by Lisa Gordon
“Oh, well, you are a very lucky girl indeed. Clinton is a fantastic person; you could not hope for better,” said Gaby smiling warmly, assuming that Chantelle was eager that she, as Clinton’s sister, affirm the relationship. “He has been an absolute angel the way he has taken care of me,” continued Gaby, finding it difficult to know how to react to the odd behaviour of her visitor.
Gaby was taken aback when Chantelle recoiled in horror. “Oh my God. Oh shit. You really don’t remember.”
“No, I bloody well don’t,” shouted Gaby in desperation. “Why don’t you just tell me what I’m supposed to remember?”
Chantelle jumped off the bed and moved for the door, before suddenly turning back, grabbing Gaby’s hand and pleading while kneeling at the side of Gaby’s bed, “Please, Gabs, I know you don’t understand what I’m on about, but I need you to promise me some’ing.” She did not wait for a reply before continuing, “Please, for God’s sake, don’t tell Clint I was here or what I said. Please God I beg ya.”
The petrified look in Chantelle’s eyes sent a tremor through Gaby’s stomach. She touched Chantelle’s hand and reassured her. “I won’t say a thing.”
“I’d better get out of here.”
Gaby listened to Chantelle’s heels clicking down the stairs as she made her way away with speed. Gaby was perplexed by her visit, but her memory remained blank, offering no clues about her previous involvement with the bronzed blonde from Essex. Gaby reached for a magazine and began to reread the article about the summer season’s trend towards bright, bold primary colours. Emma had promised to take Gaby shopping as soon as she was well enough and Gaby was looking forward to that immensely. She must be feeling better. Halfway through the article, her mind drifted back to Chantelle: why was she so afraid? It made her wonder again why Meagan had been in the UK and why they had stopped over at the young girl together. Curious. What had she and Meagan told her; why was she so adamant that Gaby not discuss her visit with Clint? Her words themselves had not been very revealing; however, the terrified look in her eyes had made a big impression on Gaby. Thoughts of Meagan brought on a deeply disturbing, leaden feeling in her heart — was she really gone?
Gaby tried to distract herself with television, her roast-lamb dinner and a book, but all she could see before her was Chantelle’s pleading, desperate face.
Chapter Eighteen
“Hi Robbie, this is Jo. Guess you are still in China, or was it Japan … anyway, I have that information from the BA Airmiles Rewards department. Ring me when you get back. Bye.”
Robbie switched off his answer phone with a sharp jab. Good for Jo, he thought. Robbie walked over, shoulders rounded, to his battered, stained filofax and began to leaf through. How well had he really known Meagan and Gaby? That short meeting at the Pig and Whistle on a blustery June day was the only time their paths had ever crossed, and yet Meagan in particular had made an indelible imprint on him. Their paths would never cross again, but they had shared something very important indeed: a mission, a vital goal, and it was now up to Robbie to take hold of the baton and carry the mission through to a successful conclusion. Motivated by that thought, he reached for the telephone.
“Detective Helen Rook, please,” he asked. Helen had been to the Hendon Police Academy with Robbie and was now working at New Scotland Yard with an impressive track record and enviable CV behind her. Helen was a sophisticated, tall honey blonde with a trendy asymmetric bob — a style of her own, rather unique for a cop. Robbie had fancied Helen in college and despite the fact that in her words, she “didn’t do relationships”, they had always kept in close touch, their relationship involving the odd beer and late-night (or perhaps early-morning) cappuccino.
“DI Helen Rook,” she said seriously.
“Hi. Robbie,” he announced.
She immediately reacted with glee. “Hey Robbie, how are you?”
“Fine, if you are talking about my health; as for the rest, no comment. You?”
“The usual gripes: long hours, paperwork, my cleaner quitting — bet you’re sorry you asked.”
“Helen,” he said seriously, “I have stumbled on to something big, very big actually. I want to come in and lay it all in front of you, see what you think. It’s time for you guys in blue to get involved.”
“Mmm, okay,” she said with reserved excitement. “You want to come in here or to my place.”
“The Yard is better I think.”
“Tomorrow at ten then,” she said emphatically.
There was something troubling Robbie; Meagan’s and Gaby’s mobile phones had obviously fallen into Clinton’s hands. His suspicions would undoubtedly have been aroused by the onslaught of phonecalls Robbie had made. Robbie thought back to his text “Breakthru” and Clinton’s reply “Tell me more”. What could he text to Gaby to lead the devious Clinton off the scent? He could not afford to have him suspect anything at this stage. It was too close. An idea dawned and he grabbed his mobile, his thumb instinctively finding the right letters as it roamed with speed over the keypad.
Hi G, long time no hear, where are u? Wanted to let u know Emily is pregnant. IVF finally worked. We’re ecstatic. Please tell M. Love, R.
Feeling satisfied, he hit “Send”.
“Whew!” Finally, Helen let out a gasp; she had been poring over the evidence which Robbie had collated for forty minutes. “Quite a body of evidence you have here, Robbie.”
“I can’t take all the credit. It was sparked off by someone I know now is Clinton’s sister, Gaby.”
“Much of it is circumstantial; however, with the evidence from Japan, the case becomes quite compelling.”
“Can you bring him in yet?” enquired Robbie hopefully.
Helen shook her head. “I need to speak to Detective Murase in Japan and get a joint initiative off the ground. I will also need witness statements from the waitress in that restaurant you mentioned in Tokyo, Mr Wakoto, Mrs Hakusui, Mr Tomochi and Sayoko. I am also going to refer this to Homicide so that I can be given the authority to use special police powers to investigate Mr Butler further.”
“How long are we looking at before an arrest?”
“How long is a piece of string?” Helen retorted.
“Don’t give me that bullshit, Rook.”
“Four weeks maximum. No guarantees though.”
“Fair enough. I’m just bloody worried that another girl may die in the meantime.”
“We’ll keep him under tight surveillance, Robbie. You think I want a maniac like this on the loose either?” she asked impatiently.
“One more thing though; I want you to look into this accident Gaby and Meagan purportedly had. And I want to know where Gaby is now. I am assuming she is safely with her parents, recuperating.”
“Sure, what say we meet in a week so that I can fill you in on all the developments?”
Robbie walked confidently into Anon Bar in Piccadilly. He took up a place at the bar and ordered a Campari. His hair was still brown, but he was recognisable by virtue of his magenta shirt. Within minutes, he was approached by a neat, attractive young woman with a fresh face, bright blue eyes and dark blonde hair. She caught his eye and extended her hand as she said, “I’m Ute Mulbauer.”
Robbie shook her hand professionally. “Thanks for meeting me, Ute. What are you drinking?” Ute indicated that she would like a shandy, and Robbie paid for their drinks. “Is it okay with you if we chat somewhere quieter?” Ute nodded and Robbie led the way to the lounge area towards the rear of the bar. Some of the tables were set aside for a hen party later that evening, so it was relatively sparsely occupied.
“You say you want to talk to me about Katerina?” Ute began the conversation by posing the question.
“Yes, and I’m very grateful that you’ve agreed to speak to me.”
“What is it about? You worry me.”
Robbie took a sip of his vermouth and cleared his throat. “A while back Katerina dated a guy by the name of Clinton Butler, right?”
&nb
sp; “Right,” agreed Ute with a confused nod.
“Although they broke up, I have reason to believe he will soon be in touch with her again.”
Ute frowned. “But Kat is in South Africa.”
“Yeah, I know that, but I know for sure that he is going to ask her to get back together with him.”
Ute shrugged. “So what is that to do with you — or me for that matter?”
He set down his drink and looked into her eyes to make sure he was getting the message home. “You have to talk to her and tell her that there is no way she should have anything to do with him. Just believe me, he’s bad news. I know.”
“He seemed okay when I met him,” argued Ute.
“Yes, indeed, he is very charming. I’ll give him that.” Robbie paused, searching mentally for a new angle. “Look, Ute, he’s big trouble. I’ve seen what he’s done to other women and I think it’s only right that I warn Katerina somehow. I’m relying on you to reach her.”
“How do you know all this?” she asked, still sceptical.
“He’s my cousin,” lied Robbie.
Ute looked for a coaster and put her shandy down. “Okay, even if I do talk to Katerina, she won’t necessarily listen to me. She’s very headstrong. She does her own thing; never takes advice.”
“Okay, what about this: tell her to look up Clinton Butler on Facebook. She’ll see pictures of his wedding and his twin babies. He’s married. He’s a bastard.”
Finally, he appeared to have made an impact on Ute. Her jaw dropped and after a beat she agreed that she would certainly be in touch with her sister to warn her.
Robbie knew that Clinton was not on Facebook, but he was about to become part of the Facebook phenomenon. He went to the Facebook homepage and logged in with an e-mail address he had concocted for Clinton. He then created a profile and added the picture of Clinton and Gaby at Gaby’s wedding, labelling it ‘My Gorgeous Wife and I.’ He surfed for some pictures of babies and added those to Clinton’s profile. Within ten minutes, he had created a perfect advert for the happily married man, a profile which would put any single woman right off. He was banking on it having that effect on Katerina and would sleep easy knowing that he had put an unsuspecting woman beyond Clinton’s reach. But, if Helen was as good as he knew she was, the slippery bastard would no longer be beyond the reach of the law.
Clinton was uneasy; he was looking at Gaby’s bank statement and his eye had immediately been drawn to a cheque to the value of £2,500.00. He reached for her cheque book and paged through the counterfoils:
02/06/08 R. Baggio £2,500.00
He grimaced. There it was again, that initial ‘R’. Whom would his sister have paid £2,500.00? He knew that the little bitch had been running to psychologists; who else had she consulted? There had been a text from this ‘R’ again and Clinton was suspicious: who would Gaby and Meagan, who had hardly seen each other in the last six years, know whom he did not know? He would have to find out who this ‘R. Baggio’ was; the cancer had not yet been cut out completely.
Chapter Nineteen
Gaby was delighted with the progress she had made. X-rays had revealed that her leg had healed remarkably and within a week, she was to have her cast removed. She was now able to make it up and down the stairs on her crutches and, occasionally, against better advice, she would put weight on her leg and walk a short distance unaided.
The sun streamed into the lounge where she sat surrounded by the craft books Aunt Pen had brought her. Aunt Pen had encouraged Gaby to try some knitting; she emphasised how therapeutic it was in restoring hand–eye coordination and in aiding the healing progress. Gaby had not knitted since her school days when she had been required to knit jumpers for the elderly during Lent; however, she was enticed by the on-trend designer styles in the Rowan magazines with which Aunt Pen had supplied her. Gaby hoped Emma would soon be free to take her to John Lewis in Kingston so that she could choose some yarns and get started.
Gaby was not sure when she would be able to return to work if ever; she tired easily and found it hard to concentrate on things for long. She doubted she would ever cope with the rigours of a legal office again. She thought about Piers and wondered what the future held for them as a couple; she hardly remembered Piers and could not imagine that he was a person with whom she was supposedly in love. Did he still love her, she wondered? She was not convinced about his motives for going to Melbourne.
She sighed and looked out the window where she noticed the neighbour’s cat out on the lawn stalking something, something imaginary perhaps? The droning of the vacuum cleaner continued upstairs as Renata conducted her housework regime. Gaby had failed to connect with Renata; she was ever present and ever attentive, yet at the same time, stiff and cold towards Gaby. Gaby surmised that she resented the extra work an invalid represented. At once, Gaby felt frustrated with her condition. She decided to go into the kitchen and fix herself a cup of tea for a change; she detested being a burden. Planting her crutches on the floor and swinging her legs forwards, she made her way effectively to the kitchen.
Renata and Clinton favoured coffee, freshly brewed coffee made in Clinton’s state-of-the-art coffee maker. Gaby preferred tea, but after opening nearly every cupboard, she was unable to locate a single teabag. In a last-ditch effort, she opened the larder door and stepped into the dark, under-stairs cave-like room which smelt of washing powder. There were rows of wine bottles, baking ingredients, condiments, tins and detergents. Among some pegbags, she noticed the box of Yorkshire Teabags. She reached for the box eagerly, almost knocking over a bottle of wine with her crutch in her haste. She dropped the box of teabags and reached out to steady the wine bottle. As she held what she had thought was a wine bottle, she looked at the label curiously: Mampoer Cocktail made in the Western Cape. Somehow it rang a bell, a rather eerie bell. Gaby concluded that it must be a drink she had once tried and had not liked. She went to the fridge for some milk, noticing that, as in the cupboards, almost everything was tied neatly in clear plastic bags. She remembered that Clinton was obsessive about hygiene — had been ever since he was a teenager — and would tie anything from foodstuffs to paperclips in plastic bags. Although the kitchen was usually Renata’s domain, he had made sure she carried out the ritual there as well.
Sitting back in the lounge with her tea and some chocolate biscuits she had pilfered from the larder, she flicked through the television channels, settling for QVC, the shopping channel. The presenter was modelling a stunning diamond tennis bracelet; in fact, they were not real diamonds, but Gaby was amazed at how real they looked. It made her think back to the strange visit she had had from the girl called Chantelle. She had not mentioned the visit to Clinton as she had promised, but she had asked Clinton if he was seeing anybody and he had told her briefly about Chantelle. She took another sip of tea and looked outside. The midday sun was reflecting off the windscreen of Renata’s Peugeot. Gaby immediately blinked, the glare sending a shooting pain through her eyes. She turned her head away from the window, but when she reopened her eyes, she could still see bright shafts of light dancing in front of them. She rubbed her eyes and tried to blink away the flashing lights to no avail.
Dammit, I must be having a migraine. “It’s the chocolate,” she muttered to herself. She closed her eyes and placed her hand over her face as she lay back on the sofa. As she lay there, an image popped into her mind: an old man in a ramshackle room with two cats and a coffee machine. Then another image appeared, this time of a middle-aged woman dabbing her tears away at a kitchen table. The images continued to flow: photo albums in a loft; a girl in Gothic clothing at Starbucks; she and Meagan making photostat copies. What started as a trickle of memories soon became a tide as the cerebral floodgates opened.
When Gaby finally became aware of herself, she was standing in the middle of the lounge with no idea how she had got there. She could hear that Renata was still vacuuming and so, with no regard for her leg, she raced over to the pod where the telephone sat, grabbed the ha
ndset and dialled.
“Hello, I need the number for Surrey Constabulary, please.” With no pen or paper at hand, she demanded, “Put me right though, please.”
The phone rang an agonisingly long time before it was answered by a woman on reception. Speaking quietly and making sure that the vacuuming noise had not stopped, Gaby asked, “There was a fatal road accident about six weeks ago on the Saxon Gate roundabout on the A229. I need to speak urgently to one of the officers who attended the scene.”
“May I ask your name and the reason for your interest?”
Improvising, Gaby answered, “My name is Claire Lewis and I am from Norwich Union insurance. I am processing the claim.”
Gaby’s call was patched through to the Incident Room, Control Room, PR and at least five other telephonic destinations, including two answering machines, before she was finally able to make some headway with a PC Green. Gaby posed her questions carefully; she knew that Renata could not be trusted and she kept one ear on the sound of the vacuum cleaner to make sure she was speaking in private.
“Is it true that you attended the incident, PC Green?”
“Yes, I was one of the officers who attended,” he answered, somewhat reluctantly.
“What did your investigations reveal was the cause of the accident?” she asked with authority.
“The driver, Miss Meagan Butler, was three times over the legal drink-and-drive limit. Eye witnesses said that she failed to brake and stop at the red lights. She drove directly on to the roundabout and was hit by an oncoming vehicle.”
“What about the car? Did you check the brakes on the car?” asked Gaby, her heart rate climbing.
