by Lisa Gordon
“Sounds like drugs,” concluded Dr Humphreys.
“She is also keeping very dubious company of late,” added Michael. “I believe we must act at once before this goes any further. I am not sure if she will be able to make a complete recovery, but I believe she must be taken into some sort of care before she does harm to herself.”
“Has she threatened suicide?” asked Dr Humphreys, his large green eyes grave.
“Yes,” lied Michael convincingly.
“Under these circumstances, I may have the power to have her sectioned,” declared Dr Humphreys.
“Money is not a question; I want her in the best clinic in the area.”
“That should be no problem, Mr Butler. I will have to see Gabriella first though. Where does she currently reside?”
“I will furnish you with her details; she is staying at a hotel in central London,” stated Michael firmly before adding with more trepidation, “Do you have to see her first?”
“That would be the ideal,” explained Dr Humphreys, “but bearing in mind what you have told me, I have the power to have her brought straight to a clinic for assessment.”
“Perfect, you have put my mind at rest.”
“Much obliged.”
Chantelle peered through the window pane of Zizzi’s, which was full of tired yet merry workers experiencing the TGIF feeling. “I can see a group of people in the far corner, Gabs. There’s a woman in bright clothes with pink streaks in her hair and some uber drab-looking girls, two men in suits. Must be them. Let’s go in, Gabs.”
“No, give them more time to finish. I’m not in the mood for spending time with those people. I thought my colleagues were my friends, yet hardly any of them wrote, rang or came to see me when I was ill.”
Chantelle groaned but said nothing. It was only ten minutes later when Gaby could see her former colleagues pushing back their chairs, reaching for their handbags and jackets and articulating their excuses. The party was breaking up.
“Now!” she announced and walked with determination to the swing doors of the restaurant, pushing them open.
“Table for two?” asked a handsome Italian waiter.
Gaby ignored him, but Chantelle shook her head and motioned towards Debs’s party. “We’re with them.”
Gaby greeted her former colleagues with a bland mixture of politeness and cordiality. She selected a vacant chair next to Debs and sat down allowing the “you look so wells; nice to see you agains; good to see you are now betters; we’ve missed yous” to fade into the background. “Hi, Debs. Congratulations on your new job. I’m very pleased for you.”
“Right on, Gabs. You look amazin’. I come ’round the ’ospital twice to see you. You wouldn’t know tha’, as you was righ’ out of it. Amazin’ recovery, showed all them white coats didn’t you? Denise told me you may pop ’round my leavin’ party. I was well pleased. Didn’t think you’d be well enough to come out yet.”
Gaby smiled genuinely. “Well, seeing is believing.”
Debs continued, “I wanted to come ’round and see you at your bruver’s house, but he said you wasn’t havin’ visitors.”
“That was rubbish; I would have loved to see you.” Gaby turned to face Chantelle who had pulled up a seat opposite. “This is a friend of mine, Chantelle.”
Chantelle began chatting to Debs about Central St Martins. It seemed Chantelle knew many of the characters studying there and was enjoying explaining to Debs in vivid detail what life there would be like. Gaby was grateful for Chantelle’s banter. It helped pass the time while the table cleared of fellow staff members and it served as a great ice-breaker.
“Could we buy you another drink, Debs? To celebrate your brand new start,” offered Gaby.
“Yeah, crackin’, but Phil’s pickin’ me up soonish so I can’t hang about too much longer.”
“Phil?”
“Yeah, my new bloke.”
Gaby ordered herself and Chantelle a Becks and Debs a café latté. With some more chitchat under the table, Gaby decided it was time for the serious question. “Debs,” she began, “remember when I got back from honeymoon and we had that chat in the filing room?” Debs nodded vaguely. Gaby persisted, “We were talking about Jenson Whittaker. You mentioned shredding papers for him and you said something to me about ‘real hard core’ and ‘sketchy geezer’. What did you mean?”
Debs reached for her latté immediately and took a sip in order to stall answering. “I really don’t remember, Gabs. Sorry.”
Gaby looked at her earnestly. “But you did shred papers for Whittaker. What do you think you meant by ‘hard core’?”
She pushed out her bottom lip, screwed up her nose and answered, “Serious legal stuff. The kinda shit that goes over my head I guess.”
“You must be glad to be getting away from His Lordship Mr Whittaker huh Debs?” attempted Gaby.
“Mr Whittaker has been very good to me all these years and he’s given me a very generous leavin’ cheque. He’s a decent bloke.” Debs returned to her latté and Gaby stole a frustrated glance at Chantelle.
“Listen, Debs,” ventured Chantelle, “it’s extremely important that you tell Gabs anything you know ’bout that Whittaker geezer. It’s life and death.”
“Look, here’s Phil.” Debs waved across the restaurant to a tall thin man with wispy blond hair. “Come and meet my new man, girls.” Gaby’s heart sank as she sensed the conversation was over. “I’ll have to say ta-ra now, girls. Sorry, but I did say Phil was comin’ to pick me up.”
“Congratulations, Debs.” Gaby pushed a piece of paper into her hands. “Please keep in touch.”
Gaby and Chantelle headed disconsolately back towards their hotel. “What now?” asked Chantelle.
“Another brick wall,” moaned Gaby, rubbing her forehead. “We’re running out of money; the hotel’s costing a fortune; we’re fighting people who have unlimited resources and, what’s more, oodles of credibility in this screwed-up world.”
“We should go back to my flat, Gabs. My agent can get us both some work. You know, sellin’ fragrance at Selfridges; chuggin’, you know, fillin’ out charity direct debits — that kinda thing. Keeps you goin’.”
“Maybe we should do that,” agreed Gaby.
“Gabs,” began Chantelle, “why are we so interested in the Whittaker guy?”
Gaby explained with zest, “Debs’s comments all those months back made my ears stand up: it’s obvious that Whittaker is up to something which is not so kosher. Debs picked up on it. According to Clinton, he saw our dad and Whittaker lunching together. Although that may seem quite normal, it struck Clinton as odd, and me too. For a start, it’s suspicious that they have kept the fact that they know each other so secret. I have this little inkling that my dad and Whittaker are associated and are both involved in this un-kosher something. If we want to stop my dad in his quest to free Clint, we have to discredit him. Debs has the key, but as you saw today, she’s scared.”
Chantelle became animated immediately. “Isn’t that what I said Gabs? That Clinton has som’ing on your dad. He probably mentioned seeing him and that Whittaker guy together to fish to see if you knew as well.”
Gaby nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, Chantelle, good thinking.”
“What do we do now then?”
Gaby frowned and smiled before putting on a determined grin and saying, “It’s you, me and the drawing board I guess.”
Robbie and Helen sat facing the busy Victoria Street on the last available bar stools, drinking Starbucks espresso. Police car sirens could be heard in the distance, impatient cabbies hooted irritably at the other road users and, closer, were the screams of toddlers sitting impatiently while their mothers had their lunchtime fix of latté. Helen looked at her large-faced wristwatch. “Have to be back at two,” she said. Robbie nodded.
“One mozzarella and sundried tomato and one beef and onion panini,” shouted the barista loudly from behind the counter, loudly in order to make herself heard over the lunchti
me din. Robbie immediately eased off his stool and collected the paninis along with some serviettes.
Helen took a big bite and chewed quickly. “The Thai authorities are dragging their feet.” Between mouthfuls, she continued, “Seem dead set on trying him for drugs offences out there.”
“Well,” started Robbie, “on the positive side, he may get more time out there for drugs than he would get here for multiple murders.”
“Don’t start me on that Robbie. I know a couple of leftie liberal judges have made cock-eyed decisions when it comes to sentencing, but in the main, criminals get what they deserve.”
“What I actually meant, Helen, was that at least he’s banged up and not out there looking for victims,” corrected Robbie sternly.
Helen was already finished with her food. She dabbed her mouth with the recycled paper serviette and answered vehemently, “Robbie, both Gabriella and all those girls’ families deserve their day in court. They have a right to sit there at the high court; to see Clinton Butler in the dock; listen to the charges being read out and hear the jury deliver their verdict of guilty.” Helen carried on explaining with passion, “Not only is it their right, but it is essential if they are ever to achieve closure.”
“Funny thing is,” began Robbie thoughtfully, “other than the Pages, the families already had closure; we’ve opened up a whole emotional can of worms for them. I wonder whether they may have been better off thinking that their daughters had died in accidents.” He shrugged defensively. “Just a thought.”
Helen began to collect her handbag. “I have forty-five minutes for lunch; I don’t have time for philosophy right now. Actually, I don’t have time for philosophy full stop. I catch criminals and I always think that getting to the truth is the best possible way of dealing with anything.”
“Yeah, obviously he had to be stopped and thanks to Gaby and Meagan, he will be, whether he rots in a roach-infested cell in Bangkok or lives his life out at Wormwood.”
“You often mention Meagan. She really made an impression on you, didn’t she, Rob?” probed Helen with interest as they made their way to the door.
“Well, I only actually met her once. I thought she was special.” He stopped to look Helen in the eyes as they stepped on to the pavement. “Perhaps she reminded me of you in some way.“
Helen’s face softened and she smiled warmly, although she did not initially look Robbie in the eye. Robbie stood motionless staring at her, waiting for her reaction.
“Tell you what,” she said suddenly, looking back at Robbie. “Buy us two more paninis for tonight and I’ll toast them in my griddle at home.” She began to walk away, but turned back to shout, “Some Chardonnay would be good too!”
This is Live at Five with Kate Mason. We are about to cross to our Asia correspondent who is waiting to talk to us in Bangkok. Hello, Alex. Any news on Mr Butler QC’s arrival?
Hello, Kate. Yes, Mr Butler QC arrived here two hours ago. He was met by the British ambassador and a Thai government official. We believe that he has gone directly to the police station in Bangkok where his son Clinton — who viewers will remember was arrested on drugs charges on Monday — is being held. He made a brief statement to the press, reiterating his confidence that his son will soon be released; he hinted that he may be in possession of “new evidence” of some sort.
Thank you, Alex. Do we know if charges have actually been brought yet?
No, Kate. Unusually, the Thai police have failed to bring charges as of yet. I should also mention that we are receiving unconfirmed reports that Chantelle Bishop, Mr Butler’s fiancé, has gone missing. Apparently she was last seen in France, contrary to the initial reports received that she was in Phuket on vacation. There have been suggestions in some branches of the tabloid media that it was Ms Bishop who planted the drugs on Clinton Butler; however, I would stress that these are merely suggestions.
Yes, indeed, Alex. It has been a terrible time for the Butler family of late: Michael Butler QC’s two daughters were involved in a horrific car accident last month in which Meagan was killed and Gabriella suffered brain damage.
Yes, Kate. The British authorities out here are doing everything in their power to assist Mr Butler QC and ensure that Mr Clinton Butler has the best representation available. We believe that Scotland Yard is in close communication with the Thai police and representatives from the Yard are out here as we speak.
Thank you, Alex. We will cross to you as soon as there are further developments. Stay with Sky News, your channel for breaking news. After the break, we will be crossing to Beijing for our Olympic report.
“Jesus, Gaby!” shrieked Chantelle. “They’re gonna pin it on me!”
“Great! They paint you as a low-life druggie and me as a brain-damaged moron; that way neither of us have any credibility,” ranted Gaby furiously, “while the brain-dead authorities are falling over themselves to help the esteemed Mr Butler QC and his above-reproach son. It’s insane.”
“Never mind all that shit, they’re gonna pin it on me!” cried Chantelle hysterically.
“Calm down, it’s far from over Chantelle. Trust me,” said Gaby reassuringly with more confidence than she sincerely felt.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Miss Gaby Smith, this is Derata at reception. I have a Debra Hardy here. She says she wants to see you.”
“Yes, send her right up. Thanks.” Gaby replaced the telephone with the most enormous surge of relief she had ever felt.
Sensing Gaby’s excitement, Chantelle asked, “So?”
She answered simply, “Debs.”
Shortly, there was a knock on the door. Both women raced across the hotel room, eager to open the door and discover whether their high hopes were justified. Standing nonchalantly in the hallway was an outrageously dressed Debs, sporting a new hairstyle of multicoloured braided extensions.
“Debs!” said Gaby and Chantelle in unison.
“Hiya,” she greeted, continuing, “Didn’t get much chance to chat to yous the other day, what with the party hubbub and all. Thought I’d come ’round and catch up proper like.”
“Come in,” invited Gaby. “Something from room service perhaps?”
“No, I’m alrigh’ thanks.”
The hotel room was strewn with the contents of both Gaby’s and Chantelle’s luggage; every available surface area was congested with paperwork, telephone directories, newspapers and toiletries. The television was on as always, just in case news on Clinton should break. Both women had become accustomed to using their beds as their alternate offices from which they would debate, analyse and research. The chambermaids were inevitably sent away with the instruction that new towels would suffice as they were too busy to have the room serviced. The relentless August sun was streaming into the room, but the air conditioning kept the room fresh and crisp. Chantelle made a hurried attempt to tidy her bed and offered Debs a seat. Gaby grabbed some crisps and honeyed peanuts from the mini bar and offered them to Debs. “Welcome to our boudoir,” she joked, concealing her inner tension. Debs looked slightly nervous and Gaby guessed that she was there with some kind of revelation in mind, although she dared not be over-confident.
“It’s really terrific to see you looking so well, Gabs. You looks just like your old self, even better. Leg healed up quick too,” commented Debs.
“I’m fine, Debs. Just perfect,” emphasised Gaby.
“Look,” began Debs awkwardly. “What you asked me about at Zizzi’s took me unawares. Didn’t even remember I’d said that like.” She stopped and Gaby waited, her tension stiffening her shoulders and making her stomach churn as she began to anticipate another excuse rather than an explanation. “I never told anyone anything, not in all the years what I worked a’ BWH. Never really had any intention of tellin’ no one. Don’t even know why I kept all that stuff, guess it was my little secret. Just an interest which made a dull job what I hated a tad more interestin’.” Debs paused for a long time while she helped herself to crisps and peanuts. “What m
ade me say that to you that day, I don’t know.” Debs shrugged and Gaby shot Chantelle a discreet glance, conveying that they should keep quiet and let Debs come out with whatever she had to say in her own time. “When you mentioned it at Zizzi’s I got a shock and I didn’t quite react right — like one doesn’t when you get taken by surprise like. It was the last thing I expected. I just thought to meself I’m leaving BWH; who cares?” She paused. “And I didn’t wanna rock the boat with me leavin’ cheque. I was also worried about future references and employee confidentiality stuff.”
“You owe no duty of confidentiality to an employer who is acting contrary to the law,” assured Gaby emphatically.
“Yeah,” said Debs vaguely. She seemed immersed in the telling of her story and was not encouraging interruptions. “Anyways,” she continued, “when I was a’ school, I was dyslexic. They didn’t call it that back then: they called it being thick as two short planks. No one expected me to amount to anythin’, ever. I would dress mad, wear crazy colours like — was the only way I got attention. It also kinda added to the whole thickhead, dropout image. I was lucky to get the job at BWH. Least it got me to the City and away from the miserable streets of Plaistow. Always did me best at me job. One day, on the way home in the tube, I realised I’d left me purse back in the office, so I went back. Went to the filing room where I thought I’d left it and found Mr Whittaker there shreddin’ papers like. He was a touch shocked to see me; I didn’t really think nothin’ of it. I says to him ‘Let me do that for you, Sir, it’s me job.’ He let me take over, told me how essential it was for the papers to be shredded real good and sat there and watched me for a while to see I did it proper. After that he left me to it. Started to bring me shreddin’ regular after that; guess he thought I was too thick to twig anything. To be honest, I was never really interested in the stuff. One day I was shreddin’ and one of me bangles fell off and into the shredder, jammed it up. I was a bit anxious, had loads of shreddin’ still to do. Wasn’t too keen on tellin’ Mr Howell or Whittaker why the shredder got buggered either. Decided to take the pages home and borrow me mum’s shredder. While all the pages was waitin’ on the table at home, me ex-husband started to browse through them. He’s a shop steward, so he’s good with legal stuff and readin’. He immediately recognised it was sus. Told me all about it. We decided to do nothin’ — I mean I needed the job bad and who in their right mind would mess with a legal firm. David and Goliath, methinks ...”
