Sugar & Spice (22 page)

101

Weisman rubbed his hands gleefully. “That was Shropshire. Their forensic boys
have just come up with a trace on the body.”
“A trace?”
“It looks like he couldn’t keep his hands off the kid. Nicotine trace.”
“Dirty fucking bastard.”
“There’s further tests to be done, but it’s looking good. “
“What can we expect?”
“At best? A brand. Now that would be a turn up. Regardless, we know we’re
after a smoker now. It’s the best break we’ve had.” He produced a bottle
of Glenmorangie. “This calls for a celebration.”
There was just the one abstention, but they all knew Pitman was teetotal.
“Let’s get the team back in harness, David. I want the smoking habits of
everyone on the suspects list by the end of shift. But discreetly. The longer we
can keep this from the press, the better.”

102

The smell of burned joss-sticks was almost overpowering, but strangely welcome,
after the biting tang of the Professor’s cheap aftershave.
Claire plied the threadbare stairs to the top floor of the Aintree building
where, Large had explained, Ceri’s bedsit was situated. The banister was unsafe,
the walls in need of new paper, and the woodwork needed repainting. The lights
didn’t work and the landing windows were so grimy they advanced the afternoon
sun to dusk.
Student accommodation hadn’t changed much, Claire reflected.
The kettle was slow and they used the opportunity to get the feel of one
another. The journey up, Professor Large’s eating habits, anything but the
subject they’d met to discuss. Scalding water dissolved the cheap coffee
granules and milk powder with a deal of stirring. The fridge didn’t actually
work, Ceri explained, but it was nice to have it there anyway.
“It must be an interesting job, being a reporter?”
The comment took Claire by surprise. Large obviously hadn’t explained the
precise nature of her interest.
“I’m not actually a reporter. My partner Matt is. I’ve been… Helping him
cover the investigation.”
Ceri nodded. “Professor Large did tell you this was a private meeting. Off the
record?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’ve never done anything like this before,” Ceri said nervously.
Claire gave a reassuring smile. “Professor Large speaks very highly of you.”
Ceri looked surprised. “He does?”
“He said your profile of Uncle Tom was quite exceptional.”
Ceri laughed. “That’s rich. He wouldn’t even mark it!”
It was Claire’s turn to be surprised. “But I thought,”
Ceri smiled. “My fault. I didn’t actually do what I was asked to. We were
supposed to profile a convicted murderer. Of course, everyone plumped for the
big names. You know, Dahmer, Nilsen. Dead boring.” She paused, searching
Claire’s eyes for a sign of recognition. She gave a self-conscious laugh.
“Dead boring. They were necrophiles, right?”
Claire permitted a wan smile. “So why choose Uncle Tom?”
“I wanted to do a child-killer. I think that is just so sick. Don’t get me
wrong. I’m not saying taking men off the streets and boiling their heads is
normal, but children… So I was looking through the options… Brady, Black,
Fish, Lopez, when the girl went missing at my sister’s school. They weren’t
close friends or anything. But…” Her voice choked over. “It could so
easily have been Gwynra instead.”
She was clutching her cup tightly, her knuckles almost white, but her face
remained calm. “Supposing he was still in the area, waiting to strike
again?”
Claire reached out a sympathetic hand.
“I’ve had a few sleepless nights,” Ceri continued. “But I believe he’s
moved on now.”
“I read that in your profile. Could you talk me through it? I’ve got a copy
with me.”
Ceri took the papers and leant back in the armchair, glancing over the document
to refresh her memory. “Who else has seen this?”
“Just Matt and I, and Professor Large, obviously.”
Ceri seemed satisfied. “All I did was to try to build up a picture of the
killer. Key movements, correlation of dates and places, any similarities between
the kids attacked. That was easy enough from the newspapers. But to do a serious
profile you need to know the gory detail of how he operated. What he did to his
victims. Exactly how they were killed. That sort of thing.”
“But we know what he did, surely?”
“Only what’s been reported. What I really need are the forensic reports and
the post mortem analyses. Obviously we have this nail-paint business. At first
glance very significant. These kind of singular abnormalities are what usually
help identify the killer. You know, there might be ten suspects all with a
background of assaults on children, but only one will be so disturbed as to want
to decorate his victims in this way. Colin Dunst says it’s some kind of fetish.
At first I agreed with him. But then it struck me that if the killer has some
fetish about nail varnish then only nail varnish would do.”
“Why?”
“Paint and varnish have entirely different smells.”
“So?”
Ceri smiled. “Do you know how fetishes develop?”
“It’s not something I’ve made a life-time’s study of, I must admit.”
“There are several theories, but I favour the idea that the object – the
fetish – in some way rekindles subconscious memories of pleasant experiences
dating back to adolescence or even childhood. In Uncle Tom’s case perhaps an
experience with a woman who wore yellow nail varnish. That’s Dunst’s reasoning,
anyway. But like I say, why use paint? It would have a totally different
olfactory association. And contractors’ paint yet, not house paint, or modelling
paint, either of which are more readily available. That’s weird, really weird.
Then I read a cop quoted as saying the nails were painted with meticulous care.
If that’s true then Dunst is way off the mark.”
“I don’t follow.”
“It’s simple. If the nails were painted with meticulous care I’d wager the
girls were already dead when he did it. If they were alive, even if restrained,
they’d be struggling. There’d be paint smudges, not this meticulous piece of
art.” She was reliving her inquiry now, going through the reasoning as she had
first done when she wrote the report, her voice becoming more excited, oblivious
as Claire’s composure slipped.
“Then there’s the question of how he actually assaulted his victims. The
police have been pretty circumspect about that, other than to deny actual rape
took place. The press reports merely referred to sexual assault and
strangulation. What kind of assault? Did he bugger them? What part of his body
did he use? Was there oral contact? Did he use an object? Were they strangled
before or after? I understand the first girl, Rebecca, was alive when the
assault began. It must have been horrific for her. I mean he…”
She realised Claire was in tears. “I’m sorry. Are you okay? Let me get some
tissues.” She reached for a box of Kleenex beneath the bed. Claire took them
gratefully, dabbing her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Ceri. I should have been honest with you from the start. You need
to know. Rebecca was my daughter.”

103

“For the tape, son, where did you steal the car from.”
“Hilton Park Services, on the M6.”
“Where exactly?”
“In the car park.”
“The main car park or the motel park?”
“The motel.”
“What time?”
“About midnight.”
“Can yoube more precise?”
Jeff shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t think you appreciate how serious this is, Jeffrey.”
“We didn’t know. Honestly. It was just another car. We never went near the
boot. I swear I didn’t know she was there. How could anyone know?”
The Duty Solicitor spoke up. “My client is a car thief. He’s admitted to
stealing the car. It’s quite obvious he didn’t know about the child.”
“Maybe not. But he lit the match that killed her.”
“That’s way out of order, Officer. On your own admission you believe the
girl to have been abducted by this Uncle Tom. Given his record so far it seems
this unfortunate child would have died one way or the other regardless of my
client’s involvement. My client isn’t facing murder charges here. He stole a
car, that’s all.”
The detective ignored the solicitor, turning on Jeff. “Was there anything else
in the car when you took it? Anything at all that might give us a lead as to the
previous driver?”
“Nothing.”
“No bags or cases? No papers or documents? Anything at all?”
“Nothing. Just a map.”
Both detectives were leaning forward. “A map?”
“A street map. Of Telford – in the dash.”
“Where is it now?”
“Ashes, I expect.”
“And there was nothing else?”
“Nothing.” A long pause. “Just a disc.”
“A what?”
“A compact disc. You know, music, on CD? Well, you might call it music. It was
just some old fart singing.”
“So this CD went the same way as the map, I suppose. Lost in the fire?”
He hesitated.
“Jeff?”
He took a deep breath. “No, I gave it to Mum. Thought she might like it. It’s
more her style. You know, old fogey music.”
“Ted, you get hold of the rental firm. I’ll go see Mrs McAllister.” The
officer was half-way out of the room when he stopped and turned. “Interview
suspended three fifty-one pm. You two wait here. I’ll send someone through.”

104

“Rumour has it one of the key suspects has just been asked what fags he
smokes.”
McIntyre shrugged. “So?”
“It’s a new angle. Shows the investigation is still progressing.”
“Don’t waste my time with jigsaw pieces, Matt. I’ve got a paper to edit. Tell
me when you’ve got a picture and I’ll come and admire it. Until then I suggest
you try do some reporting for a change. In case you’ve forgotten, it’s what
you’re paid for. Get the background before that tosser Kellerman beats us to it
again. Proctor’s been giving me hell all week about you, Matt. Seriously. He is
not a happy bunny. Our own correspondent, personally involved, and Kellerman’s
getting all the scoops. I know it’s been a difficult time for you and Claire,
but Proctor’s got a point. The biggest crime sensation since the Ripper, right
on our doorstep, and we’re rehashing other papers’ stories.”
Matt looked sullen.
He knew Harvey Proctor was on McIntyre’s back.
It was the proprietor’s role to lean on his editor.
It was the editor’s role to lean on his journalists.
“I’ve been in this business fifteen years, Mac, and I’ve never dealt with
anything like this before. Kids killed, yes, but this is a once in a lifetime
scenario. Kellerman’s just a sick bastard out for what he can get. He doesn’t
care who gets hurt along the way. I do.”
“I’m running a newspaper, Matt, not a bloody counselling service.”
Matt slammed the door behind him. “Fuck you.”

105

At 5.40pm Weisman addressed his team in grave tone, biting his lower lip with
irritation.
“This morning the lad who stole the burned-out vehicle the girl’s body was
found in came forward voluntarily. A sixteen year old. Shropshire CID have been
with him all afternoon. They’ve confirmed what we suspected, that the vehicle
was taken and torched by a joy-rider. Shropshire are convinced the youth had no
knowledge of the child in the boot. Needless to say he was too scared to come
forward sooner.”
“I suppose we should be thankful he came forward at all,” Pitman observed
quietly.
“My sentiments exactly, David. The good news is, the lad had two very useful
clues for us. Firstly, there had been a street map of Telford in the dashboard.
It was destroyed in the fire, but suggests the previous driver may not have
known the town too well. The vehicle had sat-nav, but nothing was recoverable
after the fire. But safe to assume the driver deliberately refrained from using
it. But the map suggests the abduction of the child from Telford may have been
planned in advance, presuming the two are connected.”
“Not my idea of good news, Sir. If you’re right, it’s a matter of waiting for
the body to turn up.”
“That had occurred to me as well, David. But we have to take heart from what
little information we have. The nicotine trace you heard about earlier. They’ve
narrowed that down to a cigar.”
“Better than nothing, What’s all this about a CD?”
Weisman suppressed a sigh. “The wonders of internal communications. Our
joy-rider found a disc in the vehicle’s stereo system. It wasn’t to his personal
taste so he pocketed it and gave it to his mother. It’s been tracked down and is
with forensic now. The good news is that, as well as the boy’s and his mother’s
prints, they’ve got a third. There’s a strong possibility it’s the killer’s.”
“And the bad news?”
“The print has no match with any known offender. So, three possibilities: one
is that the print is from a third party not involved with the girl. The previous
two bona fide hirers have both been traced, questioned and eliminated. The
second possibility is that this case is unconnected to the other killings. I
think that’s unlikely, given the circumstances. Which brings us to the third
scenario.”
“That Dunst is wrong?”
Weisman looked uncomfortable. “Colin was specific in his assurances that the
killer would have previous convictions. That he’d be in the system somewhere.
Personally I can’t fault his logic. What little I understood of his explanation
made a lot of sense. But the latest evidence points to this print being the
killer’s. If it is, and Colin Dunst is wrong on such a central part of the
profile, then gentleman, to put it mildly, we’ve got a problem.”
There was silence from the floor as the information sank in.
“As a matter of interest, Guv, what type of CD was it? The music, I mean. The
sounds he’s into may give us a clue of some sort. If he’s a heavy rock freak or
a country and western fanatic maybe he wears a leather jacket or a Stetson.”
It was a weak comment, meant to break the silence and raise a laugh, but Weisman
wasn’t smiling.
“I was saving that till last. The disk is a home-burned CD-R, playing a loop
of the same song. Gentlemen, I don’t think there can be any doubts about these
being Uncle Tom’s prints and this being Uncle Tom’s disk.” He paused for
effect. The room was silent, everyone there hanging on his next words.
“The one, single song on the disk is a repeat loop of Maurice Chevalier,
singing Thank Heaven For Little Girls.”

106

He might have anticipated Dr Quinlan presence by the gleaming Mercedes in the
director’s bay, but his mind was elsewhere. Molly led him through to Quinlan’s
office.
Randall enthusiastically shook hands with the frail man in the wheelchair,
thankful he wouldn’t be facing that woman again. But as Quinlan assumed his
place behind his desk it was the older man’s serious expression that concerned
him.
“Dr Reynolds recommended I should speak to you directly, to make clear our
concerns,” Quinlan began with no resortsmall-talk.
“Concerns?”
“I’ll come straight to the point, Mr Randall. You came here by way of
self-referral because of your interest in children. As I’m sure Dr Reynolds
explained, your predilection for young girls is by no means unique. Here at the
Foundation we have many years experience in recognising the condition in its
various stages.” He paused. “I’m sorry, there is no easy way of saying this.
Dr Reynolds and I are extremely concerned for the safety of your daughters.”
Randall froze. His mind was active in his defence, but the words would not come.
“Don’t misunderstand me. We’re not suggesting anything has happened yet. But
we’ve encountered similar situations before, and we know from experience how
very rapidly these things can get out of hand.”
Randall was nodding mindlessly, his eyes glazed.
“Our concern is that your interest in children, which you have already
indicated is growing, could in a very short space of time progress to breaking
the body barrier. As the father of two young girls… I’m sure you understand my
point. Our experience shows that in this sort of paraphilia the progression from
fantasy to actuality, from thinking to doing, can be very sudden, escalating out
of control without warning. Without wishing to alarm you unduly, both Dr
Reynolds and I are agreed that your condition warrants urgent and immediate
therapy.”
Randall was struggling to take this in. He thought of the Dynamite Twins,
Natalie and Tamara. “This therapy… What exactly does it involve?”
Quinlan eased back into his wheelchair. The battle was won. Now it was simply a
matter of selecting the most appropriate tools. He had already decided, but went
through the motions of presenting a range of options.
“There are three basic methods for the treatment of sexual dysfunctions, all
of which have a proven success record, and all of which are available through
the Foundation. There will, of course, be a fee. I believe I intimated as much
to you when you first contacted us back in, when was it now, May, June some
time?”
“May twelfth.”
Quinlan nodded. “We’re a private organisation, as you know, not a charity. But
that said, we do have a sliding scale of fees to accommodate as many clients as
possible. Dr Reynolds and I have discussed your case and we feel we would be
able to offer you an appropriate course of treatment for about ten thousand
pounds.”
Randall stared at him, the figure dancing before his eyes. “Ten thousand?”
He struggled to articulate his thoughts. “I… I don’t have that kind of
money.”
“I’m truly sorry, Mr Randall. You must understand these types of treatment are
both time consuming and staff-intensive. We use only the latest technology, to
ensure we provide the highest possible quality of care. Such things do not come
cheaply.”
“Would the treatment be available on the NHS?”
Quinlan indulged a smile. “There are a few places around the country which
provide treatment under the National Health Service, yes. But to be perfectly
frank I could not recommend any of them to you. The NHS simply doesn’t have the
trained and experienced staff in this highly specialised field. I honestly feel
that, where you have two young children in your care, it would be unwise,
extremely unwise, to make do with second rate treatment. You understand my
concerns?”
Randall understood only too well. Do it on the cheap and risk harming the
Dynamite Twins.
Quinlan drove home the advantage. “Of course NHS treatment would, in the first
instance, require a referral by your local GP. As I understand it you have not
discussed the problem with your own doctor?”
“No. He treats Bethan and the Twins. I couldn’t face him.”
“There’s also a further consideration. The NHS is not the most secure of
public services. Once your information was on their database it could end up
anywhere. At the Foundation we can guarantee absolute privacy.”
andall was mortified. “We… We have savings, but not that much. Not ten
thousand…”
Quinlan dripped sympathy from every pore. “I quite understand. Some of our
past clients have remortgaged their homes to obtain the help they need. Now I’m
not for one minute suggesting you should do the same, of course. But you must
weigh up the long term security of your family against the short term financial
inconvenience.”
“All our savings are earmarked. Christmas, then a holiday for the Twins. I
don’t know how I could explain it to Bethan.”
“Mr Randall, the only alternative, if you genuinely want to protect your
daughters, is to move out. To keep away from them. So long as you live in the
same house those children are at risk; risk that will increase daily. I’m very
sorry, but that’s how we see the situation.”
“I just don’t have that much money. If I did… Dr Quinlan, the Twins mean
everything to me. I couldn’t live without them.”
Quinlan made a show of concern. “I don’t wish to pry, but how much could you
raise?”
“I don’t know. I could borrow, but not that much. Finding half that would be
difficult.”
Quinlan looked thoughtful. “Let me extend a special offer to you, given your
rather exceptional circumstances. Because I’m so concerned for your daughters’
safety if treatment is not undertaken with a degree of urgency, I’m prepared to
stretch a point and accept a lower fee of just seven thousand pounds for the
full course. Obviously such a move will push up our prices to other clients in
the future, but our primary concern just now is the safety of Natalie and
Tamara.”
For Randall there was nothing else to think about. The Dynamite Twins were
everything to him. He couldn’t risk losing them through some stupid indiscretion
which he knew would one day come. What was money compared with the love of his
family? Compared to the risk of harming the Twins?
“It may take a few days.”
Quinlan leant across, extending a hand. “Excellent, Mr Randall. Excellent. The
girls have a father to be proud of.”
Randall stared at the table, unable to look Quinlan in the eye. Maybe Reynolds
wasn’t so bad after all. At that moment he could have murdered a beer. “This
treatment. What exactly does it involve?”