Sugar & Spice (25 page)

115

Matt shook his head. “You make is sound like a calculated military exercise,
not the crazed work of a madman. And why start at P? Pegwell Bay? Why not at A?
Ashford? Andover? Axminster?”
“I don’t know yet, Matt. The patterns are vague just now. Professor Canter
described profiling as chasing criminals’ shadows. That’s what we have to do
now. Try to make sense of the psychological traces he leaves behind. I don’t
believe in random assaults. A single, emotional outburst, yes. But not serial
assaults. They’re always planned in some way. We have to try get inside the mind
of Uncle Tom, to understand what drives him on. To understand why and how, and
in doing so to predict where.”
“Just like that?”
“If Professor Canter is right, the shadows are there. We just have to see them
and interpret them.”
“But surely Dunst is doing that already?”
“But he’s on the wrong track, Matt. Dunst reckoned the killer would be from a
low-IQ group, at best an unskilled or semi-skilled labourer, on shifts or in
casual employment. I think we’re dealing with someone far more intelligent. In
the upper echelons of IQ banding. Well educated; probably a professional in his
field. Financially secure. I think the choice of timing, like the choice of
places, is either totally compulsive or some sort of game he’s playing.”
“The fine line between genius and madman.”
“Exactly. What’s indisputable is the pattern, presuming I’m right about
Michelle.”
“And presuming the girl from Telford has been abducted, and by the same
person,” Claire objected. “And what about Rebecca? She doesn’t fit in with
this theory, Ceri. She was abducted on the second of August. For your ideas to
hold water there’d hahave been another child killed the previous day, surely.”
“I haven’t worked it all out yet, Claire. But I know I’m on the right
track.”
Matt nodded his encouragement. “Extrapolating out, Ceri, if you’re right ,
and I concede four bottles of wine might be clouding my judgement here , but
if you’re right… Are you saying we can anticipate where and when he’ll strike
next?”
“If he follows the pattern, a town or village beginning with U, followed a day
later by an attack in a town beginning with V, in close proximity. Say twenty or
thirty miles, although I think the distance is more to do with convenience than
part of the dynamic that drives him. We can narrow the dates down to the first
and second of the month, with every likelihood he’ll be in the area a day or so
prior.”
“Christ, Ceri, if you’re right we could nail the bastard. We have to go to the
police.”
“Matt, you agreed this was private.”
“If you’re right this could save a child’s life.”
“It’s a big if. I’m just a student, Matt. It’s all guesswork. Nothing more.”
“You sounded pretty certain a minute ago. Jesus, Ceri, you’ll have beaten
Dunst at his own game. You could write your own ticket! Any university you
wanted. And job offers like you cannot imagine!”
Ceri looked mortified. “You promised.”
“We can’t just sit back and do nothing,” Claire reached a comforting hand
out to Ceri’s arm. “Matt’s right. Even if you’re totally wrong about this, we
owe it to the families of those girls to try. I owe it to Rebecca. The police
have come up with nothing so far. If even part of your profile is right then
they’re barking up the wrong tree. And right or wrong, Uncle Tom’s not going to
stop of his own accord.”
Ceri nodded reluctantly. “He could change his tactics if he was aware the
police were closing in. Unless it really is compulsive.”
Matt leaned in to her. “I don’t see as we have a choice, Ceri. I promise your
name can be kept out of this, but we have to put the ideas forward. There’s a
local DI, Dave Pitman, that I know well. He can be trusted with this.”
Claire sat in thoughtful silence. “There is another possibility. If we could
find him first…”
“The combined might of the police forces of England and Wales have failed to
do that, Claire. Why should we do better?”
Claire picked up Ceri’s folder. “Because we have the better profile. You need
to give Inspector Pitman a copy, Matt, of course. But we need to follow this
through ourselves, too.” Tear-filled eyes pleaded with Matt. “We’ve got to
try. There’s nearly two weeks until the next attack is due.”
Matt turned to their guest. “Ceri?”
Ceri nodded, unconvinced. “Just keep my name out of it, Matt. And please,
don’t tell Professor Large.”

116

Matt awoke on the sofa. Sunlight streamed through a gap in the curtain, taunting
bleary eyes. He reached for his watch, fumbling in empty space before he
realised where he was. The stale smell of wine hung in the air, adding a further
layer of memory of the night before.
For a moment he lay silent, then swung himself up, grabbing the empty glasses as
he did so. At his flat he preferred to leave the washing up as long as possible,
but knew better than to adopt such slovenliness in Claire’s home.
As the sink filled with warm water he felt his unshaven chin with one hand,
pulling the blinds open with the other. Seeing Ceri gently swaying on Rebecca’s
tyre swing in the garden brought a lump to his throat.
He was powerfully reminded that their guest was barely more than a child
herself. It brought the previous evening’s conversation into sobering
perspective.
In the cold light of day thoughts of playing detective and hunting down Uncle
Tom, based on a nineteen year old student’s wild and speculative theories seemed
faintly ridiculous.
By the time the kettle was boiled he knew what he had to do.
A quiet word.
Break it to her gently.
Gavin was right. She needed to knuckle down to her studies.
As she turned to greet him he could see from her reddened eyes something was
wrong. He hesitated awkwardly, holding out the mug of coffee.
“Ceri, are you okay?”
She took the coffee gratefully, sipping the steaming liquid before answering.
“That policeman you said you knew. Will you see him this morning?”
“I’ve been thinking, Ceri. About last night. Maybe… what I mean is, we’d all
had a little too much to drink and-”
“You’ve not heard the news, have you?”
Matt tensed. “News?”
“It was on the radio. Andrea Whiteman, the Telford girl? They dragged her body
from a canal this morning.”

117

Matt arrived home to find a plain brown envelope pushed under the door.
He extracted the single sheet of paper and scanned the penned notes in Danny’s
scrawled handwriting. As he scanned the list of convictions he let out a low
whistle.
There was no way he was taking Claire along.

118

“And this must be Claire?”
Matt hesitated. “Claire, Michael Bates.”
She shook his hand gingerly.
“Claire is the mother of Rebecca, the first child killed.”
Bates looked uncomfortable. “I’m sorry. Really I am. Jesus, I know I’ve been
no angel, but kids… I hope they string the bastard up.”
“Don’t we all.”
“Can I get you a drink? Tea? Coffee?”
Claire was about to politely decline, but Matt cut across her. “Coffee would
be great. Claire?”
“Tea, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“Not at all. Take a pew.”
He ushered them into the living room. Claire turned on Matt as soon as Bates
went to the kitchen. “I don’t want to have to socialise with him.”
“I did suggest you stay with Ceri. We can hardly stand on his doorstep firing
questions. I need to get him to open up.”
“He doesn’t look like a rapist.”
“Did Bristow look like a paedophile?”
The door opened. “Sugar?”
“Two for Matt, none for me, thanks. I’ve got sweeteners.”
As the refreshments arrived Matt made a point of picking up a photo on the
mantle-piece. It showed a younger Bates with a woman and two children. A boy and
a girl. Ten, maybe eleven.
“Family?”
“Ex-family. She divorced me while I was inside. Took them back to Trinidad”
“I’m sorry. Great kids.”
“The best. I doted on them. But I’ve not spoken to either of them in more than
three years.” His voice choked over. “A funny old world. You do the crime
and then you do the time. I can handle that. But the real punishment starts when
they throw you out again and you find you’ve lost everything.”
Claire said, “I’m sorry.”
Bates managed a self-conscious laugh. “No need to be. I deserve what I get.
You obviously know my history. But the Police are quite happy my licence had
been lost or stolen and somehow this Uncle Tom character got hold of it and
altered it. Quite ironic really.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well normally my black skin makes me the prime suspect. This is the first
time it’s ever been a factor in clearing me!”

119

“And you can’t get this yourself?”
Matt stirred his latte diffidently. “You’re always bending my ear about
wanting in on the action. Here’s your chance.”
“Piece of piss.”
“How long?”
“Couple of hours. I’ll start soon as I get in. So Andrea clinched it,
then?”
“Clinched what?”
“That the murders were alphabetical.”
Matt glared at him. “How the fuck did know that?”
“Any idiot could see it.”
“You knew? Why in hell didn’t you say so before?”
“You didn’t want to know, remember?”
“I what?”
“I asked you last time if you wanted to hear my theories, but no, I’m just a
kid. I can’t possibly know anything.” He waved Matt’s sheet of paper under his
nose. “Except when it comes to computers, of course.”
Matt glowered at the brat. Just then he could have killed the little bastard.
“At first I was thinking maybe Uncle Tom was some kind of football fanatic.”
Matt raised a mystified eyebrow.
“P, Q and R. You know, QPR? Queens Park Rangers? Shrewsbury and Telford put
paid to that, obviously. Then when they found the last body everything clicked
into place.”
“Any other subtle observations I should be aware of, Monsieur Poirot?”
“You haven’t told me about Michael Bates yet.”
“Nothing to tell.”
“Don’t treat me like a kid, Matt.”
“How old are you?”
“Fourteen.”
“I rest my case.”
Danny sat back, sulking. “How about we do some swaps?”
“Excuse me?”
“Swaps. Compare notes. You know, I’ll tell you one of my theories if you tell
me one of yours.”
“Danny, this isn’t a game. Real people are getting hurt out there. Children.
Little girls.”
“Partners should share their ideas, not compete with each other.”
Matt stifled a further round of expletives with considerable effort. “We are
not competing with each other. We’re on the same side.”
“So come round this afternoon and I’ll have your list ready. Then we can talk
business. There’s a couple of ideas I’ve got.”
“Danny, if you know something, tell me now.”
“It’s difficult to explain here. Come round and I can show you properly.”
“Come round where, exactly?”
“My place. Grange Road. Dad’s down the bookies all day. Mum’s working to pay
for her fags. We’ll have the house to ourselves.”
“No way.”
“But you need to be there. I’ve got loads of books and mags and… And
stuff.”
“That have a bearing on these murders?”
Danny shrugged nonchalantly. “Just things I’ve noticed.”
“Things you’ve noticed?”
“Yeah, like noticing the alphabetical sequence before you did.”
“Point taken. And where exactly are all these things?”
“In my room, obviously.”
Matt splayed his hands theatrically. “Forget it! There is no way I’m finding
myself alone with a fourteen year old in his bedroom.”
“Why not? I trust you.”
“Don’t be stupid, Danny. It’s not about trust. It’s about perception. Why do
you think I always meet you here, in a public place?”
“Because you’re addicted to coffee?”
“Danny, I am not meeting you in your bedroom on my own.”
“So bring a friend.”
“I haven’t got any.”
“Now that I can believe.”
A slow smile spread across Matt’s face. “Actually, Danny, I know just the
person.”
“Who is he?”
“He is a she.”
“Claire?”
“No, someone working on this case with me. You’ll like her. She shares your
strange fascination for the darker side of life.”
“Your bit on the side?”
“Danny, she’s just a teenager. Not much older than you, actually.”
Danny’s eyes lit up. “Really? Is she fit?”
Matt shrugged. “I expect so. She always wears a tracksuit.”
“You are so old!”

120

“I wish I’d had the chance to meet him. To actually talk face to face with a
real-life paedophile. There are so many questions I’d want to ask.”
“You might not like the answers.”
They shared the washing up, waiting for the kettle to boil.
“It’s funny, Ceri, but I almost thought of Thomas Bristow as normal, towards
the end. But seeig him laid out on the bed like that, with those images… It
was the deceit that hurt most. The way he spoke to me about the boys he’d been
involved with, I believed he really cared about them. That it was about
affection, not lust. He even talked about love. But what was on his monitor…
It was unbelievable. Children. Little boys…”
“You have to try to separate the fantasy from the reality, Claire. It doesn’t
follow that just because Bristow needed pornographic material for simulation he
treated the boys he knew like that.”
“It doesn’t?” Clare desperately wanted to ease the sense of betrayal.
“It’s his sister I feel sorry for now. The poor woman has no-one.”
“They say it’s the families that suffer the most.”
“I thought so too, until we spoke with Michael Bates yesterday. I found myself
feeling sorry for him. Can you believe that? I must be going soft in the
head.”
“What did he do, exactly?”
“Started off as a petty crook handling stolen goods, then went on to burglary.
Indecently assaulted a woman, then it escalated. Started breaking into their
homes, raping them. Two of them, anyway. He got four years, but was out in just
over two. His wife left him. Took the kids. He’s not seen them for years. He
says that’s the real punishment, and I believe him. But who’s to say he won’t
rape again?”
“The recidivist rate for most types of sex offender is pretty low. Tea or
coffee?”
“Tea. I get enough coffee when Matt’s around. But why? The recidivist rate, I
mean. I would have thought it would be just the opposite.”
“Media perceptions. A sex offender that gets caught twice is news. A burglar
caught twice is just another statistic. And there’s more help available to sex
offenders than for other criminals. Therapy, that kind of thing.”
“Bates said part of his parole conditions were that he attended a therapy
clinic. It’s not that far from here, actually. Sevenoaks.”
Ceri’s eyes lit up. “Not the Quinlan Foundation?”
“You’ve heard of it?”
“Heard of it? Claire, I’d give my right am to meet him!”
“Michael Bates?”
Ceri giggled. “No, James Quinlan. Honestly, it would be a dream come true.
He’s one of the foremost experts on sexual dysfunction alive today. He gave a
lecture tour on the northern university circuit last year. I went to three of
them on the trot. They were incredible. I’ve read all his books.”
“Now why am I not surprised?”
“Claire, he’s a god to people like me. The research he’s involved in is
pushing back the frontiers of sexual knowledge. He’s probably the most
significant operator in his field since Masters and Johnson. Maybe even Kinsey.
I’d love to work under him once I’m through Uni.”
“I worry about you sometimes, Ceri.”
“You sound just like my dad. He thinks I’ll end up being raped or killed,
probably both, just by being on the course!”
“It’s hardly the career a doting father dreams of for his daughter.”
“He’ll be proud of me when I establish myself as Britain’s leading expert on
sexual perversion.”