The conversation ends as Clement drifts off into his own world.
We pass a row of shops: a hairdressers, a takeaway, and an off licence — all currently closed, and all three premises protected by steel security shutters. We then pass an open area of fenced-off wasteland, possibly earmarked for a development which will never happen, given the lack of investment in areas such as this.
“It’s just here,” I comment, as we approach another row of shops.
True to its surroundings Trenchards Bookmakers is short on kerb appeal. I follow Clement as he enters.
Inside it’s no better. A bank of screens are fixed to the wall on one side with two zombie-like men perched on stools gazing up at them. They show us no interest.
We cross the floor to the counter where a balding, obese man sits behind a Perspex screen. He appears engrossed in something on his phone but eventually looks up and eyes us suspiciously.
There’s no greeting; verbal or otherwise. It’s left to Clement to start the conversation, and he gets straight to the point.
“We’re looking for someone.”
“So?” the fat man grunts.
“He’s one of your punters.”
“Got a lot of punters.”
“This one is tall, thin, with a goatee beard. Goes by the name of Jaydon.”
The man rubs one of his many chins.
“Yeah, I know Jaydon.”
“Where can we find him?”
“Company policy,” he smirks. “Can’t breach my customer’s privacy.”
If it weren’t for the Perspex screen, I’m pretty sure Clement would reach across and throttle the smug bastard. I wouldn’t mind a go myself.
“I have a policy too,” Clement replies.
“Yeah, what’s that?”
Clement turns around and walks over to the bank of screens. He then reaches up, places his hands on either side of the nearest screen, and with an almighty tug, rips it from the wall; cables and chunks of plaster tumbling to the floor. The two zombies both wake from their respective comas and make a beeline for the door.
I stand shocked, open mouthed, as does our fat friend behind the counter.
Clement returns with his prize and unceremoniously drops it on the floor. It lands with a dull crack.
“That’s my policy,” he says matter-of-factly. “Now, I’ll ask again — where can we find this Jaydon kid?”
The man reaches for his phone. “I’m calling the police.”
“Don’t much give a fuck, mate. I’ll have all six of those off the wall before they get here.”
The two men glare at each other but Clement, lacking in patience, shrugs his shoulders and turns away, seemingly intent on removing another screen.
“Wait,” the fat man yells.
He then looks at me. “He lives on the estate opposite. Ninety-four Lawrence House, I think.”
“Much obliged,” Clement taunts.
I mouth an apology to the still-stunned man and grab Clement’s arm. I don’t let go until we’re out the door and out of sight of Trenchards Bookmakers.
“That was a bit much,” I chide. “There was no need to wreck his premises.”
“There was no need for him to be such an arsehole. Besides, needs must.”
My scornful glare is wasted as Clement looks up at the nearest tower block.
“That’s it,” he says. “Lawrence House.”
Refocusing on why we’re here my displeasure at Clement’s heavy-handed negotiation quickly ebbs away. It’s replaced with a mixture of apprehension, anger, and admittedly, a smidgen of nervous excitement. If his theory is correct, we might be tantalisingly close to securing proof of the Tallyman’s true identity. That prospect might have come at the expense of both my job and my home, but exposing the Clawthorn Club would make such sacrifices more than worthwhile.
We head towards the stairwell entrance.
The smell on entering the dimly lit stairwell provokes a thousand memories of my time on a similar estate. It’s hard to describe the overall stench but hints of damp brickwork, rotting food, and stale urine form solid base notes.
I follow Clement as he strides up the stairs to the first floor. I know only too well the numbering system in these blocks is a mystery known only to the town planners. A quick check of the first flat displaying a number and we confirm ninety-four isn’t on this floor.
We return to the stairwell, and the sound of footsteps echoing from above.
“Doll, here,” Clement hisses, beckoning me into an alcove which leads to the fire exit.
“What is it?” I whisper.
“Just a theory.”
“Care to explain it?”
“Shh.”
I roll my eyes and lean up against the wall. The footsteps get louder and come quicker; as if whoever is heading down the stairs is in a hurry. They reach the floor above, and Clement peers around the corner of our nook. With his back to me he raises a hand which I take as a signal to remain silent.
The footsteps are now on the first floor landing.
All of a sudden Clement steps forward and reaches out his arms. As he pulls them back a startled youth is dragged into view — Jaydon.
“The fuck you doin’, man?” he squawks, as Clement pulls him into the alcove and pins him up against the wall.
Confused, I look at Clement. “How did you know it was him?”
“I didn’t. Just a hunch that fat fucker would call him the moment we left. I think our friend here was tryin’ to make his escape before we arrived.”
He then turns his attention to Jaydon.
“Remember us, sunshine?”
Clearly he does, and he looks understandably concerned.
“What … waddya want?” he stammers.
“I wanna know why you torched a coffee shop in Kilburn last night.”
“Dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”
Clement shakes his head.
“Listen, dipshit. This is only gonna go one of two ways: you either tell me the truth and we’ll leave you in peace, or I’ll carry you up to the top floor and we’ll see if you can fly. Which is it to be?”
“I’m not admitting nothin’. I ain’t no grass.”
“Very noble, but in this case you don’t have a choice. I ain’t messin’ around here — I will kill you.”
The last four words of Clement’s statement are delivered with such icy detachment even I shudder.
Jaydon’s eyes dart left and right; everywhere but at Clement.
“He means it,” I add, attempting to sound equally as sinister. “And if he doesn’t, I fucking will.”
His shoulders slump. “You can’t tell no one I said anything.”
“Just talk,” Clement growls, before edging a fraction closer.
“Alright, man … just … don’t say nothing to no one … please.”
Clement nods.
“Yeah, I started the fire.”
His admission causes something inside of me to snap, and before I know it I’m swinging my arm in a wide arc. My fist connects with the side of Jaydon’s face; inaccurate and lacking enough venom to do any real damage.
“Fuck, you crazy bitch,” he yelps, trying to escape Clement’s grasp and retaliate.
“I’m crazy?” I scream, ignoring the pain in my soon-to-be-bruised hand. “You torched my home you low-life cocksucker.”
Clement turns to me; his expression somewhere between bemusement and surprise.
“Nice one, doll. Wanna take over?”
“No. I want you to cut his bollocks off with a pair of rusty scissors.”
He turns back to Jaydon. “What you might not know, sunshine, is there was a flat above that coffee shop, and it belonged to my friend here.”
Jaydon visibly deflates at the revelation.
“And it’s true what they say,” Clement continues. “Hell hath no fury. I reckon your only chance of getting out of this in one piece is to tell us everything.”
Realising there is no good cop in th
is interview the skinny runt concedes defeat.
“Alright,” he huffs. “What do you wanna know?”
“Let’s start from the beginning. What happened after you left the alley that evening?”
“Nothin’. I went home and the bloke called me as he said he would.”
I take out my phone and show Jaydon the picture of Terry Brown.
“Is this the bloke?”
The face is distinctive enough it doesn’t take more than a glance.
“Yeah, that’s him.”
I catch Clement’s eye, and a dose of ‘told you so’. Nevertheless, I welcome the sudden rush of exhilaration now Jaydon has confirmed we’re honing in on our target.
“And what was said?”
“Told him I couldn’t get the bag as some big fucker turned up and did me in.”
“How did he react to that?”
“He was pissed, like proper pissed. He said I owed him a favour and he’d let me know when he wanted to call it in. I didn’t really give a shit … got myself some easy cash and I weren’t gonna do nothin’ else for him.”
“But you did.”
Jaydon’s head drops. Living on an estate is a lot like being a prison inmate — show any signs of weakness and your life will be forever a misery. It appears the kid is about to break that rule.
“My gran,” he mumbles.
“What about her?”
“Someone stuck an envelope through my door on Friday morning. It was a photo of my gran’s nursing home, and on the back it said she might have an ‘unexpected fall’ if I didn’t do as I was told.”
“So?”
“A few hours after the letter arrived, that bloke rang me — said it was his work, and if I didn’t do as I was told, he’d carry out his threat.”
Clement glances at me. Instinctively, I return a slight nod to confirm I believe Jaydon’s story. Targeting his gran was a smart, if not callous, ploy.
“Let me guess,” Clement says. “Torching the coffee shop meant your gran stayed safe?”
The kid nods.
“Did he offer to pay you?”
“Yeah. Two hundred quid.”
Before Clement can ask another question, Jaydon appears to recall our last meeting, and how his fee was snatched away.
“I ain’t got the cash yet,” he blurts.
A faint smile forms on Clement’s lips. “How you gettin’ it?”
“I’m supposed to pick it up later.”
“When and where?”
“Why do you wanna know?”
“Simple. Someone is gonna pay for torching my friend’s flat so it’s either you, or the bloke who paid you — any preference?”
“But what about my gran? If he finds out I told you …”
“Don’t worry, sunshine. By the time I’ve finished with him he won’t be in a position to threaten anyone.”
Caught between a rock and a hard bastard Jaydon assesses his limited options.
“One o’clock,” he eventually sighs.
“Where?”
“There’s a pub called The Black Horse on the other side of the estate. It shut down last year but I’m meeting him in the car park.”
“Good. All you need to do is turn up, collect your cash, and fuck off.”
“And you won’t say nothin’ about me grassin’ him up?”
“You have my word. He won’t know it was you, and he sure as hell won’t be able to do anything about it, even if he did.”
Jaydon nods.
“Right, listen up. We’re gonna be on our way, but I’ve got two bits of advice for you.”
“What?”
“Firstly, keep your gob shut. If you give him the nod and tell him we’re gonna be at that meet, I’ll come for you, and you won’t see me until it’s too late.”
“Alright, and?”
“Do something with your life, dipshit. You reckon that gran of yours would be proud of you gettin’ involved in this kind of crap?”
The mention of Jaydon’s gran appears to add potency to Clement’s advice. The aggressive, spiteful angst replaced by shame.
“Now, fuck off.”
Clement steps aside and Jaydon cautiously edges past him without taking his eyes off the big man.
“Remember what I said. You fuck with me and it’ll be a first and last.”
Jaydon nods before scampering away.
The first part of Clement’s plan flawlessly completed he turns to me.
“Seems we’ve got a lunch appointment, doll.”
“Yes, it does.”
“And trust me: our friend, the Tallyman, is paying.”
27.
With little else to do for ninety minutes, and with no desire to return to Clement’s place, we retire to a coffee shop. It does, however, give me a chance to make some phone calls. The police confirm the fire was started deliberately, which I already knew, and they are currently ‘pursuing enquiries’, which I doubt will lead anywhere. Still, I’m given a crime reference number which I need before I make the next call.
It’s funny, but I’m sure when I called the insurance company to get a quote, I was connected in seconds. The claims department clearly don’t possess the same sense of urgency when it comes to answering calls and I’m initially sent into a telephonic abyss before I finally get to speak to a human — in Mumbai, judging by his pigeon English.
After a frustrating fifteen minute conversation — all the while watching my battery level sink to critical levels — he confirms I’ll be sent a link via email to complete my claim. I am, however, initially relieved to hear I’m covered for the cost of temporary accommodation. That relief is short-lived when I’m told how much they allow.
“Sorted?” Clement asks, as I end the call and toss the phone into my handbag.
“Kind of. I’ve got the princely sum of fifty quid a night to pay for a hotel.”
“Really? You could stay at The Park Lane Hilton for that.”
“Yes, I could … if it was 1983.”
“How much does a hotel cost then?”
“Put it this way: unless I’m willing to stay in a hotel with less stars than Celebrity Big Brother, I need to rent a room.”
He stares at me, puzzled.
“You don’t watch much television, do you, Clement?”
“Not really.”
“Never mind. I’ll book into a hotel tonight and start looking for a room tomorrow.”
“Right.”
Like a fidgety child he stares out of the window whilst playing with a sachet of sugar.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, it’s just … I was … nah, forget it.”
“Come on. Tell me.”
His stare switches from outside to the cup on the table. I can almost feel his awkwardness.
“I know it ain’t much, doll, but you can stay at mine, you know, until you sort something else out.”
I reach across the table and put my hand on his. “That’s very sweet.”
“But?”
“But nothing — I’m flattered you offered.”
“Nah, there’s a definite ‘but’ in your voice.”
“Okay, I was just wondering … what, um, the sleeping arrangements might be?”
He finally looks up and fixes his eyes on mine. “Whatever you want them to be.”
“But what do you want them to be?”
He starts chuckling to himself.
“What’s so funny?”
“What’s that word you used … that’s it: deflection.”
“I’m not deflecting.”
“You answered a question with another question. Bill Huxley told me that’s how politicians operate when they’re asked a question they can’t answer, or don’t wanna answer.”
“Yes, well, it’s just … this … I’m not sure what this is.”
The smile dissolves. “Neither do I, doll, but I sure as hell could do with it.”
“Me too. Shall we just see where we go, day by day?”
“T
hat’s pretty-much how I live my life so it works for me.”
He squeezes my hand and glances up at a clock on the wall.
“Guess we better be going. I wanna recce the pub before either of ’em get there.”
Reverting to business mode he gets to his feet. Reluctantly, I follow suit.
The short walk around the perimeter of a sink estate is no place to continue our conversation so I try and make idle chit-chat. Clement is having none of it, though; perhaps because he’s focused on what we’re about to do, or wondering why he offered to home a cranky, middle-aged liability.
The Black Horse comes into view, and it’s a sorry sight. To deter squatters, all the windows have been covered with steel plates, and very little of the brickwork has escaped the local graffiti artists. A weathered sign promises home-cooked food, bar games, live entertainment, and free parking. I guess one of those promises is still valid as a narrow, weed-ridden driveway disappears down the right-hand side of the building.
“Grim,” Clement mumbles to himself.
I check my watch — quarter to one.
“What’s the plan then?” I ask. “They’ll be here in fifteen minutes.”
“Ever played hide and seek?”
“Err, a long time ago.”
“We’re gonna play now. Come on.”
I follow Clement down the side of the building; the driveway leading to an open expanse of tarmac enclosed by overgrown Leylandii hedge almost as tall as the pub itself.
“I don’t think the gardener has been for a while,” I comment.
“Perfect spot for a meeting, though,” Clement replies. “It’s not overlooked and there’s only one way in and out.”
We stand for a moment and assess the best place to hide out. White lines are still just about visible on the cracked tarmac, and of the twelve parking spaces, four are taken up by piles of fly-tipped waste, including a sofa and two fridges.
“We could hide behind that sofa,” I suggest.
“Nah. We’d be too easy to spot if our man bothers to check, and I’m guessin’ he’s the kind of bloke who would.”
“Where then?”
Clement looks towards the rear of the pub, and an open area enclosed by rickety panel fencing.
“There’s probably a beer garden the other side of that fence.”
“But no gate.”
“We’ll just climb over.”
“Are you kidding me? It’s six feet tall, and I’m wearing a dress and heels.”
Clawthorn (Clement Book 3) Page 23