Headcase (Clement Book 4) by Keith A Pearson

Author:Keith A Pearson [Pearson, Keith A]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CrestaPress Publishing
Published: 2020-03-18T04:00:00+00:00

24.

The net curtain in the upstairs bedroom twitches. I glance up and catch Ernest Kingsland looking down at us as we stand inert on the pavement outside his house.

“Do you think he was telling the truth?” I ask.

“The old boy seemed sure of himself, and I dunno why he’d lie.”

“It would also explain why there’s no mention of Fraser Kingsland on the electoral roll, or anywhere on Google.”

The moustache receives a few strokes as Clement stares up the road.

“What now?” I enquire.

“Let’s go for a wander. No point standing here like idiots.”

We head back towards the main road; both deep in our own thoughts. At the junction, Clement takes a right turn and I blindly follow for no other reason than I’m lost, literally and metaphorically.

We reach a seedy-looking pub called The Crown; a tower block of council flats looming large behind it.

“That’s handy,” Clement comments.

“What is?”

“A boozer. Let’s go grab a pint and work out what we’re gonna do.”

“In there?”

“Yeah, why not?”

On first impressions alone, it does not look like a pub where they welcome non-locals.

“Can’t we find a coffee shop?”

“And pay three quid for a cup of lukewarm piss? No, ta.”

Clement turns and strides towards the front door. With great reluctance, I follow.

The interior of The Crown lives up to the drab exterior, and the clientele are equally squalid; a dozen or so pale-faced men who all look like they’ve had a hard life, though not through work.

Sticking close to Clement, I edge up to the bar where a tubby man is re-stocking the peanuts.

“Yes, gents?”

“Two pints of lager,” Clement replies.

I should interject and request a sparkling water, but I’d bet patrons have been shanked in this establishment for lesser lapses of judgement. Clement pays and we take a seat at a table next to a fruit machine.

I take a sip of a pint I don’t really want.

“So, what do we do now?” I ask. “Any ideas?”

“Yeah, I’ve got an idea but I’m sure you’re not gonna like it, Doc.”

“Probably not, but it seems I’ve given up on what I like or want.”

“Alright,” he says, sitting forward. “We can’t find Kingsland so the only option is for him to find us.”

“And how do we do that?”

“You’ve got his phone number, right?”

“Yes.”

“Call him and say you wanna meet up.”

“For what purpose?”

“Tell him you’ve found the kid’s phone.”

“But we haven’t.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s just a ruse to get him out in the open.”

I glance at Clement’s glass which is three-quarters full. I can discount inebriation as a reason for his crazy idea.

“You’re absolutely right,” I grumble. “I don’t like it … not one bit.”

“You ain’t got any other choice, Doc. We’re pissing in the wind trying to find a bloke who don’t wanna be found. Time is running out.”

I take another sip of terrible lager; not as terrible as the first sip, or Clement’s brainwave.

“Let’s just imagine how this might work, shall we? I call Kingsland and tell him I’ve found the phone, and then what?”

“He’ll come and fetch it.”

“What if he doesn’t? Last time he sent one of his men to collect it.

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