She pulled aside the nearest drape and peered in, but the amber light was not enough to illuminate the display. Intuitively she hit the green button, the drape furling to reveal the figure of the Marquis De Sade.
By its very nature sex crime is as old as mankind itself. From the day stone-age man first took an unwilling partner, sex criminals have walked among us. But any...
The recording went unheard as the body in the corner caught her eye.
Even as she saw the knife protruding from the shoulder blades she recognized it was the Lieutenant.
She reeled, barely able to stand, asthma tightening her chest.
Forcing herself from the exhibit she advanced on the next display, ripping the drape away, the amber spotlight struggling to keep up with her as she moved along, anger and adrenaline giving her strength, battling against the debilitation of her asthma.
213
In the security control centre Danny was cursing his earlier enthusiasm as he toyed with the loose wires of the console, trying to regain control over the remaining monitor.
Wires sparked. Matt looked on bewildered.
“That's the museum where Pitman was killed.”
For several seconds nothing could be seen as Danny adjusted camera angles, then suddenly Matt was by his side as Claire's silent image became clear, moving from exhibit to exhibit, tearing at drapes, in and out of the amber spotlight's glare.
They saw Reynolds' hunched figure, retrieving the knife from Pitman's back, and they were running, Danny leading the way
214
As the final drape fell and she saw the display of Uncle Tom's victims laid out before her, Claire fell to her knees, unwilling to look, unable to tear her eyes away.
She recognized Rebecca's cycle helmet.
Her pink ribbon.
Shock and anger fought for dominance as her body convulsed.
“So now you know, Claire.”
Claire turned slowly, her body shaking uncontrollably, tears streaming. She knew the voice before she saw the knife poised in Reynolds' hand.
“You told me you wanted to know the truth, Claire. Now you do. How does it feel? Does it help you? Does it really ease the pain?”
Claire hadn't the energy even to move, her words carried on asthmatic breath. “Why, Ruth? For God's sake, why?”
The smile was sincere. “I used to ask that myself, before I met James. He taught me so much. He showed me how to live, Claire. How to survive without gender politics. Without the domination of one sex over another.”
Claire looked on, bewildered.
“A parachuting accident. Broke his back. James has been impotent ever since. Take away a man's ability to perform in bed, Claire, and you take away his need to repress. Consequently we have the perfect relationship, James and I. True equals.”
Claire gestured to the exhibit. “And this?”
“You're not a scientist, Claire. It's pointless my even trying to explain.”
Claire knew she needed time to rebuild her strength. “Try me.”
Reynolds laughed. “We were like minds, James and I. Like minds in pursuit of the truth. For years we studied the sex-offender mentality second-hand, through the warped minds of others. Others less articulate. Less able to explain. It wasn't enough, Claire. Can you understand that? We were pioneers in our field. We had to go that final mile for the sake of truth. So we created Thomas.”
“Created?”
“Literally. In his time James led the way in artificial insemination techniques. It was only right, after his accident, that he use his own sperm to bear us a son. After all, the one thing that makes a woman truly superior to a man is the ability to give birth. And then we faced the age-old debate. Nature or nurture? Are offenders genetically programmed, or the product of their environment? We were scientists, Claire. We had a duty to use our own creation, our son, to find the answers.”
The blade glistened in the amber light.
“You're mad.”
“Mad, Claire? By who's definition?”
Claire watched Reynolds' gnarled fingers curl around the shaft, remembering Ceri's words about the knife as a penis. She smiled.
“Am I missing something, Claire?”
“Just something Ceri told me. But I still don't understand. After all you said, about men abusing women?”
“These weren't woman, Claire. They were little girls. Just children.”
“Just children? And that gives you the right to...” The tears streamed, the voice rising. “She was my daughter, for God's sake!”
Reynolds nodded. “My point exactly, Claire. She was your daughter. Your own personal property. I mean, that's why you're here, after all, isn't it? Or are you telling me you were thinking of the other girls that died? Be honest, Claire. Can you name even one of Uncle Tom's victims, other than Rebecca?”
She pointed to a news photo of one of the victims. “That girl there, for instance?”
Claire kept her eyes firmly on Reynolds.
“You see, she means nothing to you. No more than does a famine victim in Africa. As a society we loathe children. Didn't your friend Thomas Bristow teach you that? Do you honestly think anyone cared about those girls? Of course, it sickened people to have to read about it over their cornflakes, or see it on the news as they sat down to have tea. But did anyone actually care about the victims?”
Claire let her talk, slowly regaining control over her breathing, her strength returning.
“When you see the screaming masses outside a Court when a pedophile is on trial do you think they care one jot about the victim? Of course not. All they're worried about is their own kids, just as they worry about their own house or car. About their own personal property. They scream and shout about child abuse, but in the next breath they're at home smacking their own little brats, making them breathe their cigarette smoke, feeding them junk food, palming them off on the cheapest babysitter they can find while they go out on the town.”
“That's not true, Ruth,” Claire managed through a clenched jaw.
“Oh, you know it is, Claire. It’s Dawkins’ selfish gene writ large. Millions of children die of starvation every year and we stand by and let it happen. Children are ripped apart by land-mines and bombs and what do we do? Nothing. Children are being physically and sexually abused all over the world, Claire, and we choose to look the other way. So long as it's not our precious son or daughter, what does it matter? When we're talking millions, what difference is one more?”
“No.”
“No? Tell me, Claire, what was so special about Rebecca that she should have her life while others are denied theirs? Do you honestly believe anyone cared about Rebecca? No-one cared, Claire. No-one but you.”
“No.” She thought of Matt. Of Lieutenant Pitman. Of Ceri and Danny. Of the police officers, the FBI, neighbors, total strangers, who had helped search for her daughter when she first disappeared. “No, you're wrong.”
“The delusion is all yours, Claire. Look at that photo of your daughter. That poor, poor child. All Thomas did was try to advance her maturity. To release her from the chains of childhood. She wasn't meant to die, if that's any consolation. Your student friend was spot on about that. How could Thomas possibly have known she was insulin-dependent? He thought he'd killed her himself. And that was a new high for him. For all of us. It opened up a whole new field of academic study.”
“You bastards. You complete and utter bastards.”
“That's it, Claire, release those inner tensions. You'll feel better for it.” Reynolds smiled. “But I was wrong about one thing, Claire. The power of absolute dominance is not of man over woman, as I first thought. It's of life over death. Your detective friend helped me make that final leap of understanding. Thomas told us each time was better than the last. Now I'm about to find out. Tell me, Claire, how does it feel? To know you're finally going to be reunited with your precious daughter?”
215
As Reynolds advanced, knife raised, Claire lunged forward wit
h what little strength desperation and anger gave her, hitting the hunched figure in the stomach, winding her.
The startled woman dropped the weapon as she struggled to keep balance, fighting to extract herself from Claire's weakening grasp.
Reynolds managed to push her away, but as she stooped to retrieve the blade Claire was on her again.
They clasped one another, fighting to keep balance, then as one they fell.
Claire somehow managed to twist Reynolds' body beneath her, the hunched body taking the weight of the fall, Claire landing on top, knocking the breath from the older woman's lungs.
Reynolds' glasses slipped and as she fumbled blindly with one hand to right them, Claire pinned the other arm to the ground with her knee. As spectacles gave sight to her eyes once more, Reynolds jaw dropped as she saw the knife now poised in Claire's hand.
For a second there was panic, then calm as the fixed smile replaced her terror.
“Go ahead, Claire,” she rasped. “If you think you can. If you really think you're woman enough.”
Claire stared down at her, not moving a muscle.
“A life for a life, Claire, isn't that how it works? But will that make you feel any better? Do you think you could live with yourself afterwards? I don't think so. You haven't got it in you.”
Claire looked down at Reynolds, defenseless, at her mercy, yet smiling.
“Don't flatter yourself, Ruth. It's not any innate feminine qualm that's holding me back. I'm not hesitating.” She looked again at the photo of Rebecca. “I'm just savoring the moment.”
The smile vanished, Reynolds' eyes widening with fear as she saw the intent on Claire's face.
The knife raised, poised, then with all her strength she brought it down.
“Claire, no!” Matt’s shout came too late.
Reynolds let out a piercing scream as the knife plunged, embedding itself into the parquet floor. Claire turned to see Matt running towards her, Danny close on his heels.
“God, I thought you'd killed her.”
Claire's voice rasped, struggling to breathe. “I missed. Hold her down while I try again.”
Reynolds screamed. “Help me! She’s mad!”
Matt kicked the knife away, taking Claire by the arm, easing her to his feet, embracing her. “Are you okay?”
“What about Uncle Tom?”
“He's harmed his last child. Let's worry about you.”
Danny said, “There's a girl in the van, outside. She's still alive.”
Claire released herself from Matt’s grasp. “Let's go, Danny.” She glared at Reynolds, cowering on the floor, her eyes black with hate. “I'll show that child that people care.”
Danny kicked the knife across the floor to Matt. “You might need this.”
As Matt bent to collect it he saw Uncle Tom's exhibit for the first time.
He turned on Reynolds. “You sick bastards.”
He passed the knife by the blade to Danny. “Put this somewhere safe, before I'm tempted to use it myself.”
Danny said, “Come on, Claire. Let's get that little girl in out of the cold. Matt, you stay here and keep an eye on the witch.”
Matt nodded, happy to let the kid take charge.
216
The three of them watched the evening bulletin together.
Matt clutched Claire's hand as the photo of Rebecca was screened for the final time. It was over.
Danny lay against Claire's side, moist-eyed, watching the news in silence.
As the picture of Ruth Reynolds came up, Matt asked, “You did mean to miss her, didn't you?”
“Best not ask.” Claire gripped his hand tightly, her other arm comforting around Danny's shoulder. “But Matt, there's one thing still bugging me. Something Reynolds asked me. What was the name of that other child in the display?”
Danny said, “ Coverton, from Queensbury. She was six years old. Abducted just a few yards from her home, while walking her dog.”
Claire shook her head, incredulous. “How on Earth do you remember all this stuff?”
Matt smiled. “Danny's a walking encyclopedia of crime. Right, partner?”
Danny said quietly, “Not any more, Matt. The first thing I'm gonna do when I get home is trash the lot. The books. The magazines. Everything.”
Matt sat up. “What? Danny, why?”
Danny said, “I learned two important lessons today, Matt.”
“You have?”
“Things you've been trying to get through to me for ages.”
Matt exchanged a mystified glance with Claire. “Me?”
“First,” Danny said, “that true crime and real crime aren't the same thing.”
His voice began to break.
“True crime is when it happens to other people.”
He took a deep breath. “Real crime is when it happens to you.”
“And the other thing?”
“That it’s a nasty, sick world out there, and no place for children.”
He fell on Claire's shoulder as the tears rolled.
“And like you keep telling me, Matt, I'm just a kid.”
About the Authors
Saffina Desforges lives in England with her long-suffering partner, 50 HD channels and a head full of crazy people she’ll never meet.
Contact with me via: http://www.saffinadesforges.com
Follow me on Twitter: @safficscribe
Mark Williams (the quiet half) shares his time between West Africa and Europe whilst pretending to write and arguing with Saffi.
http://markwilliamsinternational.com/
For information about the forthcoming Rose Red Crime Series: http://roseredtheinsidestory.wordpress.com/
Thanks for reading.
Sugar & Spice (US edition) Page 41
