He sunk his head into his hands and closed his eyes, making himself comfortable, as someone accustomed to the sparseness of a police cell.
He anticipated a short wait. Long enough for the officers concerned to have a coffee, make a few notes, enjoying the joke at his expense. Then a quick-fire round of questions and free to go.
It was something you got used to. It was a case of having to.
~
An officer brought him a lukewarm cup of tea at some stage which he received gratefully. He was hot and sticky, the sun's warmth magnified by the thick blocks of glass that broke the monotony of the far wall.
The stifling air made him thirsty, but there was no water supply except for the toilet, and that flushable only from outside the cell. No toilet paper, of course.
The outside world could just be perceived as muted traffic sounds in the distance.
Occasionally the screams and shouts of children playing would filter through to him, causing a smile to play briefly on his lips.
Bristow liked children.
That's why he was there, after all.
He needed a cigarette real bad.
He pressed the panic button by the door and waited patiently. No-one came.
He pressed again, harder, then retired to the concrete bunk and stretched out on the mattress, the urine-tainted blanket tossed unwanted into a corner.
One thing he had learned over the years was to stay relaxed. Getting uptight got you nowhere. He had no choice but to lie back and wait.
16
Jeremy Isaac. Attorney-At-Law, arrived back at the Main Street E. offices of Witherton, Stanley and Jones at three-thirty in the afternoon in low spirits, fresh from losing a case. It had been a straight forward affair. A guilty plea and mitigating circumstances that might have received a sympathetic hearing on a different day.
Even so a three month custodial sentence when a community service order would have been far more appropriate left a bitter after-taste. Explaining to his shocked client that it was grossly unfair but the chances of appeal negligible was bad enough. Explaining to his client’s wife in front of their four children made it far worse.
So he was in foul mood even before he got his secretary's memo. He tended the receiver with one hand, impatiently slipping his jacket off with the other.
“What's the S.P. with Bristow?”
“His sister rang. He’s several hours late. No answer at his home.”
Isaac glanced at the desk calendar to confirm the day. Fourth Thursday. He knew Bristow's routine as well as his own. “Okay, I'll chase it. Ring her back for me and tell her not to worry. Say he's probably broken down or something. You know, the usual BS. If he turns up, make sure they let us know.”
He dialed Bristow's home and mobile numbers. No reply.
He crossed to the filing cabinet and selected a folder from his brief-case.
It was probably nothing, but the morning's headlines were fresh in his mind. On the way out he gave Karen her instructions. “If anyone asks, I'm still in Court.”
17
Matt arrived back at his desk with a pained expression on his face and a half eaten burger in his hand. He checked for messages.
Nothing from Pitman.
He slumped behind the terminal glaring at the phone, willing it to ring. A night's work stood to be wasted.
He cursed Pitman beneath his breath for not carrying a mobile. Lieutenant Pitman. Last of the Keystone Cops.
He brought up the agency reports on screen. The headlines were still dominated by Uncle Tom. But of Bristow, nothing.
He clicked the mouse and the screen changed, bringing up his planned report, the one he'd stayed up till three that morning preparing.
Identifying Bristow had been straight-forward enough. The New York State Division of Criminal Justice Services Sex Offenders’ Registry had Thomas Martin Bristow down as a Level 2 moderate risk of repeat offending.
He prepared two reports, one vague and tentative, noting Bristow and five others had been brought in for questioning. The second bold and striking. Brighton man charged with Rebecca sex murder. McIntyre would like that, he'd thought.
McIntyre didn't like it. There was no way he was going to hold back a front page lead based on information from an undisclosed source that would only be confirmed mid-morning, if at all.
And if Matt had known about Uncle Tom the previous night why the hell hadn't he done something with it before? Lake Ontario Media could have scooped Kellerman's exclusive and been the envy of the industry.
It was all Matt could do to stop his editor phoning Jay Street direct to confirm the details. Only his angry argument about source confidentiality persuaded McIntyre otherwise.
As the deadline came and went Matt reluctantly conceded defeat. The story wouldn't run that day. But at least no-one else had it either.
As the presses began to roll a news agency report flashed up. Five men were being questioned in connection with the inquiry.
Editor and reporter read off the report simultaneously. McIntyre gave Matt a smug, satisfied smile and left the room.
Thomas Bristow was not on the list.
18
He awoke to the sound of keys in the lock. By the time he'd reconciled his mind to reality the cell door was open, a meal of bacon and egg and a cup of tea had been placed on the bunk beside him and the silent benefactor was closing the gate again. Bristow bolted upright.
“Hey! What's going on? What's...”
The door slammed shut, noisily locked. “Sorry?”
“What's all this? What's going on?”
The face stared back blankly. “Sorry, bud. I just serve the tea.”
“But...But... Is there someone I can speak to? Someone in charge?”
“Custody officer, maybe. I'll see what I can do.”
The face was gone, the view-hole bolted shut.
Bristow returned to the bunk and sat next to the tray of food, his mind numb. A badly fried egg was slowly congealing next to a single, unappetizing rasher of plastic cheap streaky bacon, dormant on the plastic plate. An overly-flexible fork was the only cutlery. No seasoning. The tea lay stagnant in the disposable styrene beaker, an unidentifiable slick on its surface. He took a sip and winced. No sugar. But at least it was wet. He was grateful for that.
Putting the tray on the floor he sipped the tea as he appraised the situation. He must have fallen asleep. In the stifled warm air, lacking any other stimulation, sleep was always the best way of passing cell-time.
He remembered the custody officer’s words. He wasn't under arrest. Free to leave at any time.
He pressed the panic-button again, then sat back on the bunk, for the time being resigned to his fate. Slowly he took control of his breathing and, using some elementary yoga techniques he'd picked up during previous periods of incarceration, calmed himself to the point of relaxation.
There was nothing to do but wait. Nothing to do waiting but sleep. He closed his eyes, slowed his breathing and slipped back into a light slumber.
19
At 6 pm Jeremy Isaac locked the office and made his way to his vehicle, his brow furrowed. He'd managed to establish from neighbors that Bristow had left his house at the usual time.
A quick call to Jay Street confirmed the worst. They admitted they were “anxious to speak to him,” but had no idea of his whereabouts.
Isaac felt uneasy. His client couldn't just vanish. Where the hell was he?
The answer came to mind slow but clear.
His heart sank.
Beneath his breath he muttered, “May your God help you, Thomas.”
20
Claire glanced at her watch for the tenth time in as many minutes. Gone seven and Matt still hadn't called. She knew he was busy. But right now she needed him. He'd warned her in advance about Kellerman's exclusive, but it still hit her like a punch in the stomach.
The Lusk Recreation Space was still wet from the recent shower brought in from Lake Ontario. Three children cycl
ed by on their bikes, pedaling furiously against the strong breeze. Claire watched them with glazed eyes. Two boys and a girl. The girl was about Rebecca's age. Darker hair, perhaps.
It was a relief to see kids out and about again, however much it ripped at her insides. The last few weeks of the summer holidays had not been a pleasant time for local children. The older ones were frightened to go out, the younger ones confused why they were kept in. Occasionally they could be seen, in big groups, but rarely on their own.
A sense of unease, of fear, hung over the community. It had just begun to dissipate when the morning headlines hit. She looked around and sure enough an adult was calling the cyclists back, scolding them for straying out of sight. It would be a long time before normality returned to this part of New York state.
Rebecca had been riding her bike when she was abducted. On her way to majorettes, just a short way from where Claire now stood. Her final movements were still not clear. Friends had seen her leaving the house, dressed in her uniform, baton in hand, looking forward to the meeting. She never arrived.
“Honey?.”
The voice broke the spell. She reeled round, to find Matt behind her, his smile vanishing as he saw her tear-filled eyes.
“I'm sorry.”
She dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “It's okay. I was just...” Explanations were superfluous.
Matt put an arm round her shoulder and she leaned on him, grateful for the company. “You look like you could do with a coffee.”
She smiled. It was Matt's solution to all crises.
They made their way back to her house in silence. Matt orchestrated refreshments, coffee percolating noisily, crumpets toasting beneath the grill, while Claire applied fresh mascara to still red eyes. They sat a while on adjacent stools in silent reflection.
He saw Claire break into a smile and broke the silence. “Happier thoughts?”
“It's nothing. Just a fleeting fancy. More coffee?”
As she changed the filter he explained briefly the day's events. How he'd identified the local man, Bristow, only for the cops to find he was on his regular trip to Greenwich. She listened thoughtfully, aware Matt was stressing he was just another suspect, and that Pitman had already interviewed him. She wasn't to build her hopes. He just wanted her to know things were happening. That Rebecca hadn't been forgotten.
“Anyway,” he concluded, “Dave says they’ve flagged his license plate, so the cameras will pick him up on the road somewhere.”
Sipping hot coffee, Claire asked, “Will he be arrested?”
“Of course. I’ll know more soon.”
“What will happen to him?”
Matt considered his response carefully before answering. “He’ll be transferred to Jay Street at some stage.”
“What if he denies it?”
Matt grimaced. “He killed a child, honey. Denying it won't be an option.”
21
For the second time, Bristow awoke to the sound of keys in the lock. He sat up, bleary-eyed, emerging from a deeper sleep, his mind slowly focusing on his surroundings. He stared at the open cell door, unsure if he was awake or not. No one entered. He sat in anxious expectation.
Nothing.
A glance to the window told him it was early morning, still dark, the amber glow of the station's sodium lights misty through the opaque glass. He got up and moved across the cell towards the entrance.
Curious.
Cautious.
Worried.
The first blow hit him square across the chest, knocking the air from his lungs. He was flung across the cell, hitting the wall beneath the window. His head cracked against brick, spectacles falling to the floor. He steadied himself, fighting for breath. He could see the blur of a grey-suited figure advance towards him and instinctively raised his arms to protect his face.
A heavy boot kicked him in the stomach and he doubled up in pain. A knee came up to his nose, spreading it across his face. His mouth filled with blood as upper denture bit through lower lip.
A further kick, to the groin. Searing pain. Nausea erupting. He slumped to the ground, choking on vomit as he fought for breath, clutching his genitals with one hand, defending his face with the other.
He reached out for his glasses, desperate for the reassurance of vision, but the steel-capped Doc Marten boot was there first, crushing the frame, grinding the lenses into the concrete floor.
“Let's see how many little kiddies you can find without those, ChoMo.”
Spitting blood from his mouth Bristow looked up to see the figure towering over him. The steel toe-cap raised slowly to nuzzle under his chin, the boot leather cool against his throat. The figure behind the boot was a blur, Bristow's myopia denying him the sight of the sneering face above him.
“Get up, ChoMo.”
Bristow made no attempt to move. The boot came stamping down on his hand, crushing his fingers. He screamed in pain.
A fist came from the side, smashing into his face. “Quiet, you perverted bastard. Now get up. While you still can.”
He pushed himself back against the wall, forcing himself to an upright position. Blood flowed from his lip, down his chin and neck, soaking into his shirt. Trembling, he brought a handkerchief from his pocket with his good hand and tended the wound, squinting his eyes to gain a focus on his assailant.
“Please. I haven't done anything.”
A hand slapped him sharp across the side of the face, a jewel-encrusted ring ripping open his cheek, sending blood spraying across the wall.
“I didn’t give you permission to speak, ChoMo.”
Another kick to the stomach. As he doubled over in pain he saw the blurred figure retreat and vanish through the cell doorway. He struggled for breath, trying to shake off the pain, fearfully watching the entrance.
For a full two minutes nothing happened. Silence. Just the sound of his own labored breathing. Then another figure appeared. Shorter, slighter. A brown suit this time, the posture less threatening.
“Christ, you look rough. What happened? Fall over?”
Bristow kept quiet. It was classic good cop bad cop tactics. He knew what to expect. The brown suit didn't disappoint.
“I see you've met Peter. A great guy when you get to know him...” He bent down and picked up the broken spectacles. “Are these yours?”
Bristow followed the movements as best he could, squinting to gain a focus. Brown Suit threw the twisted frame at Bristow and shrugged. “What a shame. You've broken them. You should try contact lenses.”
He moved his face closer to Bristow's. The smell of lager and stale tobacco assailed his nostrils and Bristow edged back until the wall stopped him. He could see brown-suit's face now, close enough to be in focus. He was smiling.
“That's a nasty cut you've got there. You ought to get it seen to.” He moved back out of focus. “Let's not play games, Bristow. You are Thomas Martin Bristow, aren't you?”
Bristow nodded, holding the hanky to his nose. He had his breath back now, the blood flow stemmed by the cotton cloth. “Why am I here?”
Brown Suit moved towards the cell door. “We ask the questions, Bristow. Understand? That way we'll all get along just fine. Now, I don't know about you, but I fancy a nice cup of coffee. Give you time to think things over. When we get back there's a few questions we'd like to ask you. If you're not too busy, that is.”
He stepped out of the cell and pushed the gate shut. Keys rattled in the lock. “Oh, a friendly warning. Just between the two of us. Peter's got a foul temper. Don't go upsetting him.
Bristow fumbled for his broken spectacles, throwing the mangled frames into the corner as he realized the extent of the damage. He made his way to the bunk, probing swollen lips with bruised, stinging fingers. Congealing blood covered his chin and neck, soaking through his shirt, onto his chest. His stomach muscles ached, his groin numb.
Again he turned to his yoga exercises and slowly brought his body to some semblance of control, trying to block out the waves of pain
that racked his body. Trembling.
Bruises were beginning to swell on the back of his head and across his face and chest. He could taste the blood in his mouth. He sat back and tried to adopt a more comfortable posture, but his aching body wouldn't let him. He waited.
Nervous.
Afraid.
22
It was five in the morning when they returned. Daylight was forging its way through the thick glass. He was drifting in and out of sleep when the rattle of keys brought his mind into rapid focus.
He stared at the blurred image, relaxing slightly as the brown suit came into focus.
“Morning, Thomas.”
No answer.
“Suit yourself. We need to ask you a few questions. In the interview room. It's more comfortable there.”
Bristow stared at the blurred speaker. “Am I being arrested?”
“Why? Have you done something wrong?”
“I haven't done anything.”
“So you've nothing to worry about then, have you. If you'd like to come this way.”
“I want to speak to my lawyer.”
“Don't piss us about, Bristow. It's been a long night.”
“I mean it. I want my attorney, Jeremy Isaac. There's an emergency number. Twenty-four hours.”
Brown Suit laughed coldly. “How sweet. Peter! Bristow wants his attorney!”
“Get that fucking ChoMo down here before I come and drag him out.”
Bristow was on his feet before Peter had finished the sentence. He meekly followed Brown Suit out of the cell, out through the empty Custody Suite, into a side-room. He could determine the outline of cabinets, office equipment. A silhouetted figure before the window confirmed his identity when he spoke. It was not a voice Bristow would soon forget. A west coast accent. Washington sprang to mind.
“Chester the molester giving you agro?”
Brown Suit responded on cue. “No problems, Peter. I can handle this one. You may as well have a coffee while I deal with him. Thomas in a helpful mood. Aren't you, Thomas?”
Sugar & Spice (US edition) Page 4
