by Lisa Gordon
“Well done, Miss Speedy Gonzales,” said Gaby with a sigh of relief. “Oh dear, the paper light is flashing; we had better reload the tray or he may sense something peculiar has gone on.” So organised was Clinton that there was spare paper in a lower compartment in the machine itself. “Done?” Gaby looked at Meagan for confirmation.
“Yes, let’s get going. We have ridden our share of luck.” They headed for the stairs, but on impulse, Gaby suddenly pulled Meagan down the passage towards the spare bedrooms.
“You may as well see the second bedroom while you’re here. It’s my favourite; I love the way he has decorated it.” Gaby sounded enthusiastic and although Meagan was uninterested, she decided to oblige. The white wooden door was open and Gaby showed Meagan in with delight. The walls, curtains and bed linen were all perfectly matched in a tranquil chambray blue colour. The Victoriana furniture was white and the bed linen was trimmed with white Chinese lace. The blue and white theme extended to the Ming-style vase, which was filled with blue gladioli, and the delicate little ornaments which decorated the dresser. The ivory maple wooden floor shone, revealing a diligent polisher. Sketches in blue ink were dotted on the other three walls. “I love this room; his decorator is sublime. The other rooms are lovely too: one is olive green, the other coral. We’d better go now though.”
They shouted a goodbye to Renata, who was nowhere to be seen, and let themselves out. Once back in the car they sighed with relief and Meagan removed the wad of photocopies from beneath her jacket.
“Do you think she swallowed that story?” pondered Gaby.
“Maybe. What’s certain is that she’ll tell Clinton everything; you can see where her allegiance lies.”
“Will he buy it though?” There was a touch of anxiety in Gaby’s voice.
“The story itself is plausible; what’s not plausible is me being here. I’m not close to Clint, so why would I fly all the way from Kenya to help arrange a party for him? It’s his 34th, not even a big birthday like a 40th.”
“But the truth is even less plausible,” argued Gaby. “How could he possibly suspect that after all these years we’ve sussed something?”
“Because he has a guilty conscience. Guilt tends to make people very suspicious and wary. They begin to see monsters; they read something into everything,” reasoned Meagan.
Gaby nodded in agreement. “He didn’t get away with it for so long for nothing. He does not miss a trick.” She was silent for a while as she watched the traffic and filtered on to the roundabout. Once back on the highway she asked, “Is he capable of feeling guilt?”
Meagan frowned while she thought out loud. “I think so. In one part of his mind he knows what he is doing is wrong; however, he has no desire to stop, no desire to reform. He must feel invincible having avoided detection for so long. It’s almost like a game to him, a challenge — the hunt and the kill. He’s probably expert at pushing the guilt and fear to a deep recess within his mind; that is what allows him to act so normally.”
“All this because of a childhood resentment towards his younger sister?”
“I would guess that at this stage it’s no longer to do with Alison. Dare I suggest he enjoys what he is doing?” Meagan continued, “We have to work quickly though. I’ve heard that serial killers tend to increase their rate over time — and that’s what he is right? A serial killer. They require greater and greater levels of stimulation, you know.” She paused and motioned with her hand. “They need more violence or to kill more frequently to achieve the same level of excitement they crave.”
“If only I had remembered about Alison sooner, I could have prevented so much needless suffering.”
Meagan put her hand on Gaby’s leg reassuringly. “There’s no need to beat yourself up! C’mon, let’s crack on. By the way, I’m so glad you got me involved.”
They silently decided to drop the subject of Clinton’s motivations. Meagan began to look at the passport photocopies and Gaby navigated the traffic back into London. Shortly before arriving back at Gaby’s, an electronic jingle broke the silence. It was Gaby’s mobile.
“Won’t you look and see who that is?” asked Gaby eagerly. Meagan unzipped Gaby’s handbag and reached in for the phone.
“The display says Emma D,” answered Meagan, sensing Gaby’s disappointment immediately.
“Okay, just leave it then. It’s probably about shopping or lunch or something.”
“Nothing from Piers yet then?” probed Meagan sensitively.
“No,” snapped Gaby.
“You could e-mail him,” suggested Meagan.
“Why? He obviously got my texts and my voice messages. If he doesn’t want to reply I’ll leave him alone,” replied Gaby, tensely gripping the steering wheel.
“Maybe I should talk to him.”
“No, just leave him.”
Chapter Nine
It took days of painstaking work and the extensive use of a magnifying glass to piece together the numerous passport stamps into a cohesive timeline of trips. The list of British subjects deceased abroad arrived from the Foreign Office and the sisters were chilled to find the names of Nicola Holding and Jenny Medledev on the list. There were few details of their deaths, other than where and when they had occurred. Nicola had died in Turkey and Jenny in Morocco. A look at their list of Clinton’s movements abroad revealed that he had indeed been in Turkey and Morocco at the relevant times. It was clear that he had been in Mexico when Sally had died; however, there appeared to be no incriminating stamps around the time Shelleigh was killed in Japan, or when Melissa had been in Canada. As Trina was killed in Sweden, an EU country, they did not expect to find any stamps. This led Gaby to surmise that perhaps Clinton had two passports. Robbie had been in contact to inform them that he was off to Japan. Meagan gave Robbie Clinton’s passport number, the news on Katerina’s possible location in Cape Town and the new information on Jenny and Nicola. They would share the information from the passport stamps on his return.
Thursday evening and Meagan had made some Bobotie. Gaby was opening a bottle of Pinot Grigio Rosé when she heard an electronic burst of ‘Mr Blue Sky’: it was her mobile ringing. She headed immediately for her handbag and yanked out the phone, looking at the display eagerly. Meagan was watching Gaby’s reaction with anticipation; perhaps it was Piers. There was no look of relief or pleasure on Gaby’s face as she read the display though. Instead, she blanched and shot a wide-eyed look at Meagan. “It’s him, Clinton,” she gasped.
“Answer it,” urged Meagan. “Act normally. Quick, before he puts it down.”
Gaby looked doubtfully at her sister, but only for a second, and then she answered perkily: “Hiya.”
“Hello Gabriella,” greeted Clinton with suave exuberance. “How are you?”
“Fine and you?” answered Gaby predictably.
“Good, just back from a trip to Rome. Fabulous weather, diabolical driving,” he laughed. “I hear that Meagan is in town?”
Gaby’s heart was beating fast, but she answered calmly, “Yes, Meagan is over here to check out job prospects. She’s decided she needs a change.” Renata had obviously been loose-lipped as expected.
“How are things at work, Gaby?”
“Um, I have taken a few weeks’ unpaid leave to weigh up my options and look about.” Gaby paused. “So Meagan and I are both job-hunting together.”
“What about Piers? How are things with you both?” asked Clinton with what sounded like concern.
Gaby answered with gusto, “He’s staying with his brother and Meagan is staying with me, so we’re having a break from each other. We’ll see what happens after that.”
“Well, at least you are sounding far happier and more positive my little Gabriella. I’m sure your problems will soon be over.” Clinton’s tone was gentle. He continued, “I was actually phoning to invite you both over for dinner. What about Saturday night? How does that sound?”
Feeling as if she had no option, Gaby replied, her voice affirmative, yet the
expression on her face doubtful, “Yes, okay, that would be lovely.” Meagan, who was watching Gaby, anxiously raised an eyebrow.
“Renata was a good cook, but now that I have trained her to cook good old English grub, she’s superb.” Clinton was in a jocular mood. Gaby once again expressed her enthusiasm about the dinner date and they drew their conversation to a close.
Gaby slowly closed the phone and set it down on the table. “You went overboard in explaining why I was here,” said Meagan critically.
“Rubbish,” snapped Gaby, “I acted normally. He was his usual self.”
“Of course he was; he’s a master of method. I gather we have a dinner date?”
“Yes, Saturday. I can’t wait.” Gaby sank into her chair and took a gulp of wine. Suddenly she felt emotionally and physically exhausted. She recoiled at the thought of dinner with Clinton: her one-time loved and respected elder brother. She did not have the energy to argue with Meagan and she could not summon the will to debate Clinton’s motivations in asking them for dinner. All she could think of to do was hope and pray that things would work out. Gaby’s fatigue was obvious and Meagan relented; they ate in silence.
“What to wear?” pondered Meagan absently as she looked at the rails of clothes in Gaby’s cupboard.
“You can bet he’ll be dressed up like a million-dollar trouper,” sighed Gaby, who was lying on the bed looking once more through the passport photocopies and list of British nationals killed abroad. Gaby set the wad of papers down and rolled over to face Meagan, her tone conveying that she wanted her full attention, “Meagan. I can’t go on Saturday. I just cannot do it. I know that I won’t be able to keep calm and make day-to-day conversation. All that will be going through my mind are pictures of Alison and those other girls.” Gaby’s eyes were filled with dread.
Meagan turned to face her sister, her voice firm, “We have to go Gaby. He isn’t inviting us because we’re fabulous company. He’s caught a whiff of something odd and he wants to follow it up. If we make an excuse it’ll seem even more sus’.”
Gaby shook her head, pleading, “Why don’t we just go to the police? We have enough now to get them interested.”
“No, they won’t exactly arrest him by Saturday night. When we don’t show up, his suspicions will be confirmed and he’ll get to work on covering up whatever tracks there are left.” Meagan was adamant.
“I don’t want to see him, Meagan. I never want to see him again.” Gaby’s face had changed and she look grey and haunted.
Meagan walked over to the bed and sat next to Gaby, sympathetically touching her shoulder. “Think of it as a performance. Life is a stage.” Meagan paused while she flicked a strand of hair from her face. “Well, that’s what I’ve always thought. When I was young I invented all these masks — a mask for every occasion. When I had to face a situation, I would picture I was wearing one of my masks and it helped me. It protected me.”
“Did you have a mask to deal with me?”
“Yes, but not anymore,” smiled Meagan warmly. “My masks are second nature now; you will have to invent one and focus on it. It will help you deal with Saturday.”
Gaby thought for a long time before shaking her head. “I don’t know. I can’t think of any mask.”
“What about the ‘Old Gaby Mask’: the happy-go-lucky, carefree girl who adores her older brother?” suggested Meagan.
Gaby regarded her sister with disgust. “I will never be that person again,” she stated vehemently.
“I am certainly not suggesting you turn back into that person. What you should do is remember what it was like to be her; how it felt; the things the Old Gaby would have said. Remember these things and wear the Old Gaby mask. You can do it Gaby. Do it for all those girls, for Alison and for every girl he may potentially meet.”
Gaby sat up, feeling a wave of resolve well up within her. “Okay, I will do what you say — but I’ll need a few glasses of wine, so you can drive home.”
Gaby let out a gasp of dismay. “Sorry, Meagan, I stalled again.” Gaby turned and looked gravely at her sister. “My leg is shaking so much, my foot keeps slipping off the clutch ... I cannot do this ... I cannot face him ... no. No.” Gaby grabbed hold of the steering wheel to steady her trembling hands and she placed her head on her hands, squeezing her eyes shut in an attempt to block out reality.
“Relax, Gaby,” said Meagan in a soft, soothing tone as she rubbed her back gently.
“My legs are pins and needles and I feel giddy with nerves. I’ll just topple over when I get out the car.”
“Did you bring the pills?” Meagan sounded anxious. “The tranquillisers your doc gave you?”
“Yes,” answered Gaby weakly.
“They in your bag?” Gaby nodded. “Can I?” asked Meagan as an afterthought as she reached into Gaby’s bag and withdrew a foil cartridge. “I know I said we shouldn’t, that we should be alert, but it’s proving tougher than I thought and we don’t want to arrive there a wreck.”
“See the sachets?” enquired Gaby. “It’s electrolyte solution. Add it to the bottled water we brought. Really helps. When I get this panicked, pure water makes me bilious.” Meagan did as she was told and they drank the salty-sweet water with a pill each.
“Logically,” began Meagan calmly, “how can he possibly know that we know? I am the only person you’ve told, right?”
“Right. And Chantelle of course.”
“Yes, sure, Chantelle.”
“You don’t think ...” Gaby trailed off, her eyes suddenly wide and alert.
“Nah,” Meagan shook her head. “No, really, she’s cool.” Meagan replaced the lid of the water and put Gaby’s handbag back on the back seat. “You ready? Listen now: he has no need to suspect anything other than our cock-and-bull story about the surprise party. If we go there tonight, if we pull it off — great. He won’t have any further reason to be suspicious.” Meagan could see Gaby was still stiff with fear and the more Gaby’s courage slackened, the more Meagan was allowing that dense mist of doom, which had been pushed to the recesses of her mind, to encroach. “Remember at school how nervous we would be before going on stage in a school play? But once we got out there into the light ... hey presto! The feeling was gone and we just got on with the show.”
“You’re right,” agreed Gaby, feeling more composed. “Where is my mask? We have to do this; I have to be stronger. Not showing up tonight could ruin what we are working for. What would Alison think? We have to show her we can end this killer’s innings — and soon.”
It was nearly the summer solstice and it was only seven o’clock; yet, it already appeared rather dark owing to the threatening violet clouds rolling in from the south, behind the pine trees. Gaby indicated and turned into Havelock House. A powerful gust of wind shook the car as she drew to a stop outside the front door. Gaby sat motionless for several seconds as she watched the Thuja trees which moved in the wind as if part of a group salsa. Then, in a sharp movement, she wrenched on the brake almost as though she was mentally drawing a line under her thoughts and doubts, and placing her mask firmly in front of her face.
The door swung open, revealing Clinton in a Hermès shirt and slate-grey trousers. His pearl-white teeth were shining and his ever-tanned face creased into a cheery smile. His curly sun-bleached hair, as usual, was slightly tousled. Renata, with her dark hair down and dressed in a black shift dress, hung around Clinton watching charily. “Hello there, my girls. Get in quickly, it’s blustery out there,” welcomed Clinton jovially. Gaby stepped inside, straightening her windswept hair while offering Clinton an enthusiastic hug — the ‘Old Gaby Mask’ was firmly in place. Meagan followed on by giving Clinton a peck on the cheek in keeping with her more reserved style. “They say there is going to be the mother of all storms tonight,” continued Clinton as he helped remove their jackets and handed them to Renata, who whisked them off. “It’s coming in on the jet stream from the Atlantic, from Canada. Been brewing for days. It hit the south-west and Ireland this morni
ng; we’re in for it tonight. They’re talking of gale-force winds.”
“Those clouds are certainly fierce looking,” remarked Meagan as a distant clap of thunder sounded.
“You should have parked in my garage, save you getting soaked when you leave,” observed Clinton, continuing helpfully, “Give Renata your car keys and she’ll move your car into the garage.” After a moment of hesitation, Gaby reached into her handbag and handed Renata the keys, allowing no reluctance to display on her face. Gaby could feel her inner tension increasing; her shoulder muscles were taut like the strings of a tennis racket. She was beginning to feel trapped. She avoided looking at Meagan and made every effort to remember The Mask.
Conversing casually about his trip to Rome, Clinton led them into the dining room. A large rectangular table occupied the middle of the dining room; that night it was bedecked with a maroon damask tablecloth, pewter ice bucket and cut-glass wine flutes along with the usual table settings. To the right of the room, a large, lead-light window looked on to the front garden. The leaves of the camellias tapped on the window as they were buffeted by the strong winds; in another context it would have been cosy, but to Gaby it sounded like a death rattle. At the far end of the room was an Inglenook fireplace, the left-hand wall featured wood panelling and the vaulted ceiling boasted a spectacular chandelier. The clicking of Gaby’s heels on the parquet flooring echoed eerily through the majestic room. Clinton reached for the bottle of Moët which was in the ice bucket, loosened the already-open cork and poured the sparkling liquid into the glasses. He then raised his glass, encouraging the girls to do the same. “To us, to new beginnings,” he toasted, clinking his glass against those of his sisters’.
