by Lisa Gordon
“Sorry,” said the PC in a disgruntled tone, “who did you say you were?”
“Mrs Lewis from Norwich Union, Claims Manager,” reiterated Gaby firmly.
“Well, Mrs Lewis, all this information should be in the official report.”
“I’ve read the report and it does not answer this question. Did you check the brakes on the VW?” hissed Gaby indignantly.
“There was no need; it was a clear-cut case of drunk driving,” answered the PC belligerently. “What I have told is all in the coroner’s report. It’s in the public domain; more than that I cannot disclose.”
“What happened to that car? I want the brakes examined,” barked Gaby furiously.
“That’s impossible,” argued the cop. “It’s been crushed; it was a write-off.”
“That’s ludicrous,” blurted Gaby, exasperated.
“Look, Mrs Lewis,” he answered, suddenly climbing down from his high horse, “there were half a dozen witnesses who told essentially the same version of the story. You can check the medical report: Miss Butler was drunk.”
“You are missing the point I am afraid. The facts you regard as conclusive do not preclude the possibility that the brakes failed. I don’t care if one hundred witnesses saw the car shoot through the red lights; they would have seen the same thing if the brakes had failed. Just because Meagan was over the legal limit, does not necessarily mean she was drunk, or that she failed to see and recognise a red light. Let me ask you a question: when you have had three pints of lager, are you so plastered that you can’t tell red from green?”
“The coroner confirmed everything,” said the PC in a desperate attempt to pass the buck.
“Then you are all incompetent I am afraid,” said Gaby furiously.
“I think it may be best if you take this up with my superiors, Mrs Lewis,” said the PC meekly.
“I think it’s too late, quite frankly,” she continued, adding, “Your failure to investigate this properly has vast ramifications, Officer. There are legal issues to do with allocation of blame, negligence, culpability, contributory negligence. These all affect the outcome of the claim.” Gaby continued to sprout jargon, not knowing or caring how much of it was accurate; this was not her branch of the law.
“Let me pass you on to Inspector Harris.” PC Green was anxious to avoid any further onslaughts. The line went dead before Vivaldi’s Four Seasons began to play. Gaby switched the phone off quickly, realising that the sound of vacuuming had stopped. She shuddered. She did not know where Renata now was or how long ago the vacuuming had ceased; she had been too carried away with her interrogation of the police officer. Something else dawned on Gaby: she had been on the phone a significant time and the call would show up on the bill — Clinton would notice it. There was no time to waste; she had to act quickly. She had to find Chantelle — the one ally she knew she had.
She dialled again: “Emma, it’s Gaby. This being stuck in is driving me mad. If you don’t take me shopping for some new clothes tomorrow after work, I’ll do my head in.”
Thursday: late-night-shopping day. Emma and Gaby were driving around Loughton combing the neighbourhood.
“Gaby, what the hell is going on? I gave up a date with a wickedly fit bloke tonight to take you shopping and now you have me driving ’round some obscure suburb.”
“Just trust me. This is the most important thing you have ever done for me, other than giving me that joint at the reunion.”
“Yes, well, I am sorry about that,” she said with a sarcastic emphasis on the word ‘sorry’.
“Don’t be, I was being honest, not ironic,” explained Gaby seriously.
“So does that mean you aren’t going to tell me what this is all about?”
“Not yet.” She changed the subject abruptly. “Try take a right here. It looks familiar.”
“Do you really have any idea where this Chantelle lives, other than in Loughton — which, according to the map, is a pretty big suburb — because I’m almost out of petrol.”
“I’ll know the street when I see it; I don’t remember what it was called. No mobile, no Internet access — this may be a prehistoric way of finding Chantelle’s flat, but hey, desperate times, Don’.” Gaby scoured the suburban scenery as Emma drove up and down the streets impatiently. Finally, after much stopping, turning and many dead-end streets, Gaby exclaimed triumphantly, “Mulberry Place: this is it!”
“Should I wait in the car for you?” asked Emma as she helped Gaby out of the car and on to her crutches.
“No thanks, Don’. If Chantelle is here you can go. I’ll buzz her and give you the thumbs up if she answers.”
Gaby swung herself over to the intercom pad at the communal entrance, realising as she approached that she had no recollection of what Chantelle’s flat number was. She rang each bell in succession until she recognised the voice.
“Chantelle, it’s Gaby. I’ve remembered.”
Chantelle welcomed Gaby into her flat with a huge bear hug. “Oh my God, Gabs, I am so glad to see you.”
“God, me too,” said Gaby, cursing uncharacteristically. “I don’t have a phone anymore and I was wary of ringing around from Clinton’s. I had no idea how to contact you, but I was sure I could find my way back to your flat. I eventually found it.”
“Wine, Gabs?” asked Chantelle as she headed into the kitchen.
“No thanks, I’d better not.”
“You won’t mind then if I go ahead.” Chantelle was already pouring herself a large goblet of red Chilean Sauvignon Cabernet. “Have you remembered everything?”
“Well, that I can’t say. We’ll have to compare notes.”
“Can’t tell you how relieved I am, nearly wet myself that day when you said you didn’t remember nothin’ and was goin’ on ’bout how wonderful Clint was.”
“I keep wondering what would have happened if I had never remembered. No wonder he was looking after me and talking to me for hours each night; he must have been terrified I’d start recalling it all. Must have been hoping I’d die of my injuries too.” Gaby shook her head in horror. “So, when did he get in touch with you again?”
Chantelle helped Gaby get comfortable on her box-like couch and took a seat next to her, folding one leg under the other and facing Gaby seriously. “He showed up here at my flat ’bout a month ago. I was shocked, but then I kinda expected it after what you and Meggie said. I let him in, but I was shit scared. He told me what had happened to you and Meggie in the accident. I started shakin’ and cryin’: he thought I was upset because Meggie had died and you was injured so bad, but I was even more upset ’cause I knew it weren’t no accident. I really didn’t know what to do next; I was panickin’ much better. Then he told me you was conscious again and I decided I just had to try and see you. I waited until he was away on business before I went ’round to see you, just to be safe. God, I freaked when you was so blank about everything. You didn’t tell him nothin’ did ya?”
“No, of course not. By the way, Meagan was not drunk: she was over the legal limit as he gave us some rubbish called Mampoer, which was obviously alcoholic, and told us it was a cool drink. I now remember the seconds before the accident clearly. The brakes failed.”
“Did he fiddle the brakes then?”
“Must have. He left us eating dinner while he supposedly took a business call in his study. He was away ages, ample time to sever the brake cable or whatever he did.” Gaby went on to explain her conversation with PC Green.
“Why d’you think he sussed what you and Meggie was up to?” asked Chantelle with big fearful eyes.
“In one word, Renata. She’s a snitch.”
Chantelle nodded before continuing on a different tack. “He told me he wants us to get back togever — just like you said he would. Keeps sayin’ we should go to Thailand for a holiday togever.”
“Mmm …” mused Gaby, “sounds like his modus operandi.”
“We’ve gotta go to the cops, Gabs.”
“With what?” ask
ed Gaby, throwing up her hands in exasperation. “I hear from my aunt that Clinton and Renata personally packed up my apartment, so it could be rented out. They obviously went through all my stuff, found the photos, the newspaper clippings, passport photocopies and all the other evidence we had collected. He would have destroyed it all and covered whatever other tracks he may have left.”
“What about the PI you and Meggie hired?”
Gaby looked at Chantelle with relief. “Oh, yes. I forgot about him. I don’t remember his name though. I am going to have to try and find him; he has copies of most of the stuff.”
Chantelle placed her empty wine goblet on the floor alongside the couch and looked imploringly at Gaby. “I’m scared, Gabs, let’s just go to the police station and tell them everything we know. They have to do some’ing.”
“Every bit of evidence against him is circumstantial; there is nothing solid they can pin on him. The investigation will take ages to grind along — that is if they actually take us seriously. I know what I am talking about. I was a lawyer; I know how these things work. We don’t have time. He’s smart, and just now he’ll get suspicious again.”
“Okay then, Gabs. I’m just a stupid glamour model. What do we do?”
“I have a plan, but I can’t do it without you.” Gaby explained her idea graphically to a saucer-eyed Chantelle. Ending off, she stated, “But right now, I have to get back home before he wonders why I am so long shopping.”
“I honestly don’t know how you can face him,” said Chantelle, sighing incredulously.
“I’ll wear my mask. It’s all about acting — Meagan taught me that.”
Chapter Twenty
Gaby and Chantelle pushed their way through the crowds at Camden Station attracting some stares, but not as many as they would have at other tube stations across the capital.
“It’s ages since I came to Camden Town; I used to come for the market when I was at Uni,” reminisced Gaby.
“Well, it’s famous for more than the market now, Gabs. Ever heard of Amy Winehouse?”
“Of course, I was unconscious for three weeks not three years you know,” joked Gaby.
“Just testin’ your memory. Hey, you look pretty fit with red hair, ’specially in those clothes.” Chantelle gave her a jocular look up and down and winked.
Gaby had dyed her hair a burgundy-red colour. She was wearing black leather trousers, a skintight leopard-print top and black patent platforms. Chantelle was sporting a short, spiky blonde wig, denim hot pants, a red vest and red, peep-toe stilettos.
As they left the station, Chantelle steered them away from the masses heading for the high street and down a little side alley. “We wan’t to be keepin’ away from the main streets; that’s where them CCTV cameras are.”
“Have you done this before?” asked Gaby curiously.
“No,” Chantelle shook her head sincerely, “but in my industry, I talk to allota people what do it regular, so I know the routine like.” She continued with concern, “How’s your leg holdin’ out?”
“Okay,” answered Gaby, “as long as we don’t have to walk too far.” Gaby had had her cast removed three days before and was still undergoing intensive physiotherapy, but she had decided that there was no time for a lengthy, patient recovery. With a tight surgical sock for support and four-hourly feeds of Nurofen, she was ready to ditch the crutches and walk, albeit with a limp.
Chantelle led the way into a slimy backstreet. To the left was a graffiti-ridden brick wall housing the wheelie bins for a block of council flats; across the street was a row of boarded-up shops. Further along the street were the trade entrances to some high-street shops and offices but, being a Sunday, these were quiet. The grotty street was further characterised by some rickety garages belonging to the council flats, an abandoned pub and a car park. They made their way along the street, carefully avoiding the bags of rubbish which had not been collected owing to a strike.
“Mingin’, innit?”
“What?” asked Gaby.
“I mean it’s filthy-like,” answered Chantelle, screwing up her nose.
Gaby nodded, asking with a degree of trepidation, “So how do we approach these people?”
“They approach us,” she stated with assurance. “Dressed like this, they’ll assume we’re a couple of Pro’s lookin’ to get beaked up.” Guessing that Gaby might be confused, she explained, “Women on ‘The Game’ are almost always addicts.” Gaby smiled with some amusement and admiration for Chantelle. “Anyways, let me do the talkin’. Won’t do for ’em to hear that posh Eton accent of yours.”
“Eton is for boys,” corrected Gaby automatically.
“Wha’ever.”
Their attention was drawn to a battered, faded navy-blue Mondeo approaching. The car was so filthy it looked as if it were competing in the Paris Dakar rally. “Looks like a Curbie,” commented Chantelle.
As the car drew closer, the occupant — an obese, balding man with wide gold rings on nearly every finger, a black vest, numerous gaudy tattoos and several chunky gold chains around his neck — rolled down the window and shouted to Chantelle, “Fancy a fuck, Blondie?”
“Maybe later, Mate. We’re waitin’ for some regulars,” shouted Chantelle, not getting too close to the car.
“Wha’ ’bout your friend?”
“She’s from Latavia. She don’t speak no English. She’s also waitin’ for a regular.”
“Maybe la’er then bitches.” He rolled up the window and drove on.
Gaby looked at Chantelle. “Didn’t you mean Latvia?”
“Honestly, Gabs, the geezer’s wasted, he don’t care ’bout geography.”
They were propositioned three more times and were receiving deadly stares from the resident Pro’s, and Gaby was beginning to grow concerned. “How long are we going to be here? Just now the police will pick us up.”
“Listen, Gabs, in this neck o’ the woods, we stand more chance of bein’ raped, mugged or stabbed by a Somali gang than bein’ picked up by the fuzz. You won’t see no cops ’round here. It’s too dangerous for ’em.”
“Now I feel so much better,” Gaby answered sarcastically.
Chantelle giggled before adding seriously, “Hang on tight to all that cash you have in your bag. By the way, how did you get your hands on so much dosh?”
“I told Clinton I wanted my bank cards so that I could start going out with friends, shopping and eating out again. Also told him I was going to Lake Garda with Emma for a holiday at an expensive health spa — thought that would explain why £5,000.00 has gone from my account. I drew the lot out in cash.”
Seven o’ clock and the ache in Gaby’s leg was becoming unbearable. It had been a thirty-degree day and the stench of the uncollected rubbish all around them was putrid. She was surrounded by the dregs of society, had been subjected to appalling language, and had had her bum grabbed several times. She said nothing; it was a small discomfort. It was worth it and she hoped that Meagan and Alison would be proud of her.
Eventually, a highly polished 1980s BMW cabriolet approached. The rap music which pulsated from its subwoofas reverberated along the pavement and Gaby could feel the vibrations under her feet. The driver, a swarthy but slight man with an NY baseball cap and hooded top, took a look at the other Pro’s before drawing up alongside Gaby and Chantelle.
“How’s trix gals?” he asked.
“You buyin’ or sellin’?” ventured Chantelle.
“You hungry?”
“Wouldn’t mind some nose candy, me.”
“’ow come I never seen you two gals before?” he enquired suspiciously.
“We like a change of scenery,” answered Chantelle with a vague hand gesture. “So what you got?“
“Hey, I dunno what yous on about,” he answered with a shrug.
“Then sod off,” retorted Chantelle as she grabbed Gaby by the arm and walked them off down the street.
“What are you doing?” whispered Gaby as soon as they were out of earshot. “We
’ve waited hours for him to pitch up.”
“Shush, we don’t want to look too eager-like.”
Gaby could hear the BMW approaching them from behind. “Hey gals, let’s get to know each other better, I’m Vazz.”
“We’re Trixie and Dixie,” answered Chantelle indolently.
“What’s you limit gals?” he asked in a more serious tone.
“Four hundred quid each,” announced Chantelle, who received an anxious glance from Gaby.
Vazz let out a long whistle. “I may have to catch up with yous later in that case.”
“It’s now or never, Mate, and maybe we’ll up it to six hundred quid each,” said Chantelle, dangling the bait.
Vazz immediately became more focused. He shifted into first, drove fifty yards up the street, braked and reversed up against the graffiti-filled wall. Flinging his door open, he sprang out the car, headed for the boot which he popped up, and busied himself inside. Chantelle indicated that they should keep a fair distance. Vazz removed some laden orange Sainsbury’s carrier bags from the boot and placed them on the pavement. He beckoned for the girls to approach.
Chantelle took a discreet look around before taking a peep in one of the bags. “Okay, Vazz, you’re pukka. Let’s up the order to five thousand quid total and make it your best offer if you want more business next week.”
A strange combination of shock mixed with respect merged on Vazz’s face as he remarked, “Pair of you are really some’ing.”
As he reopened the boot, Gaby reached into her handbag, withdrew the manila envelope and tossed it into the boot as casually as if she were throwing a frisbee. Although taken aback, Vazz was not slow to rip open the envelope and he flicked through the crisp notes with the seasoned technique of a bank cashier. He busied himself once more and, within minutes, had produced five more bulging Sainsbury’s bags. The deal was done, but Vazz did not seem keen to move on. “Same time, same place next week?” he asked expectantly.
“Make it Monday week,” said Chantelle, faking a sincere smile. “We like the way you do business, Vazz.”
