By the time I’m behind the counter with a cup of tea in hand, the first customer of the day walks through the front door. I’m glad. I want to be busy today, I want to be distracted.
“Good morning, young lady,” the man calls across the shop as he wipes his feet on the doormat. Most customers never bother.
“Morning.”
The man gazes around for a moment. Judging by his thinning white hair and craggy face, I guess he must be in his seventies. His dapper attire is another clue to his age. A navy blue pinstripe suit beneath a tan-coloured camel hair coat — a look I haven’t seen in a while. His aftershave is also markedly old-school too; the potent scent of musk and leather drifting across the shop.
“It looks like I’m your first customer of the day,” he says in a clipped accent.
“Yes, you are.”
“Splendid.”
He moves confidently across the floor towards the counter, his hand outstretched.
He reaches the counter and smiles. “Miss Baxter, I assume?”
I shake his hand.
“David Sterling.”
I try to recall if we’ve ever met or how he’d know my name. Mr Sterling notes my blank expression.
“We’ve never met, Miss Baxter.”
“I did wonder. What can I do for you, Mr Sterling?”
“Now, that is quite the question.”
He leans forward and rests one arm on the counter, the spotlights in the ceiling casting a shadow across his lined face. It’s only then I spot the thin, crescent-shaped scar, running from the corner of his mouth up to his right ear. Coupled with his prominent, hooked nose, it’s a face hard not to stare at.
“Motorcycle accident, when I was a young man,” he casually remarks.
That explains the scar, but his beak-like conk must be a genetic curse.
“Oh…err, sorry, “I splutter.
“It’s alright. I’ve become quite accustomed to strangers seeing the scar before they see the man.”
I return a nervous smile, the awkwardness of the situation heightened as Mr Sterling’s steely grey eyes bore into me.
“How is business, Miss Baxter? I’d imagine it must be challenging, what with most people purchasing books on the Internet these days.”
He turns away and spends a few seconds casting his eye over the shelves.
Something clicks in my head and a strand of irritation suddenly flares. I’ve had quite enough of being pissed around by men.
“What was it you wanted, Mr Sterling? Are you selling something? If you are, I’m really not interested.”
His face snaps back in my direction.
“I like a lady who gets to the point. And to answer your question, no, I’m not selling anything.”
He stares at me but doesn’t expand on his answer.
“Okay, so what do you want?”
“Not so much what, Miss Baxter, but whom.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m looking for someone. Your errant fiancé.”
“He’s not my fiancé any longer,” I snap. “In fact, he’s no longer my anything.”
“Well, well. That must have been a recent development. I do hope my photographs weren’t the catalyst.”
I feel myself shrink, my confidence draining away at the sight of Mr Sterling’s knowing smile. It seems I now know the identity of the voyeuristic photographer.
“It was you…”
“I’m sorry you had to see those photographs, Miss Baxter,” he interrupts. “Your fiancé and I had a deal. He reneged on that deal so I had to up the ante, see if I could shake him up a little. Seems I shook him a little too hard and he’s now gone to ground.”
What the hell has Karl got himself into? And why is this old man taking lurid photos of Karl and his floozy? More to the point, why is he sending those photos to me?
“I’m afraid I can’t help you. Karl isn’t returning my messages and according to his colleague, he’s taken time off work. I don’t have the first clue where he is.”
“Oh dear. That is disappointing.”
He puffs out his cheeks and takes a glance at an expensive looking wristwatch.
“Unfortunately, if that is the case I’m afraid it falls upon you to repay his debt, Miss Baxter.”
“What debt? I don’t think so,” I bark. “I don’t know why Karl owes you money, but it’s his problem, not mine.”
I move from behind the counter and stride purposely towards the front door. Mr Sterling stands motionless, his eyes following my path until I reach the door and pull it open.
“I’d like you to leave. Now.”
“Close the door, Miss Baxter.”
“If you don’t leave, I’ll call the police.”
He takes half-a-dozen strides towards the door, and for a moment I think he’s going to leave. He doesn’t.
He grabs the door edge and yanks it from my grip with such force it slams into the frame.
“Calling the police would be a very bad idea,” he says, his tone edging towards aggressive. “Slashed tyres can be replaced. A slashed face, not so easily, as I can attest to.”
His thin smile returns as he waits for a reaction.
“You…slashed my tyres?” I stutter.
“Don’t be silly. I’m far too respectable to be committing acts of petty vandalism. Fortunately, I do happen to know some fairly undesirable individuals who are more than willing to do my bidding.”
He leans against the door and dips a hand inside his coat. He pulls out a piece of paper and hands it to me.
“Obviously a man in my position has to ensure all the legal bases are covered. This letter covers Mr Patterson’s arrangement. Take a look.”
I tentatively take the letter and unfold it. I scan the text but I’m drawn to the two signatures at the bottom — Karl’s, and mine.
“I’ll save you reading it, Miss Baxter. What you have in your hand is a copy of a contract which gave Mr Patterson a deadline to repay monies owed. That deadline has passed.”
“I never signed this,” I scoff.
“It’s your signature, is it not?”
I look at the letter again. The signature certainly looks identical to mine, but I’m positive I never signed it.
I open my mouth to repeat my position, but Sterling snatches the letter out of my hand.
“This is a legally binding contract, Miss Baxter. It was given to Mr Patterson and he returned it, with both signatures. If you’re claiming it’s a forgery, you had better take that up with Mr Patterson. It makes no odds to me.”
“This is ridiculous. I don’t even know how much he owes you, or why?”
“The why is unimportant. The how much is twenty grand.”
I stagger backwards and have to hold myself upright by leaning against a shelf.
“I…I…don’t have that sort of money.”
“Of course you do,” he replies glibly. “You own a property in Elmore Road, and of course, there’s this place. I think you could raise the money if you put your mind to it.”
He steps towards me. I want to run but my legs don’t cooperate.
“Seven days for you and Mr Patterson to get the funds together, Miss Baxter. Perhaps that deadline will help you focus on finding him.”
He looks down his beaky nose at me before opening the door.
“I’ll be back next Thursday afternoon. Don’t let me down — that would not end well for you.”
With that, he strides out of the shop, closing the door behind him.
My legs finally give way and I slide down the edge of the bookcase to the floor, my breathing ragged, my thoughts mashed.
For ten minutes I just sit there, trying to piece together what little I know. It isn’t much. Karl has clearly got himself into debt, although I have no idea how he’d wrack up one of twenty thousand pounds. And for some inexplicable reason, he thought it an appropriate time to embark on an affair. Are those two facts connected? Has he borrowed money to set up home with that Dakota woman?
<
br /> Why has he gone to ground though? And more importantly, how the hell did my signature end up on that contract?
Christ. What do I do?
My fear slowly ebbs away and anger replaces it. Even if I had the means to pay Karl’s debt, which I most certainly don’t, why the hell should I?
I clamber to my feet and stagger into the staffroom. With shaky hands I pull my phone from my bag and call Karl. Voicemail.
“Listen to me you little shit, I’ve just had a visit from David Sterling and he’s not happy. If you don’t call me back the minute you get this message, I’m calling the police and they can deal with his threats.”
With my nerves still jangling, I try to find some calm, some resolve. I put the kettle on and make myself a camomile tea. I need a clear head to think, to plan.
Seven days.
On the basis Mr Sterling won’t be paid by me, what possible consequences could there be? This is not the Wild West; we have laws, and punishment for people who break those laws. Sterling can’t go around threatening people and damaging property without consequences, surely?
I have the law on my side.
But he has a signed contract.
Suddenly a thought crosses my mind. Karl’s annoyance when I insisted on calling the police to report my slashed tyres. He must have known it was something to do with Sterling. No wonder he didn’t want me to get the police involved. In hindsight, I’m glad I never listened to him.
I shouldn’t listen to Sterling either. I don’t even know who he is. Should I? I know so very little and that puts Sterling at an advantage.
I dart back into the shop and wake the computer. After a search for his name, and a little filtering, I find several results from the local newspaper website. I click on, and read four articles, all of which refer to a charitable donation made by Sterling’s company, Guildale Developments. Three of the articles are accompanied by photos; all of David Sterling standing beside charity volunteers, proudly holding poster sized cheques. The sums displayed on the cheques are sizeable.
This makes no sense.
The man smiling in the photos appears to be a generous and patently successful businessman. The face is the same but it was no genteel, philanthropic pensioner who threatened me this morning.
I search for Guildale Developments and click through to their website.
A few more clicks and I locate a page displaying photos of their board members, with links to their respective profiles. I click the profile link for their Chairman, David Sterling.
The words paint a picture of a virtual saint. Having moved into the area forty years ago, Sterling built Guildale up from nothing. In that time, the company have constructed hundreds of homes, and have a sizeable portfolio of rental properties. Alongside Sterling’s success in business, he’s also forged a credible reputation in the local community with a string of honorary awards from numerous charitable organisations.
Why is a man with such obvious wealth, and good standing, risking it all over a debt he could chase through the courts? He has so much at stake, and that surely undermines his threats. If I go to the police, the publicity alone could damage his reputation.
Do I call his bluff or call the police? I need to give this some thought.
I steel myself and prepare to get on with my day while I consider the best way to deal with David Sterling.
Just as I reach the door, my phone rings on the table.
It’s Karl.
8
I snatch the phone from the table and accept Karl’s call. With so much anger built up over so many unreturned calls, I’ve given little thought to what I’m actually going to say to him.
I let loose with industrial-grade gibberish. “You bastard. You despicable, cheating little shit. You…you…”
I run out of expletives.
“I’m so sorry, Beth,” Karl interjects, his voice calm but subdued.
I take a second to compose myself.
“I don’t even know where to start so I’ll give you thirty seconds to tell me what the hell is going on. And I want the truth, Karl. Every bit of it.”
“Beth, I’m in deep shit.”
“No kidding,” I bark. “I worked that one out myself. But I’m the one getting my tyres slashed and pornographic pictures shoved through my letterbox. Where the hell are you, Karl?”
He pauses for a moment. All I can hear is a series of heavy breaths.
“Karl. I don’t have the patience for this. Tell me what the hell is going on. Now.”
“Alright. Alright.”
The line goes quiet again and I hear a door close.
“Are you on your own?” he asks.
“Yes. Now get on with it.”
“I guess there’s no point trying to sugar-coat any of this but please save your screaming until I’ve finished. Alright?”
“Fine.”
He begins, and his voice becomes a little more frantic.
“This all started about eighteen months ago. I…err…had a bit of a gambling problem. It spiralled out of control and before I knew it, I owed about five grand to a bookie. He then sold my debt to a loan shark. He ramped it up to eight grand within a month. The interest just kept being piled on and I couldn’t keep up with the payments.”
“For crying out loud, Karl. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Dunno. Shame, I suppose. Anyway, I met a guy in a pub who said he could offer me a way out. He introduced me to David Sterling.”
“Why would Sterling help you out?”
“He runs a property development company.”
“That much I know. So what?”
“He said he’d pay my debt off in full if I helped him see a planning application over the line.”
“What? You took a bribe?”
“He said it was an incentive, not a bribe. The application was pretty sound anyway, so I didn’t really have to do much to ensure it went through.”
“But if you helped him, why is he now harassing me?”
The line goes quiet again. I suspect we’ve barely scratched the surface of Karl’s misdemeanours.
“A few days after the application went through, Sterling and a few of his associates invited me for a night out to celebrate. We went to an expensive restaurant, then on to a casino. He gave me a grand to wager, which I blew in about two hours, and then we somehow ended up in a hotel suite.”
“Go on.”
“It all turned bad from that point,” he sighs. “That’s where those photos were taken.”
I can almost feel his shame across the phone line.
“The photos of you and your new girlfriend?” I spit.
“She’s not my girlfriend, Beth. She’s an escort.”
My stomach somersaults. “You paid her for sex?”
“I know it’s no excuse, but I was drunk. And I never paid her anything. It was Sterling. He wanted the pictures as leverage.”
“Ohh, that’s alright then,” I yell. “It makes it all the more palatable to know you never wrote the cheque.”
“Beth. Please.”
I try to calm myself. It takes some doing.
“I never heard anything from Sterling for about ten months. Then I got a call out of the blue to say he needed my input on another application.”
“What did he offer? A whole troupe of whores?”
“No. Ten grand.”
“You idiot. You took it didn’t you?”
“It was such a simple application and I didn’t really have to do much. It was easy money, and I really wanted a chunk of cash…”
“Oh no. Please, Karl,” I interrupt. “Don’t tell me you spent that money on what I think you spent it on.”
“I’m sorry, Beth. There never was a winning scratch card.”
“What the hell is wrong with you? What sort of man buys his fianceé an engagement ring with an illegal bung?”
“I…I…just wanted to make you happy.”
“Happy? By implicating me in your corrupt little scheme? No wond
er you didn’t want me to go to the police. I’m wearing an engagement ring, and driving around in a new car, both bought with your dirty money.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” he whispers.
I take another deep breath.
“So why is he now chasing you for twenty grand.”
“I accepted a much bigger bribe.”
“What? Why?”
“You know how much I’ve always wanted to run my own business?”
“Yes. You tried, Karl, and failed several times.”
“Thanks for reminding me,” he huffs. “But this time was different. I wanted to set up my own planning consultancy and I know it would have worked. I just needed forty grand to get it up-and-running. And I thought once I’d left the planning department, I’d no longer be of use to Sterling and he’d leave me alone.”
“Wait. If he gave you twenty grand, and you needed forty, where were you planning to get the rest of the cash?”
I already have a fair idea of his answer.
“I had a dead-cert bet on a horse. I put the whole twenty grand on the win. It lost by a nose.”
“Jesus wept. You stupid, stupid man.”
The line goes quiet again. I haven’t smoked for years, but for some inexplicable reason I really want a cigarette about now.
“Notwithstanding your gross stupidity, Karl, you still haven’t explained why I’m now being targeted by Sterling, and how my signature ended up on a contract I’ve never seen before.”
“His latest planning application ended up going to the committee. That was bad enough, but it was declined last week. I told Sterling I was going to resign because I’d had enough. I thought that would be the end of it.”
“Clearly it wasn’t.”
“No, he went nuts. He gave me until nine o’clock Tuesday morning to repay his money, or he’d involve you. He did give me another option, though. He wanted me to approve another application but it was so complex I’d never have got it through. I had no choice but to run.”
More dots are connected.
“So Dakota’s visit to the shop was a warning? And when you failed to heed that warning, that’s why my tyres were slashed?”
“Yes. I went to see him on Monday evening, to plead with him, but it was a total waste of time.”
Who Sent Clement? Page 6
