Wrong'un (Clement Book 2)

by Keith A Pearson

  Wrong’un

  By Keith A Pearson

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  www.keithapearson.co.uk

  Copyright © 2018 by Keith A Pearson. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Author’s Note

  Whilst Wrong’un is a standalone novel, you’ll appreciate, and hopefully enjoy the story to a greater degree if you’ve read the first book in the series, Who Sent Clement?

  If you’ve already read it, welcome to Clement’s next adventure…

  HAMPSHIRE

  NOVEMBER 1999

  1.

  The balance had shifted. Moments of lucidity were infrequent and his mind was dissolving into a murky soup of confused thoughts.

  Sir Charles Huxley knew he couldn’t put it off any longer. Time, he thought, waits for no man. His time was short and he knew it.

  As he shuffled into the study on unsteady legs, he concentrated intently on keeping the task from slipping into the soup, from where he feared it would never return.

  He eventually reached his chair and slowly lowered himself onto the leather seat.

  Safely ensconced behind his desk, he allowed himself a moment to gaze wistfully around the room. The study had all the ambiance of a gentleman's club; panelled walls entombing the finest antique furniture, hand-crafted in oak, mahogany, and leather. The lingering scent of vintage port and cigar smoke triggered memories of the countless after dinner drinks he’d enjoyed with the great and the good in that very room. Those were good times, when the house was a home.

  His attention turned to a picture on the desk, cased in a silver frame. Two faces stared back at him, smiling — his wife and only child. A moment of happiness captured when William was still full of childhood wonderment, and Victoria was unburdened by poor health. His addled brain tried to calculate how many years had passed since that moment. Sixteen, maybe seventeen — he couldn’t be sure.

  He came to the conclusion the specific number didn’t matter. They were both gone now. His son had spent three years at university, rarely returning home before moving overseas to work for a charity in some god-forsaken corner of Africa. He hadn’t seen William in almost three years. As for Victoria, her health deteriorated and almost a decade had passed since she’d been stolen from him.

  He was alone, rattling around in the old house with just his memories for company. They too would soon be gone.

  He let out a deep sigh, opened a drawer in the desk, and withdrew a ream of vellum writing paper; his full title and address embossed at the top in gold leaf. He lamented the fact he would never get to use the full stock of expensive paper.

  As well as the writing paper, he also withdrew an envelope containing a grainy, black and white photograph and a copy of a certificate, together with a pewter trinket box, roughly the size of a paperback book. The trinket box had been given to him by an elderly constituent — a poor man of few means — and it was Sir Charles’s intention to bequeath it to William. Although it held no monetary value, he was sure William would appreciate the Latin inscription on the lid, right up until the moment he opened it.

  For the thousandth time he considered the ramifications of what he was about to do, and for the thousandth time he concluded he had no choice.

  He reached for a fountain pen and began to write.

  The words flowed as the nib scratched across the paper; his handwriting erratic, but legible. Although the physical act of putting words on paper was simple enough, dredging his broken mind for the right words was no easy feat. If that were his only challenge, he’d have been grateful, but guilt, regret, and shame tormented him with every completed line.

  Of everything Sir Charles had accomplished in his seventy-two years, all would be forever tainted by one unfortunate incident thirteen years prior. However, it wasn’t the incident itself he was ashamed of, although he deeply regretted it. No, it was the years that followed where he had ample chance to make amends but he passed it up for fear it would destroy everything he had worked so hard to build. Unlike the vintage port he used to sup, his secret had not improved with age.

  It mattered not. His letter would ensure the sins of the father would soon be passed to the son, in the hope he might be a better man and right his wrongs.

  He floundered for a moment; searching for a specific word to end a sentence. Scouring his mind, frustration mounted and he gripped the pen hard in one hand while the other balled into a fist. Three heavy taps to his temple failed to dislodge the word. Whatever it was, the word was gone. He returned the nib to the end of the sentence and completed it with the best alternative his mind could summon.

  He ended with what he hoped was a sincere apology, and signed his name. The letter was complete, but he felt no better for it. He never really thought he would.

  He then tucked the letter into the pewter trinket box along with the photograph and the tattered certificate — three pieces of a jigsaw, conveniently sorted for his son to piece together.

  Closing the lid, Sir Charles sat back in his chair while keeping his gaze fixed on the pewter box. Seconds passed and he could already feel his mind drifting away from the contents, and the possible implications once his son read the letter. Perhaps no bad thing.

  A sudden knock on the study door startled him. His head snapped up as the door creaked open, and a middle-aged woman stepped into the study. She looked as haggard as she probably felt.

  “Everything okay, Sir Charles?”

  Originally employed as a housekeeper, Lizzie had somehow become Sir Charles’s full-time carer. Having previously worked as a nurse, she was more than qualified for the role but it wasn’t exactly a career move of choice.

  Lizzie’s decision was born of necessity.

  Almost four years had passed since her husband died unexpectedly; bequeathing Lizzie a mountain of debt. Despite her best efforts, the bailiffs eventually came calling and the marital home was duly repossessed. The only reason she’d taken the job at Hansworth Hall was the accompanying offer of staff accommodation. At the time, the offer was a blessing, but she soon realised her subsidised home was a curse. Too much of her modest pay went on servicing debts, so while she continued to diligently save every precious pound, Lizzie remained trapped.

  “Pour me a brandy,” Sir Charles ordered.

  Lizzie paced over to the desk and took a seat on an oak chair, opposite her employer. She paused for a moment as she studied the old man’s wizened features. His face was almost skeletal now, on account he frequently forgot to eat the meals she’d prepared for him. Her attempts to remind him had been met with hostility — the once erudite and witty charmer now a confused and temperamental curmudgeon. Lizzie knew Sir Charles wasn’t long for this earth but she needed him to hang on for at least a few more paydays. By then, she hoped her savings would be sufficiently bolstered to allow an escape.

  “Now, now,” she replied, her tone almost maternal. “You know you can’t take alcohol with your medication. Can I get you a cup of cocoa instead?”

  “No. Take a letter for me.”

  Lizzie closed her eyes and counted to five. Sir Charles didn’t appear to notice or care, and began his dictation.

  “Dear Margaret. Firstly, I understand Dennis has been unwell recently. Please pass on my wishes for a speedy recovery.”

  Lizzie opened her eyes and leant across the desk. This wasn’t the first time Sir Charles had regressed to his days as a government minister. Two years had passed since he was diagnosed with Alzheimer's, bringing the curtain down on Sir
Charles’s forty year career as a politician, and in a cruel twist of fate, within a month of his party losing power in the 1997 election.

  “I’m not your personal secretary, Sir Charles,” she sighed, choosing not to inflame his mood by pointing out that almost a decade had passed since Margaret Thatcher had been ousted from 10 Downing Street.

  “Just get on with it, woman,” he bellowed.

  Arguing with him was pointless. She knew the only way to steer his confused thoughts in a different direction was to change the subject.

  “That box is pretty. Is it silver? It looks expensive,” she remarked, pointing to the trinket box on the desk.

  Sir Charles stared at Lizzie and then at the box. A bony hand suddenly snatched it away and returned it to his desk drawer.

  “It’s priceless, woman,” he spat.

  Lizzie nodded as he slammed the drawer shut. With that gesture, his anger appeared to dissipate and he fell silent.

  “It’s late, Sir Charles. Would you like any help getting ready for bed?”

  “Yes,” he replied, his voice barely a whisper.

  Lizzie moved around the desk and helped him from the chair, only to be met with a string of mumbled expletives. Undeterred, she took his arm and they shuffled out of the study.

  Unbeknown to Lizzie, it would be their final walk together as death would come calling in the night and finally put an end to the old politician’s misery.

  PRESENT DAY

  2.

  The air is heavy with a cocktail of scents: aftershave, perfume, and the combined morning breath of a hundred commuters, crammed into the carriage. Despite the best efforts of my fellow passengers on the Jubilee Line, the liberal application of designer fragrances struggles to mask the communal halitosis.

  The tube train rattles onwards and the melancholy faces continue to stare at anything but one another.

  It’s with some relief I’m finally able to prise myself from the packed carriage and step onto the platform at Westminster tube station. The morning commute from rural Hampshire is a tedious journey, taking over two hours, and I’m grateful I only have to complete it once a week.

  I wait a few seconds for the crowd to thin before making my way towards the exit. A dozen yards ahead, two unkempt youths in baseball caps are leant against the wall — one plump, one rake thin, both clearly angry with life. They glare in my direction as I approach.

  “Look at that Tory wanker,” the plump one mutters to the other, loud enough for me to hear. I’m not sure if that was his intention but it matters not — I’ve heard that particular insult before and I’m sure I’ll hear it many times again.

  As it happens, the obese youth is correct. I am a member of the Conservative Party, although at heart I’m politically agnostic, and by virtue of the fact I’m a somewhat uncomely, middle-aged bachelor, I’m no stranger to an occasional bout of self-gratification.

  Nevertheless, such assumptions from people who don’t know me, rile. I stop dead in my tracks and approach the youths.

  “Sorry, gents,” I say politely. “I didn’t catch what you said.”

  “Didn’t say nothin’,” the plump one retorts.

  “Oh, in which case, please accept my apologies. I could have sworn you called me a Tory wanker.”

  They swap awkward glances but remain silent.

  “Well, for future reference, I personally prefer the term Tory tosser — it has a softer ring to it, don’t you think?”

  Puzzled faces replace awkward glances. Unsurprisingly, they have little to say now.

  “Have a good day, gents.”

  I give them a parting nod and continue my way along the platform.

  Progress is slow as I continually sidestep commuters heading in the opposite direction; many of whom are young and pretty. A number of them are also female; a species I seem to repel for some reason. Perhaps repel is too strong a word, but I certainly lack the physical characteristics to attract women. Indeed, a girl at university once described my appearance as extraordinarily ordinary, like white bread or magnolia paint. Not ugly, but not handsome. Not short, but not tall. Not fat, but not thin. She further theorised that sleeping with me would be akin to eating boiled rice when hungry — functional, but incredibly dull.

  I avoid eye contact with the pretty young things and head towards the exit.

  A minute later, the escalator delivers me onto the featureless concrete concourse where the majority of my fellow commuters either make for the exit on to Westminster Bridge or head right towards Whitehall. I do neither, and dart down a commuter-free walkway with a revolving door at the end; a police guard stood the other side. Apart from those who work here, very few people know of this entrance to the home of British parliament.

  I swap nods with the policeman and head towards my office.

  I’m not sure it’s any cause for celebration, but this year marks my tenth anniversary as Member of Parliament for Marshburton; one of the smallest constituencies in England with only sixty thousand residents. I cannot say I had any great appetite for a career in politics but my late father, Sir Charles Huxley, was a well-respected minister and assumptions were incorrectly made that I might like to follow the same career path.

  I vividly recall the day I received a visit from the chairman of the local Conservative Party. A blusterous former Naval officer, he literally press ganged me into standing as the local candidate after my predecessor unexpectedly stood down; the result of an unfortunate misunderstanding with his expenses, so I was told.

  Despite the last-minute campaigning, and my numerous threats to quit, I was duly elected. One minute I’m plain old Will Huxley, the next I’m The Right Honourable William Huxley MP. In hindsight, I can see how and why I was elected. After a scandal, what better way to placate the constituents than to offer them a candidate with a back story. My father had served the good people of Marshburton for more than four decades and my surname alone offered a return to the good old days. It was a smart move by the chairman. Not so smart on my part.

  Nevertheless, I had a job to do, and I naively thought I could make a difference. In my first six months of office I was stringently mentored in the hope my star would rise. Those hopes were quickly dashed when it became clear I was more interested in people than politics. And so, I became just another invisible backbencher — a mere pawn in somebody else’s game; to be whipped, bullied and occasionally flattered into doing what I’m told.

  Still, someone's got to do it, and as my only previous work experience was an eight year stint volunteering for an overseas charity, I wasn’t exactly blessed with alternative career options.

  “Good morning, William,” Rosa chimes as I step into the office.

  “Morning,” I reply while pulling out my chair.

  Before my backside even touches the seat, Rosa floats across the carpet and stands in front of the desk, her ever-present notepad in hand.

  “I’ll get your tea in a moment, but we’ve got a full diary today so I wanted to check you’re on top of everything.”

  Vexed, I stare up at her and try to hide my annoyance behind a feeble smile. “Yes, yes. I’m totally on top of everything.”

  She tilts her head and tucks a strand of chocolate-blonde hair behind her ear.

  “Are you absolutely sure, William?” she asks; the merest hint of incredulity breaching her usually soft tone.

  “Well, most of it,” I reply sheepishly.

  “What are we going to do with you?” she chuckles. “Get your diary ready. I’ll be back in two minutes with that tea.”

  She drops her notebook on my desk and turns away. I watch her as she effortlessly moves across the office and out of the door.

  Rosa is now in her third month of employment as my personal assistant, having previously spent much of her career with a corporate law firm. My previous PA, Joyce, who’d been with me since the day I started, unexpectedly quit ten weeks ago. She cited personal reasons for terminating her position without notice, but she did have the decency to
recommend Rosa, and I’m very pleased she did.

  I’m not by nature, a particularly organised man, and coupled with my goldfish-like memory, I fear I wouldn’t be able to function without an efficient assistant. And while Joyce was as prickly as she was professional, Rosa is charming, witty, and, it must be said, quite beautiful. Factor-in she’s twenty-five years younger than Joyce and exceedingly good at her job, it makes Rosa a most agreeable upgrade.

  However, there is one problem — I face a daily battle not to fall in love with the woman.

  Truth is, it’s a battle I’m losing, but the chance of my affections being reciprocated are close to zero. Politicians aren’t the most lovable of creatures, and I’m already behind most men in the lovable stakes. So, I do what any stiff upper lipped Englishman would do, and keep my counsel. In my defence, I fear even hinting at my true feelings might scare her away, and I can’t afford to lose another personal assistant.

  Rosa returns with two china cups on accompanying saucers, and places them carefully down on my desk. I open my briefcase and retrieve a battered diary. Rosa stares at it with mock disdain.

  “Ah, that reminds me,” she remarks before scooting back to her desk.

  After rifling through her handbag, she skips back with a mobile phone in hand.

  “For you. A present.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Rosa, but I already have a mobile phone.”

  “Ah, but this is a smart phone. You can use an app to synchronise our diaries.”

  I tentatively take the mobile phone. I’m perfectly happy with my old Nokia handset because I have no desire to be enslaved to a digital overlord. Call me old fashioned, but I like to open my diary without fear it will delete itself.

  “This looks expensive, and to be honest, I wouldn’t have the first clue how to use it.”

  “It’s my old phone and it was in a drawer doing nothing. And don’t worry, I’ll set it up and show you how it works.”