Who Sent Clement? Read online

  “Monday evening? When you were supposedly at the pub with Toby?”

  “Sorry, yes.”

  “And then you decided to disappear, so Sterling sent the pictures to me?”

  “Yes.”

  “And my signature?”

  “I, um, copied it from your mobile phone contract. It was his way of making everything look above board. I had no choice, babe.”

  “And now I’m being ordered to repay your debt, or face the consequences.”

  I realise I’ve been pacing up and down the staffroom for the entirety of our conversation. I take a seat at the table and work out how I can bring some order to this chaos.

  “Where are you, Karl?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “Don’t play games with me. You need to get your backside back here and sort this mess out.”

  “I can’t, babe.”

  “Don’t ever call me babe again. And why can’t you come back?”

  “I’m scared. Sterling isn’t the sort of man you want to owe money to.”

  “Grow up. From what I’ve seen, he’s virtually a pillar of the community. He’s just as guilty as you are so he’s not likely to create any waves. I don’t see what else he can do.”

  “He’s not the man you think he is.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He’s originally from the east end of London. Rumour has it he was once part of an organised crime gang in the sixties, an enforcer of some sort. There’s talk of him working with the likes of The Krays. Apparently, he’s buried dozens of people who’ve crossed him, both figuratively and literally.”

  “You’re being ridiculous. Whatever he may have been involved in, he’s now a bloody pensioner.”

  “You think he amassed all that money and power by writing cheques for charity?”

  This conversation is doing nothing for my headache.

  “I give up with you, Karl. None of this is my fault and if you’re too scared of Grandpa Sterling, that’s your lookout. I’m going to call the police and tell them everything.”

  “Beth, please, think about it. What evidence is there against Sterling? There’s no way to prove anything. Even if there was, it wouldn’t just be Sterling going to prison. I’ve broken the law too.”

  “You should have bloody-well thought about that before you got involved with all this.”

  “I know, I know. But what can I do about it now? If I come back and face Sterling, he’s only going to demand I fix more planning applications. It’s too risky and I’m gonna end up getting caught, assuming he doesn’t kill me first. The money and the contract are leverage to get what he really wants — a permanent patsy in the planning office.”

  “Just bloody do it then. If you have to be Sterling’s bitch then so be it. That’s your problem now and I want no part in it.”

  “But if you pay the money back then he no longer has any leverage. And he’s played all his cards by sending you those photos.”

  “I’m not listening to any more of this. Just get yourself back here and face up to him.”

  “I can’t do it, Beth. I just can’t.”

  “So that’s it? You run away and leave me to clear up your mess?”

  “I know you must hate me, but you have choices. I don’t.”

  “Choices? What choices do I have?”

  The delay in his reply signals I’m about to receive a suggestion he knows I don’t want to hear.

  “You could remortgage the house.”

  “Are you kidding me? Absolutely not. Forget it.”

  “I’ll pay you back, every penny, plus interest. I promise.”

  My phone is pressed so tight to my ear, I can hear my own pulse in the silence. I want to scream at Karl. Actually, I want to murder him myself. Slowly, painfully.

  “Even if I was prepared to remortgage my home, which I’m not, who the hell is going to lend that amount of money to a woman barely scratching a living?”

  “I…I…don’t know. But there’s bound to be some company out there who will.”

  “I’m not remortgaging my home. It’s not going to happen so just forget it.”

  “Beth, if you loved me…”

  “Oh. My. God. Don’t you dare, Karl. Don’t you dare.”

  “You don’t love me though, do you?”

  “What the hell has our relationship got to do with your debt?”

  “If you truly loved me, you wouldn’t think twice about helping me.”

  “And if you truly loved me, you wouldn’t have shagged a bloody prostitute.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry. Please, just think about it.”

  “There’s nothing to think about. I’m not remortgaging my home. Not for you, not for anyone.”

  “Then I’m not coming back.”

  I have to bite my lip to retain any sort of control. It only postpones my inevitable reaction.

  “Fuck you then, Karl.”

  I hang up.

  The temptation to throw my phone across the staffroom is almost too great. My cup makes the journey instead, splintering into a hundred pieces as it strikes the wall. I remain seated at the table, my head in my hands, breathing heavily.

  Keep it together, Beth.

  I consider calling him back and offloading my anger, but I suspect any further discussion will only stoke it further. What is there to say, anyway? The man I was going to marry is not the man I thought he was — not by a long chalk. The man I was going to marry is a liar, a fraud, and a coward. Perhaps I’ve had a lucky escape, but I feel a million miles away from lucky.

  Pangs of anger continue to jab at me from different angles: Karl’s deceit, Sterling’s threats, and my own stupidity. How could I have been so blind? I think back over the last few years, searching for any signs that might have passed me by at the time. So easy with the benefit of hindsight.

  I could probably sit and wallow in my indignation all day, but the sound of the shop door opening pulls me back to reality.

  I get up and slope into the shop, taking up position behind the counter. One of my regulars, Miss Henderson, is browsing the aisles. She’s a portly, grey-haired spinster with little in her life other than her cat and her love of romantic novels. It scares me that when I look at Miss Henderson, I could well be looking at my own future.

  She waves at me and returns her attention to the shelves.

  The silence is uncomfortable so I reach beneath the counter and switch the CD player on. Grieg’s Piano Concerto in A minor provides a fittingly dramatic accompaniment to my thoughts. The anger continues to bubble away like lava in a volcano crater, ready to erupt without notice.

  God forgive any customer who dares to complain today.

  Miss Henderson spends thirty minutes browsing the shelves while I consider the many ways I’d like to murder Karl. She eventually waddles over to the counter and drops a paperback on the counter — Lovers and Liars by Josephine Cox.

  A loud snort escapes my mouth. If there really is a God, I don’t appreciate his inappropriate sense of humour.

  I doubt if Miss Henderson understands the context.

  “Is there a problem, Beth?”

  “No…no…I’m sorry, Miss Henderson,” I splutter. “It’s just the title of the book. It’s a little apt.”

  Her expression shifts and she eyes me with a look of concern. I assume my face isn’t masking my feelings as well as I hoped.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Thank you. That’s seventy five pence please.”

  I put the book in paper bag and pass it across the counter. She hands me the correct change.

  “Are you sure you’re okay? You look very pale.”

  “Honestly, I’m fine. I’ve just got a few problems with my ex-fiancé.”

  Miss Henderson picks the book up and drops it into her bag. She’s about to turn and leave but hesitates for a second.

  “You know what Eleanor Roosevelt once said?”

  “Um, no.”

  “A woman is like a teab
ag — you can’t tell how strong she is until you put her in hot water.”

  She reaches across the counter and pats my hand. “Better to be a teabag than a mug, my love.”

  With that, she turns and leaves.

  Somehow, I find a smile. I’ve never thought of myself as a teabag but maybe Miss Henderson has a point.

  For the next two hours, a steady stream of customers keeps my mind occupied. But all too soon the lunchtime rush is over and I’m left in an empty shop. It doesn’t take long for my anger to resurface. I have to do something. I have to be strong.

  I retrieve PC Kane’s card from my purse and place it on the counter. There it sits for twenty minutes while I mentally play out the various ways a call to PC Kane might go.

  There are two reasons why my phone remains in my pocket.

  Firstly, I don’t have any evidence of Sterling’s threats. And secondly, that bloody contract. Clearly Sterling is a belt and braces type of businessman. If his threats don’t work, he can turn to the legal system to recoup his losses. Either way, I’m screwed. The fact Karl made me a beneficiary of Sterling’s bribe money also doesn’t help.

  Perhaps informing the police will be my last resort. For now, I need another plan.

  I open the web browser on the computer and return to the Guildale Developments website. A few clicks and I’m back on David Sterling’s profile page, with his email address at the bottom. They say that attack is the best form of defence, so I’ll drop him an email with a few threats of my own.

  I open Gmail and compose an email to Sterling…

  Dear Mr Sterling

  Further to our meeting this morning, I have now spoken to Mr Patterson and he’s brought me up-to-speed on your business arrangement. I must say, it was quite an interesting discussion, and I can see why you wouldn’t want details of your deal becoming public knowledge.

  Suffice to say, I will not be repaying Mr Patterson’s debt.

  If you genuinely feel I am liable for that debt, I would recommend you go through the court system and we can see if they agree — I am confident they won’t, but it’s your right.

  I would also like to make it clear you are not welcome at my place of work or my home. If I receive any further visits, from you or any of your associates, I will have no hesitation in contacting the police and reporting everything Mr Patterson told me.

  I sign off and send it.

  I will not be bullied or threatened by anyone, and I think Sterling will get that message loud and clear. With any luck, I’ll never hear from him, or Karl, ever again.

  9

  Friday signifies the end of the working week for most people. But for those of us in retail, it’s just another day.

  I spend most of the morning nervously checking my email inbox for a reply from Sterling. As the hours pass, the only emails to arrive are junk, and I relax a little.

  By the time the lunchtime rush arrives, I’m busy enough to almost forget about Sterling’s threat, or at least bury it away.

  Fridays are usually a good day in the shop, with customers keen to acquire new reading material for the weekend. Today looks like it’ll be a good one.

  By the time the rush peters out around half-two, the till reports sales of almost a hundred and fifty pounds. I allow myself a moment to bask in satisfaction, just before I check my email inbox again. Still nothing.

  While the till might be full, my stomach isn’t. I lock the door and nip to the newsagent to grab something to eat. I return five minutes later with some wholewheat crackers and a muesli bar. If I’m going back on the shelf, I’d prefer it not to creak.

  I take a seat at the table in the staffroom to eat my late lunch. The wholewheat crackers are as dry as a nun’s crutch, and the muesli bar reminds me of something I used to feed my pet hamster.

  As I attempt to chew my way through the final mouthful, I hear the shop door open, followed by the sound of female voices. A bomb goes off in my head.

  Shitting buggery and bollocks.

  I never forget birthdays or anniversaries. I’m never late for appointments. If I say I’ll be somewhere at a certain time, I will.

  It is so rare I forget a commitment, when I do, it almost invokes a breakdown.

  I’m about to have a breakdown.

  I leap from my chair and stand in the doorway to the shop. It’s just gone three o’clock and eleven members of the St Augustine’s Ladies Book Club are milling around. They’re waiting for tea and biscuits, and they’re keenly anticipating my recommendation for this week’s read.

  There’s no tea, no biscuits, and no recommendation. What with everything that’s happened over the last few days, I totally forgot they were due in today. The only saving grace is their numbers are low today. Some days there can be as many as twenty of them.

  Eleven elderly faces, topped with cotton wool hair, stare at me.

  With remnants of the muesli bar cemented to my gums, I try to splutter a greeting. “After…noon…ladies.”

  “Good afternoon, Bethany,” they all reply in unison.

  A few of them glance around the shop like geriatric meerkats. There’s usually a table set up in the middle of the shop, laden with a teapot, china cups, and most importantly, plates of biscuits. The lack of custard creams threatens anarchy.

  “We’re not early are we?” asks Vera, founder of the book club and ringleader.

  “No…no, I’m running a bit late today. I’m so sorry.”

  There’s a murmur amongst the crowd. I’m sure I hear a few of them tutting at the lack of bland tea, bland biscuits, and bland romantic literature.

  “If you want to browse for a few minutes, I’ll get everything ready.”

  I need this like a hole in the head. As much as I’d like to tell them to sod off, the shop needs their regular custom.

  I spend fifteen frantic minutes setting up the table, arranging chairs, and scurrying around with cups and saucers. Despite all the huffing and the puffing, and the rolling of eyes, nobody offers to help. My angst simmers behind a withering smile.

  Once the tea and biscuits are served, I leave them to mumble amongst themselves and dart into the stockroom. I scan the shelves looking for a title in sufficient stock to supply all eleven ladies. Typically, I’d spend a few hours carefully selecting a suitable title for this particular club. I’ve got a few minutes at best. I find a stack of a title by Barbara Cartland but there are only nine copies. Bugger.

  I search on.

  With time against me, I head to a rack of shelves I rarely visit. It’s stacked high with remaindered books; overstock, sold cheaply by publishers, and for good reason. I went through a phase of buying remaindered books because they were cheap, but I quickly discovered they hung around like a bad smell. Alas, desperate times call for desperate measures.

  I move along the Manhattan skyline of books, scanning the covers in search of a title suitable for a conservative, church-going audience. Dozens of titles from authors I’ve never heard of. It’s the literary equivalent of Celebrity Big Brother. These authors have got as far as having their work thrust into the public domain, but they’ll never bother the best sellers list or an awards ceremony.

  A cream-coloured book catches my eye — The Service of Venus, by Kitty MacBride.

  The cover depicts a handsome couple in the midst of an embrace; a pastiche of a movie poster for Gone with the Wind, featuring Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh. I quickly scan the blurb on the back. It’s poorly written and cliché-ridden, but the plot appears suitably vanilla for my puritan audience. I’m past caring.

  I grab a dozen copies, including one for myself, and head back into the shop.

  “Are we ready, ladies?”

  Cups are placed on the table and veiny hands snatch at the remaining biscuits. The eleven women all slowly take to their chairs, sitting in a tight circle.

  The tortuous format of this particular book club involves us collectively reading a dozen chapters of our chosen book. They then take the book away to finish it at hom
e before we reconvene to discuss it in two weeks’ time.

  With all eleven women seated, I hand them all a copy of my hastily chosen title.

  “This week’s book is The Service of Venus, by Kitty MacBride.”

  More mumbling and frowning.

  “It’s a hidden gem. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it,” I add confidently.

  Each woman inspects their copy with obvious disdain. They don’t like surprises, and my decision to choose a book by an unknown author is clearly an affront. They’ll have to lump it this week.

  “So, who’d like to read the first chapter?” I ask.

  Come on you blue-rinsed crones, don’t make me read it.

  “I’ll do it,” pipes Beatrice.

  I have to physically force the muscles in my face to form a smile. Beatrice has poor eyesight and reads out loud like a five-year-old to a teacher.

  “Thank you, Beatrice. Ready when you are.”

  The twelve of us flick to the first page and Beatrice clears her throat.

  It begins.

  “My…mother…warned…me…about…men…like…Victor…Carmichael…”

  Her ponderous diction is akin to water torture. Every word, every syllable, painfully delivered in a monotone voice.

  “He…was…handsome…but…he…knew…it…”

  I try to tune Beatrice’s voice out, and read the text in my head. It proves impossible.

  “The…day…the…carnival…came…to…town…”

  I can’t do this anymore. My mind begins to drift away as Beatrice’s voice fades into the background.

  “He…won…a…teddy…bear…on…the…coconut…shy…”

  What shall I have for dinner tonight? I can have whatever I like now. No need to worry about Karl’s fussy tastes.

  “Victor…took…my…hand…and…led…me…behind…the…old…oak…tree…”

  I haven’t had Thai green curry in ages. Yes, that sounds nice.

  “He…ripped…my…panties…away…”

  Or shall I go for something a little more exotic? They do some lovely Malaysian dishes in Waitrose.

  “I…grasped…his…throbbing…shaft…and…lowered…myself…onto…it…”