Next of Sin: A psychological thriller

by Lisa Gordon

  “Gaby,” replied Meagan reassuringly, “you are no monster. You merely felt a normal childhood emotion. Remember that kid Kelly who lived in our street? She used to get so angry, she would say she wished her mother and sister would get struck by lightning. Of course, she didn’t mean it: as adults or teenagers we are able to judge our emotions as good or bad and we repress the bad ones. Small kids just feel emotion instinctively.” Meagan was not finished. “It’s no wonder you felt that way: our folks made no bones about the fact that Alison was their favourite. Mother idolised her; she was ‘The Girl with the Golden Hair’. I realise now that I used to throw tantrums in a desperate attempt to get some attention. Clinton was also favoured, being the eldest and the son; he must have resented being usurped by Alison.”

  “How can parents have such blatant preferences?”

  “How would we know?” shrugged Meagan. “I was just thinking, Alison would have been thirty-two this August.”

  Gaby’s eyes widened. “So she was a Leo. I never thought of that. So that is where my dislike for Leo’s stems from.”

  “We can’t blame Alison for our parent’s failings. Look, I really don’t want to talk anymore. Let’s try and get some sleep.”

  Despite the noise from the chaotic mayhem in the street below, an exhausted Gaby fell asleep. It was some time late in the morning when she was forced to surface by an anxious Meagan. “Gaby, Gaby. Wake up, please!” urged Meagan as she dragged the covers away from the clutches of her sister who was trying to bury her face in the duvet.

  “Leave me alone, Piers, I’m tired,” moaned Gaby.

  “C’mon Gaby, it’s Meagan. I have tea for you. I need you to wake up.”

  Slowly Gaby began to orientate herself. Her head ached and she began to yawn, hoping it would clear her head. Meagan allowed her a few sips of tea before beginning, her expression grave. “I checked my e-mail: Shelleigh disappeared while on holiday in Japan two and a half years ago.”

  “Oh God,” sighed Gaby. “Two years ago? Are the police still looking for her?”

  “Maybe. Remember how long it took them to find Lucy Blackman’s body?”

  “Mmm …” agreed Gaby, before continuing pointedly, “Why are you so surprised, Meagan? Didn’t you believe me?”

  “Yes, you should know I believed you,’ replied Meagan indignantly, “but yesterday it seemed like a mystery story. This has just brought it home to me. How real and how terrible this is.” Meagan sank down on to the bed, her long, uncombed, dark hair falling on to her white dressing gown. She looked down into her own mug of tea as she sadly reflected, “I didn’t know Shelleigh that well, but we certainly chatted a lot when we washed our horses on Saturday mornings. She was a down-to-earth, generous, natural girl. Decent. Really nice. It’s really shocked me to think what may have happened.” There were tears in Meagan’s eyes and she was unable to continue. Gaby remained silent; Meagan was almost expressing the emotions which Gaby had been unable or unwilling to allow to the surface. Gaby was dealing with matters by remaining focused on the next step, although at that moment she was rather unclear as to what that was. Gaby set her mug down on the bedside table and shifted her body so that she was next to her sister. Tentatively she slipped her arm around Meagan and gave her a squeeze.

  “I guess you’ve been through this already,” said Meagan, drying her eyes and attempting to right herself. Gaby nodded. “We have to identify those other girls in the photos,” started Meagan, as if suddenly hit by a wave of urgency. “If they’re dead, we have to find out as much as we can about their movements before they died. Hopefully, they’re alive and we can warn them. Anne and Aunt Pen must know who some of them are, surely.”

  “I was wary of asking them: what legitimate reason could we give them for asking such questions? You know how they both talk; soon Clint will have wind of it and that is the last thing we want.”

  Meagan nodded in agreement. “What about the police? Should we go to them with what we’ve discovered?”

  “No.” Gaby was adamant. “All we have are two accidental deaths overseas, four and five years ago. The Canadian and Mexican police were unsuspicious and so they collected no evidence and interviewed no witnesses at the time. The bodies are beyond autopsy stage; they may even have been cremated. At any rate, since the bodies were discovered in water, any incriminating DNA evidence would have been washed away. The police will have nothing to go on and besides that, my ‘hallucination’ is the lynchpin for the whole theory and I’m sure they will take that seriously. As for Shelleigh, she is the third British girl to go missing in Japan in the past six years, so they may think that is par for the course. I really think we have to do our own investigations; the police will have neither the time nor the inclination to spend money following up on this.”

  “I agree. What about Chantelle? Is he still seeing her?” asked Meagan urgently.

  Gaby shook her head. “I don’t think so. She wasn’t with him at Christmas.” Then she added sarcastically, “Well, I never did think that would last.”

  “You shouldn’t be so hard on her, Gaby.”

  “What?” asked Gaby, looking at her sister with surprise.

  “I spent quite a bit of time with her when we had the fittings and during the wedding, and once you get past the hair, the nails and the whole Essex girl thing, she is a sensible, honest girl.”

  Gaby stayed silent, feeling chastened. Meagan continued as she rose from the bed and started for the door, “Anyway, we must find Chantelle immediately. I’m booking some time off work and coming back to the UK with you. I’ll tell them I have a family crisis — it’s hardly a lie.”

  “Did you reach Piers?” asked Meagan as she hauled her suitcase off the top of a cupboard.

  “Yes, was full of crap,” remarked Gaby with a roll of her eyes. “I told him to prepare the guest room because you’re coming to stay. He says he’s going fishing with his brother in Scotland this week. Well, firstly, since when does he fish? Secondly, can you picture a Gemini fishing? They can’t stay still for two minutes, never mind for hours sitting at the end of a stick. Also, I know he has an important lecture this week, so there’s no chance of him going anywhere.”

  Meagan chuckled and Gaby found herself smiling; it was the first moment of light-heartedness since Gaby’s encounter with Zinzi. “Well, Gaby, it’s a good thing. We need the privacy.”

  Chapter Seven

  NEC

  Stoneleigh

  Warwick University

  Gaby indicated; it was the turn-off. Meagan had remained in London in order to search for an address for one of Shelleigh’s relatives, but had insisted that Gaby continue to pursue leads at Warwick University. Gaby had attempted to make enquiries via telephone, but had reached a stalemate; she was hoping that a face-to-face encounter would procure more information.

  Warwick University had grown considerably since her days as a student, and it was almost thirty minutes before she found herself in front of the shambolic desk of Claire, Graduate Association Secretary. Claire was clad in a shiny, grey dungaree shift dress with a cherry pink T-shirt and severely straightened hair, which to Gaby’s mind was slightly passé. Gaby tried to explain her requirements, but found that she was competing with the telephone, text messages and the Next catalogue to which Claire’s eyes continually strayed.

  “We don’t do obituaries in the WGA magazine or on the website,” reiterated Claire.

  “I realise that,” replied Gaby, groaning inwardly. “What I am wondering is if there is anywhere where you give a mention to past students who may have died.”

  “We only mention weddings and that’s only when two ex-students get married.”

  “But you send out mail to all past students. Surely someone would notify you if a student had passed on, so you could delete them from the mailing list … maybe?” persevered Gaby hopelessly.

  “As I said, ex-students only really notify us of weddings or births of children or reunions even,” droned Claire unhelpfully. Gaby was
beginning to wish she had resisted Meagan’s demands that she follow this avenue of investigation. “We may run a feature on a famous student when they die,” offered Claire. Perhaps it was Gaby’s despondent expression, but Claire decided to add, “Tell you what, I’ll get some old WGA magazines from the basement and you can look and see for yourself.”

  After ten soporific minutes, Gaby was beginning to realise that Claire’s enthusiasm to visit the basement had probably been inspired by the desire for a coinciding cigarette break and she wished she had declined the offer. She considered leaving; however, it seemed rude to merely walk out at that stage. Gaby had lost track of time when a wheezing Claire kicked the door open with a wine box full of old magazines in her arms.

  “Thanks,” gasped Claire, as Gaby relieved her of the load and dumped it on the floor. Claire returned to her work and Gaby decided to wade through some of the magazines, if for no other reason than to show the reluctant Claire some appreciation.

  It was on the twelfth or thirteenth magazine that an article about a female lecturer caught Gaby’s eye; there was nothing remarkable about it and she was about to bypass it when she noticed that there were two dates after her name:

  1973–2004.

  There was a picture of Trina Walker, a brunette with glasses who looked nothing like any of Clinton’s girlfriends, but about whom certain details aroused Gaby’s interest. She had read International Business Studies, had gone on to do her Master’s and a paper called 9/11: Winners and Losers in the Economic Knock-On for her PhD. She had lectured at the University until her untimely death while on holiday in Sweden. Her degree would definitely have brought her into contact with Clinton and they were very close in age. Claire had informed Gaby that she would not be able to take any of the magazines with her, so Gaby bided her time until Claire’s attention once again drifted to her mobile phone. Then she rolled up the magazine and slyly shoved it into her handbag in one deft movement. Gaby eased herself off the floor and repacked the remaining mags, thanking Claire for all her help and apologising for the inconvenience. Once outside, she removed the magazine and re-examined the page for the name of the fellow lecturer who had written the tribute: Jessica Morley.

  “According to Jessica, Trina died from hypothermia after falling through the ice on a frozen lake. She didn’t know any other details, but she did say that she was sure Trina had gone to Sweden with a boyfriend. Jessica also mentioned that she had attended Trina’s funeral and was surprised to find that this boyfriend was not there.”

  “Trina’s picture looks nothing like any of the girls in the photos though,” remarked Meagan as she scrutinised the photos once more.

  “She could be the one you have marked ‘Girl Five’ — don’t be put off by the hair and glasses,” suggested Gaby.

  “No, their builds are different,” insisted Meagan, before setting the photographs down and reaching for her coffee cup. “At least I managed to get in touch with Shelleigh’s sister Lilly. She’s agreed to meet us tomorrow. I told her we were mates of Shelleigh’s, but I didn’t mention that Clinton is our brother; I doubt she would have known that. I’m hoping she will open up to us and reveal something. I have a positive feeling about it.”

  “I spoke to Aunt Pen; she is going to e-mail me Chantelle’s details. I told her that you have some lovely photos from the wedding and have been meaning to send them to Chantelle for ages.” Gaby leaned back on the couch, tucking her foot under her other leg and pushing up the sleeves of her salmon-pink cotton top. “Meagan,” she began, her tone indicative of the fact that she wanted to change tack, “during the day I get caught up in the whole investigation thing, but at night it kind of hits me … you know, how big this is. What it means. How are you dealing with it? We tend to talk about the facts, but not the other aspects …”

  “One of the differences between us, Gaby, is that you have always tended to see family as part of you, whereas I see myself as an individual with a family. I can see how this must really tear you apart. For me, of course it’s been a shock, but in some ways it’s made me feel freer: that little voice echoing in my head saying It’s your fault is now silent, at last.”

  “Strangely, even before I remembered what had happened, I started to change. I seemed to lose that connection I’ve always had to family,” explained Gaby.

  “I have this theory that personality is not inherited, not genetic. It’s something we choose, either consciously or subconsciously. So we take after family members, not because we have to, but because we want to. We are who we want to be. We are not them. Something about this theory of mine has always made me feel better, stronger.”

  “Maybe it helps you to separate yourself from something you don’t want to be associated with.”

  “I was always separate, Gaby,” stressed Meagan. “You were the one who had such a strong urge to belong: belong to a family; a group of friends; a firm.”

  “You say that as if there’s something wrong with it,” retorted Gaby, raising her voice defensively.

  “The thing was Gaby, you didn’t know where the family ended and you began. But you have changed and I feel as though I have really connected with you for the first time,” Meagan concluded with warmth.

  “I’m not sure about everything you say, Meagan, but what I do know is that it is a very long time since I have felt the sense of purpose I feel right now.”

  “I’ve always felt purposeful in my work, but this is different. It’s like a mission I’m compelled to complete, come what may.” Meagan was thoughtful for a while before adding, “It’s also the first time I’m doing something as a team. And it’s good.” She smiled.

  Gaby stared out the window of Starbuck’s at the tide of crowds ebbing and flowing from the doors of Selfridges. How carefree they all looked and Gaby thought back to the days when she had whiled away her lunch hour perusing the wares of the salubrious design houses. How carefree she too had been; she regretted that she had not appreciated it more and she promised herself that should those days ever return, she would savour every blissful moment. She guessed that to the casual observer, she and Meagan, clad in their jeans and T-shirts, would look like a pair of blithe women with nothing better to do on a weekday afternoon than to drink copious amounts of latté. Her stream of thought was interrupted.

  “Your latté okay for you?” asked Lilly as she removed her green apron, revealing a washed-out black T-shirt and short, black layered skirt which she wore with unseasonal black stockings and what Gaby would describe as Robin Hood boots. Lilly appeared to be about twenty: her face was pale, her skin very clear and her hair, streaked with magenta and blueberry, was scraped into a short, spiky ponytail. “I know I said meet me at one, but I couldn’t go on my break until now as two of the other girls are off sick today,” apologised Lilly while pulling up a chair and sitting down.

  “That’s okay, Lilly. It was very nice of you to agree to meet. I’m Meagan and this is Gaby.”

  “I have to say I really don’t remember you guys,” said Lilly apologetically.

  “We were friends of Shelleigh’s from riding and polo,” explained Meagan quickly. Lilly nodded as if to acknowledge that she had no interest in riding or the horsey aspects of Shelleigh’s life. Meagan was keen to press on. “Both Gaby and I work abroad and this is the first time we’ve had the chance to meet with someone from your family to find out what happened.”

  “How are you all coping?” asked Gaby sympathetically.

  “It’s really hard for all of us, ’specially my folks. But we always stay positive, you never know …” Lilly trailed off and shrugged sadly.

  “Can you tell us what happened?” asked Meagan gently.

  Looking more composed, Lilly explained. “Shelleigh flew to Tokyo. She texted Mum when she arrived at the hotel and she would text every day to say she was okay. Then after four days, there were no more texts. That was the last we heard.”

  “Why did she go to Tokyo?” quizzed Gaby. “Was she visiting friends, starting a tour?”


  “Our cousin Hannah went to Japan about six years ago and she raved abou’ it. Always said how fab it was. Shell had been wanting to go for ages, but could never afford it — spent all her money on horses usually.”

  “Was she still working as a dental hygienist?” asked Meagan. Lilly nodded.

  “Did she go to Japan alone?” Gaby asked, continuing with the questioning.

  “Yes. Hannah went alone and it was kinda a ‘rite of passage’ thing with Shell. She wanted to go alone as well. Growing up in Leamington, we had always felt so protected like. Guess Shell wanted to show she could get out there in the big world as well.”

  “What did the Japanese police do?” It was Meagan’s turn to ask.

  “They followed up various leads, but nothing came of any of it. The hotel staff last saw her on that fourth day; she never returned to her room that night.” Gaby admired Lilly’s composure despite the emotion she must have felt inside. She was obviously a solid and placid person with deep reserves of strength.

  “Why don’t I get us some muffins,” suggested Gaby, feeling the need to create a break in the questioning for Lilly’s sake. “Which type would you like, Lilly?”

  “Orange and lemon is fine. Just let Jilly at the counter know they are for us and she won’t charge you,” offered Lilly.

  “We should be treating you,” insisted Meagan. “We’re imposing ourselves on you during your break.”

  “Honestly,” said Lilly, suddenly placing her hand on Meagan’s arm, “I was very pleased when you rang and said you wanted to talk to me about Shelleigh. All her other friends seem to have just forgotten about her, moved on with their lives. It’s like she never existed. It’s been really nice for me to know that there are people other than my folks and me who care about what happened to her. The world moves on, but our world seems stuck back in October 2004 when Shell vanished.”