“The same thing?”
“Yeah, ordering something healthy and then nicking stuff off my plate.”
“Woman’s prerogative, Clement,” I smile.
He smiles back but it’s followed by a wistful sigh. It seems I’ve inadvertently triggered a memory he’d rather have kept buried.
“Was she special, this woman?”
“Very.”
“Girlfriend?”
He nods.
“No chance of a reconciliation?”
“Not in this life, doll.”
I’m about to take a bite of the sandwich but it doesn’t reach my mouth.
“Um, you don’t mean she’s …”
He nods again.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Clement. When did it happen?”
“Feels like yesterday, but … it was a long, long time ago.”
I reach across the table and rest my hand on his. “I’ve heard all the platitudes myself, a million times, so all I’ll say is I hope you find peace with it someday.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Then, he suddenly curls his hand around mine and gently squeezes it. “And cheers for … you know … not bending my ear about it.”
I return the squeeze. “No problem.”
“Now, are you gonna eat that sandwich?”
“This sandwich?” I ask, holding it up.
“Yeah.”
“Too bloody right I am.”
His grin returns and we put the moment behind us, although it feels good to know there is a heart beating somewhere in that big old chest of his.
Breakfast addressed, we leave the cafe and continue on our way to Rosebery Avenue, and the NHL Foundation. What we find on our arrival is an austere brick building with just a small plaque on the wall next to a set of solid double doors.
“This is it,” I remark, pressing the doorbell.
We wait for almost a minute before the door is opened. A thin woman with short-grey hair and a leathery complexion greets us.
“Hi, we’re here to see Mandy Burke.”
“That’ll be me. And you are?”
“I’m Emma Hogan, and this is my colleague, Clement.”
“Oh, yes,” she chirps. “You rang earlier, about a newspaper article?”
“I did, although I was hoping you might be able to help us on an unrelated matter.”
If it transpires Dennis Hogan was as poor an accountant as he was a father, this might prove to be the shortest interview in history.
“It’s about my father,” I venture. “Dennis Hogan.”
To my relief, Mandy’s face lights up. “You’re Dennis’s daughter?”
“I am.”
“Any Hogan is welcome here, Emma. Come on in.”
We’re ushered through a corridor to a pokey office at the rear of the building.
“Please take a seat. Can I get you a tea or coffee?”
“We’ve just had breakfast so we’re good, thanks.”
His chance of another cup of tea stolen; Clement scowls.
We both sit behind a crowded desk housing a computer, a pile of folders, and an overflowing in-tray.
“Excuse the mess. The paperwork never ends here.”
I return Mandy’s smile but her face quickly adopts a more serious expression.
“How have things been, since … you know?”
I don’t know, and my face says as much.
“I mean since your father’s funeral,” she clarifies.
I consider lying but it’s probably best I stick as close to the truth as possible; minus the whole Clawthorn blackmail plot.
“Ahh, well, the thing is, Mandy, I was estranged from my father, and I wasn’t even made aware he had passed away.”
“Ohh, that explains why I didn’t recognise you from the funeral but I just put it down to old age. Sorry, but my memory isn’t what it once was.”
“Don’t apologise. I’m heading that way myself.”
Mandy sits back in her chair and glances at Clement. He doesn’t notice as he’s staring at his feet like a bored schoolboy in class.
“So, the thing is, Mandy, now my father is gone, I’m trying to piece together his life to … get some closure, I guess.”
“I completely understand.”
“And I believe he used to work here, as head of accounts?”
“That’s not an entirely accurate job description.”
“No?”
“No. Dennis Hogan was the founder, and chief benefactor of our Foundation.”
I glance across at Clement. He’s no longer staring at his feet.
“Oh, wow. I had no idea, Mandy.”
“Hardly anyone did. He hated any attention so I guess he gave himself that job title to avoid the limelight. Dennis was one of the most generous, humble, and self-effacing men I’ve ever met.”
Her description is the polar opposite of the man I know to be a rapist and a murderer. I can’t help but wonder if we’re even talking about the same man.
“Sorry, can I just check something with you?”
“Sure.”
I pull out my phone and show Mandy the passport photo. “This is him, right?”
“That’s definitely Dennis, although that’s not a particularly flattering photo. He was a handsome man, your father, and if you don’t mind me saying, you do look alike — I can see it now.”
Just to double-check, she then stares at me for an uncomfortable few seconds.
“Um, that’s nice to know.”
“When did he set it up?” Clement asks. “You know, this place?”
“It’ll be twenty-seven years this August. I understand he lost his wife around the time and wanted to channel his grief, I guess. People do that, don’t they — take a negative experience and counter it by doing something positive with their life.”
Ease a guilty conscience, more like.
“And he funded the whole thing?” Clement adds.
“He did, and continued to make sizable donations over the years. We do receive some state funding, and a number of good people donate regularly, but there is always a need for additional funding because the demand for our support is now at record levels. Despite the pressures, thousands of people have rebuilt their lives as a direct result of the time, work, and cash Dennis poured into the NLH Foundation.”
It’s a heartfelt monologue about a man any daughter would be proud to call her father. Almost any daughter.
“Did he ever mention me?” I ask, doing my utmost to keep a civil tone.
Her eyes flit left and right as she scrambles for a way to say what I already know.
“He, um, didn’t, but don’t take that the wrong way. Dennis went to great lengths to separate his personal life from his work.”
“Right, and what about family, home life, or friends? Was he in a relationship?”
“I honestly couldn’t say, Emma. I worked with him for seventeen years and I can’t say I knew any more about his personal life from the first week to the last.”
“Did he have an office here?”
“He did. Next door.”
“Can we see it?”
“If you like but there’s not much to see.”
“It’d be nice; just to see where he worked.”
“Sure. Come with me.”
Mandy leads us back into the corridor and opens the adjacent door. We’re greeted by a waft of stagnant, dank air.
“We’ve got a damp specialist coming in next week,” she comments, waving us in. “There’s been a damp problem for years but Dennis was always so busy he kept putting off dealing with it.”
With Clement behind me, I step into an office which is probably the same size as Mandy’s but feels larger as it’s virtually empty.
“I said there wasn’t much to see.”
She wasn’t exaggerating: a desk, an office chair, and a single filing cabinet.
“Has anyone been through the desk drawers?” I ask.
“They have, and I’m afraid all we found were doc
uments relating to the Foundation — not a single personal possession.”
I look to the filing cabinet. “What about that?”
“We’ve had to empty it so the contractors can move it. Again, I had a cursory look through the contents but it’s just Foundation paperwork.”
Who works in an office for so many years but doesn’t have a single memento of their personal life somewhere? From recent experience, I know only too well we all tend to surround ourselves with personal odds and ends, and all that clutter builds up over years in the same job. In my case I had an entire box of crap to carry on my walk of shame. Clearly it isn’t a family trait.
“Well,” I sigh. “One thing is clear: my father wasn’t a material man.”
Mandy looks at me inquisitively.
“When I cleared his flat,” I add. “His entire worldly goods were contained in just a dozen boxes.”
“Everything he owned?”
“Yep.”
As she processes that revelation, the three of us just stare into space for a moment before Mandy takes a furtive glance at her watch. I take the hint.
“I appreciate your time, Mandy — it’s good to know my father did so much worthwhile work here.”
“He did and, if it’s any comfort, his legacy will live on through the work of the NLH Foundation.”
We shake hands. There’s only one question remaining.
“Can I just ask: what do the letters NLH stand for?”
“Never lose hope — a motto Dennis lived by.”
As we head out of the damp office, I can’t help but think a more appropriate acronym for the Foundation might be ADE — another dead end.
22.
Back on the street, I share my frustration with Clement.
“Well, that was a waste of time. Apart from hearing what a saint my father was we learnt the sum total of sod all.”
“I wouldn’t say that, doll.”
“No? Please tell me then: what exactly did we establish?”
The moustache receives a stroke or two.
“He’s been funding that charity for years, and I’m guessing that don’t come cheap. So, where did he get the money from?”
“I’ve got no idea. And to be honest, Clement, I’ve got more pressing questions, like why did he set the charity up in the first place?”
“Maybe your old man was trying to find redemption,” he replies, lighting a cigarette. “And trust me, that ain’t easy.”
“But if he was innocent, as you suggest, don’t you think his time and money would have been better invested trying to prove it?”
“Dunno,” he shrugs. “Guess we can add that question to the list of things we don’t know.”
Inadvertently Clement has just yanked a sticking plaster from a still-raw wound.
“I’ll tell you what I do know,” I snap. “I know he left prison a year before I lost my mother. Where the fuck was the saintly Dennis Hogan then? He’s spent the last twenty-seven years helping strangers, yet when it came to helping his own daughter, he couldn’t have given less of a fuck. If he was innocent, why didn’t he come and see me?”
Clement takes a long drag of his cigarette as I stand and simmer.
“Dunno,” he finally replies, puffing a cloud of smoke over my head. “But maybe staying away was the bravest thing the bloke could have done.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Don’t it? What if — ’cos of what happened with Clawthorn — he had no choice but to stay away?”
Throughout my career I’ve always tried to find balance in my reporting. I’ve always listened to opposing views and, even when I’ve not agreed with them, I’ve tried not to let personal bias taint my work. On this occasion I’m struggling.
“Sorry, but I still think he chose to stay away because he was a coward.”
“Fair enough,” he shrugs. “But a week ago you thought I was up to no good with a bent politician, yet here we are.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it? I’m just sayin’: you need to keep an open mind.”
“Fine,” I huff. “But once we’ve proven I’m right, I expect an apology … and lots of wine.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he snorts. “Bethnal Green, then?”
“Yes, Bethnal Green.”
A truce agreed, we make our way back to Barbican tube station.
Seven minutes, two trains, and all that stands between us and our last lead on my father is a half-mile walk.
“What if she ain’t in?” Clement asks as we cross the road away from Bethnal Green station.
“I’ll pop a business card through her door, I suppose.”
We walk on, and ten minutes later we arrive in Wellington Row; an architectural mishmash of a road with quaint Victorian terraced houses on one side and blocks of unsightly council flats on the other. Fortunately, the house we’re looking for is situated on the nicer side of the street, about halfway along.
I ring the bell.
As the seconds tick by without a response it looks increasingly like we’ve had a wasted journey. I’m about to delve into my handbag in search of a business card when I hear the rattle of a security chain on the other side of the door.
It opens.
A woman stands in the doorway. Her lined face and sagging features confirm her age, although judging by her mane of bleached hair and heavy makeup, the woman has no intention of growing old gracefully.
“What can I do for you?” she asks in a heavy East-End accent.
“Would you be Nancy Hawkins?” I reply.
“Depends who’s asking, sweetheart. You ain’t from the Inland Revenue are you?”
“Err, no.”
“That’s alright then. Yeah, I’m Nancy Hawkins.”
“Oh, great. Apologies for calling by unannounced, but I was hoping to have a chat with you about my father.”
“Your father?”
“Yes, Dennis Hogan. I understand you used to be his landlady.”
“Good Lord, how is the old devil?”
Shit. She doesn’t know.
“That’s why I’m here. Could we come in?”
“You got some ID? Can’t trust no one these days.”
“Yes, of course.”
I pluck out my purse and show her my driving licence.
“What about him?” she then asks, nodding towards Clement.
“Don’t have any ID, love,” he replies with a wink. “But I reckon you can handle me.”
“Yeah, I reckon I could, darlin’,” she coos back at him. “I like a big man.”
From nowhere, a vision of Nancy in a red basque and stockings floats into my head. I shudder as she invites us in.
The inside of the house is much like the owner — chintzy and outdated. We’re escorted into what Nancy proudly describes as her parlour, but is just a twelve foot square lounge decorated in a garish flock wallpaper. She then offers us a seat on a sofa which would look more at home on the set of a seventies sit-com.
“So, how is he?” Nancy asks, lowering herself into an armchair.
I’m cast back to the time I had to inform my mother’s friends about her death. It didn’t get any easier; even by the seventh or eighth time.
“I’ve got some bad news I’m afraid, Nancy. My father passed away last month.”
The colour drains from her face. “No,” she gasps. “Not Denny.”
Her use of the name Denny is interesting. Clearly she knew him well.
“How’d it happen?”
“It was peaceful. He went in his sleep.”
I have no idea if it was peaceful but letting her think otherwise feels unnecessary.
Nancy then turns to Clement. “Be a darlin’ and pour me a brandy.”
She nods towards a drinks cabinet in the corner and he obliges.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking, Nancy, but how well did you know my father?”
“He’s been staying here, on and off, for the best part of thirty years. I can’t believe he’s gone.�
��
Nancy isn’t the only one in shock. “Thirty years?”
“More or less. I rent out rooms, you see, like a boarding house. Dennis was one of my first ever guests and we became good … friends.”
“Tell me to mind my own business but what exactly do you mean by friends?”
Clement hands her a large brandy and retakes his seat next to me. Nancy gulps back half the glass and composes herself before answering my question.
“Up until your mother died — God rest her soul — that’s all we were. Then a year or two after he lost her I hoped he might stay here for good, but he made it clear your mother was the love of his life and he’d never feel right being with anyone else.”
I catch Clement’s eye and I don’t need to be telepathic to know what he’s thinking.
“You say you hoped he might stay for good, Nancy — what do you mean by that?”
“Dennis never stayed more than a few months before he’d up sticks and be on his way again. Sometimes a whole year would pass and, just when I thought I’d seen the last of him, he’d turn up on the doorstep.”
“Did he ever explain why?”
“He was a travelling salesman, so he told me, and his job took him all over the country for months on end.”
If it were possible to find an excuse, what I wouldn’t give for a ten-minute recess to talk through Nancy’s revelations with Clement. As it is, I’ve got to plough on and hope I ask the most relevant questions from the scores that are now zipping through my mind.
“When did he stay here last, Nancy?”
“Christmas. He said you were abroad and he didn’t want to spend it on his own.”
“Me?” I gulp. “He specifically mentioned me?”
Her brow furrows. “You were all he ever talked about, sweetheart. He’d go on about your career and how well you were doing … sometimes he’d show me newspaper cuttings of reports you’d written, and he always kept a photo of you in his wallet. Mind you, you’ve changed a bit.”
My breakfast makes a half-hearted attempt to escape my stomach. What kind of twisted charade was my father enacting with this woman and, more to the point, why?
“Um, you mentioned my mother, Nancy. He obviously told you about her death?”
“He stayed here a few weeks after it happened and I told him he shouldn’t have even been working but he said it helped to keep his mind busy. I’m not gonna lie to you though, sweetheart, he was a right mess for the month he was here. Many was the time I heard him crying in his room, the poor sod.”
Clawthorn (Clement Book 3) Page 18