Sugar & Spice (42 page)

201

It was a fleeting glimpse.
Cold, staring eyes peering through the glass.
Instinctively she knew this was the face of her daughter’s killer.
A split second and he was gone, leaving just the swirling snow. Claire moved
closer, the finger-marks on the window confirming she hadn’t imagined it. In
desperation she picked up the laptop and threw it at the French windows. The
snow fell in an avalanche, the computer shattering into myriad pieces, but the
strengthened glass stood firm.
She grabbed the heavy coffee table and threw it against the glass. The table
legs gave way. The window stood defiant.
Reynolds sipped her beverage, watching the monitor with amusement. A
sledgehammer couldn’t break that glass, let alone the feeble efforts of an
asthma-stricken women.
Beside her, Dr Quinlan stirred his tea calmly. An amber light flicked on,
accompanied by a buzzer, indicating the rear entrance to the museum was open.
“Excellent,” he said. “Now we are all here, it’s time I met our guests and
brought this matter to a satisfactory conclusion.”

202

Above the howl of the wind neither could hear the other, but Claire’s stricken
face and the broken computer and table at the foot of the window told their own
story. Danny gave a thumbs-up sign and stepped back into the snow.
He came to the van from the passenger side, slowly raising his head to window
level, relieved to find the cabin empty.
He opened the door and reached across to grab the keys from the ignition, at any
moment expecting the deadly grip of Uncle Tom on his shoulder. He was about to
throw the keys into the snow when the thought struck him.
He hesitated, not sure he wanted to know, then slowly, almost against his will,
he moved to the back of the van and unlocked the rear doors.
He had an idea of what to expect from his True Crime magazines, but reality,
even by the fast-fading light, was more sobering than any sanitized magazine
article.
The cushioned walls, leather thongs and video camera told their own sordid
story.
Fear dictated he run, but the strewn clothes in the dim light found him
clambering into the vehicle, his heart racing.
The woollen leggings.
The sweatshirt.
The blouse.
The mound of blankets in the corner.
He stopped short, paralysed with fear, not anting to know.
He edged forward, psyching himself for the unthinkable.
The inevitable.
It was the slightest movement, but his heart leapt. He was on the mound in a
second, pulling back the blankets.
Raw eyes stared back at him, tear ducts long-since exhausted, fear gouged into
the child’s face.
She struggled to breathe through her nose, the gag so tight Danny could barely
loosen the knot. He slipped Ceri’s key between the bonds, severing the cloth.
As the gag released, the child slipped into fitful bursts of tears, her
partially clothed body shaking, her words incoherent.
Danny found himself in tears with her as he clutched the traumatised girl to
him.
His mind racing, he weighed the options. The child was safer in the van than
out, where hypothermia would end her young life as surely as Uncle Tom himself.
He threw her clothes to her, offering comforting words that went unheard above
the whine of trauma.
He closed and locked the door after him, slipping the van key into his jacket
pocket, clutching Ceri’s key tightly in his hand, tapping strength and
reassurance from its presence. A constant reminder of his purpose there.
He knew the child’s life hung in the balance.
Perhaps his too.
He tried to think what Ceri might have done in the circumstances.
Slowly, stealthily, he followed the footprints around the side of the building.

203

“You poor thing. You must be freezing.” She stretched up with difficulty and
brushed the snow from his collar, gazing into his eyes.
“There’s tea in the pot. We’ve had visitors today, Thomas. Three of them,
snooping. That nosey copper I met at Social Services? He found the exhibit. But
don’t worry. I’ve taken care of him.”
He swung his massive arms around her scrawny frame, lifting her in a bear-hug.
“I saw the woman as I passed. The face is familiar.”
“Claire Meadows. Remember Rebecca?”
He licked his lips. “Every second.”
Reynolds couldn’t help but smile. Then her face became serious.
“Thomas, you’ve been to Liverpool.”
He shrugged. “The student. She was too smart for her own good.”
“We should have discussed it first.”
“She had it coming. Interfering slut.”
“We don’t need this, Thomas. What’s your father going to say?”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“Four bodies in three days?”
He smiled. “Five. I picked up a little something for the weekend.”
Reynolds recoiled. “My God, Thomas, you’re really losing it!” Her eyes
widened in worry. “The suicide complex!”
He grabbed her shoulders. “Look at me? Do I look unstable?”
“But Thomas, what about the controls? Your father’s work means nothing without
the controls.”
“One more won’t hurt.”
“Thomas, you didn’t need another girl.”
“You don’t understand. This isn’t just any girl. She’s ten years old. Eleven
at most. On the cusp of puberty. This is totty. Top totty. I tell you, this
child is gagging for it.”
Reynolds leant up and kissed him on the cheek. “Thomas, you really are quite
incorrigible. I love you so much.”
“I love you too, Mum.”

204

The footprints led to double doors on the newly built extension.
Danny pushed against the entrance, mortified to find it ease open, snow
preventing the seal that would have allowed the electronic bolts to engage.
There could be no turning back.
He clutched the key to his chest. “This is for you, Ceri.”
The faint light from outside was extinguished as he cautiously pushed the door
to, his confidence bolstered by the sure knowledge of an escape route.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness a semblance of vision slowly returned,
allowing him to mak out the parameters of the hall. He felt for the wall and
slowly began following the boundary, feeling for a switch or door handle. His
hand gripped the velvet drape, the sudden illumination of the amber spotlight
startling him. The green light stood out in the gloom, and the drape furled as
he hit it.
Frederick West committed suicide in HMP Winston Green, Birmingham on New Year’s
Day 1995 while awaiting joint trial with his wife Rosemary, for what was to have
been one of Britain’s biggest sex-crime trials of the twentieth century.
Danny hit the red button, fascination giving way to fear someone might have
heard.
A keen mind surmised he was in a museum of some kind, but this was no time to
explore.
He moved cautiously on, the amber light following him. The next green light
flashed on as he approached, but he ignored it, reaching past to pull across the
drape by hand. He recognised instantly the sinister features of Robert Black. He
let the curtain fall, casting a glance around the countless hidden exhibits.
He felt the key in his palm and focused on the task. He made for the double
doors, now just discernible in the gloom.
He paused, hesitant. He could still turn back. The police were on the way.
Inspector Pitman was already here somewhere.
He remembered Claire’s frightened face through the window.
He thought of the child in the van.
The double doors refused to budge. He could see the card-reader on the wall and
felt a mixture of frustration and relief. Now he had good reason for going no
further.
The streak of moisture on the floor glistened in the amber light, catching his
eye.
He looked closer and saw what looked like a credit card. Guessing it might be
the key-card for the door he bent down to pick it up, registering horror as he
realised it was stained with blood.
Perhaps he was blase about death by now, perhaps just driven by the adrenalin
of the moment, but he remained calm as he pulled the drape aside to reveal the
knife sticking from the back of the man he guessed must be Inspector Pitman.
He swiped the card.
There would be no turning back.
He stepped into the harsh light of the corridor, and began systematically
swiping the card at each door, hesitantly pushing the door open, each time
relieved to find the room empty.

205

“How do I look?”
Reynolds savoured the scent of Imperial Leather. She adjusted a cuff-link.
“The perfect gentleman.”
“Where’s Dad?”
“Waiting for you outside Room 8. The journalist is locked in there.”
“I’m going to enjoy this.”
Reynolds gave him a playful slap. “Do behave! Your father’s quite capable of
dealing with Burford. You know how people demure to his professional image. But
he wants you there as back-up. Just in case.”
He flexed his muscles. “I’ll take care of him.”
“No. No more bloodshed today. Least of all here.”
“But the copper. You said…”
“We’ll worry about that later. Just leave it to your father.”
“What was it like?”
“What?”
“The cop. How did it feel?”
A smile spread across her face. “The knife went in so easily. I was really
surprised. But Thomas, you were so right. It was everything you said it was.”

206

“Mr Burford, I’m so very sorry. There’s been a breakdown in our security
system.”
Matt’s anger was instantly dissipated by the appearance of the wheelchair-bound
pensioner in the doorway.
“The whole building was locked for a while. Dr Reynolds and I had to wait for
the arrival of my son to bypass the circuit. Electronics is not my field of
expertise, as I’m sure you understand.” He held out a hand. “Please accept
my most sincere apologies. I’m Dr Quinlan. James Quinlan.”
Matt ignored the hand. He eyed the second figure behind the old man with
suspicion. “Where’s Claire?”
“Mrs Meadows? Dr Reynolds is with her now.”
His hand remained outstretched. Matt took it reluctantly, suspicion fading
slowly. Being locked in an empty room had allowed his imagination to run riot,
yet here was the eponymous Dr Quinlan offering heartfelt apologies and an
entirely plausible explanation.
The man behind Quinlan stepped forward, a friendly smile. “I’m Dr Quinlan’s
son, Thomas. Pleased to meet you.”
Matt shook hands but did not reciprocate the smile. “I want to see Claire.
Now.”
Dr Quinlan’s eyes sparkled. “As I said, she’s with Dr Reynolds. Her asthma…
Claire is in good hands, I can assure you.”
“She’s okay?”
“Nothing a hot cup of tea cannot put right. But I’m forgetting my manners. Can
I get you some refreshments?”
“Is Pitman with them?”
“Inspector Pitman is searching the premises as we speak. I’ve allowed him a
free run of the building, of course. You know how policeman are. Never satisfied
until they’ve upturned every last stone. Was that a yes to tea? Coffee? Thomas,
would you be so kind? Molly was sent home early.” To Matt, “Please, come
this way. We’ll find somewhere more comfortable.”
Matt followed the old man as he wheeled slowly down the corridor.
“The Inspector has this curious notion that Uncle Tom is still at large and is
one of our clients,” Quinlan said with a disarming chuckle.
“He’s not alone.”
“What can I say, Mr Burford? You obviously have sound reasons for your belief,
which we are as yet not privy to. Dr Reynolds and I are of the opinion it would
be best if we were all to sit round a table together, in a sane and civilised
manner, and get to the bottom of this.”
“You know Ceri Jones is dead?”
Quinlan looked surprised, but his voice never wavered. “Mr Burford, Matthew, I
cannot begin to express my condolences at this terrible time for you. A car
accident?”
“Uncle Tom killed her.”
Quinlan held his gaze. He stopped at an unmarked door, gesturing for Matt to
enter. “Please, take a seat. Thomas will be along with the tea shortly.”
Matt stood to one side. “You first.”
As Quinlan eased his chair behind the desk, Matt asked, “How could Uncle Tom
have known about Ceri, except through this place? It’s clear to us he must have
accessed your records somehow.”
Quinlan shrugged. “Far be it from me to cast aspersions, Matthew, but my
understanding is that it were yourself and Claire who made this so-called
profile available to third parties. Not just to ourselves, but to the police, to
this solicitor fellow, Isaac, and lord only knows who else.”
“The police were given a summary of the profile, not the original. At Ceri’s
request I removed her name from it before handing it over.”
“The solicitor, then. I understand his office was burgled?” Quinlan’s
sparkling smile again.
Matt felt uneasy. Quinlan had a point. Isaac had taken away a copy of Ceri’s
original, with her name on. “The burglary wasn’t made public, Dr Quinlan. How
do you know about it?”
Quinlan chuckled, eyes twinkling. “Matthew, you’re treading the fine line
between suspicion and paranoia. Quite understandable, of course, in the
circumstances.”

207

“That doesn’t answer my question, Dr Quinlan.”
“My dear boy, we heard about it through the grapevine, of course. The
unofficial dissemination of information. It’s the very lubricant of modern
journalism is it not? When the office of a solicitor representing the country’s
most notorious criminal is broken into, word soon gets about. Especially in a
field as esoteric as ours.”
“Then you must know the manner of Ceri’s murder.”
“Not as yet, but if what you say is true I can imagine some likely scenarios.
And I quit understand how it must appear to a layman, I really do. But to the
trained eye the matter is straight-forward enough. A simple copy-cat murder.
Someone seriously disturbed, who idolised the media image of Uncle Tom. There
would be many, I can assure you. Especially after the way the tabloid press
manipulated and sensationalised the details for their own profit, with no regard
for the consequences.”
“This isn’t about media responsibility, Dr Quinlan. This is about a homicidal
maniac who’s still out there, killing, while an innocent man is behind bars.”
“Innocent? Forgive me, Matthew, but I didn’t realise you were acquainted with
Greg Randall.”
“I’m not.”
“Then I have the advantage, wouldn’t you say? I examined him as a client here
at the Foundation. Between us, Dr Reynolds and I explored his innermost desires
and fantasies. Sexual fantasies, Matthew. Fantasies about little girls.”
“Thomas Bristow had a thing for little boys. That didn’t make him a killer.
And he was another of your patients.”
Quinlan couldn’t hide his surprise. “How on Earth? No matter. Matthew, I don’t
know how familiar you are with my reputation, and I do not wish to appear
boastful, but my expertise in the field of paraphilia is regarded as unequalled.
In my professional opinion, Greg Randall is a schizophrenic paedophile who was
living not just a double, but a triple existence, as a doting father and family
man, as a troubled would-be abuser, seeking help to protect his own daughters
from future harm, and thirdly as a homicidal maniac, to use your own words,
tracking down little children for his own gratification. By any definition,
Matthew, the word innocent is surely a little inappropriate?”
Again, Dr Quinlan’s calm, rational explanations were disarming. But the image of
Ceri’s body was still etched in Matt’s mind.
“If Randall is Uncle Tom, then who murdered Ceri?
“As I said, Matthew, a copy-cat killer. A simple, if tragic matter of idolatry
emulation. Of hero-worship gone too far. Besides, this girl, Ceri. She was a
mature teenager, as I understand it. Not a young child.”
“Not when he started.” Matt forced the image from his mind. “More children
have been killed since Randall’s arrest.”
Quinlan chuckled loudly. “Ah yes, the profile… The girl from Mold. A simple
coincidence. As for Uncle Tom being fluent in Welsh… It’s no laughing matter,
of course, but Dr Reynolds and I were particularly amused by that one.”
Matt glared at him.
“I quite understand how you feel, Matthew, believe me. But it’s been three
months now since Greg Randall was incarcerated. Since then you have this one
missing child, with nothing to connect her to Uncle Tom beyond an obscure Welsh
town that no-one has ever heard of. Surely if there were any substance
whatsoever to your remarkable notion then he would have killed another child by
now?”
“He has?”
“Really? But Matthew, you are hoist by your own petard. Your friend’s
profile… A town beginning with the letter X? There are none.”
“Oh, but there is, Dr Quinlan.”
Quinlan leaned forward. “Please enlighten me.”
“We believe a child was abducted from Christmas Common.”
Quinlan let out a long sigh. “Very well, Matthew, let’s hear the whole story.
I couldn’t live with myself if a professional misjudgement on my part resulted
in the death of another child.”