a coward. Trust me: I wasn’t wrong to hate the man so I don’t feel guilty.”
“But what if he had paid you a visit, to plead his case?”
“I’d have pun
ched him in the face probably.”
“Bit harsh.”
“Listen, Clement, “ I snap. “My mother thought he was guilty as sin, as did twelve jurors, and a judge. I’m inclined to believe them rather than a rumour from a bent copper.”
“And if they were all wrong? Forget this Tallyman for a moment — you’ve gotta find out what happened cos you owe it to yourself, and your old man. That hate you’ve been carrying around all your life will eat you up unless you’ve good reason for it to be there.”
“And if I am wrong? What if I discover my father was really innocent?”
“Then at least you know. You’re his daughter and until you know who he really was, you’ll never know who you are.”
“Christ, don’t start getting profound on me, Clement. I’m not sure it suits you.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t be making a habit of it.”
He takes another sip of tea and fixes me with a stare.
“Well? What we doin’?”
If nothing else, my chat with Clement has succeeded in lifting the fog that clouded my thoughts when we left Juniper Cottage. I’m still not sure I want to know the truth about Dennis Hogan, but the reality is I’m still being blackmailed and there’s still a potential story to be unearthed — reasons enough to keep pushing on. Perhaps I’m kidding myself, but for now, they’re the easier motives to swallow.
“I guess we keep digging.”
“I like you, doll,” he smiles. “You’re not a quitter.”
His comment is too close to sincere and I feel my cheeks flush.
“Um, anyway,” I cough. “What do we do next?”
“You said your old man rented a flat out Chiswick way?”
“That’s right.”
“We should start there, and have a word with the letting agent.”
“Yeah, I don’t think you’ll find him particularly cooperative.”
Clements eyebrows arch. “You reckon?”
A smile creeps across my face. “Actually, I think you probably could persuade him to cooperate, and I definitely want to watch you try.”
“Shall we head there now?”
“We can’t just bowl into his office. Now I’ve seen your interview technique first hand it’s not a good idea having witnesses around.”
“Fair point. How do we get the bloke alone then?”
“Give me a minute.”
I open the browser on my phone and find the website for the firm of estate agents who employ Miles DuPont. A quick search of their listings and I find a flat in Chiswick being offered with vacant possession. After a quick check of the internal photos, I’m happy the flat is empty and call the number at the top of the page.
“Hi. Can I speak to Miles DuPont please? Tell him it’s Emma Hogan.”
I’m put on hold for a few seconds before DuPont answers.
“Hello, Miss Hogan,” he says curtly. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you again.”
“No, well, I’m not calling with regards to my father’s flat.”
“Oh, that’s certainly good to hear. What can I do for you?”
“I’m actually calling about one of your properties. When I was driving around trying to find the flat on Wednesday, I was quite taken aback by the area. Long story short: I’ve decided I quite like the idea of living in Chiswick, and the flat you’re advertising on Chesterfield Road looks perfect for my needs.”
“I didn’t realise you were house hunting.”
“I wasn’t, until Wednesday — well, not actively. I’ve been living in a rented property for a few years while I decide where I want to lay some roots, and I think I’ve settled on Chiswick. I’ve got cash in the bank so I’m ready to buy.”
The prospect of an easy commission is all the bait I need.
“In that case,” he chirps. “We must organise a viewing for you.”
“Great. I don’t suppose I could see it this afternoon?”
“The sooner the better with that flat — there’s been a lot of interest.”
Lying tosser.
“I can be there in an hour if that suits?”
“Perfect. I still have your number on file so I’ll text you the full address.”
“Thank you, Miles.”
“Pleasure is all mine. I look forward to seeing you in an hour.”
Not as much as I look forward to you seeing Clement.
I hang up.
“Sorted?”
“Yep. We’re meeting him in an empty flat.”
“Nice one.”
“So, how are we going to play this?”
“You ask the questions, doll, and I’ll encourage him to answer.”
I down the now-tepid coffee dregs from my cup.
“I like that plan. Let’s go.”
20.
“What is it with this fucking road?” Clement groans.
“Not a fan of the M25?”
“Why does the speed limit keep changing?”
“Bloody hell, Clement. When was the last time you drove on the M25?”
“Not sure I ever have.”
“Seriously? How can you have lived in London all your life and avoided it?”
“I haven’t driven for a while.”
“Yeah, it shows,” I smirk. “They call it a smart motorway and it’s supposed to help with traffic flow.”
“How the hell does that work? If they just kept it at seventy we’d all get where we’re supposed to be a bit bleedin’ quicker.”
“Ours is not to reason why.”
He shakes his head and does nothing but complain about the traffic for the remainder of our journey. In fairness, the congestion in London on a Friday afternoon is enough to test anyone’s patience.
We arrive in Chesterfield Road with minutes to spare. There’s no sign of Miles DuPont’s Mercedes as we pull up outside the flat.
“Nice part of town,” Clement remarks.
“Nice, and bloody expensive.”
The asking price of the purpose-built flat is just shy of seven figures; the price one pays to live in a pleasant, tree-lined road so close to central London.
We sit for a minute and savour the quiet — only broken by the ticking of the engine as it cools. That quiet is then broken as a white Mercedes revs to a halt behind us. I watch in my rear view mirror as Miles DuPont slithers out.
“Here we go.”
I get out of the car and Clement follows me to the front of the building where our prey is already waiting, blissfully unaware of his impending interrogation.
“Nice to see you again, Miles.”
He strides over and shakes my hand. His plastic smile quickly fades when he realises I’m not alone.
“Alright, mate,” Clement booms, holding out his hand.
Miles hesitantly accepts the handshake. “Pleased to meet you, Mr …”
“Bastin. Cliff Bastin.”
With Clement offering a false name only one of us will be culpable if this little soirée gets out of hand. Miles invites us to follow him and we make our way to the main door of the building.
“The flats were constructed just seven years ago, and there’s only five in the building,” he comments, while unlocking the door.
“What’s the soundproofing like?” Clement asks.
“Oh, it’s exceptional. You could hold a rave in the sitting room and your neighbours wouldn’t hear a thing.”
“Good to know.”
We follow Miles up the stairs to the first floor where he unlocks the door to flat three.
“After you.”
We step into the featureless hallway.
“It’s been rented out for a few years so the decor is a little on the safe side.”
He’s not wrong.
“Go straight through to the sitting room,” he adds.
I lead and Clement follows as we head into a large, empty lounge with a full-height window one end and an archway leading through to a kitchen at the other. The sand-coloured carpet and magnolia walls are achingly dull.<
br />
“It’s a real blank canvas,” Miles coos. “Don’t you think?”
Clement closes the door and stands in front of it. The weasely estate agent doesn’t appear concerned he’s now trapped — he soon will be.
“I need to pick your brains, Miles,” I say with a smile.
“Go ahead.”
“About my father’s tenancy.”
“What about it?”
“You would have conducted checks on him, right?”
“Well, yes.”
“And what checks did you make?”
“I’m sorry,” he frowns. “Am I missing something here? I thought you were interested in purchasing a flat.”
“Not really. We just want to know everything you have on file about my father: previous addresses, references, employment history … all of it.”
“That information is confidential; we can’t just share it willy-nilly.”
“Yeah, you can,” Clement suggests. “And trust me — you will.”
”What is this? Are you threatening me?”
“Pretty much.”
Miles reaches for the inside pocket of his jacket, and his mobile phone no doubt.
“If you’re thinking of making a call, I wouldn’t, mate. I really wouldn’t.”
Something tells me Miles DuPont doesn’t like being told what to do. After a brief pause, he decides to take his chances and dips a hand inside his jacket. The defiant sneer remains in situ for all of two seconds before Clement steps across the room and grabs hold of his arm.
“I warned you.”
The arm is then twisted behind his back and Clement grabs Miles by the collar to ensure there is no escape.
“Jesus Christ,” he screams. “That hurts … let go!”
“You gonna tell us what we need to know?”
“I can’t. It’s more than my job is worth.”
“Wrong answer.”
An inch of vertical movement is all it takes to produce another scream.
Clement looks at me. “Bit of a screamer, this one. If you’ve got some pliers in the motor, I can always rip his tongue out.”
I take a few steps forward so I’m directly facing Miles DuPont.
“I don’t wish to worry you, Miles, but I think he means it.”
“This is preposterous,” he whines. “You can’t do this.”
“Why not? What are you going to do about it?”
“I’ll … I’ll inform the police.”
“Without a tongue, that might be difficult.”
Clawthorn (Clement Book 3) Page 16