“Unless you happen to know the surnames of all the members.”
Clement’s own mouth bobs open as he catches up.
“Fuck,” he gasps. “The notebook.”
“Exactly. If you know each members initials, and their surname, suddenly the information in these files becomes a damn sight more interesting. If we know AJB’s surname, for example, and that he was on the board of a major bank, how hard is it to work out his true identity?”
“That’s why the notebook was so important — it was the key to identifying who these bent fuckers really are.”
“And conversely, the notebook, as we discovered, wasn’t much help as it only contained surnames. Together, these files and the notebook are, near as dammit, evidence.”
I pluck my phone from my pocket so I can validate my theory by checking the spreadsheet of Clawthorn members. Two words at the top of the screen halt my plan in its tracks: No Service.
“Bugger. No connection.”
“Eh?”
“We’re in the middle of nowhere, Clement. A phone needs to connect to a mast in order to work, and I’m guessing there isn’t a mast for miles.”
“What did you wanna check?”
“I wanted to access the spreadsheet of member names so we could cross-reference a few. I’d love to know who AJB is, for example.”
“He can wait. What about that Nithercott fella?”
“Of course.”
I run my finger across the tabs until I reach the final file, for a certain NDH, whoever he is. Assuming the files continue in alphabetical order, I slam the top drawer shut and pull open the next one down.
Just over halfway, I find the only file that could possibly belong to Lance Nithercott — labelled LGN.
With shaky hands I extract an innocuous buff folder and lay it on top of the drawer. Whatever secrets lie within, they cost Lance Nithercott his life, and Stacey a father.
I open it up to find just a single sheet of paper.
As I scan the text, and with Clement reading over my shoulder, the true extent of Lance Nithercott’s involvement with the Clawthorn Club is revealed.
I read it twice, and close the folder.
“That’s bleedin’ tragic,” Clement says in a low voice.
“I know. The poor man.”
Stacey mentioned her childhood acting career was put on ice due to ill health. What she didn’t mention was the specific detail — a prolonged spell in hospital after she suffered acute kidney failure. It seems the National Health Service had a lack of donors and, in desperation, Lance Nithercott turned to the Clawthorn Club to seek a favour. It involved the illegal procurement of a donor kidney, and the surgical procedure to implant it. Two favours from a corrupt club to save his daughter’s life — who wouldn’t have accepted such an offer?
With no documents to suggest Lance Nithercott ever repaid those favours, corroborated by the notebook evidence, I can only speculate they never were. Perhaps his artistic principles wouldn’t allow him to, or maybe he tried, and failed, to buy his way out of debt. Whatever the reason, the pressure to repay his favours eventually pushed him to alcoholism, and he paid the ultimate price in the end.
I return the folder to the file.
“You see my point now, doll”
I look up at Clement.
“Even after it was supposed to have shut down, someone must have kept on at this Nithercott fella to repay his favours. Your friend outside was behind this bloke’s death, and fuck-knows what else. There’s a damn sight more blood on his hands than I ever had on mine.”
I nod as a slither of guilt for my earlier thoughts makes its presence felt.
“Maybe” I sigh. “But I still wish he was alive.”
“Why?”
“So I could watch the bastard squirm once all of this is revealed.”
“You gonna write that story then?”
“Whether I want to or not is irrelevant. I have to.”
I’m about to start removing all the folders when Clement gently places his hand on my arm.
“It’ll be alright, you know.”
“What will?”
“You, me, everything. I can feel it.”
As I look up into those blue eyes so much of me wants to believe him. I’d love nothing more than to share the rest of my life with the loving, sensitive, caring version of Clement. What I don’t want is to spend the rest of my life with a man who can kill another without batting an eyelid. Whether the two can ever be separated I don’t know and, at the moment, my emotions are too raw to even think about it.
“We’ll see,” I reply with a tired smile.
“That’ll do for me. For now.”
Returning to the job in hand, I grab a handful of folders. Just as I’m about to transfer them to the desk the sudden and slight creak of a hinge pulls my attention. I spin around, and immediately drop the folders to the floor.
Stood in the doorway is a male figure dressed in a maroon sweater and beige cords.
My legs buckle, and only Clement’s intervention prevents me from following the folders to the floor. I look at the figure again and squeeze my eyes tightly shut. I open them, and he’s still stood in the doorway.
“I’d suggest you put those files back where you found them,” he says.
I know who I’m looking at, and I know the voice, but it’s impossible I should be seeing or hearing either.
He takes a step forward and the light confirms the impossible.
“No … it can’t … no …”
Stood only five feet away is Eric Birtles — my one-time close friend and mentor. The same friend and mentor whose funeral I attended six months ago.
35.
As confused as he is, Clement manages to keep me upright. My mind is in an altogether different league of confused turmoil.
I take an unsteady step back and, supporting myself against the filing cabinet, I stare open-mouthed at the man who can’t possibly be Eric Birtles.
There are subtle differences from the face I knew so well. This face is tanned, and sports a neatly-trimmed white beard. His ever-present spectacles are also absent, and he’s lost at least a stone in weight. Despite those minor differences, and the major issue of Eric being dead, he looks unnervingly similar.
I want to speak but there just aren’t the words. The impostor, however, does find a handful.
“Did you hear me, Emma?” he says sternly. “Put the files back.”
Frozen on the spot I pant shallow breaths as I try to comprehend the impossible.
“But … you’re … you’re dead. You drowned … I went to your funeral.”
“You went to a funeral,” he replies matter-of-factly. “But the corpse currently buried beneath my headstone isn’t mine. I think that much should be obvious.”
Very little feels obvious and my bewildered expression must say as much. Not only am I staring at a man whose funeral I attended six months ago, but he’s chosen the most unlikely time and place to announce his return from the dead.
“Pull yourself together,” he chides. “I don’t have time for this.”
His cold, empty eyes and hard expression are at complete odds with the version of Eric I knew; he was gentle, patient, and kind.
“This?” I repeat. “What is this?”
He puffs a weary sigh and shakes his head.
“I’ll tell you what it is: none of your damn business. If you hadn’t started poking around in that filing cabinet I wouldn’t be stood here and you’d be none the wiser regarding my … situation. Now, I suggest you leave, and forget this unfortunate meeting ever happened.”
Incredulity barges shock to one side, and I glare back at him.
“I’m going nowhere … not until you tell me what’s going on here.”
“What is going on, Emma, is I witnessed your friend murder Alex Palmer. I recorded the whole sorry incident from the bedroom window and, unless you’d like me to call the police, you’ll do as I say.”
“I didn’t murd
er him,” Clement interjects. “I threw a knife at him because he was pointing a bleedin’ gun at us.”
“Semantics. He’s dead, and you were responsible. If you leave now, the police need never know.”
“We ain’t goin’ nowhere, mate.”
Clement takes a step forward. Eric responds with a shake of the head before calmly slipping a hand behind his back. A second later, that same hand returns — holding a pistol which looks remarkably similar to the one Alex was brandishing. He points it at Clement, and the big man stops dead in his tracks.
“I’m not Alex Palmer,” Eric then warns. “I have absolutely no qualms about pulling this trigger.”
Clement turns to me. “Do you wanna tell me who the hell this bloke is?”
“This, Clement, is Eric Birtles: my old colleague, and I thought, friend. He’s back from beyond the grave apparently.”
“It’s an exclusive club,” he mumbles, for some reason. “But what the fuck is he doing here?”
That is a question I’d barely given any thought to, and certainly can’t answer.
“If you don’t leave without any fuss,” Eric says. “I’m going to shoot one of you … possibly both of you.”
We reach an impasse. Clement and I swap glances, and I can tell from the look in his eye there will be fuss.
“Sorry, mate — I don’t think we’re ready to leave just yet.”
To reinforce his point, Clement edges a few feet closer.
It appears Eric is having some difficulty maintaining his confident facade, and doubt creeps into his face. I guess it’s one thing to say you’re willing to shoot another human being, but something very different actually pulling the trigger.
With his control of the situation slipping away Eric then raises the pistol a few inches … and does indeed find the courage to pull the trigger.
In such a confined space, the blast is deafening and I cower as chunks of plaster explode from the wall behind me; the bullet mercifully passing over Clement’s shoulder.
My ears still ringing I’m about to plead with Eric to keep calm. I look across and I’m met with a confused face; his arm, and the pistol, hanging by his side. Perhaps the recoil was worse than he imagined, or maybe he’s trying to fathom out how he missed such a large target. Either way, his moment of indecision is Clement’s opportunity.
The big man leaps forward and the six feet of carpet between them disappears in an instant. As Eric’s eyes widen, he lifts his arm to take another shot. That arm never reaches a horizontal position but, still, the pistol sounds again.
There is no cry of pain and no indication the second bullet hit Clement — quite the opposite. He grabs Eric’s wrist and twists it clockwise. The older man yelps, and the pistol falls to the floor. For once, Clement doesn’t go completely overboard and hurl Eric across the room. Instead, he grabs a handful of his sweater and pulls him further into the centre of the study.
“Sit down,” he orders, pushing Eric backwards.
Whether he fancied sitting or not, my once-dead friend and colleague stumbles back and falls into the armchair. Clement then picks up the pistol and tucks it in his pocket before turning to me.
“What do you wanna do with him, doll?”
Yet another question. I think, this time, I do have an answer.
“I want an explanation.”
Eric looks up at me, sour-faced. “Keep me here all night if you must, but I’m not saying anything.”
Now I have to contend with my own conscience. Am I hypocritical enough to encourage Clement to use his unorthodox interview technique, or do I just accept Eric isn’t willing to talk?
I step towards the armchair.
“I’m sorry, Eric.”
“For what?
“For being weak. I don’t want this but if you’re not willing to explain what the fuck is going on here, there’s no other choice.”
I look across at Clement. “Make him talk.”
“You sure?”
“No, but I guess I can’t have the sweet without the sour. Do what you need to do.”
He reaches down and pulls the knife from inside his boot. Just the very click of the blade flicking open is enough to make Eric visibly shudder.
“Wait,” he gulps. “I’ll cut a deal with you.”
“Go on.”
“I’ll tell you everything … on one condition. You let me go once I’ve told you, and wait until tomorrow morning before contacting the police, if that’s your intention.”
“Depends on what you tell me.”
“You owe me, Emma.”
“Do I?”
“Haven’t I always looked out for you? I gave you every break you’ve had in your career, and guided you every step of the way. You wouldn’t even be here now if it wasn’t for me. I made you, Emma.”
There is no denying I am a better journalist for Eric’s mentoring but I think he’s giving himself more credit than he’s due.
“You’re in no position to negotiate, Eric. Your only decision is whether you choose the hard way or the easy way. You will tell me everything, though.”
“I’m an old man, and if you set him on me I could die of a heart attack. If that happens, you’ll never know the truth.”
Clement then offers his opinion. “Does it really matter, doll? I ain’t keen on talking to the Old Bill so let him say his piece and fuck off. You’ve already got all you need to write your story.”
“Fine,” I huff. “Let’s hear it then, Eric. Why did you fake your own death and why the hell are you here?”
He appears to relax a little, and sits upright.
“The reason I’m here is because I was trying to help Alex. He’s got himself involved in some kind of corruption scandal and he told me you and your friend were investigating him.”
“Why would you help Alex? You didn’t exactly get on well when you worked together.”
“Because,” he sighs. “He’s my godson.”
“What? Alex is your godson?”
“Was,” he says flatly.
“Eh? But I worked with you both for years — how come neither of you ever mentioned it?
“I took him under my wing after his parents died in a boating accident. He’d just left university and despite his lack of suitable qualifications, I gave him his first break in journalism. I didn’t want to be accused of nepotism so we agreed never to tell anyone. Anyway, I don’t think you need me to tell you he wasn’t cut out for it.”
“I’m sorry, Eric, but that doesn’t even come close to an explanation. You threatened us with a pistol for crying out loud, and if you already knew Alex was dead, why bother trying to protect him?”
He runs a hand through his wispy hair as his face adopts a strained expression.
“To be frank, Emma, purely selfish reasons. Alex helped orchestrate my apparent death and if you expose him, chances are the world will learn I’m very much alive.”
“So, I suppose that brings us nicely on to my next question. Why in God’s name did you fake your own death?”
“I had no choice … and I honestly mean that.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“About ten years ago I helped expose a former drug baron called James Wylie. Because of the evidence I secured, Mr Wylie was convicted of drug trafficking and sent to prison. However, on his release he decided I owed him compensation.”
“Compensation?”
“Just over one million pounds, to be precise, for helping to prove his guilt. I had one month to pay or he said he’d kill my wife, and then me.”
“Why didn’t you just go to the police?”
“Good question. Unfortunately, some of the evidence I acquired wasn’t necessarily obtained through legitimate sources — you know how it is. If I’d admitted how I got that evidence, I’d have been looking at a long stretch in prison myself for perverting the course of justice. At my age, it would have almost certainly been for life.”
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me? I could have helped.”<
br />
“Shame, I suppose, and I didn’t want to put you in harm’s way. If Wylie had known how close we were, you would have been at risk too. And besides, Alex had the means and contacts in place to help set up my apparent death, so it just seemed the simplest option. For what it’s worth, I am sorry, but it really was the last and only resort.”
It’s an explanation which, on some level, makes sense. But, whilst I understand his motives for assisting Alex and faking his own death, neither sit right.
“Do you have any idea what Alex got himself involved in … what you’ve been trying to protect?”
“No, not really. He said it was best I didn’t know.”
“So, you’ve never heard of the Clawthorn Club?”
He vigorously shakes his head. I suppose it’s not beyond comprehension Alex kept him out of the loop. I guess the less people who knew the truth, the better.
“So, what now?” he asks.
I have most of the answers I sought, although they’ve come at a price. My friend and mentor is not the man I thought he was, and Alex has taken any remaining answers to the grave. Once we’ve got the files there’s nothing else here for us.
“I can’t begin to tell you how appalled I am by what you’ve done, Eric. If you dropped dead this very second, I wouldn’t waste another tear.”
“I know, and I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am. I’d have rather you spent a lifetime grieving than discover the truth.”
“Yeah, that makes two of us.”
He attempts to look remorseful. “It might be best for all concerned if I leave now.”
There seems precious little point in prolonging this farce. I look across at Clement to seek clarification we should let Eric leave. He replies with a nod.
I turn back to Eric. “To think: I once loved you like a father. You disgust me, and I never want to see your face again.”
Like a cowering dog, he slowly clambers from the chair and shuffles towards the door. He gets within a few feet when Clement places a hand on his shoulder.
“Hold on a sec,” he demands.
“What now? I groan.
“He said he recorded what happened in the garden. Don’t think I want that going anywhere.”
“You’re not alone. Hand over the phone, Eric.”
Clawthorn (Clement Book 3) Page 31