“I’ll delete the video,” he replies dismissively. “You have my word.”
“No offence, but your word is no longer of value to me. Hand it over.”
Reluctantly, he dips a hand into his pocket and pulls out a chunky mobile phone. But rather than hand it to me, he starts jabbing the screen.
“What are you doing, Eric?”
“As you asked. I’m deleting the video.”
“Are you going deaf in your old age? I said I don’t trust you so hand it over.”
His brief pause is enough to snap Clement’s patience. He snatches the phone from Eric’s hand and tosses it to me.
“Give that back,” he barks.
“What’s the problem, Eric? Have you been taking dick pics?”
“Don’t be vulgar. There’s personal information on there that I’d rather you didn’t see.”
“Tough.”
He makes an attempt to snatch the phone back but, with Clement’s hand still locked on his shoulder, it proves a pointless exercise.
Ignoring his ongoing protest, I jab the gallery icon on the home screen and I’m presented with just two files. The first is the video he shot of Alex’s demise, but the second file is the one which grabs my attention. I enlarge the image and hold the phone so Eric, and Clement, can see the screen.
Eric suddenly loses his voice while Clement leans in and studies the photo.
“Is that what I think it is, doll?”
“Yes, it’s a screen-shot of that tweet I posted — with the pictures of the Clawthorn notebook.”
“I …um … Alex must have sent it to me by mistake,” Eric stammers.
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, yes. I don’t even know what a tweet is.”
“But when I asked, you claimed you’d never heard of the Clawthorn Club.”
“I … but, I haven’t. It’s just a stupid photo, and I didn’t even pay it any attention.”
There is no hiding the panic in his voice. Something tells me Eric knows more than he’s willing to admit.
“Let’s see what else is on here shall we?”
Eric’s tanned face no longer looks tanned — more a ghostly shade of white.
I return to the home screen and tap the icon to open up his text messages. There are plenty of them, but only to three individuals, all identified by initials alone.
“You seem to have sent a lot of messages to a certain AP, TB, and EH, Eric. I’m guessing AP is Alex Palmer, but perhaps you’d like to tell me who TB and EH are?”
He remains silent so I click one of the messages from TB received Saturday evening. For Clement’s sake I read it out.
“I’ve done what you asked. The flat is now just a pile of ashes as is the notebook. We’re quits — I don’t want to hear from you ever again.”
It takes a second to catch the significance of the words I’ve just uttered. Open mouthed I turn to Clement.
“TB is Terry Brown.”
Before he can respond, I click one of the messages sent to EH. Within a second, I know I’m looking at a message I’ve read before, and who EH is.
“EH, Eric. That’s me, isn’t it? The threatening messages I’ve been receiving were sent from this phone.”
He doesn’t respond.
“And that makes you … no …”
Clement catches up. “Fuck,” he gasps, glaring at Eric. “You’re the bleedin’ Tallyman?”
36.
A long silence fills the air as we both stare at the ashen-faced pensioner. I don’t know what Clement is thinking, but my thoughts are dominated by the many ways I’d like to kill Eric. I pace up and down staring at the floor as I try to piece everything together.
The pacing ends with me stood just a few feet in front of him.
“You … you fucking … Oh, my God!”
I can’t find the words, but I can find the actions. My open hand slaps Eric’s face with such force the ensuing sting to my palm provokes a sharp intake of breath. Eric, however, fares far worse and stumbles backwards with a yelp.
“Sit him down,” I growl at Clement. “I want answers.”
“You ain’t the only one,” he replies, before obliging.
Clement forces Eric back into the armchair as I draw long breaths and gather my thoughts. Terry Brown’s dying words now make sense. When I asked him who the Tallyman was, I thought he said ‘bird’, but what he was actually trying to say was ‘Birtles’. How could I have been so blind? The moment Eric appeared in the doorway I should have made the connection.
“I’m sorry,” he pleads. “I truly am.”
“Shut the fuck up,” I yell. “I don’t want to hear another word from you unless it’s to answer a question.”
I pace the floor again, and return to my own thoughts. One by one, the dots join up but I’m still a long way from seeing the full picture. I need to find some composure so I close my eyes for a few seconds and attempt to regulate my breathing.
“Right,” I calmly declare, turning to face Eric. “This is how we’re going to proceed. I’m going to ask questions, and you’re going to answer them.”
He nods.
“And, if I get even the faintest hint you’re lying, you should bear in mind one crucial fact.”
“What’s that?” he murmurs.
“The entire world already thinks Eric Birtles is dead. If you die tonight, no one will be any the wiser.”
The gravity of his situation appears to take hold, as he clutches the arms of the chair, his knuckles as white as his face. It’s a struggle to even look at him. His guilt makes a mockery of everything I knew. All those years I looked up to him, trusted him, respected him. It was all a lie. The man I’ve mourned for the last six months is the same man we’ve been trying to identify — the head of the Clawthorn Club.
I pull the chair from the desk, place it in front of Eric and sit down. With Clement stood to the side of the armchair there is no means of escape.
“So, let’s get started, Eric,” I begin. “But before we do, I should just check if you prefer being addressed as Eric, or the Tallyman?”
He doesn’t answer one way or the other.
“It’s a corny moniker, isn’t it? Why on earth did you decide on that of all things?”
Still nothing. I look up at Clement and he gets the message.
“Answer her, before I lose my rag.”
“Fine,” he eventually sighs. “I never much cared for that name, but I suppose it did add a certain mystique to the position. People are scared of the unknown — some children have sleepless nights because of the bogie man, and some adults have sleepless nights because of the Tallyman … or at least they did.”
“Glad we sorted that out. Now, perhaps you can tell me the real reason you faked your own death.”
“I had no choice. The police were beginning to believe there was some substance in the rumours about the Clawthorn Club, and our influence within the force was on the wane. One particular detective was getting too close to the truth, and determining my identity. My untimely death and his, um, unfortunate accident curtailed the investigation, but you can only hide the truth for so long, Emma — you of all people should know that.”
“The truth?” I sneer. “You wouldn’t know the truth if it bit you on the arse.”
Wisely, Eric remains silent.
“I’m guessing you were also lying about Alex being your godson?”
“No, I wasn’t. If you want proof, I can show you photos of us together when he was just a teenager.”
His defensive tone errs on the side of believable.
“So, tell me: how did you drag him into this?”
“His father was a member of the Clawthorn Club and one of only three people who knew my identity. After his parents died, Alex found his father’s diaries and, in them, pretty-much the full story of his involvement with the club. Alex confronted me, and I had no choice but to tell him everything. One of the reasons I invested so much time helping his career was to buy his silence, and
it was me who helped secure his position within that telecoms company when it became clear he’d never cut it as a journalist.”
“Don’t tell me: you blackmailed someone in that company?”
“I did what I had to do.”
“And did Alex also know you were planning to fake your own death?”
He slowly nods as I recall Alex’s words at the funeral that never was. Looking back, he didn’t exactly sound grief-stricken but at the time I put it down to their fractious relationship.
“And, correct me if I’m wrong, but I presume it was Alex who told you I posted the photos of the notebook?”
“He did, and he also told me he deleted them.”
I thought I was going crazy but it’s now clear Alex guessed my Twitter password — not too difficult as I’ve been using the same basic password since the days we worked together, and he knew it. I can only assume he didn’t delete my second tweet as it only showed the cover, or perhaps to avoid raising suspicion. Either way, it’s not my current priority.
“I have gone to great lengths to bury every crumb of evidence relating to the Clawthorn Club,” he continues. “But then that blasted notebook resurfaced.”
“Did you know my father had it?”
“I had an inkling. Alex created a piece of software which would send out a notification whenever the name ‘Hogan’ appeared on the national death registry database. Once he knew Dennis was dead, he traced his last address but the estate agent wouldn’t allow him access. He managed to arrange a viewing but, by the time he got there, you’d taken all of Dennis’s possessions.”
“It was Alex who paid a visit to my flat when I wasn’t there?”
“No, that was Terry Brown.”
“Why Terry?”
“Because he was competent in such matters, and Alex wasn’t. He told me he’d checked every box and every pocket, but the notebook wasn’t there. As far as I was concerned, that was it — I assumed Dennis no longer had the notebook, and it was gone for good.”
“Until Alex spotted it on Twitter.”
“He did. Fortunately I was already back in the country for a few days, attending to other matters.”
“What do you mean, back?”
“I don’t live in the UK — that would be far too risky. No, I live … let’s just say somewhere with a more agreeable climate.”
That explains his tanned face, although it never featured highly on my list of unanswered questions.
“So, it was you who ordered my flat to be burned to the ground?”
“You were warned, numerous times, to return the notebook. Destroying it was the last resort.”
“And let me guess: you were also behind my suspension at The Daily Standard?”
“I had hoped the distraction might deter you from digging around any further. God knows I tried everything to make you realise what you were getting yourself into. I even told Alex to offer you a job but you just kept poking the bear. Why couldn’t you just let it lie?”
“It’s my job to poke bears.”
“And kill them too?” he scowls.
“What?”
“Terry Brown was a good friend and he didn’t deserve to die like that.”
I glare at him, incredulous.
“Firstly, if Terry Brown was such a good friend, why were you blackmailing him to do your dirty work?”
“Blackmail is a strong word. I simply told Terry he needed to deal with you otherwise we were all at risk of being exposed. Obviously Terry didn’t want his prior indiscretions becoming public knowledge.”
“Blackmail, threaten … call it what you like, Eric, but we both know you used knowledge to force others to do your dirty work.”
“I simply asked an old friend to do me a favour, and now he’s dead.”
“That’s bullshit, and you can’t pin his death on us.”
“You were there,” he blurts. “And don’t deny it — Alex told me.”
Not that it matters now, but Eric has just confirmed my suspicions that Alex was tracking my phone.
“Yes, we were there,” I confirm. “But it wasn’t us. Terry hired some drugged-up youth to mug me, and then torch my flat. When we found that kid, we discovered Terry had been using his elderly grandmother as a bargaining chip. Funnily enough, that youth wasn’t impressed and he shot Terry.”
He returns a puzzled frown. It seems Eric jumped to an incorrect conclusion when he heard Terry had died.
“Wait … Gini’s fiancé. You had him knocked down because you thought we killed Terry? What was it you said to her: an eye for an eye?”
“Yes, well,” he mumbles, shifting awkwardly in his seat. “I’ll concede I got that wrong.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Alex told me you were being assisted by this … man,” he whines, nodding towards Clement. “And I assumed he shot Terry.”
“You were wrong, and now I’ve lost a good friend because of it.”
“And I’ve lost a godson, Emma,” he snorts. “In fact, I’ve lost everything because of the Clawthorn Club, so don’t be thinking I’ve got away with anything.”
His expression changes again; despondent, almost remorseful.
“And I’ve also lost our friendship,” he says wistfully. “I always considered you to be the daughter I never had. I think, although he never said anything, Alex was jealous of our relationship.”
“And I thought you were the father I never had. Turns out I knew even less about you than I did about my actual father.”
“I thought you might unearth a few of his secrets. I have to say I regret what happened with Dennis more than anything. He was a good friend, until …”
Another realisation drops in and punches me in the stomach.
“Fuck,” I gasp. “It was you.”
“What?”
“You framed my father.”
He sits bolt upright and looks me straight in the eye. “No, Emma. I did not.”
“I don’t believe you, and I warned you what would happen if you lied.”
Breathing heavily I glare at Eric.
“Listen to me,” I bellow. “I’ve had an absolute gutful of this so unless you tell me what happened to my father, I’m going to walk out the door and leave you with Clement and his knife.”
“It doesn’t matter now.”
“It bloody well does,” I rage. “I want to know the truth, Eric.”
He ponders my request a second too long.
“Fuck this,” I spit, turning to Clement. “Do what you want with him. We’ll toss his body into the sea when you’re done.”
I get up and make for the door.
“Please … wait, wait,” he stammers. “I’m just thinking of you, Emma. Like the Clawthorn Club itself; some things are best left in the past.”
Clement looms over Eric. “Listen, mate: I’m bored, hungry, and I don’t wanna hang around this fucking house a minute longer than necessary. Tell her what she wants to know or I’ll end it here and now.”
Eric’s head bows forward a fraction. “Okay,” he says in a low voice. “But remember we have a deal. Once you know everything I walk away.”
“I don’t remember agreeing to that,” I reply.
“Do you want to know, or not? Your friend isn’t the only one who doesn’t want to be here.”
“I’m past caring now. Just tell me the bloody truth.”
He begins with a sharp intake of breath as I retake my seat. “Dennis and I were members of the original Clawthorn Club, and we jointly decided it needed to go in a new direction. Your father was an ambitious man and he could see the benefit of the favour system, although I don’t think it panned out quite how he envisaged.”
“The corruption, you mean?”
“That’s not quite what I’d call it, but yes. Dennis didn’t like how the membership was evolving but, by the time he decided he’d had enough, the club was already well established as a place to find … shall we say … the right people willing to offer creative solutions to pr
oblems.”
“So, that’s when he wanted to leave?”
“It wasn’t just our direction of travel — your mother also influenced him.”
“In what way?”
“By falling pregnant … with you. Dennis just wanted to settle down and have a quiet, family life.”
“And you couldn’t have that,” I spit. “So, you framed him, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know how you arrived at that conclusion but you’re wrong.”
“I’ll tell you how, Eric: it was confirmed by a member of the Clawthorn Club.”
I have no idea if he is aware we paid Thomas Lang a visit but his perplexed expression suggests not.
“Thomas Lang,” I confirm. “He said the Tallyman framed my father.”
“That figures,” he retorts, shaking his head. “For a high ranking police officer, Thomas Lang really was an idiot … always putting two and two together, and coming up with five.”
“You’re saying he’s a liar?”
“Not necessarily a liar — more ill-informed. He of all people shouldn’t have listened to the rumours and tittle-tattle. Yes, your father was fitted up but I swear to God it was nothing to do with me. Granted, I didn’t discourage the rumours because it helped to keep the other members in check, but you have to believe me, Emma, I had nothing to do with your father’s incarceration.”
“Who was it then?”
“Could have been anyone. When your father and I originally devised the favour system, it was decided one of us had to remain anonymous to ensure it wasn’t compromised or abused, so we tossed a coin. I became the Tallyman and Dennis became the public face of the Clawthorn Club. However, as your father was privy to information a number of very influential people couldn’t risk leaking out, his decision to quit didn’t go down too well. I suppose any one of them could have framed him to ensure he never got the opportunity to reveal their favours. Not only was he stuck in prison, but who would believe the word of a convicted rapist and murderer?”
How can I believe the word of a man who has already proven himself a consummate liar? Perhaps there is one final question which might ultimately decide whether I’m inclined to believe his version of events, or not.
“How did he even get hold of the notebook and, more to the point, why?”
Clawthorn (Clement Book 3) Page 32