Sugar & Spice (35 page)

166

“Call me old-fashioned, but I find this easier than looking at a computer
screen,” Isaac confessed as he spread the map out across the table. “Now
bear with me. I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking for, but a thought occurred
to me last night. I went to the Isle of Wight as a kid. School trip. You know,
Osborne House, the dinosaur footprints…”
Matt looked blank. “And?”
Isaac scanned the map methodically, eyes following his finger as it traced paths
across the paper. Suddenly he grabbed a pencil and circled an area. “There it
is! The Undercliffe. I knew there’d be something.”
“I don’t follow.”
“The Undercliffe. It’s the missing U that makes the link. It looks like your
girl’s theory was spot on.”
“Jeremy, the child was abducted from Godshill. Godshill and Ventnor,” Claire
objected.
“Says who?”
Claire shook her head in disbelief. “The police reports said so.”
“How do they know?”
“Of course they know! The girls lived there.”
“Claire, last night you told me how Ceri’s profile went from nebulous to
concrete when she realised you lived in Pegwell Bay, not Ramsgate. P not R.”
Matt sat forward. “Of course. Don’t you see, Claire. The girl might have lived
at Godshill, but she was abducted in this Undercliffe place. Look, it can’t be
more than a mile or two away. Why the hell didn’t Danny have that on his
list?”
Isaac looked up. “Danny?”
“It’s a long story. Danny produced the list of prospective abduction locations
we submitted to the police
“And of course The Undercliffe wasn’t on it. How did he compile this list?”
“Computer. There’s not much Danny can’t do with a computer.”
“Trouble is, Matt, computers only do what you tell them to do. Look, this
place is listed as The Undercliffe, not just plain Undercliffe. There’s the
problem. This Danny fellow searched under U. The Undercliffe will be indexed
under T.”
“If the sequence of locations was right up to here, then X and Y would have
been next.” Matt said excitedly. “Danny ran a search and said there were no
Xs, so Uncle Tom would have to skip that, and move on to Y, this town Mold, or
whatever it’s called in Welsh.”
“Yr Wyddgrug,” Isaac said, rather pleased with his pronunciation.
“Whatever. Which means he’d next move on to W. That brings us to Woolwich and
your man Randall. In the right place, at the right time. And with a ton of
evidence that puts him in the frame.”
Isaac agreed. “A ton of evidence against him. A ton of evidence, you said,
Matt. Right?”
Matt shrugged. “It’s just a figure of speech.”
“I think I understand, Jeremy,” Claire said. “Think about it, Matt. Every
child so far has been found forensically clean. What was the phase Dunst used?
That Uncle Tom demonstrated forensic awareness.”
“Exactly. Then suddenly we have the Woolwich girl, Victoria, and like you
said, Matt, there’s a ton of evidence, a veritable forensic paradise, pointing
at one man? A man actively seeking treatment for an interest in little girls,
who was in Woolwich that day, and for an appointment that didn’t actually
exist.”
“You’re saying he was framed? That’s ridiculous.”
“Call it what you like, Matt. But it strikes me as just too coincidental how
one minute the police were floundering, not knowing which way to turn, then
suddenly they have a fresh body, a conveniently used handkerchief dropped at the
scene and a self-confessed paedophile, undergoing treatment, in the town, on the
day. I mean, doesn’t it stretch credulity just a little?”
“But the DNA matched. Even the semen. How could anyone set that up?”
“I can’t begin to say, Matt. But alarm bells are ringing. This map bears out
your girl’s theory. So does the abduction in Mold. My guess is, Uncle Tom’s
somehow put Greg Randall in the frame, and now he’s back roaming the streets.”
“But the cops are convinced they’ve got the right man this time. The evidence
is overwhelming. Only another child’s body turning up with Uncle Tom’s exact MO
will make them reconsider.”
Claire grabbed at Matt’s arm. “We can’t wait for that. We have to do
something.”

167

Isaac nodded. “At the moment this Mold abduction is regarded as an unrelated
incident. North Wales Police will give it their best shot, but if Uncle Tom’s
got any sense, he’ll make sure this body isn’t found. There’ll be no calling
cards this time.”
Claire ventured, “Are we being realistic here, or letting hope outweigh
reality?”
“Realistic,” Isaac assured her. “Remember that Thomas Bristow was first
picked up by the Met after an anonymous tip-off saying his car had been seen in
Southall, near to where the body was found. Someone must have known of his
interest in children to put his name forward.”
“That was a matter of public record. He’d been splashed across the papers in
his time, and he was on the Sex Offender’s Register.”
“Granted. But Greg Randall’s sexual predilections were most definitely not
public knowledge. Again, Matt, this is strictly off the record. Greg approached
a private clinic earlier this year because he was concerned about a burgeoning
sexual interest in children. Young girls. Yes, he’s a paedophile, but don’t let
that cloud your judgement. That doesn’t make him capable of murder any more than
it did Thomas Bristow.”
“So what put the cops on to him in the first plac>
“I’m coming to that. Greg had paid for, and commenced, an expensive course of
treatment, aversion therapy, to try and do something about his unwanted desires.
He kept the whole thing secret from his family, workmates, everyone. In December
he was in Woolwich supposedly to attend a pre-arranged appointment at a clinic.
For reasons not yet clear this didn’t go ahead and Greg found himself at a loose
end in the town. On the same day, almost literally round the corner, the girl is
killed. A nurse who worked at the clinic where Greg was being treated apparently
put two and two together and called in the police and Social Services.”
“You’re not suggesting this nurse set him up?”
“Of course not. I’m thinking maybe the real Uncle Tom is also a patient at
this clinic. Someone who maybe met Greg there, or at the very least knew he was
being treated there.”
“This clinic. Where is it, exactly?”
“The Quinlan Foundation, Sevenoaks. They have any number of convicted sex
offenders going through their doors for treatment. Now call me paranoid, but
Thomas Bristow also attended the Quinlan Foundation, many years back.”
“My God!” Claire was bolt upright. “Michael Bates was treated there
too!”
“Who?”
Matt briefly outlined their meeting with Bates.
“And how, may I ask, did you find out about him in the first place? No, I
don’t want to know.” Isaac shook his head in disbelief. “But it’s a safe bet
his licence went missing, lost or stolen, while he was at this Foundation.”
“We have to tell the police, Matt.”
“Not yet, Claire. Not after last time. Once bitten, twice shy. I think we need
to poke around a bit ourselves first. See what else we can come up with.”
“Agreed,” Isaac said. “But it will be mainly down to you two. I’m playing
second-fiddle to a barrister in Crown Court most of this week and probably next
week too. Greg Randall is not the only person whose name I’m trying to clear.
But I would imagine a closer look at the Quinlan Foundation wouldn’t be a
complete waste of time. Investigative journalism, I believe they call it. Right,
Matt?”
“Your confidence in me is inspiring, Jeremy, but misplaced. I wouldn’t know
where to start.”
“How about talking to the nurse who informed on Greg Randall? She sounds like
a wishy-washy liberal type. Play on her guilt feelings. Convince her that she’s
helped put away an innocent man and she’ll probably hand over the files on every
sick pervert that’s ever knocked on their doors, just to ease her conscience.”

168

The tears came easily. There was no need to act.
The mother of the first child killed, desperately wanting to understand why.
Would Dr Reynolds be willing to talk to her?
To help ease the pain?
With some misgivings, Reynolds agreed to fifteen minutes. Punctuality was
essential. Her schedule could not be revised in any circumstances.
“It must have been a very difficult ethical decision, to break your
professional code of confidence,” Claire opened.
Reynolds warmed to the compliment. “One of the most challenging decisions of
my career. But once I realised, I couldn’t have lived with myself if he’d hurt
another child.”
“I wondered… That is, I hoped perhaps you could tell me a bit about him.
About Uncle Tom. About Greg Randall.” She felt like every word she uttered was
being analysed for some hidden meaning.
“I’m sorry, Claire, but that’s still confidential.”
“Of course. But Dr Reynolds, what drives a man – any man – to kill a child? To
abuse and murder a little girl?” She felt her eyes moistening and made no
attempt to stem the tears. “If I could just begin to make sense of it…”
Reynolds glanced impatiently at her watch, regretting having ever agreed to
this. She had more important things to do than console a distressed visitor.
“It’s vey difficult to put into layman’s terms, Claire. There are deep-rooted
reasons why men abuse women and children. It’s not something that can be summed
up without the confusing technical jargon of our field.”
Claire dabbed her eyes. She was getting nowhere. “Are you a psychologist
yourself?”
Reynolds looked genuinely horrified. “Good gracious, no. I’m a
psychotherapist. There’s a huge difference. But as I said, Claire, there simply
isn’t the time to go into it all. I have an extremely busy schedule to adhere to
here at the Foundation.”
“I understand. And I really appreciate your making time for me. Are there many
psychotherapists working here?”
“Only myself and Dr Quinlan. We operate a small, intensive unit. Obviously
sexual dysfunction is not something that can be treated by handing out a few
aspirin and spending a week in bed. It’s intensive, one-to-one treatment. Some
of our clients are dangerous believe me, Claire. Very dangerous. Rapists.
Paedophiles. Killers. Men just like Uncle Tom.”
Claire shuddered involuntarily. “It must be very unnerving at times,
especially for you, as a woman, I mean.” There was a glimmer in Reynolds’ cold
eyes when she was mentioned personally and Claire elected to develop it. “You
must be very brave, to meet them face to face, on your own.”
“Oh not really, Claire.” Reynolds was almost preening. “It’s about
maturity as much as anything. You see, sex offenders don’t offend for sex.”
“They don’t?”
“That sounds strange to you, of course, but sexual abuse is about power, not
sexual gratification. Male power over women. Male power over children. Even over
other, weaker men. As men mature they become, gradually, more able to cope with
their baser instincts. But the underlying need for control is always there.
That’s why older men have all the top jobs, the senior management positions.
It’s nothing to do with ability or experience. It’s all about the exercise of
power.”
Claire encouraged her to continue, wondering how she could turn the conversation
to the other Foundation clients.
“As women mature, by contrast, they are better able to understand what’s going
on in the male mind, so they can handle men better. But all the men who come
here for treatment are fundamentally immature, whatever their chronological age.
They’re unable to even begin to function normally in relations with the opposite
sex, so they use their brute strength, the power of their bodies, to express
themselves.”
Reynolds sat upright, full of self-importance. “As a mature woman facing them
it’s a simple matter for me to look them in the eye and challenge their power
base. And because all men are fundamentally cowards, they back down. Believe me,
if you’re ever confronted by a rapist, just stare him in the eye and he’ll run a
mile.”
Claire thought, Thanks, but I’ll stick with the can of mace and a kick in the
balls.

169

Claire looked into Reynolds’ eyes. “That’s amazing. I’ve never thought
about it like that.”
“It’s not how you’re brought up to think, Claire. It starts at school. Even
though most teachers are women, it’s men who dictate teaching methods. Right
from the start girls are taught subservience to their male counterparts. Men
dominate the power bases in society and make the rules to suit their own
interests. Their power needs.” She puffed up importantly. “But in twenty
years working with these sick perverts, I’ve never yet been intimidated.”
Claire feigned awe. “Never?”
“Not since I reached adulthood. Maturity. Of course, I was sexually abused as
a girl. But then, what child wasn’t?”
“I wasn’t.”
The smile was one of pure, unadulterated condescension. “Claire, you don’t
remember it, but I can assure you, you were. Relatives, neighbours, teachers…
Men you trusted.”
“Dr Reynolds, I can assure you I was never -”
“It’s okay, Claire.” Reynolds reached out a hand, offering comfort. “It’s
called victim denial. It’s entirely natural. Your mind has shut out the
memories. Your subconscious self won’t let you face the truth about what
happened. It’s a protective mechanism.”
Claire could not hide her incredulity.
Reynolds smiled. “See, you’re in denial right now, which proves my point.
The truth is, Claire, all men abuse. It’s in their nature. Have you heard of
recovered memory syndrome? It’s about retrieving deeply submerged memories from
the subconscious. Memories that the mind has locked away precisely because they
are so painful. But under hypnosis, assisted by delicate psychotherapeutic
coaxing, these memories can be unlocked, Claire. The abuse can be experienced
again, as a mature adult, to enable the woman to come to terms with it. To face
up to the truth.”
Claire had read about recovered memory syndrome before, but not in these stark
terms. She let Reynolds talk.
“Think back to your own childhood, Claire. Can you honestly remember
everything that happened to you? Every little thing, from every day of your
life? Of course not. There are vast tracts of your memory, possibly years of
your childhood, which are lost, locked away because the memory of what happened
is just too unbearable to think about.” Reynolds stared into Claire’s eyes.
“I would strongly recommend therapy for you, Claire. Not here, of course, but
I’ve a colleague in Canterbury you really should see. It’s quite obvious from
your expression, from your body language, that your subconscious is in turmoil,
that I’ve struck a chord in your mind. Your mind knows these horrific memories
are there, but its natural defence mechanism is to keep them locked away.”
It was a struggle, but Claire kept control. The woman was obviously demented.
Gavin Large had warned her about psychotherapists.
She let her eyes dart to the clock. Her time was almost up.
Her mind raced for a way to turn this conversation to her advantage. “But the
man who killed Rebecca: Greg Randall. Social Services found no evidence he had
abused his daughters. Surely if what you say were true then…”
If Reynolds was surprised she hid it well. “That just proves my point, Claire.
The reason social workers can’t obtain evidence in abuse cases is simply that
they have their hands tied by legislation. Legislation brought in by a
government made up almost entirely of men, designed to protect men’s interests.
Remember the Cleveland inquiry? I’m sorry, before your time. But because a
doctor, a woman doctor, decided things had gone too far and was brave enough to
expose the true scale of child abuse, satanic child abuse, at that time, our
parliament has spent most of its days since then introducing new ways of
inhibiting social workers from doing their jobs properly. Barely a week passes
when they’re not being blamed for something or other. Okay, so the men who
hurt these children were eventually jailed, but it was the poor social workers
who took the blame.”
Reynolds shook her head, as if unable to believe her own words. “Social
workers are prevented from proving abuse by guidelines written by men, to
protect other men from investigation. It’s a no-win situation, Claire. All we
woman can do is face up to our own abuse in childhood, through recovered memory
if necessary, and then join the battle to stop other men abusing. Before they
become totally power obsessed and start killing innocent women and children.
Just like the man who killed your daughter, Claire. Just like Greg Randall.”
Claire struggled to keep her composure. “But supposing he was innocent?
Doesn’t it worry you that Greg Randall might not be Uncle Tom? That it might
have been a mistake?”
Anger flashed in Reynolds’ eyes. “Now you’re being ridiculous, Claire.”
She made a point of looking at the clock. “I think your time is up.”
“No, please. Hear me out. Supposing the man who killed Rebecca is still out
there, stalking children?” The tears were rolling now, but the act had long
finished. “I need to be sure, Dr Reynolds. Please.”
“Claire, the forensics found Randall’s semen on the child’s body. It couldn’t
be clearer if he’d been photographed in the act. It’s over, Claire. Greg Randall
is Uncle Tom. He’s been caught. He’s behind bars, where he belongs. Where all
men belong.”
“But another child’s gone missing in Wales, following the same pattern.
Randall doesn’t match Ceri’s profile.”
For a few seconds there was silence, Reynolds eyes like ice, her features stone.