Sugar & Spice (34 page)

159

“I’m sorry, Matt.”
“No, I should have thought, Claire.”
“The first Christmas without Rebecca. I just can’t face it, Matt. She was only
ten last Christmas. Her last Christmas.”
Matt clutched her hand, but let her talk it through.
“She’d known the truth about Santa since she was six, when she woke up that
Christmas Eve and saw John putting the presents by her bed. But she still put
out an orange and a mince pie every Christmas Eve. She was in no hurry to grow
up. Not like some of her friends, piling on the make-up. Rebecca loved the joy
of Christmas. The carol singing and the wrapping presents. And the Christmas
telly.”
“I remember coming round last Boxing Day. It was mid-day and you were both
still in bed, watching cartoons.”
Claire managed a smile. “And the Bond films, of course. Rebecca just loved
those. Well, the Roger Moore ones, at least. They were more family orientated, I
guess. What was that one with the clowns at the beginning?”
“Octopussy.”
Claire smiled. “She never understood the double entendres, of course. Just
enjoyed the fun and the action.”
“She was a great kid, Claire. You’ll always have those memories.”
Claire stared out of the window, eyes glazed. “I wonder what he’s doing
now?”
“Roger Moore?”
“Uncle Tom. Randall, whatever his name is.”
“Forget him, Claire. It’s over.”
“There’s still the trial.”
“That’s just a formality. Life will mean life for this one. He’ll spend his
every remaining Christmas behind bars.”
“That’s all I wanted to hear.”

160

The Dynamite Twins were sat on the floor, a foot away from the screen, watching
Snow White on DVD, taking turns with the remote to rewind every other scene.
Their grandmother sat in her chair, watching them.
“Girls, move back a bit. You’ll damage your eyes sitting that close.”
Tamara looked to Bethan for support. “Mummy, do we have to? I like sitting
close.”
“Me too,” said Natalie. “You can see all the really important bits from
here.”
Bethan sighed. “Twins, just do what Grandma asks. I don’t want any
arguments.”
“Daddy lets us sit close.”
Bethan’s barked response made the twins flinch. “Do as you’re told! Now!”
The twins stood up as one, took a step back, then sat down and dragged
themselves back to their original position. Bethan was about to bring them to
order when she realised their grandmother had been taken in by the manoeuvre.
She let it go.
The twins had been back two days.
There was no apology.
No admission that Social Services had been wrong.
It had been a narrow escape, Bamford had told her. Only the swift action of
Social Services had prevented a tragedy. The father was on the verge of raping
them.
Two weeks had passed since the girls had last seen their father, in handcuffs,
as they themselves were dragged screaming from the house. Bethan had managed to
visit Greg just once, on remand in Brixton.
Some of the offers had been tempting.
Other wives might have took the money, told their story, and moved on.
But Bethan shut the door in their faces, leaving crumpled cheque books and
bruised egos. To even consider their offers would have been an admission of her
husband’s guilt.
She knew he loved the twins.
She knew he was no killer.
Coming to terms with the underwear found in the drawer wasn’t so easy. That and
the visit to the Clinic in Woolwich. Isaac could only assure her he believed her
husband had been going with the best of intentions, for his family’s sake,
because he loved her and the children.
She took the new call from Isaac in the spare room.
“Good news, Bethan. The lab results will be ready in the morning. I’ll make an
emergency application for bail the moment he’s cleared. With any luck he’ll be
home Christmas Eve.”
He hesitated.
“That’s if he’s welcome. Bethan, you do still want him home, after what’s
happened?”
“More than anything.”

161

The DNA match with the nasal mucous on the handkerchief had left Randall
devastated.
He’d been told the odds of a chance match were hundreds of millions to one.
He gave the semen sample willingly. This, above all, would surely prove his
innocence.
When the sample came back an exact match for the semen found on the child’s body
he began to question his very sanity.
But for the public, this was the best Christmas present their children could ask
for.
Uncle Tom was securely locked away in Brixton jail.

162

Matt threw a towel over his shoulders, dripping water in a trail across the
carpet to grab the phone.
“Ceri, nice to hear from you.” He instinctively whipped the towel around his
waist in a gesture of pointless modesty. “How’s the New Year treating you?”
“Matt, another girl’s been abducted.”
He sat down, reaching automatically for pen and jotter, wet hair dripping over
the paper. “Another child? When was this?”
“A week ago.
“A week? It’s news to me, Ceri. Are you sure about this?”
“My parents sent me the local papers.”
“You mean Wales?”
“A town called Mold.”
Matt thought for a second “Ceri, it’s just a coincidence.”
“Matt, it happened on the second. The day Uncle Tom would have struck
again.”
Matt sighed. “They’ve caught him, Ceri. The sick bastard’s locked up, awaiting
trial. Uncle Tom is history.”
“But the girl…”
“There’s more than one sick pervert out there. We all know that.”
“Matt, it was Uncle Tom.”
Matt threw down his jotter impatiently. “Ceri, listen to me. I know how you
must feel. You’re disappointed your profile didn’t match. But that’s nothing to
be ashamed of. The Dunst profile blew out too. Put it down to experience. You’re
still young. You can learn from your mistakes.”
“I’m not mistaken, Matt.”
He struggled to hide his annoyance. “Ceri, the semen on the child’s body was
an identical DNA match to Randall. How much more proof do you need? Linking him
to the other victims is just a matter of time. Randall is Uncle Tom. Or are you
suggesting Randall killing the Woolwich child was a one-off? Come on, be
serious.”
“I don’t know what to think, Matt. I was pleased when they caught this guy, of
course, but not convinced. And now this girl in Mold…”
“A tragic coincidence. Your profile was flawed, Ceri. Face facts. Sure, we all
believed it. I certainly did. But we were all too personally involved. It
clouded our judgements. We saw that with the Isle of Wight murders. He didn’t
follow the pattern you predicted. Ventnor was convincing, but then Godshill? No
U. That’s when it began to unravel.”
“But then Woolwich, Matt. Back to the pattern again. Don’t you see?”
“No, I don’t see. Randall was attending a paedophile-clinic in Woolwich, being
treated for an obsession with little girls, for God’s sake. Nothing to do with
following any pattern. He’s just another sick fucking pervert. And anyway, now
you’re talking about, what was it, Mold? If it was Yeovil or York then maybe
you’d have a case, Ceri. But Mold? M? You’re arguing against your own profile
now.”
“Matt, hear me out. Mold is in North Wales. Most places are signposted with
their English name and their Welsh name. And the Welsh name for Mold is Yr
Wyddgrug.”

163

Matt caught up with Bill Wright in the canteen. The staff restaurant as it was
glamorously titled.
Wright was tucking into a plate of greasy bacon and eggs, browsing the FT, when
Matt slipped into the chair beside him, slopping his coffee over the table.
Wright glanced at his watch. “What’s the special occasion?”
Matt accepted the comment with good grace. He wasn’t noted for turning up for
work on time. “How are they doing?”
“Three pence down on yesterday. I don’t understand it. Kennet assured me
they’d be up by now.”
“How many times has he been wrong so far this year? And it’s only January!
You’d be better off sticking your savings on Trap Six at the dogs. At least that
way you can watch the mutt lose first hand.”
“It’s all about timing, Matt. A friend of a friend made ten grand overnight
when the market moved the right way. Anyway, it’s not nine o’clock yet. What
brings you here at this ungodly hour?”
“Had to meet someone in the canteen.”
Wright looked around the empty canteen curiously. “Who?”
“The Southern Media science correspondent.”
Wright stopped chewing. “So what’s the problem?”
“DNA fingerprinting.”
“My files are open access, Matt. Help yourself.”
“I wanted a personal touch.”
Wright eyed his colleague suspiciously. “What’s the story?”
“There isn’t one. It’s research.”
Wright grinned broadly. “Matt Burford researching? Whose birthday is it?”
“Bill, this is serious.”
Wright lowered his fork. “Try me.”
“Genetic fingerprinting. The how, why and wherefore. I thought I had a grasp
of it, but now I’m not sure. I just want a straight-fward explanation. How does
it work? And how reliable is it? Just five minutes of your valuable time. Pretty
please?”
Wright stuffed his mouth with egg to keep himself going. Egg yolk ran slowly
down his chin.
“Is it reliable? Yes, pretty much so. Not infallible, but a pretty good
indicator. We’re talking about value in criminal identification, right?”
“Well, me being a crime reporter an’ all…”
“You could always use Wikipedia.”
“I need something I can trust.”
“Matt, I’m flattered! Well, let’s start with the theory. The body is made up
of billions of cells, each of which has a nucleus. Back in 1911 , “
“No history, Bill. How reliable is it? There have been mistakes in the past,
right?”
“And there will be again. Nothing is infallible. Human error is the biggest
factor, of course. But by using two independent multi-locus probes the odds of a
mistaken identification are phenomenal. Absolutely phenomenal.”
“Hypothetically, supposing forensic had three separate samples, say hair,
semen and nasal mucus. Supposing all three matched identically. Could there
still be a mistake?”
“Not a chance in hell.”

164

“This is very impressive.” Isaac took another mouthful, washing it down with
a crisp chardonnay. What was it again?”
“Skate, with crushed coriander, peppercorns and oregano.”
Isaac nodded vigorously, anxious to demonstrate his approval. “Very nice.
Locally caught, I take it?”
“Off the West Cliff, last Wednesday. My neighbour’s a regular supplier. He
catches, I cook. Skate is a personal favourite. It’s one of the few fish to
improve with age. Straight from the sea and it’s a pretty bland affair.”
“I’m surprised you’re not a food reporter.”
Matt smiled graciously. “The next course is prunes.”
Isaac flinched momentarily as he retrieved the last morsel of skate, hiding
beneath a tranche of lemon. He tried to sound casual. “Can’t say as I’ve had
them in recent years. Mind you, my father swore by them.”
“It’s not the school-dinner nightmare of prunes and custard,” Claire assured
him.
Isaac sat back, trying to look full. “What else can one do with a prune?”
“Black-bellied streusel tart. Genuine French prunes from the Agen. None of
those overgrown Californian currants that pass as prunes to the uninitiated.
Soaked in Earl Grey tea, pureed on an apricot base with a crumb topping. Served
with Greek yoghurt. Or we have fresh cream if you prefer.”
Isaac felt his appetite slowly returning.
“Matt makes an exquisite prune and Armagnac ice cream in the summer,” Claire
said as she brought the streusel to the table.
Over second helpings Isaac suggested there might be an ulterior motive to his
invitation than just sampling Matt’s culinary skills.
As he summarised Ceri’s profile and her last message Matt uncorked a grande
reserve rioja. Isaac listened with polite interest, quickly becoming more
attentive to the point where the velvet rioja was all but forgotten.
“This is all very intriguing, Matt. No question. Anything that will put my
client in a favourable light is welcome. But this girl, Ceri. She’s a student?
“
“Jeremy, she’s a bright, intelligent nineteen year old,” Claire said. “Not
the type given to flights of fancy. No-one wants more than me to believe Uncle
Tom is locked up and will never kill again. No-one. But the police were wrong
last time, with Thomas Bristow. That’s why we asked you here. We thought you of
all people would be willing to hear this out.”
“I’m not dismissing anything, Claire, but this is a bolt out of the blue for
me. You’ve both obviously given the matter serious thought, and I respect that.
I just need to get things straight in my own head.”
Matt said, “Your man, Randall, he’s denying everything, right?”
“The murs, yes. He admits to an interest in young girls, but that’s not a
crime in itself. Social Services found no evidence whatsoever that he had
touched his daughters in any way, despite their Gestapo tactics.”
“I can imagine.”
“But so far as the media is concerned, Uncle Tom is history. They’re just
waiting for the show-trial. Randall hasn’t a chance in hell of a fair hearing.
The jury members have decided he’s guilty before they even know they’ve been
selected.”
“Then Ceri’s profile could be an innocent man’s only hope.”
“Which is why, against my better judgement, I’m here listening. But I need to
take this away and go through it on my own, objectively. And come to my own
conclusions. If that’s okay with you?”
“That copy is all yours, Jeremy. All we ask is you keep it to yourself, and
keep Ceri’s name out of anything that follows.”
Isaac nodded. “In which case I must leave you. I have some other matters I
need to work on tonight, which must take priority, but I promise you I will read
it through again in a few days.”

165

Isaac fixed a hot chocolate as a night-cap and settled down with the papers for
a pending hearing, silently cursing himself for staying so long over dinner.
But his mind wouldn’t focus.
Ten-thirty.
Reluctantly he reached for Ceri’s profile and began making a few tentative
notes.
When the alarm shattered the silence at six-fifteen Isaac was still in the
chair, bleary-eyed, on his fifth mug of black coffee. At eight-thirty he
telephoned Karen and told her to cancel all appointments for the morning. He
dialled again.
“Matt, we need to talk. The three of us.”
“Where?”
“Claire’s place?”
“I’ll be there. Ceri’s right, isn’t she?”
“It may be nothing. And this is strictly off the record, you understand? My
client’s confidentiality must be respected.”
“My glory days are long past, Jeremy. This one is personal. All I want is the
truth. One way or another.”
“Bring any background material you have. Everything. I’ve followed the case as
best I can, but you’re bound to know more than me. Oh, and Matt, bring an
Ordnance Survey map. Of the Isle of Wight.”