Sugar & Spice (17 page)

77

“That was when I realised I was gay. I was about fourteen, just going through
puberty. The boy I’d touched was the same age, but less developed, if you follow
me. He was the youngest in the class, I think. Certainly the least developed
physically. Not that it stopped him pulverising me.”
He stared into space. “The Headmaster made me see a counsellor. It was that or
expulsion. My parents were livid. My father belted me, right over the weals from
the caning. But it just reinforced my will to be different. The counselling was
a complete waste of time. Some stupid woman telling me I’d grow out of it. She
even gave me some dirty magazines to take home, to try to make me normal again.
You know, naked women, one leg over here, one leg over there. And that was just
because they thought I was gay! I threw the magazines in the bin. They did
nothing for me. Absolutely nothing.” He paused. “Have I said too much?”
“No. Please, go on. I need to understand.”
“Taking Kevin and his friend swimming was the big mistake. If they’d been
competent swimmers I could have contented myself with just looking. But I had to
teach them. To hold them in the water. And one thing led to another…” He
stopped again, staring deep into the empty cup, seeing nothing.
Claire gently touched his arm, urging him on.
“Swimming pools were always my weak spot. Look at it logically. Where else can
a pederast go and see young boys naked? I loved to stand in the shower, watching
boys come and go. Is this upsetting you?”
Claire shook her head. It was, but she needed to hear it. “What about
Kevin?”
“It was all so innocent. I helped them dry themselves. Helped them dress. I
was like a father to them. I began to fall in love with Timothy just as I had
with Kevin. They were so alike, especially undressed. Boys are. Combine the
innocence of a child’s face with the purity of his body and you have… Well,
something special. No ugly body hair. No bulging muscles, just pure, white skin.
Like satin.”
The door opened. “Bristow! Time’s up!”
The shout brought Claire back to reality. She looked at Bristow. His eyes were
moist. Almost in tears. He looked embarrassed.
“Please, I must know.”
“Timothy told his parents. Not maliciously. He just didn’t realise. They
called the police. I still can’t believe what happened next. They actually took
Kevin into care. Kevin! For what I’d done! I was jailed too, as you must know. I
deserved it, in a way, even though it was done for love. But to punish
Kevin…”
“What happened to him?”
“I don’t know. His family had moved by the time of my release. He’ll be a
grown man by now. I can only hope he’s happy.”
The warden’s voice boomed. “Bristow! Come on!”
“I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel uncomfortable, Claire. I know it won’t have
been pleasant for you. But thank you for listening. I just hope you can
understand. I loved Kevin, just as you must have loved Rebecca.”
Claire reached a hand out and took his as he stood to go. “I know you did.”
She couldn’t believe she said it.
She couldn’t believe she meant it.
She sat and watched him leave, to a chorus of hissing and verbal abuse. It was
saddening to watch.
He was frisked at the door before being moved out.

78

Every city has its red light district and every red light district has its
under-age girls.
For years now Nottingham and Cardiff had been his preferred options, but Cardiff
was not on his route today, and after a close call with the police when he’d
mistakenly propositioned a twelve year old on a street corner only to find she
was waiting for her mother, he had not been back to Nottingham.
He collected the van from the lock up, playing the CD all the way.
Leaving Milton Keynes he rejoined the M1 at Junction 14, leaving at Junction 42
to join the M62 west-bound, then taking the M606 link road to Bradford, arriving
mid-evening.
He parked the white transit in the lot of a cheap hotel and made his way to his
room. His window afforded a depressing view of the city’s infamous Lumb
Lane-Manningham Lane -Oak Lane axis, probably the most notorious red light area
in the country. Sometimes he liked to follow the Ripper tourist circuit,
enjoying the thought that Peter Sutcliffe had walked those very pavements before
him, but by and large Bradford had little to offer.
The hotel was functional. He could afford much better, but slumming it was part
of the appeal.
He lay on the bed a while, one eye on a second-rate movie, his mind elsewhere.
At nine he made his way to the bar, establishing a rapport with the steward,
relating a hoary tale of a long day’s work and the promise of an early night, in
an accomplished Yorkshire accent the local barman could not distinguish from the
real thing. He made his farewells at ten and stopped at a phone in the lobby,
imitating conversation into the receiver.
When the receptionist was called away he slipped out of the building, into the
night.

79

The taxi driver was adamant. He didn’t do out-of-town runs that late at night.
The customer produced a wad of notes from his pocket, making a show of peeling
them off until he had the driver’s undivided attention.
In a seedy hotel just off the Great Northern Road, close enough to the
Leeds-Manchester railway to be disturbed by the clatter of passing trains, he
was already in foul mood. As he sat on the end of the bed, watching the girl
undress, his features darkened. Jacob had promised him something special for
tonight. So far he was not impressed.
As she peeled off her clothes, indifferent to his gaze, he studied the body with
an expert eye. Skinny enough to be anorexic, she was clearly used to the work.
Under-developed. But thirteen?
She wriggled out of her underwear, standing before him, waiting. He returned a
menacing gaze that made her feel uncomfortable. She tried to stare back, but
couldn’t face his eyes. Dark and cold, almost colourless, they seemed to ravage
her very soul. She looked nervously around the room.
The first tinge of fear.
His eyes traced her body, lingering.
Some punters liked to look first. Some actually paid just to look. There was a
special cheap rate for that, but she knew this client was paying top whack.
Anything goes. She had ambitions of sneaking off to London one day and earning
real money in Soho. But for now she worked for Jacob. It was safe, clean and
comfortable.
There was no reaction in his eyes as he clinically studied her body. No sign of
interest. No lust. No arousal. Just contempt.
The words came uneasily, but she had to break the silence. “Would you like me
to wear something?”
His eyes returned to hers. A shiver ran down her spine. She wished she was
anywhere but here.
“To put something on? My unorm? My school uniform?” Some punters liked that.
The gym slip. The white socks.
He stared at her, as if considering the question. Then, “Come here.”
She moved closer.
Nervous.
She was too young to remember Peter Sutcliffe, but the Ripper’s legacy lived on,
especially here.
She knew it was more than just rumours. That even after Sutcliffe’s conviction
women, prostitutes, continued to die on the job. That in recent years alone
nearly thirty prostitutes had been murdered, twenty by a killer or killers
unknown.
They all knew. It rarely made the headlines, but in the trade it was common
knowledge. The Ripper was locked away in Broadmoor, half blind, and still women
were dying.
But they were outside pick-ups, vagrants, travellers, not privileged in-house
clients.
She reminded herself Jacob was just a scream away.
He asked, “What’s your name?”
She relaxed a little. Some punters liked to know who they were getting. A few
personal details. They didn’t have to be true.
“Mary.” It was no lie. There was no harm in telling him that much.
“Local?”
“Yes.” Another honest answer. “I need the money,” she added. As if he
might have thought she did this for a hobby.
She stood in front of him, trembling, covering her body with her hands, as if
suddenly shy. He remained seated, his eyes glued to hers.
“How old are you?”
She hesitated. “Thirteen.”
He reached down and picked up the nylon tights she had discarded earlier.
“Come and lie down here, Mary.”
She moved round the bed to climb on, cautiously, not knowing what to expect.

80

As her knee touched the mattress she felt the movement from behind. In a second
she was flat on the bed, on her back, his sixteen stone crushing the breath from
her. She tried to cry out but a massive hand clasped around her mouth. The
nylons were round her neck in an instant, pulled tight, choking her.
“Let’s try again, girlie, shall we? How old are you?”
He released his grip on her mouth and she forced the words out.
“Thirteen.”
She gasped for breath. The nylons gripped tighter, cutting into her windpipe. He
grabbed her hair and yanked her head up hard. Pain seared across the back of her
neck. She almost passed out. The cold, dark eyes stared unblinking into hers.
“Last chance.”
She choked the words out, all pretence abandoned, in fear for her life.
“Sixteen. Nearly seventeen.”
He twisted the nylons one more time then pushed her head hard onto the bed. She
gasped for breath, her arms still pinned beside her by his weight. A knife
appeared in his right hand and she tried to scream, but he smothered her mouth
and nose before she could manage a sound. The eyes were wide with fear, the
anorexic body struggling pathetically beneath his weight. She felt the tip of
the knife blade press into her neck.
“One sound and I’ll slit your throat. Understand, slag?”
She nodded as much as she dared. He took his hand away. She gulped down
mouthfuls of air, fighting for breath. The blade cold against her skin. She felt
it run down over her neck, over her collar bone, pressing into the flesh. She
felt the blade on her left breast. It stopped at the nipple. She held her
breath, eyes wide with fear.
“Thirteen? Whose idea was that, slag?”
“Jacob. Jacob made me.”
He grabbed the nipple between thumb and forefinger and lifted it slowly until
her whole body weight pulled against it, the pain excruciating. She grit her
teeth to stop herself screaming. The tears ran down over her ears, into her
hair. He pressed the point into the skin.
“How about some plastic surgery? To make you look your age.”
She shook her head violently, eyes wide with fear, not daring to make a sound.
Suddenly he was off her, on his feet before even she’d fallen backonto the bed.
For a moment she lay there, not daring to move, the pain searing.
He spat the words out with venom. “Get out of my sight, slag. Before I change
my mind.”
She ran naked, sobbing, from the room.
Seconds later Jacob’s wiry, tanned, five foot two frame appeared in the doorway.
“Wassamatter, my friend? You got a problem?”
It was hardly an even match. His muscular frame towered above the pimp’s.
Jacob drew on his cigarette, blowing the smoke out in a steady stream into his
customer’s face. “I say again, my friend, you got a problem here?”
“You told me you had something special for me this time, Jacob.”
“That right. They don’t come more special than Mary. One of my best girls.
Why, I have her myself sometimes, that’s how good she is.”
“I asked for your youngest girl.”
“Barely thirteen. What more can you ask for?”
“The slag was not thirteen.”
“I swear she is! What lies did she tell you?”
“Don’t fuck with me, Jacob.”
“Honest to God. Straight out of nappies.”
His hand swung up in a flash, grabbing the pimp around the neck, lifting him
several inches off the ground with the one arm. “I said, don’t fuck with
me.”
Jacob’s short, wiry arms were clutching at the steely biceps as he fought for
breath, legs flailing wildly beneath him.
“Put him down, man.”
He turned, still holding the pimp off the ground, to see two heavy-duty black
bouncers in the doorway. One held a machete. His own blade paled by comparison.
He returned their gaze with unblinking eyes while the pimp choked at the end of
his arm, then suddenly he released his grip. Jacob dropped to the floor, gasping
for breath.
The two bouncers looked to their boss for instruction but he waved them away,
massaging his throat with the other hand. They backed off, reluctantly.
He reached into his pocket. “Wise move, Jacob.” He extracted five twenty
pound notes and flicked each one between finger and thumb before dropping them
into the pimp’s eager hand. “This is my deposit for next month. You know what
I want, Jacob. Try pass me off with some spotty teenage slag again and I’ll
break you in two, do you understand? And your two goons alongside.”
Jacob smiled at him. “Would I let you down, my friend?”
“The second time will be your last.”

81

As the last detectives filed into the room Weisman put himself centre-stage and
gestured for quiet. The room fell silent, thirty pairs of eyes watching him.
“Good morning gentleman. Ladies,” he added, nodding to the lone female
officer in the second row. DC June Lockhart smiled dutifully. A murder inquiry
was not considered to be women’s work and she was acutely aware she was only
involved because the lads were considered too insensitive to deal with the
victims’ parents.
“For those who’ve not yet had the pleasure I’m Superintendent John Weisman. We
have several guests here today, most of whom you’ll have met by now, but I’ll
run through the formalities anyway. From the Flintshire and Denbighshire
Divisions of North Wales Police we have,” he referred quickly to his notes,
“DS Williams, DC Jones and DC Tremayne. From the London Metropolitan we have
DS Blythe from SO7, Forensic and DI Saltburn from TO29, Thames Division. You’ll
be aware of course that as well as recovering the body of the Meadows child from
Southall, TO29 also assisted with the search of the Trent & Mersey Canal in
Cheshire, which brings us neatly to DI Cavendish of the Cheshire
Constabulary.”
Each announcement brought a shuffling of seats as officers put names to faces.
Weisman paused patiently while they settled.
“I don’t propose to waste time going over old ground other than to say this:
The decision to link the North Wales murders with the death of our own girl,
Rebecca Meadows, was not taken lightly.” He turned to his associate. “Which
brings me neatly to my final guest, Professor Colin Dunst. I’m sure you all know
of Professor Dunst, or at least his reputation.”
Dunst stood briefly to acknowledge the audience. The double-breasted Armani suit
and polished shoes stood in sharp contrast to the cheap day-suits CID wore.
“Professor Dunst, for those of you recently returned from exile in outer
Mongolia, is a criminal psychologist, late of the London Institute of Psychiatry
and before that a senior advisor to the John Hopkins Sexual Disorders Clinic in
Baltimore. He’s been privileged to work alongside the FBI with some success, and
has been involved with their internationally renowned Behavioural Science Unit
at the FBI training centre in Virginia. I think it no exaggeration to say Colin
is one of the foremost experts on psychological profiling in this country
today.” He paused to allow these facts to be fully appreciated, then,
“Gentleman, I give you Professor Colin Dunst.”
A polite ripple of applause ran through the room as Dunst took centre stage.
“Thank you for the warm welcome. I should say immediately that your
Superintendent is overly generous in his praises. There are others in my field
with as good or better a track record than I. David Canter and Glen Wilson
spring to mind immediately. Paul Britton, of course. I could go on. However, I
am the first in the UK, and as far as I know, unique in this field, in being
devoted exclusively to criminal work, while Messrs Canter, Wilson and co. still
carry on their excellent work at their respective universities. To that extent I
would say I have the advantage.”
A hand was up in the middle of the room. “I wouldn’t have thought there was
enough demand to make that viable, Sir.”
Dunst acknowledged the question with a friendly smile. “A fair point. In the
UK alone there isn’t. Cases where applied criminal psychology has a role that
can be justified financially are few and far between. Many of the larger UK
forces now have criminal-psychologists on the pay-roll, usually in the form of
officers with specialist training. But dedicated police profile experts do not
exist here in the same way as in the States. I understand the Home Secretary is
giving thought to developments in this area, but given the usual monetary
constraints nothing is likely to come of it. At least, not before the next
election.”
He paused to clean his glasses, deliberately taking his time, playing to the
audience.
“Some of you may be unfamiliar with criminal profiling, so I’ll briefly
explain the principles, the better that you will understand my conclusions. As
psychologists, we believe every action or interaction with a person or object
leaves a psychological imprint of some sort, just as it will leave a physical
imprint which traditional forensic science may detect. I have to say it’s
nowhere near as exact a science as forensics, and there’s no guarantee it will
work. There have been a few spectacular failures as well as successes over the
years. I’m sure you can all think of examples. But despite the occasional hiccup
psychological profiling can have a genuine impact on a criminal investigation,
identifying offender characteristics which might otherwise not be seen.”
He sipped from a glass of water before continuing, taking the opportunity to
evaluate audience interest.
“My best advice is, don’t expect too much. The classic profiling scenario is
that of James Brussel, the father of forensic psychology, who in the
nineteen-fifties pin-pointed the Mad Bomber of New York right down to the way he
buttoned his jacket. It was a classic case, but hardly typical. Brussel went on
to profile the Boston Strangler and made serious errors of judgement, not least
suggesting the suspect was impotent, when in fact he was a convicted rapist. So
please, don’t expect miracles.” He paused again, studying his audience.
“What we can’t do is produce a list of suspects complete with names and
addresses. But we can, in manses, produce a list of characteristics, for
instance approximate age, the likelihood and nature of previous convictions, the
type of employment and family background a suspect may have, which may be of
great help when applied alongside traditional detective methods. I stress that
point. In the past I’ve come up against detectives who fear I’m in some way
deliberately undermining their authority, or trying to cast doubt on their
abilities. That is not the case. Psychological profiling is simply another tool,
like forensic, which you, the real detectives, can use to your advantage.” He
paused again, pleased to see one or two of the audience taking notes. “I’m
sure most of you are familiar with the film The Silence of the Lambs?”
An animated murmur suggested many were.
“Well forget it. It’s crap. Pure Hollywood fantasy. Jodie Foster has a lot to
answer for. Don’t get me wrong. It was great entertainment. And Jodie Foster is
a fine actress. I’ve been a fan of hers ever since I -”
Weisman coughed impatiently. Dunst took the hint.
“What I propose to do is run through the facts as established and comment on
them from my own perspective as I go. Some of what I say will be obvious to you,
but most of it hopefully won’t be. If it is, you’re in the wrong job.”