Sugar & Spice (3 page)

9

Matt put down the receiver and swivelled his chair to the window view over the
city.
From the fourth floor of Southern Media Solutions’ prestigious operations
centre, Canterbury lay spread out before him.
He considered the phone conversation. He had a lot of respect for Gavin
Large’s views. And he needed to get something on screen for the next print run
to keep McIntyre off his back.
He popped a Malteser into his mouth, letting the chocolate slowly melt over his
tongue. It helped him to relax. To concentrate.
Simulated the pleasure of breast-feeding as an infant, Large had once explained.
Professor Large put most problems down to breast-feeding.
The mobile buzzed and Matt’s hand reached out on automatic, flicking the clam
open.
Withheld number.
“Burford.”
“Matt, it’s DI Pitman.”
Matt smiled to himself. Pitman was always formal on the Station phone.
“Any news?”
“Nothing you could print, Matt. Can I meet you somewhere private? Off the
record?”
“Off?” His heart sank. “Where are you?”
“Fort Hill, but I don’t want to be seen with you here. Are you busy?”
“This is important, obviously.”
“And then some. I can be in Canterbury, say one hour?”
“Where?”
“Somewhere neutral. And quiet.”
“Cafe Nero? Upstairs?”
“Fine. Sixty minutes.”
“What’s this all about, Dave?”
There was a long silence before Pitman replied. “Ever heard of Uncle Tom?”
“Should I have?”
“You’ll wish you hadn’t.”

10

Matt was on his second latte when Pitman arrived.
“How’s Claire?”
“Bearing up.” He knew better than to press the DI before he was ready, but
curiosity got the better of him. “Uncle Tom?”
Pitman looked around furtively before responding. “You remember the last press
conference? The statement we issued following the post-mortem?”
“I was there. So what?”
“It wasn’t the full story.”
Matt shrugged. “And?”
“Tony Kellerman’s on to it.”
“No surprise there.”
“He’s got a copy of the autopsy report.”
Matt caught his breath. “Why bother?”
“We think there was a leak at the Met end. They say not, but Kellerman clearly
knew something the other day. Something he said to Weisman as we were
leaving.”
“Which was?”
Pitman ignored the question. He’d explain in his own time.
“We have reason to believe Kellerman will go public with what he knows,
tonight or tomorrow. In your opinion, Matt, if he had a major new angle on this
story, would he play to the television tonight or hold for the headlines in the
morning?”
“Jesus, Dave. What is this about?”
“As I said on the telephone, this is strictly off the record. Weisman would
have my pension if he knew I was talking to you.”
“But if Kellerman already has it…”
“Exactly. I just don’t want Claire hearing it from someone else first.”
“For Christ’s sake!”
Pitman took the hint. “Let me be blunt, Matt. Rebecca presented forensics with
a lot of problems. Even the cause of death is not one hundred per cent, though
clearly strangulation was attempted.” He dropped his voice to a low whisper.
“The pathologist found something.”
Matt went cold. He held his breath as Pitman considered his words.
“The sick bastard left a calling card, wrapped in a freezer bag.”
Matt’s knuckles whitened as he gripped his coffee mug.
“I’m sorry. We wanted to keep it quiet, but now Kellerman’s got hold of
it.”
Matt nodded, his mind numb.
“It’s just a cheap card, from a print machine like you’d find in any big
shopping centre. A logo of an ice-cream cornet. A ninety-nine. And the words
With Compliments, Uncle Tom.”

11

Matt forced the words through gritted teeth. “He’ll kill again.”
“Almost certain to. Our big fear is that if this hits the headlines it could
provoke the next assault sooner rather than later.”
“Fuck Kellerman. Can’t you get the editors to hold back?”
“Not something this big. There’s no legal argument against it. Besides,
he’d just plaster it over the net regardless.”
Matt nodded his understanding.
“One small glimmer of hope, Matt. We’re bringing in six suspects in the
morning.”
“Six? Isn’t that…?”
“Exactly. Wouldn’t get too excited. Besides, we’ve had them all in over
the past few weeks and drew a blank. But the Super’s got to be seen to be
doing something.”
“Anyone I’ve heard of?”
“All locals with backgrounds with little kids, obviously. Some convictions,
some just allegations… Mostly just lookers. Two serious contenders, the others
are just for public consumption, to make us look busy.”
“And the two serious contenders. They are?
“One’s got a background in road construction. A tenuous link with the
painted nails. A conviction for indecent images years ago. Nothing since. I
don’t rate him.”
“And the other?”
“That’s a strange one. Convicted paedophile. On the Register. I interviewed
him last week, before Rebecca’s body was found. Just routine. Made no
impression on me. I’ve been through his details with a fine-toothed comb
since. Sick as they come, no question, but nothing to suggest he’s capable of
this. I was quite satisfied to put the file away. But…”
“Dave?”
“The Met got an anonymous call, female, on an untraced pay-as-you-go mobile,
claiming to live nearby. She says she saw a red Peugeot near the canal shortly
after the girl disappeared, and that the driver threw something big into the
water. Needless to say our man drives a red Peugeot.”
“Jesus.”
“There’s more. He once had his own ice-cream van.”
“What’s his name?”
“You know I can’t tell you that, Matt.”
“If he’s pulled in I’ll know by morning anyway.”
“True enough.” Pitman considered briefly. “Off the record, Thomas Bristow.
A Newington man. But that’s off the record, Matt. I mean it.”
“Don’t worry. I just want to be able to tell Claire. But you’re obviously
not convinced?”
“Not by a long shot. First name Thomas, drives a red Peugeot and used to be an
ice-cream man. Almost too coincidental, if you ask me.”
Matt raised a doubtful eyebrow. “The real killer setting him up?”
“Nothing so sinister, Matt. People like Bristow have plenty of enemies. This
is just someone’s sick idea of fun. We’ll pull him in come morning, have
forensics take his car apart and he’ll be back at home in a week filing a
claim for harassment. I’ve already crossed swords with his brief once. Don’t
fancy doing it again. But obviously we’ve got to act on information
received.”
“So what’s the schedule?”
“Weisman has set the pick-up for ten tomorrow morning if you want to have a
photographer nearby. Just don’t bring my name into it. There’ll be a formal
press statement mid-day, which will at least be a damage limitation exercise if
Kellerman goes ahead. And who knows, maybe I’ve misjudged it. Perhaps Weisman
does know his arse from his elbow and Bristow will prove to be our Uncle Tom.”

12

Of necessity, and as recommended by his solicitor, Thomas Martin Bristow was a
creature of habit. On the second and fourth Thursdays of every month, he made
the journey from Kent to Middlesex to lunch with his sister in Hayes.
Watcfrom the kitchen window, he left his Newington home precisely as the postman
rode into Ladbroke Road, sat in his car and jotted down the mileage reading from
the speedometer into a well-thumbed pocket book. Alongside, he noted the time,
0934 hours, and the date, August twenty-ninth.
When the postman appeared from a gateway, Bristow carefully edged the aging red
Peugeot into the road, heading towards Westwood Cross.
He purposefully acknowledged the postman with a nod of the head. The postman
returned a mouthed obscenity. Not a pleasant way to start the day, but Bristow
valued recognition above popularity.
An overcast sky heralded rain later in the day, but Bristow hoped to make Hayes
before it began. The windscreen wipers were worn and in need of replacement, but
unemployment benefit did not extend to such luxuries as car repairs.
The early part of the journey proved uneventful, the weather holding, the
traffic reasonable. He anticipated arrival in Hayes well before noon, despite
the never-ending road works on the A2-M25 link and a partly-cleared accident on
the Danson Interchange on the approach to the capital.
He guessed he could probably drive the route blindfold by now. For years he’d
made this same journey by the same roads on the same days each month, to enjoy
his sister’s company and take lunch with her. In the summer months the
invitation extended to tea as well, but just lunch in the spring and winter.
Thomas Bristow preferred to be home before nightfall.
The police patrol vehicle appeared from nowhere just south of the Blackwall
Tunnel, as he turned west towards Greenwich, tucking in behind him and following
at a sedate twenty-eight miles per hour across Blackheath.
He felt beads of sweat forming uninvited on his forehead, his mouth dry, his
stomach queasy. He tried to concentrate on the road ahead but the image of the
patrol vehicle in his mirror drew his eyes like magnets.
Deptford.
New Cross.
Southwark.
The patrol vehicle kept its distance, cruising with the traffic, forcing the
speed of vehicles into the confines of the legal limit.
Vauxhall Bridge in sight, the lights began to change as he reached them and he
cruised through on amber, his head directed forward, his eyes glued to the
mirror. The patrol vehicle stopped at the lights. Behind him he saw traffic
emerge from the contraflow to separate them.
A sigh of relief and he pulled into the flow of traffic along the Embankment.
His armpits were soaked and he made a mental note to invest in a deodorant.
Cursing his lack of self-control he flicked on the radio, then jabbed a finger
to switch frequencies. Middle-aged he might be, but middle-of-the-road music was
not his cup of tea. Radio Four came into prominence and he settled for a
discussion on the Middle East question, welcoming the distraction from matters
closer to home.

13

Twelve DCs were involved in the swoop on the six suspects, two per pick-up, each
carefully coordinated by Weisman for maximum media impact, watches synchronised
on his instruction, to their quiet amusement.
At precisely 10am six pairs of CID officers knocked on six doors across the
county.
Only five doors opened.
At the Newington home of Mr Thomas Bristow there was no reply.
By 10.15 Weisman was pacing the floor of the operations room in angry mood,
glaring at his colleagues, cursing his luck, mentally cancelling the planned
press release which was to announce the swoop to a surprised public.
Despite Pitman’s reservations Weisman was convinced Bristow was their man. After
that morning’s headlines every ice-cream man in the country was a suspect.
Bristow was a convicted paedophile with no alibi and an anonymous sighting near
the scene. Enough to justify at least a few days detention for questioning.
Anything less and they would be open to accusations of negligence. It was an
argument Pitman dtifully acknowledged.
At 10.20 Weisman authorized an APB on Bristow’s car and officers began
questioning neighbours, who confirmed what a closer inspection of intelligence
would have told them anyway: that every second and fourth Thursday he visited
his sister in Hayes. Weisman cursed himself.
He had taken a senior post through the accelerated promotion programme at the
expense of more experienced but less qualified men at the station.
He knew his colleagues were watching his every move, waiting, hoping, for him to
stumble.
Reluctantly he put the call through to Scotland Yard.

14

The siren blasted once, directly behind him, sending Bristow’s stomach into
turmoil, the radio broadcast thrust from his mind. He clutched at the steering
wheel and glanced in the mirror The familiar red double-decker bus that had
followed him along the Embankment had gone. In its place the blue flashing
lights of the patrol vehicle announced its heathen presence.
Instinctively he knew it was the same one that had followed him earlier, but he
dismissed the thought, concentrating on his breathing, bringing his heart rate
down to something approaching normal.
He hadn’t been speeding, had indicated properly and he’d observed the Highway
Code as best he knew. He prayed to God it was just a routine check.
Not for the first time Thomas Bristow’s ingrained faith in the Almighty was to
prove misplaced.
“Sorry to trouble you, Sir. Is this your vehicle?” The officer peered
through the wound-down window at Bristow’s apprehensive face, polite and
unassuming.
He nodded, anxious. “Is there something wrong?”
“Just a routine check, Sir. And you are?”
“Bristow. Thomas Martin Bristow.”
“Do you have your documents with you, Mr Bristow?”
“In the dash.” He leaned over and produced them.
The officer studied the driving licence carefully, then handed it to his
colleague who returned to the patrol vehicle to radio through the details . “A
long way from home, Sir. Going anywhere nice?”
“Hayes. To see my sister. Is there a problem?”
“Nothing to worry about. We won’t keep you long.”
He turned to his colleague in the patrol vehicle. A casual nod of the head.
“Nice place, Hayes. I lived in Southall myself, as a kid. Lady Margaret Road.
Do you know it? Course, it’s full of fucking wogs now.” He glanced at Bristow,
looking for a reaction, then bent down to the front off-side wheel, examining
the tyre with his fingers. “I think your tracking’s out, Sir. Your tread’s a
bit worn on one side. I’d get that seen to if I were you.”
“I didn’t realise,” Bristow murmured. “I’ll attend to it first thing. Is
there anything else?”
“Mr Bristow, we’d like to ask you a few questions, if we may.”
His heartbeat raced. “Questions?”
“Down at the station. If you wouldn’t mind, of course. It’s just that we’re
obstructing the traffic here.”
Bristow’s face paled. He struggled for control. “What for? What type of
questions? I don’t quite understand.”
“This would be easier at the station, Sir.” The officer was polite, but his
tone indicated it was an offer not to be declined. “It won’t take long.”
“Which station? Where?”
“If you’d care to get in our vehicle I’ll take you there direct. My colleague
will bring your car along.” He held his hand out for the keys.
“I think there’s been some mistake. I haven’t done anything.”
“With respect, Sir, no-one has said you have. It’s just a routine enquiry.”
“Then why…” His voice trailed off nervously. He knew better than to argue.
“I have to be at my sister’s by twelve. She’s expecting me.”
The officer glanced at his watch sympathetically. “Just a few questions and
you can be on your way. It’s not a problem, Sir, is it?”
He was ushered into the tation through the rear entrance and found himself
pushed into a sparsely furnished room where he was told to wait.
An hour passed before anyone attended him.
He sat patiently.
This was not his local old bill now.
There was something qualitatively different about being pulled in by the Met.
They had a certain reputation, and he had no wish to put it to the test.