“So?”
“Getting over it is one thing, but at some point we’ll need to climb back over … quickly. Trust me, Clement, that isn’t going to happen.”
“’Spose not. Gonna take a closer look.”
“We’ve got twelve minutes,” I remind him.
We head over to the fence to assess alternative options.
On closer inspection, an alternative option quickly becomes obvious to Clement. Through neglect, one of the wooden panels has warped, and an inch of daylight is visible where it should sit flush to the fence post. The very tips of five rusty nails are all that hold the panel in place. Those five rusty nails provide minimal resistance when Clement’s boot makes contact with the panel, and it departs the post to provide a foot-wide gap.
“After you, doll.”
I step through the gap and Clement follows. He pushes the panel back into place and then hammers his elbow into one of the wooden slats.
“What are you doing?” I hiss.
“Not much point standing here if we can’t see what’s going on.”
He then snaps several shards of splintered wood from the slat to create a narrow aperture through which we can view the full width of the car park.
“How long?” he asks.
“Assuming they’re on time, seven minutes.”
“Perfect.”
We take up position and wait. Much to my delight the buzz joins our greeting party.
As it is, we don’t have to wait seven minutes as the sound of a can being kicked down the driveway suddenly breaks the silence. Seconds later Jaydon’s gangly frame comes into view.
He crosses the car park — all the while looking around but paying no great attention to our vantage point — before taking a seat on the arm of the abandoned sofa.
I check my watch — four minutes.
We watch on as Jaydon takes out his phone and stares at the screen. Long seconds tick by and all I can hear is the Leylandii rustling in the light breeze, and my own heart pounding ten to the dozen.
Two minutes.
To calm my nerves I focus on the possibilities if this goes well. We could be minutes away from identifying the ringmaster of the Clawthorn Club. Minutes away from unmasking the Tallyman, and exposing decades of corruption. Minutes away from a once-in-a-lifetime exposé which would propel my career onto a level few journalists ever reach.
I’m about to check my watch for the umpteenth time when the purr of a car engine echoes from the side of the building. My eyes flick towards Clement but his attention is focused on the car park. I look back through the slit just as a black Mercedes Benz enters view. It swings around in a tight loop and comes to a stop with the driver’s window facing our position. Tinted windows keep his identity hidden.
“Get out of the motor,” Clement hisses in barely a whisper.
His request isn’t heeded but instead, the window slides down. The man behind the wheel, the man we suspect is the Tallyman, is clearly visible. I have to clamp a hand across my mouth to prevent an excited shriek escaping. The driver looks a hell of a lot like Terry Brown.
Jaydon gets up from the sofa and saunters over to the side of the Mercedes. Words are exchanged and Brown hands him an envelope which he stuffs into his jacket pocket. The conversation continues and, judging by Jaydon’s animated movement, things appear to be getting heated.
Voices raised and tempers seemingly frayed, suddenly Jaydon delves a hand back into his jacket pocket. At first I fear he’s secured another knife, but when he does extract his hand, it’s holding an altogether more serious weapon.
He aims the pistol squarely at Terry Brown.
“Fucks sake,” Clement groans.
Clearly the kid decided to ignore Clement’s advice, and now wants to counter the weakness Brown identified.
“What shall we do?” I whisper.
“Nothing. Just see how it plays out.”
“What if he shoots Terry Brown?”
“Saves us a job, I ’spose.”
“That’s not funny. If he dies, a hundred questions relating to Clawthorn die with him.”
Clement turns to me. “Do you wanna go disarm the kid?”
I guess he has a point — doing nothing really is the only option.
Turning back to the car park it appears Jaydon has ordered Terry Brown to get out of the car. Dressed in a pair of tan trousers and a navy blazer the obese journalist is leant up against the side of the car with his hands raised in surrender.
“Should I call the police?” I ask Clement.
“Just give it a minute.”
“What if he shoots him?”
“Dunno if that’s likely. I reckon the gun ain’t real.”
“You can tell from this distance?”
“Kinda. If he stopped waving it around I might get a better look.”
Real pistol or not Terry Brown looks petrified as Jaydon continues ranting at him. Eventually he settles on aiming the pistol at Brown’s chest whilst continuing to hurl abuse.
“What do you think?” I ask. “Is it real?”
“Only one way to find out for sure. Stay here and keep out of sight.”
Before I can argue, Clement shoves the fence panel open and steps through the gap. Every fibre of my being wants to drag him back, but his broad strides quickly put thirty feet of tarmac between us.
If his approach was meant to be stealthy, he failed; the windows in the Mercedes reflecting his not-insignificant frame. Jaydon reacts by twisting ninety degrees and taking seven or eight steps back. Now, able to cover both men with the pistol, he waves it left and right between them.
Clement joins Terry Brown by raising his hands in surrender. If he does have a plan, it doesn’t appear to be working — perhaps, now he’s staring straight down the barrel, he’s concluded the initial assessment of the pistol was incorrect.
What the hell do I do?
The obvious, and sensible, answer would be to call the police. Trying to keep my eyes level with the slit I reach down and rummage in my handbag. Touching smooth plastic I extract my phone. The screen lights up just long enough to inform me the battery level is at one percent. The phone then promptly dies.
“Fuck.”
Think, Emma. Think.
Another lucky dip ensues as I drop the phone back and rummage for my purse. Across the car park, Jaydon is in conversation with Clement but the gun is still being waved around with far too much casual abandon for my liking.
I pull out the purse and remove my press card. This is a long shot, and possibly the worst idea I’ve ever had, but as Clement says: needs must.
Holding the card in my hand I step beyond the fence panel and cautiously approach the three men.
I get within fifteen feet, and call out Jaydon’s name. He turns a fraction to his right and points the pistol in my direction. Perhaps detecting a potential distraction tactic, he takes another step or two backwards — far enough that if Clement made a move, he’d have time to discharge the pistol at one or both of us.
Contrary to how I actually feel, I attempt to appear calm, and force my face to adopt an empathetic expression.
“Jaydon,” I say softly. “You don’t want to do this.”
“This is my beef,” he yells. “You two had no fuckin’ right being here.”
“Okay. Tell me what you want?”
Judging by his face, it’s a question he’s rarely asked. If anything his frustration appears to mount.
“I want …” he snaps, pointing the gun at Terry Brown. “I want this prick to know no one threatens my family and gets away with it.”
“If you shoot him, Jaydon, you’ll spend the next fifteen years in prison and you’ll never see your gran again. I know you’re angry, but this isn’t the way to deal with him. ”
He swings the pistol back in my direction.
“Ain’t it?”
“No. I have a much better idea.”
“What?”
I slowly raise my press card and hold it out so
he can see it.
“What the fuck is that?”
“It’s my ID card — I’m a journalist.”
“So what?”
“We’ve been trying to identify him,” I say, nodding towards Terry Brown. “He’s the head of a corrupt organisation and, thanks to you, we’ve now found him. I promise you, if you let us deal with him, he’ll be the one going to prison for a very long time.”
Some kind of thought process appears to take place as Jaydon falls silent. I just need to nudge him a little further in the right direction.
“You’ve met my friend,” I add, looking across at Clement. “He’s very keen to have a chat with him; if you catch my drift.”
Jaydon looks towards Clement who nods confirmation.
“What you gonna do to him?”
“Not sure you wanna know, kid,” Clement replies. “But it ain’t gonna be quick and it ain’t gonna be pretty.”
A slight smile forms on Jaydon’s face. He steps towards Terry Brown with the pistol still raised.
“Looks like you’re in deep shit, mate. I hope you get what’s coming to you.”
He then takes two steps back and tucks the pistol back in his pocket.
“He’s all yours,” he grunts, looking at Clement. “But if he threatens my family again, I’ll kill all of you.”
Point made, pride intact, he lopes away.
Now it’s our turn to meter out some threats and, judging by the look on Terry Brown’s face, I’m confident we’ll soon have some answers.
28.
Before we get down to business, I have one burning question for Clement.
“Was it real; his gun?”
“Yeah, it was.”
“Shit. I think we’ve literally just dodged a bullet.”
We both then turn to Terry Brown.
“Nice to meet you at long last, Terry. I think we need to have a little chat.”
Taking the lead, Clement steps forward and looms over him. I sidle up next to my partner-in-crime so I can look Brown straight in the eye.
I stare at the sad little man. It’s hard to believe he once possessed so much power and influence; that he was the driving force behind a club which has protected so many dark secrets for so many corrupt men for so long.
Now it’s time to shine some light on his shady past.
“There are a hundred questions I want to ask you, Terry, but there’s one that I need to ask first: why?”
Now there is no pistol on the scene Brown appears to gain confidence and stands upright. He’s either brave or stupid, but the expression on his pudgy face looks too close to smug.
“Why what?” he sneers.
“Why you? You’ve had the type of career the likes of me could only dream about. The best jobs, countless awards, both the respect and envy of your peers — why put all that at risk?”
He shakes his head. “You know nothing, woman.”
“Don’t I? Perhaps you’d care to explain then.”
“I’m saying nothing and, if you don’t mind, I think I’m done here.”
He turns and reaches for the door handle, but Clement swiftly deals with his impudence; grabbing him by the throat and slamming him up against the Mercedes.
“You’re goin’ nowhere, pal,” he growls.
Brown grabs Clement’s arm and attempts to pull it away but it’s a contest not worthy of the name. One he has zero chance of winning.
“Let … go,” he rasps.
“You gonna answer our questions?”
“Fuck … you.”
Clement then deploys the same technique which worked so efficiently with Thomas Lang. He grabs a handful of Brown’s crotch and squeezes hard. The journalist’s face reddens, and he squeals like the pig he is. Too bad for him there’s nobody around to hear.
“Say that again,” Clement goads. “I dare you.”
Brown shakes his head with such fervour his jowls wobble like a jelly on a motorbike. Fear replaces smugness.
“You gonna answer our questions?”
The shaking turns to nodding, or a close approximation to nodding, what with a hand wrapped around his throat.
With the threat validated, Clement releases him and takes a step back.
“Shall we start again?” I suggest, glaring at Brown. “From the beginning.”
He lifts his hand and rubs his neck but, thankfully, not his crotch. I give him a few seconds to find a breath.
“What do you want from me?” he eventually rasps.
“Answers, Terry. Answers.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Honestly? It doesn’t really matter as the game is up. We know who you are and, very soon, your whole corrupt club and its members will be exposed, whether you answer my questions or not.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh dear,” I sigh, looking up at Clement. “It appears Terry is having problems with his memory. Perhaps you should take over — see if you can give it a little jog.”
“Wait,” Brown snaps. “You’ve got it all wrong.”
“I don’t think so, Terry, or do you prefer to be called the Tallyman?”
His reaction is not what I expected.
“Call yourself a journalist,” he sneers. “You really don’t have the first clue, do you?”
I swap a frown with Clement.
“I’m not the Tallyman,” Brown continues. “So you can do what you like but it won’t get you anywhere.”
“Bullshit,” I snap.
“I don’t care if you believe me or not, but it’s the truth. Do you honestly think I’d be doing this kind of dirty work if I was the Tallyman?”
“Why are you doing it then? You paid that kid to mug me, and then torch my flat. And it’s bloody obvious you were the one who instigated my suspension at The Daily Standard. Why?”
“I’m not denying any of that but, like every other member of the Clawthorn Club, I didn’t have a choice.”
“With fear of repeating myself — bullshit.”
“Believe what you like but I didn’t want any part of it. I was told if I didn’t deal with you, and your investigation into the Clawthorn Club, my … past misdemeanours … would be made public.”
“What misdemeanours?”
“Like I’m going to tell you.”
“My friend here can be very convincing. Would you like to reconsider before I ask him to get involved again?”
He momentarily glances to the sky and shakes his head.
“I had a gambling addiction,” he sighs. “And it got out of control. To the point I stood to lose everything … until I asked for a favour.”
“Let me guess: via the Tallyman?”
“Yes,” he scowls. “And that favour got me out of a whole world of trouble. It wasn’t exactly legal, though.”
“So you’re saying you did all of this because you were being threatened?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. I thought the Clawthorn Club was ancient history, and it was, until you unearthed that damn notebook and posted the photo online.”
For the first time I detect a modicum of sincerity in his voice. And with that, a crushing sense of realisation — Terry Brown isn’t the Tallyman.
“Who made you do this?”
“Him, of course … the Tallyman.”
“And who exactly is the Tallyman?”
It’s a question asked more in hope than expectation, and if previous form is anything to go by, he won’t know.
His eyes flick towards the ground and he pauses just a fraction too long before answering.
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
“No, I swear. I don’t know.”
I know he’s lying, and I’m pretty sure he knows that — we’ve both been in the journalism game long enough to spot the tell-tale signs. He straightens up and pleads his innocence again; this time ensuring those tell-tale signs are absent. Too late.
“Let’s not mess around here, Terry. If
you’re not our man then we want to know who is.”
“Honestly,” he pleads. “I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do, and I’m going to give you ten seconds to tell me. If you don’t, I won’t be held responsible for my friend’s actions.”
Clement dips a hand into his pocket and removes the knife he confiscated from Jaydon. He flicks the blade from the handle and runs his finger along the edge.
“Sharp as fuck,” he casually remarks, before looking straight at Terry. “I hope you weren’t plannin’ on having any more kids.”
“Please …”
“Ten.”
“For crying out loud, Emma.”
“Nine.”
Clement takes a step forward.
“Eight.”
“I don’t know.”
“Seven.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Six.”
Clement edges a fraction closer.
“Five.”
“You’re going to regret this. I swear.”
“Four.”
He scans left and right looking for a means of escape that doesn’t exist.
“Three.”
“Jesus wept,” he groans. “Fine. I’ll tell you.”
I’m about to press him for the name when his eyes suddenly widen as he stares over my shoulder. Instinctively, I turn to see what’s caught his attention but the muscles in my neck barely get the chance to engage.
An explosive crack rips through the air. Ordinarily I’d put it down to a car exhaust backfiring — if there happened to be another car behind us. I turn my head and there’s no car but a tall, skinny youth brandishing a pistol.
“Jaydon,” I gasp.
Stood twenty feet away, with the pistol pointing straight towards us, his eyes are glazed and expression vacant. I have a nasty feeling his zombie-like demeanour is fuelled by ketamine, or some other hallucinogenic drug. This is not good.
Jaydon takes a few unsteady steps forward; his head lopping left and right as if he’s trying to find focus. He stops maybe fifteen feet away — a distance even the drug-addled youth couldn’t miss from.
He finds a humourless grin. “Threaten my gran … you cunt. You ain’t gettin’ away with that.”
I’m about to try and reason with him when Clement suddenly shoots out an arm in my direction. I receive a shove close to being hit by a truck, and sprawl backwards. Even if I were wearing flats, I’d have struggled to maintain balance — in heels I have no chance. I flounder seven or eight steps before gravity wins and I fall flat on my arse.
Clawthorn (Clement Book 3) Page 24