Next of Sin: A psychological thriller

by Lisa Gordon

  “Small favour, por favor,” ventured Robbie sheepishly.

  “Usual terms?”

  “Why not?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Does BA keep old passenger lists and can you get access to them?” asked Robbie intently.

  “You have asked me this before Rob,” she complained.

  “We live in a world of exponential technological development; things could have changed.” He maintained a positive, friendly tone.

  “Well,” Jo drew breath dramatically, “we keep passenger lists for up to two years — in theory. Basically, they are not well categorised and are often inaccurate or incomplete as they don’t include last-minute changes. The lists amount to hundreds of thousands of names and it would be a devil to actually go though them, virtually impossible. What with data protection, information about the passengers is also limited.” She sighed and then continued, “They’re supposed to keep the passenger lists from flights to and from terrorism hotspots like, you know, Pakistan, Iran, Syria, whatnot, for five to six years. These are stored on disc and even microfiche and nobody has ever actually checked through them for any reason. I’d hazard a guess it would be a bloody waste of time as well.”

  “What if I had the name of someone and I wanted to check whether he flew to Japan in October 2005?”

  “No chance. Forget it,” she guffawed. “Look, Robbie, the bottom line is that although passenger lists are saved to some extent, this is hardly a priority. Read my lips: no one cares. The discs are probably gathering dust in an undisclosed building at the end of the northern runway.”

  “I’ve got you. But I have another idea: what if someone is on your Frequent Flyer programme? Would there be a record of their flights, air miles collected etc?”

  “Sharp idea,” acknowledged Jo, explaining, “I know they keep a record of flights, air miles, bonus miles and send out Frequent Flyer statements to customers. A mate of mine, Sheree, works in PR. She would be able to access any Frequent Flyer account. Not sure how far the statements go back, but I’d guess at least five years. Just need a name and address.”

  “Result!” cheered Robbie.

  “Sheree is on her holiday this week; that’s the problem with this time of year; everyone is away. I’ll speak to her next week. That okay?”

  “No hurry. I’m flying to Japan Wednesday, so e-mail it to me.”

  “Japan!” she exclaimed. “They don’t speak much English out there you know.” She continued effervescently, “Remember my friend Tammy Anderson? She flew to Osaka last week. Decided to do some shopping so she left the hotel and went into town. Big mistake. She couldn’t even find her way out of the train station and she couldn’t find a soul who spoke English. To make matters worse, she’d been in Chicago the week before and was buggered with jet lag. Eventually she spotted this girl who she thought looked English so she went up to talk to her, only to find it was her own reflection in a dammed mirror.” She cackled heartily at her story.

  “I’ll bear that in mind. Thanks, Jo.”

  Chapter Eleven

  This is your captain, Benedict Smythe. We’ve commenced our descent and will be landing at Tokyo Narita Airport shortly. The weather is sunny, with a temperature of twenty-nine degrees and seventy-five per cent humidity. Thundershowers are expected later. We hope you enjoyed your flight. Have a good stay.

  Robbie caught the train from Narita to Tokyo station then the Yamanote train to the Ueno district of Tokyo, where he had rented a room at a minshuku. Robbie threw his case into one corner of the small, simple room and threw himself on to the bed, intending to sleep off the jet lag for the next four hours. Although he felt sapped from an uncomfortable night squashed between a Shinto priest and a Greenpeace activist who was hell-bent on disseminating his beliefs — a religion of their own it seemed — sleep would not come and the ambient mugginess added to his restlessness. He swung his lean body off the bed, ripped off his T-shirt and went into the bathroom where he splashed his face with the tepid water and dampened his now ash-brown hair. He sauntered back to the room, snatched the remote control from the console and jabbed at the buttons. He then set about looking in the cupboards to locate a fan. There was indeed a fan languishing at the bottom of a cupboard, along with an iron and a hairdryer. With the fan oscillating over his prone body, he lay on the bed watching television. The fan emitted a grinding sound each time it turned to the left, but it was strangely hypnotic and after a while, he drifted off to sleep.

  Robbie did not venture further than the nearby takeaway that day; he returned to the room with something called tonkatsu (deep-fried breaded pork he discovered), kamameshi, a Japanese risotto and enough Sake to make sure he slept off the remaining jet lag that night. After eating and enjoying a sly puff of cigarette out the window, he lay a map of Tokyo out on the badly finished pine table and set about circling the more central five-star hotels, using what he knew about Clinton Butler to second-guess which he would have used.

  He decided to begin his enquiries at the Hilton Tokyo, the largest Hilton in Asia set amongst the skyscrapers of Shinjuku: it was sure to offer anonymity. He placed the clearest pictures of Clinton and Shelleigh in an envelope and unpacked the clothes he intended to wear the next day, banking on the humidity to iron out the creases (he had no plans to use the low-wattage iron in the cupboard). Robbie then flicked through the channels again, grinning with pleasure when he uncovered a channel showing a repeat of the eighties series ‘The A Team’. Robbie maintained that ‘The A Team’ was the last time America had produced a seriously male-dominated television programme; ever since then, television had been written and produced on planet Venus for sure. ‘The Girl’ in this particular episode reminded him of Meagan and his mind drifted away from the inevitable explosion of action on the screen to the enigmatic sisters who had enlisted his services.

  He had texted Meagan from the arrivals hall and she had texted back to let him know that they were having dinner with Clinton that Saturday and had promised to text again. He had no idea how the two of them had managed to secure the passport, but he admired their ingenuity and daring. He had felt the urge to text back and warn Meagan to be careful on Saturday, but he knew little of their affiliation to Clinton or the circumstances. They seemed highly intelligent and organised; why should he patronise them with obvious advice? Robbie continued to feel uneasy; he had never actually investigated a serial killer before, but he was more than au fait with the psychological aspects. He doubted that Meagan and Gaby fully appreciated the level of mendacity and cunning so typical of these killers and how ruthless they could be when eliminating any threat to themselves. He sighed to himself and decided not to text anything.

  The noise of the fan and the television drowned out the sounds which drifted up from the street. Robbie mentally pushed aside the feeling of loneliness which lingered like a dark cloud within his psyche. His work inspired him and he thrived on the exotic and even the desperate places to which it took him; it was all an adventure, both mentally and spiritually. When the case was closed, however, the emptiness of his life would encroach once more, that lonely feeling refusing to be ignored. He could not stop thinking about Meagan and was sure she was single; she had that ‘look’ about her which men like him were so attuned to. He dared not think about her for too long; he had a habit of building a relationship up in his mind and allowing himself to dream about the potential. This tended to make the suffering worse when the reality was a disappointment. He had vowed not to do it again.

  Robbie disembarked at Shinjuku-eki station and began pushing his way through the masses of people swarming towards the metropolitan, regional or subway trains. He had been there several times before and, courtesy of past experience, was able to navigate himself to the east exit. Shinjuku-eki saw three million people come and go daily, making it the world’s busiest train station. It was a city in itself, with multitudinous shops, restaurants and even four massive department stores densely packed into a multi-storey labyrinth of temptation. Robbie
alighted on Shinjuku-dori, where a small, open plaza offered a slight respite from the throngs of shoppers who were flocking to the street-level department stores and cafés. He lingered for a few moments among some teenagers and a small tour group from Germany who were watching music videos on the immense outdoor television screen of Studio Alta, and withdrew his map to ensure that he headed off in the correct direction. The heat and humidity, along with the elbow-to-elbow human traffic, made walking the street a sapping experience; he wanted to get where he was going as fast as possible. His first port of call was the Hilton Tokyo International. He was thankful that the Century Hyatt and Keio Plaza Hotel were close to the Hilton, making it possible to target all three in one afternoon, should it be necessary.

  It was almost five o’ clock when he exited the Keio Plaza. He stood outside in the shadow cast by the concrete behemoth that constituted the twin towers of the Tokyo Metropolitan Government Office, feeling disconsolate. Not only was there no record of any Clinton Butler, but the signs had also not been encouraging. High staff turnover, changing computer-software systems, incomplete records, data protection and a general lack of cooperation had created hurdles, some of them insurmountable. Robbie could not categorically say that Clinton Butler had never stayed at those hotels, but unless he could come up with another angle, his enquiries in Shinjuku were over.

  With mounting frustration, he attempted to make his way underground at Shinjuku-eki: crowds had gathered in the plaza to watch a soccer game between visiting Manchester United and Nagoya Grampus on the Studio Alta big screen. Robbie cursed his luck; although he was the proud owner of an Old Trafford season ticket, he was in no mood for a pre-season friendly. Focusing on a cool shower, a cigarette and a change of clothes, he ignored the humidity and the seething mass of humanity. He eventually managed to wedge himself into a carriage, thinking with regret that it would have been wiser to avoid rush hour and have dinner at one of the cheap noodle bars along Shomben Yokocho. Squashed against the doors and feeling exhausted, Robbie was grateful for the air conditioning which made Tokyo’s underground so much more bearable than London’s during the summer.

  As he observed his fellow beleaguered passengers, known in Japan as ‘The Salarymen’, he was reminded of the other major difference between the Tube and Tokyo’s subway: perverts and gropers, known as Chikan, were par for the course and would target Japanese woman with apparent impunity. It was also totally socially acceptable for Japanese men to ogle pornographic material as they travelled; no concealment of their lewd ‘literature’ was deemed necessary. Robbie guessed that for The Salarymen — the lesser-paid, white-collar backbone of the Japanese economy — some respite was needed from the relentless pressure of long hours, obligatory unpaid overtime and lengthy commuting. He closed his eyes like an ostrich and blanked out the reality. He thought again of Meagan. It was Friday morning in London.

  The morning breeze had a fresher feel to it and weather forecasters had promised that the humidity would abate. Robbie stood on Uchibori-Dori looking towards the immaculate grounds of the Imperial Palace as he finished his okonomiyaki, a savoury pancake filled with bacon and mushrooms and the closest he could get to a bacon buttie. He then turned towards The Palace Hotel and walked across the road. Robbie made use of a window to check his reflection: his brown hair was neatly combed into a more conservative style and he wore a crisp lilac-and-white checked shirt with off-white smart chinos. Robbie had decided that an adjustment to his approach was needed: his premise on life was that no matter what job a person did, daily life was dull and boring and if you offered someone a little taste of excitement or made them feel important, it was amazing what they would do for you. With this in mind, he approached the reception desk. It was eleven thirty, a time specifically chosen: most hotels required guests to check out by eleven and rooms were generally only ready after two, thus there was a lull in activity between these hours.

  “Hello Ladies. Ogenki desu ka?” he greeted the three smartly suited receptionists.

  “Good morning, Sir,” answered the stylish receptionist with a neat bob and Max Mara eyeglasses as she stepped forward perkily. “May I help you?” Her name badge read Kyoko.

  “The Palace certainly has the best-looking receptionists,” he remarked, although he immediately regretted what had sounded like a cheesy chat-up line. It was universally true, however, that flattery to the flattered was always welcome. The two other receptionists, who were in truth highly attractive, collected at the desk, eager to please the rather dashing and polite Englishman before them.

  “I don’t have a reservation. I was actually hoping that you ladies would be able to help me with a little matter. My name is Robbie Baggio.” Robbie’s relaxed but sexy manner and charming smile were bound to win cooperation and they did.

  “We can certainly try,” offered the second receptionist, who had large eyes which were beautifully made up.

  Robbie withdrew the envelope which now contained all the photographs of Clinton and Shelleigh. He laid the photos out on the desk. “Do any of you girls recognise this man? He’s a British businessman and has stayed at this hotel in the past. His name is Clinton Butler.” The three receptionists took turns at lifting up the photos to scrutinise them more closely. By the look on their faces, the cogs of their memories were grinding, but he saw no flicker of recognition. “Would your database possibly hold a record of when he stayed here?” Robbie gave a pleading look.

  “Let me check for you,” offered the receptionist with big eyes eagerly as she headed towards the computer and started typing something in. “Clinton Butler you say?”

  “Why are you looking for this man?” asked the senior receptionist with the slightest hint of concern in her voice.

  Robbie leaned forward over the desk and, after a quick look about the lobby to see if anyone was within earshot, he lowered his voice. “Well, Kyoko, Mr Butler disappeared some time ago and I am trying to trace his last known movements. It is thought he was in Japan and he may have stayed with you.” Anxious that the receptionists should not draw the conclusion that Clinton was part of the criminal fraternity, Robbie decided to elaborate. “Mr Butler is the illegitimate son of a senior member of the UK government. His father is desperately worried about his disappearance. He fears he may have been kidnapped in order to extort money or perhaps procure contracts on favourable terms with the UK.” Robbie watched the eyes of the receptionists to gauge their reaction before continuing, “I am with a branch of MI5, but my investigation here in Japan is strictly informal — off the books. I need you girls to be very discreet please; the Japanese government has not been informed of this investigation. The British government is anxious to keep both the disappearance and true identity of Mr Butler secret, both to avoid a resulting scandal and because if the press gets hold of this, Mr Butler’s life could be in danger. The Japanese police have not been informed for this reason as well.” Robbie stopped and eyed the receptionists gravely to impress upon them the delicacy of the situation. He knew his story had flaws; however, he was sure that in Japan, the idea of a government minister keeping the search for his missing illegitimate son secret to avoid a scandal would be believable. Robbie had sidestepped any hint of the real reason for his enquiries about Clinton for the very same reason: scandal. No Japanese hotel would want its good name linked with that of a serial killer.

  “I can’t find anyone by that name, Sir.” The receptionist sounded disappointed.

  “We know he was definitely staying here around October 2005. Do your records show that?” ventured Robbie hopefully. At this point, Kyoko walked over to the PC and took control. After a few moments of frenzied typing with the other receptionists looking on nervously, she looked at Robbie. “We have nothing showing for October 2005, but we have changed our software since then and it is possible his name was lost during the changeover. It is also possible that being a businessman, he would have made his reservation under a company name.” Anticipating his disappointment, yet still eager to impress, Ky
oko continued, “None of us was working here in October 2005; however, Sayoko, who is now Food and Beverage Manager, used to be a receptionist. Perhaps you should chat to her. Come with me.” Kyoko led Robbie across the lobby, suggested he make himself comfortable at one of the tables in the bar area, and offered him a coffee and a British broadsheet. Ten minutes passed before Kyoko returned and gestured for Robbie to follow her. They walked through the empty restaurant and Kyoko politely directed him towards a door at the back with a sign PRIVATE on. “Go on in, Sir, Sayoko will chat to you. You are assured of privacy.” Kyoko immediately turned and marched back to the reception area without looking back. Robbie knocked on the door.

  “Come in.”

  Robbie opened the door to find a stunning girl with long, wavy hair tinted with auburn. She gave him a big smile and immediately rose from behind her desk, strode across the floor and offered him her hand. She wore a black blouse with a high ruffle collar and the shortest skirt he had ever seen worn within the context of work. A quirk of Japanese culture was that although showing cleavage or virtually any flesh on the chest was taboo, there seemed to be no limit to the acceptability of miniskirts. “Hi, my name is Sayoko. I believe you are Robbie Baggio.”

  It was obvious not only from her West Coast accent but from her forthright manner and direct eye contact that she had spent a considerable amount of time in America. Robbie wondered if she had been at hotel school in the States. He shook her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Sayoko.”

  “Take a seat,” she invited.

  “Is that an LA accent?” asked Robbie, hazarding a guess.

  “It’s mixed. I went to California State University, but then worked for many years in the New England area,” she explained openly. “Kyoko says you are with MI5?” she said as she gave him a sly look.