He answers with an awkward smile.
I open the messaging app — it’s completely empty. Clearly Terry deleted all his messages after he’d read or sent them. Hoping for more luck, I then open the call log and check the number on Alex’s business card.
“Bingo! Terry called Alex yesterday morning.”
“Nice one.”
“And, looking at the time, it was only half-an-hour before Alex called me to arrange our meeting for last night.”
“That nails it then. They must have been working together.”
The evidence is now irrefutable. What isn’t so clear cut is who was pulling their strings, and how we identify and track down that person.
I open the contacts app and inwardly groan. Over five hundred names and, unless Terry was a complete idiot, it’s unlikely he’d have used the name ‘Tallyman’ to identify our foe’s phone number.
“What you doin’?” Clement asks.
“I was just scouring Terry’s contacts but there’s too many to check. Any one of them could be our man.”
“Anything else you can get from that thing?”
“Hold on.”
I open the map app and, from the menu, select the timeline option. Terry’s phone is even older than mine and the slight pause while the screen loads feels like an age. Finally, it opens up, and slap bang in the middle of the screen is the last location the phone registered — The Black Horse Public House.
“Get in,” I whoop.
“I’m guessing you’ve got somethin’?”
“The phone has logged Terry’s last location so it stands to reason it’s been tracking him since he first switched it on.”
“And it’ll tell us where he’s been of late?”
“It will, although I’m not entirely sure what use that will be.”
I check back through the data, day by day. I get as far back as Thursday and, frustratingly, it appears Terry spent most of his time at home, in the pub, or flitting between various restaurants. With a deep sigh, I hit the icon for Wednesday and the same routine flashes up on the screen, right up until nine o’clock in the evening.
“Think I’ve got something.”
“Something?”
“Err, yes, although it could just as easily be nothing.”
“What is it?”
“On Wednesday evening at nine, Terry drove to an address in Dorset. He stayed there overnight and returned first thing on Thursday.”
“From where?”
“His house in Richmond.”
“Bit late in the day to schlep all the way from West London to Dorset don’t you reckon?”
Beyond Terry’s late night dash to the south coast there’s something about Wednesday evening that feels relevant. I need to check my own phone, specifically the image gallery, but I won’t be doing that until I can charge it.
“Listen, I know it’s not great timing but I need to go shopping. I’ve got to buy some clothes, and a charger for my phone.”
“It’s alright. You want me to tag along?”
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
“Might be for the best. I don’t think our friend is gonna be too happy when he learns Fat Terry is dead.”
“You might be right, and I guess I’ll need to get a new sim card too. I don’t know how Alex did it, but I don’t want him tracking us again — gives me the creeps.”
“What’s a sim card?”
“It’s … don’t worry about it. Anyway, I’m pretty sure he can’t track us with the phone switched off.”
“Let’s hope not. Don’t want anyone to find out I willingly went clothes shopping with a bird. I’ve got a reputation to protect.”
“You have a reputation?” I reply, with a wry smile.
“Maybe once,” he snorts. “Not anymore.”
We finish our drinks and leave the coffee shop. From memory the nearest place with any shops is Kensal Town; a short walk away. It’s not exactly blessed with retail options but I don’t have the time, inclination, or budget to head anywhere better.
One hour, and two hundred quid, later I manage to acquire the wardrobe options of a teenage boy: a couple of pairs of jeans, basic underwear, a few sweaters, a decent coat, socks, and a pair of trainers. It’ll have to do for now.
Of perhaps more importance we find a mobile phone shop where I’m able to buy a new sim card and a charger. The only question is where I charge my phone, and that means returning to Clement’s flat — possibly the only place more depressing than Kensal Town on a gloomy Sunday afternoon.
“I need to charge my phone, and change out of this bloody dress. Shall we head back to yours?”
“Yeah. Guess so.”
It appears Clement is equally unenthusiastic about his home; a subject I decide to explore as we wander back.
“Don’t you want to settle down at some point?”
“Settle down?”
“Yes. Live in a nice, comfortable house — maybe one with actual heating and mould-free ceilings.”
“Point taken.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound sarky. I’m just interested in what you see — you know — for the future.”
“Like I’ve said, doll I don’t plan too far ahead.”
“But at some point you have to. Surely you don’t want to just drift aimlessly for the rest of your days?”
“Don’t know how many days I’ve got.”
“None of us do, Clement, which is why it’s important to make the most of every one.”
With no reply I look up and immediately wish I could read him better. I’ve no idea if my words are hitting home or he’s thinking about his next fry-up.
“Maybe you’re right,” he eventually sighs.
In an attempt to lighten the mood I nudge him in the ribs with my elbow.
“I’m a woman — of course I’m right. Haven’t you learnt that much?”
He smiles down at me. “There ain’t enough lifetimes, doll.”
It’s minor progress and I’m happy to leave the conversation on a positive note. We walk in a comfortable silence, although I do occasionally glance up at Clement, hoping for a hint at what’s going on behind those eyes of his. I’ve learnt precisely nothing by the time we step through the door of his crappy home.
“Do you mind if I get changed?”
“Help yourself. You know the way to the bedroom.”
“Which one? The one in the west wing, or the east wing?”
“Keep that up and you’ll be kipping on the sofa.”
I have no intention of kipping on the sofa.
After a quick attempt to freshen-up in the distinctly unfresh bathroom, I change into jeans and a sweater.
Returning to the lounge, the gas heater is on and the kettle rumbling away. I like coffee as much as the next woman but Clement’s appetite for tea is on a different scale.
“I notice you don’t have a TV,” I remark, taking a seat on the sofa.
“Nothing worth watching these days.”
“What do you do for entertainment of an evening?”
“Listen to the radio. Play cards.”
“You play cards on your own?”
“Solitaire. It’s the only game in town, they reckon.”
“My mum loved that song — The Carpenters wasn’t it?”
“Preferred the Andy Williams version.”
He returns to his hot beverage duties while I scan the room for a power socket. Spotting one in the corner, I get up and plug my phone into the new charger, but not before swapping-out the sim card.
I switch the phone on and once it’s awake, I scroll through to my image gallery, looking for one photo in particular.
The result summons the buzz.
“How’s this for a coincidence then, Clement? Terry’s little excursion to Dorset took place not long after I first took those photos of the notebook and posted them online. Or at least, I thought I posted them.”
“Online? That’s where everyone can see shit, right?”
“So, you show the photos of the notebook to the world, and then within an hour or two, the photos get deleted and this Terry Brown bloke takes a trip down to Dorset.”
“Exactly. But who did he go and see, and why?”
“Don’t suppose you can tell who he visited?”
“Well I don’t think it was Alex. I’m sure he mentioned he lives somewhere south of the river.”
“Cos he’s been really honest so far, ain’t he?”
A sarcastic, but fair, point.
“I’ll check.”
On this occasion, the land registry records don’t provide the name of an individual, but a company.
“The property in Dorset belongs to a company called Sturgeon Holdings.”
“Who the fuck are they?”
“No idea.”
I open another tab and search the Companies House records. Nothing.
“I’ve got a nasty feeling, Clement, it’s an overseas company.”
“Not traceable then?”
“I think they’re currently changing the laws, but as it stands there’s no way of finding out who owns that company — certainly not with our limited resources.”
I return to the sofa as Clement hands me a mug of coffee and sits down.
“What do you wanna do next?” he asks.
“I’m not sure, but I tell you what I don’t want to do, and that’s anything rash. I think it would be best if we work out a proper strategy rather than attack Alex all guns blazing.”
“He’s the obvious target, doll. We just need him to talk.”
“But what if he doesn’t know anything? As you said, he could just be hired help, or blackmailed help for all we know, because I still can’t get my head around his involvement.”
“If that’s what you wanna do.”
“I think it would be best. Besides, the last few days have been exhausting and I just want to stop and catch my breath.”
“Quiet night in then.”
“Would that be so bad?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“If you’re gonna order in another takeaway.”
I slap his arm. “You’ve got a one-track mind, and not in a good way.”
“Tell you what, though, after we’ve eaten, I can show you how to play solitaire.”
“I’d like that.”
“But I ’spose I’d better go get some milk first.”
I nod before taking a sip of coffee. “You’ve run out?”
“Nah, it’s just a bit lumpy.”
Words, and thankfully my taste buds, fail me.
“Don’t worry,” he adds. “I poured it through a tea strainer.”
“Jesus, Clement — if any man needed a woman in his life, it’s you.”
“Maybe,” he replies, getting to his feet. “Won’t be long.”
“You’re going now? What about your tea?”
He looks into his cup and grimaces. “Think I’ll leave it.”
Thirty seconds after he’s left, I pour my coffee down the sink.
True to his word, Clement returns ten minutes later with milk, and a bottle of wine. He hands it over with an apology.
“Wine ain’t my thing so … sorry if it’s shit.”
I take the bottle and don’t even bother reading the label. It could be Blue Nun for all I care — the thought truly does count in Clement’s case.
“No, it’s exactly what I drink. Thank you.”
“Good. I’m gonna go grab a shower. Do you wanna order in some dinner?”
“Chow mein by any chance?”
“You’re learning, doll.”
He then disappears off to the bathroom. I retrieve my phone and open the delivery app to order a Chinese. My usual takeaway doesn’t cover this area so I take pot luck with the nearest, and I’m informed it’ll be an hour’s wait.
I’m about to sit back on the sofa when a sound emanating from the bathroom grabs my attention. I stand and listen for a moment.
“No, it can’t be.”
Someone is singing Solitaire — someone who can’t possibly be Clement.
Awestruck, I continue to listen. A cliché perhaps, but he actually possesses the voice of an angel — albeit an angel who smokes twenty Marlboro a day.
I remain motionless: just listening. It’s then I make a decision which I may live to regret. Whether I regret it within the next sixty seconds, or down the line, remains to be seen.
A dozen steps to the bathroom door. To the soundtrack of Clement’s voice and splashing water I strip away my new clothes. There is every chance I’m about to make a complete fool of myself but the need is too great and the desire too strong.
I take a deep breath and glance down at my naked body.
“Good luck, girl,” I whisper to myself.
I open the door and step into the bathroom.
30.
Seven o’clock on a Monday morning and not even the shrill alarm on my phone can ruin this bliss. Clement’s bedroom is bathed in muted light, and beyond the window the dawn chorus is well underway.
My high-risk strategy paid off. After Clement got over his initial shock — and I got over mine in fairness — I joined him in the shower. We virtually attacked one another and the frenzy continued until the water ran cold. Without even bothering to dry-off we moved through to the bedroom. I already knew Clement was perpetually hungry, but on this occasion his appetite surpassed ravenous. We fucked like animals: primal, raw, insatiable. There was an intensity; a need, like I have never felt before, and there was no doubt in my mind I wasn’t alone in that feeling.
Maybe half-an-hour after I first stepped through the bathroom door we lay exhausted. Spent. The hunger sated.
Dinner arrived and we ate it in bed with a glass or two of wine — well, I had the wine — Clement, true to form, supped from a can of lager. He then tried to teach me how to play solitaire but there was only one game I wanted to play, and it sure as hell didn’t involve a deck of cards.
Sure enough the cards fell to the carpet as I fell further under Clement’s spell. With no need for urgency, and certainly with no thoughts of Clawthorn, Alex Palmer, my lost home, or the tally-fucking-man, we spent the remainder of the evening lost in one another until I fell into a deep, contented slumber.
“Morning, doll. Sleep well?”
Clement stands before me, naked, holding two mugs. He carefully hands me one.
“I slept very well indeed, thank you. You?”
“Yeah, you wore me out,” he chuckles.
I take a sip of coffee before placing my mug on the bedside table.
“Did I?” I reply, with a mischievous grin. “So, are you now feeling suitably re-energised?”
He places his mug down next to mine. “Maybe. Why?”
“Hop into bed and I’ll tell you.”
“You could tell me now.”
“I think you’d prefer a practical demonstration.”
No further enticement is required. Clement climbs back into bed and we set about creating our own dawn chorus — only louder and filthier.
It could have lasted all morning and it still wouldn’t have been long enough. As it is, forty-five minute later we have to face reality again.
We sit up in bed and sip at our near-cold beverages. It doesn’t take long for my mind to pose a question — a predictable question now we’ve crossed the line. I feel compelled to ask it.
“This is a bit awkward but, am I … is this … just a one-off?”
“Is that what you want?”
“Christ, no.”
“Then it goes where it goes, doll.”
“What does that mean?”
After a brief pause, I get my answer. “It means neither of us knows what’s around the corner. Let’s just take it one day at a time.”
“That’s not exactly reassuring.”
“You want me to make a p
romise I might not be able to keep?”
“Well, no, but I was hoping you might see some kind of future, you know, for us.”
“I do. I mean, I can.”
“But?”
He turns to me and strokes my face; the roughness of his hand a stark contrast to the softness of his gaze.
“Let’s see where we are once this Clawthorn business is dealt with.”
“Okay, but I just need to know: this is more than just a one-night-stand for you?”
“Yeah. Far more.”
“That’s good enough for me.”
Suddenly, I have more motivation than ever to unmask the Tallyman and put the whole saga to bed.
“Oh, and Clement.”
“What?”
“One final question. How was last night?”
“Pretty fuckin’ spectacular, as it goes.”
“Spectacular for … what was it you said? A bird who’s a bit on the old side for your taste, wasn’t it?”
“Eh?”
“That’s what you said when we first met. Remember?”
“Oh, yeah. Should have known you wouldn’t forget.”
“Women never forget an insult, Clement. Ever.”
I slither out of bed with a wink and head off to the bathroom.
After a far less interesting shower, I get dressed and decide additional caffeine is urgently required. I find Clement on the sofa staring into space.
“Penny for them.”
“They ain’t worth a penny, doll.”
“Just as long as they’re not regretful thoughts.”
“Nah.”
“Tea?”
“Yeah, go on.”
I put the kettle on and wash up our mugs. As I wait for it to boil, I turn around to find Clement still away with the fairies.
“Is there something wrong?” I ask.
“Eh?”
“You’re miles away.”
“Just thinkin’, that’s all.”
“About anything in particular?”
“What would happen if we just walked away from all of this?”
“This?”
“Yeah, the whole Clawthorn thing. Maybe things would turn out okay if we just … I dunno, did nothin’.”
“What makes you say that?”
He reflects on my question for a moment before answering with a question of his own. “Do you believe we all have a destiny in life?”
Clawthorn (Clement Book 3) Page 26