“Tell you what, doll,” Clement interjects. “Go have a look in the kitchen and see if you can find a tin opener — a bit messier than pliers but it’d do the job.”
I look Miles in the eye. “Last chance.”
His shoulders slump. “Alright, alright.”
“Good man,” I smile, patting him on the cheek. “Now, what you’re going to do next is call your office and ask them to email you everything in my father’s file … and I mean everything. You’re then going to forward that email to me. Clear?”
“Yes, clear,” he spits.
I look up at Clement. “How long does it take to cut a tongue out?”
“Usually a minute or two.”
“And testicles?”
“I can whip those off in seconds.”
“Great. Did you hear that, Miles? If you so much as hint about what’s going on, there will still be ample time for my friend to get slicey before the police arrive. Understood?”
He nods.
“Good. Make the call.”
With his free hand, Miles awkwardly extracts his phone and makes the call. I maintain eye contact for the entire duration; just to ensure he stays on script.
“Five minutes,” he confirms, returning the phone to his pocket.
“Well done.”
I nod to Clement and he releases Miles from the arm lock.
“You do realise you could have, as Mr Hogan’s next of kin, made a formal application for the information we have on file.”
“I don’t have the time or patience, and besides, this is much more fun don’t you think?”
His scowl suggests otherwise.
There is nothing for us to do but wait around. Clement leans up against the door and Miles stares out the window. I’ve never been so relieved to hear the chime of a mobile phone.
Miles extracts his phone and asks for my email address. He taps away at his screen and seconds later I have an email with a folder attached.
“I think we’re done.”
Clement has other ideas and suddenly grabs Miles by the lapel of his jacket.
“Gimme your wallet.”
“I don’t carry cash,” Miles bleats.
“Wallet. Now.”
The wallet is removed and handed to Clement.
“Ain’t cash I’m after. It’s your address.”
“What? Why?”
“Insurance,” Clement replies, studying the estate agent’s driving licence. “You tell anyone about our little chat, and I mean anyone, and I’ll pop by with my pliers.”
“I won’t tell anyone … I promise.”
Clement throws the wallet on the floor and releases the grip on DuPont’s designer jacket.
“For your sake, you better keep that promise.”
We leave Miles DuPont scrabbling around on the floor.
Once we return to the car, my immediate priority is to take a look at the information in the email but Clement has other ideas.
“Let’s go find a boozer first. I think I’ve earnt a pint.”
“I like your thinking. We’ll drop the car back at the flat first.”
“Want me to drive? We’ll get there quicker.”
“I’m already close to a nervous breakdown, Clement. I think I’ll drive, if it’s all the same.”
It takes forty-five minutes to crawl the seven miles across London; a reminder why I rarely take the car. I park up at the back of the flat and we head straight to The Three Horseshoes. I’m not sure which feels more pressing — the need to view my father’s tenancy documents or to neck a large glass of wine. Probably the wine if I’m honest.
Clement isn’t impressed with my local.
“Can’t stand boozers like this — all fur coat and no knickers.”
“I’ve never understood that expression.”
“Fancy but fake. I’ve had a few birds in my time that fall into that category, I can tell you.”
“Why am I not surprised.”
I dispense with any notion I’ll only want one or two glasses, and order a bottle of red wine. Clement predictably requests a pint of lager. We grab a table away from the growing number of office workers who’ve left their desks early just because it’s Friday. I guess, somewhere across town, Gini will be corralling my former colleagues for post-work drinks. For once, I feel a pang of envy I’m not invited, or ever will be now I’ve been expatriated from the payroll.
“Cheers, doll.”
I chink my glass against Clement’s while thumbing my phone.
“Right. Let’s see what we’ve got.”
I unzip the folder to reveal just three documents — each one, no matter how mundane, a potential insight into a father I didn’t know. I open the first document, titled employment. There’s not a lot to read, but what little there is still takes me by surprise.
“He was head of accounts for something called the NLH Foundation, in Clerkenwell.”
“Head of accounts? That might explain how he got mixed up in the Clawthorn Club — someone good at cooking the books would be handy to know.”
“Perhaps, but it doesn’t explain how he secured such a responsible job. If I ran a business, I don’t think I’d want a man who’d spent eighteen years in prison doing my books.”
“Depends what sort of business it is.”
I google the NLH Foundation. “It’s a charity for the homeless.”
“Good to see your old man had a sense of humour.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t they say charity begins at home?”
If Clement’s observation wasn’t so near to the bone, it might be amusing.
My preconceptions about Dennis Hogan are so tainted I never considered the possibility he had a professional career. Part of my coping mechanism was to assume he was suffering a rotten life without us. Coupled with his expensive home in Chiswick, a cosy, white-collar job does not suggest his life was particularly rotten after he left prison.
A large swig of wine helps to ease the bitter taste in my mouth.
“I guess that’s the first place for us to try then.”
Clement nods in agreement as I open the second document, titled POI.
It proves to be a scanned image of a passport — the POI presumably an acronym for proof of identity. His date of birth confirms he was seventy-seven years of age when he died — significantly more life than my poor mother enjoyed.
I pinch the screen to enlarge the photo of my father — a face I’ve never seen in the flesh. It shows a man with a head of thinning white hair, and eyes sunk into a sallow face etched with lines. Even for a passport photo, his expression is particularly sombre.
“Clement,” I sigh, holding the phone up. “Meet Dennis Hogan.”
He examines the face of the dead man we’ve hung our hopes upon. Experience tells me we shouldn’t get those hopes up.
“For what it’s worth, doll, you don’t look much like the bloke.”
“That’s not exactly a compliment.”
I swipe away the photo and open the third document: references. It contains a single snippet of information.
“This could be useful. A previous address and the landlord’s name.”
Clement leans over and squints at the screen. “Nancy Hawkins, Wellington Row, Bethnal Green.”
“At least it’s in London.”
“Gotta be worth a visit.”
“Let me just check this Ms Hawkins actually lives at that address first.”
I tap through to a website which has proven an invaluable research tool over the years. It confirms Nancy Hawkins is the only resident at the address in Wellington Row, East London. It also confirms her age.
“So, she definitely lives there, and alone.”
“Perfect.”
“But she’s an old woman, Clement. I think it might be better for me to ask the questions this time.”
“Don’t be too sure about that. They make ’em tough in that neck of the woods.”
“I think I can handle a sev
enty year-old woman, and I have been to Bethnal Green before, you know.”
“Used to be a rough old patch, back in the day. The Kray twins grew up round there.”
“A bit before our time which is a shame as I bet they had a few stories worth telling.”
“They were hard bastards but nothing special, doll. Shall I let you into a little secret?”
“Go on.”
“Thing is,” he says, leaning forward. “Ronnie Kray was a gayer.”
“A gayer?”
“Yeah, you know, a gay bloke.”
“Homosexual is the word I think you’re looking for, Clement, and Ronnie Kray’s sexuality is common knowledge.”
“Is it?” he frowns.
“Yes. And it seems political correctness has somehow passed you by too.”
“Can’t keep up with it. One minute you can use a word; next minute some fucker is offended by it.”
I have some sympathy. Only last month I was told to remove the term ‘whiter than white’ from an article in case it caused offence. I’ve got friends and colleagues spanning the entire spectrum of sexuality, ethnicity, and religious beliefs, and not one of us knows what we can safely say these days. It’s a minefield.
“Anyway,” I continue, “Gay gangsters or otherwise, we’ve got a couple of leads worth pursuing. I think we should try the charity first, and then we can head over to Bethnal Green and pay Nancy Hawkins a visit.”
“Sounds like a plan, doll.”
“It’s all we’ve got so it’ll have to be. When do you want to go?”
“Up to you.”
I glance at the bottle of wine, and then at my empty glass.
“Let’s leave it until tomorrow.”
21.
I awoke with a fuzzy head and scratchy throat.
My flatmate proved a bad influence and I ended-up necking two bottles of red wine, and puffing my way through five cigarettes last night. So, despite the chance of a lie-in, I’m up by eight-thirty in search of painkillers.
It was good, though, to spend a few hours basking in a wine-induced haze. I can almost see why Lance Nithercott decided to live his life in a perpetual state of drunkenness; a place to hide away from thoughts of the Clawthorn Club and Allen bloody Tamthy.
I put the kettle on and the rumbling goes some way to drowning out the rumbling from the spare bedroom. For once, I’m disappointed the kettle doesn’t take longer to boil. I console myself with an extra strong coffee and plod through to the lounge. The TV provides an equally efficient means to drown out Clement’s snoring.
Rather than the TV screen my attention is soon dragged towards the screen of my phone and the photo of Dennis Hogan. A perverse impulse compels me to keep staring at it, as if suddenly everything will become clear. Nothing comes, other than an unsettling conclusion: despite being the reason I came into the world and sharing the same genes, Dennis Hogan could not be more of a stranger.
Today, I hope to change that to some degree, but only for my own selfish reasons.
I finish my coffee and head into the bathroom.
After a long shower, I get dressed and emerge to the sound of cupboard doors opening and closing in the kitchen. If his headache is as bad as mine, I suspect Clement is looking for painkillers.
“They’re in the top drawer,” I say, poking my head around the kitchen door.
“What are?”
“You’re looking for painkillers?”
“Why would I want painkillers?”
“I don’t know, Clement — maybe for a hangover? You must have sunk at least eight pints last night.”
“I feel right as rain, or I will be once I’ve had a cuppa.”
“What are you looking for then?”
“Teabags.”
“Aren’t there any in the caddy?”
“Nope, but I found these,” he says, holding up a box of green tea.
“If I’m out of regular tea, that’s all there is I’m afraid.”
“All tastes the same, though, don’t it … black tea, green tea?”
“Erm, try it.”
He shrugs his shoulders and plops a teabag into a mug. Once he’s filled the cup with boiling water, milk, and three teaspoons of sugar, he gives it a thorough stir and scoops the teabag out.
“I’m gagging for this.”
He takes a long sip and then smacks his lips together.
“Fucking ‘ell,” he blurts, his face contorted as if he’d just sipped seawater. “This is off.”
“Off?”
“Yeah, off … tastes like boiled piss.”
“It’s good for you, Clement,” I snigger. “Drink up.”
I chuckle my way to the lounge.
Five minutes later he wanders in with a mug of something which probably isn’t green tea.
“What’s that?”
“Bleedin’ coffee,” he grumbles.
“I’ll pick up some teabags later. Sorry.”
My phone rings.
I check the screen and I’m relieved to see it’s not another withheld number. I jab the answer icon and mumble a hello.
“Hi, Emma. It’s Alex. Alex Palmer.”
I was kind of hoping, after Eric’s funeral, it would be at least another ten years before I heard from my former colleague again.
“Hi, Alex.”
“Sorry to call so early on a Saturday morning, but I’ve heard on the grapevine thing’s aren’t so rosy for you at the moment.”
“Err, what have you heard, precisely?”
“That you’ve been … let go, by The Daily Standard.”
News never travels faster than when those who report it are the subject.
“I’ve been suspended,” I sigh.
“I’m so sorry, Emma. Can I ask: was it for anything serious?”
“In my opinion, no, but you know I like to push the boundaries.”
“I do, and that’s actually why I’m calling. There’s a position available within my company and I think it’d be perfect for you.”
“Err, okay. What exactly is this position?”
“I don’t know if you’re aware but I now work for a telecoms company?”
“I am.”
“Great, well, we’re looking for a head of PR. The money will be at least double what you can earn as a staff reporter.”
Moving from reporting to public relations would be like a gamekeeper turning to poaching. Rather than writing actual news, it’s a game of promoting a brand under the pretence of it being news.
“It’s so kind of you to think of me, Alex, but I’m not sure I’m cut out for PR.”
“Nonsense. You have the contacts, and the insider knowledge — you’d be perfect.”
“I don’t …”
“And then there’s the perks,” he interrupts. “Company car, private health care, thirty days paid leave, share options.”
“Um, that sounds …”
“Why don’t we meet up for a drink later and we can chat about it?”
I’m about to decline his offer when the pragmatic side of my brain wakes up. If this whole saga with Clawthorn goes nowhere, I’m jobless, and in deep financial shit. Maybe it would be prudent to cover my bases.
“Just a chat, right?”
“Of course. All I ask is you hear what I’ve got to say, and you go away and think about it.”
The money and the perks do sound appealing — having a drink with Alex, less so. Needs must I guess.
“Okay.”
“Great. Where shall we meet?”
“Do you know The Three Horseshoes in Kilburn?”
“No, but I can find it. Shall we say six-thirty?”
“Good for me. I’ll see you then.”
I end the call and toss my phone on the sofa.
“Who was that?”
“A guy I used to work with. He’s got a job opportunity and wants to meet up.”
“You don’t sound too thrilled.”
“It’s just all this uncertainty — I can’t make any plans u
ntil … well, until I know where we’re going with this whole Clawthorn thing.”
“Come Monday, we’ll know where we are, doll. If we don’t turn anything up over the weekend, send the bleedin’ notebook back and get on with your life.”
He makes it sound so simple, and for him it probably is.
“Yeah, you’re right, “I reply, sounding less-than-convincing. “And on that note, finish your coffee and we’ll make a move.”
He finishes half of it, under duress, and we leave the flat.
The streets of London have an entirely different atmosphere at the weekend. There’s no less traffic, but the people seem less stressed about getting wherever they need to be. I wouldn’t exactly call it lazy, but laid back, certainly.
As we walk towards the Underground station, I make a quick call to the NLH Foundation to check they’re open. Unsurprisingly for a homeless charity it appears they never close. Under the pretence I’m researching a newspaper article, I’m given the name Mandy Burke as a point of contact.
On a relatively quiet Tube train, it takes just twenty minutes to reach Barbican, the nearest station to Clerkenwell. From there, our destination is just a fifteen minute walk, or it would have been.
“I need a cup of tea, doll, and a couple of bacon sarnies wouldn’t go amiss either.”
I look up at him and frown. “Glad to see my advice sunk in. How you’re still alive is a mystery, Clement.”
“Ain’t it just,” he snorts.
We make a short detour to a cafe of my choosing and Clement gets his wish: two rounds of sandwiches with crispy bacon and thick-cut, buttered white bread. Unhealthy or otherwise, I suffer chronic food envy as my plate of poached eggs on wholemeal toast arrives at the table.
“I’ll swap you a slice of toast for half a sandwich?”
Clement stops chewing and stares at me.
“What?” I ask.
For a long moment he just looks at me: frozen.
“Nothing,” he then murmurs, shaking his head. “Help yourself.”
I take a sandwich and thank him. His attention appears elsewhere.
“You okay, Clement?”
“Yeah, it’s just … don’t matter.”
“Come on. What is it?”
He places his half-eaten sandwich down on the plate and wipes his mouth.
“You reminded me of someone, that’s all. She did exactly the same thing every time we ate out.”
Clawthorn (Clement Book 3) Page 17