Next of Sin: A psychological thriller

by Lisa Gordon

  Meagan had been surprised and somewhat bemused by Gaby’s phone call from the blue announcing that she had booked her flight and was heading to Nairobi. Meagan had organised for a driver from the UN to collect Gaby from the airport and transport her to her apartment block in central Nairobi. Once at the apartment block, Gaby was to ring No. 815, which was the apartment of a Miss Zinzi Mbangwa. Zinzi would give Gaby an envelope containing Meagan’s flat keys and a note. Meagan was to return late from work that day and she had implored Gaby to remain in the flat. The streets of central Nairobi were still somewhat chaotic owing to protests about the re-election of Mwai Kibaki because of evidence of ballot-rigging in the closely contended election. Meagan was also quick to point out that the city was not called ‘Nairobbery’ for nothing.

  It was a dry, dusty day in Nairobi. Gaby arrived at Kitui Heights at 9:30 a.m. after a hair-raising trip from the airport which had involved the violation of every highway code she could remember. The security guard buzzed No. 815 and Miss Mbangwa confirmed that Gaby was indeed expected.

  On the eighth floor, Gaby knocked on the door of No. 15. After at least three minutes the door was opened by a short, full-busted woman wearing a flamboyant yellow kaftan and what looked to Gaby like stage make-up.

  “Hello my dear. You must be Gabriella,” greeted an out-of-breath Zinzi.

  “Yes. Hello, Zinzi, pleased to meet you,” ventured Gaby, unsure of what to say.

  “It is delightful to make an acquaintance with you. Meagan has entrusted me with her keys and a note, which I am to present to yourself. Such an extraordinary woman is your sister and may I be so bold as to say how remarkably you resemble each other in appearance.” Gaby smiled and nodded. Zinzi’s rather pompous use of English was quite endearing. She continued as she handed over an envelope and a set of keys, “I regret that I am otherwise engaged at this moment in time; perhaps we can tête-à-tête tomorrow. May I take this opportunity to wish you happy landings.” No reply seemed necessary. Zinzi waved goodbye and disappeared in a flurry of yellow. Whatever was going on behind the door of 815, Zinzi was eager to get back to it.

  Gaby entered Meagan’s apartment. To the left was the kitchen and straight ahead, the lounge. She was immediately struck by how cosy and welcoming it was. The lounge was artistically decorated and Gaby had to admire Meagan’s touch. Gaby’s idea on furnishing revolved around functionality, practicality and minimalism, but Meagan seemed to have taken great pride in creating a highly unique and quite remarkable home decor. There was a cappuccino-coloured leather couch against the wall bedecked with cushions, which were covered in a cream and cocoa ethnic-patterned material. The curtains were of a similar material; however, they were delicately splashed with crimson and ochre hues. An elegant stinkwood table stood near to the large picture window. Expertly carved wooden lampstands featured all over the large living room. Her display cabinets boasted Verdite and wooden carvings, as well as hand-painted ostrich eggs. There were fascinating tribal masks on the walls and in one corner was what looked like a wide-brimmed hat made from dyed ostrich feathers hanging from a colonial-style mahogany coatstand. Meagan had embraced the African continent with gusto. Gaby pondered the fact that her sister had underlined her need to separate herself from their family and their roots by putting as many physical miles and flight hours between her and home as possible.

  To the right of the living area was a short passage, at the end of which was a firmly shut door: Meagan’s room, thought Gaby; she’s as territorial as ever. Gaby turned her attention to the note:

  Dear Gaby,

  I have prepared the second bedroom for you. I have emptied the right-hand wardrobe so that you can use it. I have also prepared the second bathroom for you.

  There is a macaroni cheese and some orange juice in the fridge for later. You can use the microwave. I put some Rooibos tea and biscuits next to the kettle. Please only use the crockery from the cupboard above the microwave. Don’t use anything from the dishwasher as it has not been around and don’t use the washing machine until I get home.

  I should be back at eight.

  Meagan.

  Abrupt and instructional as it may have sounded, the note was so typically Meagan that Gaby had to laugh to herself. It was somewhat comforting. She walked towards the window, pulled away the voile and surveyed the scenes below: third world met first as shiny black Mercedes wove their way down streets of poverty-stricken vagrants and street vendors. Gaby was quite astounded at the size of the birds in Nairobi: they were somewhat grotesque with their large, black, sinewy wings and enormous beaks, and reminded her of flying dungeon dragons in a children’s fable. She wondered if it was a bird native to Kenya, or whether these were ordinary birds which had grown to massive proportions as a result of the amount of rubbish available to eat on the streets of Nairobi. Gaby showered and pulled on her pyjamas; she climbed into bed knowing that sleep would now come.

  It was some time after eight. Gaby was pushing the last of her macaroni cheese around the plate nervously when she heard the key in the door. Meagan, dressed smartly in a light-khaki linen trouser suit, hardly looked at Gaby as she placed her bag and keys down on a side table and slipped off her jacket. “Hi Gaby,” she said coolly.

  Gaby jumped from her chair and walked over to Meagan. “Hi, how’re you?”

  Gaby was not sure how she looked, but as Meagan looked at her for the first time, her face registered shock, horror almost: “Gaby, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she blurted, before continuing disjointedly. “I mean ... not really fine … okay … we have to talk.”

  “Well, I knew something was wrong. For a start, you never holiday anywhere other than at a five-star resort,” said Meagan with irony.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t discuss it until tomorrow, Meagan. You’ve had a long day as it is,” suggested Gaby sympathetically.

  “No, let’s talk now. I won’t sleep. I didn’t sleep last night wondering what was up.” Meagan took a seat at the table.

  “Can I get you the rest of the mac ’n cheese?” asked Gaby.

  “No, rather just tell me what’s going on,” ordered Meagan.

  “It may take a while,” she warned, but Meagan merely looked at her, her large green eyes imploring Gaby to begin.

  Gaby related the details, beginning with her migraine at Langkawi, then moving to Mr Thompson, Mr Goldfarb, and Emma’s joint. Meagan listened without budging. She grew paler and stiffened as Gaby related her vision. She spoke for the first time, quietly, “Gaby, don’t get me wrong, but don’t you think that perhaps a part of you was so eager to find a solution to your depression that your mind may have ‘come up’ with this as a desperate attempt to solve things?” Meagan continued before Gaby could protest. “At uni I did this study for a psychology paper. It was all about adult women who were almost ‘encouraged’ by their psychologists to believe that they had been sexually abused as kids. They would then cling to that belief as a way of explaining their adult problems. Hypnotherapy and regression therapy revealed that many of these women had, in fact, never been abused at all.”

  “Meagan, that vision is the only thing in my life right now which I am sure about,” said Gaby with emphatic finality.

  “Okay, I believe you Gaby. I know how sceptical you are. If you are so sure, then I am sure too.” She paused and took a sip of orange juice. “But could it have been a game which went horribly wrong?”

  “If that was the case, then Clinton would have been severely shaken afterwards, but he was as cool as you like. He orchestrated the whole beach search, knowing full well Alison was dead. He was callous.”

  “Mmm …” mused Meagan thoughtfully. “He was the one who held it all together and looked after you and me in the chaotic days that followed.” Meagan stood up and headed for the kitchen. “I have a Paarl Valley Chardonnay in the fridge. I was saving it for a special occasion: this is at the other end of the scale, but I think we need it.” Meagan returned quickly with the chilled bottle and a corksc
rew. “You are really digging something up here, Gaby.”

  “I was not digging. The memory came after me; it wanted to be remembered,” stated Gaby defensively.

  “It opens wounds, Gaby.” Meagan selected two long-stemmed glasses from a cabinet and poured. She sat down and took a long sip before sucking in her stomach and grimacing as she began to explain. “Gaby, after Alison died, Mum and Dad told me it was my fault. They said if I hadn’t been throwing a tantrum, Alison would never have died.”

  “That’s absurd!” shouted Gaby, irate. “They were irresponsible parents; they were looking to shift the blame. They made you the scapegoat.”

  “A six-year-old does not understand the concept of a scapegoat. I just retreated mentally, became reclusive and ate. I just ate the pain away. I began to hate our folks. Do you know what? As awful as it sounds, I was relieved when our mother died and I was sent away to boarding school. It was even better when I got away to university in Leeds and could come home as infrequently as possible.”

  “I understand. But why did you never talk to me?”

  “You were my younger sister and when you are seven, two years is a big gap. Also, you were always so close to Clinton, I felt disconnected from you.”

  “I am so sorry we never talked more; I would have understood. I used to think that after Alison died, we no longer mattered. I was also happier at St Anne’s than at home. Don’t know what we would have done without Aunt Pen and Sylwia.”

  “But that’s all in the past now. It’s probably best to forget everything, including what you remembered, Gaby.”

  “That’s just the thing though. It’s not in the past. I haven’t finished the story.”

  Meagan listened agog while Gaby explained what she had learned about Sally and Melissa and her trips to Mrs Corbett and Rosemarie Broomhead.

  “It may be a coincidence. I mean, life does tend to follow tragic patterns sometimes. Remember our piano teacher? Her dad shot himself when she was a teenager and when her kids were teenagers, her husband shot himself.”

  “Well, in that case it’s a triple coincidence: not only are two ex-girlfriends dead, but both ‘drown’, while on vacation abroad alone, with no witnesses.” Gaby eased herself from her chair and headed for the bedroom, returning with the photographs and magazines. “There is only one way to quash the coincidence theory. Hopefully you can help me identify some more of Clinton’s exes.”

  Meagan was quick to join Gaby on the couch and she helped her to lay out the photos on the glass coffee table. “Always a blonde,” commented Meagan. “Aha, I remember this one: Gill, I think. Don’t know any more about her though.” Meagan held up another picture of an athletic looking platinum blonde with hazel eyes. “Shelleigh Rice,” she announced. “She used to keep her horses at the same stables as I kept Jupiter. We would chat on Saturdays while grooming our horses. She lived in Leamington, played polo.”

  “Well done Meagan; knew your Scorpio memory would deliver. Now, do you know how to get in touch with her?”

  “The stables had a website. I can contact the owner, Mr Kendal, via the website. He may remember Shelleigh. I can also e-mail her polo club; they are bound to have a website — who doesn’t?” Meagan picked up one of the school magazines and flicked through it thoughtfully. “What’s this?” she remarked as she came across the newspaper cutting.

  “Don’t know. The caption and article are cut off. Nothing like a date on the other side either.”

  “You saw it then?” Gaby nodded her answer. “In here?”

  “No, don’t know where it was. It fell to the floor as I was carrying the albums and stuff.”

  “Mmm …” Meagan began to read the printing on the other side of the newspaper cutting.

  “What is it?” asked Gaby eagerly.

  “Something here about Rudolph Hess’s death in Spandau Prison. When was that? May help us date this picture.” Meagan made her way to the computer and flicked it on. “Seventeen August 1987,” she announced. “Now we’ll see what else was in the news on that day.”

  “May just have been a local story.”

  Meagan smirked and shook her head. “Yeah, Gaby, like the Solihull Local News would have reported on Hess’s death. This is a national paper and a big story obviously.”

  Gaby decided it was time to heat the rest of the macaroni; she felt that a full stomach would settle their nerves and keep them grounded. She left Meagan with the PC and wandered into the kitchen to see what else she could conjure up. Meagan was quick to notice what she was doing and to remind her not to use the things in the dishwasher. Answering Meagan’s askance look as she set the microwave, “You’re not the only one who finds refuge in food.” Gaby poured some more wine.

  “Gabs, quickly!” came the voice from the sitting room. “Here it is.” Meagan pointed to the screen which displayed the same picture of the young girl with the caption ‘Mystery of Missing Lucinda Simpson’.

  “... her body was never found and the man arrested was later released. Case went cold,” summarised Gaby.

  “I’m sure Clinton went to East Anglia one year on some camping thing.”

  “Can’t remember. Aunt Pen may know,” sighed Gaby.

  “Well, someone wanted to keep this photo and it wasn’t us.”

  “Oh God. That means he killed again at age fourteen. Can that be true?” frowned Gaby.

  “I’m not sure, but I need something stronger than wine.”

  “So what’s your verdict then?” asked Meagan as she pushed aside her food.

  “I haven’t had a chance to give it that much thought,” admitted Gaby, “Perhaps he gets back together with one of his former girlfriends, suggests a romantic holiday together and then …” she trailed off.

  “That would make sense. It would certainly explain why Sally was suddenly so happy again. What I don’t understand is why neither girl mentions that she is going away with someone or with a boyfriend. It’s a risk he takes.”

  “Melissa’s mother hardly knew anything about her daughter’s life. Apparently it was in character for her to jet off around the globe; she wouldn’t have found it necessary to tell her mother,” reasoned Gaby.

  “And Mrs Corbett would probably have killed Sally if she ever got back with the bastard. The secret was safe with Sally.”

  “Pity we can’t identify any more of the girls,” commented Gaby, pulling a disappointed frown.

  “You and Clint both went to Warwick. Surely you must have known who he went out with then.”

  “Unfortunately not. I never took an interest in his love life.”

  “And Lucinda?”

  “Aunt Pen will remember if Clinton was in Norfolk that summer; she’s a living family almanac,” suggested Gaby.

  “Alison at twelve; Lucinda at fourteen. When did he strike next? How many have there been?” There was a long silence. “Where are we going with this, Gaby?” asked Meagan seriously.

  Gaby sipped the last of her wine thoughtfully. “It’s all happened so quickly. The only thing I can think to do at this stage is to keep looking for information about all these girls.”

  “It’s getting so late, it’s actually early,“ remarked Meagan as she looked at her watch. “What say you we make one of those delicious hot drinks Sylwia used to make us when we were little?”

  “Gosh, I remember us creeping into her room on cold nights when we should have been asleep and drinking her delicious hot mocha,” said Gaby, sighing nostalgically.

  “Tablespoon of hot chocolate, teaspoon of coffee, four heaped teaspoons of instant milk, a drop of vanilla and as much brown sugar as you want. That was it I think,” said Meagan, racking her brain. “May help us get to sleep, we need to switch off; my head is swimming and my emotions are all over the place.”

  Ten minutes later they were sipping the strong concoction. “Anyone else would find this disgustingly rich,” laughed Gaby, “but I guess for us it brings back one of the few good memories we have of our childhood.”

  Meaga
n smiled warmly and both women revelled briefly in a rediscovered sisterly bond.

  “You said things with Piers have been difficult?”

  “It’s not something I feel I can talk to him about and it has driven a wedge between us,” explained Gaby.

  “So you haven’t told him anything?” questioned Meagan.

  “No.” Gaby took another sip of her foaming dark drink. “I have this good friend Andy who always talks of the ‘humbling experience’. What he means is this: when we are young we think are invincible; we know it all, we can do it all. Then something happens which shakes our world, our ego and suddenly, often painfully, we realise that we don’t have all the answers, that life is very different to what we once believed. It’s as though the ‘humbling experience’ separates children from adults. Piers has not had that experience yet — touch wood for him.”

  “Yeah. I get the picture,” said Meagan, smiling knowingly.

  It was a dusty orange sunrise: traffic noises, horns, yells and dozens of rowdy conversations erupted from the formerly still night. “What’s going on down there?” asked Gaby.

  “It’s always like this,” remarked Meagan unperturbed. “Part of the character of the place.”

  There was a long silence as both women settled back into their own thoughts and memories. It was Gaby who tentatively broke the silence. “Meagan, there is something else I want to talk about.”

  Meagan looked at Gaby with surprise. “Yes, okay.”

  “When I had that vision, it was so real. Every one of my senses was stimulated: I could hear, smell and feel the sea just like I was there. What’s more, I could feel the same emotions inside and what I felt really disturbs me. It upsets me almost as much as what I saw.” Gaby paused and noted that she had Meagan’s full attention. “As Clint held Alison under the waves, I was almost … glad.” She paused and held up her hand. “Don’t get me wrong, I never wanted her to die, but I can’t deny that a part of me wanted Clint to … to get the better of her, to teach her a lesson. Does that make me a psychopathic monster like him?”