Sugar & Spice (29 page)

136

“I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. It just happened.”
Reynolds’ voice came from the bathroom. He could hear the tap running.
“There’s no need to apologise, Greg. That was excellent. Just excellent. It
was necessary to have you achieve orgasm so we could record the peak of your
arousal, to establish a benchmark for once therapy begins properly. I’m sorry
I couldn’t warn you, but that would have altered the way you reacted. It
wouldn’t have been a true reading.”
“Those children… I’ve never seen anything like that before. It was just
so… I couldn’t help myself. I knew it was wrong, but it was so…”
“Erotic?”
Embarrassment and shame mingled in his mind. He felt dirty. “What happens
now?”
Reynolds came back into the room. He prayed she wouldn’t turn up the lights.
“The aversion therapy cannot begin until you’re fresh. There’s nothing
more we can do today. If you’ll just sit tight while I remove the
plethysmograph, then you can shower and dress.”
“That’s it? I can go?”
“Next time we’ll begin the therapy proper, once we’ve analysed the
results. Molly will arrange another date for you as you leave. Don’t worry,
she hasn’t a clue what you’ve been doing.”
He made his way to the bathroom, savouring the flush of the hot shower. Soaping
himself over and over while trying to bring order to the turmoil in his mind.
Through the screen Reynolds asked, “How do you feel, Greg?”
“Embarrassed. Ashamed. Dirty. Perverted.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“To see abuse actually happening, on film, right there in front of me… Where
on Earth do you get stuff like that?”
“For our part, we obtain it discreetly through the Home Office. It’s
material seized by the Scotland Yard Paedophile Unit.”
“But before that?” He needed to talk, to delay his inevitable face-to-face
with Reynolds with the lights back on. “Where does it come from in the first
place?”
“Scandinavia originally, although the internet has made it a world-wide
phenomena. You’ve bought porn magazines in the past, haven’t you?”
“Adult stuff, yes. Not child porn.”
“Have you ever seen the Rodox and Colour Climax series?”
He had but wasn’t about to admit it. “No.”
“You surprise me. They were all the rage for many years, mainly in licensed
sex shops. It was genuine pornography, not the page three glamour magazines you
get in your local newsagents. Rodox was formed back in the sixties by Peter
Theander. Hard to believe now, but back in the sixties some Scandinavian
countries legalised pornography. All pornography, including child porn. The
scenes you were watching were from the Lolita series.”
“Lolita? I’ve seen the film. Jeremy Irons. But it wasn’t…”
“Not Nabokov. The real thing. The Lolita magazine series was the first large
scale, commercial child-porn operation in the world, legally sanctioned by the
Danish government. The company is still going, although not children now, of
course. But at the time it sired a host of copy-cat series, like Lolitots. That
was in Denmark too, but run by an Englishman, Eric Cross. Lolitots was the
biggest, but there were others. Sweet Patti and Sweet Linda. When the
Scandinavian authorities finally called a halt it was all driven underground.
Child porn became almost impossible to find. But the internet means that’s all
changed. Now anyone can have child abuse images in their living room at the
click of a mouse. As I explained when you first came to us, Greg, you’re not
the only one with these fantasies. Not by any stretch of the imagination.”
“I’m beginning to realise that now.”
“There are people out there who genuinely believe that sex with children is
harmless fun and should be legalised.”
“Legalised?”
“You’ve heard of the Paedophile Information Exchange, surely?”
“Sort of. But it’s defunct now, isn’t it?”
“Officially, yes. It’s a legally proscribed organisation, but banning
something doesn’t make the problem go away. I can assure you its members are
still out there. Not just here, but worldwide. Have you ever heard of the Rene
Guyon Society?”
“Never.”
“The original American Pie. They advocate the legalisation of what they call
trans-generational sex. Their motto might appeal to you, Greg.”
Randall popped his head round the screen inquisitively. “What is it?”
Reynolds smiled at him. “Sex before eight, or else it’s too late.”

137

For Old Sally it was just another cold winter’s day.
The run-up to Christmas meant late-night shoppers and drunken revellers
disturbing her evening rest in the high street doorways, and colourful street
lighting stopped her sleeping once the crowds finally vanished.
The skip at the rear of the alley was a regular stop. Skips were a treasure
trove for the homeless on the streets of London.
The blouse was a child’s, but almost new. She might be able to exchange it at
a charity shop for something her size. She stuffed the garment in her bag and
reached for the winter coat.
As she pulled it from the skip the lifeless eyes staring back at her were too
much for a heart weakened by hypothermia and cheap alcohol. Old Sally managed to
reach the street corner before keeling over.
The bag in the old crone’s hand aroused no particular interest from PC Stephen
Glover, taking copious notes from the one person who had bothered to stop. More
rags to keep warm. As the ambulance drove slowly away, Glover dutifully walked
back towards the skip to collect anything Old Sally might have dropped. It was
the first time anyone had died on his beat.
He picked up the white ankle sock indifferently.
A secck and his mind began to race. He thought of the child’s blouse in Old
Sally’s bag.
The pleated grey skirt had him almost running towards the skip, fearing the
worst, but still daring to hope.
This was the stuff police careers were made of.
But nothing at Bramshill Training College had prepared him for this.

138

Dr William Thewliss made his initial assessment from a distance, waiting
patiently for the SOCO photographer to finish.
He could barely hide his excitement as he took control of the scene.
It was a forensic pathologists’ dream.
The yellow fingernails stood out like beacons, the unmistakeable trademark of
Uncle Tom. Thewliss took charge of the body with confident air. SOCO were
arranging arc lamps at a safe distance as December’s early dusk encroached. A
canvas tent shielded the scene from the crowd of on-lookers gathering at the
police cordon.
Satisfied, Thewliss announced his findings to a microphone while a cameraman
took video footage.
There was no sign of hypostasis, the settling of blood under gravity, indicating
the death must be recent.
He announced readings from the rectal thermometer, competent enough to calculate
the result in his head, although he’d run it through his laptop for precision.
Deduct the recorded temperature from the normal body temperature of thirty-seven
Celsisus. Divide by one-point-five. Plot to a graph and allow an average cooling
rate of two-point-five degrees per hour. The computer could factor in air
temperature and other considerations, but Thewliss already had an estimated time
of death in mind.
It was another hour before he was ready to have the body moved.
There was nothing to indicate who the child might be and it was not until
early-evening that her anxious parents, oblivious to the drama unfolding a few
blocks away, finally stopped calling their daughters’ friends and called the
police.
The father identified the child as ten year old Victoria Gilham within the hour.

By then his wife was already succumbing to the welcome fog of heavy sedation.
Victoria was their only child.

139

By all accounts Victoria had been an independent young lady who often preferred
her own company to that of her peers.
She had attended school that morning, but wandered into town on her own at lunch
time.
Her teacher recorded her absent on the afternoon register but it was the last
few weeks of term. The school’s Christmas play was already behind schedule. It
wasn’t even worth the effort to text her parents. There were more pressing
matters to deal with than regular truants.
It was a professional decision of the type teachers are forced to take every
day.
It was a decision that would haunt her for the rest of her life.

140

At Lambeth Road, forensics were making progress.
The fingernail paint samples had been subjected to emission spectroscopy, placed
between to carbon electrodes and an electric arc. The spectroscope broke the
light emissions into constituent parts. It was the same paint as found on Uncle
Tom’s previous victims.
Fibres on the copper pipe suggested the killer had worn white cotton gloves when
he applied the ligature.
Hairs found on the girls’ cardigan were subjected to comparison microscopy and
neutron activation analysis. Animal hairs were later matched to the child’s
pet. A single one of the fifty-three human hairs removed from the cardigan was
not from the child. A DNA analysis confirmed it matched the semen trace also
found on the child. The killer had short brown hair.
The soiled handkerchief was almost superfluous. A white cotton hanky, stained
with the child’s blood, Group A. The mucus on the handkerchief was that of a
secretor, blood group O. The DNA matched the hair and semen.
But initial jubilation was short-lived.
The inquiry quickly began to falter as leads turned to dead ends and the flood
of information from a well-meaning public began to ebb.
On December tenth, following an anonymous tip-off, the bodies of the missing
Isle of Wight girls were dragged from the Kennet & Avon Canal, south of Reading.
The next day, following a Crimewatch Special, came a new lead.
Weisman took the call personally and assigned Pitman to follow through.
A case conference was being held by Kent Social Services at noon, to which the
police were invited.
Social workers following up a routine child protection concern believed they may
have stumbled across the identity of Uncle Tom.

141

The four social workers sat down one side of the long table in the Case
Conference Room in Dane Valley Road. The guest speaker had rung through to say
she was running late. Pitman, sitting alone on the far side, cursed Weisman
beneath his breath. This was a job for a rookie PC, not a seasoned old-timer.
Attempts at conversation with the social workers had proved pointless.
They were on a different planet.
The guest arrived drenched, giving Pitman some mild satisfaction. He made a
point of looking at his watch, but everyone else seemed quite unconcerned at the
time wasted. Further time passed while the guest was provided with a pot of tea.
Pitman looked on aghast. He didn’t want a cup, but it would have been nice to
have been offered.
“Thank you all for coming today,” one of them finally began. “As we have
some new faces here I’ll briefly introduce you all. For the Department, I’m
Vera Kidger, Senior Social Worker. My colleagues are Corinne Moon and John
Pratt, both case workers now assigned to the children, and Michael O’Shea, a
fellow Senior Social Worker. Across the table I’m pleased to welcome Dr Ruth
Reynolds. Ruth is a psychotherapist at the prestigious Quinlan Foundation in
Sevenoaks.” He paused to give her fellow workers a chance to dwell on the
esteemed presence before them. Then, almost as an afterthought, “And also
present is Sergeant Pitman of Kent Police.”
“Inspector,” Pitman corrected. “Detective Inspector.” He wondered if
Weisman had deliberately misinformed her.
“Inspector Pitman.” Kidger affected a charmless smile. “Now, this meeting
has been called specifically to deal with the sexual abuse of two young girls.
The abuser, as is so very often the case, is their biological father. We need to
consider whether there might be grounds for placing the children on the At Risk
register.”
“Surely if the children are being abused that should have been done long
ago,” Pitman ventured.
Kidger glared at him. “Really, Sergeant… Social workers labour under
countless guidelines and procedures which have to be followed. We cannot barge
in and rescue a child just because they are being abused.”
Pitman raised an eyebrow. “It’s Inspector. And if you care to hand your
evidence to any police officer we’ll do it for you. Sexual abuse of children
is a criminal offence, in case you hadn’t heard.”
Kidger dismissed him with a wave of the hand. “We haven’t got the evidence
yet, Sergeant. That’s what Dr Reynolds is here today to reveal to us.”
All eyes turned to Reynolds, who basked in the attention. Kidger continued,
“Dr Reynolds, Ruth, has been treating the father for some time, and through
her work has uncovered clear evidence of the most appalling abuse. Ruth
specifically requested a representative of the Police be present today, so
serious are her concerns.”
There were sharp intakes of breath from the case-workers. Reynolds was basking
in the build-up, smiling in turn at each awed face that peered towards her.
Pitman felt nauseous. Selfrighteous Do-Gooders. He tapped his fingers
impatiently.
“Without further ado, then, I’ll hand over to Ruth.”
Reynolds sat to attention, engaging her audience. Pitman studied his
fingernails.
“It is with the utmost misgivings that my purpose here today is to betray the
confidence of a client, of a patient, for the greater good.”

142

Reynolds paused for effect, taking a sip of tea, basking in the earnest gaze of
the social workers.
“Earlier this year we were approached by a thirty-one year old Caucasian male,
Gregory Alan Randall, who presented us with a challenging case study of multiple
paraphilic inclinations, including a history of sexual interest in young
girls.”
“Miss Reynolds, I understand there is a connection with ,”
“Sergeant, please!” It was Kidger, sporting an expression of affronted
indignation. “I’m sure I don’t know how guests are treated at your Police
Station, but here we believe it polite to let a speaker make her representation
without interruption.”
“But I ,”
“There will be an opportunity to question Ruth once she has finished.”
Kidger’s glaring eyes dared him to challenge her authority.
“Thank you, Vera,” Ruth said, looking at Pitman. “Now, Randall came to us
in July of this year, a few weeks after the tragic incident with the little girl
abducted from this area.”
“Rebecca Meadows,” Pitman said.
Kidger appeared to approve this brief contribution.
“Rebecca, that’s right. Such a sweet child. My heart goes out to her
parents. It must have been terrible for them.”
“Terrible,” the Do-Gooders murmured as one.
“Of course, it’s quite common for establishments such as ours to receive
increased interest from the public after high-profile sexual-assault cases.”
The social workers were nodding like donkeys, led by Kidger, who Pitman mentally
nick-named Senior Nodder.
“To cut a long story short, I undertook the preliminary interviews with
Randall, on behalf of Dr Quinlan. What emerged was a paedophile with a clear and
developing sexual attraction towards pre-pubescent females. Randall is married,
and the father of twins. Two six year old girls.”
There were further intakes of breath as the Do-Gooders put two and two together.
Reynolds acknowledged their train of thought.
“Precisely. Nonetheless, Randall was able to assure us, convincingly at first,
that his paedophile interest in young girls did not extend to his own daughters.
He admitted to finding girls most attractive at about eight or nine, and for
this reason, fearing what he might do in the future, and spurred on by the
publicity about Uncle Tom, he came to us for help.”
She paused for tea, pleased to see Pitman scribbling notes. “On completion of
our assessment we advised Randall we were concerned he might in the future
become a danger to his own or other people’s children, and that some form of
prophylactic therapy should be undertaken at the earliest opportunity. You will
appreciate we can only make judgements based on what our clients reveal to us.
There was no way, at this time, we could have realised Randall was in fact using
the Foundation to further his own vile and sordid agenda.”
Kidger brought her hands together as if in prayer, shaking her head in
disbelief. There were stifled gasps from the Do-Gooders as they realised where
Reynolds was heading. Pitman listened intently, unimpressed by Reynolds’
supposed ethical dilemma, anxious for the details.
“Dr Quinlan and I began a course of aversion therapy with Randall, in good
faith, believing we were in some way helping this poor man. As you may be aware,
aversion therapy in the first instance involves the viewing of images designed
to stimulate, in order later to deter, dysfunctional desire. In this case
Randall’s paedophile fantasies. To that end we have access, trough the Home
Office, to material such as child pornography, the like of which I can assure
you would churn the stomach of every man and woman in this room.” She paused
to inspect her audience, defying anyone not to have their stomach churned.
“The Home Office gives you child porn to show your patients?” Pitman looked
incredulous. Had he misheard?
Reynolds smiled smugly. “The Quinlan Foundation is one of the few
establishments in the country licensed by the Home Office under the Sex
Offenders’ Programme to treat persistent and violent criminals. The materials
we use are part of the immense stock of child pornography seized every year by
the National Paedophile Unit and its predecessor, the Obscene Publications
Squad.”
“Let me get this straight. You show child-porn images to paedophiles?”
“That’s perfectly correct, Inspector. Now, may I continue?”
Pitman let out a deep sigh. At least she had managed to address him by his
correct rank.
“Of course, it is only with hindsight we realised Randall was in fact using
our facilities to live out his own sadistic fantasies which, we now realise,
have led him to kill again.”
“You mean…” Kidger’s face was a picture. “You mean Randall is… Uncle
Tom?”
The other social workers were looking on in shock.
Reynolds’ face was a study in sincerity. “Precisely so, Vera, which is why I
asked you to invite the Police here today.”
The donkeys were nodding again. Pitman felt himself nodding too and quickly
rested his chin on his hand.
“Last month, when it appeared our therapy was having no significant impact, Dr
Quinlan arranged for Randall to obtain a second opinion from an independent
analyst. We at the Foundation are not so arrogant as to believe we have all the
answers. Sometimes a case like this can benefit from a fresh perspective.”
“How does this link Randall to Uncle Tom?”
“I’m about to come to that, Inspector, given the chance. Dr Quinlan arranged
for Randall to visit one of our south London colleagues at a private clinic. Due
to a mix-up, Randall arrived at the clinic but was turned away.”
Pitman shrugged. “And?”
“The clinic in question was in Woolwich, on the morning the girl was
murdered…”