“I don’t hate you, doll. I’m just worried.”
“You’re worried we’re wasting our time?”
“I’m worried we’re not wasting our time.”
“Eh? What do you mean?”
“The job will be done, and … I don’t know where we go from there.”
I link my arm in his.
“We’ll get on with our lives … together. That’s what you want isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“Well then. What’s to worry about?”
He doesn’t reply, and I don’t want to push my luck by continuing the conversation. The fact he’s agreed to help is more than I could, or should, expect.
Our destination is a car rental company in Hammersmith. It’s not the nearest, but it is the cheapest. Unfortunately, my own car suffered irreparable damage in the fire as it was so close to the building, so a rental is the only option.
We arrive just before ten and it takes almost half-an-hour to complete the paperwork before I’m given the keys to a shitty Ford Fiesta with more miles on the clock than the average Airbus.
I enter the Dorset address into my phone and it plans our route — a journey of one hundred and twenty miles which will take two and a half hours. Clement isn’t impressed.
“Kimmeridge” he grumbles, referring to the village we’re heading to. “Never heard of the bleedin’ place.”
“I know, but it makes sense. I looked at the property online and it’s tucked-away in a remote spot, right on the coast and no neighbours within a mile. It’s exactly the kind of property you’d own if privacy was important.”
“You’re convinced it’s the Tallyman’s lair, ain’t you?”
“Not convinced, but I’ve always trusted my gut and it’s telling me Alex Palmer is our man.”
The slight roll of his eyes suggests we’re not working off the same script.
“You don’t think he is?” I ask.
“Dunno.”
“I trust your judgement, Clement, so come on — what’s your gut telling you?”
“My gut ain’t tellin’ me anythin’, doll. That nigglin’ voice in my head is, though.”
“And, what’s it saying?”
“When I work that out, I’ll let you know.”
He then settles back and closes his eyes. It seems conversation will be in short supply on this journey.
With Clement either deep in thought or snoozing, I navigate our awful car through the central London traffic towards the motorway. It’s a relief when the green road signs finally give way to blue, and I can focus on my own thoughts.
My mind drifts back to the time I worked in the same newsroom as Alex as I try to pinpoint any signs of wayward behaviour. My overriding memory is one of an incompetent journalist who did the industry a favour when he left. It wasn’t that Alex was a fool, but he simply didn’t have the right tools for the profession. I do remember how frustrated Eric used to get with him. They had numerous fall-outs because Alex hadn’t followed his advice, or thought he knew better. Eric was a patient man but even he eventually grew weary of Alex’s cavalier approach to the job. I don’t think they parted on the best of terms and, in hindsight, I do wonder why Alex even bothered attending Eric’s funeral. Maybe he did so to make a point; that he had proven Eric wrong and become the head of an organisation wielding real power and influence. A final chance for Alex to stick his finger up at my old mentor.
As we cross the Hampshire border my thoughts turn to Gini, and her brief encounter with the Tallyman, or Alex, if my theory is correct. I replay our conversation in my head, and offer silent thanks to a God that doesn’t exist — unlike my poor mother, at least Danny didn’t die at the hands of a hit-and-run driver. Perhaps if Gini knew what I’d suffered she might not have the same appetite for vengeance. Danny’s injuries will heal — mine never will. If this trip to Dorset proves futile, maybe that will be my best bet to defuse Gini. I only hope she doesn’t receive any further phone calls from a certain Mr Tamthy before I get that chance.
I’m about to overtake a lorry but a distraction occurs; my last thought refuses to leave. It stays firmly put, and plays on my mind long enough for me to consider why it’s so reluctant to leave. And then, the reason becomes clear.
“Holy shit.”
I nudge Clement’s arm.
“Clement! Wake up.”
He blinks into consciousness and squints at me. “What?”
“The Tallyman,” I blurt. “He called Gini.”
“I know. You told me.”
“She’s heard his voice.”
“So what? How does that help us?”
“Directly, it doesn’t.”
“Triffic. I’m going back to sleep.”
“No, you’re missing the point. I only ever received emails and text messages from the Tallyman, so why did he call Gini when he never once called me?”
“I dunno.”
“I’ll tell you why, shall I?”
“You’re gonna anyway.”
“It’s because,” I declare, ignoring his indifferent tone. “He couldn’t call me because I’d immediately recognise his voice. And that’s another reason why I’m convinced it’s Alex.”
Clement scratches his head. “He never worked with this Gini bird?”
“Nope. It’s well over ten years since Alex quit journalism and Gini only started four years ago. They’ve never met so there’s no way she’d have recognised his voice. That explains why he had no issue calling her.”
“Alright, it’s a fair point.”
“It’s more than fair. It’s highly relevant.”
“We’ll see. How much longer?”
“About an hour.”
“Let me know when we’re ten minutes away.”
He closes his eyes again and I’m left to continue the conversation in my head. I have to admit I’m a tad disappointed he doesn’t share my conviction, but seeing as he didn’t want to pursue this lead in the first place, I’m not overly surprised.
I increase my speed a little and focus on the road ahead — figuratively and literally.
Perhaps I’m joining up the dots to fit my own narrative but, with every passing mile, I become more convinced Alex Palmer is, or was, the man who controlled the Clawthorn Club. The only question I can’t answer is how he secured that position. It sure as hell couldn’t have been on the back of his journalism career, and the timing suggests it must have happened soon after he left our newsroom, as the Clawthorn Club was disbanded soon after. Perhaps that’s why he was brought in — a younger man with the right skills to eradicate any digital information pertaining to Clawthorn. It would explain the lack of any online references to the name.
It’s a theory.
After a couple of fraught-filled delays due to heavy traffic, we finally leave the motorway and continue along an A-road, and then a B-road, as we close in on our destination.
The county of Dorset happens to be one I’d earmarked as a potential location for my rural retreat when the time comes. Home to swathes of glorious countryside, a dramatic coastline, and dozens of quaint little villages, it’s a shame the sombre weather doesn’t do it justice today.
I give Clement another nudge.
“Oi, sleepyhead. We’re nearly there.”
He stirs in his seat and yawns.
“Remind me never to take you on a road trip,” I chuckle. “Nice nap was it?”
“Yeah, sorry. Your fault, though.”
“My fault?”
“I’m bleedin’ knackered after last night.”
“I don’t recall you complaining at the time. We’ll have to work on your stamina.”
For the first time since we left the flat he finds a smile.
“That’s better. And just to cheer you up even more, we’re only a mile away.”
The smile disappears as quickly as it arrived.
“What’s the plan then?” he asks.
“I checked the house on Google Street View and …”
&nb
sp; “Google what?”
“Oh, it’s an online tool. It allows you to virtually view any road or street in the country from a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree perspective.”
“None the wiser.”
“It’s like being able to stand outside a house and look around.”
“How the fuck does that work?”
“Do you really want me to explain?”
His frown says it all.
“Anyway,” I continue. “The house is situated on a single-track lane so we can’t exactly park up outside. It’s also got a gated driveway so that’s not an option either.”
“So how are we supposed to know when mystery dickhead arrives … if he arrives?”
“I spotted a lay-by about four hundred yards beyond the house. We’ll park there.”
“That don’t answer my question, doll.”
“I’m getting to that. There’s a wooded area flanking one side of the house. If we walk back up the lane, we can hop over the fence and make our way to the boundary without fear of being spotted.”
His frown returns.
“You don’t think it’s a good idea?” I ask.
“The idea is sound but I ain’t a fan of traipsing through the bleedin’ countryside.”
“It’s hardly a traipse. It’s a few hundred yards at most.”
“Better not be any cows around. Don’t trust the shady fuckers.”
“You’re quite happy to eat them, though.”
“When they’re dead, yeah.”
I shake my head. “I can’t believe we’re potentially about to expose one of the stories of the century and all you’re worried about is a few Friesians.”
We reach the final stretch of road before our destination. I turn into the lane and continue in third gear, barely hitting twenty. With open fields to both sides — bordered by a post and rail fence — there’s nothing to see but acres of menacing sky, and the odd tree.
As the lane continues the fence is replaced by hedgerow before we hit a sharp bend. Beyond that bend, some two hundred yards away to our left, the roofline of a house pokes above a thicket of leafless trees.
“That’s it,” I remark, nodding in the general direction of the house.
I speed up a little to avoid looking suspicious as we pass our target. We get to see it close-up for a few seconds, and it looks almost exactly as I remember it from the online imagery. The roadside boundary is formed from a tall, overgrown hedge with a driveway just off-centre, protected by solid wooden gates. Beyond the hedge densely planted trees obscure the view of the house beyond. There’s the odd flash of white-painted brickwork as we pass but even at this time of year, Mother Nature has provided an effective barrier to shield the house from the prying eyes of anyone passing. The view to our right isn’t much clearer; a wild copse of silver birch and rowan trees hemming the lane in.
I turn back to the left just as the hedgerow ends. There is nothing to see but a continuation of the post-and-rail fence, and the wooded area I identified as our point of access.
Four hundred yards on we reach the lay-by. I pull over, switch the engine off, and take a quick glance at the dashboard clock.
“Twenty minutes,” I announce.
“Until?”
“Two o’clock — the time Alex said he had to be somewhere.”
“’Spose we’d better make a move then.”
We exit the car and make our way back along the lane. Apart from the rustling of the trees and the occasional cry of a gull, it’s eerily quiet.
“Don’t like it,” he mumbles.
“You don’t like what?”
“The … nothingness.”
“I know what you mean. Living in London you get used to being surrounded by noise.”
“Not what I meant.”
“Eh?”
“Nothin’. Forget it.”
We reach the edge of the wooded area and, after a quick and pointless scan to ensure we’re not being watched, we clamber over the fence.
“We should head a bit further in,” I say in a low voice. “Just in case a car passes and we’re spotted.”
“Don’t reckon there’s much chance of that.”
“Specifically, Alex’s car.”
“Right.”
It soon becomes clear we’re the first humans to walk through the wood in many a year. There’s no path so we’re forced to tread a virgin trail across the soft, mulchy ground. Thirty yards in I turn around.
“This should do us. Now we just head in a straight line towards the house.”
Clement sniffs the air; thick with the scent of the sea, mixed with the stench of damp, rotting vegetation. He shoots a look of disapproval in my direction. Clearly we’re a long way from his concrete comfort zone.
I don’t wait for him to complain. Turning ninety degrees I begin the final leg of our journey.
Unlike Clement, I’m not concerned about our rural environment, more the pronounced thumping of my heart as we edge ever closer to the house. Somewhere in amongst the nerves and the anticipation I can sense the buzz trying to break through. However, this is now far more than just a potential front page story — too much at stake, too much invested, and all of it too personal. From the reopening of old wounds while investigating my father, through to losing everything in the fire, I’ll soon know whether my sacrifices were warranted, or in vain.
I catch a flash of white-painted brickwork through the trees, and stop. Clement draws up next to me as I point at my discovery.
“There’s the house,” I whisper.
“Can’t see shit. We need to get closer.”
I nod and we move stealthily onwards, mindful of stepping on a fallen twig and announcing our arrival.
As the trees thin out, we’re fortunate the foliage becomes denser, although Clement is forced to stoop as more of the house comes into view. We get within twenty yards and stop again as suitable cover becomes a pressing issue.
I nod towards a sprawling holly bush just off to the left of our position. It’s about the same size as a small car and appears to offer both cover, and a reasonable vantage point to watch the front of the house.
Taking the lead I creep over to the bush and squat down.
“What’s the time?” Clement whispers, as he squats down beside me.
“One fifty-two.”
I shuffle a few feet to my left to gain a better view. From my new position I have clear sight of the flank wall of the house and gravel parking area which occupies much of the space to the front. I can just about see the driveway curving away but the gates beyond are out of view. The house itself, from what I can see, is pretty featureless. I’d guess it was a former farmhouse; built for function rather than architectural merit. The external walls may have been whitewashed to brighten the austere brickwork, but there’s no disguising its cheerless appearance, not improved by the backdrop of blackening clouds and spindly trees.
I check my watch again — one fifty-five.
Long seconds tick by and, for the first time since we left London, doubts begin to creep in. I turn to Clement.
“Tell me this isn’t as crazy an idea as it currently feels.”
“We’re hiding behind a bush, in a woods, in the middle of bleedin’ nowhere, waiting for a bloke who could be in Bournemouth, or Weymouth, or any other town in Dorset. Ask me again in about twenty minutes.”
Put like that it does feel too close to crazy.
“I suppose we’ll know soon enough.”
I hear the sound of a car somewhere on the lane.
“Listen,” I hiss.
It gets louder, peaks, and then ebbs away.
“Sorry. False alarm.”
Another check of my watch and the minute hand is now almost vertical. I take solace knowing Alex never was the punctual type.
If the discomfort of squatting down wasn’t bad enough, the clouds decide to unburden themselves and fat raindrops begin pattering the ground around us.
“Bleedin’ great,” Clement grumbles.
“We’re gonna get soaked.”
“Stop moaning.”
“Least your coat looks waterproof.”
“But my jeans aren’t, and these trainers certainly aren’t. And besides, you choose to wear that bloody waistcoat every day.”
He sulks for a moment before finding something else to complain about.
“I could murder a fag.”
“You had one when you got out of the car.”
“Yeah, twenty minutes ago.”
I’m about to launch into a lengthy, if not hypocritical, sermon about the dangers of smoking when a faint sound catches my attention — the rasp of an exhaust.
“Listen.”
It grows louder, throatier, and then drops to almost a burbling rumble. Clearly emanating from the lane the car appears to have stopped outside the house. I continue to listen as the engine is revved twice followed by the sound of tyres crunching slowly over gravel.
A car comes into view — a black Jaguar Coupé. The registration plate confirms it rolled off the production line this year.
“Nice motor,” Clement whispers.
The car comes to a stop a dozen steps from the front of the house, and the engine falls silent. With the front end pointing away from us, and the rear window barely a slit, Jeremy Clarkson could be behind the wheel for all I can tell.
Barely daring to breathe, I stare at the car, transfixed, waiting for the driver’s door to open.
Tortuous seconds pass until, at last, I hear the clunk of the door mechanism and it slowly opens. First, a leg appears — suit trousers and polished black shoes the attire of choice. For some reason the rest of him doesn’t follow. I want to scream at the occupant to get the fuck out but he’s taking his time — maybe checking a message on his phone or savouring the opulence of the hand-finished interior a few seconds longer.
My irritation nears boiling point.
And then finally he emerges from the car with his back to us. I don’t need him to turn around — I’ve seen enough to recognise the driver.
32.
I just about manage to stop myself from whooping and punching the air. Instead, I grin at Clement like a mad woman and repeatedly mouth the same two words — it’s Alex.
Clawthorn (Clement Book 3) Page 28