Sugar & Spice (43 page)

208

As each successive door opened on an empty room, Danny’s hesitant pace
quickened. The door to room fifteen swung open, the cursory glance becoming a
lingering stare as his eyes fell upon the bank of technology that was the
Foundation’s security control centre. The single monitor switched on showed the
snow-covered forecourt.
He found himself drawn like a magnet, nodding to himself as expert eyes darted
from one console to another, grasping functions as if heat home. For the first
time since entering the Foundation, Danny felt at ease.
He nudged the door closed and the locks secured automatically. He slipped onto
the swivel chair and spun himself the length of the deck, flicking switches and
pressing buttons, confidence growing. Suddenly he could see Matt in agitated
conversation with the old man. Relief surged. He turned on the audio.
“But what about the DNA match? The semen on the body? One can only stretch
credulity so far, Matthew.”
Matt’s reply was lost as Danny changed the scene. Matt was fine. What about
Claire? He scanned the rooms as fast as he could until he found the lounge.
Claire was sat with her head in her hands, her inhaler by her side. Danny
flicked a switch and saw Claire turn towards the door, which had swung open. She
watched in fearful silence, expecting someone to enter, then slowly approached
doorway.
As she stepped over the threshold the monitor faded and another lit up, showing
Claire in the empty corridor. Danny managed a smile. From the electronic
blueprint he could tell Claire was one corridor away from Matt and the old man,
but she was going the wrong way. He scanned the consoles, trying to find a way
to signal to her. He found the rewind facility.
He saw Claire fast-rewind back into the room, and clicking a few buttons saw his
own face appear at the window. He rewound further and the man from the white van
appeared. He froze the frame, studying the face.
Grasping the history facility he jumped scenes and found the Inspector at the
front door, waiting in the snow. He played a steady fast-forward, watching
impatiently as the hunched woman invited him in. He sped up the forward search,
tracing the pair as they stopped at various rooms, including the one he was in.
Then he saw Pitman wander off on his own. He followed Pitman into the museum,
knowing what was to come. He looked away as the knife plunged silently into the
Inspector’s back, then slowed the replay to normal pace to be sure what he was
seeing. The hunched woman dragging the body behind a curtain.
Where was the man at the window? The van driver, Uncle Tom?
As he fought to control his emotions he clutched Ceri’s key so tight it drew
blood from his palm, jolting his mind back to reality.
He jumped scenes from the replays and found the man, Uncle Tom, embracing the
hunched woman. Bewildered, he played the scene again, unable to believe his
eyes, the suddenly he was changing scenes again, in live play.
He found Room Eight again, and stared in disbelief, reality impaling itself in
his mind. Matt and the old man were still debating in animated fashion. But
alongside them Uncle Tom was pouring tea.
He scanned the room in desperation, a foot kicking the swivel chair across the
control deck to a new position, where he punched keys, wading through menus
until he found what he wanted. The menu offered All internal locks off and he
hit the key. Behind him the bolts released and the door swung open.
Around the building a similar scenario unfolded. Danny watched on the monitor as
Uncle Tom tried to get to the door to close while Matt and the old man looked
on. Flicking scenes he saw Claire hesitate in confusion as the doors swung open.
In the kitchen the hunched woman looked around, bewildered.
Yanking the lead from the mainframe, Danny smashed the keyboard against the
deck, shattering it. He picked up the heavy swivel chair and hurled it at the
main console, taking out one of the monitors at the same time. He picked up the
chair again and smashed all but one of the monitors, his strength weakening. He
could see Claire heading away from the lounge. A glance at the blueprint lights
told him she was heading in the opposite direction of Uncle Tom, towards the
museum.
He was about to heave the chair a final time when he saw the hunched figure of
Reynolds on the screen, heading towards the security room. He let the chair drop
and darted across the corridor into an empty room, watching as Reynolds passed
As she entered the security room he slipped out heading towards Room Eight. Matt
would know what to do.

209

Reynolds surveyed the damage in horror.
On the one remaining monitor she could see Claire wandering cautiously along the
far corridor. She tried to change the monitor view, but there was no response.
Quickly she grabbed her mobile.
In Room Eight Dr Quinlan made his apologies to Matt as he took the call.
“Yes, he’s here with me. No, none that I’m aware of. Is there a problem?”
Quinlan closed the phone and apologised again to Matt. “That was Dr Reynolds.
You will be delighted to know Claire is now feeling much better and they will
both be along forthwith. Thomas, any luck with that door?”

210

Danny raced down the corridor, the mental image of the blueprint clear in his
mind.
As he approached Room Eight there was no question who was crouching at the door
with a screwdriver.
There was no hesitation.
No fear.
Just anger.
He launched himself onto Uncle Tom’s back, sending them both reeling into the
room, crashing into the desk.
“You bastard! You killed her!”
Matt jumped back in surprise. Dr Quinlan struggled to reposition his wheelchair,
looking on in shock at the young teen who had burst in from nowhere.
Uncle Tom reared up with a roar, flinging the boy across the room, smashing into
the sofa on the far side.
Matt ran to him, uncomprehending, fearing the child was hurt. “Are you okay?
Danny, what in Christ’s name are you doing?”
Winded, Danny choke the words out breathlessly. “He’s Uncle Tom! He killed
Ceri! He killed her!”
As Matt turned, still bewildered, the younger Quinlan was advancing on them.
“So, Burford, you need a child to do your brain work for you, do you? A pity.
I’ve never fancied little boys. But just this once I’ll make an exception.”
Matt stepped in front of Danny. “Over my dead body.”
Uncle Tom smiled. “Very astute, Burford. Obviously neither of you can be
allowed to leave here alive.”
The lightning fast massive paw caught Matt on the side of the head, sending him
crashing into the wall.
“Now your turn, little boy.”
As Uncle Tom lunged at the sofa Danny dived between his legs, grabbing the
screwdriver. “Come on then, you bastard! Just try!”
As Uncle Tom turned to look at Danny, Matt brought the chair smashing down on
the bald head. Blood erupted but Uncle Tom barely blinked, getting to his feet
even as the broken wood fell to the ground.
“Danny, get out! Go, now!”
“No way.” Danny brandished the screwdriver. “He’s mine.”
“Don’t be stupid. Get out!” Matt flung himself at Uncle Tom to give the boy
space to pass, launching a fist, but a massive paw stopped it in his tracks, a
vice-like grip. A second hand came up, sweeping Matt off his feet and across the
room mercifully into the sofa Danny had just climbed from. The boy was there in
an instant, helping him up.
“He’s just toying with us. Get out!”
Matt launched himself at Uncle Tom again. Danny watched mesmerised as Uncle Tom
blocked the attack with one hand, the other smashing deep into his stomach. Matt
doubled up in pain, a further blow to his shoulders knocking him to the floor.
“Next?”
Danny stood defiant, screwdriver at the ready.
Uncle Tom beckoned him with a finger. “I’m waiting, little boy.”
From the floor Matt shouted feebly, “Danny, no!”
Too late.
Danny threw himself at Uncle Tom, screwdriver raised, but a second later thick
fingers were in a vice around his neck, holding the boy at arm’s length off
the ground, the screwdriver falling from his hand.
Danny felt the fingers tightening, the oxygen supply slowing.
icked out with all his strength, but Uncle Tom just laughed when the occasional
blow reached home.
Suddenly the laugh was a roar of pain as the screwdriver pierced his shoulder.
Danny fell to the floor, barely conscious, as Uncle Tom turned to face Matt,
breathless behind him.
Uncle Tom pulled the screwdriver from his shoulder, blood soaking the jacket,
and advanced on Matt, the weapon clenched in his giant fists.
“Have you any idea how much a Caraceni costs, Burford? Your last moments will
be all the less pleasant for that.”
The full weight of Uncle Tom’s massive frame came at him, the screwdriver aimed
at his head. It took both Matt’s hands to hold back the massive fist.
He reeled backwards, around the room, Uncle Tom pushing relentlessly, until he
felt the wall at his back.
Suddenly there was nowhere else to go.
Uncle Tom’s weight bore down on him, the face leering, the veins on the bald
head pulsing. The screwdriver loomed inches from Matt’s face and he could feel
his strength sap as Uncle Tom applied relentless pressure.
“Danny, run!”
The screwdriver was barely an inch from his eye.
He knew it was all over. Uncle Tom was too strong.
He had to last those extra few seconds to let Danny get away.
Suddenly Danny was in front of him, above Uncle Tom’s head, his small hands
wrapped around the contorted face, clutching desperately. It was no more than an
irritation to Uncle Tom, but it gave Matt the respite to forced the screwdriver
back.
With both Matt’s hands holding back the weapon there was nothing he could do as
Uncle Tom’s free hand grabbed Danny by the collar, pulling him down.
Danny grabbed at Uncle Tom’s head, desperate for grip, and felt Ceri’s key in
his palm.
He gripped it tight and gouged deep with all his strength, over the left ear,
across the bald head, ripping the skin and splattering blood, but Uncle Tom’s
grip remained steadfast.
As the tip of the key came down across the forehead Danny felt the key sink deep
into the eyeball, splashing sticky liquid across his hand.
Uncle Tom roared with pain, reeling backwards, clutching at his face with both
hands.
Danny fell to the floor. Matt was by him in an instant.
For a moment they watched his agonised screams as Uncle Tom struggled to get up
from his knees, then Matt seized the heavy anglepoise lamp from the desk and
brought it down on the bald head.
As the massive body slumped to the floor groaning Danny grabbed the lamp and
smashed it repeatedly into the fallen figure, until Matt grabbed his arm.
“That’s enough, Danny.”
They stared, breathless, at the still body.
Dr Quinlan wheeled round. “Is he dead?”
Matt felt for a pulse. “Unfortunately not. Just out cold.”
Quinlan stared at the fallen body with disdain. “My life’s work in ruins. You
pathetic imbecile. No wonder you preferred little girls.”
Matt stared at Quinlan in disbelief. “You knew?”
Quinlan waved a dismissive hand. “Try proving it, Burford.”
Danny handed the screwdriver to Matt and motioned to the door. “Can you put
that lock back together?”
Matt nodded, impressed with the boy’s cool thinking. While Matt fixed the lock
Danny stood over Uncle Tom, willing him to move.
“Okay, Danny. Let’s go.”
Danny threw the lamp at Uncle Tom’s body and a leg jerked.
“You were right, Matt. The bastard is still alive. Pity.”
“Come on, let’s find Claire and Pitman.”
“Claire’s okay, Matt, but the Inspector… Matt, he’s dead.”
Matt started angrily towards Uncle Tom, but Danny grabbed his arm.
“It wasn’t him, Matt. It was the woman. Let’s get to Claire before she
does.”

211

Claire pushed open the museum doors, peering into the gloom.
As she stepped forward an amber light warmed to her presence, a recorded voice
startling her.
Welcome to the Quinlan Museum of Sex Crime. The Quinlan Museum is the most
authentic exhibition of its type in the world today. The museum is personally
sponsored by…
She pulled aside the nearest drape and peered in, but the amber light was not
enough to illuminate the display. Intuitively she hit the green button, the
drape furling to reveal the figure of the Marquis De Sade.
By its very nature sex crime is as old as mankind itself. From the day stone-age
man first took an unwilling partner, sex criminals have walked among us. But
any…
The recording went unheard as the body in the corner caught her eye.
Even as she saw the knife protruding from the shoulder blades she recognised it
was the Inspector.
She reeled, barely able to stand, asthma tightening her chest.
Forcing herself from the exhibit she advanced on the next display, ripping the
drape away, the amber spotlight struggling to keep up with her as she moved
along, anger and adrenaline giving her strength, battling against the
debilitation of her asthma.

212

In the security control centre Danny was cursing his earlier enthusiasm as he
toyed with the loose wires of the console to try regain control over the
remaining monitor.
Wires sparked. Matt looked on bewildered.
“That’s the museum where Pitman was killed.”
For several seconds nothing could be seen as Danny adjusted camera angles, then
suddenly Matt was by his side as Claire’s silent image became clear, moving from
exhibit to exhibit, tearing at drapes, in and out of the amber spotlight’s
glare.
They saw Reynolds’ hunched figure, retrieving the knife from Pitman’s back, and
they were running, Danny leading the way.

213

As the final drape fell she saw the display of Uncle Tom’s victims laid out
before her.
Claire fell to her knees, unwilling to look, unable to tear her eyes away.
She recognised Rebecca’s cycle helmet.
Her pink ribbon.
Shock and anger fought for dominance as her body convulsed.
“So now you know, Claire.”
Claire turned slowly, her body shaking uncontrollably, tears streaming. She knew
the voice before she saw the knife poised in Reynolds’ hand.
“You told me you wanted to know the truth, Claire. Now you do. How does it
feel? Does it help you? Does it really ease the pain?”
Claire hadn’t the energy even to move, her words carried on asthmatic breath.
“Why, Ruth? For God’s sake, why?”
The smile was sincere. “I used to ask that myself, before I met James. He
taught me so much. He showed me how to live, Claire. How to survive without
gender politics. Without the domination of one sex over another.”
Claire looked on, bewildered.
“A parachuting accident. Broke his back. James has been impotent ever since.
Take away a man’s ability to perform in bed, Claire, and you take away his need
to repress. Consequently we have the perfect relationship, James and I. True
equals.”
Claire gestured to the exhibit. “And this?”
“You’re not a scientist, Claire. It’s pointless my even trying to explain.”
Claire knew she needed time to rebuild her strength. “Try me.”
Reynolds laughed. “We were like minds, James and I. Like minds in pursuit of
the truth. For years we studied the sex-offender mentality second-hand, through
the warped minds of others. Others less articulate. Less able to explain. It
wasn’t enough, Claire. Can you understand that? We were pioneers in our field.
We had to go that final mile for the sake of truth. So we created Thomas.”
“Created?”
“Literally. In his time James led the way in artificial insemination
techniques. It was only right, after his accident, that he use his own sperm to
bear us a son. After all, the one thing takes a woman truly superior to a man is
the ability to give birth. And then we faced the age-old debate. Nature or
nurture? Are offenders genetically programmed, or the product of their
environment? We were scientists, Claire. We had a duty to use our own creation,
our son, to find the answers.”
The blade glistened in the amber light.
“You’re mad.”
“Mad, Claire? By who’s definition?”
Claire watched Reynolds’ gnarled fingers curl around the shaft, remembering
Ceri’s words about the knife as a penis. She smiled.
“Am I missing something, Claire?”
“Just something Ceri told me. But I still don’t understand. After all you
said, about men abusing women?”
“These weren’t woman, Claire. They were little girls. Just children.”
“Just children? And that gives you the right to…” The tears streamed, the
voice rising. “She was my daughter, for God’s sake!”
Reynolds nodded. “My point exactly, Claire. She was your daughter. Your own
personal property. I mean, that’s why you’re here, after all, isn’t it? Or are
you telling me you were thinking of the other girls that died? Be honest,
Claire. Can you name even one of Uncle Tom’s victims, other than Rebecca?”
She pointed to a news photo of one of the victims. “That girl there, for
instance?”
Claire kept her eyes firmly on Reynolds.
“You see, she means nothing to you. No more than does a famine victim in
Africa. As a society we loathe children. Didn’t your friend Thomas Bristow teach
you that? Do you honestly think anyone cared about those girls? Of course, it
sickened people to have to read about it over their cornflakes, or see it on the
news as they sat down to have tea. But did anyone actually care about the
victims?”
Claire let her talk, slowly regaining control over her breathing, her strength
returning.
“When you see the screaming masses outside a Court when a paedophile is on
trial do you think they care one jot about the victim? Of course not. All
they’re worried about is their own kids, just as they worry about their own
house or car. About their own personal property. They scream and shout about
child abuse, but in the next breath they’re at home smacking their own little
brats, making them breathe their cigarette smoke, feeding them junk food,
palming them off on the cheapest babysitter they can find while they go out on
the town.”
“That’s not true, Ruth,” Claire managed through a clenched jaw.
“Oh, you know it is, Claire. It’s Dawkins’ selfish gene writ large.
Millions of children die of starvation every year and we stand by and let it
happen. Children are ripped apart by land-mines and bombs and what do we do?
Nothing. Children are being physically and sexually abused all over the world,
Claire, and we choose to look the other way. So long as it’s not our precious
son or daughter, what does it matter? When we’re talking millions, what
difference one more?”
“No.”
“No? Tell me, Claire, what was so special about Rebecca that she should have
her life while others are denied theirs? Do you honestly believe anyone cared
about Rebecca? No-one cared, Claire. No-one but you.”
“No.” She thought of Matt. Of Inspector Pitman. Of Ceri and Danny. Of the
police officers, neighbours, total strangers, who had helped search for her
daughter when she first disappeared. “No, you’re wrong.”
“The delusion is all yours, Claire. Look at that photo of your daughter. That
poor, poor child. All Thomas did was try to advance her maturity. To release her
from the chains of childhood. She wasn’t meant to die, if that’s any
consolation. Your student friend was spot on about that. How could Thomas
possibly have known she was insulin-dependant? He thought he’d killed her
himself. And that was a new high for him. For all of us. It opened up a whole
new field of academic study.”
“You bastards. You complete and utter bastards.”
“That’s it, Claire, release those inner tensions. You’ll feel better for
it.” She smiled. “But I was wrong about one thing, Claire. The power of
absolute dominance is not of man over woman, as I first thought. It’s of life
over death. Your detective friend helped me make that final leap of
understanding. Thomas told us each time was better than the last. Now I’m about
to find out. Tell me, Claire, how does it feel? To know you’re finally going to
be reunited with your precious daughter?”