From my vantage point on the tarmac I’m afforded a ringside seat of proceedings. It’s then I realise why Clement shoved me away — I’m no longer directly in Jaydon’s line of fire. And fire he does: once, twice, three times in quick succession. Unlike the movies, there is no cloud of gun smoke — just a succession of ear-splitting cracks; each so loud my internal organs rattle.
Jaydon then takes two steps forward and fires twice more. Six shots in total; five at near point-blank range.
His arm then drops to his side. I don’t know for sure but I seem to recall a pistol only holds six bullets. One would have been enough to accomplish his aim.
My head snaps to the left fearing the absolute worst. There is no word capable of describing the relief of seeing Clement still standing. Whether he’s been hit or not I don’t know. I scramble to my feet.
Terry Brown is definitely not standing; rather slumped on the floor with his head bowed forward.
I race towards Clement.
“Oh my God,” I scream. “Are you okay? Have you been hit?”
He looks down at Terry Brown. “Nah, but he has.”
Albeit limited, I have received first aid training although it never covered treating multiple gunshot wounds. I squat down next to Terry and examine the extent of his injuries.
“Terry! Terry! Can you hear me?”
A slight groan but nothing more.
His once pale-blue shirt is now crimson red, and the air thick with the scent of fresh blood.
“He’s a goner, doll,” Clement says in a low voice. “Leave him.”
“No, no,” I yell back. “We’ve got to do something.”
I turn my attention back to Terry. The hopelessness of the situation then hits me harder than Clement’s shove. I can’t be sure how many times he’s been hit but, judging by the amount of blood, it must have been at least two or three times. Multiple wounds, all around his chest, and no way to stop the bleeding. Worse still, with a flat phone battery I can’t even call for an ambulance.
A thought occurs. I look up at Clement.
“Have you got your phone with you.”
“Yeah.”
“Then call a fucking ambulance.”
He reaches into the inside pocket of his waistcoat while I try to reassure Terry.
“Terry … can you hear me? We’re just calling an ambulance so hang on in there.”
On the scale of moronic advice my words surpass stupid. What is he going to do? Look at me and say, “Yeah, sure. I’ll just stop dying for a minute or two.”
His breathing is shallow, raspy, and worryingly faint. A trickle of blood begins to ooze from the corner of his mouth.
I look back up at Clement. He’s frowning at the phone with his finger poised.
“What are you doing?” I yell. “Give it here.”
I grab the phone and jab the keypad. Just as I’m about to hit the call button, Terry suddenly finds the strength to lift his head a fraction and open his eyes.
I wish he hadn’t. So much fear and so little I can do to ease it.
He tries to say something but the words won’t come. He swallows and tries again, but all he manages is a baby-like gurgle. Fear becomes frustration as his brow furrows, and his bottom lip bobs up and down.
It suddenly dawns on me that perhaps he’s trying to air a dying confession. Could he be about to reveal the identity of the Tallyman?
I lean in so my ear is inches from his mouth, and vice versa.
“What is it, Terry? What are you trying to say?”
Another sound that might be a word — just not one in any English dictionary. I should feel some guilt for caring more about his confession than his impending death but when he does finally slip away, so does our last chance of knowing the Tallyman’s true identity.
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
The same noise, repeated. Frustration mounts.
“Are you trying to say a name?”
He coughs something that sounds a lot like ‘bird’.
“Bird?” I repeat.
He makes the same noise but this time it sounds nothing like ‘bird’. Clearly I’m on the wrong track.
“Try again, Terry. Take your time.”
Considering time is the one thing Terry has very little of, perhaps not the best advice I’ve ever offered.
I should really call that ambulance.
Withdrawing a couple of feet, I’m about to hit the call button on Clement’s phone when Terry suddenly gasps a long, ragged breath — a breath which isn’t exhaled.
His eyes continue to stare in my direction but there’s no longer any fear. There’s no longer any anything.
Clement squats down next to me and puts his hand on my shoulder.
“He’s gone, doll.”
“No. No … he can’t be.”
I’m not so much mourning the death of the man, but our last lead.
“We need to get out of here,” Clement adds. “The place will be swarming with Old Bill soon.”
With one dead journalist at our feet, and Jaydon having already scarpered, he’s probably right. I can’t even begin to think how we’d explain our motive for being here.
I stand up and take a final glance at Terry Brown’s bullet-ridden corpse. It’s hard to find any sympathy, and whatever professional respect I had is now as dead as the man himself. Clearly Clement has little respect either as he delves a hand inside Terry’s jacket.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Looking for his wallet.”
“Jesus Christ. You’re robbing a corpse?”
“I don’t want his cash. I wanna see if he’s got anything which might give us a bleedin’ clue where to look next.”
“Oh, sorry. See if he’s got a phone, too.”
He continues to rummage through Terry’s pockets and plucks out both a wallet and a mobile phone.
“Right. Let’s get out of here,” he then orders.
The faint sound of sirens is all the motivation I need.
We walk briskly away from the pub and, rather than head back along the road, we cut through the estate; the maze of alleyways delaying our journey but providing an anonymous passage back to the Tube station.
As we walk a latent sense of shock catches up. It’s nowhere near as severe as last night, but the heightened heart rate and prickling anxiety certainly make their presence felt.
I turn to Clement. “I can’t believe what just happened.”
“I know. Back in the day, gettin’ hold of a shooter was bleedin’ hard. Now every wannabe gangster has one.”
I shake my head.
“I wasn’t referring to the fact Jaydon had a pistol. I was referring to the fact you should be heading to the mortuary with Terry Brown.”
“Eh?”
“That kid shot five bullets at point-blank range, and God only knows how, but not one of them even grazed you.”
“Guess I’m lucky,” he shrugs.
“Lucky?” I repeat, incredulous. “It’s a bloody miracle you weren’t hit.”
“They happen, now and again.”
I don’t share his nonchalant attitude.
“You were a hair’s breadth from being shot … from being killed. How can you be so casual about it?”
“Maybe I’ve got a death wish.”
I stop dead and grab his arm. “Please, don’t say that. Not even in jest.”
He looks at the pavement, and then at me. “Sorry.”
The sincerity in his eyes prompts another thought: if it hadn’t been for his quick thinking, I could have shared some of the bullets Terry took.
“You can’t die, Clement. Who else would step in and save me when I’m being shot at?”
My smile masks a sobering thought. Perhaps the shock, but I share it without thinking.
“I’ve lost enough people I care about. I don’t want you to join that list.
Just as I expect him to laugh my concerns away he does the opposite. Without saying a word, he wraps his
arms around me — it’s like being cocooned in a giant, nicotine-scented security blanket.
Time passes, and I have no desire to remove myself from Clement’s arms. That decision is then taken off the table as he kisses me gently on the top of my head, and steps back.
“You ain’t really lost them, doll,” he says softly. “They just ain’t here no more.”
“Who?”
“The people you cared about.”
I gulp hard. “You think?”
“I know.”
I’ve heard a lot of beautiful words over the years but none as sweet as Clement’s. I appreciate it’s just hollow sentiment, but if I try hard, I could almost believe him.
“Thank you, for saving my life, and for being … for caring.”
“It’s what I’m here for — to look out for you.”
That too, feels almost believable.
29.
After arriving back at Kensal Green I suggest we visit a coffee shop to discuss our next move; if indeed there is a next move.
We secure a table in the corner, away from potential eavesdroppers, and Clement takes his first disapproving slurp of tea.
“Don’t like these places,” he complains. “The tea always tastes like gnat’s piss.”
“And the coffee in that cafe this morning tasted like used engine oil. I guess we’ll have to find a compromise otherwise this relationship is doomed.”
My comment may have been tongue in cheek but Clement’s lack of response jars somewhat.
“Anyway,” I cough. “Shall we see if Terry’s wallet or phone offer us anything to go on?”
He dips a hand into his pocket and removes a black leather wallet and then a mobile phone. As he places them on the table, I reach for the wallet first and open it up.
The right-hand section contains a row of credit cards and Terry’s driving licence. Beyond that, a section for bank notes containing sixty pounds in cash. I pull out the notes, hand half to Clement, and tuck the rest in my pocket.
“I think he owes us that,” I remark.
On the left-hand side there’s a zipped pouch presumably designed for loose change. I undo the zip and find a wad of business cards — no great surprise as you can never have enough contacts in our line of work. I pull them out and place them on the table before returning my attention to the final section of the wallet. That contains a condom and a train ticket purchased a year ago. Considering Terry’s physical appearance, I’d speculate the condom has lived in his wallet significantly longer than the train ticket.
“Anything?” Clement asks.
“Nothing.”
He reaches over and picks up the pile of business cards. He then flicks through them, sparing a second or two on each, before tossing it onto the table.
“What are you looking for?” I ask.
“Dunno really. Just seeing if any of the names ring a bell.”
He drops the last card on the table.
“And do they?”
“Nope.”
Clement sits back in his seat and reaches for his cup. Perhaps I’m being overly cautious, but I don’t think it would be sensible to leave a murder victim’s business cards scattered across the table of a coffee shop. I brush them into a pile so I can return them to the wallet which I’ll lose down a drain later.
As I do, I catch a flash of a distinctive, brightly coloured logo on one of the cards. Instantly, it strikes me as familiar — but not as familiar as the name on the card. I pluck it from the table and double-check I’m not mistaken.
“Holy shit,” I gasp. “I don’t believe it.”
“What?”
“The name on this business card — Alex Palmer.”
“Who’s he?”
“You’ve got a shocking memory, Clement. Alex is the guy I met at The Three Horseshoes last night — the guy who offered me a job. We used to work together.”
“Right. And?”
“It’s a bit of a coincidence Terry has his business card don’t you think?”
The moustache receives a customary stroke or two as I wait for a reply.
“The only two men who knew you weren’t at home last night; they knew each other?” he eventually surmises.
“Exactly. And one of those men admitted he instigated the fire while I was out with the other.”
I think back to the conversation with Alex. There was a moment, when I said I was leaving, when he appeared edgy. I put that down to disappointment, but perhaps it was because he knew Jaydon was due to start the fire at a certain time after dark, and he needed me to stay a while longer. He did seem to relax a little after I said I was meeting a friend in the pub for dinner.
“They’ve gotta be working together,” Clement suggests.
“It would be one hell of a coincidence I’ll give you that.”
“But?” he replies, detecting the hesitancy in my voice.
“Alex is more or less the same age as me so when the Clawthorn Club was in its heyday he’d have been a kid. And all the other members we know of are much older.”
“Was his surname in the notebook?”
“I’d check if my battery wasn’t dead but I’m fairly sure it wasn’t. I’d have remembered a familiar name.”
“I don’t remember it either.”
“So we can assume Alex wasn’t a member of the Clawthorn Club. And he sure as hell can’t be the Tallyman as he’s far too young.”
Clement thinks for a moment before sitting forward and resting his elbows on the table.
“Maybe he was just hired help like the kid?”
“But why him? Take it from me, Clement, Alex Palmer is a drip, and I can’t believe he’d have the balls to get involved in anything like this.”
“But he clearly is as our dead friend had his business card, and the facts don’t lie. We need to dig deeper.”
The evidence is compelling but not conclusive. Coincidences happen all the time, and many a former colleague has fallen on their sword by presuming such coincidences to be the truth.
“Is there any other connection between them? Think, doll.”
I’m already one step ahead — scouring my mind back years to the possible times Alex Palmer and Terry Brown might have crossed paths. Alex, like Terry, was a journalist once and, although I don’t think they worked together, it’s possible they met. It’s not a theory I can prove one way or the other though.
As I cast my mind back further and further memories of my time working with Eric come to the fore. It only serves to remind me how much I miss him, and how I’d give anything for his advice and guidance about now.
And then, to my own astonishment, those same memories of Eric deliver an epiphany.
“Eric’s funeral,” I blurt. “Terry mentioned he was there when I first spoke to him, and I know for sure Alex was there as he accosted me.”
“And did they talk?”
“I … I honestly don’t know. I left the moment the service ended, and I couldn’t face the wake.”
“So, it’s possible they knew each other before this?”
“It’s possible, but it doesn’t explain why Alex would get involved and, more to the point, why either Terry or the bloody Tallyman would want him involved.”
“What does he do for a living?”
“Oh, something …”
My mind races ahead, leaving my mouth redundant.
“Ohh. Shit.”
“What?”
“Alex works for a telecoms company.”
“Like phones, you mean?”
“Yes. Specifically mobile phones.”
“Like the blokes in that shop you took me to?”
“Oh, no — nothing like that. Alex’s company manages software for mobile networks.”
Clement’s expression is already edging towards bewildered. I fear this might take some explaining.
“It’s complicated but, in a nutshell, Alex’s company has access to the networks which most mobile phones are connected to. Those networks allow users to make c
alls, send text messages, and access the Internet.”
“Gotcha, I think.”
“And someone with that access would be able to track the whereabouts of any mobile phone.”
“You might wanna get to the point, doll.”
“Remember that night in Paddington when we were in that shithole of a pub?”
“The one with the barmaid with cracking knockers?”
“Yes,” I frown. “That one.”
“What about it?”
“I received a text message telling me to leave the notebook on the table. Remember?”
“Yeah.”
“And we couldn’t work out how anyone knew exactly where we were?”
“Right.”
“Well, if someone had access to the mobile network data, they’d be able to pinpoint my exact location by tracking my mobile phone.”
Finally it appears Clement has cottoned on to the significance of Alex’s job.
“Are you saying this Alex bloke can track you wherever you go?”
“I think so, although I’m just putting two and two together. This could be any number but four though.”
“It’d explain why they’d want him involved.”
“Perhaps, but it’s not enough on its own. We need more.”
That conclusion leads to two hopes. Firstly, Terry’s phone isn’t protected by either a password or a fingerprint. And secondly, it contains another link between him and Alex.
I snatch the phone from the table and press the button on the side. The screen immediately lights up.
“Thank Christ for that. No password.”
“What are you looking for?” Clement asks.
“Phone records and text messages primarily, but this operating system also has in-built tracking so you can look back and see where you were on any given day. The default setting is usually set to ‘on’, but if Terry deactivated it, it’s not going to help us.”
“Are you saying these mobile phones know where you are all the time, and record it?”
“Most of them, yes.”
“Fuck. I wouldn’t wanna be married in this day and age.”
“Good job I wasn’t about to propose then, isn’t it?”
Clawthorn (Clement Book 3) Page 25