Goodbye Jeremy

Goodbye Jeremy

Steve Horner

Copyright. Steve Horner 2017

Steve Horner has asserted his right to be identified as the

author of the work in accordance with Copyright, Design and

Patents Act 1988.

All characters and situations in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to any person, living or dead is purely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favourite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

With thanks to Sue Williams for her editing assistance.

Contents

Part 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Part 2

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Part 3

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

About the Author

Part 1

Chapter 1

‘Maybe’ said the Inspector pointedly, ‘he wasn’t worth your worrying about, how long do you think your money would have kept him happy Mr Clay?’

‘Although that maybe so Inspector, doesn’t help me come to terms with what has happened and what I could have done to change it,’ replied Stuart standing near the exit of the rapidly emptying room. He stood transfixed on the raised bench area from where the Coroner had called an end to the two-day inquiry, with the verdict – Death by misadventure, drowning. The reporters, who just recently had sat bored by the slow progress were now a frenzy of activity, desperate to meet editorial deadlines with this story.

‘Story’, thought Stuart Clay, ‘a week from now no one will remember or care; it’s a page filler, soon to be drowned out by the latest political mess or sex story.’ His thoughts moved from the bench to the face in front of him, the skin stretched tightly across the high cheekbones, the long thin nose, dull eyes revealing no expression…

‘Well let me buy you a drink,’ interrupted the Inspector, ‘I know just the place.’

‘Thanks, I could do with one.’ Clay allowed the Inspector to catch his arm and move him through the open doors towards the darkening street, with lights just beginning to glow, casting eerie shadows on the hurrying forms making their way homewards or to their next appointment.

A brisk fifteen-minute walk saw them at the dingy door of the Anchor Inn. It was nearly an hour since the inquest had finished. Inspector Barrett pulled the dull, brass door handle and stood aside for Stuart Clay to enter. He was met by the beery fug, familiar to many London pubs and a waft of thick curling tobacco smoke. He was surprised by the number of drinkers contained in its cavernous space at that time. The clock above the bar showed seventeen minutes past five. Inspector Barrett, followed him, scanned each corner of the room as they entered, and spotting a small unoccupied table, removed his trilby and headed towards it. Safely secured he turned towards the crowded bar and ordered two pints of bitter, and managed to return to the table with only a small amount spilt onto the already amply soiled carpet.

‘Cheers’ he said taking a large swig from the glass which encouraged Clay to do likewise.

‘I often come here at this time of day,’ the Inspector continued, lighting his pipe in a cloud of match flame and smoke. ‘It’s livelier than later with office workers having a drink or two, postponing their return home to a reheated meal and an evening sleeping in front of the telly. The exception is that bloke at the end of the bar.’

Clay looked up from his pint in the direction the Inspector was nodding. ‘Talking to the one in the bowler, comes in every night, works in life assurance and never stops banging on about you never know when the grim reaper will come knocking and the need it ensure you have enough life cover. Bet that’s what his talking about right now.’

‘Alright Inspector cut the small talk, what do you really want with me?’ Clay asked.

‘Why don’t you refill these pints, then I’ll come clean.’ Clay considered this for a moment, then headed for the bar.

‘I’m worried about you,’ began the Inspector. ‘I’m sure you have in mind to take it upon yourself to prove Jeremy Palmer was murdered. You know some of his so called friends were unsavoury to say the least. If you go poking your nose too far into their business we may be pulling you out of the Thames one chilly morning.’

Clay jumped on this. ‘Why do you say that Inspector, surely you accept the Coroner’s verdict and Jeremy’s death had nothing to do with the company he kept.’

‘No, there was nothing suspicious about it, there wasn’t a single mark of violence on the body, the medical examination found nothing unusual and confirmed the cause of death was drowning. But, we both know his lifestyle was precarious and volatile, and I’m concerned you don’t accept the verdict.’

Clay was about to respond when the pub door opened and a small non-descript man in a heavy blue overcoat entered, carrying copies of the Evening Standard. The Inspector bought a copy and quickly scanned the pages, then took a sharp intake of breath. The paper lay open and Clay guessed what had caused the Inspector’s reaction.

‘They’ve headlined your outburst,’ the Inspector said, reading aloud. ‘IT WAS MURDER.’

He handed the paper to Clay who read slowly through the whole report. Inspector Barrett watched him closely, allowing small puffs of smoke from his pipe to drift towards the yellow ceiling, as if sending smoke signals to the other end of the bar. When Clay looked up, the Inspector did too, following the last puff of smoke until it spread and settled into the ceiling.

Stuart Clay allowed the silence between them to continue, contemplating his glass and avoiding the Inspector’s gaze. Jeremy had been a very close friend, despite being a confirmed drug addict with a continuing need for money to fund his habit; which Stuart had, on occasions, provided. These requests later became demands and the last one on the evening of 23rd August 1963, Stuart had refused. He couldn’t now remember why, money wasn’t the issue but, at 6pm on the following day, Jeremy’s body had been found in the mud at Greenwich. He felt responsible, he’d failed his fallible friend; he’d not recognised how desperate Jeremy was. He recalled the many arguments they’d had when he encouraged Jeremy to seek help, all to no avail.

During the course of searching Jeremy’s flat the police had found a note addressed to Stuart Clay. The note was short but to the point - Sorry Stuart, but I can’t live without it. The writing was virtually illegible but, when the police showed it to him, he confirmed it was similar to Jeremy’s begging letters he had received over recent years.

The Standard gave more details from the inquest. Pathologist Robert Loughlan confirmed that Palmer had died from drowning, there were traces of oil in his lungs which fitted with having taken in water from the Thames. However, it had not been possible to identify where the deceased had entered the water, owing to the tidal nature of the river. He’d certainly been in the water for at least twelve hours before washing up at Greenwich. There were no discernible signs of violence but a multitude of needle marks and bruises on his arms and upper legs, confirmed the deceased’s insatiable drugs habit. Stuart Clay stated that Palmer had called at his house at 7.30pm on 23rd August and asked for money, which had been refused. They had argued and soon after Jeremy Palmer had walked out in a rage, slamming the door behind him.

Although Stuart recognised Jeremy was very angry, he didn’t seem any more depressed than he could become when the drug highs began to pass. Certainly not suicidal. Perhaps recognising this, the coroner had given the death by misadventure verdict. However, to Stuart, that had opened the door to another possibility. Although he recognised that over the years Jeremy had changed, the drugs affected every aspect of his life, hardly noticeable at first but, over time, had become much worse. Erratic, charming, unpredictable, polite, aggressive, you just never knew what to expect until he turned up, usually late, although still enjoyable company on a good day. Stuart’s eyes glazed over as those of a drunk might do, the memories drifting across his mind, the striking blue eyes and clear whites alert, as he reflected on the possible explanations for Jeremy’s death.

‘Tell me,’ the Inspector broke the silence between them. ‘Why do you think it was murder?’

Stuart mumbled, ‘it’s a possibility, at least I think it is, maybe I’m feeling too responsible for Jeremy’s death and looking for a different answer.’ He sensed the Inspector wanted to continue this conversation, he didn’t.

‘Do you know that fellow sitting at the table over by the wall, no, the one on his left, that’s right, I seem to know his face but can’t put a name to him,’ Stuart asked.

‘Ah, his name’s Henderson, nice chap works around the corner in an accountant’s office. Chatted to him occasionally, you know we spent most of the war in the same part of the world, didn’t know him then but came to light when we were introduced, suppose that must be a year or so ago now. How do you know him?’

‘I think we worked on a job together for a while, small takeover of an office cleaning company, must have been a couple of months ago now.’

They walked over to join Henderson who recognised Inspector Barrett and showed feint recognition of Clay. The next hour was spent reminiscing how they knew each other, but mainly wartime in northern Italy, where Barrett and Henderson had served. An hour later this seemed to have run its course and the two older men rose to leave. Stuart shook hands, remaining in his seat.

‘I see you are determined to check the landlord doesn’t close early,’ Inspector Barrett remarked as he drifted towards the door, then added, ‘look after yourself, stay out of trouble, see you soon.’

Stuart wondered if the last comment was a throwaway line or whether the Inspector really did intend to meet again, soon. He contemplated this whilst listening mindlessly to the various topics emanating from the bar – horse racing, cars, football, women.

He was twenty- six years old having qualified as a solicitor just two years ago and was now working for one of the larger London practices, where he presumed the aim was a partnership one day. He had a degree in economics from Cambridge, although God knows how, most of the 3 years had been spent playing rugby or any other sport that would have him, lots of beer and the occasional woman had occupied most of his time, studying very little. Indeed, he couldn’t understand how he had achieved a degree at all and a first at that, he considered he was far more qualified in the social and sports ‘subjects’. He was athletically built, over 6 feet tall and continued with the judo he’d started at Cambridge, working for his black belt.

Clay reflected on these various aspects of his life, then his thoughts turned again to Jeremy, his main companion throughout University. Jeremy had introduced him to Paula Jackson, the model he’d known for about six months, wow what a six months that had been, long may it continue. He lingered on the image of her photograph in pride of place on his bedside table, yes quite a girl, quite a girl. He blinked self-consciously, aware he probably had an inane grin on his face at the thoughts he was having about Paula.

Damn it he was going to find the truth of Jeremy’s death. If his refusal of that last request for money really had triggered suicide, he would have to learn to live with it but right now he didn’t accept that was the case. He would even give up work if necessary, after all he had some income from his grandmother’s trust, enough to keep him going for a while. His thoughts began to accelerate, racing through a turmoil of questions, who saw Jeremy last, who was his contact with the drugs world, who supplied the drugs, where did they come from, had he been murdered, if so by whom, why? It was turning into a long list and Stuart realised he had no idea where to start.

Deciding he needed fresh air, he rose, somewhat unsteadily, and headed for the door. Passing through the pub door he was hit by the coolness of the night, breathing in deeply through his open mouth, the crisp night air made his teeth tingle. He hailed a passing cab and climbed quickly into it.

Chapter 2

The Taxi arrived outside Del Mario’s club by sweeping across two lanes of oncoming traffic, their headlights temporarily illuminating the driver’s face. It was the face of someone proud of a recent achievement, grinning to itself, celebrating the successful conclusion of yet another suicide run through London’s congested traffic. Even at this hour, cars, buses and taxis formed a snake like line through the streets, some wide and traffic flowing nose to tail, some narrow and teeming with life. Jay walkers creating mobile chicanes, keeping drivers alert, frustratingly not allowing long enough to study the nude photographs arrayed outside the strip clubs or linger on the attractive form of the young girls wandering scintillatingly across the road, without a care in the world.

Clay stepped out, looking around while searching for the three shilling pieces which he was certain had been given to him by way of change in the pub, one… two, yes three, he hesitated briefly considering two shillings sufficient for the brief ride and driver’s constant chatter, then thrust all three into the waiting hand.

‘Thank you, guv, be lucky’, the driver said as he pulled away from the kerb towards another waiting fare. Turning towards the club entrance, Stuart studied the photographs of the cabaret artistes displayed on the wall, he’d not heard of any of them, which didn’t surprise him. He reached for the door which swung open in front of him to reveal a well-built man in evening suit.

‘Good evening sir, are you a member?’

‘Afraid not, but I’d like to join’ Stuart Clay replied.

‘Certainly sir, please step this way, pointing towards a door bearing the words - Reception and Manager. He knocked and opened the door to allow Clay to enter and announced, ‘this gentleman would like to join, Joe.’

‘Come in, take a seat please.’ The manager was small with a chubby face and thin moustache.

‘I’m Joe Bradshaw the assistant manager; tell me has the club been recommended by one of our existing members?’

‘As a matter of fact,’ Stuart hesitated, wondering whether or not to mention Jeremy’s name, ‘an acquaintance of mine, Jeremy Palmer told me of your club’, he paused there was no reaction to Jeremy’s name, the chubby face continued to smile.

‘Ah good, we prefer all new members to know at least one current member before joining. Normally the manager and part owner Mr. Townsend would want to meet all new members but he’s currently abroad. Would you kindly fill in this application form…Mr. er?’

‘Clay, Stuart Clay’ he said, taking the form and scanning it quickly. Having only ten pounds on him and noting the subscription was five, ‘do you mind if I pay by cheque?’

‘By all means, make it payable to Del Mario’s Clubs Ltd please. I’ll give you a temporary membership card, the full one will be sent in due course… after we’ve had time to ask Mr. Palmer to support your application.’ Bradshaw smiled.

Stuart smiled in return but didn’t comment. If Bradshaw knew Jeremy was dead, he was making a damned good job of hiding it.

‘Come, I’ll show you to the bar.’

Stuart stepped into the corridor and saw a door off it, revealing no indication of its contents or use.

‘Junk room,’ Bradshaw said as if reading his mind, ‘Mainly old musical instruments, pianos and the like, this way.’ He gestured right and led the way.

The club was much larger than would be guessed from the street entrance and narrow corridor which led to the main area. Towards one end, a willowy blonde was sighing rather than singing but she certainly held everyone’s attention, even the few women present seemed to be focused on her every movement. It was not difficult to imagine what the men were thinking as a couple of spotlights played over her body, expertly lingering on her figure to emphasise the words of the barely detectable song.

‘The bar is on the left, first drink is on the house.’ Bradshaw spoke quietly and smiled. Stuart glanced at him and nodded by way of thanks but did not move.

He was conscious of Bradshaw moving away from him, stopping briefly to greet a few of those sitting at tables, as he retreated towards the narrow corridor.

The blonde had finished the song so Clay moved towards the bar, whilst others chose to applaud the performance. He ordered a gin and tonic and turned to face the room, the blonde was heading towards the bar, skilfully avoiding the clumsy embraces of a few enthusiastic admirers, but she did pause long enough for a tall, balding man to bend and kiss her shoulder. As she gazed at the man, it was difficult to gauge her feelings, love, admiration, fear, over too quickly to know as she continued towards Stuart and the bar. He became a little unnerved, was she heading for him, if so why, had his connection with Jeremy been realised already, was she the door into a trap?

He took a sip from his drink to steady his nerves and as he replaced it on the bar, a glass of white wine appeared beside it. At the same time a heavy hand gripped his shoulder.

‘Excuse me sir but that’s Miss Sonia’s seat, would you move along the bar a little.’

Stuart turned to look at the source of the thick Irish accent, his eyes seeing only the man’s chest as he did so. He was huge, Stuart tilted his head to look up at the large, thick set face.

‘Oh, don’t drive him away Eddie,’ Sonia spoke and touched his arm. ‘He looks harmless enough; please take a seat next to me.’

The man mountain smiled or grimaced, Stuart wasn’t sure which but he was grateful to be sitting down.

‘You’re new to the club, aren’t you?’ Sonia inquired. ‘At least I don’t recall seeing you before and I don’t usually forget a handsome face.’

Stuart blushed slightly, ‘you’re right this is my first time and I’ve applied to join.’

He returned her gaze, she was older than he’d first thought and her face, although relaxed was hard. Whoever did her makeup was very good, to keep her looking so attractive under the glare of those spotlights. Her eyes were bright and alert as if trying to look into his mind.

‘Do you know any of the other members?’ Sonia asked.

Stuart hesitated again but decided there was no point in hiding the fact he knew Jeremy. ‘Yes, I went to university with Jeremy Palmer, he mentioned this place as somewhere to enjoy an evening, forget about your troubles and so on. Do you know him?’

Sonia’s eyes narrowed as if she was reluctant to acknowledge any connection, or perhaps it was just his imagination. ‘No his name doesn’t mean anything to me; describe him, tall, good looking, dark hair, beard, what?’ She was almost laughing at him now and the crow’s feet around her eyes began to show.

‘Well, women might find him attractive, he’s about 6’ 3’’ tall, skinny, mass of light brown hair and a winning smile.’

‘Tell me about his nose, I can usually remember noses,’ Sonia replied.

‘His nose, let me see, not something I usually notice but think it’s long in keeping with his skinny looks, slightly upturned at the end, covered in skin and has two holes at the end. That’s about it.’

Sonia laughed and cupped her face in her hands to cover her girlish giggle. Stuart examined her arms while her eyes were partly hidden. No tell-tale pin pricks anywhere as far as he could see, nothing. Maybe I need to examine her legs and thighs more closely he mused.

‘Penny for them’ Sonia interrupted his thoughts.

‘I was just thinking, I’ve told you about Jeremy but I’ve not introduced myself; Stuart, Stuart Clay and you are Sonia….?’

‘Just Sonia,’ her eyes narrowed again. ‘Club rules not to get too friendly with customers, just keep them happy,’ she lowered her head to hide her expression.

‘What about the chap who kissed you on the way to the bar’

‘Ah, he’s not a customer you see.’ Sonia left the words hanging but continued, ‘he’s something special. Well if you’ll excuse me, I have to change, my next number is due in fifteen minutes.’

‘Of course,’ Stuart said more graciously then he felt. He watched her finish her wine and move towards the side of the small stage. He remained standing as his eyes followed her but paused to take in the dancers gyrating to the rock beat. He wasn’t sure if it was dancing or an exhibition, allowing the scantily dressed girls to display their wares for later purchase perhaps. Or maybe they were merely dancing; he recognised that his mind was trying to find something unsavoury about the club, so far nothing seemed any different from similar clubs he’d visited over the years. He took another sip from his gin and over the rim noticed Eddie staring at him. He raised his glass in acknowledgement, then turned to watch the dancers again.

‘You know who that was you were chatting to at the bar.’ Bradshaw was agitated.

‘His name is Stuart Clay, at least that’s what he told me,’ Sonia replied calmly. ‘Should it mean something to me?’

‘Perhaps it will,’ Bradshaw retorted. ‘Read this,’ and pushed a copy of the evening paper in front of her.

Sonia frowned and slowly straightened the paper. ‘Precisely what to you want me to read?’ she asked sarcastically.

‘The bloody headline will do for starters,’ snapped Bradshaw.

‘IT WAS MURDER,’ Sonia read aloud, ‘cries witness at inquest. Jeremy Palmer, a confirmed drug addict…’ Sonia’s voice dried up.

‘Exactly,’ muttered Bradshaw, ‘and Stuart Clay’s the bloody witness, so what’s made him come round here so damn quick?’

‘Shut up till I’ve finished reading this, will you,’ snapped Sonia.

Bradshaw fell silent but constantly chewed his bottom lip, giving his thin moustache a dance routine the girls would have been proud of.

Sonia lowered the paper, ‘he’s guessing,’ she said slowly. ‘I bet he’s found a membership card, along with various other addresses and decided to take a look-see on his own.’

‘But you can’t be sure of that, can you? The inquest only finished six hours ago, perhaps Palmer told him.’ Bradshaw stammered, his mind trying to grasp a multitude of possibilities for Clay’s visit.

‘You’re not thinking straight Joe, if he had anything to go on he would have told the police, in which case they would have visited us long ago as part of their investigation into Palmer’s death. No, Clay’s playing out hunches, he’s nothing to go on, amateur, we’ve nothing to worry about.’ Sonia sounded more confident than she felt. Bradshaw was clearly uneasy about this development.

‘I’m not happy, think we should discourage his inquisitive nose. Eddie could……’

‘And achieve exactly the opposite.’ Sonia finished the sentence for him. ‘We may have to put up with several visits from Mr. Clay over the next few weeks but as long as we do nothing stupid he’ll get fed up with hearing me sing, unless he falls in love with me,’ she added mischievously.

Bradshaw shuffled his feet, ‘don’t think that would be very wise Sonia, best keep out of his way just in case you let something slip.’

‘You’re probably right.’ Sonia turned towards the mirror and added the finishing touches to her makeup.’ Time to go’, she punched Bradshaw light heartedly and headed for the stage.

Bradshaw watched her go, then headed back towards the office.

Boy that girl moves in all the right places, thought Stuart as Sonia walked into the spotlights. She started to sing and although he continued to watch her, he sensed everyone else in the room was doing the same. Suddenly he remembered the tall, balding man and scoured the room for him. Blast looks like he’s gone, why didn’t I keep my mind on the job in hand, remember why I came here and not get distracted, he reprimanded himself. Then as Sonia finished the song, he saw the man again, the spotlight just catching his head, seated in readiness for her next number.

When Sonia finished her routine, she seemed to be making her way to the bar again. But as she reached the balding man he stood up, kissed her lightly and escorted her away behind the stage, as the dancing girls reappeared.

Stuart was about to follow the departing couple but then remembered