Next of Sin: A psychological thriller

by Lisa Gordon

  Chantelle was equally curious and within seconds, the neat crisp envelope was ripped open to reveal, not one of the printed hotel bills or feedback forms, but a handwritten note. “What’s this?” gasped Chantelle, her hands now trembling as she unfolded the note.

  “Open quickly,” was all Gaby could say as she peered over Chantelle’s shoulder and reached out to grab part of the note so that she would be able to read it at the same time.

  Dear Gaby,

  At last I have found you and Chantelle — thank God you are both safe. I have the breakthru evidence, but I really need to talk to you both. We must be very careful as Clinton is watching this hotel; he now knows where you are. Please can you meet me tomorrow night at Bar 44 in Dormer Place at 5:30 p.m. I think it is best if you take a taxi from outside the hotel. There, we can meet and talk with absolute safety and privacy.

  This is nearly over.

  Love, Robbie.

  “Robbie!” exclaimed Chantelle with wide eyes and a huge smile, her relief palpable. Gaby grabbed the note and went over to the bed where she sat scrutinising it for a few more moments. “Oh my God, this is such good news, Gabs. Can hardly wait ’til 5 p.m. tomorrow.”

  Gaby nodded with a smile before adding, puzzled, “Wonder how he found us. I mean, we’re booked in under your mother’s maiden name with her credit card, we’ve given a fake address and we’re paying for everything in cash. It’s not like we’ve been recognised since our photos were never in the paper.”

  “He’s a private detective after all, Gabs, he must have his ways innit?”

  “Mmmm …” Gaby was mulling it over. “Odd handwriting,” she added suddenly.

  “Guess he wrote it in a hurry or some’in’. I can’t tell you how pleased I am that we have some kinda thing to go on with now.” Chantelle was visibly more relaxed and confident.

  “The note says that Clinton is watching this hotel,” stated Gaby seriously, “so both Robbie and Clinton have managed to find us, yet we have been so meticulous in keeping our location secret.” Gaby was becoming more concerned.

  “Even if he is watchin’ this hotel like,” began Chantelle reassuringly, “what can he really do like? If we stick togever and go about real careful, what can he do? Not like he’s the SAS or nothin’.”

  Gaby nodded. “Let’s not underestimate him — look what he has achieved.” Gaby was silent for a few minutes as she sat staring at the carpet before being struck with an idea. “We need to get out a bit; we’ve been cooped up too long.” Chantelle’s mouth fell open. “You just said it yourself, Chantelle, he’s one person, not the SAS. He only kills in remote places, not in central London. We’ve just been sitting here. He’s been watching us; let’s make a move. Let’s keep him guessing.”

  London, Oxford Street

  “I can’t believe you are draggin’ me into Selfridges, Gabs,” cried a bewildered and pale Chantelle as Gaby pulled her by the arm through the revolving doors of the landmark department store.

  “We’ll be safe here surrounded by people, if nothing else,” muttered Gaby as she wove her way through the milling shoppers with her eyes focused.

  “Safe,” said Chantelle askance. “Didn’t you ever hear about that girl what was shot by her ex-boyfriend in Harvey Nics?”

  “I don’t think that is a strategy Clinton will use,” answered Gaby, barely looking at Chantelle.

  Chantelle suddenly stopped, forcing Gaby, who was still gripping her arm, to look around. “What are we doin’ Gabs? Look, I am not going near the perfumery. Too many bad memories of days when I stood there for bloody hours with achin’ feet and swollen bloody ankles, sprayin’ shoppers with stale perfume and tellin’ them it was the year’s ‘must have’.”

  “Please, Chantelle,” pleaded Gaby. “Just bear with me and for God’s sake stay with me.”

  Chantelle was still protesting but Gaby pressed forward.

  Several perfume-proffering saleswomen sprayed the frustrated Chantelle with the latest ‘must have’. “Shit, now my clothes are saturated with bloody perfume,” she groaned.

  Chantelle looked about anxiously and waited with agitation as Gaby chatted to various saleswomen before making a purchase. Chantelle was unsure what to make of Gaby’s behaviour and she was evasive when questioned. Chantelle could only assume that Gaby was trying to confuse Clinton should he be watching them as the note the day before had stated.

  “Okay, let’s go,” announced Gaby with her yellow plastic carrier bearing the name SELFRIDGES in her hand.

  Victoria, London

  “Do you have the pictures the surveillance team took when they were staking out Butler’s house?” asked Robbie urgently. Helen nodded and handed him a plastic yellow folder under the table. Robbie grabbed the envelope, unzipped it and flicked through the photographs anxiously. Helen watched him intently. After a few more seconds, a relieved Robbie uttered an emphatic “Yes!”

  “What is it? C’mon,” insisted Helen.

  “Renata’s green Peugeot.”

  The West End

  Sorin leaned back against his black London taxi, his muscular arms folded. He looked up to see an elderly couple emerging from the Millennium Hotel and waved them away.

  “Oi, if you’re not waitin’ for a fare, then move along for God’s sake,” was the angry call from a fellow Black Cabbie.

  Sorin stared ahead, oblivious. The other cabbie allowed the elderly couple into his cab, hooted at Sorin furiously, and wrenched his steering wheel around in what was a rather awkward attempt to rejoin the traffic in light of where Sorin was parked.

  It was five o’clock. Sorin looked up at the revolving doors of the Millennium Hotel to see two women — one with long blonde hair and a slender brunette with wavy hair — emerging. He smiled for the first time that day, flung open the passenger door and waved them over to his cab.

  Coventry

  Phil took another bite of his BLT subway sandwich before shifting to his side so that he could winch his iPhone from his right-hand pocket. He cursed as he realised that mayonnaise was dripping from the back of his subway on to some documents awaiting signatures on his desk. He squinted at the screen, trying to see who it was who was calling. “Fancy fuckin’ phone, but I need bloody glasses and thinner fingers to use the dammed thing,” he muttered under his breath. With a stubby, greasy finger, he eventually answered the vibrating phone, “Yes.”

  “Hey, Phil, got that info yet?” asked Robbie, wasting no time on niceties.

  “You tryin’ ta get me in trouble, ringing me at work?” chastised Phil while shoving in another mouthful.

  “It’s super-urgent, mate,” implored Robbie.

  “Okay.” Phil paused, wiped his hand on his trousers and reached for a printout lying under a leather-bound diary. “Listen up then.” Robbie remained silent, his heart pounding like a voodoo drum. “Okay, green Peugeot X621LBW entered the congestion charge area on Albany Street at 6:43 a.m. today; also entered on Albany Street at 6:19 a.m. and 6:48 a.m., respectively, on the previous days. Left CG area on Edgware Road. Two passengers in car on all occasions bar one.”

  “Brilliant Phil, my man. Brilliant,” encouraged Robbie.

  “Okay, can also tell you that the car was spotted parked in Duke Street on two occasions and Grosvenor Square as well. Right.” He paused. “Now listen, Robbo, that last titbit of info is strictly for your info, as a mate. You get what I’m saying? Nobody is supposed to know that we have the technology to keep track of cars within the CG zone. Any of this gets out and I’m as popular as a Christmas tree at a meeting of OPEC.”

  “Gotcha,” replied a very relieved Robbie.

  The West End

  “Bar 44, Dormer Street,” said Chantelle firmly to Sorin, who nodded.

  Sorin entered the traffic and Gaby and Chantelle sat back silently. Chantelle was clutching the note from Robbie and she would look down at that note every few minutes. It was a sticky August afternoon; however, the traffic was fairly free-flowing: people were on their holidays a
nd those who were left behind had obviously found excuses to leave the city early so that they could soak up the sun in a more tranquil and relaxing environment.

  Within twenty-five minutes they drew up outside ‘Bar 44’. Bar 44 was part of a regency-style terrace. Although the terrace as a whole was rather run-down and in need of restoration, the narrow section that was home to Bar 44 was freshly painted and plastered. There was a wrought-iron gate leading to a basement area below street level to the left and steps leading to the entrance of Bar 44, which was slightly above street level to the right. Flung-open French doors and a canopy of brown and cream stripes welcomed the patrons. There were various chalkboards outside advertising a poker night and speed-dating evening.

  “I don’t fancy it, Gabs,” said Chantelle suddenly.

  “Huh?” exclaimed a confused Gaby as her head shot around to regard Chantelle.

  “I don’t fancy this whole thing. Just don’t like the feelin’ I have.” Chantelle spoke quietly and seriously. Gaby made a move to open the door and Chantelle reached out to grab her arm, then said anxiously, “Let’s think about this, Gabs.”

  “I want to go in,” stated Gaby with determination etched on her face. “In life, you can never bank on getting a second chance.” Gaby could see by Chantelle’s white, quivering lips that she was very fearful, so she continued, “Listen, you stay here and I’ll ring you when I get in there, let you know if everything is kosher.”

  “I’m not sure you should go in there at all, Gabs.” Chantelle was shaking her head and still clinging to Gaby’s arm, the note from Robbie clenched in her other hand.

  Gaby had begun to have her own reservations but she pushed them to the recesses of her mind and made a move to get out of the taxi. “I have to, Chantelle. I can only go forward; there is simply nothing for me to go back to.” Gaby stepped out of the black taxi. Chantelle was about to follow her, but Gaby turned back. “Chantelle, listen. You were right: it’s better if you stay out here. Ask the taxi driver to drive around the block. I’ll ring you in fifteen minutes and call you in. If I don’t call you, you will know something is very wrong and you can raise the alarm.” Chantelle nodded, her face grave but alert.

  Gaby looked left and right and crossed the road to Bar 44. As she made her way up the steps to the welcoming French doors, she began to feel a cold, damp feeling in her chest. Her heart rate was calm, but the coldness in her chest became more intense as she entered the bar, and her stomach was beginning to churn. She was unaware that her green eyes were huge and her pupils dilated. She could feel the coldness of the pocket knife tucked next to her ankle in her boot and she felt slightly mollified. Behind the bar to the right was a young man with close-cropped blond hair, a broad, low forehead and deep-set narrow blue eyes. He was drying wine flutes with a blue tea towel and although he wore a loose-fitting white shirt, she could see that his arms were extremely muscular. He was built like a prop. He nodded a greeting at Gaby. The bar was to her right and to her left were high tables with bar stools. A young couple was sharing a sangria jug at one of these tables. Three middle-aged women in pant suits were enjoying a bottle of wine at another, and on a leather couch near the front window were two men in shirts and ties huddled over a laptop and some spreadsheets. She looked back to the bar area where another muscular young man, this time swarthy in looks, had appeared with a crate of red wine. Her fingertips felt icy and she noticed that the skin under her nails had taken on a blue tinge as she lifted her hand to her mouth. I don’t fancy this place either, she thought. A waitress dressed in tight black pants and a black tunic approached Gaby carrying two menus; she could sense the barmen watching her intently. The hairs on the back of Gaby’s neck were rigid and her gut feel was to get out of the place immediately and return to the safety of the taxi.

  “You must be Gaby,” smiled the waitress half-heartedly. Gaby nodded in reflex and wished instantly that she had been more guarded. The dark-haired waitress gave another smile, a toothy smile, but the corners of her mouth did not curve upwards in a genuine way and her eyes remained indifferent. “Follow me,” she instructed, turning around immediately and walking ahead officiously. Gaby stayed cemented to the spot; her legs would not obey. It was almost as if her body was in protest with her mind. She wanted to know, she wanted to follow, but every primeval sense, every base instinct was telling her to leave, to go quickly. Many moments passed by and still she stood motionless, her body frozen, stubbornly resisting movement almost as though it was in a preprogrammed survival gear. Despite everything, something else, something less tangible, something beyond emotion, reason and logic, was impelling her to go, to follow the waitress. Eventually she managed to take a step forwards. She looked about the bar once more taking in the couple, the women and the men with the laptop and hoping they would perhaps notice her. She was delaying, buying time and yet she did not know why. Her eyes were drawn back to the couple. The young girl had a jacket emblazoned with the words ‘KENYAN SAFARI’ hanging over the back of her bar stool. The words brought pictures of Meagan’s apartment back to Gaby. Gaby’s eyes suddenly wandered to a painting hanging towards the back of the bar. It was an exotic beach scene with the foaming waves crashing on to shore. A surge of energy took over her mind and body and suddenly quelled the inertia of fear. Gaby felt it was like a synchronicitous sign, a reminder of where she had come from and why it was paramount that she should see things through. No matter what danger she may perceive, she now felt driven to follow the waitress and discover what the next phase of her story would be. Chantelle knew where she was and would raise the alarm should she not ring within fifteen minutes. She had to be brave; this was no time to make an eleventh-hour dash. Justice was relying on her; Meagan and Alison were relying on her; many women she would never even meet were relying on her. She had always wanted to fight for justice. She had never believed that that fight would take her to a bar on a Friday afternoon, rather than to the High Court. She felt a steely grit returning to her and she walked forward with focus. Justice could only be won through bravery and by taking risks.

  Chantelle instructed the taxi driver to drive around the block. She sat back and nervously looked at the handwritten note from Robbie. Strange handwriting, she pondered. She screwed up her forehead in thought, wondering who else it was she knew who had similar handwriting; she was sure she had seen similar writing before. Chantelle looked briefly out of the window, then she looked back at her mobile, made sure it was on. She was filled with an icy dread and could not wait for Gaby to ring to confirm that all was well. A part of her wished she had either stopped Gaby from going in or had gone along as well. It was too late now. She looked down at the note once more to distract herself. As she studied the handwriting and the words once more, the hairs on the back of her neck began to stand up and an icy shiver ran up her spine: underneath one of the ‘T’s’ was a small dot. Chantelle checked carefully to see whether it was indeed a dot or if it was a small fleck in the paper. Her mind raced back to the previous July when she had been at a job, a photo shoot for an underwear company in a draughty warehouse in Hounslow. The shoot director had appeared suddenly with a huge bouquet of orange roses; they had been from Clinton and there was a sweet card attached. The card had not been written by Clinton, however, and later he admitted that although he had purchased the flowers and card from Marks & Spencer, Renata had written the card and delivered it. Renata. Chantelle’s face blanched. She sat forward, banged on the partition window and shouted, “Quick, get me back there!”

  The waitress led Gaby towards the kitchen, which was orderly and newly refurbished. A chef was frying some trout and another was dishing up some potato salad; neither looked up to see Gaby. The waitress approached a large stainless-steel door with the name ‘Kelvinator’ brandished across the front. She opened the door to reveal a large walk-in fridge, which was as large as an average-sized elevator if not larger. Chilled air raced out of the stainless-steel-lined fridge. Gaby followed the waitress in. The thin woman in black bent
down towards the rear of the fridge and started moving some crates of wine. Behind one of the crates was a lever, which she yanked up. The rear wall of the fridge slid across, revealing a step and an opening. She then turned to Gaby. “We go down here.” Gaby’s heart was now beating so violently that she could feel the vibrations in her head; it was akin to having a subwoofer between her ears. She was oblivious to the frigid air around her as she stepped forward to follow the waitress who had stepped into the opening. Beyond the opening at the back of the fridge was a narrow wooden stairway which led downwards. It was dimly lit. The waitress descended adeptly, but Gaby took her time. Gaby could hear the waitress opening a door with a set of keys. On reaching the bottom of the stairs, Gaby could see that the door led into a small windowless room to her left with a table, two chairs and a single light bulb filling it with a sallow light. Gaby took a quick look around and noticed that there was a roughly finished door frame and door within the brickwork to her right. The waitress motioned for Gaby to enter the room. “Robbie’ll be here soon,” she said, making an effort to feign a reassuring smile. Gaby entered the room, which smelled musty and damp. She looked suspiciously at the waitress, who remained on the threshold. “Sit down, he won’t be long,” she said with an instructive nod towards the chairs and table. Gaby obeyed, feeling she had little alternative. It was not long before the door was closed and Gaby heard the ominous sound of a bolt sliding across.

  North London

  “Unauthorised use of a police car; wrongful arrest; misuse of the office of detective; abuse of power; misuse of authority. They will throw the book at me should this get out,” stated Helen.