Sugar & Spice (7 page)

29

It was hardly an original name for a puppy, but then Laura was only six. The
black patch over its right eye gave the pup its name. To her parents, Patch was
an ideal friend for their youngest child and only daughter, one girl among five
older brothers. To Laura, Patch was everything.
In the three months she’d had the pet Laura had exceeded her parents’ wildest
expectations, diligent in attending its every need. No feeding time had been
missed. The pup’s water bowl had never run dry.
As the novelty wore off her brothers quickly lost interest, leaving Patch to
their little sister; which was as Laura’s parents wished. For twelve years
they’d tried for a daughter without success. With five boisterous sons in hand
Laura’s birth was a godsend to them. Her father had the long awaited vasectomy
shortly afterwards.
Acutely aware of the influence an all-boy family would have on their daughter
Laura was thrust into pink romper suits and dresses no sooner had the umbilical
cord been severed. While they made every effort to ensure their six children
were treated fairly, no-one could accuse Laura’s parents of treating them as
equals. Boys would be boys, but Laura was to be their only girl and she was
showered with dolls, soft toys, lace and frills from the moment she was born,
every effort made to ensure any tomboy traits were stamped out in the early
stages.
Patch was part of this process; a companion for Laura to discourage her from
playing with her brothers. They in turn were only too happy to have their
annoying little sister otherwise occupied.
Laura’s parents considered Queensferry a respectable neighbourhood: quiet;
relatively crime-free; pleasantly situated on the England-Wales border, within
easy reach of Chester, Liverpool and the North Wales tourist trail. They were
quite at ease letting six year old Laura walk the dog on her own. So long as she
stayed away from the traffic and away from the river they knew she was safe.
The playground was a five minute walk from Pierce Street, easily accessed
through a quiet alleyway, with just one back street to cross. Beyond that was
the Deeside Leisure Centre and ice rink, around which her brothers played.
Like every parent, Laura’s mother and father read the papers and watched the
news. It would be easy to become paranoid, never to venture out, to keep their
children on chains, if they believed everything they read and heard about crime.
Fortunately serious crime was something that happened elsewhere, in the cities.
Liverpool. Manchester. Birmingham. London.
Like every parent, they knew it couldn’t happen to them.
It couldn’t happen in their village.
Not in broad daylight on a bright summer’s morning.
The first morning of September.
Laura skipped awkwardly down the alleyway, dodging the puddles to avoid dirtying
her pink trainers with Velcro straps, today with a new pair of brilliant white
ankle socks. A red polka-dot cotton knee-length dress with Peter Pan collar and
a pony tail held in place with a red posy clip completed a picture of innocence.

Before she’d left her mother had assured her she would be the most beautiful
girl in the playground
Had she ever arrived she probably would have been.

30

The white van pulled up at the end of the alley as she skipped, the
uncoordinated movements of a young child with a rope too long for her height. As
the pup turned the corner Laura heard the slamming of the van door and the pup
barked furiously. Then a yelp, and silence.
Laura stopped in her tracks, confused. Then she was running, her skipping rope
trailing behind her, calling out to Patch, her voice rising as she hurried. She
turned the corner and stopped abruptly, tears swimming in wide brown eyes.
Before her the man held out the limp body of the puppy. Blood ran from its
lifeless nose. She never saw the blood-stained wheel brace at his feet.
She propelled her shaking body towards the pup, held out before her, a
sacrificial offering. The man uttered soothing words of comfort but they went
unheard. She struggled for breath, a stifled sobbing the only sound she could
manage. Her hand reached out and touched the warm, soft body of the puppy. Blood
stained her fingers but she didn’t notice.
The man bent down, holding out the animal for her to take. She clutched the dead
puppy to her chest, crying, oblivious to the blood staining her frock. Oblivious
to the gentle hands around her waist, lifting her up. Oblivious to the soft,
cushioned floor she was being placed on.
Only when the door closed behind her and the pitch black of total darkness came
upon her did she realise what was happening. Her screams went unheard outside
the sound-proofed vehicle, the soft padding absorbing her cries along with the
sound of tiny hands thumping against the cushioned walls.
She felt the vehicle lurch forward and knew they were moving, though the engine
sound was as inaudible to her inside as her screams were from outside. But she
screamed all the same.
The van eased casually into the traffic on the A548, westbound, through Shotton,
Connah’s Quay and Flint, following the road parallel to the Dee estuary towards
Rhyl, just another white van going about its business.
Her parents reacted quickly, the police efficiently. With a six year old few
chances were taken, especially now. She was recorded missing within thirty
minutes of her abduction and a full police team swung into action.

31

The hysterical screams lasted perhaps fifteen minutes before exhaustion consumed
Laura’s body and she fell to the floor, alone and afraid.
She found the pup’s body and clutched it to her chest, taking comfort from the
still warm cadaver.
Eventually she cried herself to sleep in the darkness, lulled by the gentle
motion of the vehicle.
The van stopped only twice on the journey, once to change the licence plates on
a secluded road, once for fuel, paying cash. Now it was parked in the pay and
display car park on Rhyl promenade, the driver in the Sun Centre, an imposing
glass-fronted leisure complex combining pool and theatre, over-looking the Irish
Sea. To the east, the Dee Estuary poured forth its effluent, while on its
Queensferry banks anxious neighbours joined the police scouring the area for
signs of the missing child.
Being the last weekend of the school holiday the leisure pool was well-attended,
locals and late holidaymakers alike determined to make the most of it.
Though a competent swimmer he never ventured into the water once during the
three hours he spent there. He stripped to his trunks, spread out a towel and
lay out on the window seat to enjoy the view, watching the little girls run past
from the lagoon pool to the surfing pool, wet costumes clinging to young bodies.
It was an enjoyable afternoon spent building up an appetite for delights yet to
come.
It was nearly six in the evening, a good few hours of daylight remaining, when
he returned to the van. He retrieved a lunch-box from beneath his seat and
satisfied his hunger on a selection of cheese and pickle rye-bread sanches,
washed down with a flask of decaffeinated coffee.
He unrolled a copy of the Telegraph, casually browsing through, taking in the
headlines, but skipping the details. He preferred the Guardian, for its keener
coverage of social issues, although he found its politics too liberal for his
taste. Having spent the previous night in a hotel in Bradford he’d not had the
benefit of his usual paper and had made do with what the foyer offered.
By eight o’clock there were perhaps three vehicles still remaining. He slipped
in the CD, then made his way to the back of the van, checking about him before
opening the back doors. It was dark inside. He climbed in and secured the doors
behind him before tugging a lever that illuminated the van’s rear interior.
Little Laura lay semi-comatose, the trauma too much for her young mind, curled
in foetal position, her thumb in her mouth, her other arm around the dead puppy.
The scene brought a smile to his face. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, her
hair dishevelled, her dress creased and bloodstained where the pup lay against
her. He grasped the now cold animal by its already stiffening tail and gently
eased it from her tiny fingers.
The girl stirred as she felt the puppy move and she opened her eyes. For a
second she stared blankly at the man before her, uncomprehending, then her young
mind focused, the brown eyes widening. Her body shook as she sat up and prepared
to scream.
Far too young to understand his intentions.
Old enough to be so very afraid.

32

He drove the few miles back to Prestatyn, staying in a cheap bed and breakfast
overnight, affecting a convincing Welsh accent during his dealings with the
landlady. He gave his name as Jones. Tom Jones. If only, she’d sighed. He
wriggled his pelvis for her in a poor imitation and for the rest of the evening
he received the red carpet treatment.
He said he wouldn’t be wanting breakfast. He had to continue his journey first
thing, to be back in Swansea for his next shift. The landlady was delighted.
Thirty pounds for changing a few sheets was fine by her. But for fifty-three
year old Mrs Gwyneth Humphries the best was yet to come.
When he put on his Tom Jones accent and said he’d like her to join him for the
optional evening meal she was in seventh heaven. When he took to the upright
piano in the guest’s lounge after dinner and ran off a passable rendition of
Delilah, followed by Green, Green Grass she almost wet herself. The other guests
applauded loudly, adults and children alike.
The little girl from Manchester sat on his lap, her parents looking on,
delighted with the free entertainment. “You should be on the stage,” they
said, oblivious to his hand beneath their daughter’s dress. The child too
excited to notice, too young to think anything of it if she had.
At eleven thirty he disappointed them all by announcing it was time for bed. He
had a long drive ahead of him in the morning. He kissed the little girl good
night, shook hands all round and settled with the landlady before retiring. She
couldn’t quite bring herself to waive the fee for the evening meal, but let him
off the two pound surcharge for parking his van on the drive.
He awoke at six on the Monday morning and left the building unnoticed. Mrs
Humphries wouldn’t be stirring for another half hour. Breakfasts were served
strictly between seven-thirty and nine. No exceptions. On the way out he picked
a single rose from a neighbouring garden and put it in a glass of water on the
kitchen table, with his compliments. His calling cards were strictly reserved.

33

A brisk wind had brought broken cloud scudding across the Irish Sea. He drove
into the town centre and took coffee and toast at a cafe in the High Street,
collecting a Guardian on the way. With an Irish accent, he made polite
coersation as he paid, enquiring how to get back on the A55 to Holyhead. He had
to be in Dublin by mid-afternoon and couldn’t afford to miss the ferry, he
explained to the disinterested proprietor.
It was eight o’clock when he drank up, leaving a few pound coins, polished on a
napkin, as a generous tip, and slipped out while the cafe owner tended fried
eggs out back. Driving out of town, back towards Rhyl, he spied a girl on her
way home after a sleep-over at a friend’s house, struggling to pedal her bike
against the strong breeze.
He drove past slowly, watching her in the wing mirror. The wind whipped her
skirt about her legs revealing glimpses of thigh. He felt the stirrings in his
groin.
He pulled to a halt ahead of her, watching in the mirror as she drew closer,
savouring the view. He switched the engine off, leaving just the sound of the
wind and the gulls. He pushed the CD into the player and turned the volume down
low. His lips parted in a smile as the music started.
There was no-one else about. A car disappeared into the distance.
The girl pedalled nearer, oblivious to his presence, ever closer, behind the
van, moving out to overtake. He put his fingers on the door handle and stopped,
taking deep breaths.
She was nine. Ten, maybe.
White ankle socks.
A skirt much too short for cycling.
A glimpse of her underwear and he was breathing heavily.
She was alongside now.
Riding alongside the van, level with his door.
And then she was past, her hair flailing behind her in the wind.
Still cycling.
Safe.
Alive.
She’d never know how close she’d come.
How lucky she was to have been in the wrong place at the right time.
He turned the key and drove slowly away.

34

Tina was a tomboy. Everybody said so.
Especially Tina.
She hated being a girl and playing girlie games. She’d only grown her hair this
long because her favourite footballer wore his in a pony-tail. And she hated
wearing school uniform. It was the only time her mother could ever get her to
wear a skirt. Even then it was a battle. Tina would wear her jeans on the
journey to school, with the regulation school skirt stuffed in her bag, ready to
change into before morning assembly.
But today was the last week of the school holidays, and she had no intention of
wearing anything but jeans. As a concession to the grandmother she was on her
way to see, she’d put on her pink jeans for the visit. Pink jeans savagely cut
off at mid-thigh, with a loose fitting top that barely covered her navel, a
cotton crop top underneath. Chunky socks and trainers. It was as near to looking
like a girl as she intended to get outside of school hours.
Her grandmother always asserted that when Tina dressed in long blue jeans and
t-shirts she looked just like a boy. She never could understand why her
grand-daughter was so delighted with this statement. Nor would she ever
understand why, had she not been so pernickety about her grand-daughter’s
fashion sense, Tina might have completed the journey alive.
She pedalled stubbornly against the wind as she cycled along the narrow, winding
B5119 that linked Dyserth with Rhyl. Her mother insisted that if she wanted to
cycle instead of taking the bus it had to be by this quiet route. It was safer.
The innocuous white van cruised past the child without slowing, but his eyes
never left the mirror until he took the bend. The land was flat, leading across
to the sea, the fields broken by hedges and ditches, but from the vantage point
of the drivers’ seat he could see the child approach. He flicked on the CD and
turned up the volume.
As she drew nearer he unlocked the back doors of the van and leant in, as if
retrieving something. Tina never gave him a second thought. Another broken down
van. She wanted a Harley Davison when she grew up.
As she came level he was uher in an instant, one hand round her mouth, the other
around her waist, throwing her into the back of the van like a toy, slamming the
doors closed behind her. Seconds later, the girl still too dazed to comprehend
what had happened, the doors opened again and the bike was thrown in with her,
smashing into her leg, but the screams of pain were lost as the doors slammed
shut and darkness enveloped her. Outside nothing could be heard but the wind in
the rushes and the seagulls overhead.
He drove west through Rhyl centre, taking the coast road to Abergele, then
joined the A55 back east towards Chester.
By nine Tina’s grandmother had decided her grand-daughter would not be coming
after all. Kids today. No manners. She might at least have phoned to say she’d
changed her mind. She briefly considered ringing the child’s mother to remind
her what day it was, but decided against it. Why waste her money? The rest of
the family would be over at tea time. She’d speak her mind then.
In Dyserth Tina’s mother, too, glanced at the clock, guessing her daughter would
be there by now, making the old lady happy on this special day. She set about
her daily chores without a further thought.
It would be another six hours before anyone even realised Tina was missing.