Sugar & Spice (31 page)

147

The Dynamite Twins clung to each other, sucking their thumbs, wide, raw,
frightened eyes watching everyone with suspicion.
Sat on the sofa in their night clothes, wrapped in blankets, their tear-stained
faces and tangled hair made them model candidates for an NSPCC poster campaign.
The social worker collected her notepad and joined them on the sofa. The twins
backed away, distrusting, frightened.
“Hello, I’m Miss Bamford. Now, which one of you is Tamara and which one is
Natalie? You really are identical, aren’t you!”
Tearful eyes watched her every move.
“That’s okay. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I’ll just have
to guess. Hmmm, let me see. You’re Tamara and you’re Natalie, right?”
Her smile was fooling no-one. The twins stared at her, saying nothing.
“Come on girls, no-one’s going to hurt you. We just need to have a little
chat, then you can go back to your mummy.”
The twins just stared at her.
“Isn’t that what you want? Don’t you want to see Mummy again?”
No reply.
“Are you hungry? Would you like some breakfast? We’ve got plenty of cereals.
Rice-crispies? Cocoa-pops? Frosties?”
No reply.
Irately, “You’re not helping by playing these silly games, you know.” She
stopped herself. The sweet voice switched back on. “Look, I’ll tell you what
we’ll do. I’ll go and get some cereals and bring them in for you. You’ll feel
better once you’ve had something to eat. When I come back you can tell me all
about your favourite toys and what sweets you like. And then I expect mummy will
be ready to come and take you home. How does that sound?”
The twins returned her gaze, saying nothing.
She returned a few minutes later bearing a tray with two bowls of Frosties, a
jug of milk, sugar and two spoons. She put the tray on the floor by fa, beaming
the same smile. “There we are. Breakfast. Now, I need a cup of tea, so I’ll
leave you two alone together. Okay?”
Bamford timed her next question carefully, waiting till she was half out of the
door. “Would you like me to bring some sweeties back with me? Chocolate?
Sherbet? Smarties?”
For a second there was no response.
Bamford slowly began pulling the door closed.
Realising it was their last chance, Tamara nodded. Natalie copied her.
Bamford beamed at them and pulled the door closed.
Round one to Bamford.

148

“Mr Randall has been offered, but has declined, the opportunity to avail
himself of a solicitor,” Pitman said to the camera. “Would you confirm that
for the audio please, Mr Randall?”
“I don’t need a solicitor. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“As you wish, Mr Randall. Now, acting on information received, your two
daughters, Natalie and Tamara, have been placed in the temporary care of the
local authority Social Services department. There is reason to believe the
children may have been subject to sexual abuse. They will be examined by a
paediatric doctor with expertise in this field. Is there anything you’d like to
tell us at this stage?”
“I’ve never touched them. They’re my daughters. I love them like any father
would.”
Pitman nodded to Lovett to take the lead.
“Greg, I should warn you that CID officers have been searching your house
since your arrest. Would you like to tell us if they might have found
anything?”
“Like what?”
“Well, it’s your home. Will they find anything indecent? For example, indecent
images of children? Your children? Other people’s children?”
Randall thought of the last therapy session at the Foundation. “Definitely
not.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Absolutely.”
“Anything that might be interpreted as indecent? Photographs of your children
in the bath, for instance. Things that might be quite innocent to you, but may
not appear so to other people.”
“No. You read about things like that in the papers. Parents sending their
snapshots off and getting arrested. I’m very careful about things like that.”
“Careful, Greg? Why’s that?”
“I just am, okay?”
“Our officers found some DVDs,” Lovett said. “Is there anything you’d like
to tell us about them?”
“They’re just DVDs.”
“Anything indecent on them?”
“No.”
“They will be viewed.”
“So watch the fucking things. I’ve told you there’s nothing on them. Just
films.”
“We couldn’t find a computer at your home, Mr Randall,” Pitman put in.
“Where is it?”
“I haven’t got one.”
Pitman and Lovett exchanged glances. “You haven’t got a computer? Everybody
has a computer.”
“We don’t.”
“Mr Randall, we’ll be speaking to your wife in due course,” Pitman warned
him. “Is she going to confirm that your household does not possess a
computer?”
“Of course.”
Lovett resumed. “So it’s in for repair somewhere, is that it?”
“We haven’t got a computer at home. How many more times?”
“Can you explain why?”
“We took the decision when the Twins were younger. That they wouldn’t grow up
addicted to computer games and social networking.”
“So you’ve never had a computer in your home.”
“Which bit of no do you not understand?”
“But you use one at work?”
“Of course.”
“Our officers will seize that later today, Mr Randall.”
“My God! My boss will… You can’t just…”
It was obvious they could and would.
“Would you like to tell us what they might find on the hard drive?”
Randall glared at him. “Accounts.”
“Accounts of what?”
“Accounts, for fuck’s sake. I’m an accountant. That’swhat I do.”
“We’ll come back to the computers at a later date, Mr Randall,” Pitman said.
“Now, our officers found some children’s clothing.”
Randall held his breath, waiting.
“In your chest-of-drawers. Children’s underwear? Little girls’ knickers?”
“I have two daughters. What do you expect?”
Lovett reached beneath the table and produced a plastic evidence bag. He
unsealed it before the camera and tipped the contents out onto the table. “I’m
showing the suspect item IRB-2. Five pairs of young girls’ knickers. Greg, these
items were found in the clothes drawer in your bedroom, along with your own
clothes. Do you recognise them at all?”
“Of course. They’re the Twins’. My daughters’. Natalie’s and Tamara’s.”
“And how old are your daughters, Greg?”
“Six.”
“Both of them?”
“There’s a clue in the word twins.”
Lovett took a pen and gingerly hooked a pair of briefs with the tip. “I’m
showing the suspect a pair of pink cotton undies with a Barbie doll design, one
of the five pairs seized from his home. Now, these belong to which girl, Greg?
Natalie or Tamara?”
Randall hesitated. “Either. Both. They’re twins. They always wear each
others’ clothes.”
“Who bought them, Greg? You, or your wife?”
Nervously. “Bethan. She buys all the Twins’ clothes. I’m not very good at that
sort of thing.”
“Greg, when our officers found these clothes in your drawer they were shown to
your wife Bethan. She said she had never seen them before. How would you explain
that?”
“I… She must have forgotten.”
“Greg, you say your daughters are six years old. Are they particularly big for
their age?”
“Just normal six year old girls.”
“Then how would you account for the label in this pair of undies I’m holding
which states they are for a nine to ten year old?”

149

Lovett picked up another pair of knickers with the end of a pen, holding them at
a distance.
“I’m now showing the suspect a pair of white satin girls’ underwear. Soiled
underwear. Age group eleven to twelve. Greg?”
“I need to think.”
“These aren’t your daughters’ clothes, are they, Greg?”
“It’s difficult to explain.”
“We’ve plenty of time.”
No response.
“Mr Randall, we need to know to whom these items of clothing belonged.”
“I don’t know. They…” His voice faded to silence.
“You don’t know?”
“That’s all I’m saying.”
Lovett took up the questioning. “Greg, we found some other items of interest
in your home. Clothing catalogues, for instance.”
Randall shrugged.
“In your wardrobe.”
“And?”
“Quite old catalogues. Your wife Bethan expressed surprise they were there.
She said they were hers, from an agency she ran, but she thought the old ones
had been chucked out.”
“I’m a bit of a hoarder.”
“So no particular reason they’ve been retained? Hidden in your wardrobe?”
“No.”
“Greg, all the catalogues have pages creased, as if to mark them for easy
reference. Is there a reason why all the creased pages are for young girls’
clothing? Underwear? Swim wear?”
“I was thinking of buying the Twins some clothes.”
“From out-of-date catalogues?”
“I…”
“You said just now that Bethan buys your children’s clothing.” He scanned
his notes. “What was it you said? I’m not very good at that sort of thing?”
Pitman produced a second evidence bag. “I’m showing Mr Randall item IRB-9. Mr
Randall, do you recognise this letter?” He unfolded a sheet of Quinlan
Foundation headed paper. Randall held his breath while Pitman waved it before
the camera.
For the audio: “The letter was found in the suspect’s briefcase. It is
addressed to Mr Randall at a Margate Box. Dated November twenty-first. It’s from
the Quinlan Foundation at an address in Kemsing, Sevenoaks., and signed by one
Dr. J. T. Quinlan. I quote as follows: Dear Mr Randall, further to your
treatment with us, Dr Reynolds and I are of the view it would be productive to
obtain a second opinion before continuing our current regime. To this end I have
made you an appointment to see my colleague, Dr R S Patel, at the London
Psycho-Sexual Clinic in Stratford Road, Woolwich, at 11am on December first.
There will be no charge for this consultation. Please advise immediately if you
are unable to attend on this date. Yours sincerely, James Quinlan. Could you
explain that for us, Mr Randall?”
“It’s private.”
“It indicates you are undertaking some form of treatment at the Quinlan
Foundation,” Lovett said. “What’s that for, Greg?”
“None of your fucking business.”
Pitman tutted. “Mr Randall, there’s no need to be abusive.”
“There’s no need for me to be here.”
“Oh, there’s every need, Greg,” Lovett countered. “You said earlier you
were being treated. When you were arrested at your home this morning you said,
and I quote, But I’m being treated. This can’t be right. Everything was in hand.
And later, when you were booked into custody and asked if you wanted a solicitor
you said No, I don’t need one. I haven’t done anything. I had it under control.
Or are we making that up?”
“I said I haven’t done anything. I haven’t.”
“What was under control, Greg? What were you being treated for?”
“That’s personal. Between me and Dr Quinlan.”
Pitman stepped in. “Of course, Mr Randall, if it’s a medical matter we must
respect your confidentiality. Did you attend the appointment Dr Quinlan arranged
for you?”
“You just agreed that’s confidential!”
“Mr Randall, I’m not asking you why you went there, simply if. Did you, for
whatever private and personal reason, attend an appointment in Woolwich on
December first?”
“Yes. But I’m not saying why. Anyway, there was a mix up. They weren’t
expecting me.”
“So you didn’t attend?”
“I went there, but was turned away.”
“So what did you do?”
“What could I do? I had a coffee and went home.”
“What time was this?”
Randall shrugged. “About mid-day? I don’t know.”
“It wasn’t that long ago, Mr Randall. What time did you get home?”
“Early evening.”
“It took you all day to get back?”
“Bethan wasn’t expecting me back until then. I had some time to kill.”
“Just time?”
Randall looked at Lovett, bewildered.
“So what did you do all day?”
“I went to Greenwich. To the Maritime Museum.
“Alone?”
“Obviously.”
“Did you see anyone there who could vouch for you?”
“No.”
“Do you have your ticket?”
“Of course not. Why would I?”
“Did you pay by card?”
“No. It would show on the statement. Bethan thought I was on an IT course in
the City.”
“Mr Randall, on the day you attended, or rather did not attend, the Stratford
Road Clinic, Woolwich, a nine year old girl was abducted and murdered. Her
mutilated body was found in a skip less than a quarter mile away.”
Randall was shaking his head in disbelief as light dawned, struggling to voice
the denial that caught in his dry throat. “Victoria… You surely don’t
think…”
“You know her name then, Greg?”
“I follow the news.”
Lovett produced a handkerchief in an exhibit bag. “Is this your handkerchief,
Greg?”
“DS Lovett is showing the suspect item IRB-7, a white cotton handkerchief,
found in the suspect’s home.” Pitman studied Randall’s face but saw only
uncomprehending fear.
“Mr Randall, a handkerchief identical to this one was found adjacent to the
body of the murdered child in Woolwich. The day you were there.”
Randall shook his head incredulously. “This is a mistake. This isn’t
happening.”
Lovett referred to his notes. “Greg, an officer spoke to your wife this
morning. She confirmed you were given a set of three identical handkerchiefs for
your birthday. From your mother? Your wife also confirmed you lost one quite
recently.”
Randall was staring ahead, his eyes glazed.
“Mr Randall, you admit you were in Woolwich on the day the child died. You can
offer no alibi and nothing to account for your movements. A handkerchief
identical to one that you, coincidentally, lost was found by the victim. Are you
absolutely certain you do not wish to speak to a solicitor?”

150

Bamford collected some clothes from the stock wardrobe, buying sweets from the
canteen, keeping the receipt for reimbursement later. There was no way she was
paying for the little brats out of her own pocket.
She glanced at the receipt. It listed the price, but no other details. She
smiled to herself and bought twenty Rothman Kingsize. They could go down as
expenses for the brats too. With ten minutes to spare she sat down for a cup of
tea and a cigarette.
Thirty minutes up, she knocked at the door and stood a few seconds outside,
listening. There were sounds of movement as the twins scurried back onto the
sofa.
She opened the door and walked in, smile on, draping the clothes over a chair.
The twins were huddled on the sofa, thumbs in mouth a she’d left them, but
tell-tale signs of milk and cereal down their night-clothes told her hunger had
exceeded fear, as she knew it would. The tray swam with milk and cereal.
Messy brats.
The smile never dropped. “I bet you feel much better now, don’t you?” She
moved the tray to one side and sat on the sofa beside the twins. They backed
away, but their eyes never left hers.
“So, are we ready to tell me your names yet? Who’s Tamara and who’s
Natalie?”
The twins stared at her.
She retrieved the sweets from her pocket. For the first time the twins’ eyes
wavered from hers. “Mmmm. Smarties. I love smarties, don’t you?”
No response.
“I like the yellow ones best.” She shook the packet. “Yellow’s my
favourite colour. What’s yours?”
The twins eyes darted between hers and the tube of smarties she rattled in her
hand. She produced a second tube from her bag.
“Look, one each! Don’t you want them?”
Tamara nodded cautiously.
“Tell me your names first.”
The twins returned her gaze. Bamford rattled the tubes noisily. “Just your
names, that’s all. I know one of you is Tamara and one of you is Natalie. But I
don’t know which is which! Surely you can tell me that?”
The twins said nothing.
Bamford let the smile droop. “Okay, I’ll keep the smarties for myself, shall
I?” She slowly and deliberately moved the sweets towards her bag.
Natalie gave in first. “I’m Natalie.” She held out a cautious hand.
Bamford’s smile reappeared. She turned to Tamara. “And what about you?”
Tamara stared at her. Natalie still had her hand out expectantly. The smarties
were still in Bamford’s possession. Tamara’s eyes moved to the tube, then to her
sister, then back to Bamford. Bamford took the hint and reluctantly offered one
tube to Natalie. Tiny fingers snatched the tube and Natalie huddled back with
her sister.
Tamara hesitated, calculating the odds. Natalie would share her sweets. They
shared everything. But half a tube each was not as good as a full tube each.
Natalie was struggling with the lid. Bamford rattled the second tube in her
hand.
“Last chance.”
“I’m Tamara.”
The twins huddled together on the sofa. Bamford left the room and came back a
few minutes later with a wet flannel, which she ran across their faces while
they chomped the smarties. She retrieved a brush from her bag and began tending
their hair, offering comformments and compliments, slowly winning their
confidence, as she’s been trained to do. Every word designed to build on a
previous response.
“Now, I’ve got some clothes here for you. I hope they fit. Who’s first?”
There were no volunteers. Bamford took Natalie gently by the arm and guided her
off the sofa. The child stared after her sister, but did not resist. Authority
had been established. Round two to Bamford.
The clothes were ill-fitting, but adequate. Bamford cast an experienced eye over
their bodies as she helped them dress, making a fuss with the underwear to view
them from every angle.
She saw nothing but consoled herself with the thought that the doctor would find
something.
Poor little brats.
By the time the two girls were dressed the sugary sweets had worked their magic
and the girls were perkier, if still wary. Bamford made a note on her pad that
Tamara was wearing the pink cardigan and Natalie the white.
She took them through to the next room, which had a large mirror on one wall.
The room was decorated with Barbie, pinks and pastels and lacy flourishes on one
side while the other featured cars, trains and football and a glare of primary
colours. On one side a doll’s house, on the other a garage. Midway a sofa and
two armchairs provided the adult furnishings. The girls made immediately for the
doll’s house and, realising the horrible woman had no objections, quickly lost
themselves in play.
She left them for thirty minutes to play on their own, to relax in the room,
watching them through the two-way mirror. Senior Social Worker Barbara Simmons
came in.
“Anything so far?”
“No obvious marks.”
“They look happy enough.”
“It’s amazing what a packet of smarties can do. Couldn’t get a word out of
them earlier. They kept shutting me out.”
“Twins. Always the same. Mind you, it can work to our advantage. Dr Satay has
been delayed, by the way. Won’t be here till late afternoon, so the medical will
have to wait. I’d like to get on with the first interviews immediately after
lunch, in the circumstances.”
“Should I give them their meal first?”
“No, it won’t hurt them to go without. Make sure they don’t have any more
sweets, either. Every ounce of leverage helps if they’re to say what we want
them to.”