Sugar & Spice (41 page)

193

The gnarled hand scraping snow from the windscreen scared her to death. Claire
struggled to regain her composure as she recognised the fixed smile of Ruth
Reynolds peering through the glass.
“You’d best come in, Claire. You’ll catch your death of cold out here. The
Inspector only just this second mentioned you or I would have come out sooner.
Men. All they ever think of is themselves. Would you believe he’s even now
relaxing in our lounge with a mug of hot cocoa, while you’re sat out here
freezing?”
As they entered Reception, Reynolds turned to the secretary. “You may as well
get off home, Molly. The snow can only get worse. I’ll take care of the
afternoon’s business.”
Reynolds led Claire down a corridor. “The Inspector’s in the lounge waiting
for you.” As they entered, “Oh, he must be visiting the rest-room. Make
yourself comfortable. I’ll put the kettle on.”
The electronic bolts secured the room as she left.

194

He guessed he was being watched, but didn’t much care.
Reynolds would come chasing after him soon enough, which might be just as well.
He had by now lost all sense of direction.
Pitman turned another corner and found himself in a new, broader corridor
leading to double doors he could see were wedged open. A few tools and planks of
wood were nearby.
In the security room Reynolds hit the button to secure the doors, but the wedge
held firm. She slapped the control in frustration and shuffled out.
Pitman presumed the lights would automatically click on as he entered, but the
room remained in darkness, only the light from the corridor providing a shadowy
illumination.
An amber light warmed above him and someone began speaking.
Welcome to the Quinlan Museum of Sex Crime.
Startled, Pitman spun round before realising the voice was a recording,
activated by his entry.
The Quinlan Museum of Sex Crime is the most authentic exhibition of its kind in
the world today. The museum is personally sponsored by Dr James T. Quinlan of
the prestigious Quinlan Foundation, and incorporates his unique collection of
exhibits and artefacts from the history of that most reviled of criminals, the
sex offender.
The Quinlan Museum of Sex Crime spans the history of the genre from the earliest
recorded sex offence to the most recent. To commence the exhibition, please step
forward and press the green button. To stop, or leave, an exhibit, press the red
button.
The recording stopped, leaving Pitman in silence under the amber light. Before
him a velvet drape obscured the exhibit behind. As he pressed the green button
the drape furled, revealing a life-size wax figure.
By its very nature, sex crime is as old as mankind itself. From the day
stone-age man first took a unwilling partner, sex criminals have walked among
us. But any act is illegal only when society deems it so.
The history of the world is a history of rape and pillage, of slavery and abuse,
yet the sex criminal is very much the product of modern society. We need go back
only to the eighteenth century to trace the origin of sex crime as we know it.
The year is 1791 and the world’s first pornographic book has just been
published. Its title: Justine, or the Misfortune of Virtue. Its author, Alphonse
Donatien De Sade, known to all as the Marquis De Sade.
Of course, there were sadists before De Sade. From Tiberius Caesar to Vlad the
Impaler, the history of sexual torture is the very history of mankind. What
caused the Marquis De Sade’s name to be immortalised in the term sadism was his
willingness to embrace sex and pain not just as a means of cruelty, but as a
philosophy. To elevate sado-masochistic eroticism in literature to an art form,
typified most famously by his masterwork, The One Hundred And Twenty Days of
Sodom. Yet De Sade died a pauper in a asylum in 1816, just as his works began to
receive the recognition they so richly deserved.
Pitman hit the red button and the narrative stopped, the drape unfurling. The
recorded voice said, To view the next exhibit please move to your right and
press the green button.
Indifferent as he was to the De Sade exhibit, curiosity found Pitman moving
along, the amber glow following him, leaving the first display in darkness. As
his eyes adjusted to the light he realised he was in a large hall, wall to wall
with draped exhibits. He stepped past the second screen and the light moved with
him to the third. He moved on and the amber glow followed him like a stage
spotlight. He stopped at random and hit the green button. The drapes unfurled to
reveal an unrecognised wax figure in the act of strangling a child.
Henry Howard Holmes has the honour of being America’s first serial killer. His
crimes included the murder of three children and twenty four adults in 1880s
Chicago. Real name Herman Webster Mudgett, Holmes led a life of – Pitman hit the red button, remembering his business there. He passed a dozen
more exhibits and selected a green button a random. The Manson Family appeared.
This time a more comprehensive exhibit with newspaper cuttings and a video
screen showing news footage. He moved from one exhibit to another, occasionally
pausing to sate his curiosity. Some names were familiar, others less so. Albert
Fish, Ed Kemper, Bundy, Dahmer, Nilsen. Gacy, Berkowitz, De Salvo. Ramirez.
Black.
A shiver ran down his spine.
Robert Black enjoys the reputation of Britain’s most prolific child-killer.
“Not anymore,” Pitman cursed beneath his breath. “Your little circus is
out of date, Dr Quinlan.”

195

The Black case histories were familiar enough from Pitman’s years on the Force.
Susan Maxwell.
Caroline ogg.
Sarah Harper.
They were among the few to be proven. How many other missing children Black was
responsible for would never be known for sure.
He moved on quickly.
Thomas Hamilton, the madman who massacred a class of children in Dunblane.
Howard Hughes, the killer of six year old Sophie Hook. Abducted from a tent in a
garden in Llandudno, her body found on the beach the next morning.
Ian Huntley, the Soham murderer.
Pitman saw the last exhibit ahead. Morbid curiosity drove him to the green
button.
Dr Quinlan regrets this exhibit is currently under preparation. Please enquire
at Reception to find out when this display will be operational.
Ahead of him loomed just dark, empty space where future criminals would one day
assume their place. He turned back to the exhibit under preparation, wondering
what sinister name would front the display, and instinctively knew the answer.
Cautiously he lifted the drape, letting the amber light fall on to the exhibit.
His stomach churned as the scene became clear.
“The sick bastard.” He yanked the drape, exposing the exhibit fully, and his
pipe dropped from his mouth.
The tabloid headlines announcing the discovery of the victims’ bodies
accompanied displays of clothing. He instantly recognised Rebecca’s cycle
helmet. Barely able to believe his eyes, he scanned the display, reading off the
names long since etched into his mind.
He wanted to leave.
To accost Reynolds.
To be anywhere but there.
But morbid curiosity drew his hand to the video control. He expected news
footage.
The stifled grunts of the child, gagged and tied, turned his knees to jelly.
He was moving, running, back down past the exhibits, the amber light struggling
to keep up as he tripped each signal. He reached the end doors and pushed them
wide, his eyes dazzled by the sudden brightness of the corridor. He stepped from
the museum’s shadows, his body shaking, nausea rising, trying to remember which
way he had came.
The knife came from behind, sliding easily between the shoulder blades, splicing
the spinal column before puncturing a lung.
Weisman would later tell Pitman’s wife, in all sincerity, that death must have
been instantaneous.
Only the hunched figure standing over the writhing, jerking body would know
otherwise.
This time the smile was genuine. As the lung slowly filled with blood she
administered a sly kick to the convulsing body.
Then she watched with clinical interest as the blood-spattered breaths
diminished and finally ceased, before dragging the Inspector’s body behind a
drape.

196

Danny braved the elements to scrape the snow from the bronze plaque.
“Bingo!”
“Good one, Danny.” Matt was delighted to see colour had once again returned
to the boy’s cheeks. “The sooner I find Claire, the happier I’ll be.”
“If Uncle Tom’s here, I’m first,” Danny said quietly, as Matt slowly edged
the vehicle up the snow-covered drive.
He could faintly see the tracks of another vehicle, which he guessed must be
Pitman and Claire. “Let’s leave the heroics to the police, Danny. Besides,
whatever Uncle Tom’s connection with this place, he’s hardly likely to be here
now.”
Danny clutched the key tightly in his fist. “Lucky for him.”
A woman emerged from the blizzard, a hand raised for them to halt. Matt wound
down his window.
“I’m sorry, the Foundation is closed.”
And you are?”
“Dr Quinlan’s secretary. Might I ask your business? There were no appointments
scheduled.”
“We need to see Dr Quinlan.”
Molly peered quizzically through the window at Danny. The Foundation was no
place for children. “Dr Quinlan does not see anyone without an appointment.”
“This is important.”
“Besides, Dr Quinlan is not in residence today.”
Molly’s face registered slow realization. Oh, the policeman. Yes, he’s with Dr
Reynolds now.”
“Did he have someone with him? Claire Meadows?”
“I didn’t get the name, but there was a lady, yes.”
Relief washed over him. Claire was in safe hands. “And they’re still here
now?”
“Yes, but you can’t just -”
“Thanks for your help.” Matt pulled away leaving Molly’s objections unheard.
She watched after them, then shrugged and turned into the blizzard. The sooner
she got into a warm pair of slippers, the better.
“Danny, I’d prefer it if you stayed in the car, okay?” He steeled himself
for the protests, but the boy just nodded. “Danny, did you hear me?”
“Yeah. No problem. I know how you’re feeling just now, Matt. You’ll want to be
on your own when you see Claire.”
“Thanks, Danny. I’ll leave the key in the ignition for the heater. Don’t blast
it, or you’ll flatten the battery.”
He closed the door and disappeared into the snow.

197

Reynolds peered at him through thick lenses. “Can I help you?”
“Matt Burford. You must be Dr Reynolds.” He extended a hand. “I understand
Claire Meadows and DI Pitman are here with you.”
Reynolds looked around the forecourt. Alongside Pitman’s car she could just see
Matt’s vehicle through the falling snow. Danny was laid out unseen on the back
seat.
“Ah yes, the journalist. Please, come through. The Inspector was just
explaining to me about the student who was killed. I’m very sorry.”
“He knows?” Matt felt relieved. Breaking the news to Claire would have been
the hardest part.
“Of course, we feared something like this might happen,” Reynolds said as
she led Matt down the corridor. “A copycat killing, in the wake of Greg
Randall’s arrest.”
“Copycat?”
“Of course. Don’t tell me you subscribe to this ridiculous theory of the
Inspector’s, that Randall is the wrong man?”
“It’s no theory, Dr Reynolds, I can assure you. We have firm evidence Uncle
Tom is still at large.”
Reynolds stopped outside an unmarked door. “Really, journalists have the most
vivid imaginations. Just go through and I’ll bring Claire and the Inspector
along. We can all talk through this absurd idea over a nice cup of tea.”
“Do you have coffee? I don’t mind tea, but I usually… Dr Reynolds?”
The electronic bolts clicked into place.

198

Danny awoke to the sound of wheels on snow-cushioned gravel.
He sat up bleary-eyed, his mind slowly embracing reality. He shivered in the
cold, sitting up in the semi-darkness, dusk advanced by the cloud-laden sky. The
snow was still falling.
He could see a black Mercedes parking, and watched indifferently as an elderly
man struggled into a wheelchair, before heading towards the main entrance.
Danny shrugged and returned to his reverie.

199

Reynolds watched Claire on the monitor, enjoying her distressed features,
inhaler in her hand, banging pointlessly on the door.
Another monitor showed Matt, bewildered, in his room.
She smiled as she spotted the Mercedes newly arrived and made for the kitchen.
She knew Dr Quinlan’s first task would be a nice cup of tea.

200

Danny had barely settled when he heard another vehicle approaching.
He peered disinterestedly between the front seats from his resting place,
suddenly bolt upright as he saw the windowless white van drive slowly past,
disappearing down the side of the Foundation building.
Instantly he was wide awake, eyes wide with fear, adrenalin pumping, mind
racing.
A single track led down the side of the building. He slipped into the front seat
and turned the key. The car jolted forward and stalled.
He panicked, fighting the gear-stick to find neutral. He remembered the clutch,
pushing down, and slipped the gear easily.
He turned the key again and the car spluttered into life. He pushed down the
clutch, rammed the gear-stick into first, and let his foot up. The car lurched
forward and stalled again.
He swore out loud and tried again. This time the engine survived the first jerk
forward and he slowly, carefully, steered the car across the entrance to the
side track, before slamming his foot on the brake, stalling the engine. He
surveyed his handiwork proudly. Nothing could pass now.
He sat for a full minute, silently pondering his options. He picked up Matt’s
mobile and dialled nine-nine-nine.
“Emergency services.”
Danny stared into the snow. Where did he begin? He was just a kid. They weren’t
going to listen to him.
He knew all calls were recorded.
He said slowly and clearly into the receiver, “Police, please. Uncle Tom is at
the Quinlan Foundation, Sevenoaks. He killed Ceri Jones in Liverpool and now
he’s here. Please send help.”
He put the mobile on the seat, leaving the connection open. He felt Ceri’s key
in his hand, and his mind was made up. He pulled his collar up around his ears
and hesitantly stepped into the snow.