Sugar & Spice (2 page)

4

On Pitman’s advice, Claire stayed over at Matt’s apartment on Marine
Esplanade, at the base of Ramsgate’s east cliff.
They barely made it before the first of the reporters descended on Pegwell,
soliciting predictable commentary from shocked neighbours. Among them, Matt’s
own colleagues.
He was seeing his job through new eyes now. His mobile stayed switched off. He
knew his own editor would be expecting an exclusive. But meeting deadlines were
suddenly unimportant.
While Claire succumbed to the respite of light sedation, Matt began the
unenviable task of contacting relatives and friends from her address book,
mostly faceless names. He guessed he’d have a chance to meet many of them at
the funeral. He wondered why it took a tragedy to bring people together.

5

It was Claire’s third media appeal in a fortnight, but this was by far the
most difficult.
The earlier pleas, for Rebecca to come home, for anyone who might have seen her
to come forward, for whoever was holding her to be compassionate and let her go,
were now redundant.
Matt sat beside her, just out of shot, as she read the rehearsed,
police-scripted appeal for information.
Someone, somewhere, must have a suspicion,
Must know something,
Must have seen something,
It was a courageous attempt, but too soon. Claire broke down before the cameras,
substituting vitriol for the script. As the tears flowed Matt stepped into the
frame and embraced her, finishing the appeal himself, barely more able to
control his own words.
Fellow reporters savoured the moment, torn between compassion for a colleague
and an unfolding human interest drama.
Pitman was quietly pleased, feeling Claire’s emotion, but certain the raw
power of the scene would produce results.
As Matt escorted Claire from the room Pitman moved centre stage to parry the
flood of questions, finding himself alongside Detective Superintendent John
Weisman to give the formal briefing. It was, Weisman had assured him on more
than one occasion, Pitman’s inquiry. He had no intention of treading on toes.
But as the investigation was now a murder inquiry involving two separate Police
forces it was only appropriate that a more senior officer should make the
initial briefing.
Pitman acquiesced in good humour. He was fast approaching retirement and had no
intention of spending his last few years on the force fighting his superiors –
least of all the new boy. Weisman had been at the station barely a month and was
keen to establish himself as a community figure. Pitman guessed he’d want to
enjoy his moment of glory before the cameras, then to disappear back to his
office.
Claire and Matt watched the conference unfold on a video screen from the privacy
of an adjacent room. In different circumstances he would have been in the front
row, clamouring for the details that would make the next day’s front page. But
right now the blood-thirsty media pack sickened him.
Weisman made a show of shuffling his notes and checking with his DI before
proceeding with the introductions and expressing his condolences to the family.
The assembled media listened politely to the formalities, but as the
Superintendent came to the murder details the room fell silent bar the faint hum
of the electronic recording equipment, the reporters hanging on his every word.
“Thanks to DNA results we are now able to say beyond doubt that the body found
is that of Rebecca Anne Meadows, the ten year old girl reported missing from
just outside her home in Pegwell Bay on the evening of Friday, August second.”
Weisman paused to give the young reporter in the front row time to catch up.
Pitman eyed the young hack with disdain. What the hell was a novice doing
covering a case of this importance? He must have been a last minute substitution
for a more experienced reporter. The hack’s ID card was pinned to his lapel
upside down. Pitman made a mental note to have a word with him before he left.
Weisman was speaking again. “Regrettably, due to the time the body had been in
the water, the post-mortem results are not as detailed as we would have liked.
However, we are able to make the following observations with some certainty. It
is likely Rebecca’s body had been in the canal at least ten days, suggesting
she was killed very soon after her abduction. Cause of death is believed to have
been ligature strangulation.”
“Was she raped?” The young hack at the front was looking up, eagerly
awaiting the reply to his question.
Pitman was fuming, but Weisman acknowledged the question with a grave
expression. The room bustled. Sex crimes sold. This was what they all wanted to
know, delighted the novice at the front had got the matter aired so quickly.
Weisman chose to bide his time. “As I’ve already said, due to the advanced
state of decomposition the post-mortem results were not as clear and detailed as
we would have liked. But no, there is no indication of rape.”
There was an almost audible sigh of disappointment.
“But she was naked, right?” The novice hack again. Cameras zoomed, the room
a flood of flashing lights. This kid wouldn’t have to buy a drink all night!
“Obviously the fact that the victim was stripped of her clothes suggests a
possible sexual motive.”
Pitman was impressed at how Weisman depersonalised the statement, omitting
Rebecca’s name when talking about the sexual aspects, but using her name at
other times, reminding them all that this was somebody’s child.
“Have all her clothes been recovered?” The question came from the back.
“Most, not all. The child’s cycle helmet, hair band, socks and panties are
as yet unaccounted for. Our colleagues in Thames Division are still searching
for the missing items, which they believe may have drifted free from the body
and could be anywhere along the length of .”
From the floor: “Might the underwear have been kept by the killer, as a
trophy?”
“We can’t rule that out.”
“Will he strike again?” It was the novice hack at the front.
Weisman glared at him. It was not a question he wanted to address, but now he
had little choice. “We have to be open to that possibility. Whoever committed
this heinous assault, this brutal murder of a helpless child, is clearly someone
very, very disturbed. We urge parents everywhere to be vigilant – to be
careful.”
“Is he a serial killer?”
Weisman stared daggers at the young hack, unsure how to respond. Pitman came to
his rescue.
“As there is currently no evidence to link this murder to any other unsolved
crimes, we are treating this as a single incident.”
The hack looked suitably embarrassed. Weisman breathed a sigh of relief, looking
across the room for another question.
Someone asked, “What about the painted nails?”

6

Weisman raised his hand to ensure he had their undivided attention.
“That’s a good question. Gentlemen, ladies. May I first make clear that
neither the Kent Constabulary nor the Metropolitan Police Force have any wish to
associate themselves with this stupid, scaremongering Yellow Peril nickname that
certain thoughtless, some would say mindless, editors have chosen to give to the
perpetrator of this heinous crime. This kind of reporting does nothing to help
the investigation, and I can only guess at the distress it must cause to the
family of the victim.”
There was an almost shamed silence as the comments registered. Weisman moved up
a notch in Pitman’s esteem.
“With regard to your question, we can confirm that the fingernails of the girl
were painted yellow by her killer. To what purpose we can only guess. What we
can say definitely is that the nails were painted, not varnished. The paint is a
lead chromate based product of the type commonly used for road markings. The
product is not readily available to the public and this will certainly be a
factor in the conduct of our investigation.”
“Any suspects, DS Weisman?”
“We are currently examining our records for known offenders and I can assure
you every avenue is being explored in the hunt for this individual. There are a
number of people we wish to interview and we will advise you of developments as
they occur. We expect to make arrests in the very near future.”
A burst of questions came from across the floor as they realised the briefing
was over. Weisman stood up and raised his hand to quieten them.
“Thank you, gentleman, ladies. That’s all we can say at this stage.”
A few reporters persisted but the majority were already fighting to get out.
As the room emptied Weisman and Pitman walked towards the rear door, ignoring
the questions still being fired at them.
Pitman recognised Tony Kellerman, a freelancer with a deserved reputation for
knowing more than he should, heading towards them.
He patted Weisman on the shoulder in a false gesture of camaraderie and hurried
him along. Before they could reach the door Kellerman was upon them.
“Superintendent, one last question.”
Weisman ignored him. He’d already made plain the statement was over.
Pitman pulled open the door and gestured his senior through.
“No more questions,” Pitman growled.
“Superintendent!” Kellerman persisted.
Weisman turned on him. “That’s all, gentlemen. No more questions, please.”
Kellerman was there, microphone in hand.
“Mr Weisman, just one question, please. How’s your Uncle Tom?”
It was the briefest of reactions.
Barely a twitch.
As Pitman pushed his superior through and pulled the door closed behind him the
smile on Kellerman’s face said it all.

7

Greg Randall remained expressionless as he watched the funeral on the
mid-afternoon news bulletin.
As the footage ended DI Pitman repeated the appeal for help from the public.
Someone, somewhere, he said, must have their suspicions about a friend,
neighbour or relative. He reeled off a confidential number they could ring, that
ran as a banner at the bottom of the screen, and ended with a warning for
parents to be vigilant. “A dangerous man is at large. He could strike again at
any time.”
As the subject switched to sport, Randall hit the off button and grabbed his
jacket, his mind racing. He stopped at the railings to the play-park. A few
mothers stood by, chatting amiably while their children played.
“Daddy! Daddy!”
Randall swung round to see the Dynamite Twins running towards him, arms
outstretched, and his worries vanished. He bent down to scoop up the two six
year olds, one under each arm, smothering them with kisses.
“Greg? What are you doing here?” It was an innocent question, casually asked
by his wife Bethan, clearly delighted, if surprised, to see him. “No work
today?”
He hugged the girls tightly as he replied, always even with his affections.
“Finished early, love. I thought you might be here with the Twins.” He eased
the two girls to the ground and ushered them into the play-park. “Just five
minutes. Be careful.”
“You should have come along to the day-centre, Greg. Tamara has another
picture on the wall. And Natalie is doing so well with her reading. Honestly, I
sometimes think they learn more during the holidays than they do in
term-time.”
Randall leant his back against the railings, facing the road. Out of sight, out
of mind. He took Bethan by the hand and pulled her across to him, planting a
kiss on her lips. She put up a token resistance, slightly embarrassed by the
stares of the other mothers at this public show of affection. But after eight
years of marriage she knew better than to complain, when so many of her friends
envied the apparent freshness of their relationship.
“Can’t you wait till we get home?”
“No, let’s do it here, in the park. Right now. In front of everybody.”
“Greg!” An embarrassed Bethan distanced herself from her husband.
“Natalie! Tamara! Come on, or we’ll be late for tea.”
She began moving away, to encourage the children to hurry, ignoring their
justified protests that the promised five minutes had not yet elapsed.
Randall entwined his arm with his wife’s. “When we get home then,” he
persisted in practised tones. “The Twins can play in the garden. We’ll lock
the door, unhook the telephone, and Boom! Boom! Boom! while the neighbours are
still at work.”
Bethan checked the children were following and pulled him closer. A quick kiss.
The Dynamite Twins were right behind, and one of them slipped her hand into his
palm, her warm, tiny fingers clutching his own. He looked down at her, running
alongside him, her short legs struggling to match his pace. She looked up and
beamed a smile at him. A cold shiver ran down his spine. They were too precious.
He pulled the mobile from his pocket.
“I didn’t hear it ring?”
“It didn’t. I just need to call the office. Something I forgot.”
Bethan turned in surprise. “Can’t it wait 'til we get back?”
He made a show of examining his watch. “It could, but if I try now it will
save me hours of extra work in the morning. You go on with the girls. I’ll catch
you up.”
“You’re sure it’s not that blonde bimbo I saw you with the other day?”
Randall looked horrified. “What blonde bimbo?”
“Joking, darling.” Bethan pecked a kiss on his lips. “I’ll get the
kettle on. Don’t be too long.”
She walked on, chiding Natalie for straying too near the road. He waited till
they’d moved away before searched the menu for the single letter Q. The dialling
tone purred briefly, then he was through>
“I’d like to make an appointment, to see Dr Quinlan.”

8

Matt swivelled impatiently in his chair as he scanned the Google results, an
experienced eye skimming over the details, picking out key words and phrases.
More than two weeks had passed since the boys had found Rebecca’s body. The
younger child was still in trauma. In hospital, under sedation, his parents at
his bedside. The second boy had affected a rapid recovery with no ill-effects to
speak of.
Matt jotted shorthand notes, slowly getting back into a working routine after
the few days compassionate leave.
He chased the cursor round the screen, saving tracts to folders as he went,
adding to the file laden with press reports of child murders dating back over
thirty years. At some stage he would find time to go through the details, to
pick out any salient points.
The police, both the local Kent Constabulary and Scotland Yard, would be doing
the same thing, using the more accurate official reports rather than what little
information the media had been allowed.
There were ways round that problem, but Matt preferred to explore all legal
avenues first. Apart from anything else, McIntyre would want to know source
details before allowing any suspect story to run.
A smile parted his lips as he thought of Danny.
There were some sources Matt preferred not to explain.
He brought up on screen a press directory from archives and ran a search for
trauma in children. Nothing specific on boys coming across rotting corpses. He
jotted down some generalised observations in shorthand but the material was too
vague to be of use.
In different circumstances he would have broadened the detail with a bit of
guesswork and common sense observations, attributed to unnamed sources in case
of any comebacks.
But this time it was personal.
He valued accuracy over meeting the looming deadline, despite McIntyre’s
overbearing presence.
He flicked open his mobile, obtained an extension and eventually connected.
“Professor Large speaking.” The accent was pure Scouse.
“Gavin, it’s Matt.”
“Matt. How are you, mate? Business or pleasure?”
“Business.”
“Oh. It’s my lunch-break, mate. Can it wait?”
“I’ll source you.”
“It’s still my lunch-break.”
“You’ve been following the murder here, I presume?”
Large sighed. “The little girl they found the other week? Rachael somebody?”
“Rebecca. Rebecca Meadows.”
“The Yellow Peril murder, right? I guessed you might be covering the story.”
“Not just covering it, Gavin. Personally involved. I knew the girl.”
“Knew her?”
“Remember John and Claire Meadows?”
“Vaguely. Photographer? Brain tumour?”
“This was their daughter.”
The line fell silent. “Jesus. Aren’t you and Claire…”
“Like I say, Gavin, I’m personally involved.”
The line fell silent a second time, then, “Matt, I’m so sorry. I never made
the connection. I mean, anything that happens your side of Birmingham may as
well be on a different planet. Is there anything I can do? How’s Claire?”
“As can be expected. We’re just taking a day at a time right now.”
“Time heals, Matt. You’ll see. Any news on the bastard who did this?”
“Nothing yet. I’m trying to keep up the media interest until there is. I’d
hate to see this inquiry fade quietly away with nothing to show for it. Just
another unsolved child murder lying on file.”
“That’s one thing that won’t happen.”
“Why so confident?”
“It was too ritualistic. This wasn’t a crime for passion or profit. It was
cold, calculated murder. Anyone sick enough to kill a child and then decorate
the body is in it for gratification. Those types of people don’t just enjoy it,
Matt. They need it. Believe me, he’ll kill again ihe’s not caught.”