Next of Sin: A psychological thriller

by Lisa Gordon

  “Are you pulling out then?” asked Robbie, eyeing Helen intensely. “As long as I can use the ‘sandwich’, I can do the rest by myself. Please don’t get yourself into more trouble than you need to.” Robbie was not being entirely sincere; his heart had been plummeting rapidly while Helen had recited her list of transgressions.

  Helen’s face was hard and she grinned. “No way,” she said emphatically. “Did I join the force to catch bad guys or what? I am doing this. After what has gone on, why would I even want to go on being a cop? I want to see Butler fry as much as anyone.”

  Robbie turned back to stare out of the police-car window, watching the green Peugeot. He breathed a sigh of relief inwardly. He had a feeling they were on the verge of a breakthrough; however, that was virtually synonymous with being on the edge of a precipice where things could go either way: very well or very badly. He knew that without Helen’s help, it would be far harder and valuable time would be lost. Robbie shovelled the last of his Doritos into his mouth and crunched on them loudly as he often did when he was thinking. Suddenly his eyes widened with excitement as he saw the woman with dark, scraped-back hair emerging from Boots Chemist. “Helen!” he blurted, eagerly swallowing the last of the corn crisps. Helen needed no warning and was already flinging her door open. The woman with the Boots parcel was walking down the street taking no notice of Robbie and Helen dressed in their Metropolitan Police uniforms until they stepped into her path. She stopped in her tracks, her face ashen and her mouth open. She was frozen to the spot, too surprised to move.

  “We believe you are the owner of Peugeot registration X621LBW. You are under arrest for repeatedly not paying the congestion charge and not responding to final demands,” barked a stony-faced Helen. Renata’s smoky quartz eyes darted from Robbie to Helen, terrified and confused.

  “We are taking you in for questioning,” stated Robbie with authority as he grabbed her upper arm and steered her forcefully towards the police car. Renata looked about desperately for some help, but the passers-by were keeping their heads down, unwilling to get involved. Robbie held on to Renata with an iron grip; this was not an opportunity which could be squandered and he had a sixth sense that time was short. Together, Helen and Robbie forced her into the back of the police car.

  Central London

  Gaby looked about the room. Brick walls all around, one door, cement floor, no perceivable source of ventilation, she thought to herself. In one corner was a pile of paint tins, a sack of grouting, some roller-brush tins and other decorating paraphernalia. She reached into her handbag for her mobile and quickly called up Chantelle’s number. Gaby lifted the phone anxiously to her ear — nothing. She looked at the screen to see the reception icon with a big red cross over it. “Dammit,” she growled under her breath. Gaby heard some sounds outside the door. She quickly put the mobile away after checking the time. Nearly fifteen minutes since I left the taxi, she thought, a vague degree of relief eclipsing the rising panic inside her. Gaby heard the bolt slide back and stood resolutely, eyes fixed on the door handle waiting for it to turn, waiting for that moment of truth. She quickly reached down to feel the reassuring steel coldness of the pocket knife. Her wedge trainer was pulled over her jeans; the knife was wedged painfully next to her ankle. As she felt for it with her forefinger, it slipped down towards the side of her foot. Skin and bone strained against leather but it had slipped agonisingly out of reach. She would have to remove the trainer, but there was no time. A surge of sheer dread was replaced by a sudden calm as the handle turned and the door edged open. He entered. Gaby looked in horror but not total surprise.

  “Hello Gabriella Angelina,” he said, smiling.

  Chantelle grabbed her mobile and speed-dialled Gaby’s number. Her heart was pounding and she was breathing in short gasps. The phone began to ring. She waited, but after three rings the phone went directly to answer phone, as if Gaby’s phone was switched off. Chantelle tried twice more in vain. “Fuckin’ hell!” she cried out. She looked up to see that the taxi driver had just joined a dual carriageway and was increasing his speed. “Oi!” Chantelle banged on the partition desperately. “Take me back to Bar 44 right now! I have to get back there right now!”

  Sorin nodded.

  Gaby said nothing. She stared at her brother whose blue eyes sparkled out of his tanned, sophisticated face. His head had been shaved to disguise his appearance somewhat. He no longer looked handsome; in fact he looked almost reptilian, his cold eyes like halogen lights shining out of a cavity. He seemed more like a creation of science fiction than something of flesh and blood. He exuded calmness and arrogance. “At last we rendezvous,” he said with a suave smile. Gaby could find no words and she needed none as he continued, “They say it takes one to catch one, Gaby.” He began moving from one side of the room to the other, his back to the door, as he talked and gestured with his hands almost as if he were giving a business presentation. “It took this Butler to uncover the corrupt rat that was the esteemed Michael Butler and you too, Gaby, uncovered what a mendacious old bastard he was. Not that you, Meagan or I did not already know he wore the stripes of a cowardly bully. And then, Gaby, it was you and Meagan who discovered my own little secret, or should I give you all the credit? I think it’s only fair: it was you not Meagan who rumbled me, not so?” He raised an eyebrow. “But I am a perfectionist. I don’t make mistakes and when I do I learn by them. I want to know how you caught on, Gaby.” Hell’s own fury radiated from his face as he spoke slowly and deliberately. Gaby felt both very hot and very cold all at once, but she was calm, the adrenalin having cleared her mind. She wanted to resist answering his question; he was dying to know and while she held on to that information he would keep her alive. She had to stall for time, but she had to do it subtly.

  “How did you get on to Dad? How did you get into his safe? He was fastidious about keeping things under lock and key,” she asked, finding her voice. She saw a glint in Clinton’s eye and was sure that he would relish the opportunity to boast about his own cunning at ‘rumbling’ Dad”, as he put it. All psychopaths wanted their egos massaged. They all wanted to an opportunity to indulge in self-aggrandisement and Gaby was happy to oblige him.

  “He wasn’t so fastidious when he was with one of his whores,” retorted Clinton with disdain. Gaby’s face must have registered some surprise as he smiled askance and continued, “You didn’t think he was a monogamous little husband did you, Gaby?” He threw his head back and laughed mockingly. “I found out he was having escorts visit him at our home, especially when Anne was up with her family in Scotland. Piece of shit,” he sneered. “I paid one of his favourites off to take him by surprise one day when he was working in his office …”

  “But he hadn’t ordered her?” asked Gaby spontaneously.

  He shook his head. “No, but she said she was in love with him, didn’t she. He believed it, of course, as men are cripples when it comes to sex, especially filthy sex. She was all over him and vice versa. Needless to say, locking the safe was not a priority that day.” This time he continued without encouragement, caught up in a trance-like performance as he reminisced with pleasure, “I always notice behaviour and I have a premise that there is a reason for everything. I never forgot the rage he flew into that time you and Meagan looked inside that case with the little bells, the case he took to Lodge, to the Masons. Made me curious I guess, made me want to know why it was locked in that safe as soon as he got home. Made me wonder what else was in that safe. And, when I finally got into the safe, I was not disappointed. I took the bracelet just as a little message to Daddy that I had been in there. My way of saying I have one up on you, you old bastard. So from that moment, I reversed the roles and it was he who was afraid of me. Justice has to be fought for, Gaby.”

  Gaby blinked in a subconscious attempt to blank Clinton out and regroup mentally. “Is that why you rang me that day to tell me that you saw Dad and Whittaker at John Lewis? You wanted to fish and see if I had an inkling as well. Which I didn’t.”
Gaby used her left hand to flick some hair from her eyes and as she lowered her hand, she tried to sneak a peep at her wristwatch to see how much time had elapsed; it felt like an hour at least. She was disheartened to see that only five minutes had gone by and even more so that Clinton had noticed her discreet glance at the watch.

  “Don’t worry about Chantelle,” he gloated, beaming. “She is in the safe hands of Sorin, the taxi driver who brought you both here. He is a cousin of Renata’s, as are the two barmen. And don’t get any ideas, Gaby. Later today, after you and Chantelle join Meagan at the Pearly Gates, I will be off to Brunei with my brand-new passport and identity. Fate always sends you the tools you need when you need them. Renata’s family is an influential branch of the Romanian Mafia here in the UK. I have helped them launder money and invest in safe havens and now it’s their turn to scratch my back.” Gaby thought of the muscle-bound barmen and the nondescript taxi driver whom she had barely noticed. How canny Chantelle had been; if only Gaby had paid more attention to her. Gaby felt as if the safety net had been ripped out from under her. She was teetering on the high wire, her hopes and positivity fading. She thought with guilt about Chantelle’s predicament and prayed that somehow Chantelle would get out of that taxi for her own sake if for nothing else. It was simple for Clinton to pick up on Gaby’s tortured thoughts; he had all the cards and all the time in the world to play them.

  “But you have not answered my question yet.” He stood still, glaring at Gaby, his right hand at his mouth clenched into a fist, his left hand in his suit pocket.

  “Tell me why you did what you did to all those women,” demanded Gaby, finding the guts to load her voice with fire and to take an audacious step towards Clinton.

  Clinton was not about to allow Gaby any power: he was the master of control and it was he who was in control. Exhibits of sound and fury from the prey were fruitless.

  He took two steps towards Gaby, raised his voice and held his laser beam-like eye contact. “Tell me now how you got on to me. Tell me this second or I’ll break your neck.” He reached forward with his right hand, his eyes wild. Gaby stepped back and quickly moved to the other side of the table to take advantage of what protection or space it could offer. She put her hand on her back pocket and felt the bulge and was slightly reassured.

  “I was there!” she shouted out loudly. Gaby had no idea whether the sound could travel out of that room, but she had decided that there was no harm in shouting.

  “What?”

  “The day you murdered Alison.” This time it was Clinton who was taken aback, his cold-blooded composure suddenly ebbing.

  “But you never told anyone?” he questioned.

  “Because I blocked it out. I blocked out the memory. It just didn’t fit in with the image I had of my family, my loving brother. The brain shuts out the facts that don’t fit into our conditioned picture of reality. At four, I just did not understand evil.”

  “Evil has nothing to do with it!” he bellowed as he furiously slammed his fist on to the table. “It was justice!” he screamed, enraged. His face was purple and his nostrils flared. “You always believed in justice, didn’t you Gaby? That was what you told me the day you graduated. Well, guess what? I believe in justice too. But as I said, justice has to be fought for; it does not fall out the sky.”

  “Alison deserved to die, because our folks loved her more?” the question flew out of Gaby’s mouth.

  “No. Alison had to die to punish them. They were to blame. They needed to pay and they did. It was justice at its sweetest.”

  “What about the other women?” argued Gaby.

  “Yes,” said Clinton suddenly regaining some composure. “What about the other women? Tell me, Gaby.” Clinton was moving around the table, getting closer once more.

  “A chance comment at a school reunion last year. Sally Corbett, an ex of yours, who drowned in Cancun. A coincidence maybe, but in light of what I had remembered, it rang bells and I started to dig.”

  “What made you remember after all this time?” he demanded.

  Gaby was eager to keep him talking. “My honeymoon in Malaysia. Being at the sea, in the sea for the first time since that day. They say that smell is closely linked to memory. Maybe it was the smell of that humid, tropical air; the smell of salt; the smell of the sea, but that was when the memory began to surface.” She drew breath quickly. “But why, Clinton, why all those other girls?” She stared at him, wanting to know, feeling she had to understand.

  “They were all Alisons to me, all little darlings with doting parents wrapped around their little fingers,” he hissed, his face full of hatred.

  “Chantelle’s not like that at all,” argued Gaby. “And what about Lucy Simpson?” she found herself blurting out.

  “Lucy?” Clinton seemed surprised. “You know about Lucy?” Gaby nodded. “How?”

  “You kept a newspaper photo clipping of her.”

  “So I did,” he acknowledged with a hint of nonchalance. “Wanted a souvenir of that first time ... the first time I discovered how arousing asphyxiation could be.”

  “Why the gap then? Lucy at fourteen, yet you didn’t kill again until you were twenty-six. Or did you?”

  “After Lucy I became sexually active. Dad worked away more and I had more independence. Then I went to university and I travelled. Life was great. Suddenly, at twenty-six I was working and surrounded by male authority figures who were just like Dad. It took me back and that anger began to bubble up again.”

  “Don’t blame our father and anger; you just admitted you enjoy it, you ruthless bastard!” shouted Gaby.

  “Shut that mouth of yours the fuck up,” he growled as he took a step closer. Clinton was now so close to her she could feel his breath, his right hand raised as if he was about to strike her. Suddenly there was a frantic knocking at the door. It took them both by surprise and Clinton’s head shot around. He strode towards the door and ripped it open. Gaby caught a glimpse of the blond barman before Clinton went out and closed the door behind him. Gaby had only seen the face of the barman for a split second, but what she saw gave her a spark of hope; he looked worried, perhaps even panicked. Gaby was also buoyed by the manner in which Clinton had rushed to close the door so that she would not hear the conversation taking place. What was going on? Gaby raced over to the door and pressed her ear to it. It was an oak door and she could hardly hear a thing other than muffled talking. She continued to listen, willing her ears to pick up more. Gaby persisted; she was almost certain she had heard the word ‘raid’ and she was even more convinced that the tone of the voices was both angry and anxious. Gaby allowed herself a smile. She clenched her fist and whispered passionately, “C’mon, Gaby, you have to get through this.”

  “Hey, where are you bloody goin’?” shouted Chantelle as she slammed her hand repeatedly on the partition glass. Sorin seemed impervious to his passenger and he continued to speed along the dual carriageway. Chantelle knew what was happening. “It was a fuckin’ set-up,” she growled under her breath. She knew she had to get out of that taxi and she looked about to see if there were other motorists in the vicinity whose attention she could attract. They were too far ahead of the car behind them though, and Chantelle could see that it would be difficult to attract the attention of the cars travelling in the opposite direction. Chantelle reached for her mobile, crouched behind the driver’s seat where Sorin could not see her, and dialled ‘999’.

  “Ambulance, fire service or police?” was the answer.

  “Police,” whispered Chantelle.

  “Nature of your call?” was the question asked by the next voice.

  “I’ve been abducted like … in a black cab. He’s just drivin’ like … won’t take me where I want, won’t let me out. Don’t know exactly where I am … hang on, just saw a sign sayin’ Morden two miles … uhm … Wandswo … dunno, somethin’ like that. Hold on, I’m not finished. My best mate is in a place called Bar 44 on Dormer Street. She’s in real danger, I mean really bad. She n
eeds rescuing ... please, fast. Her name is Gaby Harvey, I am Chantelle Bish ...” Chantelle was not able to finish her sentence as Sorin had taken a sharp turn at speed and Chantelle had been flung across the cab, flinging her mobile to the floor. She quickly righted herself and sat back on the seat and looked outside. They had joined another dual carriageway and were still travelling at speed. Chantelle thought about ringing 999 again. She dialled 999, waited for a reply, shouted “Police!” and then placed the phone on the seat without ending the call. Chantelle decided that she could not waste valuable time talking to the 999 call operator when she had no concrete information to give them. She was hoping that they would react to her plea for them to go to Bar 44 and she was also hoping that with her phone left connected, they would hear whatever happened with her and might also be able to pick up her general location. It was a hope and Chantelle had no idea if it would work. She grabbed her handbag and started looking for something, anything she could use to help her escape.

  “Fuck!” she exclaimed. Suddenly she cast the bag aside, struck by another thought. She leaned over and tried to open the window. It was sealed shut. Chantelle wanted to test to see if the doors too were sealed. She grabbed the lever, only to find that it would not yield; it was held fast by a locking mechanism. “Fuck you! Let me out now!” she screamed furiously at Sorin, as she banged on the glass once more. Chantelle looked overhead at the gantry and noted that they were now heading for Chertsey. “Chertsey!” she shouted out, hoping the phone was still connected to the 999 call centre.

  Chantelle reopened her handbag. “Purse, cash, oyster card, pens, polo mints ... aha ... lippie.” She grabbed her Revlon Sunsparks lipstick, whipped off the lid and started scrawling, HELP, HELP ME NOW, PEASE HELP, CALL THE POLICE and even her mobile phone number all over the side and back windows. She could tell that Sorin was getting agitated with her behaviour as he was driving faster and more erratically. Chantelle looked in her handbag again and smiled when she saw the cigarette lighter. Although Chantelle did not smoke, her mother did and her mother’s catch phrase was “Got a light, Chant?” Thus, Chantelle always carried a lighter in preparation for this inevitability. Chantelle leaned forward, lighter concealed in her hand and looked into the front of the cab. Sorin had hundreds of scraps of paper scattered across the front seats and in the console. Chantelle studied the half-inch gap between the two sheets of partition glass. Sorin was driving too fast to be able to turn back and seal the gap. Although the gap was very narrow, Chantelle had an idea. She whipped off the brightly coloured polycotton scarf from her neck and started feeding the scarf through the gap as quickly as she could. Sorin looked around anxiously to see what his passenger was doing; however, there was nothing that he could do. She could see beads of perspiration breaking out around his hairline — he had not expected a fight. Soon the scarf was in contact with the paperwork. Chantelle thought back to that morning at Selfridges when she had been doused in perfume. Flammable, she thought. Chantelle took the lighter and set about lighting the scarf. C’mon, she coaxed mentally as the flames refused to take. Suddenly, there was a loud Whoosh! and Chantelle threw herself backwards as the scarf went up in flames. Sorin shouted out angrily as he noticed his paperwork catching alight. Still travelling at speed, Sorin swerved as he tried to push the burning papers on to the floor of the cab. Chantelle sat on the floor of the cab, her body against the seats, and held on to the handrail, bracing herself for an impact or emergency stop. She could hear Sorin cursing; he was frantic. There were sounds of other cars hooting and the screeching of brakes and Chantelle was buffeted by the movement of the cab. When would it all end, she wondered. Would they fly off the road into a ditch and both die? Suddenly Sorin let out a blood-curdling scream. Chantelle looked up to see what was happening. She could just see his head and shoulders; however, she could see that his shirt was now in flames. Sorin slammed on the brakes and Chantelle was hurled into the back of his driver’s seat. There was a heart-stopping crescendo of wheels screeching, radials squealing and horns blaring before the cab came to a stop. Sorin flung open his door immediately and ran hysterically into the trees to the side of the road, throwing himself on to the ground and rolling about trying to douse the flames. Chantelle, hearing that the back doors had clicked unlocked, jumped out of the car herself and ran to the safety of the other cars which had stopped as a result of the pandemonium. Not too far in the distance she could hear the welcome sirens that signified the police were on their way.