Next of Sin: A psychological thriller

by Lisa Gordon

  Chantelle lay down on her futon bed and Gaby and Meagan lay snugly on their inflatables. The clouds of tension and the anxiety had passed and suddenly they were teenagers at a sleepover – albeit a subdued one - talking about boyfriend dramas. The change amazed Gaby and she marvelled at how resilient and adaptable the human spirit was.

  “What about you, Meagan, do you have a boyfriend in Kenya?” quizzed Chantelle. Gaby’s ears pricked up; she too was interested in Meagan’s enigmatic life but had been too shy to ask her.

  “There was someone recently but it’s over now.”

  “Details please?” demanded Chantelle brazenly.

  Meagan sighed and took a deep breath before answering candidly, “Just after I got back from Gaby’s wedding, I met this guy during a trip to Zambia. He’s South African. Peter. Lives in Johannesburg. He works for the mining division of AngloAmerican and travels all over southern Africa on business. I really fell for him. He was successful yet unassuming; witty yet not a lover of the limelight; strong and firm without being bossy.”

  “What does he look like?” asked Chantelle.

  “Tall. Thick, dark-brown hair with little flecks of grey. Athletic and outdoorsy. Gentle hazel eyes. Genuine smile. He had all the qualities I go for and I was shocked at how quickly I fell for him. I usually take it slowly, but he just crashed through my defences.”

  “And then?” encouraged Gaby.

  “He would visit me whenever he came to Tanzania and Zambia or I would fly over to the Central African Republic when he was there. We spent weekends together in Knysna; one at Lake Malawi and another in the Hlehluwe Game Park in South Africa. Took me to Cape Town for my birthday. It was magical, so romantic: he just did everything right. After a few months, I began to notice some strange patterns though, like he would call and text me mostly during work time, from nine to six. Also, his calls at night were briefer and would often be cut short abruptly. When he called on the weekend it was always while he was walking the dog or cleaning his car. He would say that he was very busy on the weekend, as he played golf or went up to his catamaran on the Hartebeespoort Dam, where there was no reception for his mobile and that was why it was hard for him to call. When we had our weekends away, he would sometimes disappear for a long time, always with his mobile. When I rang him in the evening or on weekends he hardly ever answered; he would always ring me back about ten minutes later. Used to say that he left the phone in another room or in the car, but I knew when I was with him that his phone was stuck to him like glue. I wondered why he never invited me to his place in Johannesburg — he said it was too dangerous for me there. I am not a big family person, so I was not suspicious about the fact that he never introduced me to any family members, but I guess that was weird too. Telling you all this makes it seem really obvious, but somehow when you are with the person and they are so lovely and so kind, it’s natural to trust them. Then, eventually, one night he was staying with me. We had both had a few, but he was really plastered, just fell into bed and fell asleep. About half an hour later I heard his mobile buzz with a text. He always hid the thing away at night — the sneak — but I followed the sound and realised that it was in one of the compartments in his overnight bag. I never usually do this sort of thing, but he was snoring and I knew he would not wake up. I rifled through his bag until I found the phone, then went ahead and read the text. It said:

  Night night, Daddy, we miss u. C, G & P.

  There were other texts from his wife, Analize, and pictures stored of her and the three kids. The youngest obviously less than a year old.”

  “My God!” exclaimed Chantelle. “What did you do? I probably would’ve smashed the phone, flushed it down the loo even — a mate of mine did that once — torn up his clothes and then woke him up and thrown him out.”

  “I agree, Chantelle,” said Gaby with venom. “I would have packed his case, chucked it out the door and him with it. So what did you do, Meagan?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” she smiled. “When he woke the next morning, I said nothing. I acted completely normally. I took him coffee in bed, made him a lovely breakfast and drove him to the airport. Kissed him goodbye.” Gaby and Chantelle listened in amazement. “When his plane took off, I sent him a text saying simply It’s over.”

  “But how could you not tell the bastard? I would have had to have it out with him! I mean, he lied to you for so long and messed with your feelin’s,” insisted Chantelle.

  “I know, but I have the ultimate revenge. The ‘not knowing’ is the ultimate revenge. To this day, he still texts me asking What happened? What did I do? What went wrong? It drives him to distraction that I never answer his calls, texts and e-mails. If I had told him off, he would have gotten over me and moved on to the next mistress. He would have had clarity. Human beings like to know why. The ‘not knowing why’ I dumped him was a far greater blow to his ego. That question will go on to haunt him and my revenge is complete.”

  “You cool cucumber you,” applauded Gaby.

  “I still woulda wanted to see the look on his face when I told him I had found him out,” commented Chantelle, adding, “on the other hand, now he thinks you went off him, not that you just dumped him because he was married. I guess that is revenge.”

  The morning brought the news that Katerina Mulbauer had left Models 1 and had moved to Australia; however, none of her colleagues was precisely sure what had happened with Katerina, as she had not kept in touch with any of them. Chantelle suggested a Facebook and Google search: neither produced anything of use.

  Back at Gaby’s flat, Meagan persevered with the Internet, conducting various people searches for Katerina. The only news that day, however, was a text from Lilly.

  “Robbie Baggio PI,” read Meagan.

  “Sounds more like Arsene Wenger’s latest signing,” said Gaby sarcastically. “Let’s give him a ring and set up a meeting.”

  Chantelle had suggested they try Clinton’s gym and the Porsche Club for clues as to his other girlfriends, but Gaby and Meagan were at pains to devise a suitable strategy.

  “Pity Sylwia is not here. I bet she would know the names of some of these girls,” sighed Meagan.

  “Sylwia!” exclaimed Gaby, her eyes suddenly widening. “She never came to my wedding. You did send her an invite didn’t you?”

  “Of course I did. Mailed it to her folks’ address in Poland.”

  “But she never came. Never sent a card.”

  “Maybe her family moved.”

  “I doubt it; the property market in Poland is very stagnant, people hardly ever move. A home is a home for life. Some family member would have been there.”

  “Oh my God. Do you think …?”

  They set about ringing international directory enquiries and asking for a Koslowski at the address they had for Sylwia in Krakow. Although initially buoyed by the fact that there was a number listed, they were stonewalled, as the person who answered was unable to speak a word of English. Meagan was undeterred. “There are thousands of Polish people working in London. All we have to do is find one and ask them to ring and interpret for us.”

  It was indeed a solution and it helped both girls to set aside temporarily the terrible thought that Sylwia, their childhood confidante and carer, had been another victim of their insidious brother’s.

  Eventually, Monday 9 a.m. arrived and Gaby tackled the unenviable task of ringing Mr Whittaker to explain that she needed to take another two weeks’ unpaid leave. Unlike Meagan, she was wary of using the ‘family crisis’ excuse, as the omniscient Clinton had revealed that Mr Whittaker and her father were in close communication. She decided, after some deliberation, that ‘marital difficulties’ would have to suffice.

  She was also relieved that it was Monday as she wanted to ring the Foreign & Commonwealth Office. Gaby had come up with an idea that the Foreign Office may keep records of British nationals who were killed or who died abroad. She surmised that there would be an inevitable rigmarole involving possibly the police or an inquest
and, at the very least, a death certificate and plans for the body to be flown back to the UK. At some point, the FCO had to be involved and Gaby thought they might keep records of such involvement. In case they were reluctant to give up the information, she had decided to say that she was working on a doctoral paper involving the formulation of an econometric model linking variables such as age, sex, country visited and type of vacation to the likelihood of death while abroad. The model would supposedly assist insurance companies with calculating travel insurance. Gaby was certain that actuaries would already have covered the area, but to a bored jobsworth at the FCO, it would sound plausible.

  Much to her amazement, the clerk at the FCO agreed to post out a list of British nationals who had either perished or gone missing abroad. Although they had no need for the list right then, Gaby was sure it would come in handy at some point.

  Oxford Street, London

  Ten thirty and a biting wind was ruining what had promised to be a sunny, early summer’s day. Gaby pulled her red raincoat around her for protection and Meagan, spoiled by the warmth of Africa, huddled in her anorak. They waited patiently at the outside tables of the Dog and Whistle, a popular pub situated at the end of a triangular peninsula of office buildings which pointed north towards Oxford Street.

  “Why don’t we just go and wait inside?” groaned Gaby irritably.

  “No, he said to wait outside,” ordered Meagan. “We don’t want to miss him.”

  “I bet he’s a smoker; only a smoker would choose this as a venue.”

  Meagan declined to comment, but looked once more at her watch. Gaby flicked through the items in the folder they had compiled for Robbie, making sure nothing was missing. Suddenly, her attention was drawn to a young man walking towards them purposefully. His hair was bleached and arranged into peaks, the tips of which were dyed magenta. His multicoloured T-shirt and jeans were quite shabby, yet his designer trainers looked fit for Centre Court. He smiled at Gaby. He had a very pleasant youthful face with bright blue eyes and chubby cheeks.

  “You must be Gaby and Meagan Harvey.” He held out his hand to Gaby while grinning. “Well, let’s be honest, who else would sit out in this arctic wind?” Robbie pulled up a chair and immediately withdrew a squashed pack of Marlboro from his back pocket. He flashed the nearly-empty pack past Gaby and Meagan in a half-hearted attempt to offer them one.

  “So how long have you been in this business?” asked Meagan sceptically.

  “Twelve years,” he answered, taking a puff and flicking on a pair of flashy sunglasses.

  “You’re kidding,” smirked Meagan only half joking. “You look like a sixth former.”

  “She means you look young for your age and experience,” inserted Gaby diplomatically.

  “Okay, so you think I should have pitched up in an old beige mackintosh or perhaps I should have careered up in my red Ferrari?” Gaby and Meagan immediately smiled. “People have the strangest ideas about what a PI should be like — I thank TV for that.”

  “Can you tell us a little about yourself and what you do?” asked Gaby. She was not certain if Robbie’s background was relevant, but it was certainly a way to gear up the conversation.

  “What? You not even gonn’ offer me a coffee first?” Robbie’s voice was filled with sarcastic dismay. Not only the cold wind necessitated some hot drinks, but by the look on the pub manager’s face, they were not welcome to sit there indefinitely without ordering.

  While they waited for their coffees, Robbie disappeared inside the pub to find a cigarette machine. He returned with a nonplussed look on his face: “Machine’s manky, had to bum a couple off that foreign lad in there.” Gaby watched with astonishment as he added approximately six sugars to his black coffee, took a sip and lit up once more. “So, about me, my favourite topic incidentally. I started out at the Hendon Police Academy. Did the whole training lark. Spent two years with the fuzz. Got fed up with the pay, so I became a trainee journalist — where the pay was even more dismal, but at least there was less paperwork. I went into investigative journalism for a while and that kinda led me into this. I’m a registered PI and have been for six years. My stock-in-trade is catching out cheating husbands, but I have done independent work for the Met, industrial espionage investigations for City firms and, of course, missing persons.” He paused for another sip of coffee before smiling mischievously. “What can I do for you ladies?”

  “Shelleigh Rice was a friend of ours; we understand from her sister that you were hired by her folks to go out to Japan to investigate her disappearance,” said Meagan.

  “Yeah, that’s true,” he replied cautiously.

  “We were interested to hear what you were able to find out, if anything?” asked Gaby.

  “That really is confidential information; I would need the Rices’ permission to discuss it.”

  “There is no legal obligation for confidentiality; in fact, the whole PI business is scarcely regulated,” asserted Gaby firmly.

  “Okay, what if we were to tell you that we know what probably happened to Shelleigh and some other girls and who is responsible,” stated Meagan, jumping into the conversation forcefully. Robbie raised an eyebrow with interest. “We’ll give you what we have in exchange for whatever you uncovered. And we’ll even throw in a pack of Marlboro.” Gaby gave Meagan a surprised glance.

  “Interesting,” he replied coyly, “but that case is technically off my books. Finito. I am not currently retained by the Rices, so I have no real need for any more information.”

  “Let’s cut through all this red tape.” Meagan leaned forward earnestly as she spoke. “We’ll retain you. That will take care of the confidentiality issue and you can get the case back on your books.”

  “You girls really are serious about this,” remarked Robbie as he pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head and sat forward. “Okay what do you have?”

  “It’s all in the folder.” Meagan motioned towards the yellow plastic envelope in Gaby’s hands. “You go first.”

  Robbie lit up once more and frowned as he drew on his cigarette, mentally recalling and arranging the details of his trip to Japan to look for Shelleigh. He suddenly looked older and altogether more focused. “The Rices got hold of me in January. Shelleigh had disappeared back in October and they were frustrated with the lack of progress by the Japanese police. I flew out to Tokyo on January 23rd. I first went to the hotel where Shelleigh had been staying in Tokyo, The Shibuya City Hotel. It’s quite an alright boutique hotel and affordable, close to the shops and the nightlife so popular with Brits. The staff remembered her well: her long blonde hair made her very distinctive and, what’s more, their memories had been sharpened by numerous questionings by the police. She checked in on October 16th after arriving in Tokyo. Staff say she spent little time in the room; left after breakfast and returned early hours of the morning.” He paused. “But hey, nothing odd in that. You don’t fly all that way to sit in the room vegetating. They said she was always alone and did not strike up conversations with other guests. The staff could remember her returning with shopping bags from Printemps and Matsuya. Apparently, she left the hotel on the morning of October 19th with a small overnight bag and that was the last time she was seen. She was booked to stay at The Shibuya until the 26th and had made no further bookings with any other hotels. She had an open plane ticket back to the UK and, according to the Rices, had planned to stay between three and five weeks. Spoke to the police: they checked her hotel room and found things like her toothbrush, mobile phone and toiletry bag missing; her clothes were neatly packed in the cupboard. It seemed that she intended to travel somewhere outside Tokyo for a few days, returning to The Shibuya afterwards. The police put out alerts and published photos of her, but there were no positive sightings after the morning of the 19th. It was as if she had completely vanished.”

  “What else did the police have to say? Surely their investigations extended beyond alerts and newspaper appeals?” Gaby was puzzled.

  Robbie r
egarded her with raised eyebrows. “Seriously. We are talking about a country where loyalty, industriousness and hard work are key aspects of the culture. While we see our young girls who go out there as adventure-seekers looking to expand their horizons and learn about a new culture, the Japanese seem to regard them as spoilt, lazy pleasure-seekers who get what’s coming to them. Shelleigh was the third young British woman to go missing in Japan within a period of seven years; in the other cases it took many, many years and the efforts of the families to find the bodies and get some kind of justice.” Robbie flicked some ash into the tinfoil ashtray, which continually skidded across the table, courtesy of the gusts of chilly wind. “But, to give the police their due, there were no real leads to follow up. There is no question that in Japan, Caucasians are noticed and talked about, perhaps less so in the central areas of Tokyo. If, however, Shelleigh had jumped on a bus or train, or taken a taxi after leaving the hotel that day, it is inevitable that someone sitting near her would have noticed her and come forward. Nobody did. I wondered if she was abducted right after leaving the hotel. I checked her VISA statement and no purchases were made on the 19th or after. Seemed she had visited Laforet Harajuku, a shopping centre, Shimokitazawa — something like London’s Camden — and done a sightseeing tour. I checked out all these places and showed her picture around, but nobody could honestly say they remembered her specifically. Ever been to Japan?” Both Gaby and Meagan shook their heads. Robbie continued, “Oh, well anyway, I quizzed the staff at some pubs popular with tourists like Geronimo and Lexington Queen — basically anywhere she may have frequented. Some people did actually remember her, but none could say whether she was with anybody. No one had seen her after the 19th either. It was all a dead end. Shelleigh’s dad said that she may have tried to visit the Toyota factory near Nagoya; she was interested in cars as her dad worked with Jaguar in Coventry. The only slightly useful feedback from the public was two sightings in the far south of Japan near Kagoshima on the 19th and 20th, but the police ruled these witnesses out as unreliable. It seemed unlikely she would have made it all the way down to Kagoshima without being noticed or spending any money; it’s not even touristy down there. I tried to track down these ‘witnesses’, but one had disappeared and the other was so reluctant to get involved that he changed his story. It was very, very odd. It was all so over, until now.” He held out his hand for the yellow envelope. Meagan stayed silent, allowing Gaby to explain.