Sugar & Spice (13 page)

59

Randall chose the moment carefully, soon after midnight.
Bethan had showered while he prepared te Horlicks to drink in bed. It was the
usual arrangement when she was on evening shifts. After six hours bathing old
men and changing incontinence pads the last thing on her mind was sex. That
would have to wait until morning.
It was a logical arrangement, biologically suiting them both. As Randall liked
to joke, it was always up before him anyway.
He usually sat up till after midnight, listening to the late news on Radio Four,
catching the shipping forecast just for the hell of it, then picking up a book
for an hour after that, until Bethan was ready for lights out. Bethan liked to
wind down with a good book after an evening shift. Their reading tastes differed
enormously. Randall liked Terry Pratchett, while Bethan was equally happy with a
romance, an Aga saga or a decent thriller. She’d belatedly discovered Grisham
and was slowly ploughing through his latest paperback when Randall interrupted
her.
“The Dynamite Twins had a policewoman at school yesterday, lecturing them
about strangers.”
Bethan looked up, half-interested. “They didn’t mention it.”
“No? Well it can’t have made much of an impact then.”
“No need, anyway. They’ve got the scum who killed Rebecca. There can’t be two
sick bastards like that around, surely.”
Randall shifted uncomfortably. “What do you think should happen to him?”
She put her paperback down and tufted her pillow. She hoped he wasn’t in
garrulous mood.
“Castrate the dirty bastards first. Then let the parents have their turn.
Then, if there’s anything left after that, hang them, slowly. Very slowly.”
She picked up the book again, satisfied. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason.”

60

Dickensian walls loomed high from every direction, crumbling brick and barred
windows proclaiming its purpose. HMP Longport, Canterbury, dates back to 1808,
still bearing the archaic inscription House of Correction on its facade.
The visiting room was set apart from the main block, comprising nothing more
than a large, secure hall with sets of tables and chairs liberally scattered, at
which sat women and children with, or waiting for, the remand prisoner they were
visiting. Claire had expected glass petitions and exchanges through a telephone
like in the movies. It was almost disappointing.
The warden led her through to a side-room, empty but for a single table and two
chairs. She sat alone, waiting patiently.
Isaac had been gob-smacked when Claire put the proposal to him, but he knew
Bristow would welcome the opportunity to state his case, to express his sorrow
personally. It took a week to arrange.
Matt wanted to be there, but Claire was adamant this was something she had to do
on her own. To make her own decision, for better or worse. Even now she was
tempted to get up and walk away. She had a nightmare scenario in the back of her
mind. That Bristow would come out to meet her, look her in the eye, and say Yes,
I killed your daughter. I enjoyed it.
She looked through the open doorway at the remand prisoners already enjoying
their visits. Wardens stood by each exit, others moved about the room, keeping a
cautious eye on the prisoners, but the atmosphere was relaxed. The call down to
the visiting room provided a welcome break from the monotony of day-to-day
prison life, and few elected to abuse the privilege.
A hushed silence fell as Bristow appeared. Chairs scraped the floor as visitors
and prisoners alike turned to see him. He stood in the doorway, looking out
across the room through ill-fitting glasses that pinched his nose and flattened
his ears. His arm was still in a sling, taking the weight of the plaster cast
that extended over the broken fingers of his left hand.
“Fucking nonce!” The shout came from a prisoner, triggering a burst of
similar cries from around the room.
“Nonce!”
“Pervert!”
“Hang him!”
“We’ll have tonight, you sick bastard!”
Claire shuddered at the outburst, but Bristow appeared indifferent. Two wardens
shouted out for silence, but the cries continued. A third prison officer
appeared from no-where, distinguished by his white shirt. “One more outburst
from anyone and visiting ends. Is that clear?”
The noise reluctantly subsided, the white shirt evidently conveying authority.
The warden led Bristow through to where Claire was waiting.
She watched in morbid fascination as the man accused of murdering her daughter
slowly approached, moving between the tables nervously, avoiding eye contact
with the faces staring at him.
As he passed occupied tables mothers pulled their children close to them,
clutching them as if fearing he might molest them there and then. Inmates
muttered threats and insults beneath their breath as he passed. Wardens looked
on in readiness for any disturbance, but the moment passed. Bristow reached the
room and a warden ushered him in, looking to Claire for confirmation she felt
comfortable. She nodded. The warden stood in the doorway.
She looked up at Bristow with an expressionless face, fighting to control a
hundred competing emotions. She could see his features clearly now. There were
layers of bruising, newer, fresh bruises over others nearly healed. He hovered
at the table for a moment, then pulled out the chair with his good hand.
“May I?”
Claire nodded, numbed, and he sat down. It was the first time she’d heard his
voice. It was softer than she expected. He’d only spoken two words, but already
his manner belied his history.
The warden looked to her. “Do you want me to stay?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
“Your call. I’ll be just outside.”
The warden stepped outside and pulled the door shut.
Claire had thought about her first words all the way here, but still had no idea
how to begin. What possible small-talk could open a meeting like this?
“Mrs Meadows… I…” Bristow struggled to speak. She guessed it must be a
difficult moment for him, too. She waited, breath bated, as he selected the
right words.
“I did not kill your daughter, Mrs Meadows.”

61

The blunt statement took Claire by surprise, throwing her off-guard.
“I… I don’t know what to believe just now.”
“I swear to you, I never knew her.”
“But you would say that, even…”
“Even if… I understand, Mrs Meadows. I know this must be very difficult for
you. But whoever killed your daughter is still out there somewhere. He’s killed
again. Of that there can be no doubt now. How many more will it take before they
will admit they are wrong?”
Claire looked into his eyes, searching for… Some sign that he was lying,
perhaps? Some glazed indifference that suggested this was all an act?
But all she saw was sadness. Sadness and compassion. She struggled to control
tears forming in her own eyes as she looked deep into his. This was not the
depraved brute of a man she expected to meet.
“Mrs Meadows, I know nothing I say can bring Rebecca back. But I want you to
know how deeply sorry I am. Sorry that she’s gone. Sorry for what happened to
her. For what you’ve had to go through.”
Claire nodded, no words forming to acknowledge him.
He continued, “I’ve done many things in my life that I regret. Many things.
But I’ve never hurt a child. Never.”
It was said with such sincerity Claire struggled to get her next words out.
“They say you’re a paedophile.”
Bristow was silent for a moment. He looked at her, unsure how to respond.
Finally, “That was a long time ago.”
“Then you admit it?” She could feel her chest tightening, her throat
desiccate.
“That I’m a paedophile? Yes, it’s true. I’m sorry. It’s not something I’m
proud of. But it’s something I have to live with, every day of my life.”
Claire wrung her hands together. She had to ask. “But why? Why children?”
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a leather pouch with a few
strands of tobacco inside. “You don’t mind if I…”
She shook her head.
“Thank you. It’s another vice, I know, but it helps, at times like this.”
With the one trembling hand he manipulated a Rizla paper and tobacco into an
impossibly thin cigarette.
He reached into his pocket again and withdrew a sliver of wood that functioned
as a match. Matt had told her prisoners could dissect a single house match into
a dozen separate, functioning matches. That some men were so desperate for a
smoke they lit used tea-bags. That one had even set fire to a broom handle and
inhaled the fumes.
She watched the man before her with intense eyes, waiting for his response.
Comforted by the cigarette, at last it came.
“Mrs Meadows, I don’t ask that you try to understand. Especially after what
you’ve been through. All I ask is that you believe me. I didn’t kill your
daughter, Mrs Meadows. I’m as appalled as anyone here by what happened to
her.”
She stared into his eyes, looking for a trace of enjoyment. A sign that he was
lying, that he was getting kicks out of her pain and sorrow. But all she saw was
the pain and sorrow reflected.

62

“I know what you must think of me. Yes, I’m a paedophile. A child molester. A
pervert. What I’ve done in the past is obscene. Depraved. Disgusting. I admit
that. But I’ve never set out to hurt a child. You must believe me.”
Claire found herself wanting to believe him, this small, frightened, articulate
man sat before her. Yet he’d just admitted to abusing children.
He dragged long and hard on the dwindling roll-up, blowing the smoke away in a
long plume. “Mrs Meadows, I don’t know what more I can say. Yes, I’m what you
must think of as a sick pervert. Yes, I had a relationship with a child…
Children… Many years ago. I don’t deny that. It’s the way I am. It’s in my
nature. But I’m not capable of murder. I’ve never harmed any child. Not in that
way. The children I… My young friends… They meant as much to me as your
daughter did to you, believe me.”
She stared at him, uncomprehending.
He said quietly, “Three young children have lost their lives. Everyone knows I
had nothing to do with the second and third. How could I? I was incarcerated
here at the time of their disappearance. The real killer is still out there
somewhere. Still killing.”
Claire could feel the tears fighting for release. She struggled to maintain her
composure. “They say you confessed?”
Bristow looked at her nervously, dragging on the remains of the cigarette.
“I’m not a strong person, Mrs Meadows. You can see that just by looking at me.
I’ve never been a strong person. When the pain becomes too great you’ll do
anything to stop it.” He held out his injured arm. “Do anything. Say
anything. Sign anything.”
“You’re saying the Police did that to you?”
The stub of the cigarette was burning his fingers. He sucked a final time before
conceding defeat, stubbing the dog-end into the foil ashtray, unwrapping the
remnant and tipping the isolated strands of unburned tobacco back into his
pouch. He peered at her through the thick lenses, blinking.
“Mrs Meadows, all I ask is for you to believe me. To believe me when I say I
never touched your daughter.”
She found herself wanting to. Wanting to so much. She said, “Give me one
reason… Just one reason why I can.”
Bristow considered the request. “I’m a paedophile, Mrs Meadows. I’m sorry if
that turns your stomach, but it’s true. I don’t like it, believe me. I’d give
my right arm to have a normal sex drive, to be satisfied with a normal adult
relationship. But the good Lord saw fit to make me different. To make me lust
after children. That’s the way I am. And I have to lie with the consequences.”
Claire held her breath, waiting for him to continue.
“To answer your question, yes, there is one over-riding reason why you can
believe I didn’t kill Rebecca. Yes, I’m a paedophile. Yes, I’m a filthy pervert.
A depraved child-molester. A nonce. Call me what you will.”
He paused. “But I’m also homosexual. That’s why you must believe I never
touched your daughter.”
He looked calmly into her eyes.
“Mrs Meadows, I prefer little boys.”

63

Only two weeks had passed since his last visit, but already the changing season
had begun to make its mark, the plush greenery of the Foundation’s grounds
slowly adopting more sombre autumnal hues.
He hesitated at the door, savouring a cigarette, waiting for the taxi to depart
before pressing the button.
“I have an appointment, to see Dr Reynolds.”
The words hurt. After the last visit he had insisted on seeing Dr Quinlan
personally, but making that appointment had proven impossible. It seemed Quinlan
spent most of his time on the lecture circuit. He left it a few days, then opted
for Reynolds again. The desires were stronger, he was sure of it. Maybe he was
just more conscious of it, but it felt like they were stronger.
He couldn’t take that risk. For the sake of the Dynamite Twins, Reynolds would
have to do.
The secretary, who he remembered as answering to Molly, took him through,
confirmed refreshments would follow, and advising that Dr Reynolds would join
him shortly. She was just finishing with another client.
He wondered what the other client might be there for. What sordid secret life
was he forced to lead? What obscene fantasies was he doing battle with?
He found himself at the bookshelf, browsing disinterestedly when Dr Quinlan’s
name caught his eye on the spine. He picked the book out and read off the title.
Paedophilia: A New Perspective. He smiled to himself. No question of Dr
Quinlan’s expertise in such matters. He flicked through the pages with a
shudder, then replaced the book, selecting another. Perversion or Paraphilia? A
Positive Attitude to Sexual Deviancy. It was reassuring to know Dr Quinlan was
such an authority.
He brushed back his hair with a cheap plastic comb, standing in front of the
large mirror inset into the wall, adopting a selection of poses. He could do
with a haircut.
Ruth Reynolds was thinking the same thing. She watched him thoughtfully through
the two-way glass, her forefinger resting across pursed lips. A few more minutes
and she’d go in. But this was instructive.
The door opened and Molly brought in a tray of tea and biscuits, with a foil
ashtray beneath a serviette. She placed them carefully on the table. “Dr
Reynolds is on her way now.”
He would have preferred a beer, but it didn’t seemed polite to say so. Maybe
Reynolds would offer him one when she arrived. Ruth, he reminded himself. Ruth.
Normally he preferred the informality of first name terms, but it didn’t come
easily with Reynolds.
Over salutations and small-talk they took the same seats as previously. Randall
gulped the tea down before even he’d finished his first cigarette. Maybe it
would encourage her to offer something stronger. Right now he could do with a
brandy. Two brandies. But he’d happily settle for a cold Bud.
“Molly said you were with another client?”
“As I stressed last time, you’re not the only one with a problem, Greg,”
Reynolds smiled robotically. “Without giving too much away, we’ve had a large
number of enquiries recently. We always do after a public scare like this. There
are a lot of men out there feeling the same as you do. Fighting the same
impossible battle to control their thoughts and desires. Only a very few have
the courage to do what you’ve done. To seek help.”
“Is this how it starts? Like me? Just looking, fantasising?” He wasn’t sure
he wanted to know the answr.
Reynolds considered the question thoughtfully. “To be honest, Greg, we just
don’t know. It’s possible. You yourself admit the progressive nature of your
predicament. That the desires grow stronger with time. But I can assure you
that, with therapy, the problem can be treated, if we catch it at an early
enough stage.”
“Have you discussed my case with Dr Quinlan?”
“Not yet. He’s been busy with other matters. As a leading authority in this
field his services are in wide demand, especially just now.”
“I was looking at some of his books.” He gestured to the bookshelf. “I’d
never have thought so much could be written about such an obscure subject. Mind
you, I never really thought about this kind of thing at all until recently. “
“It’s only when people encounter problems like this directly that they tend to
become involved. Because of their own feelings, or because someone close to them
has a problem. You still haven’t told your wife, I presume?”
“I daren’t.”
“Sometimes it helps to have your partner on board, Greg. A problem
shared…”
“She wouldn’t understand.”
“Perhaps not. But fighting a problem alone can be harder still. Obviously you
have the full support of Dr Quinlan and I, and you can call on us at any time,
but when all is said and done we can’t be there for you twenty-four hours a day.
It helps to have someone to confide in at home. To be there to support you when
the urge is strong and your will-power weak.”
“I couldn’t. I don’t know how Bethan would react. She might…”
“Take the children away?”
He nodded, unable to bring himself to voice the fear that haunted him.
“Let’s talk about you and Bethan first, if that’s okay.”
It wasn’t okay, but what choice did he have? He thought of Tamara and Natalie.
That night in the bath. There could be no turning back. “I guess.”
“Would a beer help?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” He grinned at her, hoping he hadn’t appeared
rude, but she didn’t reciprocate the smile. She was already churning the
questions as she went to the drinks cabinet. This time there was a four-pack on
ice inside, ready for him. Maybe she wasn’t such a harridan after all.
“Greg, if we’re to help you we need to know you at a very personal level. It’s
imperative that you answer honestly and openly. No secrets. Nothing held back.
Now, how would you rate your sex-life?”