Sugar & Spice (US edition)

by Saffina Desforges

  “The Lieutenant has this curious notion that Uncle Tom is still at large and is one of our clients,” Quinlan said with a disarming chuckle.

  “He's not alone.”

  “What can I say, Mr Burford? You obviously have sound reasons for your belief, which we are as yet not privy to. Dr Reynolds and I are of the opinion it would be best if we were all to sit round a table together, in a sane and civilized manner, and get to the bottom of this.”

  “You know Ceri Jones is dead?”

  Quinlan looked surprised, but his voice never wavered. “Mr Burford, Matthew, I cannot begin to express my condolences at this terrible time for you. A car accident?”

  “Uncle Tom killed her.”

  Quinlan held his gaze forward. He stopped at an unmarked door, gesturing for Matt to enter. “Please, take a seat. Thomas will be along with the tea shortly.”

  Matt stood to one side. “You first.”

  As Quinlan eased his chair behind the desk, Matt asked, “How could Uncle Tom have known about Ceri, except through this place? It's clear to us he must have accessed your records somehow.”

  Quinlan shrugged. “Far be it from me to cast aspersions, Matthew, but my understanding is that it were yourself and Claire who made this so-called profile available to third parties. Not just to ourselves, but to the police, to the FBI, to this attorney, Isaac, and lord only knows who else.”

  “The police and FBI were given a summary of the profile, not the original. At Ceri's request I removed her name from it before handing it over.”

  “The attorney then. I understand his office was burgled?” Quinlan's sparkling smile again.

  Matt felt uneasy. Quinlan had a point. Isaac had taken away a copy of Ceri's original, with her name on.

  “The burglary wasn't made public, Dr Quinlan. How do you know about it?”

  Quinlan chuckled, eyes twinkling. “Matthew, you're treading the fine line between suspicion and paranoia. Quite understandable, of course, in the circumstances.”

  208

  “That doesn't answer my question, Dr Quinlan.”

  “My dear boy, we heard about it through the grapevine, of course. The unofficial dissemination of information. It's the very lubricant of modern journalism is it not? When the office of an attorney representing the country's most notorious criminal is broken into, word soon gets about. Especially in a field as esoteric as ours.”

  “Then you must know the manner of Ceri's murder.”

  “Not as yet, but if what you say is true I can imagine some likely scenarios. And I quite understand how it must appear to a layman, I really do. But to the trained eye the matter is straight-forward enough. A simple copy-cat murder. Someone seriously disturbed, who idolized the media image of Uncle Tom. There would be many, I can assure you. Especially after the way the tabloid press manipulated and sensationalized the details for their own profit, with no regard for the consequences.”

  “This isn't about media responsibility, Dr Quinlan. This is about a homicidal maniac who's still out there, killing children, while an innocent man is behind bars.”

  “Innocent? Forgive me, Matthew, but I didn't realize you were acquainted with Greg Randall.”

  “I'm not.”

  “Then I have the advantage, wouldn't you say? I examined him as a client here at the Foundation. Between us, Dr Reynolds and I explored his innermost desires and fantasies. Sexual fantasies, Matthew. Fantasies about little girls.”

  “Thomas Bristow had a thing for little boys. That didn't make him a killer. And he was another of your patients.”

  Quinlan couldn't hide his surprise. “How on Earth? No matter. Matthew, I don't know how familiar you are with my reputation, and I do not wish to appear boastful, but my expertise in the field of paraphilia is regarded as unequalled. In my professional opinion, Greg Randall is a schizophrenic pedophile who was living not just a double, but a triple existence, as a doting father and family man, as a troubled would-be abuser, seeking help to protect his own daughters from future harm, and thirdly as a homicidal maniac, to use your own words, tracking down little children for his own gratification. By any definition, Matthew, the word innocent is surely a little inappropriate?”

  Again, Dr Quinlan's calm, rational explanations were disarming. But the image of Ceri's body was still etched in Matt’s mind.

  “If Randall is Uncle Tom, then who murdered Ceri?”

  “As I said, Matthew, a copy-cat killer. A simple, if tragic matter of idolatry emulation. Of hero-worship gone too far. Besides, this girl, Ceri. She was a mature teenager, as I understand it. Not a young child.”

  “Not when he started.” Matt forced the image from his mind. “More children have been killed since Randall's arrest.”

  Quinlan chuckled loudly. “Ah yes, the profile... The girl from Yonkers. A simple coincidence.”

  Matt glared at him.

  “I quite understand how you feel, Matthew, believe me. But it's been three months now since Greg Randall was incarcerated. Since then you have this one missing child, with nothing to connect her to Uncle. Surely if there were any substance whatsoever to your remarkable notion then he would have killed another child by now?”

  “He has.”

  “Really? But Matthew, you are hoist by your own petard. Your friend's profile... A place beginning with the letter X? There are none.”

  “Oh, but there is, Dr Quinlan. Right in the centre of New York.”

  Quinlan leaned forward. “Please enlighten me.”

  “We believe a child was abducted from outside Christmas Cottage.”

  Quinlan let out a long sigh. “Very well, Matthew, let's hear the whole story. I couldn't live with myself if a professional misjudgment on my part resulted in the death of another child.”

  209

  As each successive door opened on an empty room, Danny's hesitant pace quickened. The door to room fifteen swung open, the cursory glance becoming a lingering stare as his eyes fell upon the bank of technology that was the Foundation's security control centre. The single monitor switched on showed the snow-covered forecourt.

  He found himself drawn like a magnet, nodding to himself as expert eyes darted from one console to another, grasping functions as if he were at home. For the first time since entering the Foundation, Danny felt at ease.

  He nudged the door closed and the locks secured automatically. He slipped onto the swivel chair and spun himself the length of the deck, flicking switches and pressing buttons, confidence growing. Suddenly he could see Matt in agitated conversation with the old man he had seen get out of the black Lincoln earlier. Relief surged. He turned on the audio.

  “But what about the DNA match? The semen on the body? One can only stretch credulity so far, Matthew.”

  Matt's reply was lost as Danny changed the scene. Matt was fine. What about Claire?

  He scanned the rooms as fast as he could until he found the lounge. Claire was sat with her head in her hands, her inhaler by her side. Danny flicked a switch and saw Claire turn towards the door, which had swung open. She watched in fearful silence, expecting someone to enter, then slowly approached doorway.

  As she stepped over the threshold the monitor faded and another lit up, showing Claire in the empty corridor. Danny managed a smile. From the electronic blueprint he could tell Claire was one corridor away from Matt and the old man, but she was going the wrong way. He scanned the consoles, trying to find a way to signal to her. He found the rewind facility.

  He saw Claire fast-rewind back into the room, and clicking a few buttons saw his own face appear at the window. He rewound further and the man from the white van appeared. He froze the frame, studying the face.

  Grasping the history facility he jumped scenes and found the Lieutenant at the front door, waiting in the snow. He played a steady fast-forward, watching impatiently as the hunched woman invited him in. He sped up the forward search, tracing the pair as they stopped at various rooms, including the one he was in. Then he saw Pitman wander off on his ow
n. He followed Pitman into the museum, knowing what was to come. He looked away as the knife plunged silently into the Lieutenant's back, then slowed the replay to normal pace to be sure what he was seeing. The hunched woman dragging the body behind a curtain.

  Where was the man at the window? The van driver, Uncle Tom?

  As he fought to control his emotions he clutched Ceri's key so tight it drew blood from his palm, jolting his mind back to reality.

  He jumped scenes from the replays and found the man, Uncle Tom, embracing the hunched woman. Bewildered, he played the scene again, unable to believe his eyes, the suddenly he was changing scenes again, in live play.

  He found Room Eight again, and stared in disbelief, reality impaling itself in his mind. Matt and the old man were still debating in animated fashion. But alongside them Uncle Tom was pouring tea.

  He scanned the room in desperation, a foot kicking the swivel chair across the control deck to a new position, where he punched keys, wading through menus until he found what he wanted. The menu offered All internal locks off and he hit the key. Behind him the bolts released and the door swung open.

  Around the building a similar scenario unfolded. Danny watched on the monitor as Uncle Tom tried to get to the door to close while Matt and the old man looked on. Flicking scenes he saw Claire hesitate in confusion as the doors swung open. In the kitchen the hunched woman looked around, bewildered.

  Yanking the lead from the mainframe, Danny smashed the keyboard against the deck, shattering it. He picked up the heavy swivel chair and hurled it at the main console, taking out one of the monitors at the same time. He picked up the chair again and smashed all but one of the monitors, his strength weakening. He could see Claire heading away from the lounge. A glance at the blueprint lights told him she was heading in the opposite direction from Uncle Tom, towards the museum.

  He was about to heave the chair a final time when he saw the hunched figure of Reynolds on the screen, heading towards the security room. He let the chair drop and darted across the corridor into an empty room, watching as Reynolds passed. As she entered the security room he slipped out heading towards Room Eight. Matt would know what to do.

  210

  Reynolds surveyed the damage in horror.

  On the one remaining monitor she could see Claire wandering cautiously along the far corridor. She tried to change the monitor view, but there was no response.

  Quickly she grabbed her cell phone.

  In Room Eight Dr Quinlan made his apologies to Matt as he took the call.

  “Yes, he's here with me. No, none that I'm aware of. Is there a problem?”

  Quinlan closed the phone and apologized again to Matt. “That was Dr Reynolds. You will be delighted to know Claire is now feeling much better and they will both be along forthwith. Thomas, any luck with that door?”

  211

  Danny raced down the corridor, the mental image of the blueprint clear in his mind.

  As he approached Room Eight there was no question who was crouching at the door with a screwdriver.

  There was no hesitation.

  No fear.

  Just anger.

  He launched himself onto Uncle Tom's back, sending them both reeling into the room, crashing into the desk.

  “You bastard! You killed her!”

  Matt jumped back in surprise. Dr Quinlan struggled to reposition his wheelchair, looking on in shock at the young teen who had burst in from nowhere.

  Uncle Tom reared up with a roar, flinging the boy across the room, smashing into the sofa on the far side.

  Matt ran to him, uncomprehending, fearing the child was hurt. “Are you okay? Danny, what in Christ's name are you doing?”

  Winded, Danny choke the words out breathlessly. “He's Uncle Tom! He killed Ceri! He killed her!”

  As Matt turned, still bewildered, the younger Quinlan was advancing on them. “So, Burford, you need a child to do your brain work for you, do you? A pity. I've never fancied little boys. But just this once I'll make an exception.”

  Matt stepped in front of Danny. “Over my dead body.”

  Uncle Tom smiled. “Very astute, Burford. Obviously neither of you can be allowed to leave here alive.”

  The lightning fast massive paw caught Matt on the side of the head, sending him crashing into the wall.

  “Now your turn, little boy.”

  As Uncle Tom lunged at the sofa Danny dived between his legs, grabbing the screwdriver. “Come on then, you bastard! Just try!”

  As Uncle Tom turned to look at Danny, Matt brought the chair smashing down on the bald head. Blood erupted but Uncle Tom barely blinked, getting to his feet even as the broken wood fell to the ground.

  “Danny, get out! Go, now!”

  “No way,” Danny said, brandishing the screwdriver. “He's mine.”

  “Don't be stupid. Get out!” Matt flung himself at Uncle Tom to give the boy space to pass, launching a fist, but a massive paw stopped it in his tracks, a vice-like grip. A second hand came up, sweeping Matt off his feet and across the room, mercifully into the sofa Danny had just climbed from. The boy was there in an instant, helping him up.

  “He's just toying with us. Get out!”

  Matt launched himself at Uncle Tom again. Danny watched mesmerized as Uncle Tom blocked the attack with one hand, the other smashing deep into Matt’s stomach. Matt doubled up in pain, a further blow to his shoulders knocking him to the floor.

  “Next?”

  Danny stood defiant, screwdriver at the ready.

  Uncle Tom beckoned him with a finger. “I’m waiting, little boy.”

  From the floor Mat shouted feebly, “Danny, no!”

  Too late.

  Danny threw himself at Uncle Tom, screwdriver raised, but a second later thick fingers were in a vice around his neck, holding him at arm’s length off the ground, the screwdriver falling from his hand.

  Danny felt the fingers tightening, the oxygen supply slowing.

  He kicked out with all his strength, but Uncle Tom just laughed when the occasional blow reached home.

  Suddenly the laugh was a roar of pain as the screwdriver pierced his shoulder. Danny fell to the floor, barely conscious, as Uncle Tom turned to face Matt, breathless behind him.

  Uncle Tom pulled the screwdriver from his shoulder, blood soaking the jacket, and advanced on Matt, the weapon clenched in his giant fists.

  “Have you any idea how much a Caraceni costs, Burford? Your last moments will be all the less pleasant for that.”

  The full weight of Uncle Tom's massive frame came at him, the screwdriver aimed at his head. It took both Matt's hands to hold back the massive fist.

  He reeled backwards, around the room, Uncle Tom pushing relentlessly, until he felt the wall at his back.

  Suddenly there was nowhere else to go.

  Uncle Tom's weight bore down on him, the face leering, the veins on the bald head pulsing. The screwdriver loomed inches from Matt's face and he could feel his strength sap as Uncle Tom applied relentless pressure.

  “Danny, run!”

  The screwdriver was barely an inch from his eye.

  He knew it was all over. Uncle Tom was too strong.

  He had to last those extra few seconds to let Danny get away.

  Suddenly Danny was in front of him, above Uncle Tom's head, his small hands wrapped around the contorted face, clutching desperately. It was no more than an irritation to Uncle Tom, but it gave Matt the respite to force the screwdriver back.

  With both Matt's hands holding back the weapon there was nothing he could do as Uncle Tom's free hand grabbed Danny by the collar, pulling him down.

  Danny grabbed at Uncle Tom's head, desperate for grip, and felt Ceri's key in his palm.

  He gripped it tight and gouged deep with all his strength, over the left ear, across the bald head, ripping the skin and splattering blood, but Uncle Tom's grip remained steadfast.

  As the tip of the key came down across the forehead Danny felt the key sink deep into
the eyeball, splashing sticky liquid across his hand.

  Uncle Tom roared with pain, reeling backwards, clutching at his face with both hands.

  Danny fell to the floor. Matt was by him in an instant.

  For a moment they watched his agonized screams as Uncle Tom struggled to get up from his knees, then Matt seized the heavy angle poise lamp from the desk and brought it down on the bald head.

  As the massive body slumped to the floor groaning Danny grabbed the lamp and smashed it repeatedly into the fallen figure, until Matt grabbed his arm.

  “That's enough, Danny.”

  They stared, breathless, at the still body.

  Dr Quinlan wheeled round. “Is he dead?”

  Matt felt for a pulse. “Unfortunately not. Just out cold.”

  Quinlan stared at the fallen body with disdain. “My life's work in ruins. You pathetic imbecile. No wonder you preferred little girls.”

  Matt stared at Quinlan in disbelief. “You knew?”

  Quinlan waved a dismissive hand. “Try proving it, Burford.”

  Danny handed the screwdriver to Matt and motioned to the door. “Can you put that lock back together?”

  Matt nodded, impressed with the boy's cool thinking. While Matt fixed the lock Danny stood over Uncle Tom, willing him to move.

  “Okay, Danny. Let's go.”

  Danny threw the lamp at Uncle Tom's body and a leg jerked.

  “You were right, Matt. The bastard is still alive. Pity.”

  “Come on, let's find Claire and Pitman.”

  “Claire's okay, Matt, but the Lieutenant... Matt, he's dead.”

  Matt started angrily towards Uncle Tom, but Danny grabbed his arm.

  “It wasn't him, Matt. It was the woman. Let's get to Claire before she does.”

  212

  Claire pushed open the museum doors, peering into the gloom.

  As she stepped forward an amber light warmed to her presence, a recorded voice startling her.

  Welcome to the Quinlan Museum of Sex Crime. The Quinlan Museum is the most authentic exhibition of its type in the world today. The museum is personally sponsored by...