by Lisa Gordon
As I said though, Sir, maybe I have not made myself clear. Surely there are times when children need to be taken into care for their own welfare?
What I am saying, Kate, is that the system is being flagrantly abused. To draw a comparison, Kate: criminals facing over six months in prison can demand a jury, but parents who face losing their children for life cannot. I suggest that no jury would take a child from their mother purely on the basis of one expert making a prediction about future behaviour. Since local governments are rewarded for reaching ‘adoption targets’, adoption is prioritised. I must emphasise again that adoption agencies, fosterers, lawyers and experts all cash in lavishly. Lawyers and court costs are typically £500,000.00 per case. Sorry, Kate, I know we are running out of time, but I would like to add that all the statistics show that the risks children run of becoming victims of abuse in care are far greater than if they were to remain with their parents. One third of the prison population in the UK comprises people who were brought up in care.
Where to from here then, Professor Sutton?
I am immensely relieved that Mr Butler and associates have been apprehended and that this untenable situation has been thrust into the media spotlight so that it can be debated and hopefully rectified. Butler, Whittaker and Spelman have profited immorally and built large, powerful practices on the back of the misery of these families. Forced adoption does not belong in a Western democracy.
Justice at long last then, thank you for your time. At this point I would like to bring in our legal expert Morgan Cavendish. Do you concur with what Professor Sutton has said, Sir?
Certainly, Kate. I am delighted that this issue is receiving the attention it deserves from the media. One thing which Professor Sutton did not mention is that many local solicitors and barristers have a close working relationship with the local authority. These legal-aid lawyers are widely known in the trade as ‘Professional Losers’, as they make a point of losing every case they undertake when opposing social services. Many of these Professional Losers command a hefty fee for advising parents not to resist social services, but to go along with what they say; they may even advise parents not to go to court at all. A study found that the majority of lawyers and judges did not bother to check the qualifications of the experts whom they used in court to bolster their cases. It’s outrageous.
That’s all we have time for now I am afraid, Mr Cavendish. Thank you for joining us on Lunchtime Live. So is justice alive and well in Britain today? Please take part in our online survey, or text and e-mail your thoughts to us here at Sky News.
“Well, it’s alive, but you have to fight like bloody hell to get the best outta it,” smirked Chantelle.
Gaby replied with a thoughtful smile. “We had to venture on to the wrong side of the law to make sure that the real criminals were apprehended.”
Chantelle continued, “Jesus, Gabs. So your dad was part of this racket.”
“Don’t call him my ‘dad’, Chantelle. I don’t want to be associated with the man,” snapped Gaby with a ferocity that surprised her.
“I don’t blame you,” Chantelle was quick to say. “So what was Michael Butler’s part in all of this?”
“He knew the family courts backwards; he had obviously uncovered and exploited every legal-aid loophole to his own financial and professional gain. He worked behind the scenes with Whittaker and Spelman ensuring, in the case of Whittaker, that his practice grew exponentially thanks to all the legal-aid cases he was taking on. I am sure Michael enjoyed numerous profitable kickbacks. What’s more, the three of them were manipulating the outcome and duration of High Court cases in order to extract massive fees. With Michael heading a prominent think tank who advised the Government Select Committee for Child Protection, he was ideally placed to ensure that forced adoption targets were established and that millions of tax payers’ money was set aside for forced-adoption purposes. Who knows what other self-serving policies he initiated,” mused Gaby.
“As I have said before, Clinton sussed him.”
“I agree.”
“I don’t believe that he gave Clint the bracelet anyway. I think Clinton went into your dad’s … I mean Michael’s safe for the bracelet — don’t ask me how he managed it — and found all those incriminating document things while he was lookin’ for the bracelet. When Michael found the bracelet missin’, he knew Clint had been in the safe and he realised Clint now knew what he was up to.”
Gaby nodded in agreement, then changed the subject. “You know, Chantelle, when I was little I would dream of standing up there in the High Court one day and bringing justice to some no-good from the underworld. Little did I know that one day I would be bringing my own father and brother to justice. Just shows that you have to be careful what you dream about; dreams can come true but in a very different way to how you imagined.”
“Yeah, spot on. But Gabs,” started Chantelle with a deeply concerned frown on her face, “where is the news on Clinton? They said he was on the plane back like. Surely they woulda reported on his arrival back in the UK.” Gaby and Chantelle both fell silent.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“What the hell is going on? Where is he?” shouted Robbie.
“Right now? I don’t know.” Helen’s voice was full of anguish. She continued to explain as best she could, “The Met were at Heathrow ready to arrest Butler as soon as he came off the plane. Three officers were there, right there as the doors opened. He never left the plane. They searched the plane, nothing.”
“Now you’re telling me he did a disappearing act mid-air.” He paused, gripped the phone even tighter and carried on furiously, “Are you even sure he got on the plane in the first bloody place?”
“Let me speak, Rob,” pleaded Helen. “Two planes left Bangkok bound for Heathrow within half an hour of each other. Our information was that he was on the second flight which arrived at 10:20 a.m. We now know he was on the first flight, which arrived at 9:50 a.m.”
“It’s a cock-up of massive proportions,” ranted an exasperated Robbie. “What about airport security? Surely they liaised with BA and had their staff on standby for his arrival, or am I to believe that BA didn’t know which flight he was on either?”
“He was booked in for the later flight initially and yet somehow he managed to get on the earlier flight.”
“This guy is running rings around everyone because you are all fast asleep.”
“Stop shouting at me, Rob, I am not in charge of everything around here.” Helen tried to regroup. “All efforts are focused on finding him.”
“I think we should throw every resource we have into finding Gaby and Chantelle before he does.”
Scotland Yard
Sir Ian Donaldson’s ruddy, flaky facial skin reddened appreciably and droplets of perspiration began to develop around the few strands of red-brown hair which were left at the back of his head. “This call is being traced, Mr Butler. You will not escape arrest this time,” he threatened; however, his voice lacked a convincing edge.
“Call off the dogs, Donaldson.”
“Never!” snapped the police chief, while he began to rub nervously at the psoriasis on his cheeks. “I am preparing papers for the CPS as we speak.”
“Well, then, I guess you and I will be competing for the headlines in tomorrow’s papers then,” continued Clinton, knowing that he was now playing with his prey. Donaldson’s bulging brown eyes darted around his office from the phone keypad to the door to his computer to the door again. He grabbed the mouse, opened a window and clicked frantically with a shaking hand. He remained silent. “I am sure your share transactions will make some pretty interesting, not to mention revealing, reading, Sir,” added Clinton with heavy sarcasm.
“I did nothing wrong. I have a very complex portfolio and I trade frequently,” retorted Donaldson defiantly.
“In that case you have nothing to fear, do you?” Clinton was confident. “I am sure Fleet Street would love to know about the short-selling you had me conduct o
n your behalf in LPA Bank plc shortly before the CEO was arrested and a sensational fraud was revealed. You made a killing. What would be of even greater interest, especially to the families of the 7/7 victims, was your trading pattern in Stirling the week leading up to July 7th, 2005.” Clinton chuckled. “I must say, Sir, you were my most fascinating client. It was almost as though destiny drew us together. As I said, Sir, call off the dogs.”
This is Lunchtime Live and Sky News is hearing reports from the Home Office that there will be no, I repeat no, charges brought against Clinton Butler. Mr Butler, you will remember, was recently arrested on drugs charges in Bangkok, but was released to the British authorities in Bangkok and returned to the United Kingdom. There are unconfirmed reports that this decision by the Home Office has caused consternation within the Foreign Office and a diplomatic debacle with Bangkok.
Chantelle’s face was ashen as she looked at Gaby, her bottom lip trembling. She was unable to speak.
“We were too late,” Gaby managed to say in a dry-mouthed whisper.
“No!” shouted Chantelle, her frightened eyes turning moist. “No!” she cried out again in anguish.
“He’s free. Somehow he pulled something off. They won’t catch him again.” Gaby stared ahead not blinking as she spoke. Suddenly, however, a new look of resolve eclipsed the tired, defeated look on her face and she frowned thoughtfully. “He has unfinished business to take care of and we happen to be that unfinished business.”
Clinton sat in the green Peugeot and perused the pages of the tabloids with a wry smile developing. The story of the filing clerk who had suddenly become the ‘Erin Brockovich of Essex’ was the story which so pleased him. Pictures of an eccentrically clad Debs Hardy were splashed across the front pages with headlines such as:
DONE UP LIKE A KIPPER
SHAFTED BY THE CANNY CLERK
CORRUPT TOFF GETS SORTED
The Debs person, it seemed, was revelling in telling anyone who would listen to her her story, and Clinton too wanted to hear it. Clinton’s train of thought was interrupted by Renata, who had just opened the car door and climbed in, her arms laden with shopping parcels.
Plaistow
Debs walked into her kitchen with yet another bunch of flowers, smiling. She had just received another call from a journalist. This time, he was from NOVA magazine and wanted to offer her £120,000 for the rights to write and serialise her life story in the magazine. Cinderella eat ya flippin’ ’eart out, she said to herself. She placed the flowers in the kitchen sink while mentally planning a shopping spree where she would buy a vase to put the flowers in; perhaps a coffee table to put the vase on; a rug to go under the coffee table; a new sofa to match the rug; cushions for the sofa; and curtains to tone in with the cushions. To hell with it, thought Debs, I need a new pad an’ all.
Debs raced to answer the doorbell, guessing that it must be the journalist from NOVA. She was dressed in a fashionable electric-blue jacket and matching trainers with a yellow and green tartan shirt, white T-shirt and denim jeans. The kettle was on. After checking her appearance in the mirror and fluffing up her hair once more, she opened the door. Standing there was a rather tall, very tanned, fit-looking guy, with short, cropped dark hair. Debs greeted the journalist with a bright and welcoming smile; however, as she looked into his beautiful aqua-blue eyes, her heart almost stopped and she was unable to stifle a gasp. The smile was gone and her face had turned white. Her impulse was to slam the door shut, and she moved suddenly backwards into the doorway, pushing the door back, but she had been caught totally off guard and her reactions were thus retarded. Clinton had anticipated the response and his foot was already wedged between the door and the door frame. Before Debs could scream out for help, Clinton threw his weight at the door, ramming it into her body and sending her crashing on to the entrance-hall floor. In a few seconds, he was inside; he was on top of Debs and she could no longer cry out for help as he held her in a vicelike grip, his hand over her mouth. “In a minute I am going to take my hand away from your mouth, then I want you to tell me where Gabriella is. I know you know where she and Chantelle are. You let it out in one of the many interviews you gave; you said you met them at a hotel. You will now tell me where that hotel is or I will break your neck. Life won’t be much fun as a quadriplegic, will it, Debs?” He tightened his grip and shook her head, ruthlessly bashing it into the floorboards. “You want to enjoy the money you now have, don’t you, Debs?” he hissed into her ear. Debs squirmed desperately, trying to loosen his iron grip, but he was too strong. “Be sensible, Debs. Tell me where they are and the good life is yours. This time next week you could be in Barbados, in the sun, on the beach, sipping champagne. Where are they?” Clinton slowly removed his hand from her mouth; however, he moved his hand to her throat where he applied pressure, making it impossible for her to scream out.
In a hoarse but determined whisper Debs uttered, “Fuck you.”
Clinton furiously thrust her head against the floorboards once more, this time with such force that Debs’s head split open and blood began to gush from the wound. “Where are they?” growled Clinton, beginning to lose his own arrogant composure. Debs did not reply; the expression on her face was defiant. In a rage, Clinton shook Debs violently, so violently that her head snapped backwards as her neck vertebrae made a stomach-churning cracking sound. “Where are they?” he demanded once more in vain. This time, all that emanated from Debs’s mouth was a thin rivulet of blood. Clinton let go of the limp body despondently and stood up slowly, staring down at Debs. Fucking bitch, he said to himself. Within a few moments, he had regained control over himself and he stood taking in the apartment and what was in it. Everything was rather basic: the sitting room had only a sofa, an easy chair, side tables and a television. Does Primark do furniture as well? thought Clinton as he walked through the apartment. He found the bedroom more hopeful. There was a bedside table and a Welsh dresser of walnut, which he presumed had been passed down from a relative; that would surely be where Debs kept anything of importance. The key was in the lock of the Welsh dresser and so he quickly unlocked it and began to sift through the contents. Even though he only came across bank statements and love letters initially, he was rather confident he would be successful. Within five minutes he was holding an address book in the palm of his hand and looking triumphantly at a scrap of paper pushed inside:
Room 338 Millennium Hotel W1- Ask for Gaby Smith
It was in Gabriella’s handwriting.
There was one more thing Clinton needed to do. He returned to the lounge and honed in on the coffee table where he had seen Debs’s mobile phone. He flicked it open and adeptly tapped out a message and sent it to everyone in her address book.
Gone to Barbados, c u all in 2 weeks. Lovin’ it. Debs.
No one would start looking for Debs too soon. He smiled with satisfaction as he stepped over her body and left the flat.
West London
Gaby lay back on the bed listening to the sound of the Chantelle showering; the sound of the cascading water soothed her. She had been crying, sobbing quietly to herself while Chantelle was in the bathroom. She did not want to worry Chantelle and she did not want Chantelle to see any sign of weakness. She simply had to show strength; there was no other way. Gaby could not stop thinking about Meagan. So many wasted years when they had barely talked, so few precious moments of friendship at the very end. How cruel. How ruthless fate had been. At black moments like this it was totally unbearable.
She closed her eyes and thought back to that moment on the beach in Langkawi and the waves crashing around her, the moment that had sparked such momentous events — events which had rewritten her past and her future. She thought briefly of Piers and the marriage which had fallen by the wayside in the wake of her own psychological sea change. She thought about how far she had come in her search for the truth; tears welled again in her eyes and her heart ached as she thought of how Clinton had brutally ended Meagan’s life. She thought about how close she an
d Chantelle had come to annihilating two forces of evil: Michael and Clinton Butler. Thinking back, each stage of her journey, her search, had been tagged or signposted: there was always a clue to the next step; the next piece of the puzzle was never far away. Suddenly, she felt an upwelling of emotion, almost like a light tingling feeling in her chest. She took a deep breath and the feelings of despair and fatigue began to abate. In that moment she knew that there was an end to it all in sight, a positive end.
The sound of the shower stopped abruptly and she could hear the metal curtain rings scraping against the chrome rail as Chantelle swished the shower curtain back. Gaby jumped off the bed feeling a sense of renewed energy. Chantelle had been feeling very nervous and fearful and Gaby was eager to see if the shower had helped soothe her. “Chantelle,” she called sweetly, “you okay in there?”
“Not too bad, Gabs,” was the downhearted reply as Chantelle emerged from the bathroom. Chantelle went directly to the door and checked once again that it was securely locked. It seemed a long time since either of them had felt safe.
“What’s that?” exclaimed Gaby with surprise as she suddenly noticed an envelope lying on the floor. Chantelle pushed her long hair behind her ear and looked down at the white envelope.
“Must be our bill summary,” sighed Chantelle as she kneeled down and picked it up.
Gaby shook her head. “Already had that, unless it’s another ‘Feedback Form’.” Gaby took a step towards Chantelle so that she could have a closer look. “Open it,” she demanded urgently.
