Sugar & Spice (11 page)

49

They collected cod and chips twice from Peter’s Fish Bar on the Royal Harbour.
It was Isaac’s choice, to Matt’s surprise. In his business you mixed with
people of strange persuasions. But never before with a brief who preferred take
away fish and chips to a free meal at an expensive restaurant.
Still, Matt had no complaints. McIntyre was always giving him grief about his
expenses account. Let’s see the tight-fisted bastard complain about this one!
They parked on the West Cliff, close to Pegwell Bay. Through the steam-misted
window the coast of France could just be made out on the horizon.
“You’re aware Rebecca was taken from this area.”
“Of course, and you and Claire have my deepest sympathies. But it wasn’t
Thomas Bristow. Let me be very clear, Mr Burford, that my client will be
fighting this all the way.”
“So I gather. You wouldn’t have enlisted Conrad Buckmaster otherwise.”
Isaac stared at him. “How oearth..?”
“Let’s talk about Bristow. Off the record.”
“As you wish. Let’s be clear this so-called confession was extracted under
duress.”
“I’ve heard the rumours, of course. What about the hit and run accident?”
“A police fiction, Mr Burford. My client was taken to an unknown London Police
Station, subjected to a vicious assault, dumped on the streets again, then
formally arrested. The confession was produced with a word processor and ink-jet
printer. Thomas Bristow hasn’t even got a typewriter.”
Matt screwed up the chip wrappers and bounced them through the window into a
nearby bin. “Jeremy, let me be blunt. I don’t give a fuck about your client,
about his welfare, or about his treatment by the Met. All I want is an honest
answer: Did Bristow kill Rebecca?”
There was not the slightest hesitation. “No. No, he did not.”
“You’re very confident.”
“I know my client, Mr Burford. He did not kill the child, I promise you. I’m
sorry. I know that’s not what you want to hear. But Thomas Bristow is innocent.
He had no part in this foul crime, as you’ll learn if we go to trial.”
“If?”
“I believe my client will be released much sooner than that, Mr Burford. The
only trial Thomas Bristow will be attending is that of the police officers who
assaulted him.”
Matt stared out of the window. “Look, I know how the cops operate. I can
readily accept Bristow made the statement under duress. And yes, I appreciate
the legal standpoint if that’s true. But I have just one concern here. Did
Bristow kill Rebecca? Because if he didn’t, then the sick bastard who did is
still out there. I just want to be able to tell Claire one way or another.
That’s all. Just to put her mind at rest.”
Isaac came back slowly. “Thomas Bristow did not kill Rebecca. You have my
assurance of that.”
“Can you prove it?”
“It’s not for us to prove. The onus is on the prosecution. Innocent until
proven guilty, remember? Besides, though it pains me to say it, I’m very much
convinced we won’t need to.”
Matt took a deep breath. “Go on.”
“Whoever killed your friend’s daughter, this Uncle Tom, is still out there.
And you can be sure he’ll kill again, if he hasn’t already. It’s not a pleasant
thing to say, Mr Burford, but what we’re praying for just now is for the next
body to turn up.”

50

Matt looked out over the sea, considering the statement. “So what do you plan
to do meanwhile?”
“Short term there’s nothing we can do. Besides, the longer Thomas Bristow is
inside, the bigger the pay-out. Wrongful arrest, malicious prosecution, assault,
unjustified remand. Do you know what the going rate is for unlawful imprisonment
just now? Tax free! Then there’s punitive damages… It’s a shame I’m not on a
percentage.”
Matt suppressed a smile. Isaac was no fool. But he had nothing to gain by
protesting his client’s innocence so strongly off the record. “Why did you
agree to talk to me?”
Isaac smiled. “Favours banked. Why else?”
“Anything special in mind?”
“Fair coverage when we hit back.”
“And when will that be?”
“After the trial, if it goes that far. Or after the next body is found.
Whichever is sooner.”
“Bristow was an ice-cream man, wasn’t he?”
“A long time ago, and yes, his name’s Thomas. But that’s a pretty tenuous
link.”
“I understand a car identical to his was seen near the canal around the time
Rebecca’s body was disposed of.”
“A red Peugeot, yes. There must be thousands of red Peugeots in London.”
“That’s still a lot of a coincidences.”
“Exactly, Mr Burford. Coincidences. Perhaps too many? Anyone can make a hoax
phone call.”
“Doesn’t it ever bother you Bristow may be guilty?”
“I’m paid to defend my client’s interests, Mr Burford. Guilt and ence don’t
come into the equation, you know that. My job is to see him acquitted
regardless. But I say again, off the record as on, my client did not kill the
girl.”
“At his last trial Bristow admitted to having, and I think I’m quoting
correctly, a vile and detestable interest in young children. Are you telling me
that was a forced confession too?”
“Mr Burford, my client was looking at a long jail sentence. He said what was
necessary to get it shortened.”
“By admitting to being a filthy pervert?”
“By asking for help. By admitting the act. Avoiding the children having to
give evidence. Thomas Bristow has never denied his sexual predilections. He’s a
paedophile. He makes no secret of it. But that doesn’t make him a murderer.”
“It’s pretty damn close in my book.”
“There’s a world of difference, Mr Burford. Besides, after the last incident
my client underwent treatment for his problem.”
“Treatment?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss details. Suffice it to say he sought help.”
“But he wasn’t cured.”
“Paedophilia isn’t a disease, Mr Burford. You can’t just take a tablet, spend
a few days in bed and it’s gone. There aren’t any vaccinations or miracle cures.
My client would argue strongly that it’s just a sexual desire, like any
other.”
“Your client is sick, Mr Isaac. Abusing little kids is not my idea of a normal
sexual desire.”
“Nor mine, I assure you. The point is, as I’ve said, just because my client
admits to being a paedophile does not make him a murderer. Least of all does it
make him the killer of the girl, Rebecca. You obviously haven’t studied his
history closely enough.”
“I’ve read the reports.”
“I suggest you read them again.”
“Is there something I should know?”
Isaac shrugged. “You’re obviously a resourceful man, Mr Burford. You’ve proved
that already, by getting me here.”
Matt smiled. “Go on.”
“Actually it’s all a matter of public record. It should be patently obvious
why my client is innocent of the charges just from the press coverage, never
mind what forensic will fail to turn up in due course. I really don’t think
there’s anything else I can say at this stage.” Isaac opened the car door and
prepared to get out, bracing himself against the sea breeze.
“I’ll walk back, if you don’t mind. Thanks for the lunch. I’ll be in touch
sometime. You owe me.”
He closed the door and strolled off, brief-case under his arm, enjoying the
scenery. Matt watched him go. He rang his desk and left instructions for
hard-copy of all the reports on Bristow to be ready for when he got back.
He’d read them on screen a dozen times now, but nothing sprang to mind to fit in
with Isaac’s comments. He’d read them again tonight, on paper. Things read
differently on paper sometimes.
Maybe another conversation with Gavin Large would be productive. If anyone knew
how the minds of these people worked, it was Gavin.
As he made his way back to Canterbury he pondered what favours Isaac might come
back with. He reconsidered the conversation they’d just had. He wished he’d
recorded it now. Off the record, of course. Time was, he recorded every
conversation as a matter of habit. He’d gotten lax. Maybe that was why he was
stuck working for a lousy regional press outfit instead of Fleet Street.
But then again, there were some contacts he’d never have made on Fleet Street.
He smiled to himself as he dialled a number.
Seconds later a boy’s voice answered.

51

Like every kid brought up in a seaside resort, Matt had always loved the
arcades.
He’d never lost his attraction for the bright lights, the white noise, and the
unique electronic aroma of the amusement arcade. Unwilling, so he told himself –
unable would be more honest – to learn the skills required to master modern
video games, he only played the slots nowadays.
Stuck one time with five nudges and not the faintest idea where the triple bars
were, he had suddenly found himself pushed aside by a cheerful young teenager
who pushed the nudge buttons with one hand while playing his own machine with
the other. Matt had his jackpot. He also had a new tag-along companion, like it
or not.
At first it was journalistic intrigue that found the two sat in Cafe Nero on
the High Street. It transpired the kid knew off by heart the reel sequences of
every fruit machine in town. It seemed to Matt he spent more time there than at
school. In fact, it transpired he didn’t even go to school. It had the makings
of a nice little human-interest story for the inside pages. Truancy. Child
gambling. The making of young criminals, perhaps.
But by then the kid had moved on to reveal a more insidious interest in
computers than video games and arcade gambling. He was, he told Matt in hushed
tones, a hacker. Better still, a cracker! If he wanted any help with a story –
credit history, personal details, you name it , the kid could deliver.
Matt humoured the boy, made his excuses and left. Maybe he’d follow up the fruit
machine angle at a later date. Maybe not. It was no big deal. He had more
important fish to fry.
A week later he had arrived home from Southern Media, having just finished a big
story on a drugs haul at Dover, when the bell rang. He winced. He was hungry,
tired, and didn’t need visitors. He stared down at a grinning, freckled face and
suppressed an expletive.
The kid was small for his age. Thirteen, he claimed. Looked more like ten.
Eleven, maybe. “Danny, isn’t it?”
“And there was I thinking you’d forgotten.”
The kid stood on the step. Matt kept himself firmly across the doorway.
“I’m kinda busy just now. Is there something I can do for you?”
“You gonna invite me in, or what?”
Matt glared at the kid. “On your bike, sonny.”
“I thought a good journalist never turned down a story.”
“Danny, I said I’d think about it. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve been up all
night and need some peace and quiet.”
“I liked the way you blamed the French customs.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The smack haul, at Dover. It was a good report.”
Matt glanced at his watch. The evening papers hadn’t finished printing yet. He
looked at the kid strangely. “Am I missing something?”

52

Danny smiled enigmatically.
It was a smile Matt would come to know well over the coming months.
The boy handed him a sealed brown A4 envelope. “Here. When you’ve had your
peace and quiet have a butchers at these. My numbers are on the back.”
“Your numbers?” He turned the envelope over. Rows of digits were scrawled on
the back in what was obviously Danny’s handwriting.
“Landline, mobile, twitter, facebook, several e-mails. Take your pick.”
Matt began pushing the door closed. “Yeah, I’ll call you. Thanks.”
He shut the door in the boy’s face. Kids! The last thing he wanted was a bunch
of arcade brats plaguing him with story leads. Didn’t they have school
newspapers anymore? Another good reason why the brat should attend classes.
He threw the envelope to one side, showered and made a snack of three poached
eggs on toast with half a pack of smoked, rindless Danish, lightly grilled, and
a can of baked beans. He sat in front of the TV to eat, relax and watch the
local news. The drugs haul was the lead story, as he’d expected. The report was
very much in line with what would shortly be hitting the news-stands under his
by-line. That reminded him of Danny.
He mopped up the sauce with a slice of wholemeal bread, wiping the plate clean,
and slid it in the sink with the residue washing up from the previous two days.
He looked at the growing pile with distaste. He’d tend it later that afternoon.
Or maybe that evening.
Tomorrow at the very latest.
Unless something else cropped up.
Hell, he wasn’t expecting visitors, so what was the hurry?
He picked up the envelope the kid had left and wandered across to the window,
looking out over the Channel. Windsurfers were riding the waves off-shore. It
was a beautiful day. Almost too good to stay in. Especially with the washing up
in the sink, lurking.
A mixture of duty and curiosity found him slitting open Danny’s envelope,
stifling a yawn, and pulling out a sheath of papers.
Maybe he’d go to bed instead. A few hours sleep would be useful. Perhaps he
could get Claire to go the pictures that evening. He scanned the first page
disinterestedly. There was a new Spielberg movie out that week. Sam Ogilvy,
Southern Media’s erstwhile arts, food, motoring and royal events correspondent
had recommended it.
He scanned the page again.
More slowly.
Then another.
And a third, his expression a mixture of anger and disbelief.
He reached for the receiver, punching in the number.
He counted six rings before the kid answered.
“Mr Burford. You took your time.”
“You know the coffee bar on the High Street?”
“Nero’s?”
“Meet me there in fifteen minutes.”
“But I’m -”
“Nero’s. Fifteen minutes. Be there.”
He slammed the phone down.
God-damned kids!