Sugar & Spice (10 page)

44

“At the moment the evidence is weak against Bristow,” Pitman said.
Weisman nodded. “Go on.”
“The CPS will need much more, so we’ll have to work on that anyway. Might I
suggest we continue to put all our efforts into the inquiry, ostensibly to
obtain the detailed evidence to secure the conviction against Bristow?”
“I’m listening.”
“He lives here. The abduction took place here. It’s not the Met’s bag. In
doing so we either conclude for certain it was Bristow, in which case all well
and good – the Met will have the IPCC to deal with, but that’s their problem,
and a guilty verdict will work in their favour – or alternatively we find enough
evidence to show Bristow was not involved. In which case the Met will still have
the IPCC on their backs, but at least we can get the investigation back under
full steam before another child is harmed.”
“I like it, David.”
“The way I read it, Sir, whoever killed Rebecca will have got a taste for it.
Given the chance, he’ll kill again. If he hasn’t already.”
Weisman looked more relaxed. “Well let’s not get too carried away with maybes,
David. Just between ourselves, I don’t believe he has yet.”
“Sir?”
“I spoke to Colin Dunst this morning. Professor Dunst? The forensic
psychologist? Just an informal call. He and I met on a course last year and
exchanged numbers, as one does. Anyway, I asked him, off-the-record, supposing
hypothetically that Bristow wasn’t our man, if he thought the killer would
strike again.”
“And?”
“Quietly reassuring, David. Dunst seemed confident that, from what he knew of
the Meadows case, the murder fell into a recognised category. While he was
certain the killer would strike again, given the chance, if he’s still out
there, he was also adamant he would strike in the same local area and stick to
the same sex. Which one way or another rules out all four kids reported missing
since Rebecca.”
“If his profile is right. With respect, Sir, I’ve very little time for that
kind of mumbo-jumbo.”
“Mumbo-jumbo?”
“In my day it was psychics, Sir. Now it’s forensic psychologists. No
difference to my mind.”
“But they’ve had proven successes, David.”
“Coincidences, Sir.”
“Be that as it may. We have to explore every avenue of investigation, David.
That being the case, have you any thoughts on where you might wish to
concentrate on next?”
“Well, Sir, Bristow is due to be transferred this way tomorrow. Presumably
Maidstone?”
“I’ve put in a request for Longport, David, just to make life easier for
us.”
“Isn’t that given over to asylum seekers nowadays?”
“I’m sure they’ll make an exception if we ask nicely.”
“You’ve obviously not had many dealings with the Prison Service then,
Sir.”
“Is there something I should know about HMP Longport, David?”
“He’ll need to be on forty-threes, and under medical supervision, if it can
take him. If not, then Canterbury hospital will have to squeeze him in, under
guard. Though given local feeling I’d prefer having him in secure quarters.
They’ve already trashed his house pretty badly.”
Weisman raised a surprised eyebrow. “Why wasn’t I informed?”
Pitman shrugged. “Best ask the uniforms, Sir. I suggest we put Bristow before
a Magistrate this end at the very first opportunity and confirm the detention,
on grounds of his own safety, just to keep ourselves whiter than white, and go
from there. He may prove more cooperative once he’s out of the Met’s reach.”
Weisman walked across to the door, indicating the meeting was over.
“Thanks, David. I knew I could rely on you.”

45

Without his spectacles Bristow could see the screaming crowds only as a blur
behind the Police barrier, but the atmosphere reeked of hatred, the shouts of
abuse from people he had never seen and would never know leaving him bewildered
and frightened.
Court Three looked on eagerly as the two uniformed officers guided him into the
glass dock, his right hand cuffed to an officer, his left arm encased in a
heavily bandaged plaster jacket. Some minutes passed before the Broad Street
Magistrates entered, bringing a deathly silence to the room.
They made no allusion to his injuries. Isaac made no application for bail.
Bristow was remanded in custody for a week.
“Chin up, Thomas,” Isaac said cheerfully. “At the end of all this you’re
going to make a fortune in compensation. Wrongful arrest. Unlawful imprisonment.
Harassment. Police brutality. You’ll be able to comfortably retire after
this.” He put a friendly hand on Bristow’s shoulder. “A few months and
you’ll be as good as new. In two years you’ll be in Thailand living like a
king.”
Bristow looked unconvinced.
“Thomas, Thomas, don’t be so glum. The onus is on the prosecution to show it
was you. Innocent until proven guilty, remember?”
Bristow looked away. “Jeremy, my goldfish. They haven’t been fed. Do you think
you might…”
“Your goldfish? You’ve been through all this and all you can worry about is
your goldfish?”
“The water may need changing as well. There’s a ,”
“I’ll see to it.” Isaac hadn’t the heart to explain about the house. He’d
made arrangements for the windows to be boarded. He hadn’t been beyond the front
door, but guessed the goldfish were unlikely to have survived.
“So, I’ll see you next Wednesday. Same time, same place?” He smiled at his
little joke. Then, in serious tone. “You could be out sooner, Thomas, the way
things are going. Three of the four kids missing since your arrest are still
unaccounted for. They can’t all be runaways. All it takes is one body…”
“Don’t even think it, Jeremy. I’d happily make a false statement and spend the
rest of my life inside if I thought it would bring those missing kids home
safely.”
Isaac fell silent.
He knew Bristow meant every word.

46

At Matt’s insistence, Claire was at his home to watch the report on the early
evening news.
She had wanted to be in Court to see Bristow in person, but he had persuaded her
to stay away, not only from the Court but from her own home for the duration of
the day.
It was a wise move. The house was besieged with reporters from first light.
He hit the remote as the bulletin confirmed the remand in custody in Canterbury
prison, and for a long moment they sat in silence. He got up and wandered to the
window. The sky was crystal. Through Carl Zeiss binoculars on a metre-high
tripod he could see a yacht race off the French coast, colourful sails
resplendent against the Cap Gris.
“So what happens now, Matt?”
He considered the question carefully. “The wheels of justice start turning
slowly. Very slowly. It could be six months before the trial, if they rush it. A
year’s more likely.”
“I want to be there.”
“You’ll have priority in the gallery. You may even be called to give evidence
on what Rebecca was doing that day. But you should stay away, Claire, if at all
possible. It won’t be pleasant.”
“I can handle it, Matt.
“They’ll be going into the sordid details, Claire. Every Over and over.”
“I want to know, Matt. I need to know.”
He took a seat beside her. “Believe me, Claire, you don’t. Even if he pleads
guilty they’ll have to go through what happened. And if he contests it… don’t
go, Claire. Please, just stay away.”
“And read about it second-hand in the newspapers the next day?”
“At least that will be the sanitised version. Court will be the real thing.
Experts being cross-examined over the minute, obscene details of what he did to
her. Forensics. Photographs of the body. A reconstruction scenario. It’s the
relatives that suffer at the trial, Claire, not the sick bastards they’ve come
to watch go down.”
“But I want to see him. To hear him. To try and grasp why. How anyone can do
such a thing to a child. Can you understand that?”
“He’s just scum, Claire. The lowest of the low. Not worth getting upset
for.”
“I won’t get upset, Matt.” She spoke to the floor, unable to meet his gaze.
“Rebecca’s gone. I’ve come to terms with that now. Nothing can bring her back.
I accept that. But only when I see him in the flesh, when I can look into his
eyes and tell myself he’s either devoid of all feeling or he’s suffering for
what he did… Only then will it be truly over for me.”
He extended a hand of comfort and she took it gratefully. Her eyes were tearful
but her voice controlled.
“It was the same with John. Once the tumour was diagnosed we all knew it was
only a matter of time. But it was only after the inquest was over that I could
begin my own life again. To start rebuilding. You remember how it was. I
couldn’t even look after Rebecca properly. You kept us going then, and you’re
doing the same now. It is appreciated, Matt. Really it is.”
He reached a hand around her shoulder but she pushed it away gently.
“When I know he’s locked away for good, that he can’t harm anyone else, then
I’ll be ready to move on.” She looked up at him for the first time. “I’ll
make some coffee. Are you hungry?”
He suggested a takeaway and used the opportunity to get out of the house, to
leave Claire alone a while.
She needed to cry in private.
So did he.

47

When he got back she was more cheerful, fresh make-up, more relaxed.
Over an indifferent meal of Chinese spare ribs Claire broached the subject
again.
“What do you suppose he’s doing now?”
Matt suppressed a sigh. “Who?”
“Bristow.”
“Forget him, Claire.”
“What type of food will he be eating?”
“Porridge.”
“I was being serious.”
“So why should I be the expert on prison food?”
“You’re a crime reporter.”
“Will it honestly make you feel better to know?”
“Not if he’s eating better than I am.”
“Judging from his face he’ll be eating nothing but soup for a while.”
“His solicitor says he was assaulted by the police.”
“Of course he was. According to the grapevine there wasn’t a hit and run
accident at all. The cops did the whole thing. Even typed up the confession.”
She looked at him aghast. “You’re joking.” She added, “Aren’t you?”
He shrugged. “Bastards like that deserve all they get. Just forget it.”
“But the Police?”
“It happens all the time, Claire. Don’t tell me you’re feeling sorry for the
sick bastard? For God’s sake!”
“No, it’s just that…” She wasn’t sure what it was. Certainly not sympathy.
“I can’t believe the Police did that to him.”
“Oh come on, Claire, wake up. You read the papers. The Guildford Four? The
Bridgewater Four? The Birmingham Six?”
“That’s different.”
“Course it’s not. It’s just the cops doing what they’re paid for. To get
results. Making sure the villains admit it.”
“But they were innocent.”
“That’s not the point. Jesus, don’t strt going soft on this bastard,
Claire.”
Claire paused to gather her thoughts. “A few weeks ago I would have been
outside the Court, shouting and screaming with the rest of them. But I told you,
I’m over that now. I’m in control. I’m looking to the future, not dwelling on
the past.”
“So why all these questions about what the sick fucker’s eating?”
She pushed her rice around the plate with a chop-stick, unable to muster an
appetite. “I don’t know. Just curiosity, I guess. The nearest I’ve ever been
to a jail is when I had to collect you and John from Dover police station that
time for being drunk and disorderly.”
Matt grinned sheepishly. “There’s a subtle difference between a night in
police cells and being on remand in a real jail.”
“So enlighten me. Tell me what he’ll be doing. Wearing? Eating? Everything.”
Matt let out a long sigh. “Well, the kitchens at Canterbury nick aren’t
exactly haute cuisine.”
“Meaning some are?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“So surprise me.”
“It varies. Some nicks are very good, others are lousy. Maidstone is good. The
Green, average. I hear Parkhurst is top class. The screws shop for you twice a
week.”
Claire shook her head in disbelief. “And Canterbury is…?”
“A shit-hole. It’s a holding nick. Used to be remands, short convictions.
Non-payment of fines, that sort of thing. Nowadays I think it’s mainly for
failed asylum seekers. But Bristow will be on forty-threes anyway.”
“Forty-threes?”
“Rule forty-three. Segregation of prisoners for their own safety. The VPU.
Vulnerable Prisoners Unit. Nonces, mainly.”
“Nonces?”
Matt smiled. This was hard work. “Prison slang for sex-offenders. Any nonce
has a hard time inside. It’s a very macho set-up. The most anti-social elements
of the male population stuck together in conditions you wouldn’t keep an animal
in. There’s a certain hierarchy among the cons. At the top you have the big
criminals: heavy-duty gangsters, drugs barons, armed robbers, that sort of
thing. Common thieves like burglars and the like come somewhere in the middle.
At the bottom come muggers, joy-riders and handbag snatchers. Then there’s the
lowest of the low. The nonces.”
“So Bristow is a nonce?”
“You got it. In his own cell, all alone, shitting himself. I guarantee you
he’ll be dreading every footstep he hears. Cowering in the corner every time he
hears the keys in the door.”
Claire shuddered. “It sounds obscene.”
“Claire, he’s a nonce. That’s obscene. The lousy, sick bastard deserves
everything he gets.”

48

The Queen Street offices of Witherton, Stanley & Jones, Solicitors, were hardly
plush. A converted private dwelling above what had once been a hardware store
formed the main offices of the firm, with the bay windowed shop now the
blue-carpeted reception area, waiting room and main entrance.
The direct line buzzed twice. Isaac picked it up expecting Conrad Buckmaster,
the barrister approached to defend Bristow, or maybe a family call. Only a
select few had the direct line number. Lesser mortals had to go the hard way,
through Karen.
“Yo! Isaac. Who’ve I got?” He’d answered the phone “Yo!” ever since he’d
seen Rocky.
“Matt Burford. Southern Media.” A sarcastic drawl added, “So glad to find
you in at last, Jeremy.”
Isaac glared at the phone, a mixture of anger and disbelief. He’s been avoiding
returning Matt’s calls for days now. Karen had specific instructions to fob him
off.
“How did you get this number, Mr Burford?”
“If you will insist on not returning calls…”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Haven’t we all, Mr Isaac. I’d like to ask you a few questions about your
client.”
“Which one?” He knew damn well, but stalled for time. This was a
conversation he could do without just now.p>
“Our mutual friend, Mr Bristow.”
“You’ve surely heard of client confidentiality, Mr Burford?”
“I understand the legal position, Mr Isaac, but this is important.”
“Mr Burford, my client has been charged. Those details are public knowledge.
I’m not at liberty to comment further. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to be in
Court this afternoon.”
“Do you lie to everyone who calls, Mr Isaac, or just those you wish to
avoid?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Your afternoon is pretty free so far. You intended to spend it tying up some
loose ends from recent cases. Regina v. Denton. Regina v. Mills. But that was
presuming you got back from the Magistrates’ Court by eleven. You didn’t. You’ve
been back less than ten minutes. By the time you’ve had lunch it will be two
o’clock. Your next booked appointment is at three-thirty.”
Isaac stared down the phone, gob-smacked. Burford had just read off his
blackberry entries for the day, virtually word for word. He considered his
response carefully, the mind ticking over at idle speed, warming to the
challenge. “That’s a number of lucky guesses, Mr Burford. Too many for
coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’ve done my homework.”
“Evidently. What exactly is it you want?”
“Answers to questions. Off the record.”
“Off the record?”
“You heard correctly.”
“You appreciate I could have an injunction out on you, your editor and your
publisher in a matter of hours, if need be.”
On the other end of the phone Matt smiled to himself. The fish was hooked. “I
know that, Mr Isaac. My editor knows that. He’s not going to risk losing a full
print-run for five minutes of glory. Nor am I. You must be aware I have a very
personal interest in this case.”
“I am aware of that, yes. So this is a personal call?”
“You could say that.”
“Strictly off the record? Come what may?”
“I have my reputation too, Mr Isaac.”
A pause, then, “Where and when?”
“This afternoon?”
“Sooner rather than later. I’ve genuinely got a busy evening.”
“I know. You’re having dinner with a client. Or rather, with his wealthy
father. A Mr Kemsley, anxious to keep his errant son out of the papers.”
Isaac’s annoyance briefly showed. “How the hell do you know all this?”
“Where shall we meet?”
“My office?”
“Somewhere neutral. Are you hungry?”
“Are you paying?”
“You drive a hard bargain, Mr Isaac.”
“Just trying to make ends meet, Mr Burford. Where are you now?”
“In my car, just below your window.”
Isaac kicked his feet and pushed his chair across to the window. The casters
needed oiling. Down below Matt Burford raised his mobile in acknowledgement.
Isaac chuckled to himself. Sneaky bastard!
“Drive round the corner. I’ll be with you in five minutes.”