Clawthorn (Clement Book 3)

by Keith A Pearson

“Not really.”

  “But imagine if we did. What if I was supposed to help you solve this Clawthorn business but I chose not to?”

  “I’m not with you, Clement. Who or what could make you do anything you didn’t want to do? Everything that’s happened has been because we decided to make it happen.”

  “Did we?”

  “Well, yeah. I don’t believe the Universe has some pre-determined plan for any of us. We make our own decisions and set our own destiny.”

  “And what if you’re wrong about that? What if we’re all here for a specific reason?”

  Ordinarily, I’d laugh-off any such suggestion but the look on Clement’s face doesn’t fill me with mirth. He actually appears deadly serious.

  “Okay, that sounds a lot like an excuse to run away, Clement. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  An obvious contender for ‘something’ suddenly parks itself at the front of my mind.

  “Wait … please don’t tell me you’re married.”

  “No, I ain’t married.”

  “Thank Christ for that.”

  “But I … ahh, fuck it. Just forget I said anythin’.”

  “No, I won’t. Come on, tell me.”

  “Alright,” he sighs. “It’s just … I wanna have a life again you know, settle down, do the normal shit normal people do.”

  “What’s so bad about that? It’s what I want too — I think it’s what everyone wants when it comes down to it.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve got this nigglin’ voice in my head that just won’t shut up.”

  I perch myself on the sofa next to him.

  “That’s perfectly normal. Everyone has doubts when they make changes in their life. In time that niggling voice will fall silent — I promise.”

  He looks up at the ceiling and closes his eyes. For such a strong man, he appears to be suffering from an uncharacteristic bout of self-doubt.

  “You don’t have commitment issues, do you?” I ask.

  He opens his eyes and looks at me.

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “You don’t have a mortgage or even a proper job. You don’t appear to own very much, and you’re still single. Come to think of it, I’ve never met anyone who has less commitments than you.”

  “I had commitments, once.”

  “What happened?”

  “Don’t really wanna talk about it.”

  “Come on — throw me a bone, at least. I just want to be sure I’m not wasting my time here.”

  “You’re not.”

  “So? What happened?”

  “All you need to know is … one evening my life changed forever. Everything I had, everything I knew, ended that moment.”

  The kettle comes to a boil and he gets up.

  Clearly something awful happened to him and, whatever it was, it must have been traumatic. It almost feels like he’s given up on living a normal life; like he’s lost and is now just wandering aimlessly looking for someone to guide him. If we’re to have a future, I need to tread carefully, and let him open up as and when he’s ready.

  I stand and sidle up to him.

  “Whatever happened,” I say softly, taking his hand. “I want you to know it doesn’t matter — not to me. And if you don’t feel you can talk about it, that’s fine by me too.”

  He replies with a slight nod and a squeeze of my hand.

  “And if you really want to drop this whole Clawthorn nonsense, I’m good with that too. Not that I had a choice in the matter but my life is now a blank canvas. I no longer have a job tying me down and, once the insurance company deal with my claim, I can easily sell or rent the flat.”

  “A blank canvas. Kinda like the sound of that.”

  “Me too, but as you say: one day at a time.”

  “Yeah. One day at a time.”

  “But for now,” I add, slapping his backside. “I’ll let you make me a coffee.”

  I kiss him on the cheek and let him get on with my request.

  Retrieving my phone from the corner of the lounge, I return to the sofa and switch it on. Unsurprisingly, as I have a new sim card, there are no voicemail or text messages. I check my email.

  In amongst the usual crap I’m surprised to see three emails from Gini — all sent yesterday evening. Clearly they can’t be work-related but maybe she wanted to meet up for a drink, and to chat through her wedding plans for the umpteenth time.

  I open the first email.

  It’s just a single line stating she’s left three voicemail messages and needs to speak to me.

  With mild concern, I open the second email.

  Virtually the same message but with the word ‘urgently’ added at the end.

  With some trepidation I open the third email.

  Again, it’s almost the same message but in block capital letters with half-a-dozen exclamation marks at the end. It also lacks any niceties Gini usually adds to her emails — it’s more a demand than a request.

  “Problem?” Clement asks, handing me a mug.

  “Err, I’m not sure. I’ve got a few worrying messages from a girl in the office.

  “Not your problem now.”

  “I don’t think it’s anything to do with work. I’d better call her.”

  “Alright. I’m gonna grab a shower and then I’ll nip out and get something for breakfast.”

  I nod, but I’m only half-listening. My mind is already racing with the possible reasons why Gini is so desperate to contact me. I make the call.

  “Hello,” she answers within three rings.

  “Gini, it’s me, Emma.”

  “Where the hell have you been?” she barks, her voice taut. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you since six o’clock last night.”

  “Long story, but I had to change my number and I’ve only just seen your emails. What’s the big panic?”

  “It’s Danny,” she blurts, presumably referring to her fiancé.

  “Right. What about Danny?”

  “He popped out for some milk yesterday afternoon and …”

  Her voice breaks and it’s clear she’s trying to keep a grip on her emotions.

  “Gini, what is it?”

  “A car mounted the pavement and ran him down.”

  “My God. Is he okay?”

  “Severe concussion and he’s broken his leg, and his pelvis.”

  “But he’s not … nothing life threatening?”

  “The doctor said it was a miracle he didn’t sustain worse injuries than he did.”

  As shocking as Gini’s news is I’m not sure why she needed to share it with me so urgently.

  “Um, obviously I’m horrified what happened to poor Danny, but why the urgency to get hold of me? Surely you should be with your fiancé now?”

  “Because, Emma, it wasn’t an accident.”

  “Eh? The police have already determined that?”

  “No, they haven’t. I know it wasn’t an accident because I received a phone call at the hospital.”

  “From who?”

  “Someone calling himself Allen Tamthy.”

  My blood runs cold.

  “You know the name, don’t you?” Gini continues. “Because he certainly knows you.”

  “What did he say?” I gulp.

  “What happened to Danny was because of your actions … an eye for an eye, he said.”

  Clearly the Tallyman found out about Terry Brown’s unfortunate passing, but how the hell did he know I was even there? Then I remember — my phone. The battery died not long after we arrived at The Black Horse, but it must have been on long enough for it to be tracked by Alex.

  “This is really important, Gini. What else did he say?”

  “He said I’d be next unless you keep your nose out of his business once and for all.”

  The reason Gini’s anger is aimed in my direction now makes sense. What doesn’t make sense is why the Tallyman targeted my friend, and not me. I can only assume news of Clement’s presence has got back to him and he’s
chosen a softer target to make his point. This is now serious.

  “Listen, Gini,” I say, as calmly as I can. “It’s for the best I don’t tell you the specifics because I don’t want to put you or Danny at further risk, but what I will tell you is I was investigating a story and it appears I’ve upset someone enough for them to warn me off. I can’t tell you how sorry I am that you and Danny have been dragged into it.”

  “You’re sorry?” she snaps. “I don’t want your apologies, Emma — I want your full cooperation.”

  “My what?”

  “I’m not going to let this Allen Tamthy get away with what he’s done to my Danny so you’re going to tell me everything. I’m going to ensure his face is plastered across the front page so everyone knows what he did.”

  “No, you’re bloody-well not.”

  “You can’t stop me.”

  “This isn’t a game, Gini. That man is dangerous and you need to drop it. Understood?”

  “What, like you would?”

  Touché.

  “I’ve already hit a brick wall and given up. There’s nothing to investigate.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You should, because I’m your friend, and I’m telling you: nothing good will come of this.”

  “So, you’re not going to help me?”

  “Gini, please, just leave it.”

  “Absolutely not. I’ll give it twenty-four hours and if you don’t share what you know about this man, I’ll find out on my own.”

  “Gini, please …”

  “Twenty-four hours, Emma, and then I’m going to use every resource The Daily Standard has in order to track that bastard down.”

  “If you want me to beg …”

  She ends the call.

  “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

  I throw my phone on the sofa and pad up and down the threadbare carpet. Gini might be young and naive but she’s also one of the most dogged reporters on the payroll of The Daily Standard. It seems too much of my influence has rubbed off on her.

  Clement wanders in with a towel wrapped around his waist.

  “What’s wrong? Why all the fucks?”

  “We’ve got a problem.”

  “We’re not out of milk again?”

  “This is serious, Clement.”

  “Gimme a minute.”

  He leaves the room and returns fully dressed.

  “So?”

  “Sit down.”

  I join him on the sofa and relay what Gini told me. He doesn’t appear to share my concern.

  “What’s the big deal? She ain’t gonna get anywhere.”

  “Whether she does or doesn’t is irrelevant. The fact she’s even digging around will be enough to put her at risk.”

  “I reckon you’re worrying about nothin’, doll.”

  “You don’t know Gini and, besides, she isn’t thinking straight. This is too personal for her.”

  “Yeah, but the Tallyman and Clawthorn ain’t our problem now, is it?”

  I pause a fraction too long before attempting to answer, and Clement picks up on my hesitancy.

  “I don’t like that look on your face,” he says with a scowl.

  “I know we discussed walking away, but things have changed.”

  “Not for me they ain’t.”

  “I think we should do what you first suggested.”

  “Which was?”

  “We pay Alex a visit and drill some answers out of him.”

  “And, as you suggested, what if he don’t have any answers?”

  “We have to try.”

  “No, we don’t.”

  I shuffle closer and take his hand.

  “If we don’t, and anything happens to Gini, I’ll never forgive myself. No matter how remote it might be, there’s still a chance to put this to bed, and I have to take it.”

  “Fucks sake, doll. Can’t you just talk her out of it? She can forget about it, we can forget about it, and maybe we’ll all live happily bleedin’ after.”

  “How can I stop her, eh? Tell me, because I honestly don’t know.”

  “I dunno. Want me to threaten her?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “You’re the one being ridiculous. This ain’t our beef now, so why carry on? If some bird wants to waste her time chasing shadows then let her. You’ve told her the bloke is dangerous and she chose to ignore you. It’s her problem, not ours.”

  “Fine,” I snap, pulling my hand away. “It’s not our problem now, but it is mine, and I’m going to talk to Alex — with or without you.”

  I snatch up my phone and storm through to the bedroom. A minute passes before a modicum of composure returns. I dial Alex’s number.

  “Alex Palmer,” he answers.

  “Hi, Alex. It’s Emma.”

  “Oh, your name didn’t come up on my screen.”

  “No, I lost my phone. This is my new number.”

  I can almost hear his brain ticking as it dawns on him he can no longer track me.

  “Sorry to hear that,” he replies.

  Yeah, I bet you are.

  “Anyway, I’ve had a think about the job, and I think I’m close to making a decision.”

  “Oh, really. And are you close to a yes, or a no?”

  “More a yes, but I was hoping we could get together later just to iron out a few questions I’ve got.”

  “Ah, I’m pretty busy today so just email them over and I’ll get back to you soon as I have chance.”

  “You can’t even spare me half hour? I do owe you a drink or two after the other night.”

  “I’ll see. Bear with me.”

  I hear the clicking of a mouse which goes on for an age.

  “I definitely can’t do during the day, but I might be able to do late afternoon or early evening.”

  “Perfect. What time?”

  “That, I’m not sure of. I’ve got to be in Dorset at two and I have no idea how long I’ll be there — could be thirty minutes but could be a couple of hours.”

  One small word containing just six letters but the significance is enough to spike my heart rate. Dorset is a large county, and there are probably scores of reasons why Alex is heading there this afternoon, but seeing as Terry Brown also made a trip to Dorset on Wednesday, it’s perhaps more than just coincidence.

  I keep quiet for fear of letting on I know anything about the potential significance of his trip.

  “Tell you what,” he continues. “I’ll give you a call when I’m on my way back to London and we can set a time then. How does that sound?”

  “I really appreciate it, Alex. Thank you.”

  I say a goodbye and end the call.

  Taking a moment, I sit on the bed and consider the implications of what I’ve just learnt. A thought occurs, well, more a theory. I run it over and over in my head until I’ve covered every angle. Finally, I check if Alex’s name is on the list of Clawthorn members. As I suspected, it’s not, and the final piece of my theory slots into place. It feels sound, but a second opinion is required. Time to swallow my pride.

  I find Clement on the sofa where I left him.

  “Look, I know you don’t want to pursue this, but I’ve just found out Alex Palmer is heading to Dorset this afternoon.”

  “So?”

  “Bit of a coincidence don’t you think? Terry went scurrying down to Dorset on Wednesday evening after I posted that picture online and, now Terry is dead, Alex is making the same journey.”

  “You don’t know it’s the same journey.”

  “No, granted, but there something else I want to run by you.”

  He breathes a heavy sigh. “Go on.”

  I sit down next to him. “What if — and this is a long shot — the Tallyman isn’t a specific person, but a title.”

  “I’m not with you.”

  “Okay, we dismissed the possibility Alex might be the Tallyman because our man was involved in the Clawthorn Club from day one, before Alex was even born, right?”

  �
��Yeah.”

  “But who’s to say at some point, the title of Tallyman wasn’t passed to Alex.”

  “Still not with you.”

  “You said the Tallyman was like a chairman, and in any organisation when the chairmen leaves, he’s replaced. What if the original Tallyman retired, or died even — who would have taken over?”

  “You’re saying this Alex bloke was his replacement?”

  “As I say: it’s just a theory. We know Alex is up to his neck in it, yet his name doesn’t appear in the notebook. Thinking about that, it stands to reason the Tallyman himself wouldn’t give or receive favours because it would undermine his anonymity.”

  “Kinda makes sense, but you said the bloke was a drip.”

  “He is, but the more I think about it, the more I’m wondering if that’s just a front to avoid suspicion.”

  “If it is, it worked.”

  “It did, and up until a few minutes ago there’s no way I would have considered Alex to be our man. But now I’m thinking that property in Dorset is his base, and he summoned Terry after I posted my picture.”

  “So why’d he offer you a job?”

  “Maybe it was to keep me in check. Perhaps he thought, if I’m working for him, I’ll be too busy to worry about investigating Clawthorn, and he could also keep an eye on me.”

  It takes but four or five seconds for his hand to reach his moustache. The moment he administers the first stroke I know he’s onside.

  “Bloody hell,” he eventually huffs. “What do you wanna do?”

  “I want to go to that address in Dorset; the one Terry Brown visited.”

  “And do what?”

  “Wait, and hope Alex turns up.”

  “And if he does?”

  “Then I think we can safely say we’ve caught ourselves a Tallyman.”

  31.

  Despite being treated to several rounds of bacon sandwiches at his favourite cafe Clement still doesn’t appear too enthused by my plan. I’d have thought, despite the many ifs and buts, he’d want a final stab at unmasking the Tallyman but I’m not convinced his heart is really in it now. I don’t blame him — this was never his battle to fight.

  “You okay?” I ask, as we walk to the Tube station.

  “I’m alright.”

  I don’t believe him. His mood is greyer than the rain-filled clouds hanging above us.

  “Listen, if this plan doesn’t pan out, I promise I’ll make a call to Gini and try to make her see sense. I have to do this, though — please don’t hate me for trying to do the right thing.”