by Lisa Gordon
“Clinton tried to kill both Meagan and me: I remember the accident clearly and we were not drunk — the brakes failed.” Gaby stood up and slammed her fist on his desk.
“You were drunk,” shouted Michael, sitting forward. “I saw the blood-test results with my own eyes and they were conclusive.”
“Since when are you a doctor?” retorted Gaby, “and why did Clinton let us drive if we were drunk? He could have let us stay over.” She held up her hand. “Don’t tell me — he was working and didn’t realise how much we had had to drink. And you buy a pathetic argument like that? You are totally blinded by bias.”
“So you contend that the police, the coroner, the hospital and everyone else, including the witnesses at the scene, are all wrong and you are right?” he asked with heavy sarcasm.
“You are all leaping to the most obvious conclusion and none of you had the wherewithal to have the car examined. You are all indolent and grossly incompetent.”
Michael Butler was livid; he stood up aggressively, sucked in air and was about to deliver a further onslaught when Chantelle piped up and asked, “Where did Clinton get this Mr Butler? Gaby wanted to wear it on her wedding day, but you said you couldn’t find it, that it was in your ‘other safe’”. You knew that Clinton had it all along, didn’t you?” She thrust her wrist in front of him so that he could see the diamond tennis bracelet.
“I gave it to him. He is my oldest child. He was entitled to it,” he declared furiously.
“You’re a big fat liar, Michael,” hissed Chantelle. She eyeballed him, her icy expression revealing that she thought him despicable.
“Be quiet you common little tramp!” he blurted out, enraged.
“Why don’t you shut up, you twisted, old bastard!” screamed Gaby.
“Let me explain something to you, Gabriella. You will get nowhere with this malicious mission to ruin your brother; you have no credibility. After you married, you went off your head, running to psychologists and taking antidepressants. Now I hear you were frequenting psychic charlatans and taking class B drugs. You’re a maniac and a drug addict. You’ve gone off the rails. You have thrown away a fantastic legal career and the chance of partnership at a top law firm. Your marriage is in tatters; in fact, your husband ran away to Melbourne to get away from you. To add to it, you are permanently brain damaged due to a drunk-driving accident. Any of your neurosurgeon’s reports will testify to this. Do you really expect anyone to take you seriously? You only have yourself to blame for obliterating your own credibility. Mark my words, I am going to ensure that Clinton is released and that you are sectioned.”
“Fuck you!” exploded Gaby.
“Let’s get outta here, Gaby,” urged Chantelle, taking her arm. “This man is bonkers.”
Chantelle drove down Warwick Road, heading quickly for the M42 with no regard for the thirty-mile-per-hour speed limit. She looked with concern over at Gaby, who was sobbing profusely. “Are you okay, Luv?”
“I can’t believe him. He wouldn’t listen to anything,” she spluttered.
“You did good though, Gabs. You really put up a good fight,” said Chantelle reassuringly.
“It’s the first time in my life I stood up to him and the first time ever I used such language to anybody. It was quite liberating.” Gaby dried her eyes and gave Chantelle a weak smile. “Well done, you. Good on you for bringing up the bracelet.”
“I have to say he’s a good arguer.”
“He is not a good arguer — he’s a bully,” replied Gaby, her resolve returning. “I pity anyone who has been questioned by him in the witness stand.”
“Well, I for one wouldn’t understand a word he was sayin’ quite honestly,” she declared in a half-hearted attempt to be witty.
Gaby grunted with wry amusement as she pictured a bewildered Chantelle in the witness box, but she immediately became troubled again. “Did you hear that he wants to have me sectioned?”
“I don’t know what that means, Gabs,” she admitted.
“Locked in the nuthouse basically.” Gaby’s face with filled with angst and her eyes were still streaming.
“He could do that?”
“Probably.”
Silence descended as Chantelle negotiated the motorway traffic. The motion of the car made Gaby feel calmer. She focused on the rows of red bumper lights extending for miles ahead of them and the files of white headlights approaching. Although it was a hot and sticky night, in many ways it reminded her of that night driving home with Meagan. The tears in her eyes made the lights of the traffic merge into an amber blur; she could suddenly see Meagan’s face and for the first time ever, she could picture Alison clearly. She dried her eyes and refocused her mind. She had to be strong: she had been entrusted with a mission, which, at that rather surreal moment, seemed almost divine. Many souls, including her own, would not rest should she fail. She felt her strength returning.
“Gabs?” started Chantelle, breaking the silence. “I know I’m not legally trained, that I didn’t go far in school and that I don’t use big words, but I know people.” She looked over to confirm that she had Gaby’s attention. “Your dad’s scared. He didn’t go ballistic ’cause he thinks you’re wrong or crazy; he knows you’re on to some’ing.” She paused and took a breath. “How can I explain this? I think Clinton has some’ing on your dad.”
“Mmm …” mused Gaby, “you really think he’s scared?”
“Yeah, it’s in his eyes. And bullies are always cowards right? He’s tryin’ like mad to make you disbelieve yourself; he wants to discredit you. Know what I mean?”
Gaby became quiet and thoughtful. “Give me some time to think about this.”
It seemed a very long drive indeed back to central London, but by the time they reached the congestion charge zone, the streets were deserted. The two women returned to their hotel room; it was the one place they both felt safe and anonymous. Nobody knew where they were and it was comforting.
Chantelle rang room service for a bottle of sparkling wine and a pizza. Gaby was not hungry, but Chantelle assured her that eating would ease her emotional pain. “They don’t call it comfort food for nothin’.”
“At this stage I’m beyond comfort food,” she sighed hopelessly. “Chantelle, I was just thinking. This time last year I was preparing for my wedding. It was the climax of my life so far, with the best yet to come. I had a loving fiancé, devoted brother, an enviable career and a wonderful family who were everything to me. Now I have none of those. Life is strange.” She stared at the floor while she toyed aimlessly with the St Christopher pendant on her necklace with the other.
“Maybe you never really lost those things. Perhaps you just realised that you never had ’em anyway, Gabs,” comforted Chantelle as she sat next to Gaby on the bed.
“It feels like a massive bereavement, Chantelle. So much has changed. I honestly don’t even know who I am anymore.”
“Maybe it’s not that so much stuff has changed, it’s that your perception of things has changed. I was just thinkin’ ’bout how much this has changed me, then I kinda realised that I haven’t changed, I’ve just found out more about myself — and that can’t be bad, can it?”
“I hear you. And it’s true: everything has worked together for good. I’d never want to be that person I was ten months ago.”
“C’mon. We both need a hot shower and sleep.” Gaby headed for the bathroom while Chantelle began to remove her clothes and fold them on her bed. “Gabs, we must try and get in touch with Piers.” There was no reply. Gaby had already turned the shower on.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The hottest July on record was giving way to a scorching August. The moonlight shone into the bedroom, illuminating Helen’s room in an almost incandescent glow. The windows were wide open in a hopeful attempt to allow a breeze in to relieve the discomfort of a stifling night. Helen exhaled slowly, sending a stream of smoke swirling towards the ceiling. “A day full of surprises,” she remarked wistfully.
Robbie had one hand around Helen’s shoulder and a steadily dwindling cigarette in the other; he flicked ash into a saucer provided by Helen, who had got rid of all her ashtrays as she maintained they were encouraging the habit. “What do the Thai police say he is saying?” he asked.
“Says his sister gave him the parcel so that he could give it to a mate of hers by the name of Stephanie Lowe. Of course there’s no person of that name in Bangkok. He maintains he had no idea what was in that parcel, but the Thai police say his DNA was all over it.”
“Seems Gaby remembered more than we thought. Told you she was no fool.”
Helen frowned. “She should have come straight to us.”
“With what Helen? Clinton obviously went through her flat with a fine-toothed comb and eliminated all the evidence they had collated, including my phone numbers and e-mail.”
Helen said nothing. Stubbing out her cigarette, she lifted up her empty wine glass to make sure that it was indeed empty.
“What’s the situation with her father?” asked Robbie.
“Mmm, him,” grunted Helen. “He’s doing some rather bellicose grandstanding. Can’t envision him achieving anything despite his confidence. The Thai authorities are not falling over backwards to cooperate with the British government; they are still smarting over the fact that their ex-president, Taxim Sunawatra, fled here and was given exile.”
“And bought a football team no less,” added Robbie.
“I don’t do football, does my head in,” scolded Helen, before she continued, “The Met, however, has been in touch with the Thai police and we’ve made it clear that Mr Butler is under investigation for a number of very serious offences and should he be extradited, he would be charged and imprisoned immediately. We feel that they may cooperate under these particular circumstances.”
“Okay, so where is Gaby now? Isn’t it time you talked to her?”
“We’ve lost her,” admitted Helen sheepishly.
“What?”
“Her friend Emma picked her up on Sunday shortly after Clinton left for the airport. We didn’t follow them. Of course, in hindsight it’s obvious she was not going to return there. We have no idea where she’s gone. Chantelle left for France on Sunday morning and she has not returned to her flat in Loughton. Perhaps the two of them are together.”
“Some of her friends must know where she is,” insisted Robbie.
“Maybe not. She and Chantelle seem to be playing a shrewdy.”
“You could question her friends.”
“No, not yet. Gaby and Chantelle have played it right; I don’t want a whiff of what is really going on to get out from our side either.”
“Robbie Baggio. Baggio. Baggio,” mumbled Chantelle. “No, Gabs. There’s no R. Baggio in London. No Baggios at all, only a Baggioni.”
“I’ve checked the electoral registers for the London boroughs and those around London too. Nothing at all,” sighed Gaby as she turned away from the computer.
“Maybe he’s not registered,” suggested Chantelle.
“Everyone has to be registered; it’s compulsory,” insisted Gaby.
Chantelle shrugged. “Well I’m not. I filled in the form an’ all. Put it in me bag and forgot to send it off. Then I changed handbags. Guess it’s still somewhere.”
Smiling, Gaby nodded. “Those electoral forms are so stupid. The year I moved to London, Anne forgot to remove my name from their list, so I ended up eligible to vote in both Solihull and Harringay.”
“Yeah, Gabs. Know what? One year my bruver filled in our electoral register form and he added our Spaniel Dipsy to it, for a laugh. I swear in April a voting card come through the letterbox for Dipsy Bishop.”
Gaby could not contain herself; she collapsed on to the bed laughing heartily. After some minutes, totally out of breath, with tears streaming down her cheeks, she managed to say, “My Lord, Chantelle, I haven’t laughed that much for ages and ages. I have this picture in my mind of a Spaniel turning up at the polling station with the voting card in its mouth.”
Gaby continued to lay on the bed smiling to herself and feeling her tension evaporating. The laughter had released some endorphins and she was beginning to feel more positive.
Chantelle leaned over and grabbed the remote control. “Mind if I turn the telly on to Big Bruver, Gabs? I’ve been missin’ episodes.”
“Big Brother!” Gaby looked at Chantelle with her mouth open.
“Don’t look at me like that Gabs. I know your type don’t think it’s quality entertainment or anything, but I enjoy it. It’s escapism.”
“It’s not that, Chantelle. I have a friend who was in the last fifty to be chosen. Is there a Debs in the show?” asked Gaby urgently.
Chantelle thought for a while. “Uh, no, don’t think there is.”
“It’s reminded me of something important: two chance comments, one from Clinton and one from Debs.” Gaby became silent as she thought back to her conversation with Debs in the filing room that October day and to another conversation with Clinton back in April. Two obscure comments, which Gaby intuitively felt were linked even though they were not logically connected in any way. Gaby had decided that logic was not an adequate tool in dealing with the analysing of human beings, whom she had now realised were capable of sinking to unimaginable depths without the restraining force of a conscience.
“Hello, Denise. Can I speak to Debs in the mailroom please?”
“Who is calling please?” came back the polite yet authoritative reply from the receptionist at BarkerWhittakerHowell.
“Gabriella Harvey.”
“Oh, Gaby, how are you?” asked the receptionist with a sudden change in tone.
“Much better,” answered Gaby continuing impatiently, “I need to speak to Debs if I could, right away.”
She could hear the Denise draw breath and she became anxious. “Well, Debbie is not working here anymore; she left.”
“Why?” blurted out Gaby.
“She was offered a job in admin. at Central St Martins. You know, the design school. Suited her better don’t you think?” explained Denise.
“I really need to be in touch with her. When did she leave?” asked Gaby tensely.
“Last week and you know I can’t give you any of her details, Gaby. Data protection.”
“Another useless law,” mumbled Gaby under her breath, cursing the fact that every law seemed to be against her in her battle for justice. “Never mind, I’ll ring Central St Martins and ask for her there.”
“She only starts there in three weeks’ time,” offered Denise. Gaby remained silent and on this occasion, her silence evoked some more information from the conscientious receptionist. “Some girls from the office are throwing Debbie a leaving party this Friday at Zizzi’s around the corner. Maybe you should come; the more the merrier.”
“Just tell me the time,” blurted Gaby, this time with relief.
Solihull
“So, how long has your daughter been exhibiting these mood swings and these bursts of irrational and self-destructive behaviour you speak of?” asked Dr Humphreys.
“For almost a year now and my wife Anne and I are desperately worried about her: she is unable to function normally and even before the accident, she had not been able to hold down her job,” explained Michael Butler, his face filled with anguish and concern. “I recently had a conversation with her and I was mortified to discover that she now appears to be having delusions and to be bordering on an advanced stage of paranoia. To exacerbate matters, she tells me she has been taking drugs: cannabis and now cocaine. I am beside myself with worry and desperate to do anything I can to help her. She needs to be taken into some sort of care for her own good.”
“Mmm …” Dr Humphreys tapped away at his PC thoughtfully.
Michael continued, “As you know, she suffered a serious head injury in the accident. I have all the neurosurgeons’ reports right here for you. Although we thank God for the miracle of her regaining consciousness against all expectations,
we cannot lose sight of the fact that she is still in the early stages of recovery and will probably never enjoy proper cerebral functioning again. Understandably, she is emotionally overwrought by the death of her sister. As is typical in cases of bereavement, she is looking for someone to blame and she is making wild accusations, which, if allowed to continue, will damage her own credibility — and that of others — beyond repair. Anne and I are very involved with the church as you know, and Father Lee has been saying prayers in his sermons, which brings us great comfort.”
Dr Humphreys nodded and listened with his usual patient intensity before beginning to talk slowly and deliberately, “Gaby came to see me at the end of last year and she didn’t mention depression; in fact, she appeared rather well and talked to me about contraception.”
“Really?” commented Michael with scepticism.
“I do see, however, on her NHS records that she visited a drop-in medical centre in London a week after she saw me and spoke to a Dr Naidoo about depression. Dr Naidoo recommended a psychologist and prescribed a course of antidepressants. She never applied for a second course though.”
“I believe from my son that she was seeing a psychologist and that, according to her, it was not helping. I now know that she was visiting some psychic charlatan as well.”
“Yes, this is all highly indicative of both irrational and desperate behaviour,” agreed Dr Humphreys.
“Her husband is in Australia; the pressure of living with someone who had strayed so far from normality was too much for him to bear. He could not handle her mood swings. Apparently, she would go out and not even return home some nights.”
