Who Sent Clement? Read online

  He begins in a grovelling tone.

  “I’m really sorry about this morning, babe. I’m having the day from hell.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I reply flatly. “I’ve sorted it anyway.”

  “Sorted what?”

  “The damage to my tyres. I called the police, and a PC is popping round the house this evening.”

  “Why did you do that?” he asks, his voice spiky.

  “What do you mean? What was I supposed to do?”

  “The police won’t help. Just call them and tell them not to bother.”

  “No, Karl. I won’t. Whoever slashed my tyres needs to be caught and punished.”

  “Beth, listen to me for once — you’re wasting your time. Just call them back and say you’ve changed your mind. I’ll sort the tyres out when I get home.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do, Karl,” I snap. “I’m going to make a statement to the police, and that’s that.”

  For a few seconds, all I can hear is his breathing.

  “I gotta go. Sorry.”

  He hangs up on me for the second time today.

  The veins in my temples begin to throb, and my fists become so tightly balled that my fingernails dig into my palms. Who the hell does he think he is, telling me what to do? And then he has the temerity to hang up on me when I refuse. The utter, utter shitbag.

  I am not happy with my fiancé. I am actually close to telling him he is no longer my fiancé. He can try his puppy dog stare on me but it won’t work. Not this time.

  Time, and two cups of camomile tea, take the edge off my anger. And, unfortunately, my motivation. Nothing constructive is accomplished for the remainder of the afternoon. My mind plays out all the things I’m going to say to Karl when he gets home, none of it good.

  I lock the shop on the dot of five thirty and get a cab home.

  I storm through the front door like a crazed harridan.

  Karl isn’t home.

  He finishes at five o’clock and is usually home well before me. If he’s gone to the pub, he’s toast.

  I slip my coat off and head into the kitchen to put away the washing-up from this morning. Another note has appeared on the table.

  Really sorry but I had to go to Birmingham at short notice, for work. Be back in a few days. Love you xxx

  I pluck my phone from my pocket and call him. It goes straight to voicemail.

  “Call me back the minute you get this message. I’m not very happy with you.”

  I end the call and sit down at the table.

  Karl has been sent away by his boss a few times, usually when they’re working on a large project and need to pick the brains of planners from other councils. He’s not usually sent at such short notice, though. But knowing Karl, he probably just forgot to tell me. Most convenient for him.

  I toy with the idea of taking a long bath to calm myself, but PC Kane could turn up at any time. Instead, I decide to divert my pent-up annoyance towards some aggressive cleaning. I turn the radio on, don a set of yellow rubber gloves and set about my task.

  A mindless hour passes and despite ending up sweaty and grimy, I’ve managed to thoroughly clean the inside of the fridge, de-scale the sink, and sweep the floor. I actually feel a lot better, at least mentally. I’m about to clean myself up when the doorbell rings.

  I remove the rubber gloves and try to brush strands of hair away from my sticky forehead. I take a quick glance in the hallway mirror, and shudder. Oh well, he’ll have to take me as he finds me.

  I open the door to a policeman.

  “Evening, Miss Baxter?”

  His voice on the phone suggested he was middle-aged, but I’d guess PC Kane is in his mid to late twenties. He’s tall, slim, with dark brown hair, cropped short. I really wish I’d found time for a shower and made myself look vaguely presentable.

  “Um, yes.”

  “PC Kane. We spoke on the phone. Is this a good time?”

  “Yes, yes…sorry. Come on in.”

  I lead PC Kane through the hallway and offer him a chair at the kitchen table.

  “You’ll have to excuse me,” I gush. “I’ve just finished cleaning.”

  He returns a strained smile and pulls out his notebook.

  “Do you live alone Miss Baxter?”

  “No. My fiancé lives here too.”

  “Is he around?”

  “Unfortunately not. He had to go away on business at the last minute.”

  “Okay. I might need to talk to him at some point.”

  “Really? Why is that?”

  “Just routine. He might have seen or heard something.”

  PC Kane then proceeds to ask me a series of questions I struggle to answer. There really isn’t much I can tell him and I start to wonder if maybe Karl was right. This does feel like a waste of everyone’s time.

  As he wraps up my statement, he fires a final question.

  “Have you fallen out with anyone recently? Any problems with people at work, or arguments with family members?”

  “No. I work on my own, and besides my mum and a few uncles I rarely see, I don’t have any immediate family.”

  “And Mr Patterson?”

  “He’s a planning officer and from what I gather, his colleagues are fairly benign civil servant types. I can’t imagine this would have anything to do with Karl’s colleagues.”

  “And his family?”

  “His parents live in Wales and he’s got a sister living somewhere in London. I don’t think they’re a close family.”

  PC Kane closes his notepad and tucks it into his pocket.

  “I think that’s about it for now. I’ll take a look at your car before I head back to the station.”

  “Thank you. What happens next?”

  “If I’m honest, there’s not really anything to go on. It could be kids or just a random act of vandalism by a disgruntled neighbour. Parking seems to be at a premium around here so I wouldn’t rule that out.”

  “You think one of my neighbours did it?”

  “Possibly. It’s the only obvious motive. I’ll knock on a few doors and gauge the reaction.”

  He stands and offers his hand.

  “I’ll do what I can, Miss Baxter.”

  I shake his hand and see him out.

  I close the front door and bolt it. It never crossed my mind that a neighbour might be the guilty party. While the residents are not exactly close knit, I’ve always found my neighbours to be a pretty friendly bunch. I can’t believe one of them would be so vindictive over a parking space. It’s an unsettling thought. I’m probably being overly paranoid but I actually wish Karl was here.

  I call him again but it goes straight to voicemail. I leave another message.

  “Me again. Don’t panic, I’ve calmed down now. Give me a call, please.”

  The house feels eerily quiet. Why do I suddenly feel so uncomfortable?

  I go back into the kitchen, pour a glass of wine, and make another call.

  “Mum, it’s me.”

  “Hello, darling.”

  “I was just seeing if you fancied a natter?”

  “That would be lovely, but can I call you back in twenty minutes? I’m just finishing my dinner.”

  I agree to call her back and head upstairs for a shower, but not before double-checking both the front and back doors are locked.

  Fifteen minutes later, dressed in a pair of jogging pants and one of Karl’s hoodies, I return to the kitchen and my glass of wine. I take a seat at the table and call Mum back.

  She picks up almost immediately.

  “Me again, Mum.”

  “How are you, darling? And how’s your lovely fiancé?”

  My mother thinks the sun shines out of Karl’s backside. They actually have very similar personalities although Mum is a little more naive, and not so keen on motorbikes.

  “We’re both good, thanks. Karl is away with work at the moment.”

  I consider telling Mum about the incident with my car but decide again
st it. She’d only worry.

  “So what have you been up to?” I ask.

  “Oh, nothing exciting. Just the usual.”

  Despite being in her late sixties, Mum still has a fairly active, if not erratic social life. She’s forever trying her hand at new hobbies and promptly giving them up after a few months. This year alone she’s joined a dozen different classes at the local college; everything from yoga to basket weaving.

  “Have you joined any new classes recently?”

  “Now you mention it, I quite fancy trying my hand at being a vegan.”

  “Um, I don’t think that’s a pastime, Mum.”

  “No, but there’s a lovely-looking chap who does vegan cookery classes.”

  “You never give up do you?”

  “Even at my age, darling, a woman still has her needs.”

  “Eww, Mum. Too much information.”

  My mother’s needs actually run a little deeper. I think she has spent the last twenty nine years trying to find a replacement for the love of her life — my dad. They were totally different characters but their relationship proved the theory that opposites attract. Mum was, and still is, a little scatty. She wears her heart on her sleeve and is too trusting for her own good. Dad was steadfast, pragmatic, and generally treated life with caution.

  Mercifully, I’ve inherited more of my father’s traits than my mother’s. I love my mum dearly, but what goes on in her head sometimes confounds me.

  There was no man in my mother’s life for five years after she lost her husband. Eventually, a series of flaky, unsuitable suitors appeared during my teenage years. None of them could meet the standards my dad set. Then, in early 2010, Mum had a whirlwind romance with Stanley Goodyear and they married five months later.

  It did not end well.

  Stanley was as naive and dreamy as my mother. They decided to sell Mum’s house and buy a pub together. To this day, I’m amazed they managed to last the four years they bumbled through. The bailiffs eventually arrived and the pub was repossessed. Stanley was made bankrupt and Mum only just managed to avoid the same fate, aided by the last of my father’s inheritance money she’d squirrelled away and subsequently forgotten about. Typical of my dad to be the knight in shining armour, long after his death.

  She now lives in a one-bedroom council flat and still hasn’t given up on finding a man who might come close to my father. I’m not sure if I admire her optimism or pity her chances.

  We chat for an hour, until my stomach begins to rumble.

  “I should probably grab something to eat, Mum.”

  “Okay, darling, I’ll let you go. Give Karl a kiss from me.”

  “I will. I’ll try and pop over to see you at the weekend.”

  “That would be lovely.”

  “Love you, Mum.”

  “You too, darling. Bye bye.”

  I hang up and make myself a sandwich. I sit and eat it in the kitchen while reading a magazine, the radio playing in the background. Minutes turn into an hour and Karl still hasn’t returned my call. I try again but only reach his voicemail.

  My annoyance is fast becoming concern. Why the hell is Karl not returning my calls?

  I head up to bed with a book and read for a while. It proves enough of a distraction until I fall into a fitful sleep.

  5

  The alarm on my phone shrieks at seven thirty. I stretch across and grab it from the bedside table. Once I’ve silenced the alarm, I check for messages — nothing.

  My mind swings between annoyance and concern. Maybe Karl has lost his phone, or left it in the office. It would be typical of him to forget his phone so perhaps I shouldn’t start worrying just yet.

  On the upside, I enjoy a quiet breakfast in a tidy kitchen.

  With the car still requiring a set of new tyres, I’m set for another walk to work this morning. Another taxi is a luxury I can ill-afford.

  I slip my coat on and head out of the house, checking the car as I pass to ensure it hasn’t suffered any further damage. Thankfully, it’s exactly as I left it. Sadly, the tyres have not repaired themselves overnight.

  The temperature this morning is some way below double digits, and a chill wind bites as I make my way to work. I turn my collar up and dig my hands deep into my coat pockets. I glare enviously at passing motorists, cocooned in their cosy cars. I don’t like being hot, but I’m not so keen on freezing my tits off either.

  I arrive at the shop and fumble in my bag for the keys. The search is particularly fraught, knowing I’ll have to walk home if I’ve forgotten them. The crazy thing is, I’ve never forgotten my keys, not once. I’m glad not to have broken that run, today of all days.

  I unlock the door and determine my priorities: fill the kettle, turn the heating on, and unlock the front door. I keep my coat on.

  With the first two priorities sorted, I head out to the shop and unlock the front door. There’s a pile of letters on the doormat. I scoop them up and shove them under the counter. Opening bills is pretty low down any list of priorities.

  I head back to the staffroom and make myself a cup of builders tea; strong, with half-a-teaspoon of milk.

  Tea in hand, I return to the counter and stamp my feet. It’ll be at least thirty minutes before the heating system warms the air in the shop to a comfortable level.

  While I wait for nothing to happen, as is usual most mornings, I try calling Karl. Voicemail.

  “It’s me. Again. Please call me back.”

  I finish my tea and fire up the computer. I find a mobile tyre fitting service and book the latest appointment available. I resentfully stab the keyboard as I enter my credit card details. The bill for four new tyres is a shade over two hundred pounds and paying it makes my blood boil. I hope the perpetrator burns in hell, the bastard.

  It has to be classical music again today and I slip a CD of piano concertos into the player.

  The four boxes of charity books are still on the floor. I can’t put it off any longer and lift the first one onto the counter. With precious little enthusiasm, I pull back the tape and sigh at the pile of tatty paperbacks. I grab a handful and place them on the counter.

  My system for selecting and cataloguing new stock is fairly simple. If a book isn’t in saleable condition, it goes straight into the recycling bin. If it is in saleable condition, I scan the barcode and check if it’s one I currently have in stock. From there, I decide whether it’s worthy of a place on the shelves or if it’s destined for the stockroom. It can be a painstaking task.

  I get through the first box within an hour, almost a third of the books going straight to the recycling bin. Only a handful of the remaining books are worthy of a place on the shelves. The second box isn’t much better. The third box is a complete write-off. I can only guess the books once lived alongside a heavy smoker as they’re all tinged yellow and still carry a faint whiff of cigarette smoke.

  I make a note to tell Eric he can forget payment for that box.

  By the time I drop the fourth box onto the counter, the first few lunchtime customers trickle in.

  I tear the tape away and open the box. On first inspection it looks as uninspiring as the other boxes. That is until I spot a red, leather bound spine tucked between two tatty paperbacks. I extract the book and smile; a King James Bible, and although it’s in terrible condition, it looks old enough to have some value.

  I delicately open the cover and check the publication date on the yellowed page — M DC LXXXIII. It takes me a few seconds to calculate the date as 1683. If there weren’t customers in the shop, I’d probably whoop and do a little dance. Even in this state, it’s probably worth a few hundred pounds; enough to cover the cost of my new tyres.

  “Excuse me,” says a voice. “Do you have any of the Jack Reacher books in stock?”

  I look up from my prized find at the suited man on the other side of the counter.

  “Sorry, yes. I’m fairly sure we’ve got most of them.”

  I put the bible under the counter and show the
man over to the far side of the shop. I’ve actually got three entire shelves crammed with Lee Child’s books. The man seems appropriately enthusiastic about my selection and I leave him to browse.

  For the next two hours I’m run off my feet. I’m back and forth between the till and the stockroom, and by the time the rush subsides, my sales are well into three figures. On days like this I love my job. The problem is, days like this are all too infrequent.

  With the shop empty, I find five minutes to scoff down a bag of crisps and a chocolate bar.

  Hunger sated, I ring Karl again. I don’t bother leaving yet another message when it diverts through to his voicemail.

  I process the remaining books in the final charity box but my mind won’t allow me to focus on anything other than Karl. It’s now been over twenty four hours since I spoke to him and my concern is mounting.

  I decide to ring his office.

  Once I navigate through the automated telephone system, I’m connected to the planning department. I’m relieved when a familiar voice answers.

  “Good afternoon. Planning.”

  “Toby?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Hi, Toby, it’s Beth, Karl’s other half.”

  I wouldn’t go as far as saying we’re friends, but we’ve been out several times as a foursome with Toby and his partner, Donna.

  “Hi, Beth. How are you?”

  “I’m okay, thanks. Is Karl around? I’ve been calling his mobile since yesterday but he’s not answering.”

  “Um, no…he’s not here at the moment.”

  I don’t need a polygraph to tell he’s lying.

  “Toby. Where’s Karl?”

  He flounders for a moment, clearly struggling to come up with an answer that doesn’t drop Karl in it.

  “He’s…not in work this week.”

  “Where is he, Toby?” I growl. “I’m close to reporting him as a missing person so unless you come clean, expect a visit from the police.”

  A few seconds of silence are eventually punctuated by a deep sigh.

  “He called yesterday morning and asked for the rest of the week off. Compassionate leave apparently. He said there’d been a bereavement in the family.”

  My mind spins and I struggle to keep my composure. Why is my fiancé lying to me and his colleagues?