Sugar & Spice (6 page)

24

“All I know is what I’ve seen on the news or read in the papers. Kent Police
have already taken statements. I was eliminated from the inquiry.”
“Well they want to talk to you again now.”
“I’m no child-killer. As God is my witness, I’d never harm a child.”
“That’s rich, Thomas. How old was your last victim? Ten? Eleven?”
“Ten. But you don’t understand.”
“Fucking right, I don’t. I don’t understand and I don’t want to. That’s for
namby fucking social workers and probation officers. Our job is to protect
children, not the dirty bastards who fiddle with them.”
“I never touched Rebecca.”
“Maybe it was an accident, Thomas? Maybe you didn’t mean to kill her. Maybe
-”
“For God’s sake, it wasn’t me!”
“There are a few too many coincidences for my liking.”
“Like?”
“You used to have your own ice-cream van. Mr. Whippy, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, but it didn’t work out.”
“Just a front to get close to little kiddies, wasn’t it? How did it work?
Show us your knickers, little girl, and I’ll let you play with my
ninety-nine?”
“For Christ’s sake, it wasn’t like that.”
“And then there’s your sister.”
“She’s got nothing to do with any of this.”
“Lives in Hayes. That’s just up the road from Southall.”
“So?”
“The same Southall where Rebecca’s body was found.”
He understood the earlier reference now. “I’ve never been to Southall. I swear
it.”
Brown Suit leered close to Bristow’s face. “That’s funny. It says on your
driving licence you were born there.”
“I was. I meant, I’ve not been there recently. Not for years.”
Brown Suit clicked his tongue in rebuke. “First lie, Thomas. Dear, dear me.
Why should we believe anything else you’ve said?”
“It’s the truth. I promise you.”
“According to your diary you were in Hayes just days after the girl was
abducted. Plenty of opportunity to dump the body in the canal on the way up. Or
the way back. Perhaps she was laying in your boot while you sat eating cream
doughnuts with your beloved sister.”
Bristow stammered the denial, shaking his head, fear in his eyes. “It wasn’t
me, for God’s sake.”
“Your so-called precautions have dropped you in deep shit, Thomas. If I was
you I’d start talking now. While you still can. Before Peter takes over.”
“I want a solicitor.”
“No can do.”
“Then I want to see someone in charge.”
“Sorry. Too busy.”
“I know my rights. “
“Don’t talk to me about rights, Bristow. What rights did you give that little
girl before you killed her?”
“I never, That’s all I’m saying.”
“Did you ask her first? Is that it? She was ten years old, you filthy
perverted bastard. What right did you have to end her life before it had even
began?”
“I want my solicitor. Right now.”
“That’s not our problem, Thomas. All we’ve got to do is bring you in and hand
you over.”
“You mean back to Margate?”
“The sticks, yeah. Of course, we wouldn’t be doing our job properly if we
didn’t try and give them a helping hand. You know, give them the benefit of our
superior detective skills.”
“I’m saying nothing else until I’ve seen my brief.”
Brown Suit exhaled loudly. “For an intellectual type, Thomas, you’re proving
incredibly stupid.”
“I want a solicitor. Any solicitor. I’m saying nothing else.”

25

Peter entered the room carrying a tray with three plastic cups of steaming tea.
“How’s it going? He signed the confession yet?”
“Mr. Whippy doesn’t want to talk to us, Peter. Says he wants his brief. Seems
to think he has rights or something.”
He saw Peter’s blurred figure put the tray on the table, then move towards him
with a cup of tea in his hand. “Two sugars, wasn’t it?”
Bristow nodded.
“Oops.” Peter poured the steaming tea into Bristow’s lap in a steady stream.
He writhed in pain as the scalding liquid burned his groin, but kept his mouth
clammed shut. A rabbit punch to the kidneys followed, then an elbow to the head.
He felt his eyebrow split open. Blood began to run down into his eye.
“No, please, no more.”
A second cup of scalding tea was thrown across his face, and he screamed in
pain, his wrists bleeding as he struggled against the handcuffs. “No! Please,
no!”
Brown Suit’s face came into focus. “Now that was silly, wasn’t it? I told you
already. You can play it my way. Or Peter’s. It’s your choice.”
“Okay, okay. Your way. Just keep him away from me.”
“Did you hear that, Peter? He wants to talk to me, not you. Sorry, mate. You
can have the next pervert we bring in.”
“Fucking nonce! We ought to cut his balls off.”
Bristow heard the sound of scissors snipping the air. He cringed. “Mother of
God, no, please, no.”
“Castration’s too good for him, Peter. Anyway, I think Mr. Whippy’s ready to
cooperate now. Aren’t you, Thomas?”
Bristow nodded.
“I’ll hang about, just in case,” Peter said. “Fucking nonces.” He spat
in Bristow’s face. The saliva ran down over his eye, dropping onto his cheek to
mingle with the blood.
Brown Suit lit another cigarette, blowing the smoke into Bristow’s face.
“Let’s quit playing games, shall we? Let’s talk about Rebecca.”
“It wasn’t me. I’ve told you.” He inhaled the smoke, savouring it.
“Please, a cigarette. Just one drag.”
“You want a fag, nonce? Here.” Peter grabbed the lit cigarette from his
colleague’s mouth and stubbed it out on Bristow’s forehead.
Bristow struggled not to react.
“You’re wearing my patience thin, Thomas. Tell us about the girl. Or perhaps
you’d like Peter to conduct the interview instead.”
“I swear I don’t know anything.”
A blow across the head. His mind reeling, blood dripping into his eyes.
“Peter’s got a daughter, you know. Me, I’ve got two little boys. Now I don’t
know about you, Thomas, but personally I don’t think we’d be serving the public
interest if we let you leave here in one piece. Not with all those little
children out there to tempt you.”
“I didn’t do it. Please, believe me.” He was sobbing now, his body shaking
with fear.
“Which hand do you write with, nonce?” It was Peter’s voice.
Bristow stammered the answer. “My right.”
“Which hand do you use to finger the little girls, nonce?”
“I’ve never -” He screamed in pain as the boot came from nowhere, smashing
into his groin.no more.”
He saw Peter’s blurred outline move behind him and held his breath, not knowing
what to expect.
“I’ll tell you what’s going to happen, Thomas,” Brown Suit said quietly.
“While I was having a cuppa earlier on I wrote up a nice little statement for
you, confessing you killed the girl. Just a straight-forward admission that you
abducted and strangled Rebecca, then dumped her body in the canal on the way up
to see your sister. We’ll worry about the details later.”
“Lord strike me if I’m lying. I never touched her,” Bristow sobbed.
“Never.”
Brown Suit shrugged. “Now that would be a shame, Thomas, because you’re going
down for it anyway.” He waved a sheet of paper before Bristow’s face. It could
have been anything, for all he could see of it.
“I’m signing nothing.”
He felt a heavy grip around his left hand. The voice from behind.
“Last chance, nonce.”

26

“Mother of God, it wasn’t me. Please believe me.”
The movement was deft, the pain excruciating. The little finger snapped like a
twig. He let out a scream.
“God, no!”
Brown Suit’s leering face loomed into focus inches from his nose. “Ready to
sign, Mr. Whippy?”
The tears were running in torrents down his face, the pain searing. He shook his
head defiantly. “It wasn’t me, for God’s sake. It wasn’t me.” He sobbed
violently, his body shaking with pain and fear. He felt the grip tighten around
his middle finger. “Mother of God, please, no.”
The second finger snapped as easily as the first. Only the scream was louder. He
blacked out for just a second, the pain at once knocking him unconscious and
jolting him back to reality.
He saw the blurred image of the grey suit move in front of him again and despite
the pain he felt safer now he knew where Peter was.
“Ready to sign now, Thomas?”
Through gritted teeth Bristow forced the words out. “Go fuck yourselves.”
Brown Suit sucked his breath. “Oh, Thomas, you really are a silly boy. Peter
doesn’t like people who swear.”
Bristow said nothing, his mouth clammed shut, trying to fight off the waves of
pain across his body.
“How much can you see without your glasses, Thomas?”
No answer.
“Can you see what Peter’s doing?”
No answer.
“He’s got a golf club in his hand. Did I mention he likes golf as well?”
Bristow held his breath.
“He likes to practice his swing whenever he gets the chance.”
He saw the fuzzy outline of Peter move closer, holding what he presumed to be
the golf club.
“Have you seen my golf balls anywhere?” Peter asked.
Brown Suit clicked his fingers and tutted loudly. “Sorry, Peter, I left them
at home. Never mind, I think Thomas has got a couple.”
“Mother of God, no. Please, no.” He shrank down into the chair, his knees
clamped together, his body shaking.
“Open your legs, nonce.” He swung the golf club through the air, close to
Bristow’s head. “Open your fucking legs or I’ll use your head instead.”
Bristow sobbed, “Please, no. I’ll sign it. Anything.”
He saw Brown Suit disappear behind him and felt the cuffs being manipulated. His
right arm was freed, the left, with its broken fingers hanging limply, still
cuffed to the chair. He moved his hand to his face to touch the wounds but Brown
Suit’s hand gripped his, forcing it to the table Peter had pushed in front of
him. Brown Suit moved his hand to the pen, not letting go till he gripped the
stem with trembling fingers.
“Just sign it, Thomas. That’s all you have to do, then you can go back to your
cell.”
“I swear I never touched the child.”
The golf club slammed down on the desk near his fingers. Brown Suit grabbed his
free arm and forced it back to the paper.
“Sign the fucking thing or I’m leaving you and Peter alone ther.”
Sobbing, shaking, Bristow scrawled his signature onto the paper, his only
thought to end the pain. As he finished Brown Suit grabbed his arm and forced it
back into the cuff behind the chair.
“See, that was easy, wasn’t it. Well, that’s it, Thomas. You can go now.”
He tried to get up, but the cuffs held him firm.
“One more thing, Mr. Whippy,” said Brown Suit. “You promise not to go
chasing after little children anymore.”
“I… I promise.”
“I don’t believe you, nonce. I think we should break a few more fingers, just
to make sure.”
“God, no. Please, no. I’ve admitted to the girl. It was me. I killed her. What
more do you want? Please, just leave me alone.”
He saw Peter moving behind him out of sight and he prayed silently, shutting his
eyes, waiting for the pain. He heard the swish of air a split second before the
club hit the left arm, shattering the elbow and lower humerus. He screamed out
in pain, and his body arching against the cuffs that held him to the chair,
dazed, unable to speak, the pain searing through him.
He vaguely heard Peter’s voice, talking about civic duty, protecting children,
then the swish of air again. Pain seared through his arm as the club smashed
against the shattered limb a second time, spraying blood through the cloth of
his shirt. He managed to scream out once before unconsciousness overtook him,
the pain giving way to welcome darkness.
It was over.
For now.

28

Greg Randall drew on a cigarette and lay back on the bed, his head propped
against a pillow, watching his wife towel herself dry after her shower. Bethan
always she took a shower before doing anything else. She enjoyed her job, but
hated the smell of old people lingering around the house.
Through the slightly open door the Dynamite Twins could be heard bickering
playfully in their bedroom. He smiled to himself, confident he had things under
control.
He studied Bethan’s body as she dressed, his eyes lingering until she slipped on
her nightie and ended the show.
One day, he told himself, he’d come clean and explain to Bethan his true desires – his fears.
One day.
As she climbed into bed beside him, her hand sneaking playfully beneath the
covers, he knew that time was a long way off.
Anyway he had an appointment booked with Dr Quinlan for the following Monday.
The problem would be resolved soon, somehow.
He listened to the Dynamite Twins’ joyful shrieks and crossed his fingers.
28
“You look great!” Matt settled in opposite Claire in the Westwood Cross
Cafe Nero in Waterstone’s. “First time you’ve smiled since, Anyway,
what’s on your mind?”
“I just thought you’d like a coffee.”
“Never been known to refuse. But why now?”
“You weren’t busy, were you?”
“I’ve always got time for you, Claire. You know that. But why here?”
“Somewhere neutral, to talk.”
“I’m listening.”
Claire studied her Americano thoughtfully, considering her words. “Promise not
to laugh, Matt. This is going to sound silly, I know, but it makes me feel good.
And just now that’s what I need most.”
Matt supped his latte. “Try me.”
“I want to find him.”
“Find who?”
“Whoever he is. Uncle Tom.”
Matt eyed his partner uneasily. “What makes you think you can do better than
Kent’s finest?”
“I thought you might say that.”
“I know how you feel, Claire, but – “
She cut him short, her smile giving way to momentary anger. “No you don’t,
Matt. You can’t possibly know how I feel. Only if it was your own daughter could
you even come close to knowing.” Tears filled her eyes.
He reached out a comforting hand. “Playing Miss Marple won’t help things,
Claire. You’ll just prolong the pain.”
“Hear me out, at least, Mat. You’re the only one I can talk to.”
“I’m sorry. I’m listening.”
“I was looking through Rebecca’s school folder this morning. Just browsing;
re-living memories. I wish I’d got more involved with it. Funny how things only
take on their real importance when it’s too late…”
Matt stayed silent.
“Just before the summer break a police-woman visited her school. A bike had
been stolen. Rebecca came home that day wanting to join the police. I humoured
her, of course. Before that it was a journalist. To be like you. But being a
detective was the last thing she wanted to be, before…”
Matt clasped her hand tight. She reciprocated.
“And you think by setting yourself up as Poirot you can somehow fulfil her
dream?”
“Does that sound crazy?”
He considered his response thoughtfully. “I understand your wanting to do
something, but you don’t seriously think you can track down this sick bastard,
when the combined might of the Kent and Metropolitan Police are struggling, with
all their resources?”
“No, but it makes me feel better. The thing is, Matt, I’ve got to do
something. Anything. I can’t relax. Not while I know he’s out there still.
Supposing he kills another child? No mother should have to go through what I’ve
been through.” She felt her anger rising and took deep breaths to quell it.
“It’s not about vengeance, Matt. Honestly.”
He raised a doubting eyebrow.
“It was, at first. Of course it was. Anyone would be the same. I wanted to
find him. To make him suffer. To cut his balls off. I wanted to… But that was
then. I’m being rational now. I want justice, not revenge. I want to know why.
What kind of person is he? Does he have a family? Friends? Has he ever loved
somebody? Does he feel any guilt? Any remorse? Anything at all? At first I
thought hanging was too good for him. But now… now I’ve had time to think, I
realise that’s not the answer. He must be ill. Sick, I mean, in the head.
Seriously sick. He needs help, not punishment.”
Matt pondered her words. “You never fail to amaze me, Claire. You may even be
right. God knows, the cops need all the help they can get.” He permitted a
smile. “But tell me, Agatha. Whodunnit? Where do you start? It’s not Cluedo.
You can’t just walk up and accuse Colonel Mustard in the ballroom with the lead
piping, and then throw the dice again when the cards don’t match. Have you any
idea of the scale of the inquiry going on?”
She shrugged. “Have you?”
“It’s my job to know, Claire.”
“So tell me.”
“Tell you?”
“About the inquiry. Tell me how it works. How many people they’ve talked to.
How many suspects they’ve crossed off their list. I need to know.”
He hesitated. Just that morning he’d been reading back over past child-murder
investigations. It was the very rarity of child murders that made them such big
news. It was easy to forget that when faced with a list of murdered children.
Susan Maxwell’s murder had been the last report he’d read before leaving.
Susan’s body had been found fourteen days after her abduction. Did Claire need
to know that in four years the investigation generated seven and a half tons of
paper, took in 15,000 statements, 20,000 vehicle registration numbers and 65,000
individual names and addresses on file? That her murderer was only caught years
later, not through the police investigation but thanks to an eagle-eyed
passer-by who by chance saw another child walk behind a van and not emerge the
other side?
He made a point of looking at his watch. “I have to get back soon, Claire.
Honestly. It would take all day to explain what goes on.”
“Well when? Matt, I want to know. Need to know.”
“I’ll set aside some quality time, as soon as I can.”
Claire smiled. “You used to say that to Rebecca.” She clutched his hand
again. “Thanks Matt. I do appreciate it.”
“Besides, I may be able to save you the effort. I’m expecting some news
later.”
“News?”
“Sort of. It’s not official yet, but Pitman tells me the Met have arrested a
man. Now don’t build your hopes up, Claire, just in case it falls flat, but
there’s talk of a celebratory drink at Fort Hill tonight, so they’re taking it
pretty seriously.”
She clutched his arm eagerly. “When will you know for sure?”
“Any time now. Pitman has sent one of his team to interview the suspect. In
hospital.”
“Hospital?”
“I don’t know the details, but apparently he’s in a bad way.”
Claire’s humanitarian mood was history. She smiled.
“Good. I hope the bastard’s suffering.”