Yeah, so grief-stricken he couldn’t be bothered to attend his own wife’s funeral.
“But, over time,” she continues. “He eventually got himself together and we … had one night together. Best night of my life it was.”
I fight hard to keep the basque image from reappearing.
“But he wasn’t interested in a relationship?”
“Not like I wanted,” she sighs. “And if I’m honest, he was too good for me; clever bloke like Denny. He brought me presents, though, every time he stayed. Sometimes flowers — pink roses or daffs — and perfume, and the odd bit of jewellery.”
Of everything Nancy has revealed, I’m surprised how much learning about my father’s generosity hurts. I never received so much as a birthday card, let alone a present, yet he seemed happy to lavish gifts on his bloody landlady. It would be nothing other than pure spite, but I’m torn between revealing the truth about her beloved Denny, and keeping up the pretence.
“I’m glad he was so nice to you, Nancy.”
Coward.
“He was, sweetheart, and who knows, if I’d met him earlier ...”
Her voice trails off as she looks to the heavens.
With our host still in a state of mild shock, there seems precious little point wasting any more time, or emotion, on Dennis Hogan.
“Will you be okay, Nancy? Would you like me to call someone?”
As Clement suggested, they’re clearly made of stern stuff in these parts and after wiping away a tear, Nancy pulls herself together.
“Nah, I’ll be fine. When you get to my age, you get plenty of practice dealing with death.”
“Okay, well, if you’re sure, we’ll leave you in peace.”
“I’m sure.”
We all stand and it feels appropriate to give Nancy a hug. In some twisted way I feel sorry for her — she’s a fellow victim of my father, and I wonder how many years she wasted, waiting for a liar of a man who would never be hers.
We’re shown to the door.
“Take care of yourself, Nancy.”
“You too, sweetheart.”
With a pained smile, she drops her head and closes the door.
We walk silently back down Wellington Row until we’re out of earshot. Clement is the first to break.
“You wanna know what I think?”
“I’m all ears.”
“Gotta be honest, doll — I ain’t got the first fuckin’ clue what your old man was up to.”
“That makes two of us. Nothing that poor woman told us made any sense. Particularly all that tripe about him being a grieving widower and proud father.”
“Why didn’t you tell her then?”
“What would have been the point? She’s done nothing wrong.”
“’Spose not.”
“But I guess we did learn something.”
“What’s that?”
“My father was either a fantasist, a schizophrenic, or just a worthless piece of shit. Come to think of it — he was probably all three.”
“Maybe, but you’re still guessing. All of this … the charity, the bolt hole he’s been using all these years … there’s gotta be some kind of explanation.”
“Can you think of one?”
“At this moment, nope, but I’m hoping somethin’ will come to me.”
“Great,” I huff. “And what do we do in the meantime?”
“Dunno about you but I’m gonna smoke a fag.”
We stop on the corner while Clement lights up. He might still be thinking but I have my own theories.
“The more I think about it the more I reckon my father is a red herring. Pursuing his shady past has just muddied the waters so I think we should re-focus on the names in the notebook.”
“I guess you didn’t learn what you wanted to learn.”
“No, Clement — I learnt exactly what I expected: Dennis Hogan was a waste of space and if his name never crosses my mind again, it’ll be too soon.”
“Back to yours then?”
“Yep.”
The journey to Kilburn doesn’t involve much in the way of conversation. Apart from a few half-hearted grunts Clement barely says a word.
“You okay?” I ask as we wander back from the station. “You’re very quiet.”
“Just thinkin’.”
“About anything in particular?”
“This and that.”
“Specifically?”
“I don’t like problems I can’t solve, and this is looking like one of ’em. It’s doing my bleedin’ my nut in.”
“I understand — it seems the more we learn, the less we know. If I was investigating any other story and kept hitting the same brick walls, I might be inclined to call it a day.”
We stop to cross the road and Clement looks down at me. “Do you wanna call it a day?”
There’s a hint of lament in his voice; as if this actually matters.
“That really depends on you, Clement, and I’d understand if you want to walk away.”
“I dunno, doll. This ain’t turned out the way I thought it would, and I’m starting to feel like a spare part.”
“For what it’s worth, I wouldn’t have got this far without you.”
“Trouble is, doll, this far ain’t anywhere near far enough.”
He isn’t wrong.
23.
Despite his claims not to be suffering a hangover, Clement slumps down on the sofa and closes his eyes. With almost a pained expression he kneads his temples with clenched fists.
“Are you sure you don’t have a headache?” I ask.
The slightest shake of the head.
“Can I get you anything?”
“Nah,” he mumbles.
With Clement barely responsive, I guess all I can do is take stock of where we are and, more importantly, where we go next.
I grab a notepad and take a seat in the armchair.
What we know is Dennis Hogan, my father, was a member of the Clawthorn Club around the same time as Allen Tamthy — the so-called Tallyman — and is one of only a few people who knew his true identity. Then, in the early seventies — around the time I was born — he tried to leave but was convicted of raping and murdering a prostitute. He was released after eighteen years in prison and pitched-up in Bethnal Green at Nancy’s boarding house. Over the following year he came and went; apparently because he was a travelling salesman. And I know he stayed with Nancy just after my mother’s death, before he set up the NLH Foundation later that same year.
Taking-up a seemingly insignificant position whilst donating large sums of money, he remained at the NLH Foundation for twenty-seven years and enjoyed his final Christmas with Nancy before he turned up dead in a high-end apartment in Chiswick last month — in possession of a notebook listing the membership of the Clawthorn Club. And throughout all of this, he maintained some delusion of parental pride by having photos of me in his home and his wallet, and by keeping almost every article I’ve ever written.
We also know the identity of two Clawthorn members: the former Met Deputy Commissioner, Thomas Lang, and the unfortunate Lance Nithercott — the former being culpable for the latter’s death. The only other member we’re close to identifying is someone associated with The Daily Standard.
Clement was right: not a lot of it makes sense, and we’re nowhere near close to unmasking the Tallyman.
There is, however, one final lead to explore.
I retrieve my laptop and open the spreadsheet containing the four names which matched surnames on both the personnel list at The Daily Standard and members of the Clawthorn Club. At the top of that list sits Damon Smith — arsehole, and the man who delivered the news about my pending unemployment. Someone who works at The Daily Standard colluded with the Tallyman to orchestrate my suspension and Damon is by far the likeliest suspect.
However, with no obvious way of proving Damon did anything, the next best option is a process of elimination with the three other names on the list: Terence Brown, Jeremy Smith, and
Roger Smith.
I open a web browser and start with Jeremy Smith: the only one of the three who sits on the main board of directors. A little googling tells me all I need to know. It appears his wife has recently been diagnosed with motor neurone disease and Jeremy Smith has taken extended leave to care for her. I think he has bigger issues to contend with. That’s one possibility down.
Next up is the associate director, Roger Smith.
More googling and I discover Roger is actually Canadian, and only moved to the UK four years ago after he met his now husband at an awards ceremony in London. If Thomas Lang is to be believed, the Clawthorn Club disbanded whilst Roger Smith was still living in Canada. I think it’s safe to say he’s not our man.
Two down, two to go, and the odds are stacking up against Damon.
My initial research into Terence Brown prompts a face palm — I’ve never met the man in person but I’ve certainly heard of him, although he’s better known as Terry Brown. Now semi-retired, Terry has enjoyed a distinguished career in journalism spanning almost five decades, as chief editor for two nationals, and also for one of the leading newspapers in New York. And, if memory serves, I think Eric mentioned him on a few occasions, and always spoke highly of the man.
I’d trust Eric’s judgement every time and with that, I’m left with just one suspect on my list — Damon has to be the Tallyman’s stooge.
I sit back in the armchair and join Clement in some deep thinking.
It now seems entirely possible Damon instigated my suspension without any such order from above. Of course, he would deny that, but there are two ways I could find out for sure. I could ask Clement to pay him a visit, and watch on as Damon soils himself, or I could go above his head and ask someone on the board.
The first option is so tempting, but it’s not without risk. If we push Damon he might well come clean, but he could also report back that I’m on to him. No, it might be better to go above his head and establish my suspension wasn’t ordered by the board. At least that way I’ll have some solid evidence to use against Damon.
Fortunately, my research has already delivered a suitable candidate to speak to: Terence ‘Terry’ Brown.
I tap away at the keyboard; digging around my usual sources for a contact number.
“What you doing?” Clement asks, waking from his coma.
“I think I might have established which one of my colleagues was in cahoots with the Tallyman.”
“Yeah?”
“Possibly. I’ve just got to make a call and then we might need to go pay someone a visit.”
Clement responds by immediately sitting up, and perking up. “Nice one, doll.”
I find a mobile number for Terence Brown and call it. A voice answers with a cheery hello.
“Oh, hi … Mr Brown?”
“Speaking.”
“You don’t know me, or at least we’ve never met, but my name is Emma Hogan.”
I’m about to explain who I am but he gets in first. “The same Emma Hogan who works at The Daily Standard?”
“Yes, that would be me.”
“Well, in that case, it’s lovely to talk to you at long last — I’ve heard a lot of positive things about you over the years.”
“Oh, um, have you?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. You’re an accomplished journalist, Emma — and Eric Birtles always spoke very highly of you.”
It’s rare I ever hear praise these days. I’m glad he can’t see my flushing cheeks but Clement can, and I turn away.
“Thank you, Mr Brown.”
“Please, it’s Terry.”
“Right. Thank you, Terry.”
“I’m sorry we never got the chance to meet at Eric’s funeral.”
“You were there?”
“Of course. Eric and I went back years and, for a while, we were colleagues in the same newsroom.”
“He mentioned your name several times over the years.”
“We had some great times, Eric and I. Did he ever tell you about our weekend in East Berlin, just after the wall came down?”
“Err, possibly. Eric had so many tales.”
“I bet he did. He was a good man, Emma, and a bloody fine journalist. The world is a poorer place without him.”
“It certainly is, Terry. It certainly is.”
It feels appropriate to say nothing and clearly Terry feels the same.
“Did he ever tell you?” he suddenly asks, breaking the reflective silence.
“Sorry? Tell me what?”
“He asked me to put in a good word when you applied for the job at The Daily Standard?”
“Err, no. He didn’t.”
“He made me promise not to say anything but I guess it doesn’t matter now.”
“You helped me get the job?”
“I owed Eric, and to be frank with you, Emma, he thought of you as his protégé so it wasn’t the greatest of favours considering how much he respected your talents. In my book a recommendation from Eric Birtles was better than any qualification.”
It appears I might have inadvertently discovered the board member who has protected me from Damon’s wrath over the years.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” I ask.
“Me?”
“You’re the one who’s been fighting my corner over the years whenever I’ve had issues with the management.”
“As I said: I owed Eric. And please don’t think I was doing it out of charity. I have the utmost respect for your work and I still believe there’s a place in modern journalism for people like you.”
“People like me?”
“Proper old-school hacks. You know; the kind willing to get their hands dirty from time to time.”
“Thank you, Terry — for everything. Unfortunately the reason for my call is because I may have got my hands a little too dirty.”
“Oh. How so?”
“I was wondering if you’d heard I’ve been suspended?”
“I don’t have much in the way of day-to-day dealings with what goes on at The Daily Standard, but yes, I had heard a rumour.
“And forgive me for asking, but do you know if it was sanctioned by the board?”
The slightest sigh before I receive an answer. “I believe it was.”
Fuck.
“Oh.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Emma, but I believe you contacted a rather litigious former politician after being told not to?”
“It wasn’t quite like that,” I huff. “I contacted him six months after I was told, and on a completely unrelated matter.”
“I hear you, but … wait … is that why you’re calling; to see if I can get the suspension reversed? If it is, I can’t get involved, I’m afraid.”
“It wasn’t why I was calling, Terry. I simply wanted to know who made the decision.”
“That I can’t tell you because I don’t know.”
“But it was definitely a decision made at board level?”
“Almost certainly, yes. If a member of staff is accused of gross misconduct, the decision to terminate their employment has to be sanctioned by the board, just in case there are any legal issues down the line. You know what newsrooms are like — tempers are lost on a daily basis and things are said in the heat of the moment but we can’t have management sacking people every time they fall out with one of their team.”
“Okay, fair enough. But what I don’t understand, Terry, is why anyone investigated me in the first place.”
“Listen, Emma,” he sighs. “How or why is incidental. I know it might seem unfair, but legally I don’t think you’ve got a leg to stand on. If you want my advice, I’d hand in my notice before the suspension reaches the termination stage. At least that way you’ll protect your reputation.”
It’s a bitter pill to swallow but I suppose Terry has at least suggested a way to sugar-coat it.
“I appreciate your advice, Terry. I’m actually meeting someone tonight about a job opportunity so maybe I will get the chance to jump befo
re I’m pushed.”
“You’re welcome, and I hope that meeting goes well.”
I’m about to wind up the call when Terry poses a question. “Can I ask, Emma: was it worth it?”
“What?”
“Contacting that William Huxley character. Did it lead anywhere?”
“In a way, but not the way I anticipated.”
“So, something good came from it?”
“Maybe. I doubt I’ll ever get to publish it at The Daily Standard but I’m either sitting on the story of the century or my career in journalism is about to self-destruct.”
“And which is more likely?”
“Good question, but as you know: a story is just a tale without hard evidence. I’ve got a single piece of evidence which could be explosive but it’s not much use without a fuse — that’s where I’m struggling. Still, I’m nothing if not determined.”
“Well, whatever it is, I wish you luck with it.”
“Thank you.”
“And if you need a reference, or anything else, please don’t hesitate to pick up the phone. Any friend of Eric’s is a friend of mine.”
“I appreciate it.
We say our goodbyes and I end the call.
“Well?” Clement asks.
“Not what I was hoping to hear. Turns out the man who fired me — our lead suspect — was only acting on orders from above.”
“Shit.”
“It gets worse. Of the three potential candidates who might have been working with Tamthy, one of them is on an extended leave of absence as his wife is terminally ill, and the second one is a Canadian guy who moved to the UK a few years after the Clawthorn Club disbanded.”
“And the third?”
“That was who I was just talking to. And it turns out he was the one fan I had on the board, and a friend of my old mentor.”
“So, we ain’t got the first clue who tipped the Tallyman off then?”
“Nope.”
“Fucks sake,” he groans, slumping back on the sofa. “That’s it then?”
“I don’t know what to say, Clement.”
If I had to proffer advice to anyone else in my situation, I’d tell them to resign from The Daily Standard and grab whatever Alex has to offer. I’d tell them to send the notebook back, and to forget all about my father and the bloody Clawthorn Club.
Clawthorn (Clement Book 3) Page 19