Next of Sin: A psychological thriller

by Lisa Gordon

  He could still remember grabbing his father’s newspaper as soon as it came through the door the next evening, sneaking off to his room and reading the headline news about the young Girl Guide, Lucinda Simpson, who had disappeared from a campsite in Norfolk. Police were searching the countryside with dogs, dredging canals and lakes, and desperately appealing for witnesses to come forward. The next evening he nicked the newspaper again, this time to read about an arrest. A woman, Mandy Brown, had found a young girl’s clothing in the boot of her on-off boyfriend’s car and reported it to the police. The unnamed man had been taken in for questioning. Dogs had detected Lucy’s scent near the pub, where the man in question had been drinking that night. There was still no sign of a body, but police expected the worst.

  Japan, October 2004

  He had continued to scour the newspapers for articles on Lucy’s disappearance long after his return from Norfolk; sometimes he was even saddened that they had never found her. He still thought of her as his first girlfriend — the cute blonde he had met at the Scouts and Guides disco that summer at camp. The girl who had captivated and infuriated him in equal measure. Suddenly that feeling of control, of power over her and the amazing sensation he had felt as he held her under the water, welled up vividly within his memory.

  Everything changes, yet nothing changes, he thought as he brought his thoughts back to the present. They were standing on the edge of the cliff; he held her from behind and they gazed out to sea, buffeted by the increasingly strong winds. The graphite-coloured clouds hovered menacingly over a quivering East China Sea. The final sheer rays of sunlight stalked the rugged coastline and the rocks glinted like shattered glass. She gazed down to her left at the mean-looking rocks, thinking how desolate and how inhospitable to any life the cove appeared: sun-scorched by summer and sea-lashed by winter; even the algae struggled to survive.

  She drew away from him. “Let’s go. It’s cold and miserable.”

  “I think it’s atmospheric,” he countered.

  “What?” she asked confused, as she held back her ash-blonde curls, which whipped across her face in the swirling wind.

  “The two faces of nature,” he mused, not answering her directly. “This morning so calm, so tranquil, so benign. This evening: omnipotent, violent and threatening. I just love to soak up that awesome power.”

  “I want to go back to the bungalow,” she announced with determination as she moved to walk away.

  His hand shot out like a bolt of lightning and his gold signet ring glinted as his hand latched on to her forearm. “No.”

  She gasped as she looked into his blue eyes, which were suddenly so cold, so cruel — almost reptilian. That detached sense of eeriness she had had standing on that cliff suddenly morphed into a very chilling sense of evil. She tried to loosen his grip. With increasing panic, she shot a glance over her shoulder, realising with horror how close to the cliff’s edge she was. In that moment of utter terror, the events of the past few months flashed through her head with crystal clarity: the phone call from out of the blue; the surprise holiday; the trip to that obscure piece of coastline; the way he had shanghai’d her into the walk that cold October afternoon. But she was destined to think no more. The vice-like fingers of his right hand tightened around her throat; her petrified eyes bulged. He gasped, his entire body electrified and coursing with the thrilling charge — his fantasy of having total power over life and death fulfilled. As he felt her life ebb away, he loosened his grip and sighed with satisfaction.

  “Pity you couldn’t enjoy it too,” he hissed as he ruthlessly rammed his arm into her body, sending her hurtling over the edge of the cliff.

  He stood, smiling, taking a macabre delight in the way she lay like a broken doll there on the rocks. Her screams, echoing off the cliff-face as she had tumbled down, had been a symphony to his ears.

  Chapter One

  Warwickshire, September 2008

  The August heat had stretched its way lazily into September and the peridot-green leaves of the poplars seemed to jive in the gentle breeze. The bells of St James’s rang out enthusiastically, advertising to all in the ancient Warwickshire town that a joyous event was about to commence.

  As Gaby eased herself out of the white Bentley, Meagan and Chantelle rushed over attentively to scoop up the metres of silk voile which tumbled out of the car. Amidst the rustling of tulle and voile had been some last-minute whispers of “Good luck!” and “You look amazing!”, but Gaby had hardly heard anything. Something old, something new, something ... lost, something blue, thought Gaby ruefully, as a pang of regret hit her about the mysterious disappearance of her mother’s diamond tennis bracelet, which she had planned on wearing for her wedding. Her father had believed it to be in his safe in its original De Beers box; however, he had not actually opened the box for years and when he had done so, it was empty.

  She looked up at the sky and listened to the peals of the bells, taking in every detail as if she wanted to engrave each precious minute on to her memory forever.

  Finally the moment had arrived. Silence had descended on the packed church. Gaby’s sister and bridesmaid, Meagan, looking serenely beautiful in pale-green shantung silk, adjusted the train to perfection. She clutched her bouquet nervously and looked up at her father, who was staring straight ahead, his face filled with pride.

  With a triumphant burst, the organ broke the silence with Elgar’s Pomp and Circumstance March No. 4.

  The sea of faces melted into a montage of smiles as Gaby made her way forward. She sought out the faces of her family members and felt a warm bubble of pride growing inside. How far they had all come; there was no sign of the tragedy that had befallen them twenty-two years earlier.

  Gaby could not hold back a chuckle as her eyes met those of Clinton, her brother, who winked playfully. Clinton was standing where their mother would have stood.

  The only blemish on the perfect day had been the sight of Chantelle, Clinton’s current girlfriend, who stood alongside Meagan. Gaby had winced as she had regarded her platinum extensions, cerise lipstick and tan-shop limbs that morning. She had felt obliged to invite Chantelle to be a bridesmaid and had been rather irritated at the way she had grabbed the opportunity with both hands. I bet she’s a Leo, thought Gaby to herself; I must remember to ask Clint. Gaby hated Leos. Clinton was the oldest, a stockbroker with a leading firm in the city; his Malibu tan revealed a lifestyle involving both business and pleasure trips to sunny climes or ski slopes. She gazed once more into his teal-blue eyes and gave him a special smile.

  Piers was grinning like a little boy on Christmas morning; Gaby loved his childlike enthusiasm for everything. As the organist flamboyantly hammered out the final chords, she admired Piers in his morning suit; his sandy-blond hair fell haphazardly around his angular face and his turquoise eyes sparkled.

  “We are gathered here today ...“

  “Congratulations, Gaby,” enthused Aunt Penny, heartily enveloping her niece in a hug. “The first of the Butlers to be married — we are so proud of you!”

  “Thanks, Aunt Pen,” shouted Gaby, trying to make herself heard above the band’s version of a Bon Jovi hit.

  “When is Clinton going to get married?” asked Aunt Pen with interest bordering on concern. She had released Gaby from the bear hug, but was still holding on to her arm. Gaby threw her head back and laughed heartily.

  “I don’t think he’s ready yet. It’s not that he hasn’t found the right one; just a case of the wrong ones being more fun.”

  “Does he have a steady girlfriend?” pressed Aunt Pen.

  “Yes,” answered Gaby, raising her eyebrows sardonically, “she was one of my bridesmaids.” Gaby looked at her aunt, correctly anticipating the dismayed reaction.

  “Oh.” She paused while she fingered her pearl necklace. “But what happened to that lovely girl — uhm Sally, or was it Shelly — he was seeing a while ago?”

  “Sally? I don’t even remember her … another broken heart left in his wake I i
magine,” jested Gaby as she scooped another glass of champagne from the nearby table.

  “If he doesn’t settle down, he’ll find himself alone one day,” cautioned Aunt Pen. Aunt Pen gave her another hug, her large, antique, bow-shaped brooch once again scraping on Gaby’s bare shoulder. Gaby remembered that her mother had given Penny that brooch; it had been a present to celebrate Penny’s becoming a registered nurse at Selly Oak Hospital, and again reminded Gaby of the missing tennis bracelet. It seemed rather odd that it had just disappeared, and she was unsure her father’s explanation that it might be in the safe at his chambers made any sense. It was peculiar.

  Chantelle grabbed Gaby’s arm with her free hand while attempting to drain her already-empty champagne glass with the other. “Piers wants you, it’s time to cut the cake. You guys are the luckiest people wha’ I know; your weddin’ is amazin’!”

  “Thanks, Chantelle. By the way, please will you make sure that everyone gets a slice of wedding cake; even if they don’t want to eat it now, make sure they have a slice to take home. It’s good luck.”

  “Wha’ever you say, Gabs. Oh, yeah, where are yous goin’ on your honeymoon?”

  “Langkawi,” said Gaby, adding, “in Malaysia.”

  “Will it be ’ot over there?”

  “Oh yes, Malaysia is always hot.”

  They were about to re-enter the marquee where the dripping-wet, yet infinitely enthusiastic singers were streaming the hits like a radio station. Gaby saw Piers waiting impatiently by the three-tiered wedding cake, tastefully decorated with lily-of-the-valley icing, and started to make her way over. Chantelle grabbed her arm once more. “Gabs, thank you. I’ll never forget this.”

  London

  His 18K-gold signet ring sparkled as he held his iPhone to his ear. “Hello?” was the answer at the other end of the line.

  “Hello, my darling.”

  “Oh, so it’s you.”

  “But of course, why so surprised? Surely you saw my number on the display?”

  “I deleted your number from my phone and you from my life.”

  “I never did likewise. I have thought of you every day since we parted.”

  “Like hell,“ she scoffed. “They say you had others on the go.”

  “‘They say’ is the world’s biggest liar.”

  “Really,” she uttered sarcastically.

  “You were rare. You were special. I miss you very much.”

  “So why are you calling me out of the blue like this?”

  “I was at a wedding today, made me reflect.” He paused for a dramatically extended moment. “We must meet up again.”

  “Look, I ...”

  “Don’t answer yet. Think about it. I’ll be out of the country on business for two weeks. I’ll ring you when I get back. I meant what I said.” He ended the call and placed the phone down gently. He was satisfied the bait would be taken.

  North London

  Robbie turned into the side road, a narrow lane between the Rumble Tum Takeaway and the Washerteria Laundromat. Dressed in khaki cargo trousers and a yellow polo shirt with a shoebox tucked under his arm, Robbie ambled down the lane, at the end of which was a panel beater. He felt sweaty, not only because it was another sticky thirty-degree day, but because meetings with his accountant always held their share of uncomfortable and often financially distressing news. A long, bland brick wall extended from behind the Washerteria right up to the huge garage doors of Carrada’s Panel Beaters; the only thing that broke the monotony of the dull brown facebrick was the concrete step and wooden door, which marked the rather inauspicious entrance to Mr Guttenberg’s office. Robbie made his way up the painted concrete stairs, at the top of which was a single wooden door with a small black-and-white plaque announcing: Guttenberg ACA.

  He knocked once and was instructed to enter. The blistering sun was streaming through the office window, highlighting the dusty bookcases, dusty filing cabinet and particles of dust which hung in the air waiting to settle. In one corner was a desk fan, which looked like something from the set of Hawaii Five-0. It was not switched on despite the unbearable heat and stuffiness in the cluttered office, and Robbie wondered if Mr Guttenberg was waiting for it to hit a hundred degrees before he was willing to waste the electricity. Mr Guttenberg motioned, pen in hand, for Robbie to take a seat, while he continued scanning a spreadsheet with a furrowed brow. The accountant was dressed in one of his dreary M&S non-iron polycotton shirts and a pair of putty polyester trousers. Robbie sat down, his shoebox still in hand, and wondered whether it was rude of him not to have greeted Mr Guttenberg, or if it would have been ruder to interrupt his train of thought.

  “Coffee, Robbie?” he asked.

  “I’m okay, thanks. You all right?” enquired Robbie, not expecting a reply.

  Robbie pondered over Mr Guttenberg’s fees, which although reasonable by any standard, were still rather steep given his office, which was on the rung below modest, and his lack of personal vanity. Robbie believed he had three ex-wives. Must be doing something right, he thought to himself. Robbie was still trying to picture Mr Guttenberg in a romantic scenario when his thoughts were interrupted.

  “I’ve been looking at your accounts, Robbie.”

  “Yes,” interrupted Robbie, trying to pre-empt any depressing questions. “I have all the receipts you asked for in here.” He tapped the shoebox with a big smile.

  Mr Guttenberg regarded the shoebox with a raised eyebrow. “Yes, quite. I need to speak to you about your accounts for ’04/’05. I cannot submit your claim for your trip to Japan.”

  Robbie was incredulous. “Why not?” he uttered, sitting forward in his chair.

  “You have not submitted a proper receipt from the airline.”

  “Sure, but as I explained, a good mate of mine who works for BA organised standby tickets for me on the ‘Family of Employees Scheme’.”

  Mr Guttenberg cleared his throat and continued, “What’s more, Robbie, I cannot submit your claim for hotel expenses either; it could be deemed a holiday.”

  “A holiday!” exclaimed Robbie. “Who stays at a dingy guest house next to a railway station in Tokyo for a holiday — it’s hardly Bali — not that I would know. You’ve seen my books; my holiday budget has to stretch to include Blackpool.”

  “What were you doing in Japan? You will have to be able to justify the trip to HM Revenue and Customs.”

  “It was a missing-persons enquiry relating to a young girl, Shelleigh Rice, who went missing while on holiday in Tokyo.”

  “Was it successful?” asked the accountant with interest, adding, “I ask that from an interest point of view, rather than a tax perspective.”

  Robbie’s irritation over his tax affairs was suddenly replaced with a troubled thoughtfulness. “No. No, it wasn’t.”

  Chapter Two

  Langkawi, Malaysia

  It was too perfect. Gaby felt like an airbrushed model living on a postcard or magazine advert. The sand burnt the soles of her feet as she skipped towards the foaming waves; the adventurous Piers was already freestyling further out to sea. She waded into the surf, almost basting herself in the pure salty water.

  Gaby heard her name and looked around to see Piers waving for her to join him. Suddenly a white flash shot across her line of sight, almost as if someone was using flash photography. She tried to look towards Piers once again, but could not focus; all she could see was this white light interrupting her vision. Gaby squeezed her eyes shut and placed her hands over them; yet, when she opened her eyes again, that light was still there.

  “C’mon, Gabs, I’m coming to get you. It’s great out there where it’s deep and rough,” said Piers as he grabbed Gaby around the waist.

  “I’m not sure, Piers,” said Gaby, blinking and trying to clear her eyes. “Let me get used to the sea first.” Gaby blinked again before dipping her head under the water, hoping perhaps that would clear her vision.

  “I’m just going back to the room to get my sunglasses. I’ll be back
in five,” she shouted out, not sure whether he had heard and not pausing to find out. She waded quickly out of the sea and made her way across the sand, all the while with her hand up to her forehead shielding her eyes from the bright light which seemed to bombard her from all angles. She could feel an ominous tingling around the base of her neck and her stomach was beginning to churn. What a time to have a damned migraine, she thought woefully.

  Gaby headed towards their thatched one-room bungalow. She immediately unzipped her cosmetics bag and withdrew two ibuprofen capsules and an antinausea tablet. Ten minutes later she was dismayed that the flashing lights were persisting and that, moreover, shafts of pain were slicing through her head. There was no way she would make it back to the beach now.

  Gaby was unsure how much time had elapsed when she heard footsteps on the patio and the door sliding across. “Gabs, are you okay? What happened?” asked Piers with confused concern as his eyes adjusted to the darkened room. Gaby rolled over slowly and raised the wet facecloth she had across her eyes slightly.

  “Migraine. Came on suddenly. I’m so sorry to have just disappeared.”

  “That’s okay. You said you were going to get sunglasses; I thought maybe you got talking to someone. Can I get you anything?” he asked helpfully.

  “No, thanks. I took some tablets. I’m just waiting for it to go over.”

  “You sure there’s nothing I can do?”

  “Nothing, I’m sure. Why don’t you go back to the beach, no use us both being laid up.”

  “Okay, I’ll check on you later then.” Although Gaby had the cloth over her eyes, she was sure it was barely a few seconds before Piers rushed off. The pain was starting to subside and a new sensation of annoyance had taken hold; although Gaby preferred to be alone when she was ill, she was rather miffed at the way Piers had needed so little encouragement to rush off and enjoy himself. Gaby had to remind herself that Piers was not being insensitive or uncaring; it was simply in his nature to want to have fun and he would have taken her words at face value.