Sugar & Spice (5 page)

21

For the second time, Bristow awoke to the sound of keys in the lock. He sat up,
bleary-eyed, emerging from a deeper sleep, his mind slowly focusing on his
surroundings. He stared at the open cell door, unsure if he was awake or not. No
one entered. He sat in anxious expectation.
Nothing.
A glance to the window told him it was early morning, still dark, the amber glow
of the station’s sodium lights misty through the opaque glass. He got up and
moved across the cell towards the entrance.
Curious.
Cautious.
Worried.
The first blow hit him square across the chest, knocking the air from his lungs.
He was flung across the cell, hitting the wall beneath the window. His head
cracked against brick, spectacles falling to the floor. He steadied himself,
fighting for breath. He could see the blur of a grey-suited figure advance
towards him and instinctively raised his arms to protect his face.
A heavy boot kicked him in the stomach and he doubled up in pain. A knee came up
to his nose, spreading it across his face. His mouth filled with blood as upper
denture bit through lower lip.
A further kick, to the groin. Searing pain. Nausea erupting. He slumped to the
ground, choking on vomit as he fought for breath, clutching his genitals with
one hand, defending his face with the other.
He reached out for his glasses, desperate for the reassurance of vision, but the
steel-capped Doc Marten boot was there first, crushing the frame, grinding the
lenses into the concrete floor.
“Let’s see how many little kiddies you can find without those, nonce.”
Spitting blood from his mouth Bristow looked up to see the figure towering over
him. The steel toe-cap raised slowly to nuzzle under his chin, the boot leather
cool against his throat. The figure behind the boot was a blur, Bristow’s myopia
denying him the sight of the sneering face above him.
“Get up, nonce.”
Bristow made no attempt to move. The boot came stamping down on his hand,
crushing his fingers. He screamed in pain.
A fist came from the side, smashing into his face. “Quiet, you perverted
bastard. Now get up. While you still can.”
He pushed himself back against the wall, forcing himself to an upright position.
Blood flowed from his lip, down his chin and neck, soaking into his shirt.
Trembling, he brought a handkerchief from his pocket with his good hand and
tended the wound, squinting his eyes to gain a focus on his assailant.
“Please. I haven’t done anything.”
A hand slapped him sharp across the side of the face, a jewel-encrusted ring
ripping open his cheek, sending blood spraying across the wall.
“I didn’t give you permission to speak, nonce.”
Another kick to the stomach. As he doubled over in pain he saw the blurred
figure retreat and vanish through the cell doorway. He struggled for breath,
trying to shake off the pain, fearfully watching the entrance.
For a full two minutes nothing happened. Silence. Just the sound of his own
laboured breathing. Then another figure appeared. Shorter, slighter. A brown
suit this time, the posture less threatening.
“Christ, you look rough. What happened? Fall over?”
Bristow kept quiet. It was classic good cop bad cop tactics. He knew what to
expect. The brown suit didn’t disappoint.
“I see you’ve met Peter. A great guy when you get to know him…” He bent
down and picked up the broken spectacles. “Are these yours?”
Bristow followed the movements as best he could, squinting to gain a focus.
Brown Suit threw the twisted frame at Bristow and shrugged. “What a shame.
You’ve broken them. You should try contact lenses.”
He moved his face closer to Bristow’s. The smell of lager and stale tobacco
assailed his nostrils and Bristow edged back until the wall stopped him. He
could see brown-suit’s face now, close enough to be in focus. He was smiling.
“That’s a nasty cut you’ve got there. You ought to get it seen to.” He moved
back out of focus. “Let’s not play games, Bristow. You are Thomas Martin
Bristow, aren’t you?”
Bristow nodded, holding the hanky to his nose. He had his breath back now, the
blood flow stemmed by the cotton cloth. “Why am I here?”
Brown Suit moved towards the cell door. “We ask the questions, Bristow.
Understand? That way we’ll all get along just fine. Now, I don’t know about you,
but I fancy a nice cup of rosie. Give you time to think things over. You’re not
at the seaside now, nonce. Marg’it, isn’t it? Jolly Boys’ Outing? Well this
is the real police, not some bob-a-job scout outfit from the sticks. When we get
back there’s a few questions we’d like to ask you. If you’re not too busy, that
is.”
He stepped out of the cell and pushed the door shut. Keys rattled in the lock,
then the view-hole fell open. “Oh, a friendly warning. Just between the two of
us. Peter’s got a foul temper. Don’t go upsetting him.” The smile went unseen
as the view-hole slammed shut and bolted noisily.
Bristow fumbled for his broken spectacles, throwing the mangled frames into the
corner as he realized the extent of the damage. He made his way to the bunk,
probing swollen lips with bruised, stinging fingers. Congealing blood covered
his chin and neck, soaking through his shirt, onto his chest. His stomach
muscles ached, his groin numb.
Again he turned to his yoga exercises and slowly brought his body to some
semblance of control, trying to block out the waves of pain that racked his
body. Trembling.
Bruises were beginning to swell on the back of his head and across his face and
chest. He could taste the blood in his mouth. He sat back and tried to adopt a
more comfortable posture, but his aching body wouldn’t let him. He waited.
Nervous.
Afraid.

22

It was five in the morning when they returned. Daylight was forging its way
through the thick glass. He was drifting in and out of sleep when the rattle of
keys brought his mind into rapid focus.
He stared at the blurred image of the door, tensing himself for the attack. It
swung open and the brown suit appeared in the entrance. Bristow relaxed
slightly.
No answer.
“Suit yourself. We need to ask you a few questions. In the interview room.
It’s more comfortable there.”
Bristow stared at the blurred speaker. “Am I being arrested?”
“Why? Have you done something wrong?”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“So you’ve nothing to worry about then, have you. If you’d like to come this
way.”
“I want to speak to my solicitor.”
“Don’t piss us about, Bristow. It’s been a long night.”
“I mean it. I want my solicitor, Jeremy Isaac. There’s an emergency number.
Twenty-four hours.”
Brown Suit laughed coldly. “How sweet. Peter! Bristow wants his brief!”
“Get that fucking nonce down here before I come and drag him out.”
Bristow was on his feet before Peter had finished the sentence. He meekly
followed Brown Suit out of the cell, out through the empty Custody Suite, into a
side-room. He could determine the outline of cabinets, office equipment. A
silhouetted figure before the window confirmed his identity when he spoke. It
was not a voice Bristow would soon forget. Not a London accent. Further north.
Leicester sprang to mind.
“The nonce giving you aggro?”
Brown Suit responded on cue. “No problems, Peter. I can handle this one. You
may as well have a cuppa while I deal with him. Thomas in a helpful mood. Aren’t
you, Thomas?”
Bristow said nothing.
“He asked you a question, nonce.” The silhouette moved from the window.
“Yes. Whatever. Just please, don’t hit me again.”
“Resisting arrest is an offence, Thomas. We’ve every right to defend ourselves
if attacked.”
“But you hit…” Bristow stopped himself.
“I’m offended. Deeply offended.” It was Peter’s voice. “That’s a serious
allegation, nonce.”
“I’m sure he didn’t mean it. Did you, Thomas?”
Bristow’s body was shaking, fearing the next blow.
“Why don’t you apologise to Peter, Thomas? I think you’ve upset him.”
Bristow said nothing. He saw Peter’s blurred outline move towards him. A punch
to the side of the head left his ears ringing. He spat out the words.
“I’m sorry.”
“Didn’t quite catch that. Say it louder, nonce.”
“I’m sorry!”
“Did you hear that, Peter? He’s sorry. See, I told you he was going to be
helpful. Would you prefer to sit down, Thomas?”
Brown Suit motioned to a metal-framed chair near the desk. Bristow followed the
direction of his hand and saw the chair in blurred outline.
“Put your arms behind you.”
Without thinking, Bristow did as he was told. He felt handcuffs around his
wrists and realized he was chained to the chair frame.
“What’s going on?”
The blow came from his left, across the face, the force lifting his body from
the chair. The cuffs restrained him, dragging him back, the chair bolted to the
floor. The pain from the blow was almost forgotten as his arms and wrists were
wrenched against the cuffs, but he kept his cry to a low groan, determined to
keep control.
“Did anyone ask you to speak, nonce?” It was Peter’s voice, from behind.
Brown Suit intervened. “It’s okay, Peter. Thomas won’t give us any trouble. Go
and get a cuppa. I’ll have one too. How about you, Thomas? Nice cup of tea?
Coffee?”
Bristow looked at the floor. A blow came from behind, splitting his right ear.
He felt blood seeping onto his collar.
“He asked you a question, nonce.”
“No. Thank you. I don’t want anything.”
“Get him a cup of tea, Peter. He’d love a cup of tea.”
“Sugar, nonce?”
“Two.”
Brown Suit tutted. “Where’s your manners, Thomas?”
“Two, please.” He flinched as the grey-suited figure walked past him. The
door shut behind him and Bristow breathed again.

23

“What’s this all about? For God’s sake, I’ve done my time. It’s in the
past.”
Brown Suit stood in front of him. “Don’t mind Peter. He’s a really nice guy,
once you get to know him. A bit short-tempered, as you’ve seen. Still, we all
have our faults. Me, I just can’t quit smoking. No will-power. I see someone
smoking and I just have to have a fag. I expect it’s the same with you, Thomas.
See a little kid and you just have to shag it.” He lit a cigarette to make the
point, blowing smoke into Bristow’s face.
“Do you smoke, Thomas? Silly me. Of course you do. These are yours. They were
in your car. Buy a lower tar brand next time, will you? I’m fussy about things
like that.”
“Please, a cigarette.”
Brown Suit drew heavily and streamed smoke into Bristow’s face from close range.
“Share mine, Thomas. I’m always generous when someone else is paying.”
The smoke stung his eyes and he held his breath while it cleared. He knew if he
inhaled he’d be desperate for more.
“What do you want with me?”
Brown Suit ignored the question. “He’s on the Met rugby team, you know. Very
sporty, our Peter. Lifts weights, too. And boxes. Big lad. How about you,
Thomas? Are you the sporty type?”
Bristow elected to play along. It was the less painful option. “I like chess
now and again.”
“Ah, intellectual pursuits. Not my scene, to be honest. Now I wouldn’t mention
that to Peter if I were you. He doesn’t like clever dicks.”
“You surprise me.”
Brown Suit’s tone changed in an instant. “Don’t get cute with me, sunshine.
There’s two ways you can play this. My way. Or Peter’s way. Which do you want it
to be?”
“Your way. Please. Why am I here?”
“I told you. Don’t get smart.”
“I honestly don’t know. Is it to do with the girl?”
“What girl?”
“The kid they found the other day.”
“So you know about her.”
“I can read. TV. It’s hardly a state secret.”
“But it wasn’t you, of course.”
“Lord help me, no. I’m no child-killer.”
“Of course not. Heaven forbid. Sweet and innocent Thomas Bristow. How was it
the judge described you? A predatory paedophile with a predilection for
prepubescent children, it says here.” He waved a sheet of paper in front of
him. “Now there’s a fancy word for that. Literalisation, is it?”
“Alliteration.”
“I stand corrected. No question who’s got the brains here. So why don’t you
try using them and start cooperating.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“You’re a convicted criminal, Thomas. You must have done something. You
pleaded guilty, remember?”
“I did the crime and did the time. I’ve paid my debt to society. You’ve no
right to bring it up again.”
“As much right as you’ve got to touch up little kids, Thomas.
“That’s all in the past. I don’t do it anymore.”
Brown Suit moved closer, his face coming into focus. Stale tobacco in the air.
He had a gold tooth in the front, cold, grey eyes. “Gone straight, have we?”
“I learned my lesson.”
“Once a nonce, always a nonce.”
“I swear to you I had nothing to do with the girl.”
“Your local plod disagree. They want to talk to you.”
“Local?”
“Marg’it.” He spat on the floor contemptuously. “Fucking amateurs.
Couldn’t even manage to haul in a heap of shit like you. They had to ask us Big
Boys for help. You should have stayed with your yokel coppers in the sticks,
Thomas. It’s a big place, London. A nasty place if you don’t know the ropes. Not
for the likes of you cherry pickers.”
“I was visiting my sister.”
“We know. We read your little diary in the car. Very interesting it was, too.
But a bit detailed for someone with nothing to hide, wouldn’t you say?”
“I learned my lesson. It’s a precaution.”
“Innocent people don’t need to take precautions.”
“I do.”
“No, Thomas, you misheard. I said innocent people>
“That was a long time ago.”
“You realise you’ll get life for this, Thomas. I do hope you haven’t got too
much invested in your pension plan.”
“It wasn’t me, for Christ’s sake!”
“It wasn’t you?” He referred to the report again. “Correct me if I’m
wrong, but isn’t that what you said about your last victim?”
“I don’t remember.”
“The computer never forgets, Thomas. It’s like an elephant.”
“I want to speak to my solicitor.”
“What, at this time of morning? That’s not very sociable.”
“He won’t mind. Jeremy is a friend.”
“Oh yes? Fancies little kids too, does he? Dirty fucking scum. You’d all be
castrated if I had my way.”
“Please, just phone him.”
“Forget it. I’m just too nice a guy to go getting people out of bed at this
time of day.”
“The Duty Solicitor then.”
“He’s busy at the moment.”
“I know my rights.”
“Don’t push your luck, Thomas, or I’ll ask Peter to take over.”
Bristow took a deep breath. “What is it you want?”
“Tell us about Rebecca.”