by Lisa Gordon
“It’s appalling that that was never done in the first place,” burst out Robbie, outraged.
Helen nodded. “I agree, another classic case of missing the salient point because of too much dithering over paperwork, I would imagine.” She popped a pretzel into her mouth, indicating with her hand that she was about to continue. “Spoke to PC Green at Surry. He was already bloody nervous, said some woman from the insurance company had been on to them about the car as well.”
Robbie was gobbling the biscuits tensely. “So what is he going to Bangkok for? Not to meet a woman I hope.”
Helen smirked. “He may think he is.”
“Yeah?” Robbie’s eyes were wide.
“He thinks he’s going to Bangkok to meet an old flame of his, Chantelle, but she headed off to Paris on Eurostar today. Appears she’s standing him up. We’re taking no chances though. He’ll be tightly monitored the entire trip. Brings me to another point: Chantelle and Gaby appear to be quite buddy. I am wondering whether Gaby did indeed remember something and had warned Chantelle?” She paused and shrugged. “I have no evidence for this; all my sources are sure that she remains oblivious of her past. Jeanette, that’s the physio’, says she can’t speak highly enough of her brother.”
“Meagan and Gaby were no fools you know.” He reached into his pocket for his pack of Marlboro. “Still smoke, Helen?”
“Only when I’m offered. At five pounds a day it was a financially crippling habit.”
She accepted a cigarette and leaned forward, cigarette in mouth, and accepted a light.
“Congrats on the investigation, Helen,” he said, exhaling a long plume of smoke. “Tell me something though: what’s the case with Gaby’s husband? Why has he left her with Butler?”
“He’s in Melbourne … got a job there… still not at all sure why he upped and offed,” she explained between puffs.
“Relationships, huh? No accounting for them. That’s why we don’t do relationships, right?”
Helen didn’t answer.
“Right?” repeated Robbie, eyeing Helen intently.
“A lot of people seem to enjoy them,” commented Helen matter-of-factly.
“A lot of people enjoy sushi,” he replied sarcastically.
“Getting involved is like taking a lottery ticket: you don’t expect to win, but boy, wouldn’t it be bloody marvellous if you did. It’s worth a try.”
Robbie took a long drag. Helen’s change of heart on the relationship subject had bamboozled him; she had always been totally contra romance. “So what are you saying, that we should go halvies on a Lotto ticket?”
“Could be a good start,” she said, smiling seductively.
Robbie stubbed out his fag, leaning over so that his hand could explore her lower back. It was eleven before the rotisserie chicken was disturbed.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Chantelle, quick, get out the shower and come at once,” urged an ashen Gaby.
Chantelle raced back into their room dripping wet and clapped eyes on the TV.
Sky News is receiving reports that a British businessman has been arrested at Bangkok’s Suvarnabhumi Airport after an undisclosed amount of cocaine was discovered concealed within his luggage. Sky sources reveal that customs at Bangkok were responding to an anonymous tip-off. We have no further details at the moment, but stay with Sky News and we will bring you the latest as soon as we receive it. Right now it’s time for sport with Charlie.
Thank you, Annabelle, FIFA are saying that the violence at last night’s …
“Oh my God,” uttered Chantelle with her hand over her mouth. Gaby could not summon up any words. Her insides were ice-cold and she could not even feel her heart beating. “It worked, Gabs,” gasped Chantelle, eyes still glued to the screen.
The news about Clinton had been converted to the yellow and black digital tickertape which ran continuously across the bottom of the screen. Gaby was unable to articulate her feelings; the sense of victory, of success, was rather hollow and there was a rancour growing within her. Why, why had this gone on for so long? Why was she the first to notice — there had to have been clues. How long would it have gone on? Her mind was filled with questions which she could not answer and her being was filled with anger. They may well have halted Clinton’s evil imprecations; however, Gaby was struck by a sense of futility. No amount of punishment would fit his crimes or repair the lives ruined in his despicable wake. In contrast to Gaby, who felt the need for rumination, Chantelle had become garrulous. She was now pacing the room, venting her own confused emotions. Gaby understood that they had perhaps both underestimated the scale of their endeavour: where would it all end up both legally and emotionally? In many respects it had only just begun.
With a picture of Meagan in her head, she made a decision to be strong: the fight was not over. “Chantelle, let’s go down and have breakfast. We’ve been up all night and we need some tea, coffee and food. What’s more, we need to get out of this room — it’s driving us both mad. There’s a TV in the bar–lounge area where we can keep watching.” Chantelle agreed and they dressed and headed for the dining room.
There was no more news during the following two hours; however, just before the one o’clock bulletin, the red and white banner at the bottom of the screen flashed, indicating some breaking news.
We are about to cross to our Asia correspondent who is in Bangkok, ready to bring us more on our breaking news story today. What do you have for us Alex?
Yes, indeed, thank you Kate. We are now hearing that the man in question, who is at this moment being held at a Bangkok police station, is a senior stockbroker with a leading international firm based in London. He is being questioned following the discovery of three kilograms of high-grade cocaine concealed within his luggage on arrival at Bangkok from London. Unconfirmed reports say this man is the son of an eminent politician.
Thank you for that, Alex. The penalties for drug-trafficking are very severe in Thailand are they not?
That’s true Kate. If found guilty, the person in question faces the prospect of life in prison.
Will he be entitled to legal representation at this stage do you know?
May I interrupt you, Kate. It has just been confirmed that the man in question is the son of Michael Butler QC. Your listeners may recognise the name, as Mr Butler recently advised a much publicized government select committee on child protection issues.
Chantelle immediately looked at Gaby. “God, what’s your dad’s reaction goin’ to be?”
“Things are moving so fast.” Gaby shook her head. “I didn’t expect them to link Dad to Clinton so quickly, or at least I never expected it to hit the news in precisely this way. I am beginning to wonder if I really thought this through at all.”
“We had better tell him what’s goin’ on.”
“We?” Gaby was taken aback.
“Sure. We’re in this together, Gabs.”
Before the discussion could progress any further, their attention was drawn to the television where another story was breaking. Both women looked on with saucer-shaped eyes as the Sky anchor crossed to Holborn, where the camera panned to reveal Michael Butler striding down the street flanked by his PA and paralegal and pursued by dozens of photographers, cameramen and reporters all vying for the best angle.
Mr Butler, Mr Butler, Sir. Fiona McMillan BBC News24. Do you have any comment on your son’s arrest this morning in Bangkok?
I certainly do. My son Clinton is an extremely successful stockbroker and an upstanding member of the community. He has clearly either been set up or framed or the Thai police have made a grave error.
This is Tanya Murphy reporting for Lunchtime Live. Has your son ever taken drugs?
Most definitely not; I can say that categorically. Might I add that the allegation that someone of my son’s professional standing was transporting drugs to Thailand concealed within his luggage is preposterous and, quite frankly, ludicrous.
Have you spoken to your son, Sir?
Priscilla Turner ITN. Have they charged your son as of this moment?
My son is giving the Thai police his full cooperation in order that this outrageous situation be brought to a reasonable conclusion. I will be meeting with Downing Street officials later today as well as the foreign minister. I will be instrumental in bringing the full force of the British government to bear in making sure that the Thai authorities are both just and reasonable and that my son is fully vindicated. I must reiterate that my son has in no way been linked to any controlled substance ever; he is entirely innocent and I will not rest until I have done everything in my power to clear his name. I will be flying out to Bangkok later this week and have been assured by the ambassador that I will receive their utmost cooperation and assistance.
Jonathon Greene, CNN. Does your son deny having drugs in his luggage or does he deny that this, in fact, was his luggage?
I have said all I am prepared to say at this stage. I will hold a press briefing before I leave for Bangkok. Once more, my son is entirely innocent and I have reason to believe he was the subject of a nefarious plot. I will do everything conceivable to ensure his release and to vilify those responsible.
“Hasn’t got a clue has he?” sighed Chantelle incredulously.
“I’ve got to reach him and put him straight, Chantelle. From that last comment about a ‘nefarious plot’, I feel sure that Clinton has told him that it was me who gave him the parcel.”
“Think it’s true what he’s sayin’ about Downing Street and all or is he just mouthin’ off?”
“Unfortunately I believe what he’s saying. I would never make the mistake of underestimating him; he’s got so many strings he can pull,” she paused, breathless. “He’ll have the bastard out by next week.”
“I guess we should have expected this, Gabs.”
“Well, I kinda did. The pace of the whole thing has just stunned me. So has my dad’s reaction: he’s taken Clint’s word one hundred per cent and he’s so publicly throwing his weight behind him. He’s putting his whole reputation and career on the line for Clinton unquestioningly. I’m astounded by him; I mean, he can’t know for sure what Clinton is saying is true, and yet he’s ardently defending him.”
“How soon can we see him then?”
“Funny there’s no reporters and stuff here, Gabs,” remarked Chantelle as she indicated and turned into the driveway of 21 Warwick Road. Gaby’s father’s dark navy Discovery was parked outside the garages, its engine still clicking as it cooled after the long commute from London. Gaby shrugged, unable to answer Chantelle’s question. The chestnut trees, heavy with their summer foliage, blocked out the remaining rays of summer sunshine coming from the west. The eastern side of the red-brick Victorian mansion was dark and the light breeze felt chilly. They could see lights on in the kitchen and on the spiral staircase. Gaby led the way across the gravel driveway, Chantelle close behind her. Although she was very afraid, Gaby did not let her fear impede her; she made her way briskly up the concrete stairs and rapped firmly on the door. Chantelle stood alongside Gaby on the threshold: she looked confident and resolute and Gaby admired her courage enormously. She wondered if Chantelle had ever experienced the wrath of someone like Michael Butler. Although Gaby was no child anymore, she felt the terror — the terror a child feels at the hands of a bullying, brutal parent. The seconds ticked by sickeningly slowly and Gaby wondered suddenly why she had idolised her father to the extent she had. Had she really loved him or was her love a twisted by-product of awe, fear and brainwashing? Her mind returned to that same red-brick mansion twenty years earlier, to Anne scolding her:
Your father is a very busy man, Gaby. You must respect your father. He has done everything for you. You must listen to your father, Gabriella. He is a very important man in London. You must be good for your father’s sake, Gabriella. He does very important work and he has a lot on his mind. If you don’t do as I say, I will tell your father when he gets home and he’ll be very disappointed in you. He is only doing it because he loves you, Gaby. It’s your fault, Gabriella; you have to try harder for your father’s sake.
Memories flashed by like a high-speed train racing through a station. She thought about what Clinton had said at the table that night with her and Meagan. To some extent they had all been caught up in the Great Michael Butler Myth. How differently she now saw her childhood — a time of great stress during which she had lived with fear and guilt. Self-criticism and self-recrimination were the bread-and-butter diet fed to them by Anne, their father’s enforcer. It was not a pretty picture, but for the first time she was able to see her childhood for what it really was; the brainwashing had run so deep that it had taken until now for her to see the stark reality. Even Aunt Pen had been instrumental in perpetuating the fallacy that Michael Butler was a loving, doting father who would do anything for his beloved family. In truth, he was a cruel, selfish brute whose offspring were an annoyance, an unwanted responsibility. No wonder Meagan had stayed in Kenya. As Gaby reflected, she became more resolute. She thought back to what she had been through in the preceding months and she was able to remind herself how strong she indeed was. She could hear footsteps in the hallway; she snuck Chantelle an encouraging grin as if to say, “This is it. Good luck.”
“Gaby, Chantelle,” greeted Anne stiffly as she opened the door. It immediately struck Gaby how anxious Anne looked; her face was grey and her mouth small. She said nothing, but stepped aside so that they could enter. Standing awkwardly in the entrance hall, Gaby said, “I need to talk to Dad.”
“I’ll tell him you are here,” she uttered solemnly before disappearing towards the dining room.
Gaby stood mentally debating where to start and how to explain the bizarre chain of events to her father. It was the most important argument she had ever delivered and although she recalled every detail of the past eight months vividly, she was suddenly bereft of ideas — where would she start?
“I wondered whether you would have the gall to show up here, Gabriella,” boomed a voice. Gaby spun around to see the imposing figure of her father standing at the lounge entrance, resplendent in his black courtroom attire.
“I need to speak to you, Dad,” she said, the tone of her voice conveying that what she had to say was of the utmost importance.
“And who might you be?” he enquired of Chantelle in an unctuous tone.
“I’m Clinton’s girlfriend,” she answered, looking him directly in the eye.
“So you are party to the machinations I presume?” he said pompously. Gaby was sure that Chantelle would have no idea what he was on about, but she stood her ground and returned his sarcastic gaze with the impertinence so typical of her.
“Maybe,” answered Chantelle, her tone almost insolent.
Gaby drew strength from Chantelle’s cockiness.
“I suggest we talk about this in the privacy of your study.” Gaby knew her father well and she could tell from his eyes that he was fuming.
“You know the way,” he said.
Sitting in his study and facing her father over his teak desk, the words suddenly began to flow. Gaby articulated every moment from the time of her migraine on the beach to the accident. She stopped short of any reference to the drugs in the clock, anxious to avoid arming her father with anything he may use to defend Clinton, as she no longer trusted him. He listened glowering; neither sympathy nor understanding eclipsed his hardened face for even a second. She finished and awaited his reaction.
He leaned back in his high-backed leather chair, linking his long fingers. “You have presented me with a theory, Gabriella, which is at best purely circumstantial and at worst totally fatuous. After all your investigative efforts, which I admit have been quite extensive although often entirely inappropriate, you have been unable to produce a single thread of concrete evidence to support your hypothesis.” His tone was condescending. “What
sort of lawyer were you, Gabriella? Surely you appreciate that this ridiculous notion of Clinton as a serial killer would not stand up to the most rudimentary legal scrutiny.” He smirked mockingly.
Gaby could see out of the corner of her eye that Chantelle was wetting her lips: she was growing fearful and Gaby needed to draw on all her reserves. “Just because evidence is circumstantial does not mean that it is irrelevant and can be disregarded. The circumstances point to a clear and consistent pattern of behaviour. To write everything I have outlined to you off as coincidence would be preposterous, not to mention dangerously naïve.” Gaby was almost shouting, but she remained controlled.
“I have thirty years of High Court courtroom experience behind me and you have the audacity to refer to me as naïve,” he bellowed. “I’ll tell you something, Gabriella, I wish more of my courtroom opponents were as incompetent as yourself, as I would have them laughed out of court on the first day. I would annihilate your argument in court and so would any barrister worth half his salt.”
“That may be so,” countered Gaby, “but that’s only because you and your cronies are far more interested in legal technicalities and legal argument, not to mention money, than justice. I couldn’t care what you think; I have lost all respect for the profession I once revered. The truth has merely become the poor relation in a world of cronyism and relentless obsession with power and influence. To me, you are all a bunch of morally defunct pillocks.” Chantelle smiled ever so briefly. Gaby was amazed at the way the words had come out and she could sense from the change in her father’s use of language that he was rattled.
“You, Gabriella, are a black-hearted bitch. I am ashamed that I have raised a daughter who, despite all the love and privilege of her background, is now making wild accusations against a brother who has done everything for her.” He continued to rant, his cold eyes berserk with rage, “You are a complete and utter disgrace to the outstanding name of this family. Your behaviour has been deplorable. It beggars belief that you are able to come here and lay out this ridiculous scenario, which is, after all, underpinned by a drug-induced hallucination.”