Sugar & Spice (4 page)

15

He retrieved a rolled-up Daily Express from his jacket pocket, but couldn’t
concentrate on the words, turning the pages absently, his mind elsewhere.
The Uncle Tom headline went unremarked, as had the radio reports on the way in.
He was sick to the teeth hearing about the murdered girl by now.
Eventually, without apology or explanation, he was taken before the Custody
Officer.
“Mr Bristow, isn’t it? How very nice of you to call in. Pleasant journey?”
“Sergeant, could you please explain to me why I’ve been brought here.”
The Custody Officer cut him short. “All in good time, Mr Bristow. All in good
time. Did my colleague bring you by the scenic route?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Past the playground?”
Bristow caught his breath. Just take it easy. Cooperate. “Am I under
arrest?”
“No Sir, of course not. You’re free to leave at any time.” The tone dared
him to try.
“I’d like to make a phone call, please.”
“But you’re not under arrest, Sir. You’re not entitled to one.” The Custody
Officer smiled sweetly. He was enjoying this.
“I need to phone my sister. She’s expecting me for lunch.”
“All this way, just for lunch? You must be very close.”
“P’raps he’s knocking her off on the side, Sarge.”
Bristow reeled round in anger, then quickly calmed himself. Keep control. Let
them play their silly games.
“Mind you I suppose she’d be a bit too old for him. Or does she dress up in
gym-slip and white socks?”
“I want to speak to my solicitor.”
“Maybe later. We’re a bit busy at the moment.”
Bristow felt his stomach stir, panic beginning to build. “I know my rights.
I’m entitled to a ,”
“Your rights,” the Custody Officer slammed his fist on the desk, the smile
gone, “are what we decide they are, when we decide they are.”
The officer who had driven him in stepped forward. “Perhaps you’d like to take
your glasses off, Sir.” His tone had changed now. The politeness of their
public encounter had been replaced by a less pleasant demeanour.
“My glasses? What for?”
“We wouldn’t want them to get broken, would we.”
Bristow caught his breath. Just keep calm. Let them go through the motions.
“Put him in number three.”
“But,” Bristow looked anxiously towards the security camera.
The Custody Officer grinned. “Hasn’t been working all week, sunshine. The
only maintenance people we could find were bleedin’ Bulgarians, and they
haven’t got security clearance to come through here.”
“But,”
“Computer’s a bit slow today too, so I’ll have to book you in later. I
suggest you exercise great care meanwhile, as you’re not officially here.”
Bristow was led meekly through to a cell at the rear of the station and pushed
through the entrance. The door slammed behind him and he took a seat on the thin
mattress on the edge of the concrete bunk, next to a worn, coarse-textured
blanket. A dirty, seat less, steel toilet provided the only other furnishing in
the pastel-painted, brick lined cell. Graffiti had been scratched into the
walls. He realized he’d left his newspaper in the other room and quietly cursed
himself.
He knew that before the day was through he would have read every item of scrawl
on the walls several times over as sensory deprivation took its toll. It was one
of those few occasions when he wished he had the low mentality people
usuassociated with perverts. At least then he might have been contented to just
sit and stare at the wall. Being in Mensa had its advantages, but coping with
boredom was not one of them.
Daylight glared through the thick, opaque glass blocks that formed a window.
There was no ventilation and the air reeked of stale vomit and urine, residual
from the drunks who had been the cell’s inhabitants the previous night.
He needed a cigarette. He hadn’t had one since he’d left home. It was part of
his plan to give up. No smoking in the car. His packet of twenty king size were
still in the glove compartment, unopened, with his lighter. Suddenly he was
desperate for a smoke.
He sunk his head into his hands and closed his eyes, making himself comfortable,
as someone accustomed to the sparseness of a police cell.
He anticipated a short wait. Long enough for the officers concerned to have a
coffee, make a few notes, enjoying the joke at his expense. Then a quick-fire
round of questions and free to go.
It was something you got used to. It was a case of having to.
An officer brought him a lukewarm cup of tea at some stage which he received
gratefully. He was hot and sticky, the sun’s warmth magnified by the thick
blocks of glass that broke the monotony of the far wall.
The stifling air made him thirsty, but there was no water supply except for the
toilet, and that flushable only from outside the cell. No toilet paper, of
course.
The outside world could just be perceived as muted traffic sounds in the
distance.
Occasionally the screams and shouts of children playing would filter through to
him, causing a smile to play briefly on his lips.
Bristow liked children.
That’s why he was there, after all.
He needed a cigarette real bad.
He pressed the panic button by the door and waited patiently. No-one came.
He pressed again, harder, then retired to the concrete bunk and stretched out on
the mattress, the urine-tainted blanket tossed unwanted into a corner.
One thing he had learned over the years was to stay relaxed. Getting uptight got
you nowhere. He had no choice but to lie back and wait.

16

Jeremy Isaac BA.,LL.M., arrived back at the Queen Street offices of Witherton,
Stanley and Jones at three-thirty in the afternoon in low spirits, fresh from
losing a case at the Magistrates’ Court. It had been a straight forward affair.
A guilty plea and mitigating circumstances that might have received a
sympathetic hearing on a different day.
But for all the talk of structured decision processes and the integrity of the
Retiring Room, it seemed sentencing by Magistrate depended more on what mood the
JP had been in that morning than any reasoned judgment about the case.
Even so a three month sentence when a community service order would have been
far more appropriate left a bitter after-taste. Explaining to his shocked client
that the sentence was grossly unfair but the chances of appeal negligible was
bad enough. Explaining to his client’s wife in front of their four children
made it far worse.
So he was in foul mood even before he got his secretary’s memo. He tended the
receiver with one hand, impatiently slipping his jacket off with the other.
“What’s the S.P. with Bristow?”
“His sister rang. He’s several hours late. No answer at his home.”
Isaac glanced at the desk calendar to confirm the day. Fourth Thursday. He knew
Bristow’s routine as well as his own. “Okay, I’ll chase it. Ring her back for
me and tell her not to worry. Say he’s probably broken down or something. You
know, the usual bull. If he turns up, make sure they let us know.”
He dialled Bristow’s home and mobile numbers. No reply. He crossed to the filing
cabinet and selected a folder from his brief-case.
It was probably nothing, but the morning’s headlines were fresh in his mind. On
the way he gave Karen her instructions. “If anyone asks, I’m still in
Court.”

17

Matt arrived back at his desk with a pained expression on his face and a half
eaten BLT in his hand. He checked for messages.
Nothing from Pitman.
He slumped behind the terminal glaring at the phone, willing it to ring. A
night’s work stood to be wasted.
He cursed Pitman beneath his breath for not carrying a mobile. DI Pitman. Last
of the Keystone Cops.
He brought up the agency reports on screen. The headlines were still dominated
by Uncle Tom. But of Bristow, nothing.
He clicked the mouse and the screen changed, bringing up his planned report, the
one he’d stayed up till three that morning preparing.
Identifying Bristow had been easy enough. If known occasionally to be critical
of computer technology in the print industry, particularly when he couldn’t get
a system to work, Matt had blessed Google last evening as he ploughed through
files on screen, offering every Bristow that had ever been mentioned in a press
or agency report, web-site or blog.
Another click and it was sex cases only. Seventy-three Bristows had come up
nationwide. A statistical anomaly, he told himself.
Another click and a county by county breakdown presented itself. Eliminating
anyone with a different first name and it was down to three. Pitman had implied
a local pick-up. Only one lived local. Thomas Martin Bristow it had to be.
Checking the electoral register Matt had been surprised to find Bristow
associated with the same address for several years. Unusual. Sex offenders
tended to move on once they become known in a town, otherwise life could become
very unpleasant. Matt smiled at the thought. Serves the dirty bastards right.
He saved every pertinent report and spent an hour reading through them over
sweet black coffee from the vending machine, while the cleaners buzzed around
trying to do their job. There was only a skeleton staff on at the Canterbury
offices at night. The bulk of the over-night production was done from Southern
Media Solutions’ Essex base at Chelmsford.
He prepared two reports, one vague and tentative, noting Bristow and five others
had been brought in for questioning. The second bold and striking. Newington man
charged with Rebecca sex murder. McIntyre would like that, he’d thought.
McIntyre didn’t like it. There was no way he was going to hold back a front page
lead based on information from an undisclosed source that would only be
confirmed mid-morning, if at all.
And if Matt had known about Uncle Tom the previous night why the hell hadn’t he
done something with it before? Southern Media could have scooped Kellerman’s
exclusive and been the envy of the industry.
It was all Matt could do to stop his boss phoning Fort Hill direct to confirm
the details. Only his angry argument about source confidentiality persuaded
McIntyre otherwise.
As the deadline came and went Matt reluctantly conceded defeat. The story
wouldn’t run that day. But at least no-one else had it either.
As the presses began to roll a news agency report flashed up. Five men were
being questioned in connection with the inquiry.
Editor and reporter read off the report simultaneously. McIntyre gave Matt a
smug, satisfied smile and left the room.
Thomas Bristow was not on the list.

18

He awoke to the sound of keys in the lock. By the time he’d reconciled his mind
to reality the cell door was open, a meal of bacon and egg and a cup of tea had
been placed on the bunk beside him and the silent benefactor was closing the
door again. Bristow bolted upright.
“Hey! What’s going on? What’s…”
The door slammed shut, noisily locked. The view-hole swung open and a face
appeared. “Sorry?”
“What’s all this? What’s going on”
The face stared back blankly. “Sorry, mate. I just serve the tea.”
“But…But… Is there someone I can speak to? Someone in charge? An
inspector?”
“Custody Sergeant, maybe. I’ll see what I can do.”
The face was gone, the view-hole bolted shut.
Bristow returned to the bunk and sat next to the tray of food, his mind numb. A
badly fried egg was slowly congealing next to a single, unappetising rasher of
cheap streaky bacon, dormant on the plastic plate. An overly-flexible fork was
the only cutlery. No seasoning. The tea lay stagnant in the disposable styrene
beaker, an unidentifiable slick on its surface. He took a sip and winced. No
sugar. But at least it was wet. He was grateful for that.
Putting the tray on the floor he sipped the tea as he appraised the situation.
He must have fallen asleep. In the stifled warm air, lacking any other
stimulation, sleep was always the best way of passing cell-time.
He remembered the Custody-Sergeant’s words. He wasn’t under arrest. Free to
leave at any time.
He pressed the panic-button again, then sat back on the bunk, for the time being
resigned to his fate. Slowly he took control of his breathing and, using some
elementary yoga techniques he’d picked up during previous periods of
incarceration, calmed himself to the point of relaxation.
There was nothing to do but wait. Nothing to do waiting but sleep. He closed his
eyes, slowed his breathing and slipped back into a light slumber.

19

At 6 pm Jeremy Isaac locked the office and made his way to his car, his brow
furrowed. He’d managed to establish from neighbours that Bristow had left his
house at the usual time.
A quick call to Fort Hill Station, Margate confirmed the worst. They admitted
they were “anxious to speak to him”, but had no idea of his whereabouts.
Isaac felt uneasy. His client couldn’t just vanish. Where the hell was he?
The answer came to mind slow but clear.
His heart sank.
Beneath his breath he muttered, “May your God help you, Thomas.”

20

Claire glanced at her watch for the tenth time in as many minutes. Gone seven
and Matt still hadn’t phoned. She knew he was busy. But right now she needed
him. He’d warned her in advance about Kellerman’s exclusive, but it still hit
her like a punch in the stomach.
The West Cliff promenade was still wet from the recent shower brought in from
the English Channel. Three children cycled by on their bikes, pedalling
furiously against the strong sea breeze. Claire watched them with glazed eyes.
Two boys and a girl. The girl was about Rebecca’s age. Darker hair, perhaps.
It was a relief to see kids out and about again, however much it ripped at her
insides. The last few weeks of the summer holidays had not been a pleasant time
for local children. The older ones were frightened to go out, the younger ones
confused why they were kept in. Occasionally they could be seen, in big groups,
but rarely on their own.
A sense of unease, of fear, hung over the community. It had just begun to
dissipate when the morning headlines hit. She looked around and sure enough an
adult was calling the cyclists back, scolding them for straying out of sight. It
would be a long time before normality returned to this part of the Kent coast.
Rebecca had been riding her bike when she was abducted. On her way to Brownies,
just a short way from where Claire now stood. Her final movements were still not
clear. Friends had seen her leaving the house, dressed in her uniform, looking
forward to the pack meeting. She never arrived.
“A penny for them.”
The voice broke the spell. She reeled round, to find Matt behind her, his smile
vanishing as he saw her tear-filled eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
She dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “It’s oay. I was just…” Explanations
were superfluous.
Matt put an arm round her shoulder and she leaned on him, grateful for the
company. “You look like you could do with a coffee.”
She smiled. It was Matt’s solution to all crises.
They made their way back to her house in silence. Matt orchestrated
refreshments, coffee percolating noisily, crumpets toasting beneath the grill,
while Claire applied fresh mascara to still red eyes. They sat a while on
adjacent stools in the kitchen in silent reflection.
He saw Claire break into a smile and broke the silence. “Happier thoughts?”
“It’s nothing. Just a fleeting fancy. More coffee?”
As she changed the filter he explained briefly the day’s events. How he’d
identified the local man, Bristow, only for the cops to find he was on his
regular trip to London. She listened thoughtfully, aware Matt was stressing he
was just another suspect, and that Pitman had already interviewed him. She
wasn’t to build her hopes. He just wanted her to know things were happening.
That Rebecca hadn’t been forgotten.
“Anyway,” he concluded, “Dave says they’ve flagged his licence plate, so
the cameras will pick him up on the road somewhere.”
Sipping hot coffee, Claire asked, “Will he be arrested?”
“Of course. I’ll know more soon.”
“What will happen to him?”
Matt considered his response carefully before answering. “Eventually he’ll
be transferred here to Fort Hill. But I expect the Met will want a few quiet
words first.”
“What if he denies it?”
Matt smiled. “It’s the Met’, honey. Denying it won’t be an option.”