Sugar & Spice (US edition)

by Saffina Desforges

  Tamara and Natalie were flinging their clothes to the ground with the carefree abandon that only six year olds possess. One of the twins began to clamber over the side of the bath while the other struggled determinedly with a stubborn sock.

  Automatically Randall reached his hands beneath her arms, holding her chest for support as he lifted her gently into the water. He'd done it a thousand times before, without a second thought.

  Have you ever touched your daughters, Greg? Their breasts? Their genitals? However insignificant it might have seemed at the time?

  He released his hands, recoiling upright and Tamara fell the few remaining inches into the water, sending a wave of frothy bubbles over the floor.

  Unhurt but shaken, she looked at her father, eyes wide with surprise and confusion. “What's wrong, Daddy?”

  Randall put on a smile and laughed the incident away, wrapping a towel around Natasha before lifting her into the bath opposite her sister. The towel slipped into the water alongside her, soaking up the bubbles, to the girls' delight, and for the twins, at least, the moment passed.

  He looked at the two girls, barely visible through the froth, oblivious to the turmoil in their father's mind. It had been a mistake, he was convinced now. The voice of Dr Quinlan on the phone had been reassuring. Quietly understanding. But when he'd left the Foundation, after the session with that woman, he'd felt sick.

  Nervous.

  Worried.

  Despite Reynolds' assurances of confidentiality he had been waiting for the knock at the door ever since. The police. Social workers. Educational psychologists. God only knows who else.

  Coming to take away the Dynamite Twins.

  To take him away from them.

  Natalie was tugging at his sleeve. He snapped his mind back to the present.

  “Yes poppet, what's up?”

  “Aren't you coming in with us, Daddy?”

  “Yes, come in, Daddy. Come on, before all the bubbles pop,” Tamara encored, throwing a handful of froth at him.

  He wiped the bubbles from his face with a flannel.

  “No, not tonight, sweet-pies. I think you're getting a bit old for that now, aren't you?”

  “No!” the girls assured him as one. “Come on. Please, Daddy, please.”

  Tamara stood up precariously, reaching out to her father. Instinctively he reached out to steady her. Self-consciously he stopped himself. Tamara stood, waiting, confused by his reaction. He watched the soapy bubbles slide down her naked body, gleaming in the light.

  The twins chanted for him to join them. “Daddy in the bath! Daddy in the bath!”

  He forced a laugh. “No, not tonight, girls. You'll be seven next birthday. Big girls don't share baths with their daddies.”

  “Yes they do,” Natalie assured him. “Stacie does, and so does Brianna. And they're already seven. We went to their parties, didn't we, 'Mara.”

  Randall collected a ball of froth in his hands and placed it gently on Tamara's head. She brushed it off with a giggle.

  “Oh yes? How do you know that?” He struggled to sound casual.

  “We talked about it in class today.”

  It was like being struck by lightning. His face paled. He felt faint. His knees were buckling beneath him. He grabbed the side of the bath to steady himself, trying to control the tremor in his voice. “What do you mean, you talked in class?

  “With our teacher, Mrs Hollis.”

  His heart missed several beats, his pulse racing, his face flushed. He grabbed the nearest girl by the wrist and pulled her towards him, his voice sharp, menacing.

  “When was this? What did you tell her?”

  56

  “Daddy, you're hurting me.” Natalie struggled against his grip, frightened. Bewildered.

  Randall let go instantly. He reached out to Natalie to comfort her but she backed away, confused, in tears.

  Tamara looked on, horrified, at a loss to understand the transformation in her father. Her bottom lip quivered, wide, confused eyes flooding with tears.

  “Natalie, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you.” He struggled to control his voice. “Are you okay, precious?”

  The girl nodded, but his strained smile was not reciprocated. He took her arm and gently massaged her wrist.

  “Here, this will make it better. I'm really sorry, poppet. Tamara, you tell me what happened at school. Who was asking you these questions?”

  Tamara ventured a hesitant response, not knowing what was wrong, fearing she might upset her father again. “It was just Mrs Hollis, Daddy. And a police lady.”

  “A police lady?” He could feel the blood pulsing in his temple. The veins stood out on his forearms. They knew. That woman Reynolds. She must have told them!

  He fought for control, clutching Natalie's wrist. “Who did they speak to first? You or your sister?”

  Confused. Not understanding. “All of us, of course.”

  “All of you? What do you mean? Tamara, tell Daddy exactly what happened.”

  “Why?”

  “Just bloody tell me!”

  Both girls were in tears. Natalie found her voice first, bottom lip trembling. “It was the whole class, together. The police lady talked to us about strangers. About how children have to be careful.”

  His throat was dry. “Go on, poppet. It's okay. Just tell Daddy what happened.”

  “About how we mustn't go off with strangers or get in their cars or take candy off them.”

  “And we must never let anyone touch us anywhere. Especially not our privates,” Tamara added, a smile returning to her face.

  Natalie laughed nervously. “That was when Brianna Burton said that she'd seen her daddy's... Well, you know... Down there. His winky.”

  “And the police lady asked how,” Tamara added, giggling at the memory. “So Brianna told her.”

  Randall held his breath. “That she shared a bath with her daddy?”

  Tamara nodded. “Uh-huh. Then Natalie said that's what we do, and so did some other kids. Bobby Wilson did, and Cathy - “

  “And what did this police lady say when you told her that? Did she ask you anything else?” Randall kept the smile on his face, just.

  “No. She said it was okay to have a bath with mummies or daddies but not with strangers.”

  He felt a weight lift from his mind. “And that was it?”

  “Uh-huh. Why, Daddy?”

  All smiles. “Because Daddy's interested, of course. Why else? Daddy likes to know what the Dynamite Twins get up to at school. Is your arm okay now, Natalie? I didn't mean to hold it so hard. I'm sorry, poppet. Do you forgive me?”

  “It hurts a little bit. Can we have some ice-cream when we get out?” Natalie knew when she was on to a good thing.

  “Course you can, sweetness. The Dynamite Twins can have anything they want. If you get out now you can have an extra scoop each.”

  “We haven't done our hair yet,” Tamara protested.

  “We'll do it next time. Mommy won't mind. Here, you first, Tamara.” He held out a towel and wrapped it round the girl as she stood up, lifted her out and placed her gently to the ground. She stood upright with her arms in the air, waiting to be toweled dry.

  “Now listen,” he said as he lifted Natalie alongside her sister, “tonight I want you both to dry yourselves on your own, alright? Then if teacher ever asks you can say you're big girls and don't need Daddy to dry you, okay?”

  The girls exchanged glances, unsure how to react. What was the point of being six if you had to dry yourselves after a bath? You might as well be a grown-up!

  “Okay. But you have to get the ice-cream ready,” Tamara bargained.

  “Three scoops each for the Dynamite Twins! The most beautiful girls in the world.”

  But he refrained from the customary hug and kiss that usually followed such an exclamation. There would have to be some changes from now on. Changes in the way he treated the girls. How he held them. How he touched them. Even what he said to them.

  L
ife wouldn't be worth living if anything ever happened to the twins.

  And maybe, just maybe, he'd broach the subject with Elizabeth.

  57

  “Claire! I wasn’t expecting you.”

  That much was obvious. The suspicion was instant. “I'm sorry. You're busy. I should have rang first.” She stood in the doorway, uncertain how to react.

  “Please, come in. It's just... I was working, that's all.”

  She followed him through, feeling uncomfortable. “I was just out for a walk. Ended up here. I saw your car...” Why was she justifying herself like this? She often called in unannounced. She had a key. “I won't stay.”

  “No, no, it's okay.” Matt was in control again. “Coffee?”

  “You're sure it's no bother? I don't want you missing a deadline.” She scanned the room for evidence that anyone else had been there. It was an open-plan apartment. Only the bedroom and bathroom were private. The bedroom door was open.

  Did he have a girl in the bathroom? She dismissed the thought. He wouldn't. Not Matt. Especially not now.

  She felt guilty. Since Rebecca's murder she'd been very cool towards him. Towards all men.

  He understood that, surely?

  It would take time.

  “Nice walk?” He set the percolator in action.

  “Fine.” She saw the anxious glances towards the desk, where papers lay spread out in front of the computer. A tablet of scribbled shorthand lay next to them. A full, cold cup occupied the coaster on the corner. Anything that caused a coffee to go un-drunk had to be serious.

  “There's a lovely breeze out.” She maneuvered herself casually around the room, picking up the a newspaper, her mind elsewhere. She found herself drawn to the work he had obviously been engrossed in when she arrived. His nervous glances towards the desk only served to sharpen her interest.

  The percolator began bubbling.

  “Looks like you've been busy?”

  “It's nothing. Just some background research.” He made his way to the desk, shut down the computer and began gathering the papers together. It wasn't quite casual enough. Claire was hooked.

  The phone rang. Claire was nearest, but Matt leapt across the room and grabbed it before she could move.

  “Burford. Oh, Mac, it's you. Yes. Tomorrow. Hold on.” He gestured to Claire. “Throw us a pen, love.”

  There was one on the desk. She moved across and picked it up, about to take it to him. She changed her mind and threw it. A deliberately poor shot. He stooped to pick it up.

  “Claire, don't...” He spoke quickly into the receiver. “Mac, I'll call you back.”

  Claire was staring at one of the sheets of paper she had picked up. A computer print out. She recognized the name. Thomas Martin Bristow.

  A hand was on her arm, leading her away. His other hand took the papers and put them back on the desk. “Claire, please.”

  “What's going on, Matt? It's about Rebecca, isn't it?”

  “The coffee's nearly ready.”

  “Matt, what's happened?”

  Matt was firm but reassuring. “I need the caffeine, even if you don't. I'll explain everything in a minute. Please.”

  58

  She waited in impatient silence while he brought the coffees over. She ignored hers. She had a thousand questions, but couldn't manage any of them.

  “I was going to tell you tonight, Claire. It's not definite yet. Nothing official. I thought that might have been the confirmation. Pitman said he'd ring the moment he had any news.”

  Claire looked at him bewildered. He was making no sense.

  “It started a few days ago. I got wind that Jeremy Isaac, Bristow's attorney, was talking with Conrad Buckmaster, the trial lawyer.” He saw from Claire's face that the name meant nothing to her. “He's an aggressive New York City lawyer. Young, ambitious, anti-establishment. Impressive track record. That's why I met with Isaac yesterday. Off the record.”

  “Off?”

  “I'm not allowed to report anything that might prejudice the trial. But Isaac agreed to talk to me in a personal capacity. Because of my relationship with Rebecca. With you... And because he wants a sympathetic reporter on his side.”

  “Sympathetic? You? I don't understand, Matt.”

  “Nor did I. But I figured someone will end up with the inside story, so why not us? At least that way we'd have some control over what gets printed.”

  Claire looked unconvinced. “He gave you these papers?”

  “God, no. He'd be struck off. No, we just talked. About Bristow.”

  “And?”

  “Isaac thinks he's innocent. Believes it, I mean, not just playing Perry Mason. You know other children have been reported missing recently...”

  “I saw the crime report special last night. The two girls not far from the canal. The missing boy. But they said there was nothing to connect them.”

  Matt took her hand. “Bear with me. It'll make more sense if I tell it in order.” He downed the coffee in one. “Isaac said if I looked at the evidence objectively it would be obvious Bristow had nothing to do with Rebecca. I was going through the material when you arrived.”

  “I'm so sorry, Matt. I thought for a minute...”

  He missed the point. “I was going to tell you, but not yet. I wanted to be sure. There may be nothing to it. It's just...”

  “Just what, Matt?”

  “It's like Isaac said. Only the death of another child will put Bristow in the clear.”

  “Oh God, they've found a body.”

  “It's not official yet. There's nothing at all to connect it with Rebecca at this stage.”

  Claire clutched at his arm. “So what's happened, Matt? You have to tell me.”

  “They think they've found a body in the Erie, near Little Falls.”

  “Oh my God.”

  He clutched her hand tight. “There's a police news blackout. Pitman rang shortly before you arrived. I'm still waiting for confirmation.”

  “Another girl?”

  “We don't know. It might be an accident.”

  “You don't believe that, Matt.”

  “I've just got this feeling about Bristow, Claire. Isaac was very... convincing. Or at least convinced. Hence the homework.”

  “Can we do anything?”

  “Just sit and wait.”

  “Can I?” She picked up the press reports and read through them in silence. Matt reached across. “This is his Police record. Last convictions were for indecent assault. Before that a few lesser indecency charges, also with kids. A caution, and two convictions for indecent images. I've also got the license details of his ice-cream van, for what that’s worth. My guess is he used it to entice kids with, but again, that was a long time ago.”

  The phone rang and he pounced on the receiver. “Burford. Dave, at last. Is it... God, no.” The tone of his voice filled in the gaps for what Claire couldn't hear. “Jesus. Are they... How long before... No, that's okay. You'll let me know as soon as... Thanks, Dave. I owe you.”

  He scribbled notes in shorthand, his face ashen. Claire looked on anxiously. Finally he put down the receiver and looked at the floor, struggling to repeat the news.

  “Two of them. Together. Two girls. The kids' nails were painted. Yellow. Just like... Just like Rebecca.” He clutched Claire's hand tightly.

  There was silence, then through the tears Claire asked, “Where does that leave Bristow?”

  Matt replied almost without thinking. “A very wealthy man.”

  59

  Randall chose the moment carefully, soon after midnight.

  Elizabeth had showered while he prepared the malted chocolate to drink in bed. It was the usual arrangement when she was on evening shifts. After six hours bathing old men and changing incontinence pads the last thing on her mind was sex. That would have to wait until morning.

  It was a logical arrangement, biologically suiting them both. As Randall liked to joke, it was always up before him anyway.

  He usually sat u
p till after midnight, listening to the late news on the radio, then picking up a book for an hour after that, until Elizabeth was ready for lights out. Elizabeth liked to wind down with a good book after an evening shift. Their reading tastes differed enormously. Randall liked Terry Pratchett, while Elizabeth was equally happy with a romance, an Aga saga or a decent thriller. She'd belatedly discovered Grisham and was slowly ploughing through The Confession on her Kindle when Randall interrupted her.

  “The Dynamite Twins had a police officer at school yesterday, lecturing them about strangers.”

  Elizabeth looked up, half-interested. “They didn't mention it.”

  “No? Well it can't have made much of an impact then.”

  “No need, anyway. They've got the scum who killed Rebecca. There can't be two sick bastards like that around, surely.”

  Randall shifted uncomfortably. “What do you think should happen to him?”

  She put her e-reader down and tufted her pillow. She hoped he wasn't in garrulous mood.

  “Castrate the dirty bastard first. Then let the parents have their turn. Then, if there's anything left after that, hang him, slowly. Very slowly.” She picked up the Kindle again, satisfied. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason.”

  60

  The drive to Franklin County was a difficult one, Claire barely able to focus on the road, her mind psyching herself for the challenge. As she came onto Bare Hill Road the Upstate Correctional Facility in Malone loomed before her.

  There was still time to change her mind.

  The warden made small talk about the unusual arrangements they had made for her as she was led through to a side-room, empty but for a single table and two chairs. Claire acknowledged her gratitude for their efforts, assuring them she was okay, then sat alone, waiting patiently. She had expected glass petitions and exchanges through a telephone like in the movies. It was almost disappointing, the thorough search of her purse for weapons and drugs just about compensating in her mind.

  Isaac had been dumb-founded when Claire put the proposal to him, but he knew Bristow would welcome the opportunity to state his case, to express his sorrow personally. It took a week to arrange, Isaac invoking obscure legal precedent for remand prisoners.