Sugar & Spice (US edition)

by Saffina Desforges

  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? Pittsford? Why not at A? Albany? Andover? Angola?”

  “I don't know yet, Matt. The patterns are vague just now. We were studying David Canter last year. He 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 Canter is right, the shadows are there. We just have to see them and interpret them.”

  “But surely the FBI is doing that already? Dunst must know this too.”

  “But he's on the wrong track, Matt, and that means the FBI are looking in the wrong direction.”

  Matt said hesitantly, “I’m listening.”

  “Dunst reckoned the killer would be from a low-IQ group, at best an unskilled or semi-skilled laborer, 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 Madison.”

  “And presuming the girl from Troy 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 have to have 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 judgment 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. Almost certainly with New York state. He hasn’t crossed the border so far, so presumably that’s a part of his fixation. 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. The FBI.”

  “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 and FBI 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 cops 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 detective, Dave Pitman, that I know well. He can be trusted with this.”

  Clare sat in thoughtful silence. “There is another possibility. If we could find him first...”

  “The combined might of New York’s cops and the FBI 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 Lieutenant Pitman a copy, Matt, of course, and he can pass it on to the FBI. 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 the window, taunting bleary eyes. He reached for his watch, fumbling in empty space before he realized 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 apartment he preferred to leave the dishes as long as possible, but knew better than to adopt such slovenliness in Claire's home.

  He felt his unshaven chin with one hand, pulling the blinds open with the other. Seeing Ceri gently swaying on Rebecca's tire 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 coffee was ready 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.

  “Ceri, are you okay?”

  She took the coffee gratefully, sipping the steaming liquid before answering. “That detective 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. Hannah Whiteman, the Troy girl? They dragged her body from the Erie 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? Iced 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 seat.”

  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 socialize 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 pedophile?”

  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 Georgia.”

  “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 cops are quite happy my license 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.”

  “Easy.”

  “How long?”

  “Couple of hours. I’ll start soon as I get in. So Hannah clinched it, then?”

  “Clinched what?”

  “That the murders were alphabetical.”

  Matt glared at him. “How the fuck did you 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.

  “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 out all day. Mum's working to pay for her cigs. 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 killings?”

  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 girlfriend! Does Claire know?”

  “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 pedophile. There are so many questions I'd want to ask.”

  “You might not like the answers.”

  They shared the dishes, waiting for the coffee.

  “It's funny, Ceri, but I almost thought of Thomas Bristow as normal, towards the end. But seeing 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.”

  “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 in Syracuse.”

  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 eastern seaboard 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 college.”

  “I worry about you sometimes.”

  “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 America’s leading expert on sexual perversion.”

  121

  “Being an expert on dirty old men in raincoats is not my idea of a career,” Claire said.

  “That's just a stereotype. You must know that from meeting Bates and Bristow. The fact is, everyone has sexual fantasies of some sort. Fantasies you wouldn't want to admit to in public. Right?”

  Claire grinned mischievously. “Do I have to answer that?”

  “Exactly. We all do. The shape they take, whether or not they conform to values considered acceptable by society, will vary according to genetic, medical and social considerations. But we all have them.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “If you think about it honestly, the only normal form of sex is your bog-standard intercourse. In, out, in out, beer before, cigarette after. It fulfills a basic human need: reproduction. Because we find it pleasurable we do it for reasons other than reproduction, but when all's said and done sex is just going through the motions of a basic human instinct, to perpetuate the species. By very definition, therefore, it's natural. By the same token, anything other than straight sex for reproduction is, by definition, unnatural. Even the simple act of using a condom. Notwithstanding the elaborate courtship rituals of some animal species, sexual foreplay is unnatural too. So obviously variations on the reproductive act like masturbation, homosexuality and of course the less acceptable paraphilias must be unnatural too.”

  “Ceri, you can't go around saying homosexuality is abnormal. This is the twenty-first century! That sort of thinking went out with the ark.”

  “I said unnatural, in biological terms, not abnormal. Not wrong. I'm not homophobic, Claire. With my career plans I’m the last person to go around making subjective judgments. I'm just being clinical in my language. Homosexuality, by its very nature, inhibits further reproduction. Maybe it's an evolutionary device to control the population.”