Sugar & Spice
By
Saffina Desforges

It's every parent's worst nightmare: A child fails to return home. As hours turn to days, all they can do is hope. Some children never come back... 
Sugar & Spice is a ground-breaking new crime-thriller set against the background of Britain's fragmented criminal justice system, with the key protagonists the mother and partner of a murdered child.
Inspired by a news story of a man who begged a Judge to give him a longer sentence, because he knew he would harm another child if released without treatment, Sugar & Spice is meticulously researched, asking the questions society prefers not to have answered. At once disquieting and challenging, Sugar & Spice is car-crash reading.
Two boys find the severed arm of a missing child. 
For the distraught mother, Claire Meadows, and her partner Matt Burford, the arrest of local sex-offender Thomas Bristow seems to offer closure. But doubts soon emerge. 
Another child is killed while Bristow is on remand awaiting trial.
Driven by a mother's need to know, Claire visits Bristow in prison. He presents a compelling defence, convincing Claire not only that he is innocent of harming her daughter, but that his previous convictions were not what they seemed. Would you trust a convicted sex offender to help you find your daughter's killer? Claire did...
Running parallel to this is Greg Randall's story: a respectable accountant and utterly devoted father of six year old twins. But for Randall, the murder has brought to the fore private demons he has long been struggling to cope with: When you've got two young children, and you think the unthinkable, where do you turn?
Fearing he might one day lose control, Randall seeks counselling at a prestigious private clinic, licensed by the Home Office to treat sex-offenders. Randall's struggle to balance his family life as he undergoes "therapy," runs alongside the hunt for the child-killer, until eventually the two story-lines inexorably converge.
With the Police inquiry floundering, Matt and Claire embark on their own investigation, teaming up with a second-year psychology student and a fourteen year-old truant schoolboy to bring one man's reign of terror to an end.
Warning: The research is meticulous, and the characters based on real-life studies.
But be warned: In Sugar & Spice not all things are nice... 

Copyright © 2010 by Saffina Desforges
www.saffinadesforges.com

These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are 
either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any 
resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely 
coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by 
any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Saffina 
Desforges.

Cover art by SDD
www.saffinadesforges.com

Editing by Mark Williams
saffinadesforges@gmx.com

1


"Target destroyed!" 
The boy watched with satisfaction as the dented Coke can slid gracefully beneath 
the still water. He licked his forefinger and chalked an invisible point on an 
imaginary scoreboard.
His friend wiped a bare arm across a sweating brow. "Three all!"
Eyes roamed for their next adrenalin fix. The mannequin's arm on the far bank, 
brought into view in the wake of the barge, caught their attention, triggering 
fantasy mode.
"Alien attack!"
The onslaught of stones and pebbles churned the water around the target, but 
rarely managed a direct hit. The few that did made no discernible sound. 
The first boy took a larger rock and with careful aim played a blinding shot 
that hit the target full on, sending it below the surface. 
"Wicked!"
The first boy accepted the compliment gracefully. But when the object 
re-surfaced, bits seeming to flake off, it was time for closer inspection. 
"Cease fire! Incoming wounded!" The second boy raced across the lock gate 
with practised agility.
It hung just beneath the surface, suspended amid the sundry flotsam and jetsam 
that characterises an urban canal in old age. Oil slick rainbows on the 
water's dark surface iridescent in the morning sun, added to the spectrum of 
colours the canal paraded, in the form of Coke cans, crisps packets and plastic 
shopping bags, drawn irresistibly to the water.
He climbed cautiously down the slime-laden metal rungs fixed to the lock wall 
and leant over the water, using an elder branch to bring it to him. It was an 
unconvincing replica for a dummy.
Far too pale, with a bloated, scaly appearance that reminded him of rotting 
fish. 
He could see yellow finger-nails, and for just a second he imagined he could see 
bone protruding from the elbow. 
He hesitated, looking to his friend, then dismissed the thought with a sheepish 
grin, glad he had said nothing.
As the prize drew closer he had second thoughts, but curiosity won out. His 
friend looked on eagerly. 
The arm had a waxen appearance beneath the slime, weed and the odd leech. He 
hesitated to use his hands. A Tesco carrier bag floated nearby, advertising to 
the denizens of the canal's depths that Every Little Helps. He hooked it out 
with the branch, let the water drain, then draped it over the object before him, 
lifting it triumphantly, edging his way back up the rungs to firm ground.
The first boy sported an expression of disgust, fighting curiosity as his friend 
placed the bag on the ground and prepared to unveil the trophy. Without the 
water to envelop the stench, reality dawned slowly, visual and olfactory senses 
together drawing the unavoidable conclusion.
A limb.
A rotting limb, no larger than their own.
A child's arm.
As the second boy stared in wonder, the first boy was already running for home, 
a single wail of horror sufficing for a scream, and two promising careers on the 
canal drew to a premature end.





2


Scotland Yard's Territorial Operations TO29, Thames Division, the police 
marine corps, were already pre-occupied with a suicide jump from Tower Bridge 
and further downstream a dinghy, broken free from its moorings and careering 
along the Thames with the ebbing tide.
The loose dinghy was quickly handled by a police patrol boat close to the scene. 

The suicide jump and the gruesome discovery in the Southall lock both warranted 
the limited resources of TO29's specialist Underwater Search Unit.
It was noon before the USU was in place at the canal-side to commence the 
search, all eleven members of the crack police squad at the scene. By the time 
the first frogmen slipped into the murky water, the child's limb was already 
in the pathology lab of a nearby London hospital.
Dr William Thewliss conducted the preliminary assessment, judging the arm 
belonged to a child between eight and twelve years old, and had been in the 
water for up to a week. All but two of the fingernails had parted company with 
the limb, but those that remained warranted the full attention of the doctor. 
He elected to reserve judgement until the rest of the body was found, arranging 
for a mobile lab to be on standby. Experience told him the rest of the child's 
body was in the canal nearby. A water authority expert, advising the police, 
directed them to cordon off the canal a mile either side of the find. 
Light and dark has no meaning beyond the first few feet of water and the search 
continued unabated through the night. While police frogmen conducted their 
fingertip exploration of the canal's depths, records of missing children were 
being consulted and collated in preparation for the inevitable. London officers 
were particularly busy, but across the country police forces were on stand-by.
In the CID operations room on Fort Hill, Margate, Detective Inspector David 
Pitman spent an anxious night by the phone. He'd already cancelled all 
engagements for the next day. 
A pessimist by nature, Pitman opted for worst case scenarios just to feel 
relieved when they didn't materialise. Forty years on the job created that 
kind of negativity. It was the early hours of Tuesday morning when the 
confirmation came. There was to be no relief this time. 
Despite the best efforts of the police to keep people at bay, the banks of the 
Southall canal were rapidly populated with the curious, the concerned and the 
media, quick to realise a major story unfolding. This was breaking news, as the 
immaculately adorned television presenters reminded their audiences over and 
over. 
A child's severed arm in a filthy canal was of nationwide interest. Reporters, 
photographers and cameramen alike hovered like vultures, hoping for the worst. 
Editors put production on hold and held their breath for it.
As news of the gruesome find spread, time stood still for parents of missing 
children around the country, glued to their TV sets, sat by the phone, waiting 
for the call they prayed would never come.
Cordoning off the canal proved imsible. Barges were being held up at a point a 
mile either side of the lock, but despite the best efforts of the police it was 
futile trying to keep the crowds distant. Powerful cameras were trained on the 
scene from every angle. A helicopter hovered overhead, recording events, ready 
to zoom in at the first sign of activity. 
It was imperative to be there the moment the shout came. 
The moment the body was found.
Unconfirmed rumours about the yellow fingernail on the severed arm were being 
tossed between editorial boards at news centres across the country, persuasive 
arguments flying pro and con as to how to handle the story. 
It was not yet five o'clock when the issue was settled, the dawn light lending 
an additional aura of mystique. The intensified police activity on the far 
embankment was the first warning the media had that their wait was over. 
To their credit the police did everything they could to shield the find from 
media intrusion. 
But as the child's body, still tied to the bicycle, was slowly brought to the 
surface there were perhaps thirty seconds when the decomposing corpse was 
exposed to the world's view, before disappearing behind the canvas screen that 
was the make-shift pathology operations room. 
As SOCO geared up to secure the area, editors around the country were rubbing 
their hands with glee. 
The reality of death is far removed from the sanitized version that finds its 
way on to TV screens and newspaper pages. The body of a dead child can sober 
even the most battle-hardened reporter. 
But even for those lucky enough never to have seen a rotting corpse before, it 
was not the image of the remains of the body that branded itself indelibly on 
the minds of those watching. 
It was the eerie sight of the three painted fingernails on the remaining arm, 
the only colour, vibrant against the greying pastels of putrefaction. 




3


The advanced state of decomposition ruled out formal identification by the 
family, but DNA would shortly prove conclusive. 
The bicycle had been enough for DI Pitman, who was on his way to the child's 
mother the moment the body emerged from the water. Even if she hadn't been 
watching the blanket news coverage on TV he knew she'd hear about it within 
the hour regardless. 
He owed it to her to tell her face to face. 
No parent should hear of their child's death as a question from the press.
Matt Burford, partner of the inconsolable mother, stood in the doorway as Pitman 
walked up the garden path. Social pleasantries were pointless. 
"There's no possibility it's someone else?"
"We won't have DNA confirmation before the morning, but no. The bicycle is 
Rebecca's. The clothes are a match, too. It would be senseless to hope 
otherwise." 
Claire appeared in the far doorway as Matt ushered Pitman through. Her stooped 
posture, moist, black-ringed eyes and painfully visible collar bones told their 
story. 
Pitman hesitated, unsure of an appropriate greeting.
Claire unwrapped bony arms from around herself , stretching out a trembling 
hand, nails bitten to the quick. "It's okay, Inspector. I've had two weeks 
to prepare for this. I won't embarrass you."
Pitman stumbled with his words. "We... we have a trained officer, a female 
officer, you would prefer,"
"What Claire wants most of all are answers, Dave, not a complete stranger 
offering well-meaning platitudes and stock responses."
Pitman turned to Claire. "Even so... some people find that helps."
She shook her head, struggling to keep control. She forced her question through 
a tight throat, stress-induced asthma heavy on her chest, inhaler to hand. 
She whispered, "What did he do to her?"
"We won't know for sure until the autopsy is complete, Claire." Pitman 
paused, sensing she wanted more. "It looks like she was sed."
Matt put his hand out to Claire but she moved away.
"It's okay, Matt." She looked directly at Pitman, searching his eyes. 
"Did he... touch her?"
"We're still waiting for..." he stopped himself. He owed it to Claire, to 
Matt, to cut the police talk. "In all probability, yes. The body had been 
stripped. We'll know more in a few hours. I'm sorry."
Claire's legs finally buckled underneath her. She put a hand out to steady 
herself. "Can I see her?"
Pitman fingered the pipe in his pocket, desperate to light up. It was always 
more difficult with someone you knew, however brief the acquaintance. "Claire, 
the body, Rebecca... She had been in the water a long time, there's 
nothing to see."
Matt reached for Claire's hand and gripped it hard. This time she didn't 
fight.
Choking back a sob, she rested a head on his shoulder, tears cascading down her 
pale cheeks.
Matt asked, "What happens now?"
"We'll do everything we can, Matt, you know that." 
He paused, turning to Claire. "One question I have to ask. I'm sorry. Did 
Rebecca ever varnish her nails?"
Claire looked confused, trying to focus on his face through her tears. "Her 
nails?"
"Claire, her fingernails were bright yellow. Varnished or painted. It wasn't 
mentioned on the description when she went missing. Do you remember her painting 
her nails before she went out that evening?"
She shook her head, sniffing loudly, her voice wavering. "Rebecca never wore 
make-up of any sort. Never."
"At a friend's house, maybe?"
Claire looked up, a sudden, frantic hope in her eyes. "Inspector, are you sure 
it's her? Could it be someone else?"
Pitman wanted, with every fibre of his being, to fuel her hope, but he 
extinguished it eternally with his next words. 
"It's Rebecca. I'm very sorry."





4


On Pitman's advice, Claire stayed over at Matt's apartment on Marine 
Esplanade, at the base of Ramsgate's east cliff. 
They barely made it before the first of the reporters descended on Pegwell, 
soliciting predictable commentary from shocked neighbours. Among them, Matt's 
own colleagues. 
He was seeing his job through new eyes now. His mobile stayed switched off. He 
knew his own editor would be expecting an exclusive. But meeting deadlines were 
suddenly unimportant.
While Claire succumbed to the respite of light sedation, Matt began the 
unenviable task of contacting relatives and friends from her address book, 
mostly faceless names. He guessed he'd have a chance to meet many of them at 
the funeral. He wondered why it took a tragedy to bring people together.





5


It was Claire's third media appeal in a fortnight, but this was by far the 
most difficult. 
The earlier pleas, for Rebecca to come home, for anyone who might have seen her 
to come forward, for whoever was holding her to be compassionate and let her go, 
were now redundant.
Matt sat beside her, just out of shot, as she read the rehearsed, 
police-scripted appeal for information. 
Someone, somewhere, must have a suspicion, 
Must know something, 
Must have seen something, 
It was a courageous attempt, but too soon. Claire broke down before the cameras, 
substituting vitriol for the script. As the tears flowed Matt stepped into the 
frame and embraced her, finishing the appeal himself, barely more able to 
control his own words.
Fellow reporters savoured the moment, torn between compassion for a colleague 
and an unfolding human interest drama. 
Pitman was quietly pleased, feeling Claire's emotion, but certain the raw 
power of the scene would produce results.
As Matt escorted Claire from the room Pitman moved centre stage to parry the 
flood of questions, finding himself alongside Detective Superintendent John 
Weisman to give the formal briefing. It was, Weisman had assured him on more 
than one occasion, Pitman's inquiry. He had no intention of treading on toes. 
But as the investigation was now a murder inquiry involving two separate Police 
forces it was only appropriate that a more senior officer should make the 
initial briefing.
Pitman acquiesced in good humour. He was fast approaching retirement and had no 
intention of spending his last few years on the force fighting his superiors - 
least of all the new boy. Weisman had been at the station barely a month and was 
keen to establish himself as a community figure. Pitman guessed he'd want to 
enjoy his moment of glory before the cameras, then to disappear back to his 
office.
Claire and Matt watched the conference unfold on a video screen from the privacy 
of an adjacent room. In different circumstances he would have been in the front 
row, clamouring for the details that would make the next day's front page. But 
right now the blood-thirsty media pack sickened him.
Weisman made a show of shuffling his notes and checking with his DI before 
proceeding with the introductions and expressing his condolences to the family. 
The assembled media listened politely to the formalities, but as the 
Superintendent came to the murder details the room fell silent bar the faint hum 
of the electronic recording equipment, the reporters hanging on his every word.
"Thanks to DNA results we are now able to say beyond doubt that the body found 
is that of Rebecca Anne Meadows, the ten year old girl reported missing from 
just outside her home in Pegwell Bay on the evening of Friday, August second."
Weisman paused to give the young reporter in the front row time to catch up. 
Pitman eyed the young hack with disdain. What the hell was a novice doing 
covering a case of this importance? He must have been a last minute substitution 
for a more experienced reporter. The hack's ID card was pinned to his lapel 
upside down. Pitman made a mental note to have a word with him before he left.
Weisman was speaking again. "Regrettably, due to the time the body had been in 
the water, the post-mortem results are not as detailed as we would have liked. 
However, we are able to make the following observations with some certainty. It 
is likely Rebecca's body had been in the canal at least ten days, suggesting 
she was killed very soon after her abduction. Cause of death is believed to have 
been ligature strangulation."
"Was she raped?" The young hack at the front was looking up, eagerly 
awaiting the reply to his question. 
Pitman was fuming, but Weisman acknowledged the question with a grave 
expression. The room bustled. Sex crimes sold. This was what they all wanted to 
know, delighted the novice at the front had got the matter aired so quickly.
Weisman chose to bide his time. "As I've already said, due to the advanced 
state of decomposition the post-mortem results were not as clear and detailed as 
we would have liked. But no, there is no indication of rape."
There was an almost audible sigh of disappointment.
"But she was naked, right?" The novice hack again. Cameras zoomed, the room 
a flood of flashing lights. This kid wouldn't have to buy a drink all night!
"Obviously the fact that the victim was stripped of her clothes suggests a 
possible sexual motive."
Pitman was impressed at how Weisman depersonalised the statement, omitting 
Rebecca's name when talking about the sexual aspects, but using her name at 
other times, reminding them all that this was somebody's child.
"Have all her clothes been recovered?" The question came from the back.
"Most, not all. The child's cycle helmet, hair band, socks and panties are 
as yet unaccounted for. Our colleagues in Thames Division are still searching 
for the missing items, which they believe may have drifted free from the body 
and could be anywhere along the length of ."
From the floor: "Might the underwear have been kept by the killer, as a 
trophy?"
"We can't rule that out."
"Will he strike again?" It was the novice hack at the front.
Weisman glared at him. It was not a question he wanted to address, but now he 
had little choice. "We have to be open to that possibility. Whoever committed 
this heinous assault, this brutal murder of a helpless child, is clearly someone 
very, very disturbed. We urge parents everywhere to be vigilant - to be 
careful."
"Is he a serial killer?"
Weisman stared daggers at the young hack, unsure how to respond. Pitman came to 
his rescue.
"As there is currently no evidence to link this murder to any other unsolved 
crimes, we are treating this as a single incident." 
The hack looked suitably embarrassed. Weisman breathed a sigh of relief, looking 
across the room for another question.
Someone asked, "What about the painted nails?"





6


Weisman raised his hand to ensure he had their undivided attention. 
"That's a good question. Gentlemen, ladies. May I first make clear that 
neither the Kent Constabulary nor the Metropolitan Police Force have any wish to 
associate themselves with this stupid, scaremongering Yellow Peril nickname that 
certain thoughtless, some would say mindless, editors have chosen to give to the 
perpetrator of this heinous crime. This kind of reporting does nothing to help 
the investigation, and I can only guess at the distress it must cause to the 
family of the victim." 
There was an almost shamed silence as the comments registered. Weisman moved up 
a notch in Pitman's esteem. 
"With regard to your question, we can confirm that the fingernails of the girl 
were painted yellow by her killer. To what purpose we can only guess. What we 
can say definitely is that the nails were painted, not varnished. The paint is a 
lead chromate based product of the type commonly used for road markings. The 
product is not readily available to the public and this will certainly be a 
factor in the conduct of our investigation."
"Any suspects, DS Weisman?"
"We are currently examining our records for known offenders and I can assure 
you every avenue is being explored in the hunt for this individual. There are a 
number of people we wish to interview and we will advise you of developments as 
they occur. We expect to make arrests in the very near future."
A burst of questions came from across the floor as they realised the briefing 
was over. Weisman stood up and raised his hand to quieten them. 
"Thank you, gentleman, ladies. That's all we can say at this stage."
A few reporters persisted but the majority were already fighting to get out. 
As the room emptied Weisman and Pitman walked towards the rear door, ignoring 
the questions still being fired at them. 
Pitman recognised Tony Kellerman, a freelancer with a deserved reputation for 
knowing more than he should, heading towards them. 
He patted Weisman on the shoulder in a false gesture of camaraderie and hurried 
him along. Before they could reach the door Kellerman was upon them. 
"Superintendent, one last question."
Weisman ignored him. He'd already made plain the statement was over. 
Pitman pulled open the door and gestured his senior through.
"No more questions," Pitman growled.
"Superintendent!" Kellerman persisted.
Weisman turned on him. "That's all, gentlemen. No more questions, please."
Kellerman was there, microphone in hand.
"Mr Weisman, just one question, please. How's your Uncle Tom?"
It was the briefest of reactions. 
Barely a twitch. 
As Pitman pushed his superior through and pulled the door closed behind him the 
smile on Kellerman's face said it all.





7


Greg Randall remained expressionless as he watched the funeral on the 
mid-afternoon news bulletin. 
As the footage ended DI Pitman repeated the appeal for help from the public. 
Someone, somewhere, he said, must have their suspicions about a friend, 
neighbour or relative. He reeled off a confidential number they could ring, that 
ran as a banner at the bottom of the screen, and ended with a warning for 
parents to be vigilant. "A dangerous man is at large. He could strike again at 
any time."
As the subject switched to sport, Randall hit the off button and grabbed his 
jacket, his mind racing. He stopped at the railings to the play-park. A few 
mothers stood by, chatting amiably while their children played.
"Daddy! Daddy!"
Randall swung round to see the Dynamite Twins running towards him, arms 
outstretched, and his worries vanished. He bent down to scoop up the two six 
year olds, one under each arm, smothering them with kisses.
"Greg? What are you doing here?" It was an innocent question, casually asked 
by his wife Bethan, clearly delighted, if surprised, to see him. "No work 
today?"
He hugged the girls tightly as he replied, always even with his affections. 
"Finished early, love. I thought you might be here with the Twins." He eased 
the two girls to the ground and ushered them into the play-park. "Just five 
minutes. Be careful."
"You should have come along to the day-centre, Greg. Tamara has another 
picture on the wall. And Natalie is doing so well with her reading. Honestly, I 
sometimes think they learn more during the holidays than they do in 
term-time."
Randall leant his back against the railings, facing the road. Out of sight, out 
of mind. He took Bethan by the hand and pulled her across to him, planting a 
kiss on her lips. She put up a token resistance, slightly embarrassed by the 
stares of the other mothers at this public show of affection. But after eight 
years of marriage she knew better than to complain, when so many of her friends 
envied the apparent freshness of their relationship.
"Can't you wait till we get home?"
"No, let's do it here, in the park. Right now. In front of everybody."
"Greg!" An embarrassed Bethan distanced herself from her husband. 
"Natalie! Tamara! Come on, or we'll be late for tea."
She began moving away, to encourage the children to hurry, ignoring their 
justified protests that the promised five minutes had not yet elapsed.
Randall entwined his arm with his wife's. "When we get home then," he 
persisted in practised tones. "The Twins can play in the garden. We'll lock 
the door, unhook the telephone, and Boom! Boom! Boom! while the neighbours are 
still at work."
Bethan checked the children were following and pulled him closer. A quick kiss.
The Dynamite Twins were right behind, and one of them slipped her hand into his 
palm, her warm, tiny fingers clutching his own. He looked down at her, running 
alongside him, her short legs struggling to match his pace. She looked up and 
beamed a smile at him. A cold shiver ran down his spine. They were too precious.
He pulled the mobile from his pocket. 
"I didn't hear it ring?"
"It didn't. I just need to call the office. Something I forgot."
Bethan turned in surprise. "Can't it wait 'til we get back?"
He made a show of examining his watch. "It could, but if I try now it will 
save me hours of extra work in the morning. You go on with the girls. I'll catch 
you up."
"You're sure it's not that blonde bimbo I saw you with the other day?"
Randall looked horrified. "What blonde bimbo?"
"Joking, darling." Bethan pecked a kiss on his lips. "I'll get the 
kettle on. Don't be too long."
She walked on, chiding Natalie for straying too near the road. He waited till 
they'd moved away before searched the menu for the single letter Q. The dialling 
tone purred briefly, then he was through> 
"I'd like to make an appointment, to see Dr Quinlan."





8


Matt swivelled impatiently in his chair as he scanned the Google results, an 
experienced eye skimming over the details, picking out key words and phrases.
More than two weeks had passed since the boys had found Rebecca's body. The 
younger child was still in trauma. In hospital, under sedation, his parents at 
his bedside. The second boy had affected a rapid recovery with no ill-effects to 
speak of. 
Matt jotted shorthand notes, slowly getting back into a working routine after 
the few days compassionate leave.
He chased the cursor round the screen, saving tracts to folders as he went, 
adding to the file laden with press reports of child murders dating back over 
thirty years. At some stage he would find time to go through the details, to 
pick out any salient points. 
The police, both the local Kent Constabulary and Scotland Yard, would be doing 
the same thing, using the more accurate official reports rather than what little 
information the media had been allowed. 
There were ways round that problem, but Matt preferred to explore all legal 
avenues first. Apart from anything else, McIntyre would want to know source 
details before allowing any suspect story to run. 
A smile parted his lips as he thought of Danny. 
There were some sources Matt preferred not to explain.
He brought up on screen a press directory from archives and ran a search for 
trauma in children. Nothing specific on boys coming across rotting corpses. He 
jotted down some generalised observations in shorthand but the material was too 
vague to be of use. 
In different circumstances he would have broadened the detail with a bit of 
guesswork and common sense observations, attributed to unnamed sources in case 
of any comebacks. 
But this time it was personal. 
He valued accuracy over meeting the looming deadline, despite McIntyre's 
overbearing presence.
He flicked open his mobile, obtained an extension and eventually connected.
"Professor Large speaking." The accent was pure Scouse.
"Gavin, it's Matt." 
"Matt. How are you, mate? Business or pleasure?" 
"Business."
"Oh. It's my lunch-break, mate. Can it wait?"
"I'll source you."
"It's still my lunch-break."
"You've been following the murder here, I presume?"
Large sighed. "The little girl they found the other week? Rachael somebody?"
"Rebecca. Rebecca Meadows."
"The Yellow Peril murder, right? I guessed you might be covering the story."
"Not just covering it, Gavin. Personally involved. I knew the girl."
"Knew her?"
"Remember John and Claire Meadows?"
"Vaguely. Photographer? Brain tumour?"
"This was their daughter."
The line fell silent. "Jesus. Aren't you and Claire..."
"Like I say, Gavin, I'm personally involved."
The line fell silent a second time, then, "Matt, I'm so sorry. I never made 
the connection. I mean, anything that happens your side of Birmingham may as 
well be on a different planet. Is there anything I can do? How's Claire?"
"As can be expected. We're just taking a day at a time right now."
"Time heals, Matt. You'll see. Any news on the bastard who did this?"
"Nothing yet. I'm trying to keep up the media interest until there is. I'd 
hate to see this inquiry fade quietly away with nothing to show for it. Just 
another unsolved child murder lying on file."
"That's one thing that won't happen."
"Why so confident?"
"It was too ritualistic. This wasn't a crime for passion or profit. It was 
cold, calculated murder. Anyone sick enough to kill a child and then decorate 
the body is in it for gratification. Those types of people don't just enjoy it, 
Matt. They need it. Believe me, he'll kill again ihe's not caught."





9


Matt put down the receiver and swivelled his chair to the window view over the 
city.
From the fourth floor of Southern Media Solutions' prestigious operations 
centre, Canterbury lay spread out before him. 
He considered the phone conversation. He had a lot of respect for Gavin 
Large's views. And he needed to get something on screen for the next print run 
to keep McIntyre off his back.
He popped a Malteser into his mouth, letting the chocolate slowly melt over his 
tongue. It helped him to relax. To concentrate. 
Simulated the pleasure of breast-feeding as an infant, Large had once explained. 
Professor Large put most problems down to breast-feeding.
The mobile buzzed and Matt's hand reached out on automatic, flicking the clam 
open. 
Withheld number.
"Burford."
"Matt, it's DI Pitman."
Matt smiled to himself. Pitman was always formal on the Station phone. 
"Any news?"
"Nothing you could print, Matt. Can I meet you somewhere private? Off the 
record?"
"Off?" His heart sank. "Where are you?"
"Fort Hill, but I don't want to be seen with you here. Are you busy?"
"This is important, obviously."
"And then some. I can be in Canterbury, say one hour?"
"Where?"
"Somewhere neutral. And quiet."
"Cafe Nero? Upstairs?"
"Fine. Sixty minutes."
"What's this all about, Dave?"
There was a long silence before Pitman replied. "Ever heard of Uncle Tom?"
"Should I have?"
"You'll wish you hadn't."





10


Matt was on his second latte when Pitman arrived.
"How's Claire?"
"Bearing up." He knew better than to press the DI before he was ready, but 
curiosity got the better of him. "Uncle Tom?"
Pitman looked around furtively before responding. "You remember the last press 
conference? The statement we issued following the post-mortem?"
"I was there. So what?"
"It wasn't the full story."
Matt shrugged. "And?"
"Tony Kellerman's on to it."
"No surprise there."
"He's got a copy of the autopsy report."
Matt caught his breath. "Why bother?"
"We think there was a leak at the Met end. They say not, but Kellerman clearly 
knew something the other day. Something he said to Weisman as we were 
leaving."
"Which was?"
Pitman ignored the question. He'd explain in his own time. 
"We have reason to believe Kellerman will go public with what he knows, 
tonight or tomorrow. In your opinion, Matt, if he had a major new angle on this 
story, would he play to the television tonight or hold for the headlines in the 
morning?"
"Jesus, Dave. What is this about?"
"As I said on the telephone, this is strictly off the record. Weisman would 
have my pension if he knew I was talking to you."
"But if Kellerman already has it..."
"Exactly. I just don't want Claire hearing it from someone else first."
"For Christ's sake!"
Pitman took the hint. "Let me be blunt, Matt. Rebecca presented forensics with 
a lot of problems. Even the cause of death is not one hundred per cent, though 
clearly strangulation was attempted." He dropped his voice to a low whisper. 
"The pathologist found something."
Matt went cold. He held his breath as Pitman considered his words.
"The sick bastard left a calling card, wrapped in a freezer bag."
Matt's knuckles whitened as he gripped his coffee mug.
"I'm sorry. We wanted to keep it quiet, but now Kellerman's got hold of 
it."
Matt nodded, his mind numb.
"It's just a cheap card, from a print machine like you'd find in any big 
shopping centre. A logo of an ice-cream cornet. A ninety-nine. And the words 
With Compliments, Uncle Tom."





11


Matt forced the words through gritted teeth. "He'll kill again."
"Almost certain to. Our big fear is that if this hits the headlines it could 
provoke the next assault sooner rather than later."
"Fuck Kellerman. Can't you get the editors to hold back?"
"Not something this big. There's no legal argument against it. Besides, 
he'd just plaster it over the net regardless."
Matt nodded his understanding.
"One small glimmer of hope, Matt. We're bringing in six suspects in the 
morning."
"Six? Isn't that...?"
"Exactly. Wouldn't get too excited. Besides, we've had them all in over 
the past few weeks and drew a blank. But the Super's got to be seen to be 
doing something."
"Anyone I've heard of?"
"All locals with backgrounds with little kids, obviously. Some convictions, 
some just allegations... Mostly just lookers. Two serious contenders, the others 
are just for public consumption, to make us look busy."
"And the two serious contenders. They are?
"One's got a background in road construction. A tenuous link with the 
painted nails. A conviction for indecent images years ago. Nothing since. I 
don't rate him."
"And the other?"
"That's a strange one. Convicted paedophile. On the Register. I interviewed 
him last week, before Rebecca's body was found. Just routine. Made no 
impression on me. I've been through his details with a fine-toothed comb 
since. Sick as they come, no question, but nothing to suggest he's capable of 
this. I was quite satisfied to put the file away. But..."
"Dave?"
"The Met got an anonymous call, female, on an untraced pay-as-you-go mobile, 
claiming to live nearby. She says she saw a red Peugeot near the canal shortly 
after the girl disappeared, and that the driver threw something big into the 
water. Needless to say our man drives a red Peugeot."
"Jesus."
"There's more. He once had his own ice-cream van."
"What's his name?"
"You know I can't tell you that, Matt."
"If he's pulled in I'll know by morning anyway."
"True enough." Pitman considered briefly. "Off the record, Thomas Bristow. 
A Newington man. But that's off the record, Matt. I mean it."
"Don't worry. I just want to be able to tell Claire. But you're obviously 
not convinced?"
"Not by a long shot. First name Thomas, drives a red Peugeot and used to be an 
ice-cream man. Almost too coincidental, if you ask me."
Matt raised a doubtful eyebrow. "The real killer setting him up?"
"Nothing so sinister, Matt. People like Bristow have plenty of enemies. This 
is just someone's sick idea of fun. We'll pull him in come morning, have 
forensics take his car apart and he'll be back at home in a week filing a 
claim for harassment. I've already crossed swords with his brief once. Don't 
fancy doing it again. But obviously we've got to act on information 
received."
"So what's the schedule?"
"Weisman has set the pick-up for ten tomorrow morning if you want to have a 
photographer nearby. Just don't bring my name into it. There'll be a formal 
press statement mid-day, which will at least be a damage limitation exercise if 
Kellerman goes ahead. And who knows, maybe I've misjudged it. Perhaps Weisman 
does know his arse from his elbow and Bristow will prove to be our Uncle Tom." 






12


Of necessity, and as recommended by his solicitor, Thomas Martin Bristow was a 
creature of habit. On the second and fourth Thursdays of every month, he made 
the journey from Kent to Middlesex to lunch with his sister in Hayes.
Watcfrom the kitchen window, he left his Newington home precisely as the postman 
rode into Ladbroke Road, sat in his car and jotted down the mileage reading from 
the speedometer into a well-thumbed pocket book. Alongside, he noted the time, 
0934 hours, and the date, August twenty-ninth. 
When the postman appeared from a gateway, Bristow carefully edged the aging red 
Peugeot into the road, heading towards Westwood Cross.
He purposefully acknowledged the postman with a nod of the head. The postman 
returned a mouthed obscenity. Not a pleasant way to start the day, but Bristow 
valued recognition above popularity. 
An overcast sky heralded rain later in the day, but Bristow hoped to make Hayes 
before it began. The windscreen wipers were worn and in need of replacement, but 
unemployment benefit did not extend to such luxuries as car repairs.
The early part of the journey proved uneventful, the weather holding, the 
traffic reasonable. He anticipated arrival in Hayes well before noon, despite 
the never-ending road works on the A2-M25 link and a partly-cleared accident on 
the Danson Interchange on the approach to the capital.
He guessed he could probably drive the route blindfold by now. For years he'd 
made this same journey by the same roads on the same days each month, to enjoy 
his sister's company and take lunch with her. In the summer months the 
invitation extended to tea as well, but just lunch in the spring and winter. 
Thomas Bristow preferred to be home before nightfall.
The police patrol vehicle appeared from nowhere just south of the Blackwall 
Tunnel, as he turned west towards Greenwich, tucking in behind him and following 
at a sedate twenty-eight miles per hour across Blackheath. 
He felt beads of sweat forming uninvited on his forehead, his mouth dry, his 
stomach queasy. He tried to concentrate on the road ahead but the image of the 
patrol vehicle in his mirror drew his eyes like magnets. 
Deptford. 
New Cross. 
Southwark. 
The patrol vehicle kept its distance, cruising with the traffic, forcing the 
speed of vehicles into the confines of the legal limit.
Vauxhall Bridge in sight, the lights began to change as he reached them and he 
cruised through on amber, his head directed forward, his eyes glued to the 
mirror. The patrol vehicle stopped at the lights. Behind him he saw traffic 
emerge from the contraflow to separate them. 
A sigh of relief and he pulled into the flow of traffic along the Embankment. 
His armpits were soaked and he made a mental note to invest in a deodorant.
Cursing his lack of self-control he flicked on the radio, then jabbed a finger 
to switch frequencies. Middle-aged he might be, but middle-of-the-road music was 
not his cup of tea. Radio Four came into prominence and he settled for a 
discussion on the Middle East question, welcoming the distraction from matters 
closer to home. 





13


Twelve DCs were involved in the swoop on the six suspects, two per pick-up, each 
carefully coordinated by Weisman for maximum media impact, watches synchronised 
on his instruction, to their quiet amusement. 
At precisely 10am six pairs of CID officers knocked on six doors across the 
county. 
Only five doors opened. 
At the Newington home of Mr Thomas Bristow there was no reply.
By 10.15 Weisman was pacing the floor of the operations room in angry mood, 
glaring at his colleagues, cursing his luck, mentally cancelling the planned 
press release which was to announce the swoop to a surprised public.
Despite Pitman's reservations Weisman was convinced Bristow was their man. After 
that morning's headlines every ice-cream man in the country was a suspect. 
Bristow was a convicted paedophile with no alibi and an anonymous sighting near 
the scene. Enough to justify at least a few days detention for questioning. 
Anything less and they would be open to accusations of negligence. It was an 
argument Pitman dtifully acknowledged.
At 10.20 Weisman authorized an APB on Bristow's car and officers began 
questioning neighbours, who confirmed what a closer inspection of intelligence 
would have told them anyway: that every second and fourth Thursday he visited 
his sister in Hayes. Weisman cursed himself. 
He had taken a senior post through the accelerated promotion programme at the 
expense of more experienced but less qualified men at the station. 
He knew his colleagues were watching his every move, waiting, hoping, for him to 
stumble. 
Reluctantly he put the call through to Scotland Yard.





14


The siren blasted once, directly behind him, sending Bristow's stomach into 
turmoil, the radio broadcast thrust from his mind. He clutched at the steering 
wheel and glanced in the mirror The familiar red double-decker bus that had 
followed him along the Embankment had gone. In its place the blue flashing 
lights of the patrol vehicle announced its heathen presence. 
Instinctively he knew it was the same one that had followed him earlier, but he 
dismissed the thought, concentrating on his breathing, bringing his heart rate 
down to something approaching normal.
He hadn't been speeding, had indicated properly and he'd observed the Highway 
Code as best he knew. He prayed to God it was just a routine check. 
Not for the first time Thomas Bristow's ingrained faith in the Almighty was to 
prove misplaced.
"Sorry to trouble you, Sir. Is this your vehicle?" The officer peered 
through the wound-down window at Bristow's apprehensive face, polite and 
unassuming. 
He nodded, anxious. "Is there something wrong?"
"Just a routine check, Sir. And you are?"
"Bristow. Thomas Martin Bristow."
"Do you have your documents with you, Mr Bristow?"
"In the dash." He leaned over and produced them.
The officer studied the driving licence carefully, then handed it to his 
colleague who returned to the patrol vehicle to radio through the details . "A 
long way from home, Sir. Going anywhere nice?"
"Hayes. To see my sister. Is there a problem?"
"Nothing to worry about. We won't keep you long."
He turned to his colleague in the patrol vehicle. A casual nod of the head. 
"Nice place, Hayes. I lived in Southall myself, as a kid. Lady Margaret Road. 
Do you know it? Course, it's full of fucking wogs now." He glanced at Bristow, 
looking for a reaction, then bent down to the front off-side wheel, examining 
the tyre with his fingers. "I think your tracking's out, Sir. Your tread's a 
bit worn on one side. I'd get that seen to if I were you."
"I didn't realise," Bristow murmured. "I'll attend to it first thing. Is 
there anything else?"
"Mr Bristow, we'd like to ask you a few questions, if we may."
His heartbeat raced. "Questions?"
"Down at the station. If you wouldn't mind, of course. It's just that we're 
obstructing the traffic here."
Bristow's face paled. He struggled for control. "What for? What type of 
questions? I don't quite understand."
"This would be easier at the station, Sir." The officer was polite, but his 
tone indicated it was an offer not to be declined. "It won't take long."
"Which station? Where?"
"If you'd care to get in our vehicle I'll take you there direct. My colleague 
will bring your car along." He held his hand out for the keys.
"I think there's been some mistake. I haven't done anything."
"With respect, Sir, no-one has said you have. It's just a routine enquiry."
"Then why..." His voice trailed off nervously. He knew better than to argue. 
"I have to be at my sister's by twelve. She's expecting me."
The officer glanced at his watch sympathetically. "Just a few questions and 
you can be on your way. It's not a problem, Sir, is it?" 
He was ushered into the tation through the rear entrance and found himself 
pushed into a sparsely furnished room where he was told to wait. 
An hour passed before anyone attended him. 
He sat patiently.
This was not his local old bill now.
There was something qualitatively different about being pulled in by the Met.
They had a certain reputation, and he had no wish to put it to the test.





15


He retrieved a rolled-up Daily Express from his jacket pocket, but couldn't 
concentrate on the words, turning the pages absently, his mind elsewhere. 
The Uncle Tom headline went unremarked, as had the radio reports on the way in.
He was sick to the teeth hearing about the murdered girl by now.
Eventually, without apology or explanation, he was taken before the Custody 
Officer.
"Mr Bristow, isn't it? How very nice of you to call in. Pleasant journey?"
"Sergeant, could you please explain to me why I've been brought here."
The Custody Officer cut him short. "All in good time, Mr Bristow. All in good 
time. Did my colleague bring you by the scenic route?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Past the playground?"
Bristow caught his breath. Just take it easy. Cooperate. "Am I under 
arrest?"
"No Sir, of course not. You're free to leave at any time." The tone dared 
him to try.
"I'd like to make a phone call, please."
"But you're not under arrest, Sir. You're not entitled to one." The Custody 
Officer smiled sweetly. He was enjoying this.
"I need to phone my sister. She's expecting me for lunch."
"All this way, just for lunch? You must be very close."
"P'raps he's knocking her off on the side, Sarge."
Bristow reeled round in anger, then quickly calmed himself. Keep control. Let 
them play their silly games.
"Mind you I suppose she'd be a bit too old for him. Or does she dress up in 
gym-slip and white socks?"
"I want to speak to my solicitor."
"Maybe later. We're a bit busy at the moment."
Bristow felt his stomach stir, panic beginning to build. "I know my rights. 
I'm entitled to a ,"
"Your rights," the Custody Officer slammed his fist on the desk, the smile 
gone, "are what we decide they are, when we decide they are."
The officer who had driven him in stepped forward. "Perhaps you'd like to take 
your glasses off, Sir." His tone had changed now. The politeness of their 
public encounter had been replaced by a less pleasant demeanour.
"My glasses? What for?"
"We wouldn't want them to get broken, would we."
Bristow caught his breath. Just keep calm. Let them go through the motions.
"Put him in number three."
"But," Bristow looked anxiously towards the security camera.
The Custody Officer grinned. "Hasn't been working all week, sunshine. The 
only maintenance people we could find were bleedin' Bulgarians, and they 
haven't got security clearance to come through here."
"But,"
"Computer's a bit slow today too, so I'll have to book you in later. I 
suggest you exercise great care meanwhile, as you're not officially here." 
Bristow was led meekly through to a cell at the rear of the station and pushed 
through the entrance. The door slammed behind him and he took a seat on the thin 
mattress on the edge of the concrete bunk, next to a worn, coarse-textured 
blanket. A dirty, seat less, steel toilet provided the only other furnishing in 
the pastel-painted, brick lined cell. Graffiti had been scratched into the 
walls. He realized he'd left his newspaper in the other room and quietly cursed 
himself. 
He knew that before the day was through he would have read every item of scrawl 
on the walls several times over as sensory deprivation took its toll. It was one 
of those few occasions when he wished he had the low mentality people 
usuassociated with perverts. At least then he might have been contented to just 
sit and stare at the wall. Being in Mensa had its advantages, but coping with 
boredom was not one of them.
Daylight glared through the thick, opaque glass blocks that formed a window. 
There was no ventilation and the air reeked of stale vomit and urine, residual 
from the drunks who had been the cell's inhabitants the previous night. 
He needed a cigarette. He hadn't had one since he'd left home. It was part of 
his plan to give up. No smoking in the car. His packet of twenty king size were 
still in the glove compartment, unopened, with his lighter. Suddenly he was 
desperate for a smoke. 
He sunk his head into his hands and closed his eyes, making himself comfortable, 
as someone accustomed to the sparseness of a police cell. 
He anticipated a short wait. Long enough for the officers concerned to have a 
coffee, make a few notes, enjoying the joke at his expense. Then a quick-fire 
round of questions and free to go.
It was something you got used to. It was a case of having to.
An officer brought him a lukewarm cup of tea at some stage which he received 
gratefully. He was hot and sticky, the sun's warmth magnified by the thick 
blocks of glass that broke the monotony of the far wall.
The stifling air made him thirsty, but there was no water supply except for the 
toilet, and that flushable only from outside the cell. No toilet paper, of 
course. 
The outside world could just be perceived as muted traffic sounds in the 
distance.
Occasionally the screams and shouts of children playing would filter through to 
him, causing a smile to play briefly on his lips. 
Bristow liked children. 
That's why he was there, after all.
He needed a cigarette real bad. 
He pressed the panic button by the door and waited patiently. No-one came. 
He pressed again, harder, then retired to the concrete bunk and stretched out on 
the mattress, the urine-tainted blanket tossed unwanted into a corner. 
One thing he had learned over the years was to stay relaxed. Getting uptight got 
you nowhere. He had no choice but to lie back and wait.





16


Jeremy Isaac BA.,LL.M., arrived back at the Queen Street offices of Witherton, 
Stanley and Jones at three-thirty in the afternoon in low spirits, fresh from 
losing a case at the Magistrates' Court. It had been a straight forward affair. 
A guilty plea and mitigating circumstances that might have received a 
sympathetic hearing on a different day. 
But for all the talk of structured decision processes and the integrity of the 
Retiring Room, it seemed sentencing by Magistrate depended more on what mood the 
JP had been in that morning than any reasoned judgment about the case. 
Even so a three month sentence when a community service order would have been 
far more appropriate left a bitter after-taste. Explaining to his shocked client 
that the sentence was grossly unfair but the chances of appeal negligible was 
bad enough. Explaining to his client's wife in front of their four children 
made it far worse.
So he was in foul mood even before he got his secretary's memo. He tended the 
receiver with one hand, impatiently slipping his jacket off with the other.
"What's the S.P. with Bristow?"
"His sister rang. He's several hours late. No answer at his home."
Isaac glanced at the desk calendar to confirm the day. Fourth Thursday. He knew 
Bristow's routine as well as his own. "Okay, I'll chase it. Ring her back for 
me and tell her not to worry. Say he's probably broken down or something. You 
know, the usual bull. If he turns up, make sure they let us know."
He dialled Bristow's home and mobile numbers. No reply. He crossed to the filing 
cabinet and selected a folder from his brief-case. 
It was probably nothing, but the morning's headlines were fresh in his mind. On 
the way he gave Karen her instructions. "If anyone asks, I'm still in 
Court."





17


Matt arrived back at his desk with a pained expression on his face and a half 
eaten BLT in his hand. He checked for messages. 
Nothing from Pitman.
He slumped behind the terminal glaring at the phone, willing it to ring. A 
night's work stood to be wasted. 
He cursed Pitman beneath his breath for not carrying a mobile. DI Pitman. Last 
of the Keystone Cops. 
He brought up the agency reports on screen. The headlines were still dominated 
by Uncle Tom. But of Bristow, nothing. 
He clicked the mouse and the screen changed, bringing up his planned report, the 
one he'd stayed up till three that morning preparing. 
Identifying Bristow had been easy enough. If known occasionally to be critical 
of computer technology in the print industry, particularly when he couldn't get 
a system to work, Matt had blessed Google last evening as he ploughed through 
files on screen, offering every Bristow that had ever been mentioned in a press 
or agency report, web-site or blog. 
Another click and it was sex cases only. Seventy-three Bristows had come up 
nationwide. A statistical anomaly, he told himself. 
Another click and a county by county breakdown presented itself. Eliminating 
anyone with a different first name and it was down to three. Pitman had implied 
a local pick-up. Only one lived local. Thomas Martin Bristow it had to be.
Checking the electoral register Matt had been surprised to find Bristow 
associated with the same address for several years. Unusual. Sex offenders 
tended to move on once they become known in a town, otherwise life could become 
very unpleasant. Matt smiled at the thought. Serves the dirty bastards right.
He saved every pertinent report and spent an hour reading through them over 
sweet black coffee from the vending machine, while the cleaners buzzed around 
trying to do their job. There was only a skeleton staff on at the Canterbury 
offices at night. The bulk of the over-night production was done from Southern 
Media Solutions' Essex base at Chelmsford.
He prepared two reports, one vague and tentative, noting Bristow and five others 
had been brought in for questioning. The second bold and striking. Newington man 
charged with Rebecca sex murder. McIntyre would like that, he'd thought.
McIntyre didn't like it. There was no way he was going to hold back a front page 
lead based on information from an undisclosed source that would only be 
confirmed mid-morning, if at all. 
And if Matt had known about Uncle Tom the previous night why the hell hadn't he 
done something with it before? Southern Media could have scooped Kellerman's 
exclusive and been the envy of the industry. 
It was all Matt could do to stop his boss phoning Fort Hill direct to confirm 
the details. Only his angry argument about source confidentiality persuaded 
McIntyre otherwise. 
As the deadline came and went Matt reluctantly conceded defeat. The story 
wouldn't run that day. But at least no-one else had it either.
As the presses began to roll a news agency report flashed up. Five men were 
being questioned in connection with the inquiry. 
Editor and reporter read off the report simultaneously. McIntyre gave Matt a 
smug, satisfied smile and left the room. 
Thomas Bristow was not on the list.





18


He awoke to the sound of keys in the lock. By the time he'd reconciled his mind 
to reality the cell door was open, a meal of bacon and egg and a cup of tea had 
been placed on the bunk beside him and the silent benefactor was closing the 
door again. Bristow bolted upright. 
"Hey! What's going on? What's..."
The door slammed shut, noisily locked. The view-hole swung open and a face 
appeared. "Sorry?"
"What's all this? What's going on"
The face stared back blankly. "Sorry, mate. I just serve the tea."
"But...But... Is there someone I can speak to? Someone in charge? An 
inspector?"
"Custody Sergeant, maybe. I'll see what I can do."
The face was gone, the view-hole bolted shut.
Bristow returned to the bunk and sat next to the tray of food, his mind numb. A 
badly fried egg was slowly congealing next to a single, unappetising rasher of 
cheap streaky bacon, dormant on the plastic plate. An overly-flexible fork was 
the only cutlery. No seasoning. The tea lay stagnant in the disposable styrene 
beaker, an unidentifiable slick on its surface. He took a sip and winced. No 
sugar. But at least it was wet. He was grateful for that.
Putting the tray on the floor he sipped the tea as he appraised the situation. 
He must have fallen asleep. In the stifled warm air, lacking any other 
stimulation, sleep was always the best way of passing cell-time. 
He remembered the Custody-Sergeant's words. He wasn't under arrest. Free to 
leave at any time. 
He pressed the panic-button again, then sat back on the bunk, for the time being 
resigned to his fate. Slowly he took control of his breathing and, using some 
elementary yoga techniques he'd picked up during previous periods of 
incarceration, calmed himself to the point of relaxation. 
There was nothing to do but wait. Nothing to do waiting but sleep. He closed his 
eyes, slowed his breathing and slipped back into a light slumber.





19


At 6 pm Jeremy Isaac locked the office and made his way to his car, his brow 
furrowed. He'd managed to establish from neighbours that Bristow had left his 
house at the usual time. 
A quick call to Fort Hill Station, Margate confirmed the worst. They admitted 
they were "anxious to speak to him", but had no idea of his whereabouts.
Isaac felt uneasy. His client couldn't just vanish. Where the hell was he? 
The answer came to mind slow but clear. 
His heart sank. 
Beneath his breath he muttered, "May your God help you, Thomas."





20


Claire glanced at her watch for the tenth time in as many minutes. Gone seven 
and Matt still hadn't phoned. She knew he was busy. But right now she needed 
him. He'd warned her in advance about Kellerman's exclusive, but it still hit 
her like a punch in the stomach.
The West Cliff promenade was still wet from the recent shower brought in from 
the English Channel. Three children cycled by on their bikes, pedalling 
furiously against the strong sea breeze. Claire watched them with glazed eyes. 
Two boys and a girl. The girl was about Rebecca's age. Darker hair, perhaps. 
It was a relief to see kids out and about again, however much it ripped at her 
insides. The last few weeks of the summer holidays had not been a pleasant time 
for local children. The older ones were frightened to go out, the younger ones 
confused why they were kept in. Occasionally they could be seen, in big groups, 
but rarely on their own. 
A sense of unease, of fear, hung over the community. It had just begun to 
dissipate when the morning headlines hit. She looked around and sure enough an 
adult was calling the cyclists back, scolding them for straying out of sight. It 
would be a long time before normality returned to this part of the Kent coast.
Rebecca had been riding her bike when she was abducted. On her way to Brownies, 
just a short way from where Claire now stood. Her final movements were still not 
clear. Friends had seen her leaving the house, dressed in her uniform, looking 
forward to the pack meeting. She never arrived.
"A penny for them."
The voice broke the spell. She reeled round, to find Matt behind her, his smile 
vanishing as he saw her tear-filled eyes.
"I'm sorry."
She dabbed her eyes with a tissue. "It's oay. I was just..." Explanations 
were superfluous.
Matt put an arm round her shoulder and she leaned on him, grateful for the 
company. "You look like you could do with a coffee." 
She smiled. It was Matt's solution to all crises.
They made their way back to her house in silence. Matt orchestrated 
refreshments, coffee percolating noisily, crumpets toasting beneath the grill, 
while Claire applied fresh mascara to still red eyes. They sat a while on 
adjacent stools in the kitchen in silent reflection.
He saw Claire break into a smile and broke the silence. "Happier thoughts?"
"It's nothing. Just a fleeting fancy. More coffee?"
As she changed the filter he explained briefly the day's events. How he'd 
identified the local man, Bristow, only for the cops to find he was on his 
regular trip to London. She listened thoughtfully, aware Matt was stressing he 
was just another suspect, and that Pitman had already interviewed him. She 
wasn't to build her hopes. He just wanted her to know things were happening. 
That Rebecca hadn't been forgotten.
"Anyway," he concluded, "Dave says they've flagged his licence plate, so 
the cameras will pick him up on the road somewhere."
Sipping hot coffee, Claire asked, "Will he be arrested?"
"Of course. I'll know more soon."
"What will happen to him?"
Matt considered his response carefully before answering. "Eventually he'll 
be transferred here to Fort Hill. But I expect the Met will want a few quiet 
words first."
"What if he denies it?"
Matt smiled. "It's the Met', honey. Denying it won't be an option."





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."





24


"All I know is what I've seen on the news or read in the papers. Kent Police 
have already taken statements. I was eliminated from the inquiry."
"Well they want to talk to you again now."
"I'm no child-killer. As God is my witness, I'd never harm a child."
"That's rich, Thomas. How old was your last victim? Ten? Eleven?"
"Ten. But you don't understand."
"Fucking right, I don't. I don't understand and I don't want to. That's for 
namby fucking social workers and probation officers. Our job is to protect 
children, not the dirty bastards who fiddle with them."
"I never touched Rebecca."
"Maybe it was an accident, Thomas? Maybe you didn't mean to kill her. Maybe 
-"
"For God's sake, it wasn't me!"
"There are a few too many coincidences for my liking."
"Like?"
"You used to have your own ice-cream van. Mr. Whippy, wasn't it?"
"Yes, but it didn't work out."
"Just a front to get close to little kiddies, wasn't it? How did it work? 
Show us your knickers, little girl, and I'll let you play with my 
ninety-nine?"
"For Christ's sake, it wasn't like that."
"And then there's your sister."
"She's got nothing to do with any of this."
"Lives in Hayes. That's just up the road from Southall."
"So?"
"The same Southall where Rebecca's body was found."
He understood the earlier reference now. "I've never been to Southall. I swear 
it."
Brown Suit leered close to Bristow's face. "That's funny. It says on your 
driving licence you were born there."
"I was. I meant, I've not been there recently. Not for years."
Brown Suit clicked his tongue in rebuke. "First lie, Thomas. Dear, dear me. 
Why should we believe anything else you've said?"
"It's the truth. I promise you."
"According to your diary you were in Hayes just days after the girl was 
abducted. Plenty of opportunity to dump the body in the canal on the way up. Or 
the way back. Perhaps she was laying in your boot while you sat eating cream 
doughnuts with your beloved sister."
Bristow stammered the denial, shaking his head, fear in his eyes. "It wasn't 
me, for God's sake."
"Your so-called precautions have dropped you in deep shit, Thomas. If I was 
you I'd start talking now. While you still can. Before Peter takes over."
"I want a solicitor."
"No can do."
"Then I want to see someone in charge."
"Sorry. Too busy."
"I know my rights. " 
"Don't talk to me about rights, Bristow. What rights did you give that little 
girl before you killed her?"
"I never, That's all I'm saying."
"Did you ask her first? Is that it? She was ten years old, you filthy 
perverted bastard. What right did you have to end her life before it had even 
began?"
"I want my solicitor. Right now."
"That's not our problem, Thomas. All we've got to do is bring you in and hand 
you over."
"You mean back to Margate?"
"The sticks, yeah. Of course, we wouldn't be doing our job properly if we 
didn't try and give them a helping hand. You know, give them the benefit of our 
superior detective skills."
"I'm saying nothing else until I've seen my brief."
Brown Suit exhaled loudly. "For an intellectual type, Thomas, you're proving 
incredibly stupid."
"I want a solicitor. Any solicitor. I'm saying nothing else."





25


Peter entered the room carrying a tray with three plastic cups of steaming tea. 
"How's it going? He signed the confession yet?"
"Mr. Whippy doesn't want to talk to us, Peter. Says he wants his brief. Seems 
to think he has rights or something."
He saw Peter's blurred figure put the tray on the table, then move towards him 
with a cup of tea in his hand. "Two sugars, wasn't it?"
Bristow nodded. 
"Oops." Peter poured the steaming tea into Bristow's lap in a steady stream. 
He writhed in pain as the scalding liquid burned his groin, but kept his mouth 
clammed shut. A rabbit punch to the kidneys followed, then an elbow to the head. 
He felt his eyebrow split open. Blood began to run down into his eye. 
"No, please, no more."
A second cup of scalding tea was thrown across his face, and he screamed in 
pain, his wrists bleeding as he struggled against the handcuffs. "No! Please, 
no!"
Brown Suit's face came into focus. "Now that was silly, wasn't it? I told you 
already. You can play it my way. Or Peter's. It's your choice."
"Okay, okay. Your way. Just keep him away from me."
"Did you hear that, Peter? He wants to talk to me, not you. Sorry, mate. You 
can have the next pervert we bring in."
"Fucking nonce! We ought to cut his balls off."
Bristow heard the sound of scissors snipping the air. He cringed. "Mother of 
God, no, please, no."
"Castration's too good for him, Peter. Anyway, I think Mr. Whippy's ready to 
cooperate now. Aren't you, Thomas?"
Bristow nodded.
"I'll hang about, just in case," Peter said. "Fucking nonces." He spat 
in Bristow's face. The saliva ran down over his eye, dropping onto his cheek to 
mingle with the blood.
Brown Suit lit another cigarette, blowing the smoke into Bristow's face. 
"Let's quit playing games, shall we? Let's talk about Rebecca."
"It wasn't me. I've told you." He inhaled the smoke, savouring it. 
"Please, a cigarette. Just one drag."
"You want a fag, nonce? Here." Peter grabbed the lit cigarette from his 
colleague's mouth and stubbed it out on Bristow's forehead.
Bristow struggled not to react.
"You're wearing my patience thin, Thomas. Tell us about the girl. Or perhaps 
you'd like Peter to conduct the interview instead."
"I swear I don't know anything."
A blow across the head. His mind reeling, blood dripping into his eyes. 
"Peter's got a daughter, you know. Me, I've got two little boys. Now I don't 
know about you, Thomas, but personally I don't think we'd be serving the public 
interest if we let you leave here in one piece. Not with all those little 
children out there to tempt you."
"I didn't do it. Please, believe me." He was sobbing now, his body shaking 
with fear.
"Which hand do you write with, nonce?" It was Peter's voice.
Bristow stammered the answer. "My right."
"Which hand do you use to finger the little girls, nonce?"
"I've never -" He screamed in pain as the boot came from nowhere, smashing 
into his groin.no more."
He saw Peter's blurred outline move behind him and held his breath, not knowing 
what to expect.
"I'll tell you what's going to happen, Thomas," Brown Suit said quietly. 
"While I was having a cuppa earlier on I wrote up a nice little statement for 
you, confessing you killed the girl. Just a straight-forward admission that you 
abducted and strangled Rebecca, then dumped her body in the canal on the way up 
to see your sister. We'll worry about the details later."
"Lord strike me if I'm lying. I never touched her," Bristow sobbed. 
"Never."
Brown Suit shrugged. "Now that would be a shame, Thomas, because you're going 
down for it anyway." He waved a sheet of paper before Bristow's face. It could 
have been anything, for all he could see of it.
"I'm signing nothing."
He felt a heavy grip around his left hand. The voice from behind. 
"Last chance, nonce."





26


"Mother of God, it wasn't me. Please believe me."
The movement was deft, the pain excruciating. The little finger snapped like a 
twig. He let out a scream.
"God, no!"
Brown Suit's leering face loomed into focus inches from his nose. "Ready to 
sign, Mr. Whippy?"
The tears were running in torrents down his face, the pain searing. He shook his 
head defiantly. "It wasn't me, for God's sake. It wasn't me." He sobbed 
violently, his body shaking with pain and fear. He felt the grip tighten around 
his middle finger. "Mother of God, please, no."
The second finger snapped as easily as the first. Only the scream was louder. He 
blacked out for just a second, the pain at once knocking him unconscious and 
jolting him back to reality.
He saw the blurred image of the grey suit move in front of him again and despite 
the pain he felt safer now he knew where Peter was.
"Ready to sign now, Thomas?"
Through gritted teeth Bristow forced the words out. "Go fuck yourselves."
Brown Suit sucked his breath. "Oh, Thomas, you really are a silly boy. Peter 
doesn't like people who swear."
Bristow said nothing, his mouth clammed shut, trying to fight off the waves of 
pain across his body.
"How much can you see without your glasses, Thomas?"
No answer.
"Can you see what Peter's doing?"
No answer.
"He's got a golf club in his hand. Did I mention he likes golf as well?"
Bristow held his breath.
"He likes to practice his swing whenever he gets the chance."
He saw the fuzzy outline of Peter move closer, holding what he presumed to be 
the golf club.
"Have you seen my golf balls anywhere?" Peter asked.
Brown Suit clicked his fingers and tutted loudly. "Sorry, Peter, I left them 
at home. Never mind, I think Thomas has got a couple."
"Mother of God, no. Please, no." He shrank down into the chair, his knees 
clamped together, his body shaking.
"Open your legs, nonce." He swung the golf club through the air, close to 
Bristow's head. "Open your fucking legs or I'll use your head instead."
Bristow sobbed, "Please, no. I'll sign it. Anything."
He saw Brown Suit disappear behind him and felt the cuffs being manipulated. His 
right arm was freed, the left, with its broken fingers hanging limply, still 
cuffed to the chair. He moved his hand to his face to touch the wounds but Brown 
Suit's hand gripped his, forcing it to the table Peter had pushed in front of 
him. Brown Suit moved his hand to the pen, not letting go till he gripped the 
stem with trembling fingers.
"Just sign it, Thomas. That's all you have to do, then you can go back to your 
cell."
"I swear I never touched the child."
The golf club slammed down on the desk near his fingers. Brown Suit grabbed his 
free arm and forced it back to the paper.
"Sign the fucking thing or I'm leaving you and Peter alone ther."
Sobbing, shaking, Bristow scrawled his signature onto the paper, his only 
thought to end the pain. As he finished Brown Suit grabbed his arm and forced it 
back into the cuff behind the chair.
"See, that was easy, wasn't it. Well, that's it, Thomas. You can go now."
He tried to get up, but the cuffs held him firm.
"One more thing, Mr. Whippy," said Brown Suit. "You promise not to go 
chasing after little children anymore."
"I... I promise."
"I don't believe you, nonce. I think we should break a few more fingers, just 
to make sure."
"God, no. Please, no. I've admitted to the girl. It was me. I killed her. What 
more do you want? Please, just leave me alone."
He saw Peter moving behind him out of sight and he prayed silently, shutting his 
eyes, waiting for the pain. He heard the swish of air a split second before the 
club hit the left arm, shattering the elbow and lower humerus. He screamed out 
in pain, and his body arching against the cuffs that held him to the chair, 
dazed, unable to speak, the pain searing through him. 
He vaguely heard Peter's voice, talking about civic duty, protecting children, 
then the swish of air again. Pain seared through his arm as the club smashed 
against the shattered limb a second time, spraying blood through the cloth of 
his shirt. He managed to scream out once before unconsciousness overtook him, 
the pain giving way to welcome darkness. 
It was over. 
For now.





28


Greg Randall drew on a cigarette and lay back on the bed, his head propped 
against a pillow, watching his wife towel herself dry after her shower. Bethan 
always she took a shower before doing anything else. She enjoyed her job, but 
hated the smell of old people lingering around the house.
Through the slightly open door the Dynamite Twins could be heard bickering 
playfully in their bedroom. He smiled to himself, confident he had things under 
control. 
He studied Bethan's body as she dressed, his eyes lingering until she slipped on 
her nightie and ended the show. 
One day, he told himself, he'd come clean and explain to Bethan his true desires 
- his fears. 
One day. 
As she climbed into bed beside him, her hand sneaking playfully beneath the 
covers, he knew that time was a long way off.
Anyway he had an appointment booked with Dr Quinlan for the following Monday. 
The problem would be resolved soon, somehow. 
He listened to the Dynamite Twins' joyful shrieks and crossed his fingers.
28
"You look great!" Matt settled in opposite Claire in the Westwood Cross 
Cafe Nero in Waterstone's. "First time you've smiled since, Anyway, 
what's on your mind?"
"I just thought you'd like a coffee."
"Never been known to refuse. But why now?"
"You weren't busy, were you?"
"I've always got time for you, Claire. You know that. But why here?"
"Somewhere neutral, to talk."
"I'm listening."
Claire studied her Americano thoughtfully, considering her words. "Promise not 
to laugh, Matt. This is going to sound silly, I know, but it makes me feel good. 
And just now that's what I need most."
Matt supped his latte. "Try me."
"I want to find him."
"Find who?"
"Whoever he is. Uncle Tom."
Matt eyed his partner uneasily. "What makes you think you can do better than 
Kent's finest?" 
"I thought you might say that."
"I know how you feel, Claire, but - "
She cut him short, her smile giving way to momentary anger. "No you don't, 
Matt. You can't possibly know how I feel. Only if it was your own daughter could 
you even come close to knowing." Tears filled her eyes.
He reached out a comforting hand. "Playing Miss Marple won't help things, 
Claire. You'll just prolong the pain."
"Hear me out, at least, Mat. You're the only one I can talk to."
"I'm sorry. I'm listening."
"I was looking through Rebecca's school folder this morning. Just browsing; 
re-living memories. I wish I'd got more involved with it. Funny how things only 
take on their real importance when it's too late..."
Matt stayed silent. 
"Just before the summer break a police-woman visited her school. A bike had 
been stolen. Rebecca came home that day wanting to join the police. I humoured 
her, of course. Before that it was a journalist. To be like you. But being a 
detective was the last thing she wanted to be, before..."
Matt clasped her hand tight. She reciprocated.
"And you think by setting yourself up as Poirot you can somehow fulfil her 
dream?"
"Does that sound crazy?"
He considered his response thoughtfully. "I understand your wanting to do 
something, but you don't seriously think you can track down this sick bastard, 
when the combined might of the Kent and Metropolitan Police are struggling, with 
all their resources?"
"No, but it makes me feel better. The thing is, Matt, I've got to do 
something. Anything. I can't relax. Not while I know he's out there still. 
Supposing he kills another child? No mother should have to go through what I've 
been through." She felt her anger rising and took deep breaths to quell it. 
"It's not about vengeance, Matt. Honestly."
He raised a doubting eyebrow.
"It was, at first. Of course it was. Anyone would be the same. I wanted to 
find him. To make him suffer. To cut his balls off. I wanted to... But that was 
then. I'm being rational now. I want justice, not revenge. I want to know why. 
What kind of person is he? Does he have a family? Friends? Has he ever loved 
somebody? Does he feel any guilt? Any remorse? Anything at all? At first I 
thought hanging was too good for him. But now... now I've had time to think, I 
realise that's not the answer. He must be ill. Sick, I mean, in the head. 
Seriously sick. He needs help, not punishment."
Matt pondered her words. "You never fail to amaze me, Claire. You may even be 
right. God knows, the cops need all the help they can get." He permitted a 
smile. "But tell me, Agatha. Whodunnit? Where do you start? It's not Cluedo. 
You can't just walk up and accuse Colonel Mustard in the ballroom with the lead 
piping, and then throw the dice again when the cards don't match. Have you any 
idea of the scale of the inquiry going on?"
She shrugged. "Have you?"
"It's my job to know, Claire."
"So tell me."
"Tell you?"
"About the inquiry. Tell me how it works. How many people they've talked to. 
How many suspects they've crossed off their list. I need to know."
He hesitated. Just that morning he'd been reading back over past child-murder 
investigations. It was the very rarity of child murders that made them such big 
news. It was easy to forget that when faced with a list of murdered children. 
Susan Maxwell's murder had been the last report he'd read before leaving. 
Susan's body had been found fourteen days after her abduction. Did Claire need 
to know that in four years the investigation generated seven and a half tons of 
paper, took in 15,000 statements, 20,000 vehicle registration numbers and 65,000 
individual names and addresses on file? That her murderer was only caught years 
later, not through the police investigation but thanks to an eagle-eyed 
passer-by who by chance saw another child walk behind a van and not emerge the 
other side?
He made a point of looking at his watch. "I have to get back soon, Claire. 
Honestly. It would take all day to explain what goes on."
"Well when? Matt, I want to know. Need to know."
"I'll set aside some quality time, as soon as I can."
Claire smiled. "You used to say that to Rebecca." She clutched his hand 
again. "Thanks Matt. I do appreciate it."
"Besides, I may be able to save you the effort. I'm expecting some news 
later."
"News?"
"Sort of. It's not official yet, but Pitman tells me the Met have arrested a 
man. Now don't build your hopes up, Claire, just in case it falls flat, but 
there's talk of a celebratory drink at Fort Hill tonight, so they're taking it 
pretty seriously."
She clutched his arm eagerly. "When will you know for sure?"
"Any time now. Pitman has sent one of his team to interview the suspect. In 
hospital."
"Hospital?"
"I don't know the details, but apparently he's in a bad way."
Claire's humanitarian mood was history. She smiled. 
"Good. I hope the bastard's suffering." 





29


It was hardly an original name for a puppy, but then Laura was only six. The 
black patch over its right eye gave the pup its name. To her parents, Patch was 
an ideal friend for their youngest child and only daughter, one girl among five 
older brothers. To Laura, Patch was everything.
In the three months she'd had the pet Laura had exceeded her parents' wildest 
expectations, diligent in attending its every need. No feeding time had been 
missed. The pup's water bowl had never run dry.
As the novelty wore off her brothers quickly lost interest, leaving Patch to 
their little sister; which was as Laura's parents wished. For twelve years 
they'd tried for a daughter without success. With five boisterous sons in hand 
Laura's birth was a godsend to them. Her father had the long awaited vasectomy 
shortly afterwards.
Acutely aware of the influence an all-boy family would have on their daughter 
Laura was thrust into pink romper suits and dresses no sooner had the umbilical 
cord been severed. While they made every effort to ensure their six children 
were treated fairly, no-one could accuse Laura's parents of treating them as 
equals. Boys would be boys, but Laura was to be their only girl and she was 
showered with dolls, soft toys, lace and frills from the moment she was born, 
every effort made to ensure any tomboy traits were stamped out in the early 
stages.
Patch was part of this process; a companion for Laura to discourage her from 
playing with her brothers. They in turn were only too happy to have their 
annoying little sister otherwise occupied.
Laura's parents considered Queensferry a respectable neighbourhood: quiet; 
relatively crime-free; pleasantly situated on the England-Wales border, within 
easy reach of Chester, Liverpool and the North Wales tourist trail. They were 
quite at ease letting six year old Laura walk the dog on her own. So long as she 
stayed away from the traffic and away from the river they knew she was safe.
The playground was a five minute walk from Pierce Street, easily accessed 
through a quiet alleyway, with just one back street to cross. Beyond that was 
the Deeside Leisure Centre and ice rink, around which her brothers played.
Like every parent, Laura's mother and father read the papers and watched the 
news. It would be easy to become paranoid, never to venture out, to keep their 
children on chains, if they believed everything they read and heard about crime. 
Fortunately serious crime was something that happened elsewhere, in the cities. 
Liverpool. Manchester. Birmingham. London.
Like every parent, they knew it couldn't happen to them. 
It couldn't happen in their village. 
Not in broad daylight on a bright summer's morning. 
The first morning of September.
Laura skipped awkwardly down the alleyway, dodging the puddles to avoid dirtying 
her pink trainers with Velcro straps, today with a new pair of brilliant white 
ankle socks. A red polka-dot cotton knee-length dress with Peter Pan collar and 
a pony tail held in place with a red posy clip completed a picture of innocence. 

Before she'd left her mother had assured her she would be the most beautiful 
girl in the playground
Had she ever arrived she probably would have been.



30


The white van pulled up at the end of the alley as she skipped, the 
uncoordinated movements of a young child with a rope too long for her height. As 
the pup turned the corner Laura heard the slamming of the van door and the pup 
barked furiously. Then a yelp, and silence. 
Laura stopped in her tracks, confused. Then she was running, her skipping rope 
trailing behind her, calling out to Patch, her voice rising as she hurried. She 
turned the corner and stopped abruptly, tears swimming in wide brown eyes. 
Before her the man held out the limp body of the puppy. Blood ran from its 
lifeless nose. She never saw the blood-stained wheel brace at his feet.
She propelled her shaking body towards the pup, held out before her, a 
sacrificial offering. The man uttered soothing words of comfort but they went 
unheard. She struggled for breath, a stifled sobbing the only sound she could 
manage. Her hand reached out and touched the warm, soft body of the puppy. Blood 
stained her fingers but she didn't notice.
The man bent down, holding out the animal for her to take. She clutched the dead 
puppy to her chest, crying, oblivious to the blood staining her frock. Oblivious 
to the gentle hands around her waist, lifting her up. Oblivious to the soft, 
cushioned floor she was being placed on.
Only when the door closed behind her and the pitch black of total darkness came 
upon her did she realise what was happening. Her screams went unheard outside 
the sound-proofed vehicle, the soft padding absorbing her cries along with the 
sound of tiny hands thumping against the cushioned walls. 
She felt the vehicle lurch forward and knew they were moving, though the engine 
sound was as inaudible to her inside as her screams were from outside. But she 
screamed all the same.
The van eased casually into the traffic on the A548, westbound, through Shotton, 
Connah's Quay and Flint, following the road parallel to the Dee estuary towards 
Rhyl, just another white van going about its business. 
Her parents reacted quickly, the police efficiently. With a six year old few 
chances were taken, especially now. She was recorded missing within thirty 
minutes of her abduction and a full police team swung into action. 





31


The hysterical screams lasted perhaps fifteen minutes before exhaustion consumed 
Laura's body and she fell to the floor, alone and afraid. 
She found the pup's body and clutched it to her chest, taking comfort from the 
still warm cadaver. 
Eventually she cried herself to sleep in the darkness, lulled by the gentle 
motion of the vehicle.
The van stopped only twice on the journey, once to change the licence plates on 
a secluded road, once for fuel, paying cash. Now it was parked in the pay and 
display car park on Rhyl promenade, the driver in the Sun Centre, an imposing 
glass-fronted leisure complex combining pool and theatre, over-looking the Irish 
Sea. To the east, the Dee Estuary poured forth its effluent, while on its 
Queensferry banks anxious neighbours joined the police scouring the area for 
signs of the missing child.
Being the last weekend of the school holiday the leisure pool was well-attended, 
locals and late holidaymakers alike determined to make the most of it.
Though a competent swimmer he never ventured into the water once during the 
three hours he spent there. He stripped to his trunks, spread out a towel and 
lay out on the window seat to enjoy the view, watching the little girls run past 
from the lagoon pool to the surfing pool, wet costumes clinging to young bodies. 
It was an enjoyable afternoon spent building up an appetite for delights yet to 
come.
It was nearly six in the evening, a good few hours of daylight remaining, when 
he returned to the van. He retrieved a lunch-box from beneath his seat and 
satisfied his hunger on a selection of cheese and pickle rye-bread sanches, 
washed down with a flask of decaffeinated coffee.
He unrolled a copy of the Telegraph, casually browsing through, taking in the 
headlines, but skipping the details. He preferred the Guardian, for its keener 
coverage of social issues, although he found its politics too liberal for his 
taste. Having spent the previous night in a hotel in Bradford he'd not had the 
benefit of his usual paper and had made do with what the foyer offered.
By eight o'clock there were perhaps three vehicles still remaining. He slipped 
in the CD, then made his way to the back of the van, checking about him before 
opening the back doors. It was dark inside. He climbed in and secured the doors 
behind him before tugging a lever that illuminated the van's rear interior.
Little Laura lay semi-comatose, the trauma too much for her young mind, curled 
in foetal position, her thumb in her mouth, her other arm around the dead puppy.
The scene brought a smile to his face. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, her 
hair dishevelled, her dress creased and bloodstained where the pup lay against 
her. He grasped the now cold animal by its already stiffening tail and gently 
eased it from her tiny fingers. 
The girl stirred as she felt the puppy move and she opened her eyes. For a 
second she stared blankly at the man before her, uncomprehending, then her young 
mind focused, the brown eyes widening. Her body shook as she sat up and prepared 
to scream. 
Far too young to understand his intentions. 
Old enough to be so very afraid. 





32


He drove the few miles back to Prestatyn, staying in a cheap bed and breakfast 
overnight, affecting a convincing Welsh accent during his dealings with the 
landlady. He gave his name as Jones. Tom Jones. If only, she'd sighed. He 
wriggled his pelvis for her in a poor imitation and for the rest of the evening 
he received the red carpet treatment.
He said he wouldn't be wanting breakfast. He had to continue his journey first 
thing, to be back in Swansea for his next shift. The landlady was delighted. 
Thirty pounds for changing a few sheets was fine by her. But for fifty-three 
year old Mrs Gwyneth Humphries the best was yet to come. 
When he put on his Tom Jones accent and said he'd like her to join him for the 
optional evening meal she was in seventh heaven. When he took to the upright 
piano in the guest's lounge after dinner and ran off a passable rendition of 
Delilah, followed by Green, Green Grass she almost wet herself. The other guests 
applauded loudly, adults and children alike. 
The little girl from Manchester sat on his lap, her parents looking on, 
delighted with the free entertainment. "You should be on the stage," they 
said, oblivious to his hand beneath their daughter's dress. The child too 
excited to notice, too young to think anything of it if she had. 
At eleven thirty he disappointed them all by announcing it was time for bed. He 
had a long drive ahead of him in the morning. He kissed the little girl good 
night, shook hands all round and settled with the landlady before retiring. She 
couldn't quite bring herself to waive the fee for the evening meal, but let him 
off the two pound surcharge for parking his van on the drive. 
He awoke at six on the Monday morning and left the building unnoticed. Mrs 
Humphries wouldn't be stirring for another half hour. Breakfasts were served 
strictly between seven-thirty and nine. No exceptions. On the way out he picked 
a single rose from a neighbouring garden and put it in a glass of water on the 
kitchen table, with his compliments. His calling cards were strictly reserved.





33


A brisk wind had brought broken cloud scudding across the Irish Sea. He drove 
into the town centre and took coffee and toast at a cafe in the High Street, 
collecting a Guardian on the way. With an Irish accent, he made polite 
coersation as he paid, enquiring how to get back on the A55 to Holyhead. He had 
to be in Dublin by mid-afternoon and couldn't afford to miss the ferry, he 
explained to the disinterested proprietor.
It was eight o'clock when he drank up, leaving a few pound coins, polished on a 
napkin, as a generous tip, and slipped out while the cafe owner tended fried 
eggs out back. Driving out of town, back towards Rhyl, he spied a girl on her 
way home after a sleep-over at a friend's house, struggling to pedal her bike 
against the strong breeze. 
He drove past slowly, watching her in the wing mirror. The wind whipped her 
skirt about her legs revealing glimpses of thigh. He felt the stirrings in his 
groin. 
He pulled to a halt ahead of her, watching in the mirror as she drew closer, 
savouring the view. He switched the engine off, leaving just the sound of the 
wind and the gulls. He pushed the CD into the player and turned the volume down 
low. His lips parted in a smile as the music started.
There was no-one else about. A car disappeared into the distance. 
The girl pedalled nearer, oblivious to his presence, ever closer, behind the 
van, moving out to overtake. He put his fingers on the door handle and stopped, 
taking deep breaths. 
She was nine. Ten, maybe. 
White ankle socks. 
A skirt much too short for cycling. 
A glimpse of her underwear and he was breathing heavily. 
She was alongside now. 
Riding alongside the van, level with his door. 
And then she was past, her hair flailing behind her in the wind.
Still cycling. 
Safe. 
Alive. 
She'd never know how close she'd come. 
How lucky she was to have been in the wrong place at the right time. 
He turned the key and drove slowly away. 





34


Tina was a tomboy. Everybody said so. 
Especially Tina.
She hated being a girl and playing girlie games. She'd only grown her hair this 
long because her favourite footballer wore his in a pony-tail. And she hated 
wearing school uniform. It was the only time her mother could ever get her to 
wear a skirt. Even then it was a battle. Tina would wear her jeans on the 
journey to school, with the regulation school skirt stuffed in her bag, ready to 
change into before morning assembly.
But today was the last week of the school holidays, and she had no intention of 
wearing anything but jeans. As a concession to the grandmother she was on her 
way to see, she'd put on her pink jeans for the visit. Pink jeans savagely cut 
off at mid-thigh, with a loose fitting top that barely covered her navel, a 
cotton crop top underneath. Chunky socks and trainers. It was as near to looking 
like a girl as she intended to get outside of school hours.
Her grandmother always asserted that when Tina dressed in long blue jeans and 
t-shirts she looked just like a boy. She never could understand why her 
grand-daughter was so delighted with this statement. Nor would she ever 
understand why, had she not been so pernickety about her grand-daughter's 
fashion sense, Tina might have completed the journey alive.
She pedalled stubbornly against the wind as she cycled along the narrow, winding 
B5119 that linked Dyserth with Rhyl. Her mother insisted that if she wanted to 
cycle instead of taking the bus it had to be by this quiet route. It was safer.
The innocuous white van cruised past the child without slowing, but his eyes 
never left the mirror until he took the bend. The land was flat, leading across 
to the sea, the fields broken by hedges and ditches, but from the vantage point 
of the drivers' seat he could see the child approach. He flicked on the CD and 
turned up the volume.
As she drew nearer he unlocked the back doors of the van and leant in, as if 
retrieving something. Tina never gave him a second thought. Another broken down 
van. She wanted a Harley Davison when she grew up. 
As she came level he was uher in an instant, one hand round her mouth, the other 
around her waist, throwing her into the back of the van like a toy, slamming the 
doors closed behind her. Seconds later, the girl still too dazed to comprehend 
what had happened, the doors opened again and the bike was thrown in with her, 
smashing into her leg, but the screams of pain were lost as the doors slammed 
shut and darkness enveloped her. Outside nothing could be heard but the wind in 
the rushes and the seagulls overhead. 
He drove west through Rhyl centre, taking the coast road to Abergele, then 
joined the A55 back east towards Chester.
By nine Tina's grandmother had decided her grand-daughter would not be coming 
after all. Kids today. No manners. She might at least have phoned to say she'd 
changed her mind. She briefly considered ringing the child's mother to remind 
her what day it was, but decided against it. Why waste her money? The rest of 
the family would be over at tea time. She'd speak her mind then.
In Dyserth Tina's mother, too, glanced at the clock, guessing her daughter would 
be there by now, making the old lady happy on this special day. She set about 
her daily chores without a further thought.
It would be another six hours before anyone even realised Tina was missing.





35


Greg Randall watched the taxi disappear down the long, winding drive before 
turning to face the imposing, late Georgian building, heavily clad with ivy, 
that offered no outwards signs of the nature of its business. 
A small, discreet brass plaque by the door agreed with the letter-head he now 
held in trembling hands. He ran his eyes over the document, confirming time and 
date, checking his watch. He was a few minutes early and took the opportunity to 
straighten his tie, comb his hair and try to relax, clutching his cigarette 
packet, drawing desperately on a filter-tip.
Finally he pressed the button, staring nervously into the overhead camera.
"Welcome to the Quinlan Foundation. How may we help you?"
"My name's Greg Randall. I have an appointment."
"One moment, please."
A brief silence ensued during which he checked his watch twice and referred 
again to the letter.
Then, "Come through please, Mr Randall. We're expecting you."
Electronic bolts slid back and the door swung open. A middle-aged woman attired 
in dowdy clothes and functional shoes approached, introducing herself simply as 
Molly. She led him along a polished parquet corridor to another door, swiped a 
card and it opened. She backed away in docile manner as another woman stepped 
forward to greet him. 
Pushing fifty, bespectacled, with short-cropped black hair and darting, cold 
eyes set in a worn, haggard face suggesting a tormented past, she stood before 
him in silence, eyeing him methodically from head to toe. Casually dressed in 
dated, faded jeans and a loose sweat shirt that couldn't quite disguise the 
hunched back, her face broke into a forced smile and she stretched out a 
withered hand.
"Welcome to the Quinlan Foundation, Mr Randall. I'm Dr Reynolds. Dr Quinlan's 
partner."
Randall accepted the handshake cautiously, conscious of his sweaty palms against 
her dry skin, but if she noticed she gave no sign.
"I have an appointment, with Dr Quinlan?" It began as a statement but ended 
a question.
"Of course. Come in, please. Do you have the letter with you?"
Randall retrieved the document from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. She 
remained expressionless as she read it slowly, her eyes occasionally leaving the 
page to study him, as if checking off some printed description. She eventually 
folded the letter and forced a smile, attempting an ambience that didn't quite 
work.
"Dr Quinlan regrets he cannot be with you today. He was called away at short 
notice, so I shall be conducting your initial assessment. That's providing 
you've no objection, of course."
She paused very briefly as if offering him his only chance to register any 
reservations he might have. Before he could gather his thoughts she was speaking 
again. "Then, when I report back to Dr Quinlan, we'll decide which of us is 
best suited to treat your particular needs."
Randall hesitated. "I wasn't told..."
"That you'd be dealing with a woman?" She forced a laugh. "Don't let that 
bother you, Mr Randall. Greg. Can I call you Greg? We like to keep things as 
informal as possible. Please call me Ruth."
He began to speak but Reynolds was there first. "Let's go through to the 
lounge. Tea? Coffee?"
"Tea would be fine."
"Milk? Sugar?"
"Please. Two sugars. Do you mind if I smoke?"
"Strictly speaking this is a place of work, but we won't tell anybody if you 
won't. If you can just wait until Molly brings an ash-tray." She turned to 
Molly, still hovering in the doorway. "At your convenience, thank you."
Dr Reynolds led him down the corridor and into the lounge, another unmarked 
room, again accessed by security card.
"Make yourself at home, Greg. Wherever you feel most comfortable."
Randall selected an armchair affording a view through large French windows 
across an expansive, well-kept garden, at the centre of which a gargoyle 
fountain gushed crystal water into an ornamental pond. Once seated Reynolds 
picked up the lap-top and selected a position directly opposite him. She hit the 
keys awkwardly with a gnarled finger.
"I just want to check the details we have so far, if that's okay." She 
managed another forced smile.
"Let me see now. You're thirty four, is that right? An accountancy assistant, 
working for a small firm in Birchington. Married. Two children. Father now 
deceased. I'm sorry. Your parents' divorce. Was that when you were a child?"
"A teenager. Nineteen. They stayed together until I'd finished at 
college."
Reynolds nodded casually. "Brothers and sisters? Ah yes. I thought that might 
be the case. The eldest child. Now, Greg, you first approached Dr Quinlan about 
four months ago, is that correct?"
He nodded, desperate for a cigarette.
"That's quite a delay between your first approach and your being here today. 
Is there any particular reason for that?" 
He managed a half-hearted laugh. "Plucking up the courage, I guess. It wasn't 
easy, making the call."
The smile. "No, I quite understand. It's very brave of you. It takes a great 
deal of courage to openly admit to a sexual attraction towards children."





36


Randall was numb. 
There was some vague hope in the back of his mind that maybe she didn't know. 
That Dr Quinlan hadn't explained to her why he was there. 
But there it was, out in the open. And said so casually. No hint of shock, or 
distaste. 
Before he could gather his thoughts she was speaking again.
"Now, it's just girls you find interesting, isn't it, Greg? You're not gay or 
anything?" She asked the questions as if they were an everyday subject of 
discussion. It occurred to him that for her they probably were. The thought made 
it just a little easier.
He fiddled nervously with his tie. "Just girls. Definitely not boys." He 
stressed the point as if it were really important. 
"Tell me, was there a particular incident or event that acted as the catalyst 
in your coming here, to seek help from the Quinlan Foundation?"
Randall hesitated. "The girl who was killed recently..." He reached for his 
cigarettes, fumbling nervously with the packet. Where was that ash-tray?
"Rebecca?"
"Poor kid. I'm not like that, you understand. I'm not capable of hurting a 
child. Of killing anyone. My fantasies aren't violent in any way, believe me. 
But I fear for the future. Where it might lead,"
The smile. "You may find it reassuring tow that we've had a number of new 
clients following that horrendous incident. You're by no means alone with your 
problem, Greg. There are plenty more men out there going through the same 
thing."
"Really?"
"It's much more common-place than people realise. But tell me, how did you 
come to hear about the Foundation?"
"It was when I first began to worry about... About my interest in children... 
I tried reading up on it, but the local libraries weren't exactly full of books 
on that kind of thing. There were plenty of books about the abused children 
themselves, but nothing about the adult's side of the story."
"Did you come across any of Dr Quinlan's works on the subject."
"I didn't know there were any."
Reynolds smiled condescendingly. "Of course, they're hardly the type of work 
your average library would stock. But it happens that Dr Quinlan is one of this 
country's foremost experts on paraphilias." 
She saw his vacant expression and explained, "Paraphilias. Sexual deviancies. 
Dr Quinlan has published works on just about every conceivable variation on the 
sexual act, you know. But paedophilia is his speciality. Adult sexual desire 
towards children. It's a lot more common than you might think, Greg. Believe me. 
But you were saying, about how you came to know of the Foundation?"
Randall collected his thoughts. "Originally I saw a reference in a newspaper 
to the Gracewell Clinic in Birmingham. But apparently it's closed now.
"God, yes. A long time ago. Such a shame. Ray was doing such good work 
there."
"Eventually I was put in touch with the Albany Trust, and the Portman Clinic 
in London, but the waiting list was so long... Then someone mentioned the 
Quinlan Foundation..."
"And here you are."
"And here I am."
"And you'd never heard of us before that?"
"No, I'm sorry. Never."
Reynolds beamed at him. "There's no need to apologise, Greg. That's excellent 
news. Even our neighbours have not the faintest idea of the nature of our work. 
We provide a very select, confidential service to our clients. Almost all our 
cases are referrals, from other doctors or clinics, invariably from professional 
sources, although a very few, like yourself, come by way of self-referral. Have 
you told anyone you're here?"
"I wouldn't dare. I have two daughters. If word got back to Social 
Services..."
Reynolds leant forward, forcing her most sincere smile yet. 
"Greg, let me assure you right now, you have no need to worry. Our service is 
based on absolute discretion. No-one outside of the Foundation will ever know 
what you discuss with us here, unless you personally choose to tell them. And of 
course, we'd prefer you didn't. If the nature of our work becomes widely known 
it makes it more difficult for people like yourself to approach us without 
raising suspicion. It would also jeopardise our future. That's what closed 
Gracewell, you know. Public ignorance. The mob mentality. No, everything here is 
in the strictest confidence and based on complete, mutual trust. You have to 
trust us and in turn we have to trust you."
"What about the information you have on computer?"
"Purely background details, stored internally here at the Foundation. These 
computers aren't on line, so it's impossible for anyone to hack into our system 
and obtain confidential information. In addition each case is given a code, so 
even if the disks were somehow stolen then no-one could be identified by name. 
We operate a very tight security base here Greg, for obvious reasons. Believe it 
or not some of our clients are quite eminent members of society: Judges, senior 
policemen. Even Members of Parliament."





37


"You must realise, Greg, that you are by no means alone in your... how can I 
put it... your sexual orientation. We have a large number of clients. Some, like 
yourself, are merely confused and concerned about their desires. Others have 
actually broken the body barrier. That is to say, they've become physically 
involved with a child."
Randall struggled to remain expressionless.
"But even so, our confidentiality remains paramount. No matter what you tell 
us here, even if you admit to actions which breach the law in some way, even if 
you admitted to harming a child, your total confidentiality is assured at all 
times. Our purpose is to help our clients deal with their problems, not to make 
moral and social judgements about their way of life."
"I guess you won't be shocked by what I tell you, then."
"Not in the slightest, Greg. We've seen and heard things here beyond your 
wildest imagination. Every aberration you could possibly think of."
"Really?"
"Honestly. Obviously I can't elaborate, but rest assured we've seen it all. 
Children. Animals. Inanimate objects. Even the dead. In fact necrophilia is one 
of the biggest growth areas."
Randall shuddered. Fancying little kids was bad enough. The thought of doing it 
to a horse or a sheep left him cold. As for a corpse... 
"I can assure you we have a high success rate for helping our clients to 
resume normal lives, Greg. That said, the treatment isn't always easy, or 
pleasant. Nor is it cheap. Dr Quinlan did tell you there would be a fee?"
"He did."
"Needless to say this kind of specialist help isn't available through the 
National Health Service, except in very exceptional circumstances. And obviously 
such a large organisation cannot guarantee confidentiality in the same way that 
we can."
"I understand."
"We've many years experience, Greg. Rest assured you're doing the right thing 
and you've come to the right place. Ah, here's our refreshments, and your 
ash-tray. I can see you're desperate for it."
Randall had lit his cigarette and was taking the first long drag even before the 
ash-tray was on the table.
"Thank you, Molly. We'll be in session for the next sixty minutes. Please 
ensure we're not disturbed."
As Molly pulled the door closed, Reynolds flattened the computer screen and 
pushed the unit across the table. She gestured to Randall to help himself before 
bringing her own cup to hover by her lips.
"Now Greg, as you can see, no notes are being taken. No recordings being made. 
This is just an informal session. And there's no fee for this assessment. When 
I've had an opportunity to discuss your case with Dr Quinlan we'll prepare a 
detailed plan of action and of course we'll need to discuss fees at that stage. 
Okay?"
Randall nodded.
"But for now I just want you to relax. In your own time, I want you to tell me 
what exactly it is that brings you here. About your interest in little girls. 
What you feel. What you fear you might do. What your fantasies are and how you 
deal with them. Everything you put into the questionnaire, and of course the 
many things you didn't. Be blunt. Use whatever language or expressions you feel 
comfortable with. But above all, be honest. The more honest you are about your 
problem, the better we can help you. Believe me, you won't shock me. However 
unique or bizarre it may seem to you, I've heard it all before. And far, far 
worse, I promise you."
She forced a smile. "Now, let's begin, shall we?"





38


In the van's silent darkness Tina huddled, her body trembling, clutching her 
bike in front of her as a shield. Her screams had quickly subsided and she 
brought all her attention to bear on her plight. 
She'd seen the van parked on the roadside. 
She'd seen the man leaning into it.
What had happened next was a blur but she knew she was in the van now. Fear 
concentrated her mind. She was nine years old. Almost ten. 
Old enough to realise what was happening. 
Old enough to fear the worst.
As time passed she anaged to control her emotions. She knew the van would stop 
at some stage and the doors would open. She knew that would be her only chance. 
She sat and waited, fighting back the tears. Only girls cry, she told herself. 
She was tougher than that.
Eventually the vibrations eased. The engine was off. She took deep breaths in 
the eerie silence, preparing herself, hoping she was facing the doors. She had 
no way of being sure. Not a chink of light broke the terrifying darkness of the 
van, only the motion of the vehicle giving her any sense of direction.
Her plan was a simple one. Her only one. To throw the bike at the man as he 
opened the door. And then to run. Just run. And run. And run.
For a while nothing happened. Unbeknown to her he was enjoying a cigar. He liked 
a cigar before and after. It seemed like an eternity before anything happened. 
Then the van rocked slightly. An acute mind reasoned he was getting out of the 
drivers cabin. A minute passed. She stared straight ahead, trembling fingers 
clutching the bike frame in readiness.
A chink of light. She psyched herself, flexing her muscles. Waiting. 
The door opened a fraction. What was he doing? She waited. 
As the doors widened and daylight flooded in she saw something from the corner 
of her eye. 
It was a reflex action to turn and look. 
The bike fell from her hands, her body paralysed with fear as she saw Laura's 
partially clothed body hanging from the wall of the van adjacent to her, hands 
strapped above her, the weight of her body digging thongs into wrists that had 
long since ceased to bleed.
He pulled the door closed behind him as he climbed in.





39


Randall lit his third cigarette as Reynolds droned.
"Let's come back to your childhood. It's not at all clear to me yet. Are you 
quite sure you don't remember any unpleasant experiences as a child? These 
fantasies... Being tied to a tree with your trousers around your ankles? 
Exposing yourself to school friends in the playground? At infants school? 
They're not the fantasies of normal childhood, Greg, let's be fair. They must 
reflect something that was happening to you at the time. It's a well established 
fact that men who are attracted to children were themselves abused in 
childhood."
"My father did not abuse me, Dr Reynolds."
"Then your father was a very unusual man. All men abuse, Greg. It's in their 
nature to."
Randall shook his head, unwilling even to entertain the suggestion. "No."
"I'm not saying he hurt you. Caused you harm. Abuse can take many different 
forms. But he must have bathed you as a child, surely? It might have happened 
then, without you even realising it. Think about it. It's possible, Greg, isn't 
it Did you bathe together? Did he wash your genitals? Your behind?"
Randall was shaking his head violently. "No."
Reynolds ignored him. "Sometimes the abuse stops when the child is quite 
young. It makes it more difficult to remember in later years. Or maybe it was 
something more serious. Sometimes we shut off unpleasant events as a child. We 
can suppress them so completely that it's as if they never happened. We have no 
conscious memory of them, but then the angst manifests itself in later years, 
comes back to haunt our adult lives. As with this attraction to children for 
example."
"No. that's not what happened." Randall was adamant. Since his father had 
died he had only fond memories. The harsh discipline was forgotten. Whatever his 
faults, his father was not an abuser.
Reynolds was intense. She might have been reading his mind. "The memory can 
play strange tricks, Greg. It can suppress memories. Lock them deep into your 
subconscious. Have you ever heard of Recovered Memory Syndrome? It's where we 
use therapy to regress your memory back to childhood, to find out what really 
happened. I guarantee you anyone who tries it will remember the abuse ffered. I 
did, Greg. I only learned the truth years later, through recovered memory, but I 
was abused by my father as a child. And his brother. My uncle. I just never 
realised what was happening at the time. Or if I did, I shut it out so 
completely it was as if it never happened." 
"My father was not an abuser, Dr Reynolds. If that's what you think then 
perhaps I should go now." He shifted in his seat, as if to get up.
Reynolds' tone changed in an instant. "No, no, if you feel uncomfortable we 
can try a different approach. How about a drink?"
Randall gestured to the half-empty cup. 
"I meant something a little stronger." She was making her way to a drinks 
cabinet. "It will help you relax. Doctor's orders." The smile. " Whisky, 
brandy, vodka... Or a beer? We have some cans in the chiller."
"Please." A cold lager would compliment his last cigarette. God how he 
wished he'd bought a second packet. 
With an ice-cold Budweiser in his hand Randall felt a little more sure of 
himself. He noticed that Reynolds joined him with a vodka and tonic.
"I don't usually drink in the day," she assured him, "but I need to relate 
to your state of mind, the better to understand your anxieties and assess your 
needs."
He eased himself back into the chair and listened to Reynolds as she harped on 
about psychotherapy, how it could help, and how important it was that he should 
be honest with her about his desires. 
Then suddenly she was back with the questions. 
She'd gauged correctly, the alcohol and the relaxed atmosphere combining to make 
her client more cooperative.





40


"Did you have any homosexual experiences while you were growing up?"
"I'm not gay, Dr Reynolds."
"Homosexual interaction between pubescent boys is an entirely natural part of 
male development."
He'd heard that before. That every boy had a homosexual experience as they grew 
up, and that if they denied it they were liars. It was a no-win situation. 
Damned if you did, damned if you didn't. He'd never given it any serious thought 
before. Now he had a vague recollection. With two other boys. The memories were 
flooding back. On the way home from school, under the bridge. He shut his eyes, 
trying to shut out the memory. "No, nothing like that ever happened."
"It doesn't mean you're gay, Greg. Every child goes through it."
"Did you?"
"It's not the same for girls, Greg. I'm quite happy to talk about me, about my 
experiences, if it will make you feel better, but that's not why you came here, 
is it."
She searched his eyes. "Tell me, why did you get married, Greg?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Married. Why did you bother? Was it a cover? An attempt to deny your true 
desires? To keep them a secret?"
"No... we ...we fell in love." He managed a sheepish grin. "Sounds corny, 
I know, but it's true."
"And how old was... Bethan, isn't it? How old was Bethan when you married 
her?"
"Twenty-three."
"And when you met her?"
"Twenty-one."
"So you never knew her as a child?"
"No. Is this relevant?"
"I'm the therapist here, Greg, please. There's no need to be so defensive. You 
obviously have sex. Or at least, have had in the past. You are the father of 
your children, I presume?"
"Of course." It had never occurred to him otherwise and he resented the 
implications.
"How would you rate your sex life? On a scale of one to ten?"
Randall shifted uncomfortably. "I've never thought about it like that."
"Oh come on, Greg. All men think like that. It's in their nature to. Is she 
good? Does she satisfy you? Or doesn't it happen anymore? Is it a thing of the 
past? Is that why you turn to little girls for gratification instead, because 
your wife doesn't satisfy you?"
"No. No, we st do it. A lot. Regularly. I love Bethan very much. She and the 
Twins mean everything to me. We, Bethan and I, have a very active sex life."
Reynolds looked unconvinced. "How did you feel when the children were born?"
"Over the moon. I adore them."
"You wanted girls, of course. Most men prefer their first born to be boys. So 
they can bring up little versions of themselves and delude themselves that their 
son will become the famous footballer or successful businessman they never 
achieved themselves. But you, you were delighted to have girls, weren't you, 
Greg? You would have been disappointed if they'd been boys. That's the truth, 
isn't it?"
"No. They just happened to be girls. We found out very early on what sex they 
were. We call them the Dynamite Twins now, but - "
Reynolds cut across him. "I can guess exactly why you call them that. Let's 
not change the subject, Greg. They were girls. That's what was important to you, 
wasn't it? You were thinking, even then, about yourself, weren't you. About 
having little girls in your own home, beholden to you. Available at your whim, 
to satisfy your needs."
"No." He felt he should object more strongly, but the alcohol was in his 
blood, easing the tension. He popped a second can. Let her say what she liked.
"She's small, your wife, isn't she, Greg? Slightly built, I mean. Small 
breasts? Youthful appearance? Like a Barbie doll?"
He nodded, bewildered. "How did you..?"
"She shaves her pubic hair, doesn't she? You asked her to, isn't that right, 
Greg?"
Randall's mouth dropped open.
"Going Brazilian. Isn't that what they call it? Do you fantasise about being 
with younger girls when you have sex with your wife, Greg, is that it? Which do 
you prefer, her breasts or her genitals?"
He shook his head in disbelief. 
"Her genitals, isn't it? Do you practice cunnilingus? Oral sex? Is that your 
favourite part? Is the real sex, the intercourse, just for show? A pleasure for 
her, but just a mechanical release for you? When you go down on Bethan you're 
imagining she's just a child. That's your fantasy, isn't it? You can be honest 
with me. Nothing you say will ever leave this room."





41


Reynolds looked deep into his eyes. 
"What is it exactly that you find appealing about children, Greg? About little 
girls?"
A long silence, while he emptied the can and opened another. "I can't explain 
it. All I know is I find them attractive."
"By attractive, you mean physically attractive?"
"Yes."
"Sexually attractive?"
"Obviously. That's why I'm here. But I've never touched them, believe me. Not 
ever."
"But you'd like to."
He slugged back the Budweiser. Reynolds topped up her vodka in a sympathy move. 
"It's just about looking. Fantasising. Not the real thing."
Reynolds was nodding eagerly. "Which age group attracts you, Greg? Is it 
younger or older girls that arouse you?"
The alcohol in his blood, he was responding almost without embarrassment. 
"Younger. Not babies. But not too old. Once they start to develop, sexually I 
mean, I seem to find them less appealing. They're still attractive. So are adult 
women. But it's the younger ones I'm drawn to. Say eight, nine. That sort of 
age."
"So puberty is a turn-off?"
"I hadn't thought of it like that, but yes, I guess so. Is that... is that 
normal?"
"Well, normal would be an inappropriate word, but it's by no means uncommon. 
You must realise, Greg, that there are thousands of men out there dealing with 
similar problems. You're not alone in this."
"That's hard to believe."
"Maybe, but it's true. It's just not the kind of thing you can discuss with 
your mates down the pub. It's a very difficult subject."
"Don't I know it."
"You're obviously awf the legal position, Greg, but let's talk hypothetically 
for a moment. Supposing sex with children was legalised. Just supposing it was 
socially acceptable. Supposing you wouldn't be arrested and you wouldn't be 
ostracised by your friends and family if they knew. Would you want to go to bed 
with a child? With an eight or a nine year old? For sex?"





42


Randall stared ahead nervously. He'd said too much already. 
He thought of the Dynamite Twins. 
Precious Natalie and Tamara. 
He slugged back half the can.
"No. I've got two daughters. You know that. I bath them sometimes." He 
stared into the distance. "I can see, literally, how delicate a child's body 
is. How frail. It's unthinkable."
Reynolds looked unconvinced.
"I'm attracted to children. I admit it. I like them. They're a turn on, so 
help me God. But the last thing I would want to do is to hurt them in any 
way."
"But you do think about it. That's why you're here, after all."
"No!" He controlled his voice. "I mean... I see young girls in the street 
or in the park and I find myself staring at them. I want to be with them." 
"And you find that sexually stimulating? Just to watch?" 
"To watch, yes. I don't want to touch them. To harm them. But as time goes by 
the urges becomes stronger. A few years ago I just fantasised about their 
appearance. Then their physical presence. About being with them. That's what 
worries me. Not my fantasising. That's just me. But supposing... Supposing the 
urge gets out of control one day? Supposing I go too far. That I actually touch 
one of them." 
He was sweating, on the edge of his seat, aware that he'd revealed his innermost 
desires to someone else. Someone he'd known less than an hour.
He felt embarrassed. 
Insecure. 
Frightened.
Reynolds said nothing for a full minute, watching him intently, noting his hand 
movements, his body positions, the emphasis he placed on different words. She 
was considering whether to bring the session to a halt here. She decided to try 
one more line of questioning before making a decision.
"Tell me about Natalie and Tamara? Your daughters. What are they like?"
His face broke into a smile. "Just two beautiful little girls. I wouldn't harm 
them, Dr Reynolds. Not them. Not ever."
"It's Ruth, Greg, please. And I believe you. But you've watched them grow up. 
From little babies, to toddlers, to young children. You say you bathe them. Why 
doesn't your wife do that?"
"She works nights. Shifts. It's more practical for me to bath them some 
nights."
"Do you watch them in the bath?"
"Of course. They're only six."
"I meant look at them, like you do with other little girls."
"No. They're my daughters. I don't see them that way. They're different. 
They're not like any other girls."
"But they're still little girls, Greg. Six years old now. But in a few years 
time they'll be eight. Or nine. Your favourite age group. Do you think about 
that sometimes? Do you worry you might lose control one day and do something?"
"No."
"This is strictly confidential, Greg, remember that. You can be totally honest 
with me."
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I think it's time I was going, Dr 
Reynolds. I think it would be best."
"Of course, Greg. That's entirely up to you." She knocked back her vodka. 
"But let me ask you just one more question before you go. Just one. It will 
help my appraisal for Dr Quinlan enormously."
Randall waited, on the edge of his seat.
"Please answer this question frankly, Greg. Honesty is of the utmost 
importance. Have you ever, even once, however innocent or insignificant it may 
have seemed to you at the time, touched your daughters? Their breasts? Their 
genitals. In a sexual way, I mean?"
The half-empty can slipped from his hands as she finished the question, sending 
him to his feet with a beer stained crotch. Amid apologies and the mopping up 
operation the interview was thankfully terminated.
As the taxi departed Reynolds returned to the lounge and crossed to a mirrored 
wall cabinet. She opened the door and switched off the camcorder.





43


"You wanted to see me, Sir?"
Detective Superintendent John Weisman gestured for Pitman to close the door. 
"Take a seat, David. Drink?"
"No thanks, Sir. Never touch the stuff."
"Of course, I was forgetting."
"Something on your mind, Sir?"
Weisman poured himself a Glenmorangie and stood by the window, looking out 
across the station car park, his lips pursed.
"Not much of a view, is it? I imagined an office overlooking the beach when 
they said I was being transferred to Margate. And those bloody seagulls... Don't 
they keep you up at night?"
"You get used to them, Sir."
"You might. Give me the throb of city traffic any day." He turned and faced 
Pitman. "You've heard the rumours, of course."
"Sir?"
"The Dorset kid. The boy in Northumberland. Now the two Welsh girls."
"It happens, Sir. Kids go missing all the time. Most of them turn up. It's 
the rare few that don't that make the tabloid headlines,"
Weisman put his empty glass down. "Cut the crap, David. Please speak freely. 
Is Bristow our man, or isn't he?"
"No, Sir. I don't believe he is."
Weisman bit his bottom lip in concentration. "That's not what I wanted to 
hear."
"Sorry, but it's just not his style. I've said that all along."
"The press are playing merry hell with me at the moment, David, I don't mind 
telling you. That brief of Bristow's. Isaac, is it? He's not helping matters. 
He's already made representations to the IPCC and is talking about formal 
proceedings against the Met for assault. I mean, the sick bastard's not even out 
of hospital yet, for Christ's sake, and his brief's demanding heads roll."
Pitman shrugged. "It's understandable, Sir. Bristow was in a pretty bad way. 
The coincidences were lining up thick and fast. A fail to stop, just when the 
Met boys were looking for him, but no-one managed to get the licence plate? The 
fingers broken on one hand, and a shattered elbow. And a signed confession, in 
his pocket?"
Weisman looked genuinely surprised. "Call me naive, David, but I thought that 
kind of thing went out with The Sweeney."
"Sir?"
"Planted confessions? Kangaroo courts in police cells? I know my history, 
David, but this is the twenty-first century. You can't be serious, surely."
"I don't like it any more than you, Sir. But ask any villain. PACE made a 
difference and no mistake, but that's only once the suspect is logged in and 
formally under Station supervision. What happens before that is anybody's guess. 
With a case like this one, where a child's involved, emotions can run high. With 
all due respect, Sir, it happens."
"If it does, David, it should be stopped. If it's true, we have problems. And 
I do mean we, not just the Met, although Christ, they'll pay dearly if there's 
any substance to Bristow's story. The problem we have is my more immediate 
concern."
"Sir?"
"If Bristow isn't Uncle Tom then who the hell is?"
"And are any of the other missing kids connected," finished Pitman. 
"I'll level with you, David. I'm on the horns of a dilemma. If I re-open the 
investigation now I'll not only be seen to be undermining the Met's position, 
but we're likely to have panic headlines in the tabloids tomorrow. And all 
possibly for nothing. I respect your experience, but the evidence against 
Bristow is compelling, you have to admit."
"The alleged sighting of his vehicle by the canal, you mean? Someone like 
Bristow makes enemiasier than friends. There's a hundred people out there would 
think nothing of making a hoax call to drop him in it. If it were genuine, why 
didn't the caller come forward sooner?"
"But officially we have the man who killed the Meadows child, who's admitted 
to killing her, in custody. There is just no way I can authorise further 
investigation other than for confirmatory purposes."
"If I may make a suggestion, Sir."
"Please, speak freely."





44


"At the moment the evidence is weak against Bristow," Pitman said. 
Weisman nodded. "Go on."
"The CPS will need much more, so we'll have to work on that anyway. Might I 
suggest we continue to put all our efforts into the inquiry, ostensibly to 
obtain the detailed evidence to secure the conviction against Bristow?"
"I'm listening."
"He lives here. The abduction took place here. It's not the Met's bag. In 
doing so we either conclude for certain it was Bristow, in which case all well 
and good - the Met will have the IPCC to deal with, but that's their problem, 
and a guilty verdict will work in their favour - or alternatively we find enough 
evidence to show Bristow was not involved. In which case the Met will still have 
the IPCC on their backs, but at least we can get the investigation back under 
full steam before another child is harmed."
"I like it, David."
"The way I read it, Sir, whoever killed Rebecca will have got a taste for it. 
Given the chance, he'll kill again. If he hasn't already."
Weisman looked more relaxed. "Well let's not get too carried away with maybes, 
David. Just between ourselves, I don't believe he has yet."
"Sir?"
"I spoke to Colin Dunst this morning. Professor Dunst? The forensic 
psychologist? Just an informal call. He and I met on a course last year and 
exchanged numbers, as one does. Anyway, I asked him, off-the-record, supposing 
hypothetically that Bristow wasn't our man, if he thought the killer would 
strike again."
"And?"
"Quietly reassuring, David. Dunst seemed confident that, from what he knew of 
the Meadows case, the murder fell into a recognised category. While he was 
certain the killer would strike again, given the chance, if he's still out 
there, he was also adamant he would strike in the same local area and stick to 
the same sex. Which one way or another rules out all four kids reported missing 
since Rebecca."
"If his profile is right. With respect, Sir, I've very little time for that 
kind of mumbo-jumbo."
"Mumbo-jumbo?"
"In my day it was psychics, Sir. Now it's forensic psychologists. No 
difference to my mind."
"But they've had proven successes, David."
"Coincidences, Sir."
"Be that as it may. We have to explore every avenue of investigation, David. 
That being the case, have you any thoughts on where you might wish to 
concentrate on next?"
"Well, Sir, Bristow is due to be transferred this way tomorrow. Presumably 
Maidstone?"
"I've put in a request for Longport, David, just to make life easier for 
us."
"Isn't that given over to asylum seekers nowadays?"
"I'm sure they'll make an exception if we ask nicely."
"You've obviously not had many dealings with the Prison Service then, 
Sir."
"Is there something I should know about HMP Longport, David?"
"He'll need to be on forty-threes, and under medical supervision, if it can 
take him. If not, then Canterbury hospital will have to squeeze him in, under 
guard. Though given local feeling I'd prefer having him in secure quarters. 
They've already trashed his house pretty badly."
Weisman raised a surprised eyebrow. "Why wasn't I informed?"
Pitman shrugged. "Best ask the uniforms, Sir. I suggest we put Bristow before 
a Magistrate this end at the very first opportunity and confirm the detention, 
on grounds of his own safety, just to keep ourselves whiter than white, and go 
from there. He may prove more cooperative once he's out of the Met's reach."
Weisman walked across to the door, indicating the meeting was over. 
"Thanks, David. I knew I could rely on you."





45


Without his spectacles Bristow could see the screaming crowds only as a blur 
behind the Police barrier, but the atmosphere reeked of hatred, the shouts of 
abuse from people he had never seen and would never know leaving him bewildered 
and frightened.
Court Three looked on eagerly as the two uniformed officers guided him into the 
glass dock, his right hand cuffed to an officer, his left arm encased in a 
heavily bandaged plaster jacket. Some minutes passed before the Broad Street 
Magistrates entered, bringing a deathly silence to the room. 
They made no allusion to his injuries. Isaac made no application for bail. 
Bristow was remanded in custody for a week. 
"Chin up, Thomas," Isaac said cheerfully. "At the end of all this you're 
going to make a fortune in compensation. Wrongful arrest. Unlawful imprisonment. 
Harassment. Police brutality. You'll be able to comfortably retire after 
this." He put a friendly hand on Bristow's shoulder. "A few months and 
you'll be as good as new. In two years you'll be in Thailand living like a 
king."
Bristow looked unconvinced.
"Thomas, Thomas, don't be so glum. The onus is on the prosecution to show it 
was you. Innocent until proven guilty, remember?"
Bristow looked away. "Jeremy, my goldfish. They haven't been fed. Do you think 
you might..."
"Your goldfish? You've been through all this and all you can worry about is 
your goldfish?"
"The water may need changing as well. There's a ,"
"I'll see to it." Isaac hadn't the heart to explain about the house. He'd 
made arrangements for the windows to be boarded. He hadn't been beyond the front 
door, but guessed the goldfish were unlikely to have survived.
"So, I'll see you next Wednesday. Same time, same place?" He smiled at his 
little joke. Then, in serious tone. "You could be out sooner, Thomas, the way 
things are going. Three of the four kids missing since your arrest are still 
unaccounted for. They can't all be runaways. All it takes is one body..."
"Don't even think it, Jeremy. I'd happily make a false statement and spend the 
rest of my life inside if I thought it would bring those missing kids home 
safely."
Isaac fell silent. 
He knew Bristow meant every word. 





46


At Matt's insistence, Claire was at his home to watch the report on the early 
evening news.
She had wanted to be in Court to see Bristow in person, but he had persuaded her 
to stay away, not only from the Court but from her own home for the duration of 
the day. 
It was a wise move. The house was besieged with reporters from first light.
He hit the remote as the bulletin confirmed the remand in custody in Canterbury 
prison, and for a long moment they sat in silence. He got up and wandered to the 
window. The sky was crystal. Through Carl Zeiss binoculars on a metre-high 
tripod he could see a yacht race off the French coast, colourful sails 
resplendent against the Cap Gris.
"So what happens now, Matt?"
He considered the question carefully. "The wheels of justice start turning 
slowly. Very slowly. It could be six months before the trial, if they rush it. A 
year's more likely."
"I want to be there."
"You'll have priority in the gallery. You may even be called to give evidence 
on what Rebecca was doing that day. But you should stay away, Claire, if at all 
possible. It won't be pleasant."
"I can handle it, Matt.
"They'll be going into the sordid details, Claire. Every Over and over."
"I want to know, Matt. I need to know."
He took a seat beside her. "Believe me, Claire, you don't. Even if he pleads 
guilty they'll have to go through what happened. And if he contests it... don't 
go, Claire. Please, just stay away."
"And read about it second-hand in the newspapers the next day?" 
"At least that will be the sanitised version. Court will be the real thing. 
Experts being cross-examined over the minute, obscene details of what he did to 
her. Forensics. Photographs of the body. A reconstruction scenario. It's the 
relatives that suffer at the trial, Claire, not the sick bastards they've come 
to watch go down."
"But I want to see him. To hear him. To try and grasp why. How anyone can do 
such a thing to a child. Can you understand that?"
"He's just scum, Claire. The lowest of the low. Not worth getting upset 
for."
"I won't get upset, Matt." She spoke to the floor, unable to meet his gaze. 
"Rebecca's gone. I've come to terms with that now. Nothing can bring her back. 
I accept that. But only when I see him in the flesh, when I can look into his 
eyes and tell myself he's either devoid of all feeling or he's suffering for 
what he did... Only then will it be truly over for me."
He extended a hand of comfort and she took it gratefully. Her eyes were tearful 
but her voice controlled. 
"It was the same with John. Once the tumour was diagnosed we all knew it was 
only a matter of time. But it was only after the inquest was over that I could 
begin my own life again. To start rebuilding. You remember how it was. I 
couldn't even look after Rebecca properly. You kept us going then, and you're 
doing the same now. It is appreciated, Matt. Really it is."
He reached a hand around her shoulder but she pushed it away gently.
"When I know he's locked away for good, that he can't harm anyone else, then 
I'll be ready to move on." She looked up at him for the first time. "I'll 
make some coffee. Are you hungry?"
He suggested a takeaway and used the opportunity to get out of the house, to 
leave Claire alone a while. 
She needed to cry in private. 
So did he. 





47


When he got back she was more cheerful, fresh make-up, more relaxed. 
Over an indifferent meal of Chinese spare ribs Claire broached the subject 
again. 
"What do you suppose he's doing now?"
Matt suppressed a sigh. "Who?"
"Bristow."
"Forget him, Claire."
"What type of food will he be eating?"
"Porridge."
"I was being serious."
"So why should I be the expert on prison food?"
"You're a crime reporter."
"Will it honestly make you feel better to know?"
"Not if he's eating better than I am."
"Judging from his face he'll be eating nothing but soup for a while."
"His solicitor says he was assaulted by the police."
"Of course he was. According to the grapevine there wasn't a hit and run 
accident at all. The cops did the whole thing. Even typed up the confession."
She looked at him aghast. "You're joking." She added, "Aren't you?"
He shrugged. "Bastards like that deserve all they get. Just forget it."
"But the Police?" 
"It happens all the time, Claire. Don't tell me you're feeling sorry for the 
sick bastard? For God's sake!"
"No, it's just that..." She wasn't sure what it was. Certainly not sympathy. 
"I can't believe the Police did that to him."
"Oh come on, Claire, wake up. You read the papers. The Guildford Four? The 
Bridgewater Four? The Birmingham Six?"
"That's different."
"Course it's not. It's just the cops doing what they're paid for. To get 
results. Making sure the villains admit it."
"But they were innocent."
"That's not the point. Jesus, don't strt going soft on this bastard, 
Claire."
Claire paused to gather her thoughts. "A few weeks ago I would have been 
outside the Court, shouting and screaming with the rest of them. But I told you, 
I'm over that now. I'm in control. I'm looking to the future, not dwelling on 
the past."
"So why all these questions about what the sick fucker's eating?"
She pushed her rice around the plate with a chop-stick, unable to muster an 
appetite. "I don't know. Just curiosity, I guess. The nearest I've ever been 
to a jail is when I had to collect you and John from Dover police station that 
time for being drunk and disorderly."
Matt grinned sheepishly. "There's a subtle difference between a night in 
police cells and being on remand in a real jail."
"So enlighten me. Tell me what he'll be doing. Wearing? Eating? Everything."
Matt let out a long sigh. "Well, the kitchens at Canterbury nick aren't 
exactly haute cuisine."
"Meaning some are?"
"You'd be surprised."
"So surprise me."
"It varies. Some nicks are very good, others are lousy. Maidstone is good. The 
Green, average. I hear Parkhurst is top class. The screws shop for you twice a 
week."
Claire shook her head in disbelief. "And Canterbury is...?"
"A shit-hole. It's a holding nick. Used to be remands, short convictions. 
Non-payment of fines, that sort of thing. Nowadays I think it's mainly for 
failed asylum seekers. But Bristow will be on forty-threes anyway."
"Forty-threes?"
"Rule forty-three. Segregation of prisoners for their own safety. The VPU. 
Vulnerable Prisoners Unit. Nonces, mainly."
"Nonces?"
Matt smiled. This was hard work. "Prison slang for sex-offenders. Any nonce 
has a hard time inside. It's a very macho set-up. The most anti-social elements 
of the male population stuck together in conditions you wouldn't keep an animal 
in. There's a certain hierarchy among the cons. At the top you have the big 
criminals: heavy-duty gangsters, drugs barons, armed robbers, that sort of 
thing. Common thieves like burglars and the like come somewhere in the middle. 
At the bottom come muggers, joy-riders and handbag snatchers. Then there's the 
lowest of the low. The nonces."
"So Bristow is a nonce?"
"You got it. In his own cell, all alone, shitting himself. I guarantee you 
he'll be dreading every footstep he hears. Cowering in the corner every time he 
hears the keys in the door."
Claire shuddered. "It sounds obscene." 
"Claire, he's a nonce. That's obscene. The lousy, sick bastard deserves 
everything he gets."





48


The Queen Street offices of Witherton, Stanley & Jones, Solicitors, were hardly 
plush. A converted private dwelling above what had once been a hardware store 
formed the main offices of the firm, with the bay windowed shop now the 
blue-carpeted reception area, waiting room and main entrance.
The direct line buzzed twice. Isaac picked it up expecting Conrad Buckmaster, 
the barrister approached to defend Bristow, or maybe a family call. Only a 
select few had the direct line number. Lesser mortals had to go the hard way, 
through Karen.
"Yo! Isaac. Who've I got?" He'd answered the phone "Yo!" ever since he'd 
seen Rocky.
"Matt Burford. Southern Media." A sarcastic drawl added, "So glad to find 
you in at last, Jeremy."
Isaac glared at the phone, a mixture of anger and disbelief. He's been avoiding 
returning Matt's calls for days now. Karen had specific instructions to fob him 
off.
"How did you get this number, Mr Burford?"
"If you will insist on not returning calls..."
"I've been busy."
"Haven't we all, Mr Isaac. I'd like to ask you a few questions about your 
client."
"Which one?" He knew damn well, but stalled for time. This was a 
conversation he could do without just now.p> 
"Our mutual friend, Mr Bristow."
"You've surely heard of client confidentiality, Mr Burford?"
"I understand the legal position, Mr Isaac, but this is important."
"Mr Burford, my client has been charged. Those details are public knowledge. 
I'm not at liberty to comment further. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to be in 
Court this afternoon."
"Do you lie to everyone who calls, Mr Isaac, or just those you wish to 
avoid?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Your afternoon is pretty free so far. You intended to spend it tying up some 
loose ends from recent cases. Regina v. Denton. Regina v. Mills. But that was 
presuming you got back from the Magistrates' Court by eleven. You didn't. You've 
been back less than ten minutes. By the time you've had lunch it will be two 
o'clock. Your next booked appointment is at three-thirty."
Isaac stared down the phone, gob-smacked. Burford had just read off his 
blackberry entries for the day, virtually word for word. He considered his 
response carefully, the mind ticking over at idle speed, warming to the 
challenge. "That's a number of lucky guesses, Mr Burford. Too many for 
coincidence, wouldn't you say?"
"I've done my homework."
"Evidently. What exactly is it you want?"
"Answers to questions. Off the record."
"Off the record?"
"You heard correctly."
"You appreciate I could have an injunction out on you, your editor and your 
publisher in a matter of hours, if need be."
On the other end of the phone Matt smiled to himself. The fish was hooked. "I 
know that, Mr Isaac. My editor knows that. He's not going to risk losing a full 
print-run for five minutes of glory. Nor am I. You must be aware I have a very 
personal interest in this case."
"I am aware of that, yes. So this is a personal call?"
"You could say that."
"Strictly off the record? Come what may?"
"I have my reputation too, Mr Isaac."
A pause, then, "Where and when?"
"This afternoon?"
"Sooner rather than later. I've genuinely got a busy evening."
"I know. You're having dinner with a client. Or rather, with his wealthy 
father. A Mr Kemsley, anxious to keep his errant son out of the papers."
Isaac's annoyance briefly showed. "How the hell do you know all this?"
"Where shall we meet?"
"My office?"
"Somewhere neutral. Are you hungry?"
"Are you paying?"
"You drive a hard bargain, Mr Isaac."
"Just trying to make ends meet, Mr Burford. Where are you now?"
"In my car, just below your window."
Isaac kicked his feet and pushed his chair across to the window. The casters 
needed oiling. Down below Matt Burford raised his mobile in acknowledgement. 
Isaac chuckled to himself. Sneaky bastard!
"Drive round the corner. I'll be with you in five minutes."





49


They collected cod and chips twice from Peter's Fish Bar on the Royal Harbour. 
It was Isaac's choice, to Matt's surprise. In his business you mixed with 
people of strange persuasions. But never before with a brief who preferred take 
away fish and chips to a free meal at an expensive restaurant. 
Still, Matt had no complaints. McIntyre was always giving him grief about his 
expenses account. Let's see the tight-fisted bastard complain about this one!
They parked on the West Cliff, close to Pegwell Bay. Through the steam-misted 
window the coast of France could just be made out on the horizon.
"You're aware Rebecca was taken from this area."
"Of course, and you and Claire have my deepest sympathies. But it wasn't 
Thomas Bristow. Let me be very clear, Mr Burford, that my client will be 
fighting this all the way."
"So I gather. You wouldn't have enlisted Conrad Buckmaster otherwise."
Isaac stared at him. "How oearth..?"
"Let's talk about Bristow. Off the record."
"As you wish. Let's be clear this so-called confession was extracted under 
duress."
"I've heard the rumours, of course. What about the hit and run accident?"
"A police fiction, Mr Burford. My client was taken to an unknown London Police 
Station, subjected to a vicious assault, dumped on the streets again, then 
formally arrested. The confession was produced with a word processor and ink-jet 
printer. Thomas Bristow hasn't even got a typewriter."
Matt screwed up the chip wrappers and bounced them through the window into a 
nearby bin. "Jeremy, let me be blunt. I don't give a fuck about your client, 
about his welfare, or about his treatment by the Met. All I want is an honest 
answer: Did Bristow kill Rebecca?"
There was not the slightest hesitation. "No. No, he did not."
"You're very confident."
"I know my client, Mr Burford. He did not kill the child, I promise you. I'm 
sorry. I know that's not what you want to hear. But Thomas Bristow is innocent. 
He had no part in this foul crime, as you'll learn if we go to trial."
"If?"
"I believe my client will be released much sooner than that, Mr Burford. The 
only trial Thomas Bristow will be attending is that of the police officers who 
assaulted him."
Matt stared out of the window. "Look, I know how the cops operate. I can 
readily accept Bristow made the statement under duress. And yes, I appreciate 
the legal standpoint if that's true. But I have just one concern here. Did 
Bristow kill Rebecca? Because if he didn't, then the sick bastard who did is 
still out there. I just want to be able to tell Claire one way or another. 
That's all. Just to put her mind at rest."
Isaac came back slowly. "Thomas Bristow did not kill Rebecca. You have my 
assurance of that."
"Can you prove it?"
"It's not for us to prove. The onus is on the prosecution. Innocent until 
proven guilty, remember? Besides, though it pains me to say it, I'm very much 
convinced we won't need to."
Matt took a deep breath. "Go on."
"Whoever killed your friend's daughter, this Uncle Tom, is still out there. 
And you can be sure he'll kill again, if he hasn't already. It's not a pleasant 
thing to say, Mr Burford, but what we're praying for just now is for the next 
body to turn up."





50


Matt looked out over the sea, considering the statement. "So what do you plan 
to do meanwhile?"
"Short term there's nothing we can do. Besides, the longer Thomas Bristow is 
inside, the bigger the pay-out. Wrongful arrest, malicious prosecution, assault, 
unjustified remand. Do you know what the going rate is for unlawful imprisonment 
just now? Tax free! Then there's punitive damages... It's a shame I'm not on a 
percentage."
Matt suppressed a smile. Isaac was no fool. But he had nothing to gain by 
protesting his client's innocence so strongly off the record. "Why did you 
agree to talk to me?"
Isaac smiled. "Favours banked. Why else?"
"Anything special in mind?"
"Fair coverage when we hit back."
"And when will that be?"
"After the trial, if it goes that far. Or after the next body is found. 
Whichever is sooner."
"Bristow was an ice-cream man, wasn't he?"
"A long time ago, and yes, his name's Thomas. But that's a pretty tenuous 
link."
"I understand a car identical to his was seen near the canal around the time 
Rebecca's body was disposed of."
"A red Peugeot, yes. There must be thousands of red Peugeots in London."
"That's still a lot of a coincidences."
"Exactly, Mr Burford. Coincidences. Perhaps too many? Anyone can make a hoax 
phone call."
"Doesn't it ever bother you Bristow may be guilty?"
"I'm paid to defend my client's interests, Mr Burford. Guilt and ence don't 
come into the equation, you know that. My job is to see him acquitted 
regardless. But I say again, off the record as on, my client did not kill the 
girl."
"At his last trial Bristow admitted to having, and I think I'm quoting 
correctly, a vile and detestable interest in young children. Are you telling me 
that was a forced confession too?"
"Mr Burford, my client was looking at a long jail sentence. He said what was 
necessary to get it shortened."
"By admitting to being a filthy pervert?"
"By asking for help. By admitting the act. Avoiding the children having to 
give evidence. Thomas Bristow has never denied his sexual predilections. He's a 
paedophile. He makes no secret of it. But that doesn't make him a murderer."
"It's pretty damn close in my book."
"There's a world of difference, Mr Burford. Besides, after the last incident 
my client underwent treatment for his problem."
"Treatment?"
"I'm not at liberty to discuss details. Suffice it to say he sought help."
"But he wasn't cured."
"Paedophilia isn't a disease, Mr Burford. You can't just take a tablet, spend 
a few days in bed and it's gone. There aren't any vaccinations or miracle cures. 
My client would argue strongly that it's just a sexual desire, like any 
other."
"Your client is sick, Mr Isaac. Abusing little kids is not my idea of a normal 
sexual desire."
"Nor mine, I assure you. The point is, as I've said, just because my client 
admits to being a paedophile does not make him a murderer. Least of all does it 
make him the killer of the girl, Rebecca. You obviously haven't studied his 
history closely enough."
"I've read the reports."
"I suggest you read them again."
"Is there something I should know?"
Isaac shrugged. "You're obviously a resourceful man, Mr Burford. You've proved 
that already, by getting me here."
Matt smiled. "Go on."
"Actually it's all a matter of public record. It should be patently obvious 
why my client is innocent of the charges just from the press coverage, never 
mind what forensic will fail to turn up in due course. I really don't think 
there's anything else I can say at this stage." Isaac opened the car door and 
prepared to get out, bracing himself against the sea breeze. 
"I'll walk back, if you don't mind. Thanks for the lunch. I'll be in touch 
sometime. You owe me."
He closed the door and strolled off, brief-case under his arm, enjoying the 
scenery. Matt watched him go. He rang his desk and left instructions for 
hard-copy of all the reports on Bristow to be ready for when he got back. 
He'd read them on screen a dozen times now, but nothing sprang to mind to fit in 
with Isaac's comments. He'd read them again tonight, on paper. Things read 
differently on paper sometimes. 
Maybe another conversation with Gavin Large would be productive. If anyone knew 
how the minds of these people worked, it was Gavin.
As he made his way back to Canterbury he pondered what favours Isaac might come 
back with. He reconsidered the conversation they'd just had. He wished he'd 
recorded it now. Off the record, of course. Time was, he recorded every 
conversation as a matter of habit. He'd gotten lax. Maybe that was why he was 
stuck working for a lousy regional press outfit instead of Fleet Street. 
But then again, there were some contacts he'd never have made on Fleet Street. 
He smiled to himself as he dialled a number. 
Seconds later a boy's voice answered. 





51


Like every kid brought up in a seaside resort, Matt had always loved the 
arcades. 
He'd never lost his attraction for the bright lights, the white noise, and the 
unique electronic aroma of the amusement arcade. Unwilling, so he told himself - 
unable would be more honest - to learn the skills required to master modern 
video games, he only played the slots nowadays. 
Stuck one time with five nudges and not the faintest idea where the triple bars 
were, he had suddenly found himself pushed aside by a cheerful young teenager 
who pushed the nudge buttons with one hand while playing his own machine with 
the other. Matt had his jackpot. He also had a new tag-along companion, like it 
or not.
At first it was journalistic intrigue that found the two sat in Cafe Nero on 
the High Street. It transpired the kid knew off by heart the reel sequences of 
every fruit machine in town. It seemed to Matt he spent more time there than at 
school. In fact, it transpired he didn't even go to school. It had the makings 
of a nice little human-interest story for the inside pages. Truancy. Child 
gambling. The making of young criminals, perhaps. 
But by then the kid had moved on to reveal a more insidious interest in 
computers than video games and arcade gambling. He was, he told Matt in hushed 
tones, a hacker. Better still, a cracker! If he wanted any help with a story - 
credit history, personal details, you name it , the kid could deliver.
Matt humoured the boy, made his excuses and left. Maybe he'd follow up the fruit 
machine angle at a later date. Maybe not. It was no big deal. He had more 
important fish to fry.
A week later he had arrived home from Southern Media, having just finished a big 
story on a drugs haul at Dover, when the bell rang. He winced. He was hungry, 
tired, and didn't need visitors. He stared down at a grinning, freckled face and 
suppressed an expletive. 
The kid was small for his age. Thirteen, he claimed. Looked more like ten. 
Eleven, maybe. "Danny, isn't it?"
"And there was I thinking you'd forgotten."
The kid stood on the step. Matt kept himself firmly across the doorway.
"I'm kinda busy just now. Is there something I can do for you?"
"You gonna invite me in, or what?"
Matt glared at the kid. "On your bike, sonny."
"I thought a good journalist never turned down a story."
"Danny, I said I'd think about it. Now if you don't mind, I've been up all 
night and need some peace and quiet."
"I liked the way you blamed the French customs."
"I'm sorry?"
"The smack haul, at Dover. It was a good report."
Matt glanced at his watch. The evening papers hadn't finished printing yet. He 
looked at the kid strangely. "Am I missing something?"





52


Danny smiled enigmatically. 
It was a smile Matt would come to know well over the coming months. 
The boy handed him a sealed brown A4 envelope. "Here. When you've had your 
peace and quiet have a butchers at these. My numbers are on the back."
"Your numbers?" He turned the envelope over. Rows of digits were scrawled on 
the back in what was obviously Danny's handwriting.
"Landline, mobile, twitter, facebook, several e-mails. Take your pick."
Matt began pushing the door closed. "Yeah, I'll call you. Thanks."
He shut the door in the boy's face. Kids! The last thing he wanted was a bunch 
of arcade brats plaguing him with story leads. Didn't they have school 
newspapers anymore? Another good reason why the brat should attend classes. 
He threw the envelope to one side, showered and made a snack of three poached 
eggs on toast with half a pack of smoked, rindless Danish, lightly grilled, and 
a can of baked beans. He sat in front of the TV to eat, relax and watch the 
local news. The drugs haul was the lead story, as he'd expected. The report was 
very much in line with what would shortly be hitting the news-stands under his 
by-line. That reminded him of Danny.
He mopped up the sauce with a slice of wholemeal bread, wiping the plate clean, 
and slid it in the sink with the residue washing up from the previous two days. 
He looked at the growing pile with distaste. He'd tend it later that afternoon.
Or maybe that evening. 
Tomorrow at the very latest. 
Unless something else cropped up. 
Hell, he wasn't expecting visitors, so what was the hurry?
He picked up the envelope the kid had left and wandered across to the window, 
looking out over the Channel. Windsurfers were riding the waves off-shore. It 
was a beautiful day. Almost too good to stay in. Especially with the washing up 
in the sink, lurking.
A mixture of duty and curiosity found him slitting open Danny's envelope, 
stifling a yawn, and pulling out a sheath of papers. 
Maybe he'd go to bed instead. A few hours sleep would be useful. Perhaps he 
could get Claire to go the pictures that evening. He scanned the first page 
disinterestedly. There was a new Spielberg movie out that week. Sam Ogilvy, 
Southern Media's erstwhile arts, food, motoring and royal events correspondent 
had recommended it. 
He scanned the page again. 
More slowly. 
Then another. 
And a third, his expression a mixture of anger and disbelief. 
He reached for the receiver, punching in the number. 
He counted six rings before the kid answered.
"Mr Burford. You took your time."
"You know the coffee bar on the High Street?"
"Nero's?"
"Meet me there in fifteen minutes."
"But I'm -"
"Nero's. Fifteen minutes. Be there." 
He slammed the phone down. 
God-damned kids!





53


Danny was already waiting when Matt arrived, and two lattes were lined up. The 
brat must have ran. He sat down heavily and threw the envelope across the table.
"How the fuck did you get these?"
"That's no way to speak to your new partner."
Matt was speechless.
"I got you a coffee. S'okay. I've paid."
Matt waved the envelope in the boy's face. "What's this all about?"
Danny made a point of looking round dramatically to make sure no-one was 
listening. In a low voice, "I told you. I'm a hacker. A cracker."
"But these are my fucking financial details! How did you get them?"
"Keep your voice down." The boy was obviously enjoying the subterfuge. "I 
accessed the credit agency's computer."
"You did what?"
"Shhh. I don't want everyone knowing."
"And my medical records?"
"How d'ya think?"
Matt took deep breaths. He'd covered computer crimes often enough. He had a lot 
of respect for anyone with the skills to do it. But when it was his own details 
being accessed... 
"Alright, so you're a computer whiz-kid. You've made your point. Has anyone 
else seen these?"
"Not through me. But anyone can, if they've got the equipment." He grinned. 
"And the know-how."
Matt absently reached for his latte. "I need to think a minute."
"I had a look at your criminal record too. But I didn't print it off. Didn't 
think you'd appreciate that."
Matt stared at the smiling face before him, his mouth open. "I haven't got 
one."
"Drunk and disorderly, nineteen-ninety -"
"Jesus! You can get into the PNC?"
"Took me ages." He looked furtively around. "The original was a lot 
easier, apparently. Before my time, mind. PNC2 can be a bastard sometimes."
Matt listened in disbelief. Danny took it as a cue to continue. "At the moment 
the set-up's pretty straight forward. As well as the main centre at Hendon 
there's the switching points around the country to access through, and two and a 
half thousand terminal links, not to mention the forty-one independent Force 
computers."
"How the hell do you know all this?"
Danny gave an enigmatic smile. "Alert is even harder."
"Alert?" He couldn't hide the surprise in his voice. 
"The NCIS set up. I've only managed to get in once, through their Bristol 
centre. It's got five regional centres, you know. London, Birmingham, Wakefield, 
Manchester and Bristol. It's mega."
Matt stared at the kid, dumbstruck. As crime correspondent it was his job to 
have a working familiarity with developments in police methods. But the kid was 
reeling off details of the operations of NCIS, the National Criminal 
Intelligence Service, the like of which he barely knew himself.
"What about these?" Matt pointed to his financial statements.
Danny laughed dismissively. "Piece of piss. Credit agencies are wide open. If 
you like, I could up-grade your credit rating. Get you accepted for a Gold Card. 
You haven't a chance in hell at the moment, not with those County Court 
Judgements against you."
Matt stared at the kid. "Okay, I get the picture. You're a regular smart-arse. 
So you must know there's nothing worth blackmailing me for. So why go to all 
this effort?"
Danny shrugged nonchalantly. "Because I can."
"I meant, why me?" 
"I wanna be your partner. Someone you can call on, when you need information 
you can't get elsewhere."
"And what makes you think I could actually use information obtained by you, 
always supposing I would want to? Which I don't."
"You'd find a way."
Matt struggled to keep his annoyed expression on show. The kid was dynamite. 
Maybe he could re-establish himself as a name in journalism. Tell McIntyre where 
he could stuff his lousy job. Get back on the London circuit. But... He looked 
at Danny, drinking his latte through a straw, baseball cap on back to front. He 
was just a kid, for Christ's sake.
"Shouldn't you be at school?"
The smile again. "I'm de-registered."
"You're what?"
"I accessed the LEA files and changed my details."
"You're joking."
He wasn't.
McIntyre was very impressed by Matt's new source.
But the traffic wasn't all one way. 
In return Danny wanted autographs. Not just any old autographs, but autographs 
of the infamous. Autographs of hardened criminals. 
Matt had put his foot down at that. 
A mere slip of a kid doting on murderers, rapists, robbers and spies?
No way!





54


With the file under his arm containing the cuttings on Bristow, and a copy of 
Top Gear in his other hand, Matt joined the kid in their usual seat at the rear 
of Cafe Nero. 
Still full from the fish and chips lunch with Jeremy Isaac he declined the offer 
of a muffin. They chatted casually about the weather and the rubbish on TV. 
Anything but the purpose of their rendezvous. They left together, Matt carrying 
a copy of The Guardian handed over from the boy, Danny feigning interest in a 
Clarkson article about speed cameras.
Matt walked back to his flat, slipped the brown envelope from within the 
broadsheet's pages and withdrew the print-off of Bristow's PNC file with a 
satisfied expression. Another great piece of research from the boy wonder.
Danny cycled home and ran upstairs to his bedroom. He slipped the autograph card 
from the magazine, which went promptly in the bin. He brought down his album 
from the shelf, inserting the new entry in place. He sat back in his seat, 
satisfied with the exchange. 
Broadmoor inmates were notoriously difficult to access, but Matt had yet to let 
him down. 
Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper, now held pride of place in his autograph 
album. 





55


"Can we get in now, Daddy?"
Randall turned off the taps and dipped his hand through the bubbles to test the 
water. He ran the cold tap again and nodded to the Dynamite Twins. Three 
evenings a week Randall took responsibility for seeing the twins ate their tea 
and got to bed on time. Bath times were every other night.
Tamara and Natalie were flinging their clothes to the ground with the carefree 
abandon that only six year olossess. One of the twins began to clamber over the 
side of the bath while the other struggled determinedly with a stubborn sock.
Automatically Randall reached his hands beneath her arms, holding her chest for 
support as he lifted her gently into the water. He'd done it a thousand times 
before, without a second thought. 
Have you ever touched your daughters, Greg? Their breasts? Their genitals? 
However insignificant it might have seemed at the time?
He released his hands, recoiling upright and Tamara fell the few remaining 
inches into the water, sending a wave of frothy bubbles over the floor.
Unhurt but shaken, she looked at her father, eyes wide with surprise and 
confusion. "What's wrong, Daddy?"
Randall put on a smile and laughed the incident away, wrapping a towel around 
Natasha before lifting her into the bath opposite her sister. The towel slipped 
into the water alongside her, soaking up the bubbles, to the girls' delight, and 
for the twins, at least, the moment passed.
He looked at the two girls, barely visible through the froth, oblivious to the 
turmoil in their father's mind. It had been a mistake, he was convinced now. The 
voice of Dr Quinlan on the phone had been reassuring. Quietly understanding. But 
when he'd left the Foundation, after the session with that woman, he'd felt 
sick. 
Nervous. 
Worried.
Despite Reynolds' assurances of confidentiality he had been waiting for the 
knock at the door ever since. The police. Social workers. Educational 
psychologists. God only knows who else. 
Coming to take away the Dynamite Twins. 
To take him away from them.
Natalie was tugging at his sleeve. He snapped his mind back to the present.
"Yes poppet, what's up?"
"Aren't you coming in with us, Daddy?"
"Yes, come in, Daddy. Come on, before all the bubbles pop," Tamara encored, 
throwing a handful of froth at him.
He wiped the bubbles from his face with a flannel. 
"No, not tonight, sweet-pies. I think you're getting a bit old for that now, 
aren't you?"
"No!" the girls assured him as one. "Come on. Please, Daddy, please."
Tamara stood up precariously, reaching out to her father. Instinctively he 
reached out to steady her. Self-consciously he stopped himself. Tamara stood, 
waiting, confused by his reaction. He watched the soapy bubbles slide down her 
naked body, gleaming in the light.
The twins chanted for him to join them. "Daddy in the bath! Daddy in the 
bath!" 
He forced a laugh. "No, not tonight, girls. You'll be seven next birthday. Big 
girls don't share baths with their daddies."
"Yes they do," Natalie assured him. "Stacie does, and so does Tina. And 
they're already seven. We went to their parties, didn't we, 'Mara."
Randall collected a ball of froth in his hands and placed it gently on Tamara's 
head. She brushed it off with a giggle. 
"Oh yes? How do you know that?" He struggled to sound casual.
"We talked about it in class today."
It was like being struck by lightning. His face paled. He felt faint. His knees 
were buckling beneath him. He grabbed the side of the bath to steady himself, 
trying to control the tremor in his voice. "What do you mean, you talked in 
class? 
"With our teacher, Mrs Hollis."
His heart missed several beats, his pulse racing, his face flushed. He grabbed 
the nearest girl by the wrist and pulled her towards him, his voice sharp, 
menacing.
"When was this? What did you tell her?"





56


"Daddy, you're hurting me." Natalie struggled against his grip, frightened. 
Bewildered.
Randall let go instantly. He reached out to Natalie to comfort her but she 
backed away, confused, in tears. 
Tamara looked on, horrified, at a loss to understand the transformation in her 
father. Her bottom lip quivered, wide, confused eyes flooding with tears.
"Natalie, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you." He struggled to control his 
voice. "Are you okay, precious?"
The girl nodded, but his strained smile was not reciprocated. He took her arm 
and gently massaged her wrist.
"Here, this will make it better. I'm really sorry, poppet. Tamara, you tell me 
what happened at school. Who was asking you these questions?"
Tamara ventured a hesitant response, not knowing what was wrong, fearing she 
might upset her father again. "It was just Mrs. Hollis, Daddy. And a police 
lady."
"A police lady?" He could feel the blood pulsing in his temple. The veins 
stood out on his forearms. They knew. That woman Reynolds. She must have told 
them! 
He fought for control, clutching Natalie's wrist. "Who did they speak to 
first? You or your sister?"
Confused. Not understanding. "All of us, of course."
"All of you? What do you mean? Tamara, tell Daddy exactly what happened."
"Why?"
"Just bloody tell me!" 
Both girls were in tears. Natalie found her voice first, bottom lip trembling. 
"It was the whole class, together. The police lady talked to us about 
strangers. About how children have to be careful."
His throat was dry. "Go on, poppet. It's okay. Just tell Daddy what 
happened."
"About how we mustn't go off with strangers or get in their cars or take 
sweets off them."
"And we must never let anyone touch us anywhere. Especially not our 
privates," Tamara added, a smile returning to her face.
Natalie laughed nervously. "That was when Tina Burton said that she'd seen her 
daddy's willy." 
"And the police lady asked how," Tamara added, giggling at the memory. "So 
Tina told her."
Randall held his breath. "That she shared a bath with her daddy?"
Tamara nodded. "Uh-huh. Then Natalie said that's what we do, and so did some 
other kids. Bobby Wilson did, and Cathy - "
"And what did this police lady say when you told her that? Did she ask you 
anything else?" Randall kept the smile on his face, just. 
"No. She said it was okay to have a bath with mummies or daddies but not with 
strangers."
He felt a weight lift from his mind. "And that was it?"
"Uh-huh. Why, Daddy?"
All smiles. "Because Daddy's interested, of course. Why else? Daddy likes to 
know what the Dynamite Twins get up to at school. Is your arm okay now, Natalie? 
I didn't mean to hold it so hard. I'm sorry, poppet. Do you forgive me?"
"It hurts a little bit. Can we have some ice-cream when we get out?" Natalie 
knew when she was on to a good thing.
"Course you can, sweetness. The Dynamite Twins can have anything they want. If 
you get out now you can have an extra scoop each."
"We haven't done our hair yet," Tamara protested.
"We'll do it next time. Mummy won't mind. Here, you first, Tamara." He held 
out a towel and wrapped it round the girl as she stood up, lifted her out and 
placed her gently to the ground. She stood upright with her arms in the air, 
waiting to be towelled dry.
"Now listen," he said as he lifted Natalie alongside her sister, "tonight 
I want you both to dry yourselves on your own, alright? Then if teacher ever 
asks you can say you're big girls and don't need Daddy to dry you, okay?"
The girls exchanged glances, unsure how to react. What was the point of being 
six if you had to dry yourselves after a bath? You might as well be a grown-up!
"Okay. But you have to get the ice-cream ready," Tamara bargained.
"Three scoops each for the Dynamite Twins! The most beautiful girls in the 
world." 
But he refrained from the customary hug and kiss that usually followed such an 
exclamation. There would have to be some changes from now on. Changes in the way 
he treated the girls. How he held them. How he touched them. Even what he said 
to them. 
Life wouldn't be worth living if anything ever happed to the twins.
And maybe, just maybe, he'd broach the subject with Bethan. 





57


"Claire! I wasn't expecting you."
That much was obvious. The suspicion was instant. "I'm sorry. You're busy. I 
should have rang first." She stood in the doorway, uncertain how to react.
"Please, come in. It's just... I was working, that's all."
She followed him through, feeling uncomfortable. "I was just out for a walk. 
Ended up here. I saw your car..." Why was she justifying herself like this? 
She often called in unannounced. She had a key. "I won't stay."
"No, no, it's okay." Matt was in control again. "Coffee?"
"You're sure it's no bother? I don't want you missing a deadline." She 
scanned the room for evidence that anyone else had been there. It was an 
open-plan apartment. Only the bedroom and bathroom were private. The bedroom 
door was open. 
Did he have a girl in the bathroom? She dismissed the thought. He wouldn't. Not 
Matt. Especially not now. 
She felt guilty. Since Rebecca's murder she'd been very cool towards him. 
Towards all men. 
He understood that, surely? 
It would take time.
"Nice walk?" He set the percolator in action. 
"Fine." She saw the anxious glances towards the desk, where papers lay 
spread out in front of the computer. A tablet of scribbled shorthand lay next to 
them. A full, cold cup occupied the coaster on the corner. Anything that caused 
a coffee to go un-drunk had to be serious.
"There's a lovely breeze coming off the sea. The harbour's busy too. A 
beautiful yacht was pulling in as I arrived. It must have sailed past. Did you 
see it?" She manoeuvred herself casually around the room, picking up the 
binoculars, her mind elsewhere. She found herself drawn to the work he had 
obviously been engrossed in when she arrived. His nervous glances towards the 
desk only served to sharpen her interest.
The percolator began bubbling.
"I didn't notice. What type of yacht?"
"Just a yacht. Looks like you've been busy?"
"It's nothing. Just some background research." He made his way to the desk, 
shut down the computer and began gathering the papers together. It wasn't quite 
casual enough. Claire was hooked.
The phone rang. Claire was nearest, but Matt leapt across the room and grabbed 
it before she could move.
"Burford. Oh, Mac, it's you. Yes. Tomorrow. Hold on." He gestured to Claire. 
"Throw us a pen, love."
There was one on the desk. She moved across and picked it up, about to take it 
to him. She changed her mind and threw it. A deliberately poor shot. He stooped 
to pick it up.
"Claire, don't..." He spoke quickly into the receiver. "Mac, I'll call you 
back."
Claire was staring at one of the sheets of paper she had picked up. A computer 
print out. She recognised the name. Thomas Martin Bristow. 
A hand was on her arm, leading her away. His other hand took the papers and put 
them back on the desk. "Claire, please."
"What's going on, Matt? It's about Rebecca, isn't it?"
"The coffee's nearly ready."
"Matt, what's happened?"
Matt was firm but reassuring. "I need the caffeine, even if you don't. I'll 
explain everything in a minute. Please."





58


She waited in impatient silence while he brought the coffees over. She ignored 
hers. She had a thousand questions, but couldn't manage any of them.
"I was going to tell you tonight, Claire. It's not definite yet. Nothing 
official. I thought that might have been the confirmation. Pitman said he'd ring 
the moment he had any news."
Claire looked at him bewildered. He was making no sense. 
"It started a few days ago. I got wind that Jeremy Isaac, Bristow's solicitor, 
was talking with Conrad Buckmasr, the barrister." He saw from Claire's face 
that the name meant nothing to her. "He's an aggressive London lawyer. Young, 
ambitious, anti-establishment. Impressive track record. That's why I met with 
Isaac yesterday. Off the record."
"Off?"
"Contempt of Court Act, '81. I'm not allowed to report anything that might 
prejudice the trial. But Isaac agreed to talk to me in a personal capacity. 
Because of my relationship with Rebecca. With you... And because he wants a 
sympathetic reporter on his side."
"Sympathetic? You? I don't understand, Matt." 
"Nor did I. But I figured someone will end up with the inside story, so why 
not us? At least that way we'd have some control over what gets printed."
Claire looked unconvinced. "He gave you these papers?"
"God, no. He'd be struck off. No, we just talked. About Bristow."
"And?"
"Isaac thinks he's innocent. Believes it, I mean, not just playing Rumpole. 
You know other children have been reported missing recently..."
"I saw the Crimewatch special last night. The two girls in Wales. The boy in 
Humberside. But they said there was nothing to connect them."
Matt took her hand. "Bear with me. It'll make more sense if I tell it in 
order." He downed the coffee in one. "Isaac said if I looked at the evidence 
objectively it would be obvious Bristow had nothing to do with Rebecca. I was 
going through the material when you arrived."
"I'm so sorry, Matt. I thought for a minute..."
He missed the point. "I was going to tell you, but not yet. I wanted to be 
sure. There may be nothing to it. It's just..."
"Just what, Matt?"
"It's like Isaac said. Only the death of another child will put Bristow in the 
clear."
"Oh God, they've found a body."
"It's not official yet. There's nothing at all to connect it with Rebecca at 
this stage." 
Claire clutched at his arm. "So what's happened, Matt? You have to tell me."
"They think they've found a body in a canal. In Cheshire."
"Oh my God."
He clutched her hand tight. "There's a police news blackout. Pitman rang 
shortly before you arrived. I'm still waiting for confirmation."
"Another girl?"
"We don't know. It might be an accident."
"You don't believe that, Matt."
"I've just got this feeling about Bristow, Claire. Isaac was very... 
convincing. Or at least convinced. Hence the homework."
"Can we do anything?"
"Just sit and wait."
"Can I?" She picked up the press reports and read through them in silence. 
Matt reached across. "This is his Police record. Last convictions were for 
indecent assault. Before that a few lesser indecency charges, also with kids. A 
caution, and two convictions for indecent images. I've also got the registration 
details of his ice-cream van from DVLA, for what that's worth. My guess is he 
used it to entice kids with, but again, that was a long time ago."
The phone rang and he pounced on the receiver. "Burford. Dave, at last. Is 
it... God, no." The tone of his voice filled in the gaps for what Claire 
couldn't hear. "Jesus. Are they... How long before... No, that's okay. You'll 
let me know as soon as... Thanks, Dave. I owe you."
He scribbled notes in shorthand, his face ashen. Claire looked on anxiously. 
Finally he put down the receiver and looked at the floor, struggling to repeat 
the news.
"Two of them. Together. Two girls. The kids' nails were painted. Yellow. Just 
like... Just like Rebecca." He clutched Claire's hand tightly. 
There was silence, then through the tears Claire asked, "Where does that leave 
Bristow?"
Matt replied almost without thinking. "A very wealthy man."





59


Randall chose the moment carefully, soon after midnight. 
Bethan had showered while he prepared te Horlicks to drink in bed. It was the 
usual arrangement when she was on evening shifts. After six hours bathing old 
men and changing incontinence pads the last thing on her mind was sex. That 
would have to wait until morning.
It was a logical arrangement, biologically suiting them both. As Randall liked 
to joke, it was always up before him anyway.
He usually sat up till after midnight, listening to the late news on Radio Four, 
catching the shipping forecast just for the hell of it, then picking up a book 
for an hour after that, until Bethan was ready for lights out. Bethan liked to 
wind down with a good book after an evening shift. Their reading tastes differed 
enormously. Randall liked Terry Pratchett, while Bethan was equally happy with a 
romance, an Aga saga or a decent thriller. She'd belatedly discovered Grisham 
and was slowly ploughing through his latest paperback when Randall interrupted 
her.
"The Dynamite Twins had a policewoman at school yesterday, lecturing them 
about strangers."
Bethan looked up, half-interested. "They didn't mention it."
"No? Well it can't have made much of an impact then."
"No need, anyway. They've got the scum who killed Rebecca. There can't be two 
sick bastards like that around, surely."
Randall shifted uncomfortably. "What do you think should happen to him?"
She put her paperback down and tufted her pillow. She hoped he wasn't in 
garrulous mood.
"Castrate the dirty bastards first. Then let the parents have their turn. 
Then, if there's anything left after that, hang them, slowly. Very slowly." 
She picked up the book again, satisfied. "Why do you ask?"
"No reason."





60


Dickensian walls loomed high from every direction, crumbling brick and barred 
windows proclaiming its purpose. HMP Longport, Canterbury, dates back to 1808, 
still bearing the archaic inscription House of Correction on its facade. 
The visiting room was set apart from the main block, comprising nothing more 
than a large, secure hall with sets of tables and chairs liberally scattered, at 
which sat women and children with, or waiting for, the remand prisoner they were 
visiting. Claire had expected glass petitions and exchanges through a telephone 
like in the movies. It was almost disappointing. 
The warden led her through to a side-room, empty but for a single table and two 
chairs. She sat alone, waiting patiently. 
Isaac had been gob-smacked when Claire put the proposal to him, but he knew 
Bristow would welcome the opportunity to state his case, to express his sorrow 
personally. It took a week to arrange.
Matt wanted to be there, but Claire was adamant this was something she had to do 
on her own. To make her own decision, for better or worse. Even now she was 
tempted to get up and walk away. She had a nightmare scenario in the back of her 
mind. That Bristow would come out to meet her, look her in the eye, and say Yes, 
I killed your daughter. I enjoyed it.
She looked through the open doorway at the remand prisoners already enjoying 
their visits. Wardens stood by each exit, others moved about the room, keeping a 
cautious eye on the prisoners, but the atmosphere was relaxed. The call down to 
the visiting room provided a welcome break from the monotony of day-to-day 
prison life, and few elected to abuse the privilege.
A hushed silence fell as Bristow appeared. Chairs scraped the floor as visitors 
and prisoners alike turned to see him. He stood in the doorway, looking out 
across the room through ill-fitting glasses that pinched his nose and flattened 
his ears. His arm was still in a sling, taking the weight of the plaster cast 
that extended over the broken fingers of his left hand.
"Fucking nonce!" The shout came from a prisoner, triggering a burst of 
similar cries from around the room. 
"Nonce!" 
"Pervert!" 
"Hang him!" 
"We'll have tonight, you sick bastard!"
Claire shuddered at the outburst, but Bristow appeared indifferent. Two wardens 
shouted out for silence, but the cries continued. A third prison officer 
appeared from no-where, distinguished by his white shirt. "One more outburst 
from anyone and visiting ends. Is that clear?" 
The noise reluctantly subsided, the white shirt evidently conveying authority.
The warden led Bristow through to where Claire was waiting. 
She watched in morbid fascination as the man accused of murdering her daughter 
slowly approached, moving between the tables nervously, avoiding eye contact 
with the faces staring at him. 
As he passed occupied tables mothers pulled their children close to them, 
clutching them as if fearing he might molest them there and then. Inmates 
muttered threats and insults beneath their breath as he passed. Wardens looked 
on in readiness for any disturbance, but the moment passed. Bristow reached the 
room and a warden ushered him in, looking to Claire for confirmation she felt 
comfortable. She nodded. The warden stood in the doorway.
She looked up at Bristow with an expressionless face, fighting to control a 
hundred competing emotions. She could see his features clearly now. There were 
layers of bruising, newer, fresh bruises over others nearly healed. He hovered 
at the table for a moment, then pulled out the chair with his good hand. 
"May I?"
Claire nodded, numbed, and he sat down. It was the first time she'd heard his 
voice. It was softer than she expected. He'd only spoken two words, but already 
his manner belied his history. 
The warden looked to her. "Do you want me to stay?"
"No, thank you. I'm fine."
"Your call. I'll be just outside."
The warden stepped outside and pulled the door shut.
Claire had thought about her first words all the way here, but still had no idea 
how to begin. What possible small-talk could open a meeting like this?
"Mrs Meadows... I..." Bristow struggled to speak. She guessed it must be a 
difficult moment for him, too. She waited, breath bated, as he selected the 
right words.
"I did not kill your daughter, Mrs Meadows."





61


The blunt statement took Claire by surprise, throwing her off-guard. 
"I... I don't know what to believe just now."
"I swear to you, I never knew her."
"But you would say that, even..."
"Even if... I understand, Mrs Meadows. I know this must be very difficult for 
you. But whoever killed your daughter is still out there somewhere. He's killed 
again. Of that there can be no doubt now. How many more will it take before they 
will admit they are wrong?"
Claire looked into his eyes, searching for... Some sign that he was lying, 
perhaps? Some glazed indifference that suggested this was all an act? 
But all she saw was sadness. Sadness and compassion. She struggled to control 
tears forming in her own eyes as she looked deep into his. This was not the 
depraved brute of a man she expected to meet.
"Mrs Meadows, I know nothing I say can bring Rebecca back. But I want you to 
know how deeply sorry I am. Sorry that she's gone. Sorry for what happened to 
her. For what you've had to go through."
Claire nodded, no words forming to acknowledge him.
He continued, "I've done many things in my life that I regret. Many things. 
But I've never hurt a child. Never."
It was said with such sincerity Claire struggled to get her next words out. 
"They say you're a paedophile."
Bristow was silent for a moment. He looked at her, unsure how to respond. 
Finally, "That was a long time ago."
"Then you admit it?" She could feel her chest tightening, her throat 
desiccate.
"That I'm a paedophile? Yes, it's true. I'm sorry. It's not something I'm 
proud of. But it's something I have to live with, every day of my life."
Claire wrung her hands together. She had to ask. "But why? Why children?"
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a leather pouch with a few 
strands of tobacco inside. "You don't mind if I..."
She shook her head.
"Thank you. It's another vice, I know, but it helps, at times like this." 
With the one trembling hand he manipulated a Rizla paper and tobacco into an 
impossibly thin cigarette. 
He reached into his pocket again and withdrew a sliver of wood that functioned 
as a match. Matt had told her prisoners could dissect a single house match into 
a dozen separate, functioning matches. That some men were so desperate for a 
smoke they lit used tea-bags. That one had even set fire to a broom handle and 
inhaled the fumes. 
She watched the man before her with intense eyes, waiting for his response. 
Comforted by the cigarette, at last it came.
"Mrs Meadows, I don't ask that you try to understand. Especially after what 
you've been through. All I ask is that you believe me. I didn't kill your 
daughter, Mrs Meadows. I'm as appalled as anyone here by what happened to 
her."
She stared into his eyes, looking for a trace of enjoyment. A sign that he was 
lying, that he was getting kicks out of her pain and sorrow. But all she saw was 
the pain and sorrow reflected.





62


"I know what you must think of me. Yes, I'm a paedophile. A child molester. A 
pervert. What I've done in the past is obscene. Depraved. Disgusting. I admit 
that. But I've never set out to hurt a child. You must believe me."
Claire found herself wanting to believe him, this small, frightened, articulate 
man sat before her. Yet he'd just admitted to abusing children.
He dragged long and hard on the dwindling roll-up, blowing the smoke away in a 
long plume. "Mrs Meadows, I don't know what more I can say. Yes, I'm what you 
must think of as a sick pervert. Yes, I had a relationship with a child... 
Children... Many years ago. I don't deny that. It's the way I am. It's in my 
nature. But I'm not capable of murder. I've never harmed any child. Not in that 
way. The children I... My young friends... They meant as much to me as your 
daughter did to you, believe me."
She stared at him, uncomprehending.
He said quietly, "Three young children have lost their lives. Everyone knows I 
had nothing to do with the second and third. How could I? I was incarcerated 
here at the time of their disappearance. The real killer is still out there 
somewhere. Still killing."
Claire could feel the tears fighting for release. She struggled to maintain her 
composure. "They say you confessed?"
Bristow looked at her nervously, dragging on the remains of the cigarette. 
"I'm not a strong person, Mrs Meadows. You can see that just by looking at me. 
I've never been a strong person. When the pain becomes too great you'll do 
anything to stop it." He held out his injured arm. "Do anything. Say 
anything. Sign anything."
"You're saying the Police did that to you?"
The stub of the cigarette was burning his fingers. He sucked a final time before 
conceding defeat, stubbing the dog-end into the foil ashtray, unwrapping the 
remnant and tipping the isolated strands of unburned tobacco back into his 
pouch. He peered at her through the thick lenses, blinking.
"Mrs Meadows, all I ask is for you to believe me. To believe me when I say I 
never touched your daughter."
She found herself wanting to. Wanting to so much. She said, "Give me one 
reason... Just one reason why I can."
Bristow considered the request. "I'm a paedophile, Mrs Meadows. I'm sorry if 
that turns your stomach, but it's true. I don't like it, believe me. I'd give 
my right arm to have a normal sex drive, to be satisfied with a normal adult 
relationship. But the good Lord saw fit to make me different. To make me lust 
after children. That's the way I am. And I have to lie with the consequences."
Claire held her breath, waiting for him to continue.
"To answer your question, yes, there is one over-riding reason why you can 
believe I didn't kill Rebecca. Yes, I'm a paedophile. Yes, I'm a filthy pervert. 
A depraved child-molester. A nonce. Call me what you will."
He paused. "But I'm also homosexual. That's why you must believe I never 
touched your daughter."
He looked calmly into her eyes. 
"Mrs Meadows, I prefer little boys."





63


Only two weeks had passed since his last visit, but already the changing season 
had begun to make its mark, the plush greenery of the Foundation's grounds 
slowly adopting more sombre autumnal hues. 
He hesitated at the door, savouring a cigarette, waiting for the taxi to depart 
before pressing the button.
"I have an appointment, to see Dr Reynolds."
The words hurt. After the last visit he had insisted on seeing Dr Quinlan 
personally, but making that appointment had proven impossible. It seemed Quinlan 
spent most of his time on the lecture circuit. He left it a few days, then opted 
for Reynolds again. The desires were stronger, he was sure of it. Maybe he was 
just more conscious of it, but it felt like they were stronger. 
He couldn't take that risk. For the sake of the Dynamite Twins, Reynolds would 
have to do.
The secretary, who he remembered as answering to Molly, took him through, 
confirmed refreshments would follow, and advising that Dr Reynolds would join 
him shortly. She was just finishing with another client.
He wondered what the other client might be there for. What sordid secret life 
was he forced to lead? What obscene fantasies was he doing battle with?
He found himself at the bookshelf, browsing disinterestedly when Dr Quinlan's 
name caught his eye on the spine. He picked the book out and read off the title. 
Paedophilia: A New Perspective. He smiled to himself. No question of Dr 
Quinlan's expertise in such matters. He flicked through the pages with a 
shudder, then replaced the book, selecting another. Perversion or Paraphilia? A 
Positive Attitude to Sexual Deviancy. It was reassuring to know Dr Quinlan was 
such an authority. 
He brushed back his hair with a cheap plastic comb, standing in front of the 
large mirror inset into the wall, adopting a selection of poses. He could do 
with a haircut.
Ruth Reynolds was thinking the same thing. She watched him thoughtfully through 
the two-way glass, her forefinger resting across pursed lips. A few more minutes 
and she'd go in. But this was instructive.
The door opened and Molly brought in a tray of tea and biscuits, with a foil 
ashtray beneath a serviette. She placed them carefully on the table. "Dr 
Reynolds is on her way now."
He would have preferred a beer, but it didn't seemed polite to say so. Maybe 
Reynolds would offer him one when she arrived. Ruth, he reminded himself. Ruth. 
Normally he preferred the informality of first name terms, but it didn't come 
easily with Reynolds.
Over salutations and small-talk they took the same seats as previously. Randall 
gulped the tea down before even he'd finished his first cigarette. Maybe it 
would encourage her to offer something stronger. Right now he could do with a 
brandy. Two brandies. But he'd happily settle for a cold Bud.
"Molly said you were with another client?"
"As I stressed last time, you're not the only one with a problem, Greg," 
Reynolds smiled robotically. "Without giving too much away, we've had a large 
number of enquiries recently. We always do after a public scare like this. There 
are a lot of men out there feeling the same as you do. Fighting the same 
impossible battle to control their thoughts and desires. Only a very few have 
the courage to do what you've done. To seek help."
"Is this how it starts? Like me? Just looking, fantasising?" He wasn't sure 
he wanted to know the answr.
Reynolds considered the question thoughtfully. "To be honest, Greg, we just 
don't know. It's possible. You yourself admit the progressive nature of your 
predicament. That the desires grow stronger with time. But I can assure you 
that, with therapy, the problem can be treated, if we catch it at an early 
enough stage."
"Have you discussed my case with Dr Quinlan?"
"Not yet. He's been busy with other matters. As a leading authority in this 
field his services are in wide demand, especially just now."
"I was looking at some of his books." He gestured to the bookshelf. "I'd 
never have thought so much could be written about such an obscure subject. Mind 
you, I never really thought about this kind of thing at all until recently. "
"It's only when people encounter problems like this directly that they tend to 
become involved. Because of their own feelings, or because someone close to them 
has a problem. You still haven't told your wife, I presume?"
"I daren't."
"Sometimes it helps to have your partner on board, Greg. A problem 
shared..."
"She wouldn't understand."
"Perhaps not. But fighting a problem alone can be harder still. Obviously you 
have the full support of Dr Quinlan and I, and you can call on us at any time, 
but when all is said and done we can't be there for you twenty-four hours a day. 
It helps to have someone to confide in at home. To be there to support you when 
the urge is strong and your will-power weak."
"I couldn't. I don't know how Bethan would react. She might..."
"Take the children away?"
He nodded, unable to bring himself to voice the fear that haunted him.
"Let's talk about you and Bethan first, if that's okay."
It wasn't okay, but what choice did he have? He thought of Tamara and Natalie. 
That night in the bath. There could be no turning back. "I guess." 
"Would a beer help?"
"I thought you'd never ask." He grinned at her, hoping he hadn't appeared 
rude, but she didn't reciprocate the smile. She was already churning the 
questions as she went to the drinks cabinet. This time there was a four-pack on 
ice inside, ready for him. Maybe she wasn't such a harridan after all.
"Greg, if we're to help you we need to know you at a very personal level. It's 
imperative that you answer honestly and openly. No secrets. Nothing held back. 
Now, how would you rate your sex-life?"





64


"My sex life?"
"With your wife Bethan, I mean."
He popped the can and gulped down a few mouthfuls. Tact wasn't her strong point. 
He elected to play along. If she planned to embarrass him again she'd have to 
try harder than that. He'd been psyching himself for this all week.
"Pretty good, I guess." He lit another cigarette.
"On a scale of one to ten?"
A brief pause. "Nine. I enjoy it. Bethan enjoys it. That's what counts."
"How do you know? Does she tell you so?"
"Yes. But I can tell anyway. You know how it is."
"No, Greg, only you know how it is. That's why I'm asking." She sipped on 
her gin. "What do you do, exactly?"
"Accountancy."
"With your wife, I mean."
He shrugged nonchalantly. "Make love, of course. You know, the usual stuff."
"Don't be embarrassed, Greg. Everyone does it, and everyone does it 
differently. I'm just trying to establish a background picture."
"Sure." He dragged on his cigarette. "We shag. You know, in out, in 
out."
"Is there much foreplay?"
"Sometimes. It varies."
"I see. And you both enjoy it equally?"
"Sure."
"You don't think perhaps your wife just says she does, to keep you happy?" 
"No!" The bitch! He'd never given it a second thought before. He knew he'd 
be wondering from now on. Every time.
"How old were you when you lost your virginity?"
He shrugged. "Sixteen. Fifteen, maybe. It was a long time ago. Yeah, 
fifteen."
"You don't seem very sure. Most men remember it down to the last detail. It's 
a big event in their life, the first time. Part of their coming-of-age 
experience."
He cast his mind back, trying to remember something over and done with in a few 
minutes on a school playing field years ago.
"I was fifteen."
"How old was she?"
He couldn't even remember her name. "Same age as me."
"Fifteen?"
"Fourteen, maybe. Yeah, fourteen. We were just kids." He realised what he'd 
said. "I mean she wasn't a little girl or anything. We were nearly adults."
"Nearly adults? At fourteen?"
He glared at her. 
"Were you attracted to younger girls at that time?"
"Not children, no. Younger as in thirteen, yeah, sure. When you're fifteen 
yourself that's pretty normal, isn't it?"
"It's not my job to say what's normal, Greg. Just to try and understand. Was 
it a bad experience?"
"What?"
"Your first time?"
Randall searched his memory. "It was all a bit of a rush. Lots of fumbling. 
You know how it is at that age."
"Premature ejaculation?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"I said so, didn't I?"
"What was her name?"
"I don't remember." The name came to him from no-where. "Caroline."
"Did you like her?"
"Of course, or I wouldn't have..."
"Let's go back further, Greg. To before Caroline."
"Before? But she was the first."
"Greg, you don't just suddenly have sex. It's something that develops. Maybe 
kissing, wandering hands. That sort of thing. Do you remember your puberty?"
He shrugged. "Not especially, no."
"You must have masturbated before you met Caroline."
"I expect so."
"You expect so? Don't you remember?"
Annoyed, "Alright, yes, I masturbated. Doesn't everybody?"
"How?"
"What?"
"How? I mean, it's not a skill you're born with. Masturbation is not an innate 
ability. It's a skill you learn, or perhaps are taught. Which was it with you, 
Greg?"





65


He slugged back the drink, his mind wandering. He'd not thought about it, but 
suddenly the memories were glaring, as if Reynolds had somehow flicked a switch 
in his mind. 
Vivid images, and so embarrassing... 
Struggling for the first, all-elusive ejaculation, trying to develop a technique 
but not even knowing how to hold himself. It brought a faint smile to his face. 
"I don't remember." 
Reynolds looked unconvinced. "After Caroline, did you go out with girls 
younger than she?"
"About the same age, I suppose."
"And as you grew up, did the age of your girlfriends rise accordingly?"
"More or less."
"Did you have any serious relationships before you met Bethan?"
"Not really. Just the usual teenage liaisons. I met Bethan at college. Our 
A-Levels. I had an accountancy job lined up. A friend of my father's. Bethan was 
studying languages. French, German and Spanish. She wanted to work in Europe. 
She got much better grades than I did. She could have done anything she 
wanted."
"Obviously she fell pregnant at some stage."
He smiled. "The Dynamite Twins."
"We'll come back to them shortly. When would you say you first realised you 
had an attraction to younger girls? To prepubescent children, I mean, not 
teenagers. Your responses on the questionnaire were a little evasive."
Randall pondered the question briefly. "I honestly don't know. I've been 
thinking about that for a while, trying to get things into perspective. It 
didn't just happen overnight, but... But they get younger with time."
"Explain that to me,Greg."
"I've never stopped liking older girls... A girl's a girl. I can't remember a 
time when I didn't find myself attracted to a sixteen or seventeen year old. I 
mean, they're adults at that age anyway. Physically, I mean. But younger 
girls... Children, That developed slowly."
Reynolds nodded her encouragement.
"I definitely wasn't interested in young girls when I was at college. There 
was sort of a division, between school and college. You know how it is. Never 
the twain shall meet. Lots of my mates had little sisters, but I never gave them 
a second thought back then. They were just annoying little kids. You know, they 
used to climb all over you in their little dresses, showing their knickers, and 
it meant absolutely nothing to me. Nowadays I'd love..."
He realised what he was saying. "Anyway, I met Bethan and we got married."
"So you've only been attracted to really young girls since you met Bethan?"
He considered the statement carefully before answering, unsure where she was 
leading. "I don't see a connection, but yes."
"Connections come later, Greg. First I need to know when the attraction to 
children stems from, then I can look at why, and from there how to develop a 
therapeutic approach that will help you deal with it."
"Sure. You're the shrink."
"It's not psychiatry, Greg. I'm a psychotherapist, not a psychiatrist. Didn't 
I explain the difference to you last time?"
"Sort of. I didn't take it all in."
"Apart from your own daughters, do you have much contact with other 
children?"
"Not really. Well, the Twins have friends round sometimes. But generally no. 
Not anymore."
"Your daughters' friends. Are they girls or boys?"
"Mostly girls. But that's their choice, not mine."
"The twins are six, aren't they?"
"They'll be seven after Christmas."
"You said last time that your attraction was to older girls."
"About nine, ten, that sort of age."
"Why not six?"
Randall searched her eyes but saw no response. He felt uncomfortable. "I don't 
see the Twins in that way. I told you that last time."
"Greg, I believe you. Honestly. But I need to ask. What about your 
daughters' friends?"
"What about them?"
"It must be nice for you to have a house full of little girls."
Randall shrugged. "I hadn't thought about it."
Reynolds put her cup down and held his gaze. "Greg, I can't help if you're not 
honest with me. You must understand that. Have your daughters' friends ever 
stayed over?"
He remembered it now. The passing reference in the questionnaire. 





66


It had been easier then, just writing it down, with no-one firing questions 
back. He tried to remember what he'd written. "There was one occasion."
Reynolds nodded. "Go on."
"The Twins had their friends round. A sleep-over. It was half-term or 
something. Bethan was at work, so I had to look after the four of them during 
the evening."
"You were alone with four little girls?"
He glared at her. "Nothing happened."
She looked defensive. "Did I suggest otherwise?"
"Well, they had their baths and - "
"All of them? You bathed your daughters' friends too?"
Randall squirmed. It had all been so innocent at the time. "I... The Twins... 
It was their bath night. Their friends asked if they could join them. That was 
all."
"And you agreed?"
"What else could I do?"
"You could have said no."
"Dr Reynolds, all I did was put them in the bath. I told their mother the next 
day and she was quite happy about it."
"Mothers are like that, Greg. Motherhood does something to a woman. What 
happened?"
"Nothing."
"In the questionnaire you said that - "
"Alright, yes, but I didn't touch them or anything."
"I'm listening."
"After they'd had their baths I sat them down in front of a video and had a 
bath myself. Just a bath. On my own. I didn't wank over seeing them naked."
"Did I suggest you did?"
"You were thinking it."
"So what did happen, Greg?"
"Nothing. I put my dressing gown on and joined them. We had a drink. Hot 
cocoa, I mean. A light supper. We were watching a DVD. Some Disney film or 
other. Dumbo, I think. Then I realised they were giggling. The girls. I looked 
down and found my dressing gown had come open. It was totally unintentional, but 
they saw everything. I covered up immediately. I mean, I didn't want them going 
around saying I was flashing at them."
"And were you?"
"No! It was an accident."
"But it felt nice, didn't it, Greg? That's what you said in the 
questionnaire."
He cursed the questionnaire beneath his breath. "I don't remember now."
"But you'd exposed yourself as a child too, Greg, remember? At school? You 
said that one day in the playground you -"
That fucking questionnaire! "I was just a kid. I don't want to talk about that 
now."
"Okay, let's come back to your daughters' friends. How old were they?"
"Six, the same as the Twins."
"Did you find them attractive?"
"No. Cute, maybe, but not a sexual thing."
"But you like looking at older girls. Eight and nine year olds."
"I've already said that."
"Let's talk about the hole in the changing cubicle. Which swimming pool was 
that at?"
He took deep breaths, angry that he'd committed so much to paper. Much more than 
he remembered. What else had he admitted to? If he'd known this woman was going 
to read it and not Dr Quinlan he would have been more circumspect.
"It's nothing. Just a communal changing room. There was a hole in the wall."
"Ah yes, the ever-so-convenient hole. The hole looking into the next cubicle, 
where children were changing."
"Yeah. Some pervert had drilled it there."
"Some pervert, Greg?"
Randall's face reddened. "It wasn't me!"





67


"Do you take your daughters swimming often?"
"It's important that they learn, yes."
"And you go to this same pool, where the hole is?"
"Not always. It's quite a way."
"But sometimes."
"Yes."
"Just to watch... Women? Girls?"
He hesitated. "Girls."
"Girls like your daughters?"
"Older." 
"You don't find six year olds a turn on?"
"I've told you, no. How many more times."
"But at nine or ten it becomes a sexual thing."
He clutched the can in frustration. "It's not as straight-forward as that. 
It's not like, you know, they reach their ninth birthday and suddenly I find 
them sexy. I think it's to do with body changes. I don't mean puberty. Before 
that. You can see it just by looking at them. They way they carry themselves. 
The way they move. There's as much difference between a six year old and a nine 
year old as there is between a child of six and sixteen."
"And it's this change that attracts you? That you find sexually appealing?"
"Something like that."
"And you fantasise about girls that age?"
He hesitated. "Masturbating, you mean?"
"If you like, yes."
"At first it was just looking. But yes, now sometimes. Over the last few 
years." He couldn't believe he was admitting all this. After just one beer. He 
squashed the can in his hand.
Reynolds immediately replaced it with another. She reached down to retrieve a 
lap-top which she placed on the coffee table. He took the opportunity to light a 
further cigarette.
"How would you describe your childhood, Greg?"
He hesitated. "I told you last time, my father did not abuse me."
"I don't want to know about your father this time. Just about your childhood. 
Was it pleasant? Do you have fond memories? Or are your early years a blank?"
"It was okay."
"Remember, Greg, honesty is of paramount importance here. Think back, to your 
early childhood. That's it, take your time. Think right back. What are the 
memories that stand out?"
"What do you want, my life story?"
"Of course not. Just to understand where your interest in little girls stems 
from. Did you say you had brothers and sisters?"
"A sister."
"Younger or older than you?"
"Younger."
"What's her name?"
"I don't see that that's relevant."
Reynolds ignored him. "Your parents divorced. Why was that?"
"I don't want to talk about them. They're family. I don't want my family being 
dragged into this."
"The less I know the more chance there is of misjudging the extent of your 
problem."
"I'll risk it. You know about my wife, my daughters. That's enough."
"Did you have lots of friends as a child?" 
"You know, the usual."
"What's the usual?"
"I made friends at school, where I lived, that kind of thing. When we moved I 
made new friends. I didn't keep a head count, for Christ's sake."
"Greg, there's no need to get agitated. They're quite innocent questions. I'm 
not trying to catch you out or anything. Just to understand."
"I'm sorry." He stopped himself. What was he apologising to her for?
"What was your upbringing like? In terms of sexual awareness? Were your 
parents open about sexual matters, or was it something that was never 
discussed?"
"They didn't make love in front of me, if that's what you mean, but sure, it 
was pretty much out in the open. Sex, I mean. Nudity. That kind of thing. We 
were encouraged to take a healthy attitude towards our bodies, not to be ashamed 
of them. No-one ever locked the bathroom."
"Did you bathe together?"
"Not with my parents, no. I mean, sure, we might have as babies, but not 
later. I remember sharing the bath with my sister, when we were small enough to 
both fit in at once, but that's all."
"So you saw your sister naked?"
Randall gulped back the beer. "Yeah, when she was just a kid. When we bathed 
together. I didn't spy on her, for Christ's sake." 
"I didn't suggest you did, Greg. You're very touchy about this subject. Is 
there a reason for that?"
"No!"
"I think there is, Greg. I think you have a memory, an unpleasant memory, 
somewhere hidden away in your subconscious. Do you understand what I mean, Greg? 
I think you've suppressed your memories for some reason. That's why you can't 
relax when you respond to what are straight-forward questions."
"That's ridiculous. And anyway, the questions aren't straight-forward. You're 
trying to make me admit to something that didn't happen."
Reynolds pleaded with a sincerity that was almost convincing. "Greg, that's 
not so, please. I'm just trying to be objective. For some reason you are 
attracted to young girls. You came here to seek help. But as I've said already, 
any help we can offer depends on your honesty in answering our questions."
For the second time he found himself apologising. But at least it was a 
conscious lie this time. For the sake of the Dynamite Twins he had to go through 
with this.
"As a child you had some unusual fantasies. Can you tell me about them."
"I don't remember."
"Really?"
The bitch. She knew. 
That bloody questionnaire. 





68


Dr Quinlan had said it was for his eyes only. Not this woman's. He thought of 
the Twins. For their sake, he had to be sure. He shut his eyes, forcing himself 
to peer into the dark recesses of his m. 
He was nine years old, running through a corn field, just wearing a t-shirt and 
sandals The brush of the wheat ears against his prepubescent genitals. He jolted 
upright, shaken, his eyes open.
Reynolds waited patiently, staring at him. "Greg?"
"Ask away."
"In the questionnaire you alluded to being tied, naked, to a tree, was it?"
He squirmed with embarrassment. Had he really said that? "There is something, 
yes, but it's so faded. So distant..."
"How convenient. This isn't helping. Have you ever been hypnotised?"
"No."
"Would you have any objections to being hypnotised?"
"No way." He wasn't really sure what it involved, but guessed it would mean 
baring his soul, his darkest secrets, his innermost feelings, to this woman. 
He'd never be able to look her in the eye again. 
He thought of the Dynamite Twins. Natalie and Tamara. 
He thought of the dead child, Rebecca. 
Of the news of the two new victims. 
He thought of the Twins again. "Do whatever is necessary."
"We'll try it next session. Don't worry. It won't cost you anything. It will 
be the final stage of the free assessment, after which Dr Quinlan will meet you 
personally to explain our findings and talk about fees."
"We're finished?"
"Almost. Before you go I'd just like you to have a look at these." She 
pushed the lap-top towards him. "How did you react when you heard that another 
two girls had been killed?"
"Sick. Absolutely sick. And frightened. I can understand touching, I think. I 
can see how it might happen. If someone felt like I do but couldn't control it. 
But to kill a child?" He shuddered. "Dr Reynolds, tell me I'll never be 
capable of doing something like that, please. Just tell me I won't."
"I'm sorry, Greg, I can't promise that. Not yet. Not until I know more about 
you. That's why these interviews are so important. Why you have to be totally 
honest with me, no matter how uncomfortable you feel."
He fell silent, staring at the computer. "What's this for?"
"I want you to look at some images, and tell me which appeal to you." She 
flicked a key and the screen illuminated, commencing a slide show of colourful 
photographs. The first dozen or so were of adult female models on the cat-walk, 
straight from a fashion show. He cast an indifferent eye over them. "What do 
you want me to say?"
"Just browse through. If you find a picture that stimulates you in any way, 
just point it out. That's all. There's no catch. But please be honest."
"Sure. These are... nice, I guess." 
"Nice to look at as in scenery, or nice as in appealing sexually."
"Both."
"Fine. Go on."
The images changed. The women were topless, then naked. Standard modelling 
poses. "They're okay. I don't dislike them. A bit dull, though. Boring."
He came to pictures of men, first clothed, then unclothed. "I told you, I'm 
not a queer."
Reynolds managed an amused laugh. "You're not very politically correct, 
either."
Back to women. The poses were more explicit now. Men and women. What he regarded 
as hard core.
"How do you feel about those, Greg?"
The beer was in his blood now. He opened a third can. "Worth a quick tug, I 
guess."
"Sexually stimulating, you mean?"
"They could be, yeah." He studied the screen, by now oblivious to Reynolds' 
gaze.
Suddenly the adults were gone. Pictures of children. Boys and girls, playing. 
Clothed. He paused, wondering how he was supposed to react.
"They're... They're cute."
"How about these?"
He hesitated. Children on a foreign beach. Naked children. "Where did you get 
these?"
"They're just naturist photographs. You know, nudist families. It's very 
common on the continent. They have a more relaxed attitude towards nudity than 
we do in Britain. What are you feeling?"
"Cofused. These are... I don't know. Appealing, but..."
"Sexually stimulating?"
"No. Not sexually." He could sense she wanted more. "I suppose they could 
be. They're just children playing without clothes on. Yes, they have an appeal. 
They're pleasant to look at, but..."
"Just the girls?"
"Just the girls, yes."
"What about the boys?"
He shook his head. "They're just naked kids playing. That's all. But the girls 
are..."
Reynolds raised a hand. "There's more." 





69


He stared at the new screen, shaking his head in disbelief. 
He pushed the screen away. 
She gently pushed it back towards him. 
His eyes were drawn to the photographs despite himself. Any stimulation he might 
have felt from the explicit poses were stifled by the pain, the fear, the 
terror, that showed on the faces of the young victims.
Eventually, "Where did you get this stuff?"
"It's Home Office material. Confiscated child pornography. We have access to 
it for research and therapeutic purposes, like this. Under special licence."
"I've never seen anything like this before."
"Never?"
"Honestly. This is a world apart from how I feel. This is horrible. 
Obscene."
"That's the legal definition, yes. Well, indecent is the latest jargon. Some 
people find it quite acceptable. There's a lot worse. Have you ever heard of' 
snuff porn?"
"I'm not into that, Dr Reynolds. If that's what you think, you're wrong."
"It's Ruth, Greg. Ruth. And it's not what I think, so take it easy. But it's 
where you could be, in time, if you don't receive therapy."
Randall shook his head in disbelief. "I've never seen anything so... So 
horrific. Those children were in pain. They were frightened. They were being 
hurt."
"Abuse takes many forms, Greg. There's far worse than that going on, believe 
me. Far worse. But you admit you found the earlier pictures pleasing. The 
naturist pictures. The naked children on their own, just playing. The girls."
"Just them, yes. Not the last ones. What happened to those people?"
"Those that could be traced were prosecuted. Some are undergoing treatment."
"What, here?"
"I'm not able to say. You know that."
"People can still be treated when they've gone that far?"
Reynolds closed the lap-top and adopted her maximum sincerity smile. "Let me 
level with you, Greg. A lot of our work here is for the Home Office. We deal 
directly with men who have committed serious sexual offences, against children, 
against other adults, even against animals. It's the mainstay of our operation, 
treating convicted offenders."
The beer was forgotten as he focussed on Reynolds' words.
"If only more people would do what you've done... Would come forward before 
it's too late, maybe fewer women, fewer children, would be harmed. It's not 
pleasant, Greg, but it is necessary. Someone has to do it. The Home Office 
operates a treatment scheme for any sex offender serving a sentence of four 
years or more. A lot of them are dealt with here. It's a condition of their 
parole. But that's strictly confidential. Strictly between you and I."
"Then why are you telling me?"
"Because, Greg, I want to ensure you return here for treatment now, 
voluntarily, before it's too late."
Randall stared blankly at her.
"Let me blunt. In the not too distant future the scenarios in those pictures, 
the scenes I believe you genuinely found upsetting today, could be you."
He shook his head slowly. "No. I could never..."
"Think about it, Greg," Reynolds said, articulating the words carefully. 
"One day those children might be your daughters."





70


Striding purposeto the double garage, a leather briefcase in one hand, a brown 
fibreglass suitcase in the other, the right hand door opened to reveal the 
gleaming blue BMW Z3 convertible.
The drive to Gatwick was leisurely, the traffic tolerable with no unexpected 
delays. He negotiated the long-term car park with care, selecting a quiet area, 
out of view of the security cameras. 
He pushed the eject button and slipped the CD into his jacket pocket before 
flipping the lock on the suitcase. The lid bounced up to reveal a smaller black 
and tan leather suitcase inside. 
He extracted the second case, slung the first case in the boot and secured the 
vehicle before making his way to the terminal.
He read the Guardian editorial over herbal tea and a blueberry muffin in Costa, 
then picked up his luggage and made his way down to the railway station. 
He took the Brighton train as far as Haywards Heath, selecting an empty 
carriage. In his briefcase, beneath a bundle of loose papers he dislodged a 
concealed catch and revealed a second compartment. From a selection of documents 
available he transferred a driving licence to his jacket pocket and secured the 
case.
At Haywards Heath he took a taxi to a nearby car rental firm. An hour later he 
was in slow moving traffic on the M25 near Chalfont St Peter, heading for the 
M1, silently cursing the road works. 
He took the exit at junction 13, then on to Milton Keynes city centre. Junction 
14 would have been quicker, but he had time to spare. 
There were several hours until the school day finished...





71


Hang him! Hang him! Hang him! Now! Now! Now!
It was a conditioned, Pavlovian response to the appearance of a sex offender, 
Claire realised. 
She found herself mentally correcting the observation. An alleged sex offender. 
Almost as quickly she corrected herself again. He'd molested children in the 
past. 
Little boys. He'd admitted that much.
As the warden closed the door, Bristow greeted her with a cautious smile, 
holding out his good hand. She hesitated, then took it. Bristow held on just a 
split-second too long, just a little too tight. These weren't the hands that 
killed her daughter. Of that much she was now certain. 
But they had touched other children. Little boys. 
She retracted her grip abruptly, then began mumbled, embarrassed apologies.
Bristow sat down meekly. "There's no need, Mrs Meadows. I understand. You 
don't mind if I..." He began immediately to put together a spindly roll-up.
The bruises had almost healed by now. The cheap prison glasses he'd been 
furnished with did little for his appearance, but Claire found herself guessing 
he would have been a handsome man in his time. Good looking. Well educated, 
certainly. Not someone who would struggle to find a partner, gay or otherwise. 
He said, "Thank you so much."
"For what?"
"For coming. You're the only visitor I've had, apart from Jeremy, my 
solicitor. And the Police, of course. They still think I..."
"I know. They advised me to stay away."
He shook his head sadly. "I cannot believe they're still going through with 
this. How many more children will be hurt before they will concede their 
error?"
"I shouldn't be saying this, but we believe the Police and CPS are preparing 
to make a statement linking the murders. It will put you in the clear."
Bristow eyed her suspiciously. "How do you know this?"
"A friend of a friend. We told your solicitor earlier today. He asked me to 
pass on the good news."
Bristow seemed unsure if he could believe what he was hearing. "Thank the Lord 
they're seeing sense, at last."
"Mr Isaac said not to build your hopes up. It may take another week or so to 
go through the motions."
"Jeremy is a good man. Is that why you came here? Did Jeremy ask you to come 
again?"
"No. I because I wanted to talk to you again. I wanted, needed, to be sure. To 
be absolutely sure it wasn't you that..."
Bristow looked into her eyes. "And are you?"
"Yes. I think so, yes."
"Thank you." He smiled for the first time. "That means so much to me. So 
very much." He dragged on his cigarette. "It's nice to have someone to talk 
to."
"Have you no family?"
"A sister , but she can't travel. She's older than I. She can barely walk, 
even with a frame."
"I'm sorry."
"I've a brother too, though he hasn't spoken to me since..." He stared into 
the distance. "Since my first arrest, all those years ago. He just couldn't 
accept what I had become. Kathy was more understanding. I was on my way to visit 
her when I was stopped by the police."
"The London Police?"
"I don't want to bore you with the details."
"Please, I'd like to hear it. Your version..."
Bristow drew on his roll-up. "I was taken to a police station, beaten, forced 
to confess..." He gestured to his arm and hand, still in plaster. "And 
dumped in an alley somewhere. Next thing I remember I was being charged with 
killing the child... The girl, Rebecca. Your daughter."
"But why you?"
"I think they genuinely believed it, at first."
Claire nodded. "Tell me what happened." 
"I was on my way to Hayes to see Kathy. Do you know Hayes?"
"Vaguely. West London? Near Heathrow?"
"Not far from Southall."
"Oh..."
"Exactly. When the body... When your daughter was found in the canal so close 
by, I was an obvious suspect."
"But the police in Kent had already interviewed you previously, hadn't 
they?"
"You seem to know more than you're letting on."
Claire shifted uncomfortably. "Bits and pieces. Please, go on."
"I have nothing to hide, I promise you. Yes, I was interviewed several times 
after Rebecca disappeared, and again, of course, after her body was found. I 
have no problem with that, please understand. A child had been killed. I 
cooperated fully with the police. Fully. Of course there was no connection they 
could make, apart from my ice-cream van. That and my past record."
"Which was for little boys."
"Precisely."
"Would you..." She hesitated. How could she put it? "Would you tell me 
about them?"
"The boys?"
" Just... Just, why? Why children? Why not other adults, like normal people? 
That's what I can't understand. You seem normal."
A bemused smile played on his lips. "Mrs Meadows, if you think it will help 
alleviate your own suffering in some way then of course I'll try. Though I warn 
you you'll not find it pleasant." He hesitated. "But... Would you do me a 
favour first?"
She held her breath, wondering what possible service she could offer him. "If 
I can."
"Would you be so kind as to get me a cup of tea? I feel dreadful having to 
ask, but I have no money of my own here."
"I'm so sorry." She felt embarrassed at not having offered. In the main hall 
visitors were fetching refreshments to their tables. "You must think me very 
rude."
"No, not at all. I understand your preoccupations. You're a very brave woman, 
Mrs Meadows."
"Claire."
"Claire... Thank you. I'm Thomas, as you know." He paused. "I don't think 
I could have coped in your position, Claire. I certainly wouldn't have had the 
courage you've shown in coming here today."
She stood up to get the drinks, looking down on his injuries. After all he'd 
been through, he was still thinking of others first. For the first time she felt 
warmth towards the man before her. With it, the last, residual doubts about his 
innocence evaporated.
She reached into her handbag and produced a packet of Benson & Hedges. "I 
thought you might like these." She let the packet drop to the table. 
He looked up at her with te-filled eyes, opening his mouth to speak, but no 
words came. She turned hurriedly for the tea.





72


He parked behind The Point and spent an hour killing time in the Grade II listed 
thecentre:MK, casually following a couple of twelve year old truants, before 
retreating to McDonald's for a snack break, selecting a window seat. 
Just a fruit juice. 
From his vantage point he could see the row of bus-stops where he knew the 
school children would soon be alighting. 
He smiled. 
There was nothing he liked more than a girl in uniform.





73


Bristow savoured the machine-rolled cigarette, toying with it between his 
fingers, relishing the thick, even tube of tobacco. As he drank his tea he began 
talking. 
Claire let him go at his own pace. As he spoke she slowly came to realise there 
was more to the man before her than the mindless, depraved monster the media had 
portrayed.
"You used the term normal earlier. Ordinary. I know you don't think me normal. 
In its strictest sense I'm not, of course. Obviously my desires, for want of a 
better word, are not normal. Or at least, not acceptable. But I believe they are 
quite natural."
Claire restrained a shudder. "You'll forgive me if I disagree."
"What's unnatural to one culture or society may be quite acceptable to 
another. In some, how can I put it, less developed societies, sexuality and 
childhood go hand in hand. Would I be correct in supposing that you have never 
studied anthropology?"
"I watched Disappearing World years ago."
Bristow acknowledged the comment with a smile. "The Mehinaku Indians of South 
America illustrate my point. They live on a tributary of the Xingu River in 
central Brazil. In their society male and female roles are defined early, 
including the role of reproduction. What I'm trying to say is, the idea that 
sexuality and childhood are in some way mutually exclusive is one peculiar to 
modern western culture. It's entirely normal for pre-pubescent Mehinaku children 
to simulate intercourse during play." 
He stopped himself self-consciously. "I'm sorry, that's not what you came to 
hear. All I'm saying is that different societies have different views about what 
is acceptable between adults and children. The role of the child differs in 
different cultures. If PIE had stuck to those kind of arguments, debating 
principles instead of action, maybe they would have achieved something."
"Pie?"
He spelt it out. "P.I.E. The Paedophile Information Exchange. You've heard of 
it, surely?"
"Never."
Bristow seemed surprised. "Ostensibly it was a self-help group, set up to 
provide mutual support for like-minded individuals. For paedophiles."
Claire wondered if she was doing the right thing. She said, "Go on."
"A long time ago now. It ran into trouble with the authorities in the late 
seventies, which was about the time I joined. Seventy-eight, maybe? I was very 
young. It's just a vague memory now. The group is long since defunct, of course. 
Our chairman, Tom O'Carroll, God bless him, served two years for some trumped-up 
charge of corrupting public morals."
He paused to sip his tea, then slowly took a second cigarette from the gold 
packet and lit it, blowing smoke into the air.
"Looking back, I think it did more harm than good. The motivation was right. 
It helped a lot of people, by letting them know they weren't alone, and that 
overseas, at least, they could indulge in their fantasies more easily. Sex 
tourism has been made a big thing of in recent years, but there's nothing new 
about it. PIE was coordinating trips to the Far East thirty years ago." 
He paused as he registered Claire's reaction. "I don't mean to upset you, 
Claire, but from my, from our perspective, paedophilia is just a sexual desire 
ike any other, however distasteful you may regard it. It's far more widespread 
than people want to believe."
Claire stared at him.
"I see the doubt in your eyes, but the figures speak for themselves. In the 
Philippines alone there are estimated to be at least sixty-thousand child 
prostitutes. It's a similar story throughout the poorer countries of Asia and 
Latin America, and to a lesser extent even in the developed countries, in North 
America and in Europe. Eastern Europe especially. Yes, of course they're 
motivated by poverty, just like the adult sex-trade. But the trade can only 
exist because there is demand. Men, and women, travel from all over the world to 
take advantage of the service these children provide. Can so many people be 
wrong?" 





74


Claire fought back the revulsion she felt, ignoring the tiny spiders crawling 
under her skin. "I had no idea..."
"PIE tried to preach its message too widely. Instead of just being an agency 
where like-minded people could discuss their problems, it began trying to gain 
public acceptance. The whole thing backfired. It was just too soon. Society 
wasn't ready for that. We'd only just legalised homosexuality. There was no way 
public opinion would tolerate, let alone come to terms with, a debate on 
paedophilia. Not then."
Claire listened quietly, trying to hide her disgust. Trying to understand.
"It was a case I argued strongly in our newsletter, Magpie. I was a regular 
contributor."
"Magpie? Wasn't that the name of a children's television show?"
Bristow smiled. "A most amusing coincidence. One for sorry, two for joy. Three 
for a girl and four for a boy?"
Claire shuddered visibly.
"By letting Magpie become a vehicle for contacts the whole thing imploded. 
Instead of generating a gentle, civilised, informed debate about paedophilia, 
they ruined it all by allowing the media to focus on a few lunatics who didn't 
care about children at all. Who just wanted to abuse them as sex-objects." 
Bristow stared into his smoke trail as he spoke, seemingly oblivious to Claire's 
reactions.
"The thing is, once PIE disappeared there was nowhere else for us to go. The 
Home Office set up its Sex Offenders Programme in ninety-two to provide therapy, 
but you have to be serving four years or more just to qualify. And it's got no 
hope of success. No hope whatsoever." 
"Because?"
"Because it tackles the problem from the wrong end. Paedophilia isn't an 
illness, to be cured."
"It's not?"
"Of course not."
Claire could not hide her confusion. "But you said last time you hated being 
a... Being attracted to children."
"You misunderstand, Claire. I hate being the social outcast that my 
predilection makes me. I hate being loathed for my honesty. For caring about 
children."
She felt her voice rising. "Caring?"
Bristow nodded. "Caring deeply."
"But you admit you've molested little boys!"
"I never used the word molested." 
"Then what?"
Bristow drew on his cigarette. "The problem with our society, Claire, is that 
people, adults, don't really like children."
"A few, perhaps, but,"
Bristow persisted. "The majority. Even parents. Yes, of course, they love 
their own off-spring. That's natural instinct. But I'm talking about liking 
children for their own sake, as individuals. Most people do not."
"I do."
He raised a doubting eyebrow. "Really?"
"Of course."
"Can you honestly say you looked forward to it when your daughter, when 
Rebecca, brought her friends round to play?"
"Absolutely. It meant she was enjoying herself. Having fun."
"So it was a selfish gesture. Because your daughter was having fun with them, 
these children were accepted in your home. But would you have enjoyed their 
company onwn?"
She hesitated. "That's different. I didn't know them myself. They weren't my 
friends. They were just kids."
"Just kids? But that's precisely my point, Mrs Meadows. Claire. You spend 
your time, by choice, in the company of adults, because, however much you 
genuinely loved your own child, children in their own right were not a part of 
your life. Because the company of children was not something you enjoyed."
Claire had no answer to offer. Bristow continued.
"We treat children as second class citizens, Claire. Our society has no time 
for them. We express token outrage when they're harmed, of course. And sexual 
abuse arouses the strongest feelings of all, but it's not heartfelt. When I was 
taken to Court for the remand hearings there were crowds outside, baying for my 
blood. But an hour later these same people would be back at home, hitting their 
own kids for speaking out of turn, spending their child benefit on bingo and 
cheap alcohol, knowing full well that on the other side of the world children 
were dying of hunger or diseases caused by dirty water, or being maimed by 
weapons made in our own country, sold by our own government. As a society we 
have never come to terms with children. It was barely a hundred years ago we 
were sending our own children up chimneys and down the mines."
Claire listened with mixed emotions. He spoke with an affection for children 
that she'd rarely heard from anyone before. "You were a teacher, weren't 
you?"
"A while ago now, but yes. It was a job I really enjoyed. Teaching is... 
Was... My first love. English. That was my subject." 
"But if you knew... Knew that you were a paedophile, That you were attracted 
to children, why become a teacher? Wasn't that just asking for trouble? Putting 
temptation at your door?"
Bristow suppressed a smile. "Claire, at risk of appearing very coarse, do you 
lead an active sex life yourself?"
She couldn't hide her surprise. "Yes, but..."
"A heterosexual sex life? You prefer men to women? Adult men?"
She had to know where he was leading. "Yes."
"Do you find that you want to have sex with every man you see? Every man you 
find yourself in a room with? Every man you have contact with?"
"Of course not. That's absurd!"
"I'm sorry to be personal. Please bear with me. Do you have any gay 
friends?"
"One or two."
"Do they lust after every person of their own sex that they meet or see? Would 
you feel uncomfortable in a room full of lesbians? Or more relaxed in a room 
full of gay men?"
"No, of course not, but..."
"Then why should a paedophile be different? Why can't I be in a room full of 
children and not want to interfere with every child there?"





75


"When they asked for my resignation, after my first arrest I was dumbstruck. 
It was so... Unnecessary. It was a girls' school. All girls. Not a boy in the 
place. If they'd thought about it logically they would have realised the post 
was ideal for me. I had no more sexual attraction towards young girls than I did 
towards animals. I was completely safe with them."
Claire sipped her tea, listening intently.
"That's why I applied for the job in the first place. I'd always been a 
teacher. I could bring Shakespeare or Chaucer to life in a way no-one else could 
match. I was born to teach, Claire." Bristow dragged on his cigarette. 
"Being surrounded by girls like that was the most sensible thing I could do. 
It avoided even the possibility of temptation, and God knows they were enough to 
tempt a saint. Skirts deliberately raised, top buttons undone. You know what 
adolescents are like."
Claire conceded a knowing smile.
"But it did nothing for me. Nothing at all. Rumours began, that I must be gay. 
I denied them, of course. You had to back then. They were less liberal times."
He stopped to drink his tea, then: "One of the girls developed a crush on me. 
I should have seen it a mile off, but it just didn't register. Not at first. I 
thought it was just another wind up. She was fifteen. She became very brazen 
about her feelings. Making comments in class. Telling other girls she loved me. 
I found the whole thing abhorrent. In retrospect I should have told the 
Headmistress and put a stop to it at once. But I thought it better to try to 
ignore the girl. I didn't want to hurt her feelings. That was my downfall."
He paused to draw heavily on the cigarette.
"What happened?"
"She turned up at my flat one evening, in tears. Quite disconsolate. I invited 
her in. It was a stupid thing to do with any child. Especially her. But I 
thought she'd been hurt. She claimed she'd fallen off her bicycle."
He stopped, staring into the distance. Memories. Painful memories.
Claire touched his arm. "Go on."
"I made her comfortable. She said she'd hurt her thigh. High up. She insisted 
I look at it for her. I never gave it a thought. It just didn't occur to me what 
she was doing. She wanted me to feel for bruising. I said no, that I shouldn't, 
but she lifted her skirt anyway. She had no underwear on. Of course, I should 
have thrown her out, there and then."
"But you didn't."
"I asked her to leave, but she refused. She told me she loved me, that she 
fantasised about me. About she and I, making love. I was flustered. She... She 
started touching me. Tried to kiss me. I didn't know what to do. I panicked. I 
hit her. Not hard, you understand. Just a slap. I had to. I had to stop her 
somehow. She just stood there, in shock."
Claire could see tears well in his eyes.
"It was a selfish gesture. Totally selfish. I didn't stop to think about her 
feelings. I made some cruel comment about spotty schoolgirls. I can't believe I 
said it. I would never treat a pupil like that normally, boy or girl. It must 
have been so deeply, deeply hurtful to her. She was just a child. A child in a 
woman's body. I grabbed her by the arm and forced her out of the flat. Told her 
never to come back."
He stopped again, sipping tea. His hands tremored.
"The next morning I learned she'd hanged herself."





76


"Oh my God. I'm so sorry."
"It was the single worst moment of my life. I've never forgiven myself, 
Claire. Never. Obviously the police became involved. Her diaries were full of 
fantasies about she and I. Incredible fantasies. If only she could have 
harnessed that imagination in her prose. In the end I was cleared of any 
responsibility. Her friends confirmed I had never done anything to encourage 
her. But by then it was too late."
A tear rolled down his cheek, and Claire felt her own eyes moistening in 
sympathy. His trembling free hand lit another cigarette.
"Of course the police knew about my history. They searched my home and found 
some magazines. Not child porn, you understand. Quite innocent by today's 
standards. Artistic, even. But open to misinterpretation. The Board of Governors 
requested my resignation the same day. Ostensibly over the girl's suicide. They 
said it would be inappropriate for me to continue in my position."
"Was this a local school? Here in Kent?"
"In Harrow. I lived not far from Kathy. After the incident I was unemployable, 
of course. No blame was attached to me for the girl's death. The inquest 
exonerated me fully. But word got round about the magazines. The rumour mill 
began working over-time. Life became very unpleasant. It was inevitable that I 
had to move."
"That's when you came to Kent?"
"Fifteen years ago now. Newington. We used to come down to Broadstairs as 
kids, Kathy, my brother and I, with our parents, so it was a natural choice. I 
had a little money put by. It seemed a good idea at the time. A new start. But 
it proved a millstone. I appliefor jobs, but got no further than the preliminary 
interview. As soon as it came to references I was finished. Even if they didn't 
know about the magazines it was enough that I had resigned over an indiscretion 
resulting in a pupil's suicide. The coroner's exoneration counted for nothing. I 
tried to move again, but nobody wanted to buy a house a pervert had lived in. I 
was stuck, no job, no chance of a job, and unable to move out."
He dragged long and hard on the cigarette, blowing a plume of smoke into the 
air. "That was when I got my ice-cream van. Needless to say it didn't work 
out. I ended up with heavy debts. It was a short-lived business venture. I 
promise you it was done with the best intentions. I never tried to lure children 
with free ice-creams as the papers suggested."
"I believe you."
"Then I turned to teaching again. You have to understand, I wanted to be with 
children. Near children. Not for sexual reasons, but simply because I enjoy 
their company. Eventually I gave up trying to get a school post and started 
advertising privately as a tutor. I tried to take on just girls, for obvious 
reasons, to avoid any temptation, but it wasn't practical. Girls are different 
from boys. It's not politically correct to say so, I know, but they learn 
differently. They respond to a class environment differently. Ask anyone who 
actually understands children. Not a teacher. Someone who likes children. What I 
mean is, there simply weren't enough girls in need of private tuition to make it 
viable."
"So you took on boys?"
"I had to. At first I was very careful. I made sure I was only with them when 
other people were around. I did my best to make sure I didn't compromise my or 
their positions. But as I got to know them, and as their parents got to know me, 
the whole thing became more relaxed, informal. My relationship with one boy, 
Kevin, just developed to a stage beyond what is socially acceptable."
He paused again, deep in thought, his eyes misted.
"Your tea will get cold."
He picked up the cup and sipped, his mind distant. "I never hurt him, you 
understand. It was never a sexual relationship as such."
"Then what...?" Claire found herself leaning forward, wanting to know more.
"Love. Love and friendship. I'm not saying I didn't find him attractive. He... 
Kevin, was beautiful. Blonde hair. A perfect complexion. Pale blue eyes that 
danced in the sunlight. It's funny, but he was more like a girl than a boy. 
You'd have thought that would be a turn-off for me, but no. I fell in love, 
plain and simple."
It was a struggle to get the words out but she had to know. "How old was 
Kevin?"
"Ten."
Ten. The same age as Rebecca. Her body recoiled but she acted as if making 
herself comfortable. She stared at the man before her, not comprehending, yet 
somehow sympathising. Disgusted by his words, she found herself moved by the 
affection in his voice. 
"It lasted a year. We became very close. Kevin started coming to my home, 
after school. His parents worked late, so it meant I could give him extra 
lessons and act as a childminder at the same time. A convenient arrangement all 
round."
He dredged his tea cup, eyes distant. "Kevin's parents asked me if I would 
teach him to swim. They knew I swam regularly. I agreed, for all the right 
reasons. Then Kevin started bringing his friend along too. I should have put a 
stop to it right there, but I thought I was in control. I was wrong. It was just 
too much for me."
He finished the cigarette and immediately lit another. "I'd always been 
attracted to boys, since the Lord only knows when. Even as a child myself I 
found other boys stimulating. Exciting. I was always last out of the showers 
after sports. I didn't understand it as a sexual thing then. I just knew I found 
them attractive. The one day I..."
Claire leaned forward. "Thomas?"
"One day I touched another boy, while we were showering. It just happened. He 
beat the h out of me, there and then, while the other boys cheered him on. The 
gym teacher burst in, and when he heard what I'd done he dragged me off to the 
headmaster. Literally dragged me. By the ears, naked from the shower, in front 
of all my class-mates. Across the play-ground to the Head's office on the other 
side of the school, past boys and girls together. It was so humiliating. I was 
caned so badly I could barely sit afterwards. But somehow, I enjoyed it. Not the 
caning. Not the pain itself. But the relationship of the pain to touching my 
class-mate. The being dragged naked across the playground in front of everyone. 
It was pleasurable somehow. I used to fantasise over it for months after."
He saw Claire wince. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be so graphic."
"It's okay. Honestly." It was a pathetic lie, but she had to know more. 
"Please, continue."





77


"That was when I realised I was gay. I was about fourteen, just going through 
puberty. The boy I'd touched was the same age, but less developed, if you follow 
me. He was the youngest in the class, I think. Certainly the least developed 
physically. Not that it stopped him pulverising me."
He stared into space. "The Headmaster made me see a counsellor. It was that or 
expulsion. My parents were livid. My father belted me, right over the weals from 
the caning. But it just reinforced my will to be different. The counselling was 
a complete waste of time. Some stupid woman telling me I'd grow out of it. She 
even gave me some dirty magazines to take home, to try to make me normal again. 
You know, naked women, one leg over here, one leg over there. And that was just 
because they thought I was gay! I threw the magazines in the bin. They did 
nothing for me. Absolutely nothing." He paused. "Have I said too much?"
"No. Please, go on. I need to understand."
"Taking Kevin and his friend swimming was the big mistake. If they'd been 
competent swimmers I could have contented myself with just looking. But I had to 
teach them. To hold them in the water. And one thing led to another..." He 
stopped again, staring deep into the empty cup, seeing nothing.
Claire gently touched his arm, urging him on.
"Swimming pools were always my weak spot. Look at it logically. Where else can 
a pederast go and see young boys naked? I loved to stand in the shower, watching 
boys come and go. Is this upsetting you?"
Claire shook her head. It was, but she needed to hear it. "What about 
Kevin?"
"It was all so innocent. I helped them dry themselves. Helped them dress. I 
was like a father to them. I began to fall in love with Timothy just as I had 
with Kevin. They were so alike, especially undressed. Boys are. Combine the 
innocence of a child's face with the purity of his body and you have... Well, 
something special. No ugly body hair. No bulging muscles, just pure, white skin. 
Like satin."
The door opened. "Bristow! Time's up!"
The shout brought Claire back to reality. She looked at Bristow. His eyes were 
moist. Almost in tears. He looked embarrassed.
"Please, I must know."
"Timothy told his parents. Not maliciously. He just didn't realise. They 
called the police. I still can't believe what happened next. They actually took 
Kevin into care. Kevin! For what I'd done! I was jailed too, as you must know. I 
deserved it, in a way, even though it was done for love. But to punish 
Kevin..."
"What happened to him?"
"I don't know. His family had moved by the time of my release. He'll be a 
grown man by now. I can only hope he's happy."
The warden's voice boomed. "Bristow! Come on!"
"I'm sorry if I've made you feel uncomfortable, Claire. I know it won't have 
been pleasant for you. But thank you for listening. I just hope you can 
understand. I loved Kevin, just as you must have loved Rebecca."
Claire reached a hand out and took his as he stood to go. "I know you did."
She couldn't believe she said it. 
She couldn't believe she meant it.
She sat and watched him leave, to a chorus of hissing and verbal abuse. It was 
saddening to watch. 
He was frisked at the door before being moved out. 





78


Every city has its red light district and every red light district has its 
under-age girls. 
For years now Nottingham and Cardiff had been his preferred options, but Cardiff 
was not on his route today, and after a close call with the police when he'd 
mistakenly propositioned a twelve year old on a street corner only to find she 
was waiting for her mother, he had not been back to Nottingham.
He collected the van from the lock up, playing the CD all the way. 
Leaving Milton Keynes he rejoined the M1 at Junction 14, leaving at Junction 42 
to join the M62 west-bound, then taking the M606 link road to Bradford, arriving 
mid-evening.
He parked the white transit in the lot of a cheap hotel and made his way to his 
room. His window afforded a depressing view of the city's infamous Lumb 
Lane-Manningham Lane -Oak Lane axis, probably the most notorious red light area 
in the country. Sometimes he liked to follow the Ripper tourist circuit, 
enjoying the thought that Peter Sutcliffe had walked those very pavements before 
him, but by and large Bradford had little to offer.
The hotel was functional. He could afford much better, but slumming it was part 
of the appeal. 
He lay on the bed a while, one eye on a second-rate movie, his mind elsewhere. 
At nine he made his way to the bar, establishing a rapport with the steward, 
relating a hoary tale of a long day's work and the promise of an early night, in 
an accomplished Yorkshire accent the local barman could not distinguish from the 
real thing. He made his farewells at ten and stopped at a phone in the lobby, 
imitating conversation into the receiver. 
When the receptionist was called away he slipped out of the building, into the 
night.





79


The taxi driver was adamant. He didn't do out-of-town runs that late at night. 
The customer produced a wad of notes from his pocket, making a show of peeling 
them off until he had the driver's undivided attention. 
In a seedy hotel just off the Great Northern Road, close enough to the 
Leeds-Manchester railway to be disturbed by the clatter of passing trains, he 
was already in foul mood. As he sat on the end of the bed, watching the girl 
undress, his features darkened. Jacob had promised him something special for 
tonight. So far he was not impressed.
As she peeled off her clothes, indifferent to his gaze, he studied the body with 
an expert eye. Skinny enough to be anorexic, she was clearly used to the work. 
Under-developed. But thirteen?
She wriggled out of her underwear, standing before him, waiting. He returned a 
menacing gaze that made her feel uncomfortable. She tried to stare back, but 
couldn't face his eyes. Dark and cold, almost colourless, they seemed to ravage 
her very soul. She looked nervously around the room. 
The first tinge of fear.
His eyes traced her body, lingering. 
Some punters liked to look first. Some actually paid just to look. There was a 
special cheap rate for that, but she knew this client was paying top whack. 
Anything goes. She had ambitions of sneaking off to London one day and earning 
real money in Soho. But for now she worked for Jacob. It was safe, clean and 
comfortable.
There was no reaction in his eyes as he clinically studied her body. No sign of 
interest. No lust. No arousal. Just contempt. 
The words came uneasily, but she had to break the silence. "Would you like me 
to wear something?"
His eyes returned to hers. A shiver ran down her spine. She wished she was 
anywhere but here.
"To put something on? My unorm? My school uniform?" Some punters liked that. 
The gym slip. The white socks.
He stared at her, as if considering the question. Then, "Come here."
She moved closer. 
Nervous. 
She was too young to remember Peter Sutcliffe, but the Ripper's legacy lived on, 
especially here. 
She knew it was more than just rumours. That even after Sutcliffe's conviction 
women, prostitutes, continued to die on the job. That in recent years alone 
nearly thirty prostitutes had been murdered, twenty by a killer or killers 
unknown. 
They all knew. It rarely made the headlines, but in the trade it was common 
knowledge. The Ripper was locked away in Broadmoor, half blind, and still women 
were dying. 
But they were outside pick-ups, vagrants, travellers, not privileged in-house 
clients.
She reminded herself Jacob was just a scream away.
He asked, "What's your name?"
She relaxed a little. Some punters liked to know who they were getting. A few 
personal details. They didn't have to be true.
"Mary." It was no lie. There was no harm in telling him that much.
"Local?"
"Yes." Another honest answer. "I need the money," she added. As if he 
might have thought she did this for a hobby. 
She stood in front of him, trembling, covering her body with her hands, as if 
suddenly shy. He remained seated, his eyes glued to hers.
"How old are you?"
She hesitated. "Thirteen."
He reached down and picked up the nylon tights she had discarded earlier. 
"Come and lie down here, Mary."
She moved round the bed to climb on, cautiously, not knowing what to expect. 





80


As her knee touched the mattress she felt the movement from behind. In a second 
she was flat on the bed, on her back, his sixteen stone crushing the breath from 
her. She tried to cry out but a massive hand clasped around her mouth. The 
nylons were round her neck in an instant, pulled tight, choking her.
"Let's try again, girlie, shall we? How old are you?"
He released his grip on her mouth and she forced the words out. 
"Thirteen."
She gasped for breath. The nylons gripped tighter, cutting into her windpipe. He 
grabbed her hair and yanked her head up hard. Pain seared across the back of her 
neck. She almost passed out. The cold, dark eyes stared unblinking into hers.
"Last chance."
She choked the words out, all pretence abandoned, in fear for her life. 
"Sixteen. Nearly seventeen."
He twisted the nylons one more time then pushed her head hard onto the bed. She 
gasped for breath, her arms still pinned beside her by his weight. A knife 
appeared in his right hand and she tried to scream, but he smothered her mouth 
and nose before she could manage a sound. The eyes were wide with fear, the 
anorexic body struggling pathetically beneath his weight. She felt the tip of 
the knife blade press into her neck.
"One sound and I'll slit your throat. Understand, slag?"
She nodded as much as she dared. He took his hand away. She gulped down 
mouthfuls of air, fighting for breath. The blade cold against her skin. She felt 
it run down over her neck, over her collar bone, pressing into the flesh. She 
felt the blade on her left breast. It stopped at the nipple. She held her 
breath, eyes wide with fear.
"Thirteen? Whose idea was that, slag?"
"Jacob. Jacob made me."
He grabbed the nipple between thumb and forefinger and lifted it slowly until 
her whole body weight pulled against it, the pain excruciating. She grit her 
teeth to stop herself screaming. The tears ran down over her ears, into her 
hair. He pressed the point into the skin.
"How about some plastic surgery? To make you look your age."
She shook her head violently, eyes wide with fear, not daring to make a sound.
Suddenly he was off her, on his feet before even she'd fallen backonto the bed. 
For a moment she lay there, not daring to move, the pain searing.
He spat the words out with venom. "Get out of my sight, slag. Before I change 
my mind."
She ran naked, sobbing, from the room.
Seconds later Jacob's wiry, tanned, five foot two frame appeared in the doorway.
"Wassamatter, my friend? You got a problem?"
It was hardly an even match. His muscular frame towered above the pimp's. 
Jacob drew on his cigarette, blowing the smoke out in a steady stream into his 
customer's face. "I say again, my friend, you got a problem here?"
"You told me you had something special for me this time, Jacob."
"That right. They don't come more special than Mary. One of my best girls. 
Why, I have her myself sometimes, that's how good she is."
"I asked for your youngest girl."
"Barely thirteen. What more can you ask for?"
"The slag was not thirteen."
"I swear she is! What lies did she tell you?"
"Don't fuck with me, Jacob."
"Honest to God. Straight out of nappies."
His hand swung up in a flash, grabbing the pimp around the neck, lifting him 
several inches off the ground with the one arm. "I said, don't fuck with 
me."
Jacob's short, wiry arms were clutching at the steely biceps as he fought for 
breath, legs flailing wildly beneath him.
"Put him down, man."
He turned, still holding the pimp off the ground, to see two heavy-duty black 
bouncers in the doorway. One held a machete. His own blade paled by comparison. 
He returned their gaze with unblinking eyes while the pimp choked at the end of 
his arm, then suddenly he released his grip. Jacob dropped to the floor, gasping 
for breath. 
The two bouncers looked to their boss for instruction but he waved them away, 
massaging his throat with the other hand. They backed off, reluctantly.
He reached into his pocket. "Wise move, Jacob." He extracted five twenty 
pound notes and flicked each one between finger and thumb before dropping them 
into the pimp's eager hand. "This is my deposit for next month. You know what 
I want, Jacob. Try pass me off with some spotty teenage slag again and I'll 
break you in two, do you understand? And your two goons alongside."
Jacob smiled at him. "Would I let you down, my friend?"
"The second time will be your last."





81


As the last detectives filed into the room Weisman put himself centre-stage and 
gestured for quiet. The room fell silent, thirty pairs of eyes watching him.
"Good morning gentleman. Ladies," he added, nodding to the lone female 
officer in the second row. DC June Lockhart smiled dutifully. A murder inquiry 
was not considered to be women's work and she was acutely aware she was only 
involved because the lads were considered too insensitive to deal with the 
victims' parents.
"For those who've not yet had the pleasure I'm Superintendent John Weisman. We 
have several guests here today, most of whom you'll have met by now, but I'll 
run through the formalities anyway. From the Flintshire and Denbighshire 
Divisions of North Wales Police we have," he referred quickly to his notes, 
"DS Williams, DC Jones and DC Tremayne. From the London Metropolitan we have 
DS Blythe from SO7, Forensic and DI Saltburn from TO29, Thames Division. You'll 
be aware of course that as well as recovering the body of the Meadows child from 
Southall, TO29 also assisted with the search of the Trent & Mersey Canal in 
Cheshire, which brings us neatly to DI Cavendish of the Cheshire 
Constabulary."
Each announcement brought a shuffling of seats as officers put names to faces. 
Weisman paused patiently while they settled.
"I don't propose to waste time going over old ground other than to say this: 
The decision to link the North Wales murders with the death of our own girl, 
Rebecca Meadows, was not taken lightly." He turned to his associate. "Which 
brings me neatly to my final guest, Professor Colin Dunst. I'm sure you all know 
of Professor Dunst, or at least his reputation."
Dunst stood briefly to acknowledge the audience. The double-breasted Armani suit 
and polished shoes stood in sharp contrast to the cheap day-suits CID wore.
"Professor Dunst, for those of you recently returned from exile in outer 
Mongolia, is a criminal psychologist, late of the London Institute of Psychiatry 
and before that a senior advisor to the John Hopkins Sexual Disorders Clinic in 
Baltimore. He's been privileged to work alongside the FBI with some success, and 
has been involved with their internationally renowned Behavioural Science Unit 
at the FBI training centre in Virginia. I think it no exaggeration to say Colin 
is one of the foremost experts on psychological profiling in this country 
today." He paused to allow these facts to be fully appreciated, then, 
"Gentleman, I give you Professor Colin Dunst."
A polite ripple of applause ran through the room as Dunst took centre stage.
"Thank you for the warm welcome. I should say immediately that your 
Superintendent is overly generous in his praises. There are others in my field 
with as good or better a track record than I. David Canter and Glen Wilson 
spring to mind immediately. Paul Britton, of course. I could go on. However, I 
am the first in the UK, and as far as I know, unique in this field, in being 
devoted exclusively to criminal work, while Messrs Canter, Wilson and co. still 
carry on their excellent work at their respective universities. To that extent I 
would say I have the advantage."
A hand was up in the middle of the room. "I wouldn't have thought there was 
enough demand to make that viable, Sir."
Dunst acknowledged the question with a friendly smile. "A fair point. In the 
UK alone there isn't. Cases where applied criminal psychology has a role that 
can be justified financially are few and far between. Many of the larger UK 
forces now have criminal-psychologists on the pay-roll, usually in the form of 
officers with specialist training. But dedicated police profile experts do not 
exist here in the same way as in the States. I understand the Home Secretary is 
giving thought to developments in this area, but given the usual monetary 
constraints nothing is likely to come of it. At least, not before the next 
election."
He paused to clean his glasses, deliberately taking his time, playing to the 
audience.
"Some of you may be unfamiliar with criminal profiling, so I'll briefly 
explain the principles, the better that you will understand my conclusions. As 
psychologists, we believe every action or interaction with a person or object 
leaves a psychological imprint of some sort, just as it will leave a physical 
imprint which traditional forensic science may detect. I have to say it's 
nowhere near as exact a science as forensics, and there's no guarantee it will 
work. There have been a few spectacular failures as well as successes over the 
years. I'm sure you can all think of examples. But despite the occasional hiccup 
psychological profiling can have a genuine impact on a criminal investigation, 
identifying offender characteristics which might otherwise not be seen."
He sipped from a glass of water before continuing, taking the opportunity to 
evaluate audience interest.
"My best advice is, don't expect too much. The classic profiling scenario is 
that of James Brussel, the father of forensic psychology, who in the 
nineteen-fifties pin-pointed the Mad Bomber of New York right down to the way he 
buttoned his jacket. It was a classic case, but hardly typical. Brussel went on 
to profile the Boston Strangler and made serious errors of judgement, not least 
suggesting the suspect was impotent, when in fact he was a convicted rapist. So 
please, don't expect miracles." He paused again, studying his audience.
"What we can't do is produce a list of suspects complete with names and 
addresses. But we can, in manses, produce a list of characteristics, for 
instance approximate age, the likelihood and nature of previous convictions, the 
type of employment and family background a suspect may have, which may be of 
great help when applied alongside traditional detective methods. I stress that 
point. In the past I've come up against detectives who fear I'm in some way 
deliberately undermining their authority, or trying to cast doubt on their 
abilities. That is not the case. Psychological profiling is simply another tool, 
like forensic, which you, the real detectives, can use to your advantage." He 
paused again, pleased to see one or two of the audience taking notes. "I'm 
sure most of you are familiar with the film The Silence of the Lambs?"
An animated murmur suggested many were.
"Well forget it. It's crap. Pure Hollywood fantasy. Jodie Foster has a lot to 
answer for. Don't get me wrong. It was great entertainment. And Jodie Foster is 
a fine actress. I've been a fan of hers ever since I -"
Weisman coughed impatiently. Dunst took the hint.
"What I propose to do is run through the facts as established and comment on 
them from my own perspective as I go. Some of what I say will be obvious to you, 
but most of it hopefully won't be. If it is, you're in the wrong job."





82


Dunst moved back to a large whiteboard and selected a purple marker, writing up 
salient points as he spoke, linking items with coarse arrows.
"What we have so far is the sexual assault and murder of three girls. I stress 
girls. Female. The killer is, therefore, a heterosexual male. All three girls 
were prepubescent. Again, I stress the point. The oldest was nearly eleven, but 
physically undeveloped. The others, obviously, younger and smaller. What does 
that tell us? Anyone?"
"That he's a sick bastard and wants castrating."
"I was thinking of something a little more subtle."
"He's frightened of women?"
"That's better. Now you're thinking. Not necessarily frightened, but certainly 
uneasy about them. There are two main schools of thought on this. One is that 
the suspect is unable to control his sex drive, perhaps due to an organic 
problem - an hormonal imbalance, brain damage, or some such. But the murders are 
quite methodical, so I incline towards the second, psychological premise. That 
the suspect has a problem relating to women, is inexperienced in sexual matters 
and may well have had a bad experience at some stage which has turned him 
against the opposite sex. Domineering mothers are the classic, of course. We've 
all seen the film Psycho. So it's safe to say that somehow he needs to exercise 
control over his victims, to exert his own sexuality over theirs. That's a 
traditional rapist scenario. With children it may be also a matter of size."
"What, you mean he's got a tiny dick?"
A rumble of laughter ran through the room. Weisman glowered at the comedian in 
the second row. 
Dunst smiled indulgently. "I was thinking perhaps an overall lack of physical 
stature. It may be that the killer simply doesn't have the physical strength to 
tackle adult women, so he preys on children instead. Again the age group 
involved would lean towards this hypothesis. The girls are very much helpless 
children, but even so there is evidence that they were further restrained before 
and during the assault, as indicated by the marks to their wrists. The need for 
total control over the victim is a clear and recurrent trait in this case, as in 
so many. Sex crimes are rarely about sex. They're about control. Dominance. 
Power."
"But none of the kids were actually raped."
"Good point. Now I'm a psychologist, not a forensic scientist. My role is to 
collate the available information and try and get some order from it. As I 
understand it there was interference of some sort in all three cases, though 
almost certainly not by the assailant's penis. The post-mortem nsertion of the 
calling-card rather implies a form of substitute rape. What is not in question 
is that the bodies of the victims were thoroughly cleaned, probably post-mortem, 
before being disposed of. Any ideas?"
"Washing away the semen, if he masturbated over them?"
"Possibly, yes. But what does that tell us about the assailant?"
There was a collective shrugging of shoulders, the less experienced among the 
audience genuinely at a loss, the more worldly-wise unwilling to pander to 
Dunst's school-masterly overtures. 
"What about saliva? Skin tissues? Externally there were indications of oral 
and tactile manipulation, on the breasts and torso. In each case the child's 
body had been cleaned, using a soap solution. Imperial Leather, I believe, was 
identified. The hair had been brushed and plaited, and the genitals thoroughly 
cleaned."
"Like an enema, you mean?"
"Exactly."
"Maybe he's a rogue doctor. A paedophile paediatrician."
A few laughs erupted at the alliterative humour and private conversations began 
to spring up. They were getting restless. Dunst let them talk, gesturing to 
Weisman to assure him he had things under control. He rapped twice on the table 
with his knuckles and the room slowly fell silent.
"Okay, I appreciate you're impatient. You want to be out there doing 
something, not sitting in here listening to my waffle. So let's get to the 
point." 
His smile vanished. His tone became serious.





83


Dunst peered around the room. "What we're looking for is a mid-thirties white 
male, slight in stature, with previous convictions for indecency involving 
minors."
The floor was silent, all eyes pinned on the speaker.
"He may have a marine background, possibly naval, but certainly associated 
with boats, and is currently either self-employed as a sole trader of some sort, 
or more likely working in a semi-skilled job involving shift work or casual 
labour. He may at one time have held a delivery job and certainly still drives. 
He owns a van, probably a white Transit. Windowless. Between five and ten years 
old, in reasonable repair, current MOT, tax and insurance, but he may have false 
number plates. He's right-handed, of no more than average intelligence, 
unmarried, no children, and lives alone, in rented accommodation. A small 
apartment or flat. Not a house and not a bedsit. Probably near or, very likely, 
overlooking a school or play park."
Dunst scanned the audience, pleased to see their wary expressions. 
"Our suspect comes from a large family, the youngest of probably six children, 
and the only boy among five sisters. He's clean and tidy in appearance, a neat 
but not fashionable dresser. Short hair. Clean shaven, but possibly a moustache. 
He's likely to have a small group of male friends who he meets in bars on a 
regular basis, but no close friends and no significant female associates. He 
probably drinks heavily and may have convictions for drink-driving offences as 
well as the history of sexual misdemeanours already referred to."
Several hands were up but Dunst chose to ignore them. "I suggest the suspect 
lives in either the north-east of the country or the south-west. He did not know 
his victims and did not plan the abductions in advance in any detail, but may be 
a former resident of one or both areas. The victims were assaulted close to the 
sites of abduction, in the rear of the van he drives. He only removes them from 
the van to dispose of their bodies. I can say categorically that this man will 
go on killing until he is caught."
The hands had come down by now, the audience stunned by the audacity of the 
barrage of detail thrown at them. As he stopped a few hands hesitantly rose 
again, but came down abruptly as Weisman stood up, beaming, delighted with the 
showmanship. His bringing Dunst in on the investigation had been clearly 
vindicated. He shot a smug glance Pitman, surprised to see his DI looking 
sceptical.
"Colin, that's a quite stunning statement you've just made. You've obviously 
devoted a lot of time and energy considering the evidence, to produce such a 
concise profile scenario. I make no secret of the fact that I'm impressed. Very 
impressed. But I'm sure I'm not alone in saying that the reasoning behind much 
of your analysis totally escapes me. Perhaps you'd care to explain the reasoning 
behind it, for the benefit of us mere mortals?"
"My pleasure."
Weisman sat down and Dunst took centre stage again, this time with their 
undivided attention. He circled the core points on the whiteboard as he 
explained each one. 
"Male, slight in stature, I've already explained. White? Because the victims 
were. In my experience blacks and coloureds are not inclined to sexual assaults 
across racial divides. As a rule of thumb white men will attack black or white 
women, but not vice versa. The main exception, strangely, appears to be assaults 
on older women. Sex attacks on elderly white females are very often committed by 
young black men. Carlton Gary, the Stocking Strangler in Georgia in the 
seventies is probably the best known. Closer to home we have Kenneth Erskine, 
our very own Stockwell Strangler, and more recently of course Adrian Babb in 
Birmingham."
"No accounting for coons!"
Weisman glared across the room, making a mental note of the offending officer.
Dunst beamed around the room, enjoying the attention. "The killer's attention 
to detail in cleaning the body may be a hygiene fixation of some sort. Maybe 
OCD. Certainly he's likely to be very clean himself. He uses Imperial Leather, 
an up-market brand. Someone unconcerned with personal hygiene will make do with 
the first cheap bar of soap they come to on the supermarket shelf. But the 
hygiene concern here, especially the cleansing of the bodies, is almost 
certainly indicative of familiarity with forensic methods. That suggests someone 
who has previously been convicted of an offence in which forensics played a 
part. Something like indecent assault, which we can reasonably suppose attracted 
a short custodial sentence. So if he was a teenager when first arrested he'd 
likely be at least in his twenties by now."
He scanned his audience. "From experience we know the propensity to sexual 
assault declines with middle-age; so, in his mid-twenties to late thirties, 
maximum. This being a ritual killing again suggests an older man. Teen crimes, 
especially sex murders, are very uncontrolled affairs - impulsive. Sex crimes 
tend to manifest themselves in the teen years and then develop thereafter. The 
murders here show a man in control of himself. Experienced. At ease with the 
gruesome nature of the task. So I opt for late thirties. Which brings us to the 
van."
"The white van? Taxed and insured, with a current MOT? Do us a favour, Guv. 
There's no way on Earth you can know that."
Dunst beamed a patronising smile. "On the contrary, it's quite simple."





84


"Now, you must appreciate these rituals take time. They must be carried out 
somewhere he feels secure. Normally we might presume he takes his victims to his 
home, but clearly the distance involved between the two rules that out." 
Dunst paused to clean his glasses. Then, "I believe he assaults his victims in 
the same vehicle used to abduct them. The forensics' estimate of the height 
the girls were tied indicates a compact space. A cellar was suggested, but I 
would suggest a transit van might explain the evidence better. Obviously the 
suspect is mobile, to get round the country as he does, and I favour a 
windowless vehicle for obvious reasons. It would enable him to grab his target 
and drive away quickly without fear of the child drawing attention to herself 
until she could be tied more securely."
"Not an ice-cream van then?"
"Categorically not. He's nostupid."
"But a white van? With MOT and insurance?"
"Nothing mysterious about that. The last thing he wants to do is attract 
attention to himself, especially if he's driving around the country with an 
abducted child in the back. White vans are so common no-one would give it a 
second glance. The tax disc is clearly visible. Not to have one would invite 
interest from your uniformed colleagues, and might be picked up by number-plate 
recognition cameras. To tax a vehicle you first require an MOT and insurance 
certificate. It's that simple. As for the vehicle's age, that's a rough 
estimate. Five to ten years old. Given his likely income - serial killers tend 
to come from lower income groups, though there have been notable exceptions - 
it's reasonable to suppose he can't afford a new vehicle. But too old a van and 
he runs the risk of breakdown, with all the attendant problems. Not very helpful 
when he's driving around the country, presumably using the motorway network. So 
a vehicle in that age group, in reasonable repair, is likely."
He printed the salient points on the board as he spoke. "A marine background 
is indicated by several counts, not least the knots used to secure the girls, 
consistent with someone experienced with ropes. Naval? A strong possibility. 
Inexperience with women I've previously mentioned. Obviously someone spending 
time at sea might reasonably have such problems. Also there's the disposal of 
the bodies in water. Collectively they suggest a link of sorts. Right handed, 
you know from forensic. Again the knots confirmed."
"How about his job then?"
"Several pointers. The three abductions occurred in day-time, on a Friday, a 
Sunday and a Monday. Dumping the bodies obviously took place by dark, so I 
favour shift work with 'long weekends' or casual labour. That kind of mobility 
suggests either self-employment or more likely shift employment, giving a few 
clear days to go out, commit the offence, dispose of the evidence, and get back 
to his job."
"But he's not an ice-cream man?"
"Not now, but there may be a past link somewhere. Obviously he's employed, 
because he can afford to travel over quite a distance. So far there is a 
geographical line we can draw roughly from south-east England to north-east 
Wales, with body disposal very roughly along the M1-M6 routes. As said, the 
victims are spontaneously selected. Ritual killings of this nature are 
invariably by strangers, while impulse killings conversely are more likely to be 
committed by someone known to the assailant. The bizarre ritual he carries out 
suggests a total depersonalisation of the victim, post-mortem, though he may 
attempt to relate to them in some way before the final, fatal assault. Again, 
ritual killings tend to occur on the suspect's home ground. Familiar territory. 
It's possible therefore that, in the past, the suspect has been a local 
resident. But he doesn't assault where he lives now. Given the care he's taken 
to avoid leaving forensic anything useful, it's reasonable to suppose he's known 
to the police in his home area, so probably lives away from the area where he 
commits the crime. If his next attack takes place in say the south-west we could 
therefore reasonably direct attention to the eastern part of the country."
"Why should he know the area?"
"Confidence of the abduction, in broad daylight, suggests familiarity; that 
he's identified quiet roads and easy routes out. All of the abductions take 
place close to main A-class roads. Drinking and driving? Anyone with an 
inferiority complex is likely to take solace in being one of the lads down the 
local, drinking heavily. Given that he knows the country quite well, or at least 
the belt we've identified, he may have had a driving job in the past. Possibly 
lost through a drink driving conviction. I don't believe he works as a driver 
now. Any firm employing someone to drive around the country would want to use 
the opportunity to advertise. Any trade-marked vehicle is likely to have 
registered on the mind of someone near the scene. We have nothing. Therefore it 
seems certain the vehicle is privately owned, by the suspect. An anonymous white 
van. False plates are of course a possibility, although we shouldn't over 
estimate his intelligence and abilities, but it's a precaution he may have 
thought of. A defunct set could be easily obtained from a car breaker's yard."
"Unmarried, without children?"
"Again, in keeping with the broad sex offender profile. If he's not had many 
relationships with a woman then he's less likely to have fathered a child."
"He's a virgin?"
"Not necessarily. But he's probably obliged to resort to teen prostitutes and, 
given the age of his victims, to heavy masturbation fantasies about younger 
girls. Return to the scene of the crime for that purpose is well documented. 
Given that the third girl was abducted so soon after the second, within a 
relatively short distance, it may be that he stayed in North Wales to relive the 
second assault, and was then excited to the point where he felt compelled to 
strike again."
"But there was only the one girl killed here." It was a reference to 
Rebecca's abduction, just a few miles from where they were now sat.
"I would guess he returned here, after killing the first girl, and to Rhyl 
after the third, but on those occasions was able to satisfy himself with the 
memory. Or maybe the opportunity just never arose. Obviously finding a young 
child in a secluded place with no one else about is very much a game of chance 
for him. Again, the fact that he hasn't attacked close to schools or parks 
suggests he's especially wary of being caught, and so almost certainly he has 
form."
"Why leave a calling card?"
"That's a difficult one. It might be some form of a challenge to the police. 
Or there may be some reasoning we cannot yet fathom. The ice-cream logo is 
probably symbolic. An ejaculating penis? As he kills again and the evidence 
accumulates it may become clearer."
There was a sobered silence to this observation.
Dunst put on a reassuring smile. "Any more questions?"
"What colour boxer shorts does he wear?"
Over the laughter Dunst replied, "He doesn't. He wears white Y-fronts, 
purchased from M&S. Think about it."
He looked to his host for support and Weisman stood on cue. 
"Alright, men. You know what you're looking for. Let's haul this sick 
bastard in."





85


"He's out! Home! What more do you want, for Christ's sake?"
"It just happened, alright? I blurted it out because I felt sorry for him. I 
could hardly change my mind afterwards."
"You've done more than enough for the sick bastard already. It's senseless you 
feeling guilty, Claire. If he wasn't a dirty, poxy, nonce he wouldn't have been 
dragged into this in the first place."
"That's not fair, Matt."
"Fair? So he had nothing to do with Rebecca. He's still a fucking nonce. He 
still touched up those lads, and God only knows how many other kids we never got 
to hear about. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
"You don't know him, Matt."
"And you do? You've met him twice, in a visiting room in Canterbury jail, for 
Christ's sake. What the hell did you want to phone him for in the first 
place?"
"To see if he needed anything."
Matt stared at her in disbelief.
"He's not some kind of monster, Matt. He has feelings, just like you and me. 
He didn't go out and attack some stranger in a dark alley. He felt for those 
children."
"The only thing he felt was their balls."
Claire walked away in frustration, staring through the window over the Channel. 
"Matt, just this once, try thinking instead of reacting. I'm not saying what 
he did was right. Just that he did it out of affection, not... not lust. Whoever 
killed Rebecca was not the same person as Thomas Bristow."
"We know that now. It doesn't change what he did."
"I mean not the same type of person. He never set out to hurt those kids. It 
was an expression of love that went too far."
"That's his version."
"He's not a liar, Matt."
"Just a fucking good actor. He's taken you in completely."
"He's not an actor. He blinks too much."
"He what?"
She returned to her seat, determined to argue her case. "He blinks, Matt. An 
actor's eyes only blink when they tell them to. Haven't you ever noticed that? 
Thomas couldn't act to save his life."
"Oh, it's Thomas, now, is it? Claire, what he did was not just illegal. It was 
wrong. Sick. Indecent. Obscene. Forget whether it was bloody affectionate or 
not. He's a self-confessed paedophile. A pervert. A pederast. He preyed on 
little boys, for Christ's sake."
Claire looked into his eyes, trying to see through the anger. "I thought I 
knew you better."
"Likewise. I never thought I'd hear you defend his kind."
"I'm not defending him, Matt. Just trying to understand."
"There's nothing to understand. The guy was wrongly arrested. It happens. 
He'll get compensated. What about those kids he did touch up? Their lives were 
ruined because he wanted to be... What did you say just now, affectionate? 
Christ, Claire, they'll bear those scars the rest of their lives. I don't 
suppose they'll ever be capable of normal sex lives themselves. Did you ever 
stop to consider that?"
Claire stared at him, uncomprehending. "What makes you the expert?"
"It's common knowledge. The abused kids are traumatised. They never fully 
recover. They'll probably become perverts themselves. It's always the same."
"Always?"
"Always. What worse thing could happen to you? It's sick. Fucking sick. And 
now you're planning to act as chauffeur for the bastard? He's out. Free. Just 
forget him, Claire. He's not worth a light."
"God, Matt, you're so... So prejudiced."
He didn't want an argument. 
Least of all this one, least of all now. 
Maybe they were spending too much time at one another's homes. 
He said quietly, "I'm as liberal as the next guy when it comes to sex, Claire, 
you know that. What happens between consenting adults is entirely their own 
affair. But I draw the line at children. Any normal person does. It's got 
nothing to do with prejudice."
"Have you ever heard of the Paedophile Information Exchange?"
"PIE? Sure. Bunch of perverts back in the seventies, wanted to legalise sex 
with kids. Most of them were locked up. They should've thrown away the key."
"You know about it? You've never mentioned it."
Matt shrugged. "So?"
"Thomas was a member."
"Surprise me."
"I felt disgusted at first, but the way he explained it, it sort of made 
sense."
"What the hell's gotten into you, Claire? How can child molesting make 
sense."
"That's not what I said, Matt. But if I've learned one thing from meeting 
Thomas Bristow it's that they're not all raving lunatics. They're intelligent, 
thinking individuals trying to come to terms with the way they are. The way 
nature has made them."
"Oh, it's natural now, is that it? It's natural to fancy little kids instead 
of being attracted to other adults, like normal people?"
"I'm not saying it's right, Matt. And of course it's unacceptable. Children 
have to be protected. But knee-jerk reactions like yours aren't achieving 
anything. It's precisely this failure to make a distinction between people like 
Thomas and lunatics like Uncle Tom that meant an innocent man was locked up and 
two more children lost their lives."
Tears flowed freely. He passed her a box of tissues. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean 
to... I'll make a coffee."
From the kitchen he said, "If you're going through with this then I'm coming 
too."
Claire managed a smile. "Matt, I've mt him before."
"Not alone."
"Thomas is completely harmless."
"Tell that to the kids he fondled."
"Matt, I'm not a child. I can handle Thomas Bristow."





86


Claire rose early, a light breakfast, and watched the newspaper boy as he came 
up the drive, wondering if Thomas would have found him attractive. She shut the 
thought from her mind. Matt was right: she was getting too involved. She would 
make clear to Bristow this was a one-off.
It was instantly recognisable, the wilting garden leading to boarded windows and 
a paint-daubed front door. The graffiti sickened her, but she knew it had been 
done before the mistake had been realised. She couldn't bring herself to condemn 
it, but her heart went out to Bristow for having to live there with it. Amidst 
the blind hatred.
As she made her way up the path curtains twitched at neighbouring windows, 
curious eyes watching her every move. There was no attempt to be discreet. She 
felt like a zoo exhibit. Instinctively she pulled the hem of her dress down. She 
realised she was doing it and smiled to herself. She could probably walk in the 
house stark naked and Thomas wouldn't blink an eye.
She knocked a fourth time. No response. The neighbours were looking on. 
She knocked again, louder still. Nothing. 
She checked her watch. She was early, but only by a few minutes. She pushed 
against the door but it held firm. The boarded downstairs windows afforded no 
view into the house. She stood back and looked to the upstairs windows, one of 
which had miraculously survived the attack unscathed. There was no sign of life.
Hesitantly she made her way round the side of the house, where the back garden 
told a similar tale of wanton vandalism. She knocked hard and the back door 
gave, the lock broken.
The door swung wide and she stepped over the threshold. 
"Thomas?" 
She felt for the light switch, illuminating the dark kitchen, recoiling in 
shock. The vandals had been everywhere. The walls, cupboards, the fridge, even 
the cooker, were daubed with obscene slogans. Piles of broken crockery had been 
swept into the corners, awaiting final clearance. She felt pangs of guilt that 
he'd been living like this for the past week.
"Thomas, are you there?"
Uneasy, she made her way through to the living room, putting on the lights as 
she went. The television lay smashed on the floor. The sofa and armchair had 
been slashed, the kitchen knife still in the material. The fish tank lay 
shattered on the floor, the water long since evaporated. The debris had been 
swept to the corners in a half-hearted attempt at clearing up.
The stairway faired little better, graffiti sprayed up both walls, paint spilt 
over the carpet. She took one step at a time. 
Anxious. 
Cautious. 
The bathroom was a mess, the basin and toilet pan broken, the bath covered in 
paint, the walls daubed with obscenities.
"Thomas, are you okay?"
There was only the one bedroom. Myriad images crossed her mind.
"Thomas, it's Claire."
She hesitated outside the door. "Thomas?"
She knocked gingerly, praying he would call out feebly, bed-ridden. The flu. 
Anything.
No answer.
She pushed the door open and gasped as the stench of excreta assaulted her 
nostrils. She clicked the switch but nothing happened. The curtains were drawn, 
but a flickering computer monitor provided enough light to make out the figure 
on the bed. 
She stepped in, fearing the worst, ready for almost anything.
Almost anything. 
But not this.
For a full minute she just stared, unable to take it in. Her legs weakened and 
she felt herself slide faint against the wall. She steadied herself and reached 
for her inhaler. Her fingers clutched at her mobile. 
Ambulance. 
Police. 
Anyone. 
She'd never seen a dead body before, except on TV. This was the real thing. 
The unsanitised version. 
He lay sideways across the bed, his head hanging down one side, his legs down 
the other, the body naked but for brown, nylon socks. A polythene bag clung 
tight around his head, tracing every contour. What looked like a small orange 
protruded from his mouth. The blood had drained to the feet and head, lower than 
the rest of the body, causing purple blotching of the skin. With death the anal 
sphincter muscle had relaxed, accounting for the stench. 
The face stared out at her from beneath the taut polythene. The distorted 
features and the blue hue stood out as much as the bulging eyes, the polythene 
giving the skin an eerie sheen in the dim light.
Poor Thomas. Poor, poor Thomas. 
To go through all what he'd suffered, only to end it all in this horrible 
fashion just when there was a chance for a new start. 
The monitor caught her eye. The classic Windows screen-saver. Cautiously she 
moved closer. She was wary of the naked body before her, but curiosity was 
stronger. She gingerly nudged the mouse. The screen leapt into life. 
The title said it all. 
Lover Boys. 
It was unlike anything she'd ever imagined. 
She felt sick just from the single glance, but morbid fascination made her stare 
until her stomach heaved and she managed somehow to close her eyes. 
She turned on Bristow's dead body angrily, wanting to spit, to shout, to scream. 

The betrayal stung. 
She'd believed him. 
Believed what he'd said about loving, caring relationships. 
About not harming the child. 
"You bastard! You bastard!"
She flung the mouse at Bristow's corpse and ran from the house in tears, quaking 
with anger, locking herself in the car until the police arrived.





87


He was on the top floor of the Riverside car-park when he saw her, peering 
anxiously over the parapet down towards the footbridge across the River Severn 
below.
He stopped to watch, admiring the colourful, loose fitting top and 
figure-hugging pink nylon leggings to mid-shin. The ribbon in her hair matched 
the leggings. There was something about the way she walked, the way she held 
herself, that set him salivating. He licked his lips, deep in thought, checking 
the date on his watch. Three times.
"Mum! Mum! Up here!" The girl waved energetically at a figure below. "Meet 
you at the lift!"
He rummaged through his shopping bags and retrieved the roll of tape, tucking it 
into his pocket. As she came closer he slipped his belt off and dropped it just 
inside the boot of the car, ready. 
It was over in seconds. 
He grabbed her from behind as she walked past, hand over her mouth to stop her 
screaming. The other hand brought the tape up while she was still too surprised 
to struggle, slapping it across her face. 
There was no time for neatness. He wound the metre length around her head, back 
across her mouth and around her head again. She struggled valiantly, but with 
both hands free he quickly pulled her arms behind her back, using his belt to 
strap the wrists and ankles together, and threw the child into the boot, among 
the M&S grocery bags. 





88


He took the M54 back to the motel on the M6 services and parked alongside the 
transit at the far end of the car park, out of sight of the main building. 
It was too risky to move the girl by daylight. He looked around, making sure 
no-one was watching, then opened the boot and leaned in. The traumatised child 
struggled futilely against her bonds. He thoughtfully loosened the tape across 
her nose, shifting the child's body, laying her head against the car blanket, 
determined she should be comfortable.
He passed the evening casually, dining on steak and ale pie at the restaurant, 
with two cups of hot tea, then retired to motel room to watch TV. He needed to 
relax. He washed his hands a half-dozen times, pacing the floor, anxious, 
sweating. He told himself a day early didn't matter. But he knew it did. He 
cursed his lack of self control.
He lay down on the bed and tried to get interested in the film, to take his mind 
off the girl a while. The evening was warm, the air conditioning poor, his body 
tired. Slowly his eyes closed.





89


Jeff had been stealing cars since he was twelve. 
It seemed the older he got, the more difficult it became. Or maybe it was just 
that vehicle security systems were getting better. 
Either way, the saloon was a last resort. His mates would fall about laughing. 
But after twenty minutes sauntering in the car-parks time was short. There was a 
poor choice tonight and the best ones were parked in unhelpful places. Well-lit 
areas, near the main concourse.
He was in the vehicle and driving away in less than fifteen seconds, taking it 
casual, not wanting to draw attention. The M6 was quiet but he held a steady 
sixty-five, taking the Junction 12 exit and picking up the A5, meeting his 
friends at Crackleybank. 
They sat together on the roof, drinking cheap supermarket lager, laughing and 
joking into the early hours. The fuel gauge was showing empty. They took it for 
a final trial. Teggs had it up to a screaming ninety-five when it began to 
splutter. It came to a halt on the A5 outside Weston-under-Lizard.
Jeff was careful as always, wiping the interior clean with a hanky. His prints 
weren't on record, but he didn't care to take chances. A can of petrol was 
retrieved from the follow-up car and the saloon was liberally doused inside and 
out, just to make sure. 
They were joy-riders, not car-thieves. 
It just never occurred to them to look in the boot.
The girl felt the heat before she smelt the smoke. 
Suffocation took her out just before the flames reached her.





90


He woke up with a start, leapt out of bed and ran to the window. 
Dawn. 
He cursed his indiscipline. There'd be no chance of moving her again before 
nightfall. He booked the room for a further night as he went to breakfast. 
Only when he came to back-up the transit did he notice the saloon had gone. The 
turmoil in his mind barely registered on his face as he drove away.
He tuned in to the local radio station as he reached the M54, heading for 
Telford.
Shropshire Police were still searching Shrewsbury town centre for the missing 
girl, nine year old Michelle Morgan, last seen by her mother in the multi-storey 
car park late the previous afternoon. Fears were growing for her safety.
The image of her trussed body lingered in his mind. The pink leggings. The 
exposed naval. 
He needed her. 
Anyone.
The decision was made. 
Telford.





91


At the best of times Telford has a poor show of policing and today much of the 
Shropshire force were swamping Shrewsbury town centre. 
There was no obvious connection as yet between Michelle and the Uncle Tom 
murders, but by now the thought was uppermost in everyone's mind and reporters 
on the scene were anxious to exploit it. 
When no link looked like materialising they made the most of speculation and the 
fear of local parents to enliven their midday bulletins.
There were plenty of kids on the way to school. He was enjoying the view, but 
they were bunched together, chaperoned, or in busy areas. 
Then he saw her, coming out of the newsagents with her father's paper under her 
arm.
Alone. 
Seven. Eight maybe. Dressed in a pastel green tunic, with knee high white socks. 

He shadowed her in the van, checking for CCTV, then pulled up by the bus stop. 
Thereno-one else in sight.
He drove east, back along the A5 through Crackleybank, the child's pitiful 
screams inaudible outside the transit's soundproofed walls. His face looked 
ahead as he drove slowly past the police cordon just outside Weston-upon-Lizard, 
but his eyes were on the burned out vehicle. A police car stood idle nearby. 
He smiled to himself and accelerated away. He rang through on his mobile and 
cancelled the motel reservation before destroying the sim-card.





92


The lunch time radio news led with the gruesome find of the body in the boot. 
Shropshire Police confirmed it was the missing school girl Michelle Morgan, who 
had vanished from a busy shopping centre car park the previous day. A police 
spokesman said they had no reason to connect this with the Uncle Tom child 
murders. 
The one o'clock news led with reports that another girl, eight year old Andrea 
Whiteman, had failed to return from a Telford newsagents that morning. As the 
nation's media descended upon the town, parents everywhere were told to exercise 
extreme caution.
He pulled in at the Toddington services southbound past Junction 12 and made a 
reservation for the night, paying cash in advance, then spent the afternoon in 
Milton Keynes, parking near the car he'd arrived in a few days previously. He'd 
be back to collect it later. 
He caught a movie at the multiplex before driving on towards the marina, where 
he found a quiet spot and joined Andrea in the back of the van. 
It was nice to have a name to put to the face.
An appetite worked up, he made his way to the Toby Grill and dined by the 
canal-side, lightly crumbed plaice, fries and minted garden peas, with herbal 
tea, while he considered the problem of where to dump the body. 
The consummate professional, he'd finished his meal and had started on the sweet 
before he made a final decision. 





93


Professor Gavin Large poured himself another scotch, leaned back in his 
comfortable armchair and browsed the paper again. He had before him the homework 
of one of his pupils. 
He felt like the law professor in The Pelican Brief, given the all important 
thesis by the star pupil he's secretly bedding, that gets the bad guy and 
solves the mystery.
Except she wasn't his star pupil. 
The report wasn't a thesis. 
It didn't solve the mystery, and didn't name the bad guy. 
And he wasn't knocking her off on the side. Chance would be a fine thing.
Despite such reservations he ran to a third scotch and perused the document once 
more. 
Ceri Jones was no Julia Roberts. She had little chance of scraping through on 
even the lowest grade, let alone becoming his star pupil. She rarely finished 
her assignments on time, was always late for class, and talked too much..
Yet Large had just finished reading her homework for the third time, and was now 
reading it a fourth.
The task had been simple enough. Select a convicted killer of choice, analyse 
the profiles produced during the hunt and compare with the known facts revealed 
after conviction. Standard second year stuff. Invariably they picked the tabloid 
favourites. Nilsen, Dahmer, Gacy, Bundy and Sutcliffe were always in the 
running. 
For Ceri Jones he'd anticipated one of the more obscure characters. Pedro Lopez 
or Robert Hansen. Maybe Leonard Lake. Albert Fish was a front runner.
He should have known better. 
She'd elected to profile a killer not on the list, which was bad news for her. 
It was outside the remit of the assignment. He had no choice but to award an F. 
But the profile was good. 
Wild. 
Daring. 
Brash. 
Presumptive. 
By far the best piece any student of his had turned in over the years. It was a 
shame he had to fail it.
But quite apart from ignoring the assignment's oectives, Ceri had completed a 
profile which it was impossible for him to mark. Impossible because the killer 
she'd selected had yet to be caught.





94


It was Matt's choice of venue and for once Cafe Nero was not on the list. They 
found a spare table in Caesar's in St Peter's Street, Canterbury, settling down 
to a feast of light pasta dishes washed down with a cheap but exhilarating 
Chianti.
"She's a what?" After Bristow, Claire was not in the mood for this at all. 
"A second year student?"
"In applied psychology," Matt stressed. "Gavin says it's worth a 
look."
"And this... This student... I suppose she had a couple of free periods so she 
popped down the refectory and ran it off between lectures?"
"Claire, I know how you're feeling just now. But forget Bristow. Think about 
Rebecca. Remember what you told me the other day, about playing Miss Marple?"
"That was then. I'm not sure I'm ready for anything else."
"Claire, this girl's family live in Rhyl. North Wales. Her sister attends the 
same school as one of the victims."
Claire pushed her plate aside and reluctantly took the folder, casting a 
tentative glance over the first few pages, just to keep Matt happy. 
He was making the effort for her. 
The least she could do was feign interest.
She was on the first train to Liverpool the next morning.





95


"It's a bit like fortune telling," Professor Large explained through 
mouthfuls of chips and gravy. "You know, horoscopes? If you keep the 
information broad enough it will fit any number of scenarios. It's once you get 
down to the nitty-gritty that things start getting difficult."
In the refectory at Liverpool University Claire listened intently while Large 
multi-tasked food and conversation "Don't get me wrong. There have been some 
spectacular successes. You remember the toddler Jamie Bulger?"
Claire nodded. Who would ever forget?
"Paul Britton's finest hour. Had the two boys spot on. Age, home background, 
family. Everything. Devastating. My students idolised him. Remember the 
kidnapped baby, Abbie Humphries? The kidnapped estate agent Stephanie Slater? 
All resolved with the help of Paul Britton." More chips. "Then came the 
Rachel Nickell fiasco. A young woman out with her child on Wimbledon Common, 
attacked by a lunatic with a knife. Stabbed forty-nine times and sexually 
assaulted in broad daylight, yet nobody saw a thing. A man was arrested and 
charged, only to have the case thrown out of court. The judge all but accused 
the police of trying to frame the guy."
Large paused to deluge his chips with salt. "Mind you, Britton redeemed 
himself pretty well with Fred and Rosemary West. Just goes to show, you can't 
win 'em all. Another failure? The Waco siege in the States. Some religious 
lunatic, thinks he's the Messiah. The profilers said, Fine, go ahead. He's not 
the suicidal type. The whole place went up in flames. He didn't just commit 
suicide himself. He took eighty innocent people with him. So yes, it can work. 
Just don't put too much trust in it."
"I'll try not to." Claire pushed a small potato around the plate with a 
fork. Any appetite she might have had was lost watching Large eat.
"Even the Old Man himself, James Brussel, got it wrong sometimes. His big 
success was the Mad Bomber of New York in the fifties. Some demented idiot led 
the Big Apple's finest on a wild goose chase for sixteen years. Then Brussel 
came along. He listed the Mad Bomber's traits with spectacular accuracy. 
Middle-aged, paranoiac, immigrant male living with his sister. He even described 
the way he'd dress. In a double-breasted jacket, worn buttoned. He was spot 
on!" 
Claire nodded politely. The history lesson was mildly interesting, providing you 
didn't have to watcheak.
"Of course, profiling has come a long way since then. The Yanks have it down 
to a fine art now. Seen Silence Of The Lambs? I love that film. I'd give my 
right arm to visit the FBI Academy in Quantico. There's nothing comparable 
anywhere in the world. Mind you, no country has as many crazed killers as the 
States."
"That I can believe." 
Large took it as is cue to continue. "You see, sex crime is a relatively 
recent phenomenon. I mean, sure, there's been rape and pillage throughout 
history. But serial sex attackers, paedophiles, all that nonsense? It's a 
modern phenomena. And no, it's not just because of improved detection and 
recording methods. Ever heard of Abraham Maslow?"
He paused to shovel more food. Claire acknowledged her ignorance with a shake of 
her head.
"A genius. Back in the forties Maslow put forward the concept of the hierarchy 
of needs. That human motivation is driven not by greed, but by need. He argued 
need comes in four stages: food, shelter, emotional stability and 
respectability. You can see it in any social class or group. When man just 
existed in the wilderness his sole concern was sustenance. Food. Early man."
The reference to food reminded Large to start shovelling again. "When food is 
less of a problem, shelter becomes important. Look at any group of animals. The 
more highly evolved they are the more they rate shelter, a home, alongside food 
as part of their normal life cycle. What separates man from animals is the need 
for emotional stability. The need for relationships. Again, some of the higher 
mammals show similar traits. Dolphins, chimpanzees, dogs."
Large stopped chewing long enough to drain his mug of tea. "Last of all comes 
the need for respectability. Self esteem. It's what drives your traditional 
working class pleb to go down the jobcentre and take the first thing that comes 
along so he can have the dignity of employment, even if it's just shovelling 
shit from one place to another. It doesn't matter. It's work, and that means 
self-esteem. Of course, if he doesn't have somewhere to live or food to eat then 
the dignity of work isn't a consideration. Nor is his relationship with other 
people."
Claire struggled to look interested. It had been a long journey to get here. The 
last thing she wanted was a sociology lecture.





96


"Crime reflects this," Large continued, evidently enjoying himself.
"Early crimes were for food. They teach kids at school that medieval laws were 
barbaric, but the laws of that time simply reflected the priorities of the day. 
You could get hung for poaching a salmon, but kill your neighbour and nobody 
cared. As the economy developed, crime became more money-orientated, but it was 
the same driving force behind it. The need for food and shelter. Who'd steal a 
lamb nowadays? Most people wouldn't know how to kill it, let alone skin it and 
make a meal."
Claire nodded her understanding.
Large went on, "So you stole money instead and bought the meat, or nowadays 
you'd shop-lift it direct from the supermarket. As society became more 
developed, violent crimes became largely domestic. Once the rape and pillage 
stage had passed, sex crime virtually disappears. Now there's several reasons 
for that, but mainly availability. No offence, Claire, but women were cheap 
then."
Claire grimaced. She just wanted to know about Ceri's profile. Matt had warned 
her the professor was a lecturer in and out of the classroom.
"Seriously," Large continued. "The rich had their slaves, the poor had 
their prostitutes. For a few pence a man could satisfy his desires. There was no 
such thing as working women, bar a few developing cottage industries. 
Prostitution was the only independent source of income a woman had."
Claire raised a doubting eyebrow.
"You have to understand, Claire, attitudes towards sex were different then. 
The poor lived squashed into tiny houses, sleeping on top of one another. Men, 
women and children together. Sex was quite open, with children looking on." He 
paused to savour a forkful of chips. "Child sex among the poorer classes is 
not well documented but that doesn't mean it didn't occur. Certainly among the 
educated classes it was quite the norm."
Claire shuddered as she thought of Bristow.
"Then came the Victorian era. Sixty glorious years when you couldn't even show 
the legs of your table for fear of embarrassing someone, and with it the 
repression of social attitudes, driving sex and sexuality underground. Suddenly 
sex wasn't so readily available. Crime changed to reflect that. Sex criminals 
emerged."
Large broke off to acknowledge a passing colleague, then resumed in full flow.
"Jack the Ripper is the classic, of course. After domestic crime, sex crime 
was a natural evolution. As women became more independent so prostitutes became 
more expensive, less available. Violently-inclined men who might have satiated 
their desires on a cheap woman suddenly found they couldn't afford them. 
Prostitutes became a symbol of their inadequacies, and for some a means of 
hitting back, an easy target."
"Easier than children?"
Large stabbed at some peas. "Good question. You see, sex crime isn't about 
sex."
Claire looked surprised. "Then what?"
"It's about power. It comes back to Maslow's hierarchy of needs. Most killers 
have pretty stable lifestyles. A home, a job, maybe even a successful career. 
I'm thinking John Gacy, Ted Bundy, or our very own Dennis Nilsen or Frederick 
West. Some were, by all accounts, happily married. Peter Sutcliffe, for example. 
Colin Pitchfork had a wife and kids. Ted Bundy was a notorious womaniser. They'd 
met the first three needs, food, shelter, emotional stability, although Nilsen 
claimed he kept the corpses of his victims by his bedside for company." He 
shrugged his shoulders indifferently. "But they lacked the self-esteem they 
wanted, for all their achievements. Self-esteem and power go hand in hand. The 
need to control. That's what drives men to rape and kill, not the act of sex 
itself. Controlling another person to the extent of coldly murdering them is the 
ultimate act of power. In the warped logic of the killer it's the ultimate act 
of self-esteem."
"You're saying Uncle Tom is just some power freak?"
Large considered the question."Obviously children are easier for an adult to 
control, simply because of their diminutive size. But there's more to it than 
that."
He broke a roll in two and stuffed half into his mouth. "The problem is, 
profiling techniques that work well for sex attacks on adults tend to fall down 
when it comes to children. That's one of Colin Dunst's failings. He can't bring 
himself to accept that some people might actually find children sexually 
attractive in their own right."
"Like Thomas Bristow?"
"Precisely."
"But he was sick in the head, surely?"
Large shrugged. "Was he?"





97


"But the children... The little boys?"
Large topped up with another mouthful of chips. "That goes to the very heart 
of the child abuse debate, Claire. I mean, obviously someone who gets his kicks 
out of physically hurting, or killing a child is seriously sick. No two ways 
about it. But the underlying attraction, that's a different matter. Moral 
standpoints are easy to assume, but when it comes to hard and fast scientific 
evidence the debate is not so cut and dried."
"Why not?"
"Ironically the very safeguards society uses to protect children from 
exploitation are the same ones that prevent serious research into what attracts 
adults to children, which might actually resolve the problem. I mean, when does 
affection become abusive? Is it alright for a mother to affectionately caress 
her child but not the faer? If it's alright for the father, why not another man? 
Brother? Uncle? Stepfather? Are men more likely to abuse children? 
Statistically, yes, but statistics can argue any case you want. What's 
acceptable behaviour between a woman and child is not always acceptable when 
it's a man doing the exact same thing. Classic example, a mother kissing the 
backside of her baby. They all do it. But if a man did the same thing..."
Claire nodded thoughtfully. "I see your point."
"And at the heart of the matter is the all-too taboo subject of childhood 
sexuality. Are children sexual beings? Do they have sexual feelings? A sex 
drive? The fact is, we simply don't know. It's not socially acceptable to gather 
data on childhood attitudes to sex, so we can't possibly know. When does 
innocent child's play, say doctors and nurses, become sexual abuse? There are 
any number of cases where twelve year old girls have become impregnated by their 
same-age boyfriends. If these kids were engaged in full sex at twelve, at what 
age did they first start having sexual feelings? Eleven? Ten? Younger?"
Claire was thankful it was a rhetorical question.
Large scooped up a pile of peas on his fork. "Now paedophiles will argue 
children are capable of a sexual response. Abusers always try to minimise their 
actions, by claiming they were encouraged by the victim. Yes, they would say 
that, of course, but does that make it untrue?"
He slurped back his second cup of tea. "That's where I think Ceri has the edge 
over Dunst. She's trying to understand Uncle Tom from his viewpoint, not her 
own."
She thought, At last! She said, "Tell me about Ceri."
Large stuffed the other half of the roll into his mouth. He seemed happiest 
talking with his mouth full. "What's there to say? Second year student, 
fancies herself as the next big thing in forensic psychology." He sighed. 
"Don't they all? A keen mind, but unwilling to use it. Very untidy worker. 
Uneasy with a keyboard. Prefers to write by hand. Not a move designed to get her 
good grades. And she's from Wales," he added, as if this covered a multitude 
of sins.
"But you think she's on to something, obviously."
Large nodded. "I've been following the case in the papers, of course. 
Professional interest."
"And?"
"To be honest, Claire, when the Dunst profile was leaked it was a revelation. 
I got the impression it was more for public consumption than a basis for a 
serious scientific investigation."
"Meaning..?"
"To put it bluntly, that it was deliberately leaked to give the impression the 
cops know what they're doing."
"You don't think they do?"
"Believe me, Claire, they haven't a clue."





98


It took Jeff three long, tormented days to pluck up the courage. Even then it 
was down to his mother. 
Four of them knew about the car. They talked about nothing else when they got 
together, in hushed, whispered voices. 
They were scared. 
Very scared. 
Friends and family suspected and speculated. They knew the lad was involved 
somehow, but it was too painful even to consider. After a while they stopped 
thinking about it and went about their business, pretending nothing had changed.
Jeff's mother didn't give up so easily. The way he watched the local news 
programmes and hovered by the radio made it all too obvious his interest. His 
involvement. 
She wanted to ask him outright, but wasn't sure she could cope with the answer. 
She knew her sons were car thieves. Petty villains. Everybody knew it. With one 
doing time and the other out to all hours of a night it could hardly be 
otherwise. 
But this was different. 
This was so terribly different.
She found herself in his room, a steaming cup of Horlicks the excuse for her 
intrusion.
He barely acknowledged her presence as she put the cup down on the bedside 
cabinet. The radio was on low, tuned to the local station. It stayed on day and 
night now. She sat on the end of the bed, unable to look him in the eye. The 
words came slowly, the voice fraught with emotion.
"You'll always be my son, Jeffrey, you know that, don't you." 
He hated being called Jeffrey. He rolled over to face the wall and groaned. 
"Go away."
"You'll always be special to me, no matter what. I just want you to know 
that."
He propped himself up as the words registered in his distant mind. Listening, 
barely comprehending.
"Your brother being in prison doesn't mean I love him less for it. He's still 
my son. You both are. Whatever he did, I still love him. Whatever you've done, 
I'll still love you."
She knew. There were no secrets from Mum.
The words came hesitantly. "We only took it for a laugh. That's all. It was 
just a laugh."
His mother took his hand, like she hadn't in more than ten years. "You just 
stole the car, didn't you. Just the car." 
It was a statement, not a question. 
She didn't want a different answer. 
She willed there not to be a different answer.
His words came in frightened whispers. "How was I to know there was a kid in 
the boot?" There were tears in his eyes. He fought them back, but it was a 
losing battle. "I didn't know. Honestly I didn't."
"Who else was there?"
"William. Teggs. Des. But none of us knew about her. Not until the next day. 
Until we heard it on the news." Tears were running down his face. He was 
crying on his mother's shoulder, but felt no shame, only relief. 
It was out. 
At last. 
She hugged him, sharing in his tears, and for a minute they sat quietly, sobbing 
together. Then, "Jeffrey, I think you know what you have to do."
He didn't move. He just lay against his mother, trying to stem the tears.
"Mum," he said at last.
"Yes, darling?"
"I love you."





99


"Tell me, what would you say were the three events that have had the most 
impact on childhood in Britain in the last hundred years?"
Claire shrugged. She was getting impatient with the social history, but she 
hazarded a guess to be polite. "World War Two? Compulsory schooling? I don't 
know."
Large stuffed his mouth full. "The Moors Murders, the Cleveland child abuse 
scandal, and Dunblane."
Claire's look of surprise was all Large needed to rehearse his argument.
"Up till Hindley and Brady were caught there was never any talk of strangers 
abducting kids. It happened - but not officially. It was like the indiscretions 
of the royal family. They went unreported. It wasn't acceptable to revel in the 
sordid details. The Moors Murders changed that. The shock of a woman being 
involved, I guess. Before Hindley and Brady if a man went up to a kid in the 
street and offered them sweets people would think, how nice, what a pleasant 
fellow. Overnight that changed. Suddenly every man was a menace to little 
children. It wasn't safe to let your kids out of the door without lecturing them 
first on men bearing gifts. Stranger danger was born."
He paused to finish his third cup of tea. "That was the first change. Then 
came Cleveland, twenty years on. Remember Marietta Higgs? It was the final blow 
to childhood as we knew it. Suddenly it wasn't just strangers that were the 
menace. Every man was a potential abuser. Father, brother, uncle, friend. It 
didn't matter who. The tragedy was, it came just when the feminist movement was 
in a particularly militant phase and political correctness was rearing its ugly 
head, stopping anyone coming out with unpleasant truths. Truths that might have 
steadied the boat before the shock waves of Cleveland destroyed the innocence of 
childhood forever, by making every man a potential abuser."
He paused for breath, takingthe opportunity to force down another mouthful of 
chips. Claire watched gravy dribble down his chin..
"Things will never be the same again. Children today will never enjoy the 
freedoms we had as kids. That most precious freedom of all: to mix with other 
adults without distrust. Without having your or their motives questioned."
Claire nodded her understanding. She had had similar discussions with Matt.
"You read in the papers about how dreadful it is that kids stay indoors 
playing computer games and watching TV all day. But most parents are too scared 
to let them out beyond the garden fence. Children today don't have the 
experience of recreation we had. Of creating their own entertainment. Of 
exploring their own environment. Because one way or another it's too dangerous 
for them. If it's not lunatics like Uncle Tom then it's road safety, or 
discarded needles. Watch an old black and white film and the streets are full of 
kids playing. Nowadays you don't even see kids on the pavement. There are more 
play parks than ever, but parents are too scared to let their kids go to them. 
Outside of school they have nothing. Is it any wonder they turn to petty crime 
when society denies them imaginative recreation."
Claire found herself nodding agreement.
"Then came Dunblane, and childhood as we knew it ceased to exist. Ninety-six 
changed society in a way we're still barely coming to terms with. Thomas 
Hamilton's springtime massacre of little school children was undeniably 
horrific, of course, but that was just the beginning. There's never been a year 
like it, and I pray there never will be again. Dunblane shocked the world, but 
then came a spate of horrific child murders that it seemed would never end. 
Literally overnight perceptions changed. Look at a newspaper or news broadcast 
before Dunblane and you would never have seen or heard the word paedophile. It 
was academic jargon, not something the man in the street would even know the 
meaning of. Yet before the summer of ninety-six was even half way through, the 
term paedophile was a household word, and smiling at a passing baby was enough 
to have a lynch mob outside a man's house. Of course, the politicians jumped on 
the bandwagon with the paedophile register. Parents against paedophiles groups 
sprung up all over the place. Suddenly it wasn't safe for a man to walk down the 
street on the same side as a child, for fear of being accused of something."
Claire was listening intently.
"Add to that the several high profile child-murder trials that same summer, 
followed by the investigations into abuse in children's homes across the 
country, and it started to feel like kids were an endangered species. When the 
Dutroux scandal came to light in Belgium, those poor girls chained in the 
cellar, any last vestige of rational debate was abandoned. Of course, child 
protection became the sound-bite of the year for politicians, but no-one was 
willing to stop and think it through. To look at the damage knee-jerk reactions 
like the paedophile register might cause. Fast forward to Ian Huntley, the Soham 
murders. The final nail in the coffin of childhood as we knew it."





100


"But how does all this connect with Dunst and his profile?"
More chips. "Ah yes, our friend Colin Dunst. Where do I start? Calls himself a 
professor, but it's an American title. He probably bought it off the internet. 
That said, he's had his share of successes. But he's not a patch on the likes 
of Wilson or Canter. Ceri adores Canter. She'd love to have him teaching her 
instead of me. Treacherous minx."
He smiled. "But Dunst... The thing is, Dunst is a hard-line Freudian. There's 
no middle ground. Sigmund is a god to him. No, I'll re-phrase that. Not a god. 
The god. You know how we used to have Che Guevara posters on our walls when we 
were at uni'? Dunst had a poster of Freud above his bed. Can you believe that? 
Every problem, every conceile crime, boils down to sex with Dunst. Not just sex, 
but specifically having being abused as a child. Committed a burglary? Abused as 
a child. Stole a car? Abused as a child. The more sex-orientated the crime, the 
more the criminal was abused when young."
"I gather you disagree." Claire pushed her half-empty plate to one side. 
Large leaned across and stabbed at the partly eaten potato with his fork.
"Don't mind me. Starved. My wife left me a while back. Haven't quite got the 
hang of cooking yet. So I get it while I can."
He stuffed the potato into his mouth. "The trouble with Freud is that the 
whole thing has been blown out of all proportion by crass American 
psychotherapy. That's not psychology. It's about making money. You know what 
they say about the psychiatric business? Neurotics build castles in the sky. 
Psychotics live in them. Psychotherapists collect the rent. More tea?"
He ordered fresh drinks and scanned the dessert menu. "Death By Chocolate, 
twice, please."
Claire put her hands up. "I don't want any, thanks."
Large looked at her accusingly. "They're for me. Heavy on the cream. The thing 
is, Freud is ninety percent bullshit. Excuse my French. The thought of Dunst 
trying to profile a child killer is just laughable. He's out to prove Uncle Tom 
was abused as a child and takes it out on other children through some kind of 
soul cleansing process. What was it he said? Youngest brother to five sisters? 
What utter crap. But you've got to admire his balls."
"Do you think he's insane?"
"Colin Dunst? I'd swear it!" He laughed at his joke but found an 
unappreciative audience. "Sorry. Insane? You mean does Uncle Tom kill because 
he's driven by forces beyond his control? Maybe. Genuine psychopaths don't have 
any control over their actions. They go out, kill or whatever it is they have to 
do, then go back to their normal lives, sometimes with no conscious memory of 
it. But just because their actions seem crazy to us, doesn't make them 
insane."
"It does in my book."
"It's not that simple, Claire. Take Jeffrey Dahmer. Classic case. Killed young 
men. Seventeen, I think. Made love to their corpses. Cooked and ate their 
bodies, bit by bit. Love this gateau. Are you sure you won't try some? But 
insane? No. The same with our own home-brewed version, Dennis Nilsen. They knew 
exactly what they were doing. That's why they got away with it for so long. They 
weren't psychopaths. They weren't insane. Not even mentally ill. That's not to 
say they don't have a problem with their brain, but that's not how we define 
insanity anymore. It could be anything from a simple calcium growth to a 
congenital deformity. Organic defects, we call them. We won't know for sure till 
they're dead. Even then there's no way of proving that it was the cause of 
their, how shall we say, unusual behaviour."
"You're saying he could have a brain defect but still not be insane?"
"How's your biology?"
"I know what side my heart's on."
"Glad to hear it. You're familiar with genes?"
"X and Y chromosomes?"
"The very same. You know that we have twenty-three pairs. Two X produces 
females, an X and a Y produce a male. Remember in Jurassic Park, how all the 
dinosaurs were female? Same with humans. All foetuses start off female. Some 
become male later. It's a risky business. If the transformation doesn't quite 
work out, all manner of defects may occur. Defects in the very structure of the 
brain. Defects that affect not so much what sex we are, as what our sexuality 
is. What turns us on. Or off."
Large glanced at his watch. "Look at the time. I've got classes to attend 
shortly, Claire. Sorry. Anyway, it's time you met the amazing Miss Jones. 
I'll drop you at her place, but you'll have to get a taxi back to the 
station. I'm booked up right through 'til late evening. Oh, and Claire."
Claire looked up. "Don't get too carried away with her. I'm itrigued by 
her little profile, of course, but as I said to Matt, bottom line is she's 
just a second rate student in one of my piss-poor classes."





101


Weisman rubbed his hands gleefully. "That was Shropshire. Their forensic boys 
have just come up with a trace on the body."
"A trace?"
"It looks like he couldn't keep his hands off the kid. Nicotine trace."
"Dirty fucking bastard."
"There's further tests to be done, but it's looking good. "
"What can we expect?"
"At best? A brand. Now that would be a turn up. Regardless, we know we're 
after a smoker now. It's the best break we've had." He produced a bottle 
of Glenmorangie. "This calls for a celebration." 
There was just the one abstention, but they all knew Pitman was teetotal. 
"Let's get the team back in harness, David. I want the smoking habits of 
everyone on the suspects list by the end of shift. But discreetly. The longer we 
can keep this from the press, the better."





102


The smell of burned joss-sticks was almost overpowering, but strangely welcome, 
after the biting tang of the Professor's cheap aftershave. 
Claire plied the threadbare stairs to the top floor of the Aintree building 
where, Large had explained, Ceri's bedsit was situated. The banister was unsafe, 
the walls in need of new paper, and the woodwork needed repainting. The lights 
didn't work and the landing windows were so grimy they advanced the afternoon 
sun to dusk. 
Student accommodation hadn't changed much, Claire reflected.
The kettle was slow and they used the opportunity to get the feel of one 
another. The journey up, Professor Large's eating habits, anything but the 
subject they'd met to discuss. Scalding water dissolved the cheap coffee 
granules and milk powder with a deal of stirring. The fridge didn't actually 
work, Ceri explained, but it was nice to have it there anyway.
"It must be an interesting job, being a reporter?" 
The comment took Claire by surprise. Large obviously hadn't explained the 
precise nature of her interest. 
"I'm not actually a reporter. My partner Matt is. I've been... Helping him 
cover the investigation."
Ceri nodded. "Professor Large did tell you this was a private meeting. Off the 
record?"
"Absolutely."
"I've never done anything like this before," Ceri said nervously.
Claire gave a reassuring smile. "Professor Large speaks very highly of you."
Ceri looked surprised. "He does?"
"He said your profile of Uncle Tom was quite exceptional."
Ceri laughed. "That's rich. He wouldn't even mark it!"
It was Claire's turn to be surprised. "But I thought,"
Ceri smiled. "My fault. I didn't actually do what I was asked to. We were 
supposed to profile a convicted murderer. Of course, everyone plumped for the 
big names. You know, Dahmer, Nilsen. Dead boring." She paused, searching 
Claire's eyes for a sign of recognition. She gave a self-conscious laugh. 
"Dead boring. They were necrophiles, right?"
Claire permitted a wan smile. "So why choose Uncle Tom?"
"I wanted to do a child-killer. I think that is just so sick. Don't get me 
wrong. I'm not saying taking men off the streets and boiling their heads is 
normal, but children... So I was looking through the options... Brady, Black, 
Fish, Lopez, when the girl went missing at my sister's school. They weren't 
close friends or anything. But..." Her voice choked over. "It could so 
easily have been Gwynra instead."
She was clutching her cup tightly, her knuckles almost white, but her face 
remained calm. "Supposing he was still in the area, waiting to strike 
again?"
Claire reached out a sympathetic hand.
"I've had a few sleepless nights," Ceri continued. "But I believe he's 
moved on now."
"I read that in your profile. Could you talk me through it? I've got a copy 
with me."
Ceri took the papers and leant back in the armchair, glancing over the document 
to refresh her memory. "Who else has seen this?"
"Just Matt and I, and Professor Large, obviously."
Ceri seemed satisfied. "All I did was to try to build up a picture of the 
killer. Key movements, correlation of dates and places, any similarities between 
the kids attacked. That was easy enough from the newspapers. But to do a serious 
profile you need to know the gory detail of how he operated. What he did to his 
victims. Exactly how they were killed. That sort of thing."
"But we know what he did, surely?"
"Only what's been reported. What I really need are the forensic reports and 
the post mortem analyses. Obviously we have this nail-paint business. At first 
glance very significant. These kind of singular abnormalities are what usually 
help identify the killer. You know, there might be ten suspects all with a 
background of assaults on children, but only one will be so disturbed as to want 
to decorate his victims in this way. Colin Dunst says it's some kind of fetish. 
At first I agreed with him. But then it struck me that if the killer has some 
fetish about nail varnish then only nail varnish would do."
"Why?"
"Paint and varnish have entirely different smells."
"So?"
Ceri smiled. "Do you know how fetishes develop?"
"It's not something I've made a life-time's study of, I must admit."
"There are several theories, but I favour the idea that the object - the 
fetish - in some way rekindles subconscious memories of pleasant experiences 
dating back to adolescence or even childhood. In Uncle Tom's case perhaps an 
experience with a woman who wore yellow nail varnish. That's Dunst's reasoning, 
anyway. But like I say, why use paint? It would have a totally different 
olfactory association. And contractors' paint yet, not house paint, or modelling 
paint, either of which are more readily available. That's weird, really weird. 
Then I read a cop quoted as saying the nails were painted with meticulous care. 
If that's true then Dunst is way off the mark."
"I don't follow."
"It's simple. If the nails were painted with meticulous care I'd wager the 
girls were already dead when he did it. If they were alive, even if restrained, 
they'd be struggling. There'd be paint smudges, not this meticulous piece of 
art." She was reliving her inquiry now, going through the reasoning as she had 
first done when she wrote the report, her voice becoming more excited, oblivious 
as Claire's composure slipped.
"Then there's the question of how he actually assaulted his victims. The 
police have been pretty circumspect about that, other than to deny actual rape 
took place. The press reports merely referred to sexual assault and 
strangulation. What kind of assault? Did he bugger them? What part of his body 
did he use? Was there oral contact? Did he use an object? Were they strangled 
before or after? I understand the first girl, Rebecca, was alive when the 
assault began. It must have been horrific for her. I mean he..." 
She realised Claire was in tears. "I'm sorry. Are you okay? Let me get some 
tissues." She reached for a box of Kleenex beneath the bed. Claire took them 
gratefully, dabbing her eyes.
"I'm sorry, Ceri. I should have been honest with you from the start. You need 
to know. Rebecca was my daughter."





103


"For the tape, son, where did you steal the car from."
"Hilton Park Services, on the M6."
"Where exactly?"
"In the car park."
"The main car park or the motel park?"
"The motel."
"What time?"
"About midnight."
"Can yoube more precise?"
Jeff shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't think you appreciate how serious this is, Jeffrey."
"We didn't know. Honestly. It was just another car. We never went near the 
boot. I swear I didn't know she was there. How could anyone know?"
The Duty Solicitor spoke up. "My client is a car thief. He's admitted to 
stealing the car. It's quite obvious he didn't know about the child."
"Maybe not. But he lit the match that killed her."
"That's way out of order, Officer. On your own admission you believe the 
girl to have been abducted by this Uncle Tom. Given his record so far it seems 
this unfortunate child would have died one way or the other regardless of my 
client's involvement. My client isn't facing murder charges here. He stole a 
car, that's all."
The detective ignored the solicitor, turning on Jeff. "Was there anything else 
in the car when you took it? Anything at all that might give us a lead as to the 
previous driver?"
"Nothing."
"No bags or cases? No papers or documents? Anything at all?"
"Nothing. Just a map."
Both detectives were leaning forward. "A map?"
"A street map. Of Telford - in the dash."
"Where is it now?"
"Ashes, I expect."
"And there was nothing else?"
"Nothing." A long pause. "Just a disc."
"A what?"
"A compact disc. You know, music, on CD? Well, you might call it music. It was 
just some old fart singing."
"So this CD went the same way as the map, I suppose. Lost in the fire?"
He hesitated.
"Jeff?"
He took a deep breath. "No, I gave it to Mum. Thought she might like it. It's 
more her style. You know, old fogey music."
"Ted, you get hold of the rental firm. I'll go see Mrs McAllister." The 
officer was half-way out of the room when he stopped and turned. "Interview 
suspended three fifty-one pm. You two wait here. I'll send someone through." 





104


"Rumour has it one of the key suspects has just been asked what fags he 
smokes."
McIntyre shrugged. "So?"
"It's a new angle. Shows the investigation is still progressing."
"Don't waste my time with jigsaw pieces, Matt. I've got a paper to edit. Tell 
me when you've got a picture and I'll come and admire it. Until then I suggest 
you try do some reporting for a change. In case you've forgotten, it's what 
you're paid for. Get the background before that tosser Kellerman beats us to it 
again. Proctor's been giving me hell all week about you, Matt. Seriously. He is 
not a happy bunny. Our own correspondent, personally involved, and Kellerman's 
getting all the scoops. I know it's been a difficult time for you and Claire, 
but Proctor's got a point. The biggest crime sensation since the Ripper, right 
on our doorstep, and we're rehashing other papers' stories."
Matt looked sullen. 
He knew Harvey Proctor was on McIntyre's back.
It was the proprietor's role to lean on his editor.
It was the editor's role to lean on his journalists. 
"I've been in this business fifteen years, Mac, and I've never dealt with 
anything like this before. Kids killed, yes, but this is a once in a lifetime 
scenario. Kellerman's just a sick bastard out for what he can get. He doesn't 
care who gets hurt along the way. I do."
"I'm running a newspaper, Matt, not a bloody counselling service."
Matt slammed the door behind him. "Fuck you."





105


At 5.40pm Weisman addressed his team in grave tone, biting his lower lip with 
irritation. 
"This morning the lad who stole the burned-out vehicle the girl's body was 
found in came forward voluntarily. A sixteen year old. Shropshire CID have been 
with him all afternoon. They've confirmed what we suspected, that the vehicle 
was taken and torched by a joy-rider. Shropshire are convinced the youth had no 
knowledge of the child in the boot. Needless to say he was too scared to come 
forward sooner."
"I suppose we should be thankful he came forward at all," Pitman observed 
quietly.
"My sentiments exactly, David. The good news is, the lad had two very useful 
clues for us. Firstly, there had been a street map of Telford in the dashboard. 
It was destroyed in the fire, but suggests the previous driver may not have 
known the town too well. The vehicle had sat-nav, but nothing was recoverable 
after the fire. But safe to assume the driver deliberately refrained from using 
it. But the map suggests the abduction of the child from Telford may have been 
planned in advance, presuming the two are connected."
"Not my idea of good news, Sir. If you're right, it's a matter of waiting for 
the body to turn up."
"That had occurred to me as well, David. But we have to take heart from what 
little information we have. The nicotine trace you heard about earlier. They've 
narrowed that down to a cigar."
"Better than nothing, What's all this about a CD?"
Weisman suppressed a sigh. "The wonders of internal communications. Our 
joy-rider found a disc in the vehicle's stereo system. It wasn't to his personal 
taste so he pocketed it and gave it to his mother. It's been tracked down and is 
with forensic now. The good news is that, as well as the boy's and his mother's 
prints, they've got a third. There's a strong possibility it's the killer's."
"And the bad news?"
"The print has no match with any known offender. So, three possibilities: one 
is that the print is from a third party not involved with the girl. The previous 
two bona fide hirers have both been traced, questioned and eliminated. The 
second possibility is that this case is unconnected to the other killings. I 
think that's unlikely, given the circumstances. Which brings us to the third 
scenario."
"That Dunst is wrong?"
Weisman looked uncomfortable. "Colin was specific in his assurances that the 
killer would have previous convictions. That he'd be in the system somewhere. 
Personally I can't fault his logic. What little I understood of his explanation 
made a lot of sense. But the latest evidence points to this print being the 
killer's. If it is, and Colin Dunst is wrong on such a central part of the 
profile, then gentleman, to put it mildly, we've got a problem."
There was silence from the floor as the information sank in.
"As a matter of interest, Guv, what type of CD was it? The music, I mean. The 
sounds he's into may give us a clue of some sort. If he's a heavy rock freak or 
a country and western fanatic maybe he wears a leather jacket or a Stetson." 
It was a weak comment, meant to break the silence and raise a laugh, but Weisman 
wasn't smiling.
"I was saving that till last. The disk is a home-burned CD-R, playing a loop 
of the same song. Gentlemen, I don't think there can be any doubts about these 
being Uncle Tom's prints and this being Uncle Tom's disk." He paused for 
effect. The room was silent, everyone there hanging on his next words.
"The one, single song on the disk is a repeat loop of Maurice Chevalier, 
singing Thank Heaven For Little Girls."





106


He might have anticipated Dr Quinlan presence by the gleaming Mercedes in the 
director's bay, but his mind was elsewhere. Molly led him through to Quinlan's 
office.
Randall enthusiastically shook hands with the frail man in the wheelchair, 
thankful he wouldn't be facing that woman again. But as Quinlan assumed his 
place behind his desk it was the older man's serious expression that concerned 
him.
"Dr Reynolds recommended I should speak to you directly, to make clear our 
concerns," Quinlan began with no resortsmall-talk.
"Concerns?"
"I'll come straight to the point, Mr Randall. You came here by way of 
self-referral because of your interest in children. As I'm sure Dr Reynolds 
explained, your predilection for young girls is by no means unique. Here at the 
Foundation we have many years experience in recognising the condition in its 
various stages." He paused. "I'm sorry, there is no easy way of saying this. 
Dr Reynolds and I are extremely concerned for the safety of your daughters."
Randall froze. His mind was active in his defence, but the words would not come.
"Don't misunderstand me. We're not suggesting anything has happened yet. But 
we've encountered similar situations before, and we know from experience how 
very rapidly these things can get out of hand."
Randall was nodding mindlessly, his eyes glazed.
"Our concern is that your interest in children, which you have already 
indicated is growing, could in a very short space of time progress to breaking 
the body barrier. As the father of two young girls... I'm sure you understand my 
point. Our experience shows that in this sort of paraphilia the progression from 
fantasy to actuality, from thinking to doing, can be very sudden, escalating out 
of control without warning. Without wishing to alarm you unduly, both Dr 
Reynolds and I are agreed that your condition warrants urgent and immediate 
therapy."
Randall was struggling to take this in. He thought of the Dynamite Twins, 
Natalie and Tamara. "This therapy... What exactly does it involve?"
Quinlan eased back into his wheelchair. The battle was won. Now it was simply a 
matter of selecting the most appropriate tools. He had already decided, but went 
through the motions of presenting a range of options.
"There are three basic methods for the treatment of sexual dysfunctions, all 
of which have a proven success record, and all of which are available through 
the Foundation. There will, of course, be a fee. I believe I intimated as much 
to you when you first contacted us back in, when was it now, May, June some 
time?"
"May twelfth."
Quinlan nodded. "We're a private organisation, as you know, not a charity. But 
that said, we do have a sliding scale of fees to accommodate as many clients as 
possible. Dr Reynolds and I have discussed your case and we feel we would be 
able to offer you an appropriate course of treatment for about ten thousand 
pounds."
Randall stared at him, the figure dancing before his eyes. "Ten thousand?" 
He struggled to articulate his thoughts. "I... I don't have that kind of 
money."
"I'm truly sorry, Mr Randall. You must understand these types of treatment are 
both time consuming and staff-intensive. We use only the latest technology, to 
ensure we provide the highest possible quality of care. Such things do not come 
cheaply."
"Would the treatment be available on the NHS?"
Quinlan indulged a smile. "There are a few places around the country which 
provide treatment under the National Health Service, yes. But to be perfectly 
frank I could not recommend any of them to you. The NHS simply doesn't have the 
trained and experienced staff in this highly specialised field. I honestly feel 
that, where you have two young children in your care, it would be unwise, 
extremely unwise, to make do with second rate treatment. You understand my 
concerns?"
Randall understood only too well. Do it on the cheap and risk harming the 
Dynamite Twins.
Quinlan drove home the advantage. "Of course NHS treatment would, in the first 
instance, require a referral by your local GP. As I understand it you have not 
discussed the problem with your own doctor?"
"No. He treats Bethan and the Twins. I couldn't face him."
"There's also a further consideration. The NHS is not the most secure of 
public services. Once your information was on their database it could end up 
anywhere. At the Foundation we can guarantee absolute privacy."
andall was mortified. "We... We have savings, but not that much. Not ten 
thousand..."
Quinlan dripped sympathy from every pore. "I quite understand. Some of our 
past clients have remortgaged their homes to obtain the help they need. Now I'm 
not for one minute suggesting you should do the same, of course. But you must 
weigh up the long term security of your family against the short term financial 
inconvenience."
"All our savings are earmarked. Christmas, then a holiday for the Twins. I 
don't know how I could explain it to Bethan."
"Mr Randall, the only alternative, if you genuinely want to protect your 
daughters, is to move out. To keep away from them. So long as you live in the 
same house those children are at risk; risk that will increase daily. I'm very 
sorry, but that's how we see the situation."
"I just don't have that much money. If I did... Dr Quinlan, the Twins mean 
everything to me. I couldn't live without them."
Quinlan made a show of concern. "I don't wish to pry, but how much could you 
raise?"
"I don't know. I could borrow, but not that much. Finding half that would be 
difficult."
Quinlan looked thoughtful. "Let me extend a special offer to you, given your 
rather exceptional circumstances. Because I'm so concerned for your daughters' 
safety if treatment is not undertaken with a degree of urgency, I'm prepared to 
stretch a point and accept a lower fee of just seven thousand pounds for the 
full course. Obviously such a move will push up our prices to other clients in 
the future, but our primary concern just now is the safety of Natalie and 
Tamara."
For Randall there was nothing else to think about. The Dynamite Twins were 
everything to him. He couldn't risk losing them through some stupid indiscretion 
which he knew would one day come. What was money compared with the love of his 
family? Compared to the risk of harming the Twins?
"It may take a few days."
Quinlan leant across, extending a hand. "Excellent, Mr Randall. Excellent. The 
girls have a father to be proud of."
Randall stared at the table, unable to look Quinlan in the eye. Maybe Reynolds 
wasn't so bad after all. At that moment he could have murdered a beer. "This 
treatment. What exactly does it involve?"





107


Quinlan brought his gnarled fingers together in a pyramid beneath his chin as he 
considered the query. 
"We offer three basic methods of treatment, as I've said. Pharmacological 
therapy, behavioural therapy and psychotherapy. For my part, my specialty is 
pharmacology. Quite simply, the treatment of a given dysfunction by drugs. There 
are a number of anti-libidinal drugs available designed to lower the sex drive. 
I expect you've heard of the synthetic hormone Depo-Provera. Tranquilisers have 
much the same effect. However, I recall from Dr Reynolds' observations that you 
in fact have an active sexual engagement with your wife, during which you 
maintain the facade of normality while actually fantasising about younger girls. 
Isn't that the case?"
Randall was sure that wasn't how he'd explained it, but he found himself nodding 
compliantly, too worried about his daughters to be embarrassed.
"In which case pharmacology is probably not best suited to your needs. The 
anti-libidinal drugs would repress your overall sex drive, not just the 
paedophilic desires. This would, of course, be deleterious to your relationship 
with your wife and family."
"And the other methods?"
"Well, psychotherapy is very popular, and can be very effective in certain 
cases, but it is a long, drawn-out process involving regular visits over a 
lengthy period, which you may find difficulty in maintaining. I understand you 
have problems as it is getting here without arousing suspicion. Ideally we would 
envisage a counselling period for psychotherapeutic treatment over a minimum of 
six months, probably onger. It can run, literally, to a period of years. Not a 
very practical option if you're to attend these sessions discretely."
"Isn't there something quicker?" 
"There is, but it has to be said, aversion therapy is not... How can I put it? 
Not pleasant. But it can be done in the space of a few visits and with no 
untoward side effects."
Randall didn't like the sound of this. He nodded warily for Quinlan to continue.
"The principles of aversion therapy are quite simple, and applicable to a wide 
range of problems. Having identified the sexual stimulus which we agree is 
unacceptable, in your case prepubescent girls, what we do is simply to pair the 
stimulus to an unpleasant experience and so create a conditioned aversion. The 
most effective method, which we and most aversion therapists use, is controlled 
electric shocks."
Randall looked like he'd just received one. He choked the words out. "Electric 
shocks?"
Quinlan smiled reassuringly. "Don't misunderstand me, Mr Randall. It's just 
slight jolts of electricity, not ECT! Have you ever touched an electric cattle 
fence? It's that sort of level. Just enough to be unpleasant, so you won't want 
to do it again. There's no danger, I assure you."
"And this would work? I'd be cured?"
"Well, not cured, exactly. Paedophilia is not a disease. But yes, aversion 
therapy will help suppress the paedophilic aspects of your sex drive. If at the 
same time we try and encourage interest in, how shall I say, more normal sexual 
activities, then yes, you would be effectively, if not clinically, cured."
Randall was still coming to terms with the prospect of the electric chair. 
Aversion therapy was the least appealing of the three options Quinlan had 
outlined. The doctor hadn't specified where exactly the electric shocks would be 
applied, but he had a good idea. Even the thought of prolonged sessions with the 
obnoxious Ruth Reynolds seemed a preferable alternative.
He thought again of the Dynamite Twins. 
Their smiling, happy faces. 
Their sweetness. 
Their innocence. 
He remembered the bath time session. The Twins' confusion. His own fears. 
He took a deep breath and looked Quinlan in the eye.
"When can I start?"





108


"This is Detective Inspector Pitman, Kent CID. My colleagues in the Shropshire 
Constabulary have been dealing with you in regard to the stolen vehicle. That's 
right, the one the child's body was found in."
The junior to his left stopped work in surprise. Matt put his hand across the 
receiver and whispered, "Listen and learn, son. Listen and learn."
Into the receiver, "They were supposed to forward me some information on the 
case, but there's been a slight mix up. Probably sent to the wrong email 
address. If you could just confirm the details given to hire the vehicle. Yes, I 
appreciate you've done so already, but like I say... It would assist the 
investigation considerably if you can just... Yes, that's all I need." Matt 
jotted the details as he spoke. "And was the actual photo-licence was 
produced? No, of course not. And there's no CCTV? No, no, that's fine. Thank you 
so much for your help."
The junior stared at him. "Kent CID?"
"Well, they say the best reporters are detectives. Just proving the point. He 
dialled again. "Danny, Matt Burford. Can you be at Cafe Nero in an hour? See 
you there."
He reached for the maltesers and dialled a third number. Four minutes and three 
extensions later he connected to Gavin Large.
"Matt, what can I do you for? Business or pleasure?"
"You know it's always a pleasure doing business with you, Gavin. When I can 
get hold of you. Don't they have mobile phones in darkest Merseyside?"
"Not on campus, no. Can hardly bollock my students for bringing theirs to 
class if I carry one myself. Anyhow, what are you afterthis time?"
"Not what. Who. How's your star pupil?"
Large grunted down the phone. "My star pupil is fine, Matt, but I don't think 
you know her. She's too busy on her studies to associate with low-lifes like 
you. Perhaps you're thinking of young Miss Ceri Jones."
"That's the gal!"
Large sighed into the receiver. "Star pupil she is not, Matt. Ceri's falling 
way behind. If you ask me, she needs a good boot up the jacksy."
"Maybe she just needs a holiday."
"Yeah, sure. A fortnight in the Caribbean does wonders for your grades. I 
recommend it to all my students."
"I was thinking more the White Cliffs Experience."
"The what?"
"The White Cliff... Forget it. Stick to your tunnels. Gavin, a big favour. 
We'd like to have Ceri come down and see us a while."
"We?"
"Claire and I. She can stay at Claire's place. A nice break by the sea will do 
her the world of good."
"Matt, her parents live in Rhyl. She can play on the beach any time she 
likes."
"You've been following events in Shropshire?"
Large snorted dismissively. "Madam talks of little else. That's one reason I'm 
on the verge of throwing her off the course."
"You joke me."
"Deadly serious. The girl's got potential, Matt. Real potential. But there's 
more to this course than hunting Hannibal. I'm afraid this profiling lark has 
gone to her head. My fault, of course. I should never have sent you that 
essay."
"So maybe a week down here will help her get it out of her system."
"Matt, I can't go sanctioning students, my students, getting involved in 
criminal investigations."
"You already did."
"That was a mistake."
"Gavin, trust me. There's a few things not been made public yet, that are 
causing ructions this end. The Dunst profile is sinking faster than the Herald 
of Free Enterprise. We need someone down here to talk us through the jargon and 
make sense of what's going on. Ceri said all along the killer would be unknown 
to the plod. Well off the record, they've got a print and she's right. No 
record. No previous."
Large chuckled down the phone. "Like I said, Matt. My star pupil."
"So you'll let her come?"
"I doubt she's ever been anywhere further than Birmingham."
"Didn't you ever travel as a student?"
"Not in the middle of term, no. I attended classes, respected my lecturer and 
worked my bollocks off."
This is important, Gavin."
"So are Ceri's grades. I was serious about having to fail her."
"Just one week, Gavin. Five measly days."
"There's no way she's missing lessons for a whole week."
"A weekend, then?"
"Hmm. I'm not sure, Matt."
"This Friday. Stick her on a train and we'll meet her this end. Is she okay 
for money?"
"Matt, she's a student. Next silly question?"
"Slip her the fare and a ton on top. I'll square up with you on pay-day."
"You think I'm made of money? Have you any idea how much a lecturer earns 
these days?"
"You'll get it back at the end of the month. Scout's honour."
"Ceri won't agree to this if she thinks you're going to publish anything."
"She has my word."
"Yeah, but what can I say to reassure her?"
"Thanks, Gav. Email me when you've sorted travel times."
"If she flunks this course..."
"She'll do just fine. I'll lecture her on the benefits of a good education 
whilst she's here."
"That's what worries me."
Matt was grinning broadly when he put the phone down. He popped two maltesers 
and put his feet up on the desk, stretching out. McIntyre appeared behind him.
"Don't laze about on the firm's time, Burford. I'm trying to run a paper here. 
Christ, what if Proctor walked in now? What are you looking so smug about, 
anyway?"
"Just pieces of the jigsaw, Mac. You don't wt to know till I've got the whole 
picture, remember?"
"Well at least have the bloody courtesy to look busy."
Matt grabbed his jacket. "This look busy enough? I'm off to run up some 
expenses in Cafe Nero."
McIntyre glared after him, then spotted the junior grinning. The junior quickly 
tapped at the keyboard, looking busy.





109


Danny was halfway through a Mocha when Matt arrived, settling down with his 
grande skinny latte. He pushed a scrap of paper across the table. Danny stared 
at it. 
"Who is it?"
"Never you mind."
"Is it to do with Uncle Tom?"
"He's not the only villain around."
"So it is to do with him?"
"How's your Mum?"
"I might be able to help, you know." It was the usual offer. Danny wanted in 
on everything.
"You will be helping, by getting me the form on this guy."
"A new suspect?"
"I wish. The cops have checked him out already."
"So why bother then?
"Clutching at straws, Danny. Can you get it or not?"
"So why do I have to do all the hard work and you get all the glory?"
For Christ's sake, Danny, do you think getting hardened criminals to sign your 
bloody autograph book is easy?"
"I'd just like to be trusted a bit more."
"Okay, okay." Matt considered briefly. "It's the driver who hired the car 
that girl was found in. Or at least, the name on the licence he used."
"Wow! You mean this could be Uncle Tom himself?" 
"If only. The cops think the licence was stolen and the photo changed. Claire 
and I are meeting him Monday."
"Can I come?"
"What the hell for?"
"I've never met a real-life criminal before."
"This isn't a game, Danny. Stick to Space Invaders."
Danny pushed the scrap of paper back across the table. "Fuck you, Matt. Get 
someone else to do your dirty work."
"Sulky bastard today, aren't you?"
"I'm not sulking. I'm offended. I wasn't even born when Space Invaders 
were around."
Matt sighed. "This is important, Danny."
Danny stared into his mocha silently, then: "I read this morning the 
Shrewsbury girl might not be connected with Uncle Tom after all."
"You shouldn't believe everything you read in the papers, Danny."
Danny smirked. "Especially under your by-line, right?"
"Ha, ha, very funny. Danny, just get me the info, okay?"
"Do you wanna hear my theory?"
Matt looked aghast. He had enough problems without Sherlock Junior proposing the 
butler did it. "Maybe another time."
Danny looked hurt. "I'm trying to help."
"Can't you think of anything else but computers and crime?"
"What else is there?"
"Haven't you got a girlfriend yet?"
Danny looked faintly embarrassed. "I'm not gay!"
"Did I say you were?"
"I just haven't met the right person yet. So do you wanna know my theory?"
"About girls?"
"About Uncle Tom."
"Danny, I haven't got time for this."
"Suit yourself. Just remember I offered."
"I'll bear it in mind."





110


"Has Claire given you the grand tour yet?"
"Just the coast so far. Ramsgate, Margate and Broadstairs. Looking forward to 
Canterbury tomorrow. It's so different down here. North Wales has some beautiful 
coastline too, but the white cliffs here are just marvellous. And I actually saw 
France across the Channel!"
"Matt's got a telescope in his place. He spends all summer looking at the 
topless bathers on the Calais beaches."
Matt had the decent to look just slightly guilty. "It's not all summer. Just 
occasionally."
Over a vegetable tikka masala, his fst attempt at vegetarian cuisine, Matt 
explained what Pitman had told him about the mystery print on the CD.
Ceri nodded enthusiastically. "I've said all along Uncle Tom's not a convicted 
sex offender."
"That's why you're here! There's something else, too. The prints were probably 
those of a woman."
Claire looked surprised. "They can tell that from a fingerprint?"
"A CD or its case would be perfect for lifting prints off," Ceri said.
"Although even the card insert could provide a print if sprayed with some 
chemical or other," Matt added.
"Ninhydrin," Ceri said. "Protein staining. My guess is, the print is from 
Uncle Tom. The cops are just too stupid to realise what they've got."
"But if it's a woman's prints?" Claire looked confused. "Surely you're not 
suggesting a woman killed these girls?"
"It's hardly unheard of," Matt said. "Myra Hindley. Rosemary West. There 
must be others."
"Plenty," Ceri agreed. "Catherine Bernie... Joyce Ballard... How long have 
you got? But that's not what I meant. The killer was definitely a man, just not 
the man described in Dunst's profile."
Matt brought out another two bottles of rioja and turned the background music 
down to barely audible. He produced a jotter and pen. "Time to start earning 
your keep, Ceri."





111


Ceri leaned back in her chair and swilled her wine, watching the ruby liquid 
cling to the glass. She spoke from memory, her folder untouched on the table. 
Matt made shorthand notes and Claire listened in awed silence as a girl nearly 
fifteen years her junior began to systematically dissect the Dunst profile. 
How valid the judgements might be, only time could tell, but for now Ceri had a 
captive and receptive audience. Professor Large would have been proud.
"Let's begin with the prints. Do you know much about fingerprints?"
"I wrote a article on the subject for a crime mag recently."
Claire said, "Some of us aren't so knowledgeable."
Matt took the cue. "Well, everyone's fingerprints are unique, of course. The 
idea that all prints are different originated in the Far East. Some say China, 
although they were in use in Japan to identify pottery makers. But it was some 
British guy in India who first used them systematically."
"William Herschel, the astronomer, in 1858," Ceri said quietly. "But the 
idea had been around since the 1820s. Professor Johann Purkinje first suggested 
it."
"But wasn't it Francis Galton, cousin to Charles Darwin, who developed the 
idea?" A nod from Ceri encouraged Matt. "Then Edward Henry set up Scotland 
Yard's Central Fingerprinting Branch early last century."
"1901," Ceri confirmed. To Claire: "Not bad, for a journalist. But Matt's 
missed out some crucial points. You see, even the slightest contact between the 
human body and another surface will leave a contact trace. But the fingers and 
the palms of the hand are key, because of the patterns of ridges left by body 
oils and skin debris. What's less well known is that men generally have more 
ridges than women, and that in either sex the right hand has more ridges than 
the left. The exceptions are indicative. A significant proportion of women have 
more ridges on the left hand than the right. It's my bet that the prints from 
the CD show this irregularity, hence the police assertion that the prints are 
probably female."
"But doesn't that just confirm the cops' position, that the prints are not 
Uncle Tom's?"
"Not necessarily. Years ago a Canadian university, Ontario I think, followed 
up the idea that homosexuality, like any other sexual variation, can be traced 
to pre-natal hormonal imbalances. Did you know that all foetuses start off as 
female?"
"Gavin... Professor Large, mentioned just that," Claire said. "That all 
foetuses start out as female, but that the Y comosome develops in some and they 
become males?"
"That's right. The appearance of the Y chromosome slows down the growth of the 
foetus, which is why girls are more developed than boys at birth. It may also 
account for maturation rates in later years. But again, the PC brigade frown 
upon this sort of research, so the findings haven't had the serious examination 
they deserve. In a similar way findings that show differences between 
achievements of boys and girls at school, or between black and white kids, are 
dismissed as sexist or racist without ever considering there might be sound 
scientific principles at work."
"And the fingerprints?"
Ceri stretched out in her chair. "Well the Canadians tested fingerprints of 
gay and straight men and found the prints of gay men showed a trend towards high 
ridge counts on the left hand consistent with that found in women generally. So 
while the print lifted from the CD could be those of a female, as the police 
say, they could just as easily be from a gay man." 
Matt poured more wine. "I don't follow you, Ceri. One of the few things in the 
Dunst profile that made any real sense to me was that the killer must be 
heterosexual, given he only attacks girls."
"I actually agree with him there, but for different reasons. Bear in mind 
there's been no suggestion of a knife used in any of the assaults."
"A knife?"
"Classic Freud. The knife equates to the penis."
"Like the old chestnut about people watching slasher movies because they're 
sexually frustrated?"
"Exactly. The knife becomes a penis and the act of stabbing is the act of 
penetration. According to Kraft-Ebbing there's a direct corollary between 
intercourse and a knife attack. Stab, pierce, penetrate. I'm no Freud fanatic, 
don't get me wrong. The idea that an aeroplane or a tower-block can be seen as a 
phallic symbol is just ridiculous. But there may be some credence in the phallic 
symbolism of a knife attack. Knives are usually associated with heterosexual 
assaults, often where the assailant is impotent or otherwise sexually 
dysfunctional, but still shares the basic male sex-drive. But there's no 
evidence that Uncle Tom carried a weapon."
Ceri paused briefly to allow Matt to catch up with his notes. Then, "Dunst 
believes Uncle Tom is small in stature. That he picks on children because they 
are easy targets. Because he doesn't feel confident enough to tackle a grown 
woman."
Matt shrugged. "That seemed pretty fair to me. "If someone needs to chase 
after little kids to get his rocks off, that's surely because he's incapable 
of getting an adult woman." He looked up at Ceri. "Isn't it?"





112


Ceri demanded, "And your evidence for this assertion is what exactly?"
"It's just common sense."
"Common sense? Do you remember Gary Glitter?"
"Who could forget? I always had him down as a wrong 'un."
"He was no stunted dwarf, as you know. And more importantly he had a string of 
high profile, celebrity girl-friends right up until his first arrest, when he 
put his computer in for repairs. All adult, all fully grown, all drop-dead 
gorgeous. Yet at the same time he was secretly downloading sick child-porn, and 
as we later learned, abusing pre-teen girls in the Far East."
Matt shrugged. "Your point being?"
"That your reasoning is egocentric, Matt. You're falling into the same trap as 
Dunst."
Matt looked inexplicably guilty. "I am?"
"I think I know what you mean, Ceri," Claire said. "Thomas made me aware 
of it. About judging other people's motives by your own preconceptions."
"Precisely," said Ceri. "Dunst may just be right. Maybe the killer is some 
stunted dwarf incapable of so-called normal relationships. But there is an 
alternative that has to be considered. That Uncle Tom genuinely finds little 
girls sexually appealiheir own right. And that maybe he genuinely gets pleasure 
from killing them. We have to understand the murders from his perspective, not 
ours. Professor Canter made that point very clearly when he helped solve the 
Babb murders in Birmingham in the eighties."
"Babb?"
"Adrian Babb. To all outward appearances a normal twenty year old, but he 
found sexual fulfilment in assaulting old-age pensioners. The Judge recognised 
he was acting through personal desire rather than some psychiatric disorder. We 
have to keep the same options open with Uncle Tom. Just because he kills young 
girls doesn't make him insane of mind or warped of body. Most serial killers are 
quite normal in their everyday lives. The real weirdos, like Albert Fish, are 
thankfully few and far between. It's the ones that appear normal, like Fred and 
Rosemary West, that are the hardest to pin down."
"But hold on, Ceri," Matt said, searching his notes. "There was a weapon 
involved. Forensics determined a blade had been used to cut the cords that tied 
the two Welsh girls."
"The cord was cut with a short, blunt knife, Matt. Knives used as weapons in 
sex attacks are habitually long-handled, long-bladed and gleaming clean. The 
only knife Uncle Tom used was an old pen-knife. If the attacks were on boys, or 
there was evidence of anal interference that would be different. But there's no 
evidence of either rape or buggery being attempted." 
She realised Claire was wiping moist eyes. "I'm sorry, but we have to deal 
with every aspect. I simply don't believe intercourse of any sort was a 
consideration for Uncle Tom."
Matt refilled his and Claire's glasses. "You're saying Uncle Tom is so 
obsessed with little girls that he'll abduct, sexually assault and kill them, 
but won't try to rape them? I'm sorry, but it doesn't make sense."
"Like I said, Matt, you need to try see things from his perspective, not 
yours. Not everyone attaches the same importance to the act of intercourse. Take 
Robert Black for example. Probably Britain's most notorious child-killer. We'll 
never know for sure how many little girls he killed. But rape was never 
attempted. The victims were sexually abused in the most obscene ways, but he 
never once attempted to use his penis."
Ceri spoke in detached tones, weighing up the evidence objectively, 
unemotionally, using clinical terms to depersonalise the heinous acts she was 
describing. "Dunst argued that the calling card was a form of substitute rape. 
I disagree. Uncle Tom just wanted to be sure the card was found."
"So why not just tie it to the body?"
"So it wouldn't drift off, maybe. But primarily, to maximise the impact. The 
media sensationalism. He wanted the bodies to be found."
Claire asked, "But if there was no rape, why clean the bodies so 
thoroughly?"
"First, an obsession with hygiene. It's common among sex offenders to find 
obsessive neurotic traits. Sexual anxieties often manifest themselves in some 
form of OCD. I don't believe Uncle Tom's psychotic, but that doesn't rule out 
the possibility he's neurotic. I would imagine the victims were gently bathed, 
post-mortem."
"But they were still alive when the assaults took place?"
"There's no suggestion of necrophilia, so yes."
Claire was struggling to keep control. Matt took her hand. "Dunst hinted that 
there might have been."
"Dunst would just love that."
"The only necrophiles I've ever heard of involved men with other men's 
corpses. Dahmer. Nielsen."
"Don't close your mind to the possibility, Matt. Recorded examples of 
necro-paedophilic dysfunction are extremely rare, but Albert Fish springs to 
mind. He ate little girls, stewed, and what he did to little boys you just do 
not want to know. Uncle Tom is quite tame by comparison. But I'm thinking maybe 
the post-mortem cleansing is seen by Uncle Tom as making amends in some way. 
Some kind of warped guilt complex. But that's pure conjecture. We have to opero 
reason, within a band of probabilities based on the evidence."
"Dunst argued the hygiene obsession reflected forensic awareness, thereby 
proving Uncle Tom had previous convictions."
"Dunst is wrong."
"Just like that? He's wrong? What happened to reason, to a band of 
probabilities?"
"I think we're seeing evidence of professional blindness here."
"Of what?"
"Professional blindness. It's a natural, subconscious process of reasoning, in 
any professional field, that the work you do yourself is of special value. 
Anybody can stack shelves in a supermarket or pick up litter in a park, but 
skilled jobs, like journalism or lecturing, psychiatry or medicine, or police 
forensics, are special, and the people who work in them are beyond reproach. The 
villains always come from other backgrounds, never your own."
"You're saying Uncle Tom could be a cop?"
"Let's just say someone with a professional knowledge of forensics, rather 
than someone who's learned about it from the wrong end. It seems to me the 
Police, and Dunst in particular, have subconsciously dismissed that possibility. 
By imposing these preconceptions they've ruled out the girl in the boot of the 
car being connected."
"So you're still convinced Shrewsbury and Telford are linked?"
"One hundred per cent. But let me finish debunking Dunst first." There was 
just a hint of mischief in her voice.





113


"Let's consider his proposal that Uncle Tom has a marine background," Ceri 
said. "Dunst argues it from several points. The attacker preys on children 
because he's inexperienced with women, which could indicate a background in a 
masculine environment. Dunst suggested the navy, followed by time in prison. I 
can see his angle. Both macho, male environments. The nautical associations also 
come to mind with the types of knot used to secure the bodies to the bikes, and 
of course the disposal of the victims in water. Now the first point is fair. I 
googled some yachting sites and both types of knot are commonly used. Obviously 
the knots are part of his modus operandi, nothing unusual there. The Boston 
Strangler had a special butterfly knot he always used."
She let Matt catch up with his notes. 
"But I'm not so happy with the second point. I think Dunst is trying to make 
an equation with burial at sea. But then, why canals? What could be less like 
the sea than the still water of a canal? Why not a harbour or an estuary? Or the 
sea itself. Someone with marine experience as Dunst suggests would surely know 
the tides. It wouldn't be difficult to ensure the bodies were carried out to 
sea, not back to land. But as I've already said, I believe Uncle Tom wanted the 
bodies to be found. And that he's neither a known offender, nor someone with a 
marine background."
"But the knots...you just agreed they were nautical."
"They are, but don't read too much into it. Profiling is an inexact science. 
Dunst likes to treat it like art, going for the poetic flourish, but I think 
there may be a more mundane explanation. Consider how Uncle Tom kills his 
victims. Ligature strangulation, using something the girls had on them when they 
were abducted. But in each case a garrotte was effected using a stick of some 
sort to tighten the tourniquet."
"A medical background?"
"That was my first thought too. But tourniquets are an obsolete concept. I 
checked on some first-aid sites, which were indicative. Modern first-aid theory 
is quite explicit in stating tourniquets are dangerous and should not be used. 
But historically, by which I mean a few decades earlier, a tourniquet was 
considered an essential tool. Which could mean our killer learned rudimentary 
first-aid many years ago, which would push him to the latter end of the age-band 
Dunst has established."
"Late thirties?"
"Or older. Generally, older men tend not to be sex killers, just abusers, but 
let's rule nothing out. Take the factors together: an out-dated knowledge of 
basic first-aid, familiarity with sea-faring knots and a pen-knife to cut ropes. 
Doesn't that ring any bells?"
"No."
"I'm thinking Uncle Tom could be in his forties or older, with boyhood 
experience in the scouting movement."
"Well that narrows it down to a few million people." The sarcasm in Claire's 
voice was barely disguised.
"It's a start, Claire. There's more."
Matt uncorked a fourth bottle. The note-taking had subsided. Alcohol and 
shorthand did not mix.
"Let's come back to the Shrewsbury abduction," Ceri said quietly. "I'm 
convinced she was a victim of Uncle Tom.
"Dunst argued her being in a car ruled that out."
"Dunst is wrong. The girl in the car was abducted by Uncle Tom on the spur of 
the movement, a day early. An impulse abduction."
It was too much for Claire. Through tears she said, "An impulse abduction, a 
day early? Ceri, maybe we should leave this until the morning. When we're all 
sober?" She looked to Matt for support. Matt nodded his agreement.
"It's only my second glass. You and Matt have drunk the rest."
The guilty parties adopted suitably shamed expressions. 
The empty bottles lay scattered before them, incriminating them further.





114


Ceri drove home her advantage. 
"Since I wrote my original profile I've had the chance to think through a few 
ideas. One thing was particularly bothering me, but I couldn't quite get it to 
work until this afternoon, thanks to you two bringing me here."
"Us?"
"Bear with me. There's a pattern to the attacks that we've all overlooked so 
far. I'm amazed Dunst missed it, but that's how it goes sometimes. The really 
obvious pointers stick out so far you look round them rather than at them. A 
case of not seeing the wood for the trees. Consider the five abductions 
together. Look." She grabbed a pen and paper and listed the girls, one beneath 
the other, in order of abduction.
"Rebecca. Laura Coverton. Tina Stamp. Michelle Morgan. Andrea Whiteman."
"It's not official yet that the last girl was even abducted, let alone by 
Uncle Tom."
"It was Uncle Tom, Matt. The girl's body will turn up in due course."
It was a sobering statement, said without emotion.
Dabbing her eyes, Claire asked, "How can you be so sure?"
"Look." Ceri listed the dates of the girls' disappearances besides their 
names. "August second, September first, September thirtieth, October first.
"So?"
"All the girls were taken on the first two days of the month."
"Except Michelle. September thirtieth."
"Like said, an impulse abduction. A day early."
Matt was dismissive. "I'm sorry, Ceri, but even after four bottles that's a 
bit much to ask us to believe."
Ceri was undeterred. She listed the places where the girls had vanished from, in 
order of disappearance, one below the other. "Pegwell Bay, Queensferry, Rhyl, 
Shrewsbury, Telford. Don't you see?"
Claire took the list, staring at it, not comprehending. She handed it to Matt.
"So?"
Ceri took the paper back and folded the page so only the first letters of the 
place names were showing.
"Oh god. P, Q, R, S, T. But..."
"I didn't realise at first. The newspapers reported Rebecca as missing from 
Ramsgate, being the nearest town. It was only when you actually brought me here 
I realised she's actually been taken from a place called Pegwell Bay. That's 
when it all fell into place."
"But why?"
"The possibilities are endless. My initial thoughts are an obsessive 
dysfunction. Someone fixated with order. It would sit well with the hygiene 
neurosis."
Matt stared at the list, searching his mind for old news stories that demonsted 
similar patterns. How often had killers followed such cliched traits, like 
attacking on the night of the full moon? It was by no means unheard of. "Can 
you flesh this out for us?"
"I can try. It's agreed the killer would most likely use a van. It was one of 
the factors in Dunst disassociating Michelle's abduction from the others, as you 
said. A car is just too risky. But suppose Uncle Tom uses hired cars to get to 
and from the van? A van customised in some way to facilitate the abductions? 
Sound-proofed. Windowless. Inconspicuous from the outside."
"Like Robert Black?"
"Exactly. Suppose Uncle Tom planned to take a girl from Shrewsbury on the 
Tuesday. Tuesday October first. He was in town on the Monday, probably selecting 
target areas to return to the following day. Michelle was last seen, by her 
mother, waving from the top of the car park. Just suppose Uncle Tom was, by 
sheer coincidence, in the car park at that time. Perhaps using the vantage point 
to overlook the town and select an area for the planned abduction. A deserted 
car park. Try to imagine it. He's all psyched up by then, fantasising about the 
attack planned for the following day. Then suddenly a lone child appears before 
him. A young girl. It was just too much for him to resist."
Claire shuddered, holding back the tears, searching her mind for an excuse to 
dismiss this all too simple scenario. "Why leave her in the car?"
"Control. Self-control. Having acted impulsively in seizing the girl 
prematurely, he had no choice but to bind and gag her. I would imagine he 
intended to transfer her to the van, where I'm convinced the assaults take 
place. Dunst is right on that point. Having acted on impulse Uncle Tom has time 
to calm down, to compose himself. To get back to his schedule. He leaves the 
girl in the car, intending to travel on to wherever it is he keeps his van. By 
tragic coincidence the car is stolen. The rest we know..."
"So one way or another, the child was doomed," said Matt quietly.
"And the Telford girl?" asked Claire. "Andrea Whiteman?"
"If I'm right, all we can do is wait for the body to be found."





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? Pegwell Bay? Why not at A? 
Ashford? Andover? Axminster?"
"I don't know yet, Matt. The patterns are vague just now. Professor Canter 
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 Professor Canter is right, the shadows are there. We just have to see them 
and interpret them."
"But surely Dunst is doing that already?"
"But he's on the wrong track, Matt. Dunst reckoned the killer would be from a 
low-IQ group, at best an unskilled or semi-skilled labourer, 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 
Michelle."
"And presuming the girl from Telford 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 hahave 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 judgement 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, in close proximity. Say twenty or 
thirty miles, although I think the distance is more to do with convenience than 
part of the dynamic that drives him. 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."
"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 
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 
police 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 DI, Dave Pitman, that I know well. He can be trusted with this."
Claire sat in thoughtful silence. "There is another possibility. If we could 
find him first..."
"The combined might of the police forces of England and Wales 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 Inspector Pitman a copy, Matt, of course. 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 a gap in the curtain, taunting 
bleary eyes. He reached for his watch, fumbling in empty space before he 
realised 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 flat he preferred to leave the washing up as long as possible, 
but knew better than to adopt such slovenliness in Claire's home.
As the sink filled with warm water he felt his unshaven chin with one hand, 
pulling the blinds open with the other. Seeing Ceri gently swaying on Rebecca's 
tyre 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 kettle was boiled 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 of coffee.
"Ceri, are you okay?"
She took the coffee gratefully, sipping the steaming liquid before answering. 
"That policeman 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. Andrea Whiteman, the Telford girl? They dragged her body 
from a 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? 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 pew."
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 socialise 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 paedophile?"
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 Trinidad"
"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 Police are quite happy my licence 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."
"Piece of piss."
"How long?"
"Couple of hours. I'll start soon as I get in. So Andrea clinched it, 
then?"
"Clinched what?"
"That the murders were alphabetical."
Matt glared at him. "How the fuck did 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.
"At first I was thinking maybe Uncle Tom was some kind of football fanatic."
Matt raised a mystified eyebrow.
"P, Q and R. You know, QPR? Queens Park Rangers? Shrewsbury and Telford put 
paid to that, obviously. Then when they found the last body everything clicked 
into place."
"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 down the bookies all day. Mum's working to pay 
for her fags. 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 murders?"
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 bit on the side?"
"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 paedophile. There are so many questions I'd want to ask."
"You might not like the answers." 
They shared the washing up, waiting for the kettle to boil. 
"It's funny, Ceri, but I almost thought of Thomas Bristow as normal, towards 
the end. But seeig 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. Tea or 
coffee?"
"Tea. I get enough coffee when Matt's around. But why? The recidivist rate, I 
mean. 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. It's not that far from here, actually. Sevenoaks."
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 northern 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 Uni."
"I worry about you sometimes, Ceri."
"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 Britain's leading expert on 
sexual perversion."





121


"Being an expert on dirty old men in raincoats is not my idea of a career."
"That's just a stereotype, Claire. 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. They 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, pint before, fag after. It fulfils a 
basic human need: reproduBecause 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 judgements. 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."
"So it can be unnatural but still be normal? Acceptable?"
"It depends on how you define abnormality. What it really boils down to is 
social acceptability. Homosexuality has rightly, over a half century or so, made 
the transition from being an unacceptable and illegal abomination to a widely 
acceptable, legitimate form of sexuality."
"Thomas made that point too. But he was trying to build a defence for sex with 
children. That child-sex would undergo the same public transformation, give 
time."
"I can imagine. Paedophiles typically react to their crimes by trying to 
invoke a defence of that nature. But in cold, clinical terms, paedophilia is no 
different from any other sexual disposition that veers from straight, 
reproductive sex. It's just another variation of the basic sex drive, caused by 
genetic, pathological or socio-environmental factors; probably a combination of 
all three. That doesn't make it right or wrong. Right and wrong are matters of 
social morality, not biology. Of ethics, not science. Sexual dysfunction is an 
area of human nature we've barely begun to understand."
"I'd never heard of it until a few weeks ago. Sexual dysfunction, paraphilia, 
auto-erotic whatever it was that killed Thomas. It's a whole new world."
"Auto-erotic asphyxiation," Ceri advised with a grin. "I live and breathe 
this kind of thing. It's been sort of an interest of mine, ever since I found 
some magazines in my dad's wardrobe years ago. You know, I was snooping around, 
as kids do, and I came across them. Women dressed up in rubber suits, torturing 
naked men with whips and things. I thought it was hilarious at the time, but 
later, as sex became more defined in my mind, I started wondering what made a 
normal, ordinary bloke like my dad have such things hidden away. It was like he 
had a secret life. By day, a doting husband and father to two children, by night 
living out these bizarre fantasies."
Ceri's eyes were distant, reliving her childhood memories. "I don't know if 
Mum knew. I guess she must have. The mags were just there, in their wardrobe. 
Maybe if I'd searched further I would have found her rubber outfit and whips in 
a drawer somewhere. Well, maybe not. Not Mum. But the idea that people would do 
that for pleasure, for sexual enjoyment, just never occurred to me. We had a 
Catholic upbringing. We were taught nothing about the reproductive process. The 
teacher wouldn't even explain how the school rabbits went from two to eight 
overnight. The kids all thought it was a miracle."
She paused to find the tea-bags. Claire waited patiently, not wanting to 
interrupt her reverie. "Then at secondary school I learned about real sex for 
the first time. Well, I say real sex, but it was just about how babies were 
conceived and born. I was about thirteen, just going through puberty myself. You 
know, I thought How gross! My parents did that? Even then I couldn't comprehend 
they might still be at it. The way we were taught, if your parents had two kids 
then they'd had sex twice in their lives. It was inconceivable people did it for 
pleasure. It was another year before I made the connection between reproductive 
sex, intercourse, as taught at school, and the magazines my dad read. That was 
the day I started thinking about sex seriously." The kettle came to the boil. 
"And here I am."
Claire grinned. "I can't help feeling I've led a sheltered life by 
comparison."
"What I learned then, from my dad, was that ordinary people had extraordinary 
fantasies. I mean, how does anyone first realise that they'd enjoy being tied up 
and having their bollocks whipped by a women in a rubber suit? And from there, 
how does the real dysfunctional type first realise that they prefer sex with 
animals, or children, or whatever?"
Claire nodded. "What I've learned from meeting Thomas Bristow and Michael 
Bates is that sexual deviants aren't bug-eyed monsters with hunch-backs and 
steel claws."
"Exactly. They're just ordinary people with a problem living by society's 
rules."
"Is that what Uncle Tom is? Just an ordinary person?"
Ceri squeezed the tea-bags. "No, Uncle Tom's more than that, Claire. He's an 
extraordinary person. But still a person. He's already made mistakes. A few more 
and the Police will have him. And if they don't, we will. Any milk?"
"There's a fresh carton in the fridge."
"You know, this is something I really miss. Fresh milk. But there's just no 
way my landlady will get my fridge fixed. She's such a... Say, you're 
diabetic?" She held up an insulin pack.
"It was Rebecca's. Couldn't bring myself to throw it out. You know how it is. 
Silly little things suddenly take on enormous sentimental value."
The phone rang. Claire took the call, holding back yet more tears, while Ceri 
finished the teas.
"That was Matt. There's someone he wants you to meet, this afternoon. He'll 
pick you up at two-thirty."





122


"Danny, this is amazing! I love it!"
Ceri almost ran into the room, gleeful as a child in a toy shop.
As the door swung wider, Ceri's superlatives seemed quite inadequate. Matt knew 
Danny was no ordinary kid. But even so...
While other kids collected stamps or model cars, or signatures of famous 
sportsmen, Danny, he knew, collected autographs of notorious criminals. What he 
hadn't realised was that while other kids had pictures of footballers and pop 
stars on their walls, Danny had portraits of infamous law-breakers staring down. 
The Krays, Jeffrey Dahmer, Myra Hindley, the Boston Strangler, the Yorkshire 
Ripper, Ian Huntley.
"Where do you get these" Ceri was touring the room, picking up books on 
crime and criminals, examining models of weapons, darting from one thing to 
another like a wasp around a honey-pot. She gestured to a poster. "Aaron 
Kosminsky! So you don't subscribe to the Maybrick theory?"
"Not a chance. It had to be Kosminski. Jack was a Londoner, not a Scouser. 
Begg's hypothesis. 
Matt looked utterly confused. "Is this a private discussion or will someone 
tell me what the hell you're talking about?"
Danny grinned at Ceri. "You'll have to excuse Matt. He's a novice." To Matt, 
"Jack the Ripper. I reckon it was Kosminski. They say he confessed, just 
before he died."
"At the Colney Hatch asylum, Ceri added. "Mind you, if -"
"Yeah, yeah," Matt cut across them. "Danny, if I ever decide to write an 
article on Jack the Ripper I'll know where to come. But we're here for a reason. 
The list?"
Danny produced several sheets of paper.
As he glanced over the print-off, Matt's heart sank. During the day he'd given 
some thought to the project and concluded it would be a relatively 
straight-forward task, with the aid of Danny's compuzardry, to identify a 
half-dozen likely venues for Uncle Tom's next attack. There could only be so 
many towns and villages in the British countryside beginning with the letters U 
and V. He'd mentally ticked off a few at the time. Uttoxeter. Uxbridge. It was 
reassuring. If he could only manage two, could Uncle Tom do much better?
He ran his finger down the list of place-names in alphabetical order from 
Ubbeston Green, Suffolk to Uzmaston, Dyfed, each with a map grid reference. 
"Jesus, Danny, I didn't want a list of every single street name! I thought you 
understood that. I need towns and villages. We're working on the presumption 
Uncle Tom is travelling to places he doesn't know. He'll be using a normal road 
atlas of some sort, not a computerized A-Z of obscure places nobody's ever heard 
of. Ugborough? Upper Slaughter? Upton Scudamore? Are you sure you didn't make 
these up?"
"Matt, these are all towns and villages, from the 1:250,000 scale."
"Meaning?"
"Five kilometres per two centimetres. That's four miles to the inch in old 
money. Every place on that list is big enough to appear in a bog-standard road 
atlas."
"You're joking! There must be a hundred place-names here."
"Two hundred and forty seven. The Vs are a little better. There's only thirty 
of them."
Matt flipped over to the Vs. Earlier he couldn't think of any.
"Look on the bright side," Danny said. "When Uncle Tom gets to X he's 
gonna be seriously fucked. There's not a single place in the entire country 
beginning with X. Not on any scale."
Matt fell silent at the observation. That was four murdered children away.
"The list could be expanded if we opted for a smaller scale," Danny said. 
"For example, the Ordnance Survey Landranger series, 1: 50,000. With the O.S. 
Pathfinder series 1:25,000 the list could be bigger still."
"We'll stick with this, thanks. Now this is the summary of locations in close 
vicinity, right?"
"It doesn't help much. A fifty mile radius is a big area in a small country 
like Britain. Identifying isolated pairs is pretty much guesswork. I've marked a 
few possibilities, as you can see, but once you get to an area like south-west 
England the place is crawling with them. Most of the Vs are concentrated in 
Dorset, Devon and Cornwall."
"Maybe that's where he'll target next," Ceri said. "Figure it from Uncle 
Tom's point of view. Whether he's driven from genuinely obsessive need to follow 
this pattern, or he's simply playing a game with us, he'll need to adhere to it 
so far as possible."
"Agreed," Danny said. "Do you think he's a Ted Bundy type? Or maybe Gerald 
Schaefer?"
"Worse than both, Danny. Some killers leave a symbolic calling-card, but Uncle 
Tom does it literally. Rather than wait for the media to give him some stupid 
nick-name he's done it himself. He's calling the shots."
"You can hardly blame him." Danny glanced mischievously at Matt. "I mean, 
what kind of pillock came up with names like the Boston Strangler, or the Mad 
Bomber, or the Yorkshire Ripper? Journalists?"
"Sub-editors," Matt assured him. "They can't do a proper job as a 
reporter so they sit at the office all day writing fancy headlines and then hope 
some news will come along to fit them."
"I bet they get pissed off with the likes of Jeffrey Dahmer and Dennis Nielsen 
then."
Matt looked mystified. "Why should they?"
Danny shared a conspiratorial glance at Ceri.
"He's hopeless, Ceri." To Matt: "They picked off loners. Homeless men, 
mainly, so most of their victims were never even reported missing. The media 
only give nick-names to killers when they're big news before they're caught. It 
was the same with Frederick and Rosemary West. Imagine what dumb names your lot 
would have come up with for those two!"





123


"Danny's spot on, Mtt," Ceri agreed.
Danny beamed at Matt, licking his forefinger and chalking up an imaginary notch 
on an invisible scoreboard. 
"It's just another example of how Uncle Tom is demonstrating his expertise," 
Ceri said. "He's in almost total control. But he's nothing like Nielsen and 
Dahmer."
"Even I can see that," said Matt. "They were necrophiles."
"True, but that's not what I meant. Uncle Tom is an Organised Non-Social."
"A what?"
Ceri exchanged a smirk with Danny. "The FBI recognise two types of 
lust-killers, Matt. Organised Non-Social and Disorganised Asocial. Peter 
Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper, was a typical Disorganised Asocial."
"Meaning?"
"A loner." Danny jumped in. "Uneasy with the opposite sex, even though he 
was married. Doesn't plan in any great detail. Leaves the body more or less at 
the scene, with very little effort to cover up the crime. Typically uses any 
weapon that comes to hand."
"And this other type? Organised something or other?"
"Organised Non-Social," Danny said with a smirk. Matt wanted to strangle the 
brat.
"Jack the Ripper is the classic," Ceri explained. "Hostile towards people, 
but you wouldn't know it to speak to him. He'll come across as a very sociable 
type, adept with people of either sex. Manipulative. Often a commuter killer, 
hence the Maybrick theory. Typically he'll mutilate for a trophy, then dispose 
of the body with meticulous care. That's Uncle Tom all over. The bodies are 
deliberately placed where they will be found, but not too soon. He has to 
balance the risk of getting caught against the pointlessness of the body 
remaining undiscovered. The last thing he wants is anonymity like Dahmer or 
Nielsen. He craves the attention. He has a massive ego problem."
"And he uses his hands as a contact weapon," Danny said. "It's a power 
thing. Personally I'm thinking we might see ritual mutilation next."
Matt cast a nervous glance at Ceri. "Ritual mutilation?"
"Agreed. Uncle Tom is a control freak, but self-control only goes so far. Take 
Jack the Ripper. Began by killing and mutilating at his own pace, in his own 
time, each one planned and calculated. Then as the compulsion grew be became 
less careful, more impulsive. An attack was interrupted by a passer-by. Hours 
later he attacked again, mutilating his victim there and then on the pavement, 
so strong was the compulsive drive. Strong enough to make him abandon his usual, 
meticulous planning and risk being caught in the act."
"And you think Uncle Tom is heading that way?"
"You can be sure of it. I'm convinced the Shrewsbury attack is an early 
symptom of break-down. But I wouldn't rely on him making a big mistake and 
getting caught just yet. He's still in control. The calling cards are a sign of 
supreme arrogance, not the suicide complex."
"Well it would solve a lot of problems if he topped himself," Matt agreed.
Danny couldn't help but laugh. "That's not what she means, Matt. Killers that 
start out with a specific aim, like a revenge attack or a need to prove 
something or other, often end up killing again just for the sake of it. Once 
they've achieved what they intended, that's it. There's no thrill to the kill. 
No purpose. It doesn't matter what happens to them after that."
"Elliot Leyton argued the case for the resentful killer quite persuasively," 
Ceri added. "Revenge is a powerful emotive force. Even the sanest person will 
curse his car when it doesn't start, or stare accusingly at the pavement when 
they trip. It's just an extension of that, taken to an extreme."
"You're telling me someone might end up a killer just because they stubbed 
their toe? Be serious!"
"Peter Sutcliffe became the Yorkshire Ripper because a prozzie ripped him off 
for a tenner," Danny said.
Matt glared at him. Smart-ass brat.
Danny grinned back. "My guess is he'll go into suicide mode when he reach."
"That's four murdered children away. Let's not think the unthinkable."
The room fell silent.
"Danny, you said earlier you had a few ideas of your own?"
"Nothing earth-shattering. I expect Ceri's already sussed it anyway."
"Sussed what?"
"The way Uncle Tom is modelling himself on the likes of Black and Duffy."
"Duffy?"
"The Railway Rapist."
Ceri looked uncertain. "Remind me."
Danny couldn't hide his glee. He had the edge on Ceri for the first time. 
"Just a sec'." He reached down under the bed and extracted a pile of 
scrapbooks, each filled with cuttings on notorious crimes.
"The red folders are the sex cases. I've sub-divided into rapists, paedos, 
homophobic attacks." 
"But who's this Duffy?" Matt demanded.
"Back in the eighties?" Ceri ventured. "Wasn't it one of Professor 
Canter's early successes?"
"You got it!" Danny produced the relevant scrapbook. "John Duffy, the 
Railway Rapist." He looked at Matt. "So-called because he attacked and raped 
his victims, wait for it, near railway lines."
"I told you. Sub-editors. But these are all attacks on adults. What's the 
connection with Uncle Tom?"
"The way he killed his victims. Strangulation."
Matt shrugged. "I admit I'm no expert, Danny, especially in present company, 
but I'd say strangling is a pretty common form of murder."
"With a tourniquet?"
Ceri sat forward. "Of course. Yes, Danny!"
Danny had a huge smile on his face.
Matt looked none the wiser. "And?"
"The Duffy case was the first time that particular method of strangulation had 
been used in this country. What kind of crime reporter are you anyway?"
Matt glared at him. "I covered normal crimes in my day, Danny. Proper 
criminals. Cops and robbers stuff. Not this serial killer business. It's a new 
phenomenon. Another bloody American import."
"Jack the Ripper is new?"
"Oh, fuck off." God-damned brat had an answer for everything.
Danny was beaming. He twisted the knife. "And he wasn't American either."





124


Ceri stepped in to break the tension. "What Danny's saying, Matt, is that 
Uncle Tom may be deliberately emulating the MO of other killers."
"So how many ways can there be to strangle somebody?"
"Loads. There's ligature , there's manual, there's -"
"It was a rhetorical question, Danny."
Danny hesitated, unsure what rhetorical meant. "Anyway, I reckon Uncle Tom is 
copying the method used by the Railway Rapist, John Duffy, just as he appears to 
have copied Robert Black."
"And why would he do that?" If the kid wanted to debate in the adult league 
he'd make him sweat for it.
"I reckon he's studied these sorts of crimes and is selecting methods and 
ideas from his idols. He wants his own place in criminal history."
Matt turned to Ceri. "Are we taking this seriously?"
"Sure. I'll go with it. The calling cards are a sure sign he wants 
publicity."
"Then there's my combo theory," said Danny.
"Your what?" asked Matt and Ceri in unison.
"My combo theory. That it's a bloke and a woman together. You know, a 
modern-day Brady and Hindley, or Fred and Rosemary."
"Don't be ridiculous," Matt retorted.
Ceri was more welcoming to the proposal. "You know something?"
"Not really sure. There was a case a few months ago where a woman lured a 
child into a white van. A little girl. She wasn't killed or anything. Just 
indecently assaulted. It hardly rated a mention in the press. I suppose I 
remembered it because it was unusual, having a woman involved. I mean, sure, 
woman molest children. Look at that nursery worker. But it struck me as unusual. 
Sex attacks by women don't usually take place at the roadside."
"I like it, Danny," Ceri said, shaking her hair loose, sending it cascading 
down over her shoulders. Danny's eyes lit up. He'd hardly taken his eyes off her 
this past ten minutes. A fact that hadn't gone unnoticed by Matt.
Danny asked, "Do you think he's trophy hunting?"
"It's a safe bet. All the girls so far have had items of clothing missing. 
Including the girl in the boot of the car."
Matt said, "If you mean he's got a fetish about little girls' knickers, just 
come out and say so."
"No, a fetish is something different, Matt."
"Don't you know anything?" Danny grinned at his senior. Matt glowered back. 
He was way out of his league.
"The funniest one I ever came across was the Panty Bandit in America," said 
Danny, slipping into the conversation as if he always discussed such subjects 
with his guests. "Bruce Lyons, back in, what, eighty-eight? Eighty-nine?"
"Eighty-eight," Ceri said.
"He held up lingerie shops at gun-point, ordered the female staff and 
customers to take their shreddies off, then he'd toss himself off in front of 
them!" 
Matt couldn't hide a smile.
"Trophy hunting is different," Ceri said. "It fulfils a basic instinct of 
man, going back to the days of hunter-gatherers. The need to hunt for food and 
sexual conquest."
"Like Robert Hanson in Alaska," Danny added. "He was a big game hunter who 
kidnapped women, stripped them and sent them out into the wilderness, just so he 
could hunt them down and kill them."
"Oh, come on, Danny," Matt protested. Danny reached for his folders. 
"Okay, I believe you!"
Ceri said, "As I see it, Uncle Tom's retention of some of his victim's 
clothing meets two needs. It serves as a physical trophy of the assault, and it 
will act as a sexual stimulus for re-enacting the event in fantasy, possibly to 
psyche himself up for the next attack."
As Matt furiously scribbled short-hand notes the conversation slowly became a 
duel between Ceri and Danny, both determined to outdo each other with some 
obscure true-crime revelation. It was obvious he's learned all he was going to 
about Uncle Tom.
"I'm off to Cafe Nero," Matt stated. "Anyone care to join me?"
Danny and Ceri were too engrossed even to answer. 
Matt left them to it.





125


The traffic to Huddersfield was heavy, the conversation with the taxi driver a 
chore. The imperfect Scottish accent wavered occasionally but the Yorkshire born 
driver would never have noticed anyway. Stopping deliberately short of his 
destination, he paid the driver with a respectable, but not overly generous tip. 
Too little or too much might cause the driver to remember more than he needed 
to. 
Minutes later Jacob's wiry frame confronted him with a gold-toothed smile. "No 
trouble today, my friend. We understand each other?"
"You've got the goods?"
"She's upstairs."
"How old?"
"Eleven."
"You're sure about that?"
"On my mother's grave."
"Fuck your mother, Jacob. What's the girl like?"
"How should I know? You think I try out the merchandise myself first? She's 
pure as the driven snow. Untouched by human hands."
"You'd better hope so, Jacob. For both your sakes."
Jacob stepped forward, his hand outstretched. "Another fifty today, my friend. 
This girl is special."
"What?"
"Another fifty. Have you any idea how hard it is to find a virgin her age in 
this area? Kids today, they're at it before they're out of nappies. I tell you, 
it's a national disgrace. It would never have happened in my day."





126


The girl sat on the bed, nervously twisting her waist-length black hair around 
her fingers. She backed away, intimidated by the huge figure in the doorway.
A smile spread across his face as he saw her. For once Jacob hadn't let him 
down.
The girl said her name was Rhoda. He believed her. She said she's just turned 
eleven, three weeks ago. He could tell that too. The long hair fell across 
rounded shoulders and a loose fitting blouse that hid a body yet to succumb to 
puberty. The pleated skirt and white ankle socks completed the picture of 
innocence. He allowed paternal instincts to take over, a comforting, friendly 
voice and gentle gestures to put her at ease.
"This is your first time?" He sat on the bed beside her, gently putting an 
arm around her shoulder. "Don't worry. I won't hurt you. Just hold my hand a 
while. Let's talk first."
She reluctantly slipped her tiny hand into his and felt his thick, heavy fingers 
gently wrap around hers. He reached his other hand to her knee.
"Nervous?" His tone was quiet. Reassuring. "Just relax. You'll enjoy it 
more that way." He stroked her arm. "So what's it like being eleven, 
Rhoda?"
She answered in whispers. "Okay."
"Better than ten?"
She shrugged nervously. Casual conversation wasn't on her mind just now. She 
just wanted to get it over and done with. To go back home, to play with her 
dolls.
"Do you enjoy school?"
She nodded cautiously.
"Is this your school skirt?" He put his hand on the hem, letting his thumb 
rub against her thigh, getting her used to his touch. "You've got lovely 
hair." He ran his fingers through it, savouring the silky texture. "Have you 
got any sisters?"
"One"
"Younger than you?
She shook her head.
"Shame. We could have had a threesome next time." He tapped his wallet. 
"Maybe I'll leave you something extra afterwards." He reached over and began 
unbuttoning her blouse. She forced herself to keep still. Her sister had 
explained what would happen. "How much are they paying you?"
"I don't get paid."
He slipped the second button. "Is that right? Who says so?"
"My Daddy."
"Your Daddy? He knows you're here?" He shook his head in disbelief. How low 
can you get? 
"So who's your Daddy? He sounds like a really nice man."
"He's downstairs. His name is Jacob."





127


"Matt, it's Ceri. Can you call me back? I'm almost out of credit."
Matt fumbled with the bedside lamp. "One sec'." Still half-asleep he hit 
the return-call button. "Are you okay? Where are you?"
"At my flat."
"What's happened?"
"Happened? Nothing. I've just had an idea, that's all."
Matt stared at the clock in disbelief. "Well that's okay then. There was me 
thinking you'd woke me up at two in the morning because it was something 
urgent."
"Two? Matt, I'm so sorry. Lost all track of time. I didn't realise."
He swore beneath his breath. "It's okay. What's on your mind?"
"It's about Rebecca."
He swung his legs out of bed, reaching for his jotter. "I'm listening."
"Was Rebecca a Type-1 diabetic?"
Matt shrugged. "Something like that. Claire could tell you for sure."
"I don't want to worry her. It may be nothing."
"You woke me up in the middle of the night just to ask that?"
"Matt, I'm sorry. It's just that... Never mind. I'll call Claire tomorrow. 
Good night." 
The line went dead. Matt nearly pressed redial, then looked again at the clock. 
Whatever it was, it could wait.





128


Randall reached out across Bethan's stirring body to extinguish the alarm, 
gently brushing her hair with his hand, soothing her back to sleep. 
An IT course in London, he'd told her. 
Out early, back late.
He showered and dressed quietly,no appetite for breakfast. 
He stole into the children's bedroom. The Dynamite Twins were asleep together in 
the one bed. They had separate beds they were tucked into each night, but 
without fail they would be found in just the one by morning.
It had been a tiring evening for the Twins. Their grandmother had made their 
Halloween costumes and the Twins were adamant Daddy had to take them. Bethan was 
on late shift anyway. 
As the evening drew on exhaustion took its toll. Arriving home late the girls 
had foregone their customary bath night and been put straight to bed with a hot 
chocolate each, as much for their father's sake as theirs. He hoped they hadn't 
caught his cold.
He kissed the Twins each on the forehead as he left the room. 
"Love you both," he said softly. "Always. No matter what." 
His hands were trembling as he closed the front door behind him.





129


Matt awoke to a knock at the door and wandered through in his dressing gown to 
be met by Danny. He scowled at his young visitor but opened the door wider in 
reluctant invitation.
"I thought we agreed you didn't come here."
"You were supposed to have been at Cafe Nero an hour ago."
Matt glanced at the clock. "Shit! Sorry. I overslept. Put some coffee on while 
I get dressed."
Danny was happy to oblige. Getting invited into Matt's apartment was no mean 
feat. By the time his host had washed, shaved and dressed the coffee was 
steaming in the mugs.
"You need an espresso machine," Danny said.
"Nescafe is fine at home. If you want proper coffee, go to Cafe Nero."
"I did. You weren't there."
"I said I'm sorry."
"Did the cops tell you what they were planning?"
"Danny, the last person the police will tell anything to is me. I'm a 
journalist. We have a special relationship where the exchange of information is 
concerned. All one way."
"They gave you the Dunst report."
"That was a very special favour. My contact put his job on the line. I can't 
ask him to do that again."
"But they're following through on our theory, right?"
"Strictly off the record, yes. They're targeting the locations on the list. 
But that's all I know, Danny. Honestly."
Danny looked doubtful. "So how come you were still in bed?"
"A disturbed night. Ceri rang me up at two o'clock this morning."
"You lucky dog! What did she want?"
"Nothing important, I promise you."
"Like?"
"Well actually she asked what type of diabetic Rebecca had been."
"And then what?"
Matt shrugged. "That was it."
"She rang you up in the middle of the night just to ask that?"
"The female mind is a mystery to us all, Danny. You'll realise that as you 
get older."
"She's cool, ain't she?"
"Who?"
"Ceri."
"I guess so."
"I bet you've had your eye on her."
"Danny, she's twenty years my junior. Just a kid."
"She's nineteen. Nearly twenty. That's ancient! Mind you, I'd give her one."
"One what?"
Danny grinned sheepishly.
"Danny, you're fourteen. You should be chasing girls your own age, not grown 
women."
"She was just a kid five seconds ago."
"She is. To me."
"You sound like my gramps."
"How's the world of cyber-crime?"
"Promising."
"Glad to hear it. Any juicy gossip from the underworld for me?"
"You wish."
"Well you'd better get your ear to the ground, partner, else once they've put 
Uncle Tom away I'm not going to have much use for your services."
"You're gonna fire me?"
"Think of it as redundancy."
"They might not catch him."
Matt sipped his coffee. "They will."
"You don't sound very convinced."
"Think positive, Danny. It's half the battle."
"You realise most killers are caught by accident, not fancy detective work." 

"Danny, can't you talk about anything else?"
"Like what?"
"I don't know. Anything."
"Let's talk about Ceri."
Matt grinned. "You really like her, don't you?"
Danny blushed. "I think I'm in love."





130


Molly led him through to the lounge where, to his ill-disguised dismay, Ruth 
Reynolds greeted him with her usual fixed smile. Dr. Quinlan, she explained, had 
been called away on urgent business. 
"You may actually find it easier with a woman, Greg," she finished lamely. 
"Some people do, you know."
Randall's stony silence made it clear he was not one of them.
"Would you like something before we start? Coffee? Something stronger?"
"Please, Dr Reynolds, can we just get this over with?"
"As you wish, Greg. If you'd like to come through. Did Dr. Quinlan tell you 
the procedure? Never mind, I'll explain as you get changed."
"Changed?"
He was led down several anonymous corridors. Reynolds stopped at a door 
distinguished from the others only by its number and swiped a card, gesturing 
for him to enter. One wall was lined with screens and monitors, a reclining 
chair before them.
"The bathroom's there, Greg. Toilet and changing facilities, and a shower for 
afterwards. You'll find a clinical gown on the peg. If you'd change into that, 
with the opening to the front, please. I'll get things ready here."
"Take off everything?" 
"You can keep your socks on if you wish. Men tend to. It's not your feet we're 
interested in now, is it? I need access to your chest and genitals." She 
looked him up and down. "Well come on, Greg. You said you wanted to get it 
over and done with. Or have you changed your mind about that drink?"
He pulled the door shut and began tentatively removing his clothes.
"If you need the toilet, I suggest you go now. We don't want to interrupt the 
session if we can avoid it. I presume Dr Quinlan explained to you the need to 
refrain from any form of sexual activity prior to the therapy?
Feebly, "Yes."
"So when did you last have sex?"
He hated these questions. "A few days ago."
"Masturbation?"
He wished he was anywhere but here. He fumbled with his shirt buttons, his hands 
shaking. "Not recently."
"When did you last have an erection, Greg?"
He was thankful for the door between them. "This morning, I guess. When I woke 
up."
"Nervous?"
"Very."
"No need to be. Just relax. I know this is embarrassing for you, Greg, but it 
can't be avoided if we're to resolve your little problem. So like you said, the 
sooner we start, the better. Ready?"
"Almost."
"Come through as soon as you're changed."





131


He tugged his trousers over his ankles and reluctantly pulled off his boxers. 
He slipped his arms through the gown, and his feet into the slippers provided. A 
perfect fit. 
Hesitantly he pushed open the door. It occurred to him it was the only door he'd 
seen at the Foundation without a security lock. 
Reynolds was waiting for him by the monitors, the fixed smile beaming. 
"That's lovely, Greg. What's that you're carrying?"
"A hanky."
Her eyes danced with amusement. "You won't need that."
"I have a cold."
"Oh. I thought... Never mind. Now sit here and make yourself comfortable. 
Adjust the seat as necessary. You'll be watching these screens, so select the 
most relaxing position with that in mind."
He lowered himself into the chair, a smooth, black leather recliner with high 
arms, making the necessaryadjustments. "This feels fine."
"Excellent. Now if you'll just stand up again and undo the ties on your 
gown."
"Undo them?"
"Greg, this is not the time for modesty. In a moment I'm going to show you 
various images and I need to measure your response."
"My response?" He wished Dr Quinlan were here instead of this woman.
"It's nothing to worry about, Greg. Just a plethysmograph."
He stared blankly at her.
"A penile plethysmograph. It measures sexual arousal. Don't worry, it won't 
hurt. It's just an expandable copper ring that slips over the penis. It 
registers even the slightest stimulation. Along with the measurements of your 
heart-rate, pulse and brain waves we can get an accurate measure of what 
sexually excites you."
"But you know that already. That's why I'm here."
"It's a standard clinical assessment tool, Greg. You see, it may be that you 
don't even realise that you're being aroused by a given stimulus. The brain is 
very subjective in sexual matters. The plethysmograph will give us a more 
accurate picture." She leaned across and picked up the device. 
"This is all it is. It's wired to register any and every change in penile 
response during the treatment. Now hold still while I slip it on."
Randall edged back nervously. "Couldn't I do that?"
"Greg, just relax, please. Believe me you've got nothing I haven't seen 
before."
You've not see mine before.
He clenched his fists and stared at the ceiling as she pulled the gown apart. He 
felt her hands. His face reddened. It seemed to take forever. 
Suddenly she was standing again, attaching electrodes to his chest with 
plasters.
"These are to measure your heart rate. And this measures brain activity." 
She slipped a light wire helmet over his head. In a few seconds she had 
finished. 
He self-consciously pulled the gown closed.
"Don't tie it, Greg. There needs to be room to move. Now, sit down again as 
you were. Make yourself comfortable."
He did as he was told, meekly following instructions, thinking of the Dynamite 
Twins, reminding himself it was for their sake he was doing this...
She placed a board across the arm of the chair, reaching beneath it and 
connecting the dangling leads to a socket. 
The gown was pulled open again and he felt her hands. He held his breath. 
A final adjustment and she stood again, smiling.
"That wasn't so bad, was it? Now just relax, Greg. I want you to forget I'm 
here. In a moment I'm going to turn down the lights and I want you to watch the 
screen. I'll be showing you some images and I just want you to watch and relax. 
Don't try to control your responses in any way. Just relax and let yourself 
respond naturally."
She clipped the board tightly against the arms of the chair. "On no account 
try to reach beneath the board, Greg. We don't want any manual manipulation. 
That's very important. Okay, any final questions?"
"When do the electric shocks start?"
Reynolds beamed. "Next time. All we're doing today, Greg, is clinically 
identifying your preferred stimuli. The aversion therapy cannot begin until 
that's done. Now, are you ready?"
The lights dimmed and soft music played in the background. 
Tchaichovsky. 
A ballet piece. 
Swan Lake? 
Sleeping Beauty? 
It came to him suddenly. 
The Nutcracker Suite.





132


"As I've stressed already, Colin, this is in no way a personal rebuke. No way 
at all. And by maintaining the media silence there is no possibility of our 
actions being interpreted otherwise by the public." Chief Superintendent 
Cedric Walker repeated his assurances for the third time as they awaited news. 
"It's a simple matter of covering our backs. The pattern is simply too much of 
a coincidence to ignore. Surely you accept that?"
Weisman was nodding his agreement. 
Dunst remained sullen. "I just think it's a sorry state of affairs when senior 
officers give credence to the ludicrous theories of some provincial hack who, by 
your own admission, is intimately involved with the mother of one of the 
victims."
Walker sighed. "It's not that straight-forward, Colin. We -"
The Duty Sergeant apprehensively put his head round the door. "Sir, we've just 
had a report from Teeside. An eleven year old girl hasn't turned up at school. 
Last seen getting into an unidentified vehicle near her home. No further 
details, but you asked to be informed immediately."
"It's not from a location on that damned list, is it?"
"No Sir. Middlesbrough. There's also a girl unaccounted for on the Isle of 
Wight, but that's literally just this second in."
"Thanks Tony. Keep me updated." He turned to Weisman. "Middlesbrough? Isle 
of Wight? Maybe Uncle Tom doesn't know his alphabet properly. What say you, 
Colin?"
"I'd put money on it being nothing serious."
Weisman scowled at his guest. "Any missing child is serious, Colin. If you'll 
excuse me gentleman, I ought to be getting back. Work to do."
He accosted Pitman in the Incident Room. "David, what's the SP?"
"Not a lot yet, Sir. An eleven year old girl in Middlesbrough, Sahira Singh. 
Friends saw her getting into an unknown person's car. No sign of coercion. They 
told a teacher and he phoned the local force as a precaution. Obviously they are 
unaware of our specific concerns and locations, but Uncle Tom is on everyone's 
minds just now."
"And the other child? On the Isle of Wight?"
"No further intelligence, Sir."
"Nothing from Burford's list, then?"
"All quiet so far, Sir. How's our psycho-man taking it?"
"He's mixing it with the Chief Super. Smarmy bastard. To think, I quite liked 
him when I first met him."
"Appearances can be deceptive, Sir."
"I wouldn't mind, but he's acting all affronted because we're following up 
this lead. If it proves to be a false alarm I'll never hear the last of it. You 
could see the delight on his face when the missing girls weren't from places 
starting with U and V."
"Maybe Uncle Tom doesn't know his alphabet."
"Don't you start, David. I just had that one from the Chief Super. He's giving 
Dunst the PR routine now, about the changing face of police work, community 
liaison, social integration. All that crap."
Pitman grinned. "Crap, Sir?"
"Don't be obtuse, David. And don't keep calling me Sir, for God's sake."
"No, Sir."





133


The screen illuminated and the first images appeared. 
Women in scanty clothing, smiling, beckoning provocatively to the camera. 
He found himself looking around the darkened room, trying to locate Reynolds, 
but she was out of sight. The monitors displayed gyrating lines like something 
out of a television hospital drama.
"Watch the screen, please, Greg." Behind him. 
The girls were stripping now. In different circumstances he might have found it 
erotic, but with Reynolds hiding in the darkness watching his every move there 
was no chance of that. 
From the corner of his eye he saw movement on the monitors.
"That's it, Greg. Just relax," Reynolds' voice soothed. 
A cold bottle of Budweiser appeared beside him. He grabbed it thankfully. 
The gyrating lines slowed as he drank, then became active again as he turned his 
attention to the screen.
"How do you feel, Greg?"
"A bit of a pillock, sat here like this."
"Are the images appealing?"
"Not especially. Not in these circumstances."
"You see, Greg, the brain can be very subjective. According to our instruments 
you found the images arousing."
He tried to reach down, to challenge the assertn, but the board across the chair 
arms prevented him. 
He concentrated, trying to sense any sign of arousal. 
Nothing.
The images faded, replaced by another. The music faded and the sound came up to 
match the video, of two women stripping one another, engaging in a simulated 
lesbian love session. He slowly became less aware of his surroundings. More 
relaxed. Reynolds kept quiet and for a few moments he forgot she was there.
Slowly the images faded.
"That was just to help you relax, Greg. Just to get you in the mood. Next 
we're going to see a series of images on screen. There will be no further 
interruptions. All I want is for you to relax and look at them. Some you may 
find appealing, others not. Some you may even dislike. That's fine. Establishing 
what turns you off is just as important as what turns you on. Okay?"
The screen illuminated. A series of still photographs appeared, each on show for 
a few seconds before being replaced. 
He recognised some from the images he's been shown on a previous visit and 
guessed the sequence that would follow. Clothed women, then scantily clad, then 
nude. 
Then men, the same. 
Then couples. 
Then adults engaged in foreplay, then actual sex. 
He studied each image, his eyes darting to the monitors to see what reaction was 
being recorded, quietly relieved to note the gyrations were negligible when only 
men were on the screen.
Then the images changed. Children at play. 
He tensed. 
This was it. 
This was why he was there.
He took a deep breath. Boys and girls together. 
Then just boys. 
Then just girls. 
Young girls in summer frocks in a play park, and suddenly he was aware of the 
lively gyrations on the monitor. 
The image changed.
Naked children. 
The pictures he remembered Reynolds' describing as naturist photos. Except these 
were videos, not stills. Naked children playing on a beach. 
The images changed again. 
Nothing naturist here. 
Young girls deliberately dressed and posed provocatively. 
He was aware of the wild gyrations on the monitor and turned away from the 
screen, acutely aware of what it meant. 
He could feel the stirrings in his groin. No need for the electronic gadgetry to 
explain what was happening.
"Just watch the screen, Greg, please."
He saw Reynolds' shadowy figure at his side, turning the monitor so he couldn't 
see the display. 
"How are you feeling?"
"Uncomfortable."
"Aroused?
"Sort of."
"You are. Believe me. Don't be embarrassed, Greg. That's good."
"Good? That I've got a hard-on looking at little girls?"





134


"Good that we've formally confirmed the stimuli." Reynolds' voice remained 
neutral.
"Now just relax. Keep watching. It's necessary we establish precisely where 
your interests lay."
"I thought we just had."
"We need to know how you respond to other scenarios. To breaking the body 
barrier. To actual contact with children. With young girls."
"I've told you, I'm not that far gone."
"That's what we're here to confirm, Greg. The plethysmograph does not lie. 
Don't be alarmed or embarrassed if you feel yourself being aroused in spite of 
your better judgement. Just relax, totally. Let your body respond naturally."
Moving images now. Some obviously amateur video, some very professional. All 
involving young girls. 
Early Super-8 flickering recordings were replaced by VHS quality, then crystal 
clear HD. 
He watched in morbid fascination as real children, little girls, some much 
younger than the Twins, took part in activities he had not dared conceive of in 
even his most perverted fantasies.
Despite himself he could feel the arousal below the board. 
He tried to shut his eyes, to think of other thing 
He tried telling himself it wasn't enjoyable. 
That these children were being abused. 
Harmed. 
But he kept watching.
Suddenly he felt a hand between his legs. "Just adjusting the plethysmograph. 
Ignore me. Watch the screen, Greg. You're doing fine."
Her hands were gentle. There was no hint of condemnation in her voice. For the 
first time he trusted her. 
In spite of himself he relaxed back into the chair, allowing himself to savour 
the images, even to relish the physical contact happening down below. 
His pulse quickened, arousal total. 
Despite himself he was enjoying what he was seeing. 
Feeling.
For a few seconds images and reality mixed. 
Reynolds was forgotten, sight and touch the only senses that mattered. 
Then it happened. 
There was nothing he could do. 
The euphoria of the moment gave way to intense embarrassment as he felt 
Reynolds' hand on his groin, wiping him clean.
His body sagged into the chair, the screen images forgotten, grateful for the 
darkness to hide in. He prayed the lights would stay off. 
He could see Reynolds' shadowy form before him, moving out of sight in 
silence. He wished she would speak. 
Say something. 
Anything. 
Tell him it hadn't happened. 
That it didn't matter. 
That he'd dreamt the whole thing. 
But there was just silence. 
Silence and the flickering screen.





135


Everyone was agreed that Uncle Tom had eyes only for little girls. 
The two boys reported missing that day were noted with only passing concern. The 
late arrival at school of the Middlesbrough girl warranted a sigh of relief 
across the Station.
The eight year old missing from Godshill on the Isle of Wight remained a worry, 
but as Weisman kept reminding his DI, Godshill was not on Burford's list.
The report of the second child unaccounted for on the Isle of Wight had Pitman 
and Weisman colluding in the Incident Room.
"Twelve years old. Julie Merickson, from Ventnor. A regular runaway, on the 
Social Services' At Risk Register. It's a place beginning with V, otherwise 
we'd have dismissed it as a regular truancy."
"Who's in charge down there?" 
"DI Aspley is coordinating things from Newport."
Weisman was put through in less than a minute. "Superintendant John Weisman. 
The two missing girls. Anything new since you spoke to my DI last?"
"Not a lot, Sir. We've sealed off the island, of course, but both girls 
could already be on the mainland. That's presuming the worst. To be honest, 
the older girl will probably turn up after lunch. That's a favourite trick of 
hers. It's the younger child that concerns us. Needless to say the parents are 
worried sick."
"They've every reason to be. Keep me posted. Anything at all."
"It could be coincidence, Sir." Pitman sounded unconvinced, but he rehearsed 
the argument anyway. "Only one of the locations could conceivably match the 
list. And with this Ventnor girl being a recidivist truant..."
"That's presuming the damn list has any relevance at all." Weisman was 
vacillating between the two competing theories. "It's the timing that 
bothers me, David. Even Dunst agreed we're looking at some kind of monthly 
cycle. I'm going to speak to him again."
"With respect, Sir, the last thing we need is more clap-trap about kids not 
being breast-fed as babies and growing up into knife-wielding maniacs."
"That's hardly fair, David. I admit we seem to be getting nowhere with 
Colin's profile just now, but he has a proven record in the field."
"The problem is, when we place too much emphasis on this profiling lark the 
lads start taking it too seriously. They start to shut off other avenues of 
investigation because they don't conform to the criteria."
"At first I was inclined to compare profilers to the psychic mediums of old 
days. Before your time, Sir, of course. But now... Now I actually think 
they're worse than that. Time was, a copper went to a medium as a last resort, 
when all else had drawn a blank. He did it discreetly, behind the scenes. But 
nowadays you only have to have two crimes on the trot with a similar MO and the 
cry goes up, Serial killer, serial rapist, serial shop-lifter and in come the 
experts with their university degrees in business management and voodoo 
spiritualism, never having met a real criminal in their lives, and we're 
expected to dance to their every whim, looking for a suspect with a disturbed 
family background, that suffered childhood trauma and grew up to wear a 
double-breasted waist-coast and..." His voice trailed as he exhausted his 
supply of profiling stereotypes.
Weisman managed a smile. "I trust you didn't have anyone particular in mind 
with your dig about degrees in business management?" 
Pitman shuffled uncomfortably. "Sir?"
"Look, David, I know I'm inexperienced. I understand how some of the men 
feel about me. But the Force is changing. We have to adapt to it. For better or 
worse."
"Just a figure of speech, Sir."
Weisman wandered over to the whiteboard. "We've five murdered children here, 
David. Now there's unanimity among the men, whatever their educational 
background, that four of the five were killed by the same man. For you and 
Burford to be vindicated we require two more attacks in towns beginning with U 
and V. I don't think Godshill qualifies, David. Do you?"
"I'm reserving judgement, Sir."
Weisman tutted loudly. "It's like Dunst said. The location sequence is pure 
coincidence. Face it, David, Uncle Tom is some mindless cretin who probably 
can't even spell, let alone plan abductions to order."





136


"I... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. It just happened."
Reynolds' voice came from the bathroom. He could hear the tap running.
"There's no need to apologise, Greg. That was excellent. Just excellent. It 
was necessary to have you achieve orgasm so we could record the peak of your 
arousal, to establish a benchmark for once therapy begins properly. I'm sorry 
I couldn't warn you, but that would have altered the way you reacted. It 
wouldn't have been a true reading."
"Those children... I've never seen anything like that before. It was just 
so... I couldn't help myself. I knew it was wrong, but it was so..."
"Erotic?"
Embarrassment and shame mingled in his mind. He felt dirty. "What happens 
now?"
Reynolds came back into the room. He prayed she wouldn't turn up the lights.
"The aversion therapy cannot begin until you're fresh. There's nothing 
more we can do today. If you'll just sit tight while I remove the 
plethysmograph, then you can shower and dress."
"That's it? I can go?"
"Next time we'll begin the therapy proper, once we've analysed the 
results. Molly will arrange another date for you as you leave. Don't worry, 
she hasn't a clue what you've been doing."
He made his way to the bathroom, savouring the flush of the hot shower. Soaping 
himself over and over while trying to bring order to the turmoil in his mind.
Through the screen Reynolds asked, "How do you feel, Greg?"
"Embarrassed. Ashamed. Dirty. Perverted."
"Don't be so hard on yourself."
"To see abuse actually happening, on film, right there in front of me... Where 
on Earth do you get stuff like that?"
"For our part, we obtain it discreetly through the Home Office. It's 
material seized by the Scotland Yard Paedophile Unit."
"But before that?" He needed to talk, to delay his inevitable face-to-face 
with Reynolds with the lights back on. "Where does it come from in the first 
place?"
"Scandinavia originally, although the internet has made it a world-wide 
phenomena. You've bought porn magazines in the past, haven't you?"
"Adult stuff, yes. Not child porn."
"Have you ever seen the Rodox and Colour Climax series?"
He had but wasn't about to admit it. "No."
"You surprise me. They were all the rage for many years, mainly in licensed 
sex shops. It was genuine pornography, not the page three glamour magazines you 
get in your local newsagents. Rodox was formed back in the sixties by Peter 
Theander. Hard to believe now, but back in the sixties some Scandinavian 
countries legalised pornography. All pornography, including child porn. The 
scenes you were watching were from the Lolita series."
"Lolita? I've seen the film. Jeremy Irons. But it wasn't..."
"Not Nabokov. The real thing. The Lolita magazine series was the first large 
scale, commercial child-porn operation in the world, legally sanctioned by the 
Danish government. The company is still going, although not children now, of 
course. But at the time it sired a host of copy-cat series, like Lolitots. That 
was in Denmark too, but run by an Englishman, Eric Cross. Lolitots was the 
biggest, but there were others. Sweet Patti and Sweet Linda. When the 
Scandinavian authorities finally called a halt it was all driven underground. 
Child porn became almost impossible to find. But the internet means that's all 
changed. Now anyone can have child abuse images in their living room at the 
click of a mouse. As I explained when you first came to us, Greg, you're not 
the only one with these fantasies. Not by any stretch of the imagination."
"I'm beginning to realise that now."
"There are people out there who genuinely believe that sex with children is 
harmless fun and should be legalised."
"Legalised?"
"You've heard of the Paedophile Information Exchange, surely?" 
"Sort of. But it's defunct now, isn't it?"
"Officially, yes. It's a legally proscribed organisation, but banning 
something doesn't make the problem go away. I can assure you its members are 
still out there. Not just here, but worldwide. Have you ever heard of the Rene 
Guyon Society?"
"Never."
"The original American Pie. They advocate the legalisation of what they call 
trans-generational sex. Their motto might appeal to you, Greg."
Randall popped his head round the screen inquisitively. "What is it?"
Reynolds smiled at him. "Sex before eight, or else it's too late."





137


For Old Sally it was just another cold winter's day. 
The run-up to Christmas meant late-night shoppers and drunken revellers 
disturbing her evening rest in the high street doorways, and colourful street 
lighting stopped her sleeping once the crowds finally vanished.
The skip at the rear of the alley was a regular stop. Skips were a treasure 
trove for the homeless on the streets of London. 
The blouse was a child's, but almost new. She might be able to exchange it at 
a charity shop for something her size. She stuffed the garment in her bag and 
reached for the winter coat. 
As she pulled it from the skip the lifeless eyes staring back at her were too 
much for a heart weakened by hypothermia and cheap alcohol. Old Sally managed to 
reach the street corner before keeling over.
The bag in the old crone's hand aroused no particular interest from PC Stephen 
Glover, taking copious notes from the one person who had bothered to stop. More 
rags to keep warm. As the ambulance drove slowly away, Glover dutifully walked 
back towards the skip to collect anything Old Sally might have dropped. It was 
the first time anyone had died on his beat.
He picked up the white ankle sock indifferently. 
A secck and his mind began to race. He thought of the child's blouse in Old 
Sally's bag. 
The pleated grey skirt had him almost running towards the skip, fearing the 
worst, but still daring to hope. 
This was the stuff police careers were made of.
But nothing at Bramshill Training College had prepared him for this.





138


Dr William Thewliss made his initial assessment from a distance, waiting 
patiently for the SOCO photographer to finish. 
He could barely hide his excitement as he took control of the scene. 
It was a forensic pathologists' dream. 
The yellow fingernails stood out like beacons, the unmistakeable trademark of 
Uncle Tom. Thewliss took charge of the body with confident air. SOCO were 
arranging arc lamps at a safe distance as December's early dusk encroached. A 
canvas tent shielded the scene from the crowd of on-lookers gathering at the 
police cordon.
Satisfied, Thewliss announced his findings to a microphone while a cameraman 
took video footage. 
There was no sign of hypostasis, the settling of blood under gravity, indicating 
the death must be recent. 
He announced readings from the rectal thermometer, competent enough to calculate 
the result in his head, although he'd run it through his laptop for precision. 
Deduct the recorded temperature from the normal body temperature of thirty-seven 
Celsisus. Divide by one-point-five. Plot to a graph and allow an average cooling 
rate of two-point-five degrees per hour. The computer could factor in air 
temperature and other considerations, but Thewliss already had an estimated time 
of death in mind. 
It was another hour before he was ready to have the body moved. 
There was nothing to indicate who the child might be and it was not until 
early-evening that her anxious parents, oblivious to the drama unfolding a few 
blocks away, finally stopped calling their daughters' friends and called the 
police. 
The father identified the child as ten year old Victoria Gilham within the hour. 

By then his wife was already succumbing to the welcome fog of heavy sedation. 
Victoria was their only child.





139


By all accounts Victoria had been an independent young lady who often preferred 
her own company to that of her peers. 
She had attended school that morning, but wandered into town on her own at lunch 
time. 
Her teacher recorded her absent on the afternoon register but it was the last 
few weeks of term. The school's Christmas play was already behind schedule. It 
wasn't even worth the effort to text her parents. There were more pressing 
matters to deal with than regular truants. 
It was a professional decision of the type teachers are forced to take every 
day. 
It was a decision that would haunt her for the rest of her life.





140


At Lambeth Road, forensics were making progress. 
The fingernail paint samples had been subjected to emission spectroscopy, placed 
between to carbon electrodes and an electric arc. The spectroscope broke the 
light emissions into constituent parts. It was the same paint as found on Uncle 
Tom's previous victims. 
Fibres on the copper pipe suggested the killer had worn white cotton gloves when 
he applied the ligature.
Hairs found on the girls' cardigan were subjected to comparison microscopy and 
neutron activation analysis. Animal hairs were later matched to the child's 
pet. A single one of the fifty-three human hairs removed from the cardigan was 
not from the child. A DNA analysis confirmed it matched the semen trace also 
found on the child. The killer had short brown hair.
The soiled handkerchief was almost superfluous. A white cotton hanky, stained 
with the child's blood, Group A. The mucus on the handkerchief was that of a 
secretor, blood group O. The DNA matched the hair and semen.
But initial jubilation was short-lived. 
The inquiry quickly began to falter as leads turned to dead ends and the flood 
of information from a well-meaning public began to ebb.
On December tenth, following an anonymous tip-off, the bodies of the missing 
Isle of Wight girls were dragged from the Kennet & Avon Canal, south of Reading.
The next day, following a Crimewatch Special, came a new lead. 
Weisman took the call personally and assigned Pitman to follow through. 
A case conference was being held by Kent Social Services at noon, to which the 
police were invited. 
Social workers following up a routine child protection concern believed they may 
have stumbled across the identity of Uncle Tom.





141


The four social workers sat down one side of the long table in the Case 
Conference Room in Dane Valley Road. The guest speaker had rung through to say 
she was running late. Pitman, sitting alone on the far side, cursed Weisman 
beneath his breath. This was a job for a rookie PC, not a seasoned old-timer. 
Attempts at conversation with the social workers had proved pointless.
They were on a different planet.
The guest arrived drenched, giving Pitman some mild satisfaction. He made a 
point of looking at his watch, but everyone else seemed quite unconcerned at the 
time wasted. Further time passed while the guest was provided with a pot of tea. 
Pitman looked on aghast. He didn't want a cup, but it would have been nice to 
have been offered.
"Thank you all for coming today," one of them finally began. "As we have 
some new faces here I'll briefly introduce you all. For the Department, I'm 
Vera Kidger, Senior Social Worker. My colleagues are Corinne Moon and John 
Pratt, both case workers now assigned to the children, and Michael O'Shea, a 
fellow Senior Social Worker. Across the table I'm pleased to welcome Dr Ruth 
Reynolds. Ruth is a psychotherapist at the prestigious Quinlan Foundation in 
Sevenoaks." He paused to give her fellow workers a chance to dwell on the 
esteemed presence before them. Then, almost as an afterthought, "And also 
present is Sergeant Pitman of Kent Police."
"Inspector," Pitman corrected. "Detective Inspector." He wondered if 
Weisman had deliberately misinformed her.
"Inspector Pitman." Kidger affected a charmless smile. "Now, this meeting 
has been called specifically to deal with the sexual abuse of two young girls. 
The abuser, as is so very often the case, is their biological father. We need to 
consider whether there might be grounds for placing the children on the At Risk 
register."
"Surely if the children are being abused that should have been done long 
ago," Pitman ventured.
Kidger glared at him. "Really, Sergeant... Social workers labour under 
countless guidelines and procedures which have to be followed. We cannot barge 
in and rescue a child just because they are being abused."
Pitman raised an eyebrow. "It's Inspector. And if you care to hand your 
evidence to any police officer we'll do it for you. Sexual abuse of children 
is a criminal offence, in case you hadn't heard."
Kidger dismissed him with a wave of the hand. "We haven't got the evidence 
yet, Sergeant. That's what Dr Reynolds is here today to reveal to us."
All eyes turned to Reynolds, who basked in the attention. Kidger continued, 
"Dr Reynolds, Ruth, has been treating the father for some time, and through 
her work has uncovered clear evidence of the most appalling abuse. Ruth 
specifically requested a representative of the Police be present today, so 
serious are her concerns."
There were sharp intakes of breath from the case-workers. Reynolds was basking 
in the build-up, smiling in turn at each awed face that peered towards her. 
Pitman felt nauseous. Selfrighteous Do-Gooders. He tapped his fingers 
impatiently.
"Without further ado, then, I'll hand over to Ruth."
Reynolds sat to attention, engaging her audience. Pitman studied his 
fingernails.
"It is with the utmost misgivings that my purpose here today is to betray the 
confidence of a client, of a patient, for the greater good." 





142


Reynolds paused for effect, taking a sip of tea, basking in the earnest gaze of 
the social workers.
"Earlier this year we were approached by a thirty-one year old Caucasian male, 
Gregory Alan Randall, who presented us with a challenging case study of multiple 
paraphilic inclinations, including a history of sexual interest in young 
girls."
"Miss Reynolds, I understand there is a connection with ,"
"Sergeant, please!" It was Kidger, sporting an expression of affronted 
indignation. "I'm sure I don't know how guests are treated at your Police 
Station, but here we believe it polite to let a speaker make her representation 
without interruption."
"But I ,"
"There will be an opportunity to question Ruth once she has finished." 
Kidger's glaring eyes dared him to challenge her authority.
"Thank you, Vera," Ruth said, looking at Pitman. "Now, Randall came to us 
in July of this year, a few weeks after the tragic incident with the little girl 
abducted from this area."
"Rebecca Meadows," Pitman said.
Kidger appeared to approve this brief contribution.
"Rebecca, that's right. Such a sweet child. My heart goes out to her 
parents. It must have been terrible for them."
"Terrible," the Do-Gooders murmured as one.
"Of course, it's quite common for establishments such as ours to receive 
increased interest from the public after high-profile sexual-assault cases."
The social workers were nodding like donkeys, led by Kidger, who Pitman mentally 
nick-named Senior Nodder.
"To cut a long story short, I undertook the preliminary interviews with 
Randall, on behalf of Dr Quinlan. What emerged was a paedophile with a clear and 
developing sexual attraction towards pre-pubescent females. Randall is married, 
and the father of twins. Two six year old girls."
There were further intakes of breath as the Do-Gooders put two and two together. 
Reynolds acknowledged their train of thought.
"Precisely. Nonetheless, Randall was able to assure us, convincingly at first, 
that his paedophile interest in young girls did not extend to his own daughters. 
He admitted to finding girls most attractive at about eight or nine, and for 
this reason, fearing what he might do in the future, and spurred on by the 
publicity about Uncle Tom, he came to us for help."
She paused for tea, pleased to see Pitman scribbling notes. "On completion of 
our assessment we advised Randall we were concerned he might in the future 
become a danger to his own or other people's children, and that some form of 
prophylactic therapy should be undertaken at the earliest opportunity. You will 
appreciate we can only make judgements based on what our clients reveal to us. 
There was no way, at this time, we could have realised Randall was in fact using 
the Foundation to further his own vile and sordid agenda."
Kidger brought her hands together as if in prayer, shaking her head in 
disbelief. There were stifled gasps from the Do-Gooders as they realised where 
Reynolds was heading. Pitman listened intently, unimpressed by Reynolds' 
supposed ethical dilemma, anxious for the details.
"Dr Quinlan and I began a course of aversion therapy with Randall, in good 
faith, believing we were in some way helping this poor man. As you may be aware, 
aversion therapy in the first instance involves the viewing of images designed 
to stimulate, in order later to deter, dysfunctional desire. In this case 
Randall's paedophile fantasies. To that end we have access, trough the Home 
Office, to material such as child pornography, the like of which I can assure 
you would churn the stomach of every man and woman in this room." She paused 
to inspect her audience, defying anyone not to have their stomach churned.
"The Home Office gives you child porn to show your patients?" Pitman looked 
incredulous. Had he misheard?
Reynolds smiled smugly. "The Quinlan Foundation is one of the few 
establishments in the country licensed by the Home Office under the Sex 
Offenders' Programme to treat persistent and violent criminals. The materials 
we use are part of the immense stock of child pornography seized every year by 
the National Paedophile Unit and its predecessor, the Obscene Publications 
Squad."
"Let me get this straight. You show child-porn images to paedophiles?"
"That's perfectly correct, Inspector. Now, may I continue?"
Pitman let out a deep sigh. At least she had managed to address him by his 
correct rank.
"Of course, it is only with hindsight we realised Randall was in fact using 
our facilities to live out his own sadistic fantasies which, we now realise, 
have led him to kill again."
"You mean..." Kidger's face was a picture. "You mean Randall is... Uncle 
Tom?"
The other social workers were looking on in shock.
Reynolds' face was a study in sincerity. "Precisely so, Vera, which is why I 
asked you to invite the Police here today."
The donkeys were nodding again. Pitman felt himself nodding too and quickly 
rested his chin on his hand.
"Last month, when it appeared our therapy was having no significant impact, Dr 
Quinlan arranged for Randall to obtain a second opinion from an independent 
analyst. We at the Foundation are not so arrogant as to believe we have all the 
answers. Sometimes a case like this can benefit from a fresh perspective."
"How does this link Randall to Uncle Tom?"
"I'm about to come to that, Inspector, given the chance. Dr Quinlan arranged 
for Randall to visit one of our south London colleagues at a private clinic. Due 
to a mix-up, Randall arrived at the clinic but was turned away."
Pitman shrugged. "And?"
"The clinic in question was in Woolwich, on the morning the girl was 
murdered..."





143


There were gasps of horror from the social workers. 
"Of course, when we realised the truth we faced the agonising decision of 
whether to breach client confidentiality."
Kidger sat forward. "Oh Ruth, we all feel for you. What a dilemma to have to 
face."
"Why didn't you come to the police right away?" Pitman demanded.
Reynolds smiled condescendingly. "Randall has two daughters, Natalie and 
Tamara. Now that his calculated manipulation of the Foundation's services has 
become apparent, it is equally obvious this man has been abusing these girls for 
untold years, probably since they were born."
"Those poor children," Kidger fawned. "They'll be permanently damaged. 
But we'll do everything we can for them, of course."
The other social workers were nodding in unison, anxious to stress their 
willingness to do everything they could.
"Of course, with hindsight the clues were so very obvious," Reynolds said. 
"For example, Randall has a nickname for the children. He calls them The 
Dynamite Twins." She ran her eyes around the room.
"The subtle sexual connotation is really self-explanatory. The imagery of a 
stick of dynamite as a penis is clear. The explosion of the dynamite represents 
ejaculation, of course. When Randall refers to the girls as The Dynamite Twin he 
is, quite simply, fantasising about raping his own daughters. That's assuming 
he hasn't done so already."
The social workers gasped loudly on cue. Pitman looked back and forth between 
them and Reynolds, wondering how much longer he could keep a straight face. The 
Do-Gooders were simply lapping up Reynolds' psychotherapy claptrap. 
Kidger said, "Needless to say the utmost care must be exercised in tackling 
this extremely delicate situation, to avoid further psychological harm being 
inflicted on the children. I cannot stress strongly enough, Sergeant, the 
negative impact on these innocent young minds if your officers were just allowed 
to blunder in and arrest the father without adequate arrangements being put in 
place to support the children." 
The Do-Gooders were nodding vigorously. Pitman held his tongue over yet another 
demotion. It was pointless trying to explain. Maybe he should have styled 
himself Senior Police Officer instead.
Kidger was talking again. "A Place of Safety Order for the children must be 
our first priority, of course, to minimise the inevitable trauma and stress to 
the children." She looked at her watch. "Well, time is getting on, so I 
suggest we make emergency preparations after lunch, and rescue the children 
first thing tomorrow morning. Is everyone agreed?"
Pitman was stunned. "Why not go in now, if these children are in such grave 
danger as Miss Reynolds here implies?"
"But the children!" Kidger was aghast. "I'm sorry, Sergeant, that's 
quite out of the question."
Pitman took a deep breath before answering. "If this information is correct we 
are talking about one of the most dangerous men in the country. Dr Reynolds, if 
you could just give me an address for this man..."
Kidger was almost on her feet. "She will do no such thing. These children 
could be scarred for life if some bumbling policeman just blunders in and arrest 
their father."
"This man is a violent criminal. Your namby-pamby Do-Gooder procedures can 
take a running jump, Miss Kidger. I'm bringing this man in, right now."
The donkeys gasped. This was a Senior Social Worker he was talking to!
Kidger glared at him. "I'm sure Chief Superintendant Walker will see my 
point of view, Sergeant. Cedric and I go back a long way."
It was too much for Pitman. He pocketed his notebook and made for the door. "I 
don't care how far you go back, Miss Kidger. I have a duty to protect the 
public. Don't worry about the address, Miss Reynolds. I'll find him without 
you. Though I should point out it is a criminal offence to obstruct an officer 
in the course of an investigation."





144


Pitman was still fuming when he got to Fort Hill, barging into Weisman's 
office. The Super was on the phone. He gestured for Pitman to take a seat. 
Pitman stood.
"He's just this second walked in, Vera. Yes, I'll explain everything. Just 
make sure all the paper-work is ready. The Chief Super has given me four 
officers to be with you first thing. I'll speak to you again tomorrow, once 
he's in custody."
He put the phone down. Pitman collapsed into the chair, visibly deflated.
"Supposing he kills another child tonight? While your Do-Gooder friends are 
catching up on their paper-work."
"David, you're over-reacting. Think it through. We can't risk bodging 
this. The Chief Super is backing me all the way."
"Do you seriously think it will be Cedric taking the blame if another child 
gets hurt?"
"I'll have full surveillance, within the hour. Randall won't be able to 
fart without our men knowing it."
"What about his own kids? He's got two daughters."
"Vera seemed comfortable with that. Apparently the psychotherapist who 
provided the lead has given her assurance the children will be fine tonight."
"And she would know that how, exactly?"
"David, I don't profess to understand how they come to their conclusions, so 
let's just leave it at that, shall we? I've agreed to furnish Vera with four 
officers first thing tomorrow morning. I thought perhaps you'd like to go 
along?"
"And spend anothe minute in the company of social workers? I'd rather cut 
off my own... No, thank you, Sir. I'll wait until he's in custody. What time 
are we looking at?"
"0700."
"The classic dawn raid? Dragging the kids screaming from their beds? I thought 
those kind of Gestapo tactics went out with the Cleveland inquiry."
Weisman shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "As I say, David, the Chief Super 
has agreed to all this. I suggest we use our time productively."
"Sir?"
"Preparing for Randall. We can hold him for twenty-four hours on suspicion of 
abusing his own kids. Vera has agreed to have them examined immediately they are 
in care. But we have nothing as yet to link him with the Meadows child. We then 
need to broach the Woolwich case. The Met will be demanding his transfer the 
minute they hear we've got him. Obviously they don't need to know anything 
until we question him on Woolwich, but then the clock is ticking."
"Yes, Sir."
"I want kid gloves on this one, David. Kid gloves. I want a full ME report as 
soon as Randall is brought in, and another when he leaves for the Met. We 
don't want a repeat of the Bristow affair."





145


He turned down the gas beneath the bacon, pulled the dressing-gown cord tight 
around his waist and scanned the room, wishing he'd put the ironing board 
away. As he glanced at the clock he consoled himself with the certain knowledge 
that only the postman would be knocking so early.
As he opened the door two male uniformed officers were to the fore, three 
civilians behind. Two female officers brought up the rear. He knew instinctively 
why they were there.
"Gregory Alan Randall?
He tried to reply but no words came.
"Gregory Aland Randall, we have a warrant for your arrest on suspicion of 
indecency with children." As he recited the caution, the officer took 
Randall's arm and in a slick movement cuffed his left wrist. Before he had 
time to react the second officer moved forward and secured his other arm.
It was the moment he had silently feared for months now, the recurring nightmare 
brought to life just as he had imagined it. "But I'm being treated," was 
the only response he could manage, his voice dispirited. Beaten. "This can't 
be right. Everything was in hand."
Bethan's voice drifted down from upstairs. "Greg, who is it?"
"It's okay love. It's nothing." He looked at the officers, eyes pleading 
them not to announce their presence to Bethan.
"Where are the children?"
Randall's face whitened. "They're asleep. Don't bring them into this, 
for God's sake. I've never touched them. I had it all under control. 
Please..."
"They're all yours." The officer pushed Randall through into the living 
room. The three civilians barged past unannounced, heading upstairs, the female 
officers running to keep up.
"No! Not the Twins. Please! Oh God, no..." He tried to step forward but the 
officer pushed him unceremoniously onto the sofa, almost knocking over the 
Christmas Tree. A cascade of pine needles showered the presents piled around the 
base. He heard shouts as Bethan emerged from the shower, confronting the 
intruders on the landing.
"Who the hell are you? Greg? What's going on?"
The intruder waived a document in her face. "Michael O'Shea, Senior Social 
Worker, Kent Social Services. I have a Place of Safety Order for Tamara and 
Natalie Randall authorising us ,"
"Over my dead body. Greg? Where's my husband?" Bethan stood herself firm 
across the landing.
O'Shea motioned for his two colleagues to stand aside and the two female 
officers stepped forward to confront Bethan.
"Mrs Randall, we're here to enforce the care order. Where are the 
children?"
"Care order? The Twins? This is crazy. You lay one finger on my girls and 
you'll be carried out of here." Standing across the landing, hair dripping 
wet, eyes blazing, the officers hesitated, uncertain how to proceed.
"Where's my husband? Where's Greg?"
"He's downstairs. Under arrest."
"Arrest?" Bethan clutched the door handle for support. "My God, what's 
going on? For God's sake, what's happening?"
"Mrs Randall, this must be difficult for you. The Place of Safety order is a 
temporary measure, to protect the children, Natalie and Tamara."
Bethan's voice raised to a scream. "I don't know what's going on but 
I'm warning you. Stay away from my daughters. Do you hear me? Stay away!"
Tamara's frightened face appeared in the doorway. "Mummy? What's 
happening?"
Instinctively Bethan turned to her daughter. As she did so the two officers 
moved on her, pinning her against the wall while the social workers moved with 
lightning speed into the bedroom. Bethan lunged, but the officers restrained 
her. In the room behind her Tamara screamed as a social worker grabbed her arm 
and dragged her towards the door. The second social worker grabbed Natalie as 
she stirred in her bed, lifting her unceremoniously, carrying her to the doorway 
screaming. 
She saw her mother struggling against the policewomen and cried out to her, tiny 
arms stretching out futilely. Randall was shouting downstairs, his words 
inaudible above the screams of the terrified children. Along the street lights 
came in, curtains opened.





146


"Natalie!" Bethan screamed out after her daughter.
"Leave her alone, you bastards!" The policewomen struggled to hold her. 
"Natalie, don't worry. Mummy's here. Where are you taking them? We love 
those children! For God's sake, somebody tell me I'm dreaming!" 
As she struggled, her towel fell to the floor. 
O'Shea leered.
The first social worker tried to move past, dragging Tamara by the arm. The 
child was sobbing, in shock. When she saw her mother being restrained by the 
uniformed officers she screamed hysterically Natalie screamed even louder. 
Bethan screamed back, struggling to reach them.
O'Shea motioned to the stairs and the first social worker dragged the 
terrified six year old by one arm, no effort made to comfort the child as tiny 
fingers clutched in futile desperation at the banister rails. 
The second social worker held the screaming Natalie secured inside a blanket, 
kicking her legs, her arms restrained. 
As she descended the stairs the policewomen stepped back to guard the 
stair-well, shaken and embarrassed.
For a few seconds Bethan stared after them, dazed, bewildered, before rushing to 
the bedroom, screaming out of the window after her daughters. Through the 
swirling early morning mist she could hear their cries, but barely see them. 
Then the sound of car doors slamming and the screams stifled. 
She stared out of the window in disbelief as the vehicle vanished into the fog, 
sobbing uncontrollably. 
Behind her one of the policewomen was holding out a dressing gown. "Mrs 
Randall, you'd best put this on."
Bethan reluctantly took the gown and slipped it around herself. In shock she sat 
down on the end of the bed, her body shaking, unable to take in what had 
happened. The second policewoman appeared in the doorway.
"We need some clothes for your husband."
She didn't wait for a reply but walked to the wardrobe and began rifling 
through the hangers, selecting trousers and a shirt.
"Where's Greg?"
"He's downstairs. He's to be taken to the Station, for further 
questioning."
"For what? He hasn't done anything."
"Where will I find your husband's socks and underpants?"
Bethan gestured to a chest-of-drawers in the corner, shaking her head in 
disbelief. 
First her children, now her husband. 
It was just too much to cmprehend. 
"I need to talk to Greg."
"I'm sorry, not at this stage."
"But... I don't understand."
"Mrs Randall, your husband is under arrest. On suspicion of indecency with 
children."
"Indecency? Children? No way! Not Greg! There's been a mistake. Greg would 
never..." The enormity of the allegation slowly dawned. 
"You don't mean the Twins? No! No way! That's ridiculous! He wouldn't, 
no. That's..." Her protest gave way to distress. 
The officer sat beside her, a comforting arm around her shoulder.
Her colleague rifled the drawers, shirt and trousers across her arm from the 
wardrobe. She turned to Bethan, five pairs of knickers in her hand.
"Is it usual for your husband to keep your daughters' undies in his drawer? 
Their dirty underwear?"
Bethan looked up. "Their what?" She looked at the items on display, trying 
to think why they might be there. The Twins had their own clothes drawers in 
their room. "They must have got mixed up with his..." Her voice trailed. 
She looked again, a second time. 
Slowly, shaking her head in disbelief. "Oh God. Oh God, no."
"Mrs Randall? What is it?"
"They don't belong to the Twins. I've never seen them before." 
Her whole body shook, her voice rising, hysterical. 
"You put them there! You planted them! You bastards! Why are you doing this? 
Greg wouldn't! He would never..." 
Downstairs they could hear Randall protesting his innocence as he dressed. 
The voice was flat, lifeless, convincing no-one. 
As he was led to the front door he shouted up the stairs.
"Bethan, are you okay? I would never hurt the Twins, Bethan. Believe me. I 
love them both! I love you! Please, you must believe me."
She tried to respond, but the words would not come. 
She wanted to believe him. 
She desperately wanted to believe him. 
But as she watched the WPC lay the soiled knickers on the bed, all she could do 
was cry.





147


The Dynamite Twins clung to each other, sucking their thumbs, wide, raw, 
frightened eyes watching everyone with suspicion.
Sat on the sofa in their night clothes, wrapped in blankets, their tear-stained 
faces and tangled hair made them model candidates for an NSPCC poster campaign. 
The social worker collected her notepad and joined them on the sofa. The twins 
backed away, distrusting, frightened.
"Hello, I'm Miss Bamford. Now, which one of you is Tamara and which one is 
Natalie? You really are identical, aren't you!"
Tearful eyes watched her every move.
"That's okay. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I'll just have 
to guess. Hmmm, let me see. You're Tamara and you're Natalie, right?"
Her smile was fooling no-one. The twins stared at her, saying nothing.
"Come on girls, no-one's going to hurt you. We just need to have a little 
chat, then you can go back to your mummy."
The twins just stared at her.
"Isn't that what you want? Don't you want to see Mummy again?"
No reply.
"Are you hungry? Would you like some breakfast? We've got plenty of cereals. 
Rice-crispies? Cocoa-pops? Frosties?"
No reply.
Irately, "You're not helping by playing these silly games, you know." She 
stopped herself. The sweet voice switched back on. "Look, I'll tell you what 
we'll do. I'll go and get some cereals and bring them in for you. You'll feel 
better once you've had something to eat. When I come back you can tell me all 
about your favourite toys and what sweets you like. And then I expect mummy will 
be ready to come and take you home. How does that sound?"
The twins returned her gaze, saying nothing.
She returned a few minutes later bearing a tray with two bowls of Frosties, a 
jug of milk, sugar and two spoons. She put the tray on the floor by fa, beaming 
the same smile. "There we are. Breakfast. Now, I need a cup of tea, so I'll 
leave you two alone together. Okay?"
Bamford timed her next question carefully, waiting till she was half out of the 
door. "Would you like me to bring some sweeties back with me? Chocolate? 
Sherbet? Smarties?"
For a second there was no response. 
Bamford slowly began pulling the door closed. 
Realising it was their last chance, Tamara nodded. Natalie copied her. 
Bamford beamed at them and pulled the door closed. 
Round one to Bamford.





148


"Mr Randall has been offered, but has declined, the opportunity to avail 
himself of a solicitor," Pitman said to the camera. "Would you confirm that 
for the audio please, Mr Randall?"
"I don't need a solicitor. I've done nothing wrong."
"As you wish, Mr Randall. Now, acting on information received, your two 
daughters, Natalie and Tamara, have been placed in the temporary care of the 
local authority Social Services department. There is reason to believe the 
children may have been subject to sexual abuse. They will be examined by a 
paediatric doctor with expertise in this field. Is there anything you'd like to 
tell us at this stage?"
"I've never touched them. They're my daughters. I love them like any father 
would."
Pitman nodded to Lovett to take the lead.
"Greg, I should warn you that CID officers have been searching your house 
since your arrest. Would you like to tell us if they might have found 
anything?"
"Like what?"
"Well, it's your home. Will they find anything indecent? For example, indecent 
images of children? Your children? Other people's children?"
Randall thought of the last therapy session at the Foundation. "Definitely 
not."
"You're sure about that?"
"Absolutely."
"Anything that might be interpreted as indecent? Photographs of your children 
in the bath, for instance. Things that might be quite innocent to you, but may 
not appear so to other people."
"No. You read about things like that in the papers. Parents sending their 
snapshots off and getting arrested. I'm very careful about things like that."
"Careful, Greg? Why's that?"
"I just am, okay?"
"Our officers found some DVDs," Lovett said. "Is there anything you'd like 
to tell us about them?"
"They're just DVDs."
"Anything indecent on them?"
"No."
"They will be viewed."
"So watch the fucking things. I've told you there's nothing on them. Just 
films."
"We couldn't find a computer at your home, Mr Randall," Pitman put in. 
"Where is it?"
"I haven't got one."
Pitman and Lovett exchanged glances. "You haven't got a computer? Everybody 
has a computer."
"We don't."
"Mr Randall, we'll be speaking to your wife in due course," Pitman warned 
him. "Is she going to confirm that your household does not possess a 
computer?"
"Of course."
Lovett resumed. "So it's in for repair somewhere, is that it?"
"We haven't got a computer at home. How many more times?"
"Can you explain why?"
"We took the decision when the Twins were younger. That they wouldn't grow up 
addicted to computer games and social networking."
"So you've never had a computer in your home."
"Which bit of no do you not understand?"
"But you use one at work?"
"Of course."
"Our officers will seize that later today, Mr Randall."
"My God! My boss will... You can't just..." 
It was obvious they could and would.
"Would you like to tell us what they might find on the hard drive?"
Randall glared at him. "Accounts."
"Accounts of what?"
"Accounts, for fuck's sake. I'm an accountant. That'swhat I do."
"We'll come back to the computers at a later date, Mr Randall," Pitman said. 
"Now, our officers found some children's clothing."
Randall held his breath, waiting.
"In your chest-of-drawers. Children's underwear? Little girls' knickers?"
"I have two daughters. What do you expect?"
Lovett reached beneath the table and produced a plastic evidence bag. He 
unsealed it before the camera and tipped the contents out onto the table. "I'm 
showing the suspect item IRB-2. Five pairs of young girls' knickers. Greg, these 
items were found in the clothes drawer in your bedroom, along with your own 
clothes. Do you recognise them at all?"
"Of course. They're the Twins'. My daughters'. Natalie's and Tamara's."
"And how old are your daughters, Greg?"
"Six."
"Both of them?"
"There's a clue in the word twins."
Lovett took a pen and gingerly hooked a pair of briefs with the tip. "I'm 
showing the suspect a pair of pink cotton undies with a Barbie doll design, one 
of the five pairs seized from his home. Now, these belong to which girl, Greg? 
Natalie or Tamara?"
Randall hesitated. "Either. Both. They're twins. They always wear each 
others' clothes."
"Who bought them, Greg? You, or your wife?"
Nervously. "Bethan. She buys all the Twins' clothes. I'm not very good at that 
sort of thing."
"Greg, when our officers found these clothes in your drawer they were shown to 
your wife Bethan. She said she had never seen them before. How would you explain 
that?"
"I... She must have forgotten."
"Greg, you say your daughters are six years old. Are they particularly big for 
their age?"
"Just normal six year old girls."
"Then how would you account for the label in this pair of undies I'm holding 
which states they are for a nine to ten year old?"





149


Lovett picked up another pair of knickers with the end of a pen, holding them at 
a distance. 
"I'm now showing the suspect a pair of white satin girls' underwear. Soiled 
underwear. Age group eleven to twelve. Greg?"
"I need to think."
"These aren't your daughters' clothes, are they, Greg?"
"It's difficult to explain."
"We've plenty of time."
No response.
"Mr Randall, we need to know to whom these items of clothing belonged."
"I don't know. They..." His voice faded to silence.
"You don't know?"
"That's all I'm saying."
Lovett took up the questioning. "Greg, we found some other items of interest 
in your home. Clothing catalogues, for instance."
Randall shrugged.
"In your wardrobe."
"And?"
"Quite old catalogues. Your wife Bethan expressed surprise they were there. 
She said they were hers, from an agency she ran, but she thought the old ones 
had been chucked out."
"I'm a bit of a hoarder."
"So no particular reason they've been retained? Hidden in your wardrobe?"
"No."
"Greg, all the catalogues have pages creased, as if to mark them for easy 
reference. Is there a reason why all the creased pages are for young girls' 
clothing? Underwear? Swim wear?"
"I was thinking of buying the Twins some clothes."
"From out-of-date catalogues?"
"I..."
"You said just now that Bethan buys your children's clothing." He scanned 
his notes. "What was it you said? I'm not very good at that sort of thing?"
Pitman produced a second evidence bag. "I'm showing Mr Randall item IRB-9. Mr 
Randall, do you recognise this letter?" He unfolded a sheet of Quinlan 
Foundation headed paper. Randall held his breath while Pitman waved it before 
the camera.
For the audio: "The letter was found in the suspect's briefcase. It is 
addressed to Mr Randall at a Margate Box. Dated November twenty-first. It's from 
the Quinlan Foundation at an address in Kemsing, Sevenoaks., and signed by one 
Dr. J. T. Quinlan. I quote as follows: Dear Mr Randall, further to your 
treatment with us, Dr Reynolds and I are of the view it would be productive to 
obtain a second opinion before continuing our current regime. To this end I have 
made you an appointment to see my colleague, Dr R S Patel, at the London 
Psycho-Sexual Clinic in Stratford Road, Woolwich, at 11am on December first. 
There will be no charge for this consultation. Please advise immediately if you 
are unable to attend on this date. Yours sincerely, James Quinlan. Could you 
explain that for us, Mr Randall?"
"It's private."
"It indicates you are undertaking some form of treatment at the Quinlan 
Foundation," Lovett said. "What's that for, Greg?"
"None of your fucking business."
Pitman tutted. "Mr Randall, there's no need to be abusive."
"There's no need for me to be here."
"Oh, there's every need, Greg," Lovett countered. "You said earlier you 
were being treated. When you were arrested at your home this morning you said, 
and I quote, But I'm being treated. This can't be right. Everything was in hand. 
And later, when you were booked into custody and asked if you wanted a solicitor 
you said No, I don't need one. I haven't done anything. I had it under control. 
Or are we making that up?"
"I said I haven't done anything. I haven't."
"What was under control, Greg? What were you being treated for?"
"That's personal. Between me and Dr Quinlan."
Pitman stepped in. "Of course, Mr Randall, if it's a medical matter we must 
respect your confidentiality. Did you attend the appointment Dr Quinlan arranged 
for you?"
"You just agreed that's confidential!"
"Mr Randall, I'm not asking you why you went there, simply if. Did you, for 
whatever private and personal reason, attend an appointment in Woolwich on 
December first?"
"Yes. But I'm not saying why. Anyway, there was a mix up. They weren't 
expecting me."
"So you didn't attend?"
"I went there, but was turned away."
"So what did you do?"
"What could I do? I had a coffee and went home."
"What time was this?"
Randall shrugged. "About mid-day? I don't know."
"It wasn't that long ago, Mr Randall. What time did you get home?"
"Early evening."
"It took you all day to get back?"
"Bethan wasn't expecting me back until then. I had some time to kill."
"Just time?"
Randall looked at Lovett, bewildered.
"So what did you do all day?"
"I went to Greenwich. To the Maritime Museum.
"Alone?"
"Obviously."
"Did you see anyone there who could vouch for you?"
"No."
"Do you have your ticket?"
"Of course not. Why would I?"
"Did you pay by card?"
"No. It would show on the statement. Bethan thought I was on an IT course in 
the City."
"Mr Randall, on the day you attended, or rather did not attend, the Stratford 
Road Clinic, Woolwich, a nine year old girl was abducted and murdered. Her 
mutilated body was found in a skip less than a quarter mile away."
Randall was shaking his head in disbelief as light dawned, struggling to voice 
the denial that caught in his dry throat. "Victoria... You surely don't 
think..."
"You know her name then, Greg?"
"I follow the news."
Lovett produced a handkerchief in an exhibit bag. "Is this your handkerchief, 
Greg?"
"DS Lovett is showing the suspect item IRB-7, a white cotton handkerchief, 
found in the suspect's home." Pitman studied Randall's face but saw only 
uncomprehending fear. 
"Mr Randall, a handkerchief identical to this one was found adjacent to the 
body of the murdered child in Woolwich. The day you were there."
Randall shook his head incredulously. "This is a mistake. This isn't 
happening."
Lovett referred to his notes. "Greg, an officer spoke to your wife this 
morning. She confirmed you were given a set of three identical handkerchiefs for 
your birthday. From your mother? Your wife also confirmed you lost one quite 
recently."
Randall was staring ahead, his eyes glazed.
"Mr Randall, you admit you were in Woolwich on the day the child died. You can 
offer no alibi and nothing to account for your movements. A handkerchief 
identical to one that you, coincidentally, lost was found by the victim. Are you 
absolutely certain you do not wish to speak to a solicitor?"





150


Bamford collected some clothes from the stock wardrobe, buying sweets from the 
canteen, keeping the receipt for reimbursement later. There was no way she was 
paying for the little brats out of her own pocket. 
She glanced at the receipt. It listed the price, but no other details. She 
smiled to herself and bought twenty Rothman Kingsize. They could go down as 
expenses for the brats too. With ten minutes to spare she sat down for a cup of 
tea and a cigarette.
Thirty minutes up, she knocked at the door and stood a few seconds outside, 
listening. There were sounds of movement as the twins scurried back onto the 
sofa. 
She opened the door and walked in, smile on, draping the clothes over a chair. 
The twins were huddled on the sofa, thumbs in mouth a she'd left them, but 
tell-tale signs of milk and cereal down their night-clothes told her hunger had 
exceeded fear, as she knew it would. The tray swam with milk and cereal.
Messy brats.
The smile never dropped. "I bet you feel much better now, don't you?" She 
moved the tray to one side and sat on the sofa beside the twins. They backed 
away, but their eyes never left hers.
"So, are we ready to tell me your names yet? Who's Tamara and who's 
Natalie?"
The twins stared at her. 
She retrieved the sweets from her pocket. For the first time the twins' eyes 
wavered from hers. "Mmmm. Smarties. I love smarties, don't you?"
No response.
"I like the yellow ones best." She shook the packet. "Yellow's my 
favourite colour. What's yours?"
The twins eyes darted between hers and the tube of smarties she rattled in her 
hand. She produced a second tube from her bag.
"Look, one each! Don't you want them?"
Tamara nodded cautiously.
"Tell me your names first."
The twins returned her gaze. Bamford rattled the tubes noisily. "Just your 
names, that's all. I know one of you is Tamara and one of you is Natalie. But I 
don't know which is which! Surely you can tell me that?"
The twins said nothing.
Bamford let the smile droop. "Okay, I'll keep the smarties for myself, shall 
I?" She slowly and deliberately moved the sweets towards her bag.
Natalie gave in first. "I'm Natalie." She held out a cautious hand.
Bamford's smile reappeared. She turned to Tamara. "And what about you?"
Tamara stared at her. Natalie still had her hand out expectantly. The smarties 
were still in Bamford's possession. Tamara's eyes moved to the tube, then to her 
sister, then back to Bamford. Bamford took the hint and reluctantly offered one 
tube to Natalie. Tiny fingers snatched the tube and Natalie huddled back with 
her sister.
Tamara hesitated, calculating the odds. Natalie would share her sweets. They 
shared everything. But half a tube each was not as good as a full tube each. 
Natalie was struggling with the lid. Bamford rattled the second tube in her 
hand.
"Last chance."
"I'm Tamara."
The twins huddled together on the sofa. Bamford left the room and came back a 
few minutes later with a wet flannel, which she ran across their faces while 
they chomped the smarties. She retrieved a brush from her bag and began tending 
their hair, offering comformments and compliments, slowly winning their 
confidence, as she's been trained to do. Every word designed to build on a 
previous response.
"Now, I've got some clothes here for you. I hope they fit. Who's first?"
There were no volunteers. Bamford took Natalie gently by the arm and guided her 
off the sofa. The child stared after her sister, but did not resist. Authority 
had been established. Round two to Bamford.
The clothes were ill-fitting, but adequate. Bamford cast an experienced eye over 
their bodies as she helped them dress, making a fuss with the underwear to view 
them from every angle. 
She saw nothing but consoled herself with the thought that the doctor would find 
something. 
Poor little brats.
By the time the two girls were dressed the sugary sweets had worked their magic 
and the girls were perkier, if still wary. Bamford made a note on her pad that 
Tamara was wearing the pink cardigan and Natalie the white.
She took them through to the next room, which had a large mirror on one wall. 
The room was decorated with Barbie, pinks and pastels and lacy flourishes on one 
side while the other featured cars, trains and football and a glare of primary 
colours. On one side a doll's house, on the other a garage. Midway a sofa and 
two armchairs provided the adult furnishings. The girls made immediately for the 
doll's house and, realising the horrible woman had no objections, quickly lost 
themselves in play.
She left them for thirty minutes to play on their own, to relax in the room, 
watching them through the two-way mirror. Senior Social Worker Barbara Simmons 
came in.
"Anything so far?"
"No obvious marks."
"They look happy enough."
"It's amazing what a packet of smarties can do. Couldn't get a word out of 
them earlier. They kept shutting me out."
"Twins. Always the same. Mind you, it can work to our advantage. Dr Satay has 
been delayed, by the way. Won't be here till late afternoon, so the medical will 
have to wait. I'd like to get on with the first interviews immediately after 
lunch, in the circumstances."
"Should I give them their meal first?"
"No, it won't hurt them to go without. Make sure they don't have any more 
sweets, either. Every ounce of leverage helps if they're to say what we want 
them to."





151


Bamford returned to the interview room. The twins looked up as she entered. She 
switched on the smile.
"I'm back, girls. Everything okay?"
"When will Mummy be here?"
The pink cardigan. Tamara.
"Soon, Tamara. First there's another lady who will be coming to talk to you 
both."
"I don't want to talk to her. I want Mummy."
"Me too."
"After."
"Why can't Mummy be here now?"
"Natalie, your Mummy is very busy."
"Is she at work?"
"Yes."
Tamara eyed her with suspicion. "It's light outside. Mummy only works at 
night, when it's dark."
"Don't answer back, Tamara."
"I'm not."
"Yes you are. Now stop it."
"What about Daddy?" Natalie demanded. "Is Daddy coming?"
Bamford seized the opportunity. She took Natalie's hand, crouching down to the 
child's level. "Do you miss your daddy?"
Natalie nodded.
"How about you, Tamara. Do you miss your daddy?"
Tamara stared at her like it was a stupid question. "When will he be 
coming?"
"Later. I'll bet he'll want to give you a big hug and a kiss when he gets 
here. Does daddy like hugging and kissing his little girls?"
Tamara and Natalie nodded in unison. "Sometimes he picks us both up at once 
and hugs us until we can hardly breathe."
Bamford's smile dropped. "Does he hurt you?"
Tamara laughed. "No, silly. He's only playing."
Bamford forced the smile back, but couldn't hide the brief glimmer of disatment. 
"I bet he gives you big kisses, too."
"He used to, but he doesn't much now."
Bamford make a mental note. "What about when you're really naughty? Does he 
smack you?"
The twins shook their heads as one. "Never, never, never. Daddy says it's 
wrong for people to hit other people. Especially children. Granddad smacked us 
once and Daddy shouted at him really loud. Granddad never smacked us again."
"But what about when you're really naughty, Tamara? I mean, you can't be good 
girls all the time, surely?"
The twins exchanged mischievous grins. "We have to go to our room if we're 
really naughty, and stay there for ages and ages and ages and we're not allowed 
to watch DVDs or nothing!"
"I'm sure that doesn't happen very often. What about bath-times? Who puts you 
in the bath? Mummy or daddy?"
Natalie giggled. "We put ourselves in. We're not babies."
"What, all on your own?"
"Well, Mummy and Daddy help."
"What, together?"
Tamara giggled now. "No, silly. They take turns. When Mummy is at work Daddy 
baths us, and when Mummy is at home Mummy baths us."
"So your daddy baths you when your mummy is at work? On his own?"
"Of course."
"Don't you mind?"
"Mind what?"
"Your daddy bathing you."
"Why?"
"Does he help wash you?"
"Of course. We're only six. We can't do our hair properly. Only grown-ups can 
do hair properly."
"What about...You know, down there? Does daddy wash you there?"
Both girls shook their heads. "We do that bit ourselves. Daddy says we should 
never let anyone touch us there."
"Not even daddies?" Bamford could not disguise her disappointment. "Daddy 
doesn't touch you there? Ever?"
The girls looked at her as if she was stupid. Hadn't they just said so?
Tamara turned back to the doll's house. "Daddy says Father Christmas might 
bring us a doll's house if we're really, really, really good."
"We want a computer too," added Natalie, "but Daddy says it isn't fair to 
ask Father Christmas for really expensive things because he has to buy presents 
for all the children in the whole world, even the Eskimos, so he might not have 
enough money."
Bamford had no interest in their Christmas prospects. Spoilt brats.
"Girls, I have to go now and do some work, otherwise I'll be in trouble with 
my boss. We wouldn't want that to happen, would we?"
The twins were too polite to say they couldn't care less.
"You two stay here and play. When I come back I'll bring that lady I told you 
about. And after that I expect Mummy will be here to collect you."
"And Daddy too?"
"Of course. He telephoned me just now to say he was coming. He said to tell 
you to be very, very good and to tell the lady about everything you and your 
daddy do together when your mummy is at work, even if you usually keep it a 
secret. He said if you tell her lots of things then he'll have a word with 
Father Christmas about that computer you wanted."





152


Bamford could hear the crying from the corridor. 
She desperately rattled the keys in the lock, pushing the door open to see 
Tamara with her arms around her wailing sister. 
The child looked up accusingly as she entered.
"What's happened? Is she hurt?" 
A hint of panic. 
She shouldn't have left them alone so long. 
Supposing someone else had found them... 
There could be repercussions. 
"Natalie wet herself. She couldn't help it. The door wouldn't open." Tamara 
was almost in tears herself. To her young mind it was the twins who were at 
fault. 
Bamford heaved a sigh of relief. She turned on the child. 
"You dirty, dirty, dirty little girl. Couldn't you wait? That is gross! I was 
only gone five minutes." She knewore than an hour.
Natalie cried louder. Tamara's voice started to break as she defended her 
sister. "We called for you but nobody comed. And for Mummy and Daddy. But 
nobody comed. Nobody. She couldn't help it."
"I want my Mummy!" 
Bamford looked horrified. She glanced at the clock. Simmons would be along any 
minute. 
She grabbed Natalie by the arm, yanking her to her feet. 
"You, stay here," she told Tamara. "I'm taking your disgusting brat of a 
sister to get changed, and I don't want a word out of you while I'm gone. 
Understand?"
Tamara nodded, too frightened to speak, tears welling in her brown eyes. She 
prayed for Mummy and Daddy to come as she watched Bamford drag Natalie away. She 
crouched down next to the doll's house, crying.
Minutes later Simmons appeared in the doorway. Tamara eyed her warily.
"Hello. You must be one of the twins. Why are you crying. You can stop that 
right now." She looked around. "Is Miss Bamford not here? Where's your 
sister?"
Tamara stared back at her. She had a softer voice than the other lady, but the 
same cold eyes. Tamara decided she didn't like her. She began sucking her thumb, 
curling up into foetal position.
"I asked you a question."
No response.
"Are you dumb? Take that stupid thumb out of your mouth for goodness sake. 
You'll make your teeth crooked."
Tamara stared at her. 
Simmons put on a friendly smile and softened her tone. "Are you Tamara or 
Natalie?"
The little girl hesitated. It wasn't as easy to be defiant on your own. The 
words were whispered around the thumb. 
"Tamara."
"Tamara. That's a lovely name. So your sister must be Natalie."
Tamara nodded.
"Where's Natalie now? With Miss Bamford?"
"Toilet."
Simmons forced a bigger smile. She leant down and picked up Tamara, seating the 
child next to herself on the sofa. "Come on, don't be frightened. You're safe 
now."
Tamara held herself rigid.
"Come on, sit comfortably. Oh, I'm sorry. You can sit, can't you? Are you 
sore?" 
"I want Mummy."
"Of course you do. You'll see her later on, don't worry. Where does it 
hurt?"
Tamara looked bewildered.
"When Miss Bamford comes back with Natalie I need to ask you both some 
questions, okay? It's a little game. If you get the answers right you win some 
sweeties. How does that sound?"
"I want Daddy."
"Daddy? Big girls like you don't need their daddies, do they?"
"Yes."
"He'll be here later. Now, are we going to play this game or not?"
"When is Natalie coming back?"
"Any second now. Miss Bamford is with her. She'll look after her."
"I don't like her."
"But she's your sister."
"No, the lady. I don't like the lady. She's mean."
"Tamara, that's not very..." Simmons considered further. "Well, actually 
Miss Bamford isn't that nice, Tamara, you're right." She leant in and 
whispered conspiratorially. "I'll tell you what. When Natalie comes back I'll 
ask Miss Bamford to go away, so it will just be you and your sister and me here. 
What do you think?"
Tamara nodded. A hint of a smile. 
"That way we can play the game and share all the sweets and that mean and 
horrid Miss Bamford can stand out in the corridor all on her own."
Tamara couldn't help but smile at the prospect. 
Simmons clasped her tiny hand. "Listen, I can hear someone coming."
Tamara perked up at the sound of approaching footsteps and ran to hug her 
sister, the wet dress exchanged for a pair of baggy jeans. Simmons motioned for 
Bamford to stay out in the corridor, joining her and pulling the door closed.
"What happened?"
"Little cow pissed herself. I was only gone a few minutes. There was a phone 
call. I came back and she was standing there pissing all over the floor. No 
warning, nothing. Needs a good slap,that one."
"Maybe she has a weak bladder."
"Full, that's for sure. I had to change everything, even her socks."
"Did you get anything out of them?"
"Loads. Get this: The father baths them regularly. On his own, while the 
mother is at work. I ask you. What type of mother would let a man bath a 
child?"
Simmons nodded her complete agreement. Some women weren't fit to be mothers.
"I didn't press them on it," Bamford said. "Left that for you. But it's 
obvious what he's been up to. Even so, they talk of him quite affectionately, 
given what he does to them."
"At that age they probably think it's normal. You'll be watching, of 
course?"
"Of course. Want to make it more interesting?"
"Try me."
"A tenner says you can't get a straight admission. Not the way these two cling 
together."
Simmons pushed the door open and looked at the girls, beaming a smile. She 
winked at Tamara. 
Tamara smiled back. 
The bond was forged.
"Make it twenty."





153


Isaac let out a low whistle. "And he asked for me personally?"
"By name."
"I'm flattered. So what's the score?"
"Initially, Social Services received intelligence that Randall was abusing his 
two daughters."
"Sexually?"
"What else?"
"It transpires Randall was undergoing some sort of treatment at a sex clinic. 
For a paedophile interest in little girls."
Isaac took the statement in his stride. "So no crime committed so far."
"On the same day the Gilham child was murdered, Randall was in Woolwich."
"That's a pretty tenuous link, Sergeant. You can't charge someone with murder 
just for being in the same town, even if he is Uncle Tom. And so far you've said 
nothing to suggest why he might be."
Lovett grinned. He liked Isaac's style. "Social Services have a temporary care 
order on the two daughters. They'll be examined later today and we'll know 
where we stand."
"And that's it?"
"Not quite. We recovered a hoard of little girls' knickers at Randall's 
home."
"Not his daughters', I'm guessing."
"Young girls' undies, varying age groups, all under twelve. They may match 
with Uncle Tom's victims."
"May?" Isaac seized on the point. "So they haven't been identified yet? He 
could just be a clothes-line thief."
"Soiled underwear?"
Isaac caught his breath. He could feel the adrenaline rush. Had he bagged the 
elephant? Was he about to represent Britain's most wanted man? 
"Still, there could be an innocent explanation."
"He was unable, or unwilling, to provide one."
"You've interviewed him already? Without a solicitor?"
"He was offered legal advice and declined. Only when we re-arrested him on 
behalf of the Met, on suspicion of the murder of the Woolwich child, did he ask 
for a solicitor."
"This is on video?"
"Of course."
"I'd like to review the recording before I speak to him. Did he say how he 
knew of me?"
"He seemed to know all about you and Bristow. He demonstrates a familiarity 
with the murders that goes way beyond what I'd regard as casual interest."
"It's had a lot of publicity. Everyone's an armchair expert."
"Don't I know it."
"How long since the latter arrest?"
"Less than an hour. We telephoned you immediately."
"Unusual haste?"
"Mr Isaac, the Gilham child is a Met affair. We've nothing as yet to link 
him to the Meadows child. Randall is unlikely to be with us long. We can only 
keep him here for anything Social Services turn up. Then it's out of our hands. 
You understand what I'm saying?"
Isaac understood only too well. "I want a full medical before he's moved. With 
photos."
"Already in hand. We don't ant a repeat of Bristow any more than you do."





154


Simmons sat on the sofa with a drawing pad and felt-tip crayons, sketching. She 
rustled the paper a few time to attract their attention. Sure enough the twins 
left their toys and came over to see what she was doing.
Natalie's face lit up. "Mickey Mouse!"
Simmons glanced at the girl. Wearing jeans. The pisser. It must be Natalie.
"That's right, Tamara. Well done."
"Natalie giggled. "I'm not Tamara. I'm Natalie."
"I'm Tamara," said Tamara, joining her sister.
"Goodness, I'll never remember which is which. I'll tell you what. You stand 
here, Natalie, on this side. Tamara, you stay where you are. Then I can write 
your names here on the paper and I won't mix you up." She jotted down the 
girls' names.
The twins seemed delighted with the arrangement. Tamara edged onto the seat. 
Natalie followed suit. Simmons knew she could rely on them to copy each other 
here after. She cast a quick glance at the mirror and mentally began spending 
the twenty pounds.
"Do you both like Mickey Mouse?"
"I do."
"Me too."
"How about Minnie Mouse?" She drew another mouse, identical to the first. 
"There you are. Mickey and Minnie. What do you think?"
Natalie stared at the figures. "They both look the same."
"They are the same," said Tamara.
"Perhaps they're twins, like you two."
The girls laughed at the idea. "Mickey and Minnie aren't twins. One's a boy 
and one's a girl."
Simmons let the technicality pass. "What's the difference between a boy and a 
girl?"
The twins exchanged superior glances and giggled. Didn't she know?
Simmons adopted a confused expression. "What's so funny about that? What's the 
difference between boys and girls? Tamara, you tell me."
Tamara considered her answer carefully. "Boys are stronger?"
"Sometimes. Not always. Anything else?"
"Boys bully you at school."
"Do they? Have you told your teacher?"
"Uh-uh."
"You should always tell a teacher. Anything else? Any other differences?"
"Boys wear trousers."
"Natalie's wearing trousers. That must mean she's a boy."
"I'm not a boy!"
"How do you know? How can you tell?"
The girls giggled at one another.
"What's so funny?"
"Natalie isn't a boy. She hasn't got a..." Tamara's voice trailed.
"A what?"
"You know..." Tamara giggled. She dropped her voice to a whisper. "A 
willy."
"A willy? How on Earth do you girls know about things like that?"
More giggling. "Everyone knows."
"All boys have willies," Tamara declared.
"And grown-ups," added Natalie. "Man grown-ups I mean."
"What, even your daddy?"
The twins were giggling hysterically. "Of course he has."
"Really?" Simmons let the drawing pad slip to the floor and leaned back, 
putting an arm round each girl, securing the bond of conspiracy. She leant 
forward to whisper the question.
"Have you seen it?"
The girls nodded.
Simmons cast a smug glance at the mirror.





155


Simmons leaned forward earnestly. "I bet you haven't really. You're just 
making it up."
"We have so," Natalie declared indignantly.
"When?"
"When we were little Daddy used to get in the bath with us."
"What, with no clothes on?"
The girls laughed. "Of course, silly. You can't have a bath with your clothes 
on."
"You said when you were little. Doesn't he get in the bath with you now?"
"Not any more. He stopped."
"He stopped? Why was that?"
"Because we were getting too big. There 't room for all of us."
"I see. Is that the real reason?"
The girls looked confused. Simmons thought Natalie looked anxious.
"Is that the only reason daddy does not get in the bath with you anymore?"
The girls fell quiet. Simmons moved in for the kill.
"Or was there something that happened, that made him stop. You can tell me, 
girls. I promise I won't tell anyone."
There was a long pause. Natalie looked at Tamara anxiously. Tamara fought back a 
smile.
"Well, there was one thing," Tamara said slowly.
"Tamara, no!" Natalie tried to lean over and hit out at her sister. "You 
promised you wouldn't tell anyone."
Simmons separated them. She cast a triumphant glance at the mirror. Behind the 
glass Bamford mentally reached for her purse. She checked the camera light to 
make sure it was recording. An admission from the child in the first ten 
minutes! It would be gin and tonics all round when the team met up after work.
Simmons spoke in soothing tones. "You can tell me, Tamara. What happened?"
Natalie was almost in tears. "No, Tamara! It's a secret!"
Tamara looked at her sister's angry face, then at Simmons, earnest eyes waiting 
for the revelation.
"I'll tell Daddy if you say anything, Tamara."
"I'm sure Daddy won't mind, Natalie. Was it Daddy who told you not to tell 
anyone?"
Tamara nodded. "He said it was our special secret. Just us."
Behind the glass Bamford was on tenterhooks.
Simmons was thinking fast. "Daddy won't mind if you tell me, though, surely? 
We're all girls together. It will be our little secret too."
"Tamara, if you tell her I won't be your friend ever again. Even tomorrow."
Simmons lifted Natalie on to her lap. "Girls, girls, please. You're sisters. 
You should be friends. We should all be friends. And friends don't have secrets 
from one another. Isn't that right, Tamara?"
Natalie gave a her a warning glare.
"Anyway, you share the secret with your daddy."
"And Mummy."
"And Mummy?" Simmons glanced at the mirror to register her disgust. The 
mother knew! "What does Mummy say about it? Tamara?"
"She says it's disgusting."
Natalie squirmed. "Tamara!"
"Well it is disgusting," Tamara said. "I would never do it."
Simmons was having to think fast. Parental collusion made things that much more 
serious. "So who's going to tell me?"
There were no volunteers. Natalie was clearly the dominant twin on this 
occasion.
"How about if we have some sweeties? You must be hungry by now." Simmons 
knew the girls had missed out on lunch. She reached into her bag and pulled out 
a packet. "Who likes fruit pastilles?"
The girls eyed the sugary sweets enviously. 
Simmons sensed victory was within her grasp. "Mmmm, I love the green ones. 
What colours are your favourites?"
"I like the red ones the best," said Natalie.
"But black ones are the best too," said Tamara.
"I've only got one packet though," Simmons said thoughtfully. "Now, what 
can I do?"
"We can share them, silly."
"Only friends share things. I thought you two were arguing."
Their eyes never let the sweets. "We're not now. We're friends again."
"What about me? Am I your friend as well?"
The girls looked at each other, then at the sweets, then at Simmons. Tamara 
nodded reluctantly.
"Thank you, Tamara. Am I your friend too, Natalie?"
Natalie watched as Simmons broke the pack in half and gave a section to Tamara. 
"I suppose so."
Simmons gave Natalie the other half and hugged her. "Now don't forget, friends 
don't keep secrets from one another, do they?"
"But it's embarrassing."
"There's no need to be embarrassed, Natalie. It's not your fault. You're not 
to blame. When does it happen? At bath time? You can tell me."
Tamara ggled. "Always at bath time."
"Tamara!" Natalie objected through a mouthful of chewed pastilles.
"We may as well tell her, Natalie. She did give us some sweets."
Natalie considered. "Okay, but you say it. I don't want to."
Tamara stuffed more sweets in her mouth. "It's you that does it. You say."
Natalie shook her head.
"Come on, Natalie. Just whisper it if you don't want to say it out loud." 
Simmons bent her head to one side to encourage her.
"Promise you won't be cross?"
"Of course not. I've an idea, why not pretend you're just telling yourself. 
Go over to that mirror and just tell yourself. Then it won't be embarrassing for 
you. Just tell the mirror why Daddy stopped getting in the water with you 
anymore."
Behind the glass Bamford acknowledged the masterstroke with a smile. 
An admission direct to camera. 
Perfect!
Natalie finished her pastilles and walked across towards the mirror. 
On the other side of the glass Bamford was on the edge of her seat.
"Okay, Natalie. Tell the mirror what happens at bath-time that is so, so 
disgusting."
In a loud whisper, her features guilt-ridden, Natalie said, "I wee in the 
bath."





156


"Interview resumed, 1402 hours. Present as before, plus Mr. Jeremy Isaac in 
his capacity as legal representative for the suspect. Greg, we want to ask you 
again about your activities in Woolwich on December first."
Randall looked to Isaac. Isaac nodded. He had assured Randall he would jump in 
and stop the interview at any time if the police exceeded their remit.
"So, what was the purpose of your visit exactly?"
"Visiting a clinic, as you well know."
"This has already been established," Isaac cut it. "Are you intending on 
repeating the same questions over again, Sergeant."
Lovett ignored him. "What time did you leave home?"
"About half six."
"Half six?" Lovett sounded incredulous.
"It's a long journey. I had to get a bus to the station, change trains twice, 
then -"
"Hold on. You went by train?"
"You expect me to walk to London?"
"You didn't drive."
"No."
"Why not?"
"I can't."
"You can't drive?"
"Sergeant, I wasn't aware my client is facing some obscure charge under the 
Road Traffic Act."
Pitman and Lovett exchanged glances. 
"Mr Randall, are you telling us you've never passed your driving test?"
"Inspector, is this relevant?"
"There was a car on Mr Randall's drive. Our officers searched it."
"It's Bethan's."
"And she needed it to take the children to school, so you went to Woolwich by 
train," Lovett suggested.
"Sergeant, I think Mr Randall has already made clear he does not drive."
"Why not?"
"I hardly think that's pertinent, Sergeant."
"It's okay, Jeremy. If it will help get me out of here sooner. We were newly 
wed, a pregnant wife and a new mortgage. Money was tight. We could only afford 
driving lessons for one of us, and Bethan would need a car more than me, what 
with three babies on the way."
"Three? I thought you had twins."
Randall's face saddened. "Cot death. Terri was three months old. They were 
triplets, you see. When we found out we were going to have three girls we 
thought they'd be quite an explosive combination, so we named them Terri, 
Natalie and Tamara." He smiled. "T-N-T. That's why we call them the Dynamite 
Twins. They're everything to me. Everything."
Pitman watched the moving statement by Randall with mixed feelings. The 
affection seemed genuine, but how many times had he seen perfect acting from 
heinous criminals? He recalled Dr. Reynolds' explanation of the twins' 
nickname at the Social Services Case Conference. Obnoxious wman.
"Mr. Randall, do you have the train tickets? A receipt? The credit card slip, 
perhaps?"
"I paid cash."
"How convenient."
"I didn't want Bethan finding out. She doesn't know. That is, she didn't. 
Until this morning. What have you told her?"
"Very little so far," Pitman said. "Just about what was found at your 
home. But let me get this absolutely straight, Mr Randall. You not only did not 
drive on this day, but you have never passed your driving test. Is that 
correct?"
"My client has already made that abundantly clear, Inspector."
"Will you excuse us a minute? Interview suspended, 1411."
In the corridor Lovett expressed his doubts. "I don't get it, Guv. If he can't 
drive he's out of the frame, surely?"
"Check with Swansea. He could be pulling a fast one. And we need to check 
medical records for the alleged cot-death. Sounds genuine, but we need to be 
sure."
Lovett made for the computer room. Pitman knocked on Weisman's door.
"David, that was quick."
"Sir, this is not proving quite as black and white as at first appeared."
Weisman's smile faded. "Go on."
"Randall says he can't drive. Never has. Lovett's checking with Swansea now, 
but it's a spanner in the works if true."
"There are plenty of drivers on the road who have never taken their test, 
David. Don't tell me you're having doubts about this one too? Getting to be a 
habit, isn't it?"
"Just trying to be objective, Sir."
"But he admits to being in Woolwich on the day the child was murdered. We have 
that letter."
"As his brief pointed out, on its own that is a tenuous link.
"But the underwear..."
"None belonged to the local girl, Rebecca, that much we do know. Obviously if 
there's a match to the other victims then we're on a roll. But that will take 
time to confirm either way."
"But he admits to being a paedo. We have the statement from that nurse."
"I don't think his inclinations are in dispute, Sir, but that doesn't mean 
he's Uncle Tom. He doesn't come across as your stereotype serial killer."
"Exactly how many serial killers have you dealt with in your long and 
illustrious career, David?"
"Point taken, Sir."
Pitman rejoined Lovett in the interview room.





157


Isaac asked, "Any problems, Inspector?"
"Nothing to worry about. If Mr Randall is being straight with us."
"My client resents that remark, Inspector. Do you have any news on the 
children?"
"Nothing as yet. We'll keep you appraised. Interview resumed, 1426. Present as 
before. Mr. Randall, I'd like to ask you about your movements on certain dates 
over the past six months. Starting with the early evening of Friday, July 
second."
"I was at home with Bethan. We were watching a old Batman DVD. Batman Forever. 
Bethan's a Val Kilmer fan."
"You can remember what film you were watching on a given night nearly six 
months ago?"
"It was the night Rebecca went missing. Those kind of things stick in your 
mind."
Lovett looked unconvinced. "I haven't a clue what I was doing on that night, 
and I've been on the case since day one."
"It was on the news the next day, that she'd disappeared."
Pitman asked, "What about August first and second.?"
"The two girls in Wales. Laura Coverton and Tina Stamp."
Lovett raised an eyebrow. "Any particular reason why you know their names?"
"Gentleman, please," Isaac chided. "It's public knowledge. Leading 
questions won't help resolve this matter."
"So where were you on those dates, Greg. Watching the rest of the Batman 
films?"
Randall shrugged, looking worried. "I don't know. I don't remember."
"What about the first and second of September? And October? And November?"
Randall looked nervous. "How should I know? Rebecca was a local kid. Of course 
I remember it. But the others..." He paused, searching his memory, then, "On 
the October dates we were in Scotland. Yes." He sat up, sensing a way out. 
"Bethan's sister lives there. Her brother-in-law is in the air force. RAF 
Leuchars, St. Andrews." He smiled as memory served. "We were there the whole 
week, including the days the two girls went missing."
"And these relatives will be able to confirm this will they?"
"Of course. Bethan will have their address."
"We'll check that out." Lovett looked disappointed. "Let's return to your 
movements on December first. I'm showing the suspect a map of the Woolwich area. 
Here's the station. Here's the clinic. It's about, what, a mile and a half at 
most? Can you show me which route you took from the station to the clinic? Did 
you walk, or take a taxi?"
"Taxi."
"Straight to the clinic?" 
"No, I didn't want the driver knowing where I was going. He just dropped me at 
the top of the road."
"Which is here. And would you believe it, the child's body was found just 
here, what, five minutes away?"
Isaac jumped in. "Inspector, you've already established Greg cannot drive. The 
fact of his being in Woolwich on that day is pure coincidence. He had a 
legitimate purpose for being there as the letter confirms. You have absolutely 
nothing to link my client with the Woolwich murder or any previous murders. Your 
Sergeant's constant insinuations to the contrary are completely unacceptable."
"With respect, Mr. Isaac, we have five pairs of little girls' knickers, worn 
knickers, soiled knickers, which your client has been unable to provide a 
satisfactory explanation for being in his possession."
Isaac looked to Randall. They had agreed on a strategy for this before the 
interview had resumed.
"My client wishes to make a statement about that, to clear the matter up."
"This should be fun."
"That's enough, Mike." Pitman glared at his colleague. "In your own time, 
Mr Randall."
"The underwear... I found them."





158


Lovett was grinning madly. 
"Let me get this straight. You were walking down the road one day and lo and 
behold five pairs of little girls soiled knickers were laying there abandoned on 
the pavement. So you popped them in your pocket and later put them in your 
drawer. Saving them up until your daughters grew into them, I presume?"
A long silence. Then, "I found them at a swimming pool."
"Come on, Greg, don't treat us like idiots."
"If you'll give my client a chance to finish, Sergeant," Isaac said sternly.
"I found them. Not all at once. On different occasions. I take the Twins 
swimming a lot. We try and visit different pools, to make it more interesting 
for them. Lots of different bus and train rides."
"Of course, because you can't drive," said Lovett.
"Mike..." warned Pitman. "Carry on, Mr Randall. At which pool or pools did 
you find these items of clothing?"
"Various. Some have communal changing rooms. You know, men and women changing 
together."
"Together?"
"In cubicles, obviously. But a mixed-sex changing area."
"Go on."
"Quite often people leave things behind. Towels, shampoo, swim costumes."
"Underwear?"
"Yes."
Lovett laughed out loud. "So these unknown little girls all went home and 
somehow forgot to put their knickers on. Don't you think they would have 
noticed the draught?"
"They probably wore their costumes home, Sergeant," suggested Isaac. "I 
swim regularly at the Whitstable pool, which has a mixed-sex changing facility, 
and can confirm miscellaneous items are often left in cubicles."
"Underwear?"
"On occasion, yes. Ask at ception about lost property."
"But you don't steal them, Mr Isaac. Greg here appears to be admitting he does 
exactly that. But just the little girls' knickers, is that right, Greg? Or 
will we find a load of boys' pants, towels and half-empty shampoo bottles 
you've collected as well?"
Randall stared at the table. "I just sort of picked them up, at different 
times."
"You just sort of picked them up," repeated Lovett. "And pigs might 
fly."
Pitman asked quietly, "Why, Mr Randall?"
Randall looked away. "Why do you think?"
"I think you have a knicker fetish, Greg. That's what I think."
"That's not a crime, Sergeant," Isaac said. 
"Little girls' knickers," Lovett went on. "Soiled little girls' knickers. 
That makes you a paedophile in my book, Greg."
"My client's private fantasies are just that, Sergeant. His private fantasies. 
It's not a crime to be a paedophile."
"Well it fucking well ought to be."
"That's enough, Mike," Pitman said firmly. "Mr Randall, have you anything 
else you'd like to say? You understand we will be comparing these... These items 
of underwear, with the clothes missing from the murder victims."
Isaac jumped in. "Inspector, as I understand it there was a semen trace found 
on the murdered child. A simple test can surely resolve this matter once and for 
all?"
"We've already taken DNA swabs as per standard practise," said Pitman. 
"Are you saying Mr Randall is volunteering a semen sample as well?"
"It ought to prove his innocence pretty conclusively, I'd say."
"Or his guilt," said Lovett.
"Mr Randall?"
Randall nodded. "Anything to get me out of here."
"I'll make the necessary arrangements, Mr Isaac. I'm sure we can expedite the 
process given the severity of the charges."
"How soon?"
Pitman shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. Meanwhile, of course, Mr 
Randall will remain our guest, until such time as the Met formally request his 
company, then he'll be transferred to a London station." 
Randall looked mortified. "But it's almost Christmas... The Twins... 
Jeremy?" 
"I'm sorry, Greg. Until we get the test results back there's absolutely 
nothing I can do."





159


"I'm sorry, Matt."
"No, I should have thought, Claire."
"The first Christmas without Rebecca. I just can't face it, Matt. She was only 
ten last Christmas. Her last Christmas."
Matt clutched her hand, but let her talk it through.
"She'd known the truth about Santa since she was six, when she woke up that 
Christmas Eve and saw John putting the presents by her bed. But she still put 
out an orange and a mince pie every Christmas Eve. She was in no hurry to grow 
up. Not like some of her friends, piling on the make-up. Rebecca loved the joy 
of Christmas. The carol singing and the wrapping presents. And the Christmas 
telly."
"I remember coming round last Boxing Day. It was mid-day and you were both 
still in bed, watching cartoons."
Claire managed a smile. "And the Bond films, of course. Rebecca just loved 
those. Well, the Roger Moore ones, at least. They were more family orientated, I 
guess. What was that one with the clowns at the beginning?"
"Octopussy."
Claire smiled. "She never understood the double entendres, of course. Just 
enjoyed the fun and the action."
"She was a great kid, Claire. You'll always have those memories."
Claire stared out of the window, eyes glazed. "I wonder what he's doing 
now?"
"Roger Moore?"
"Uncle Tom. Randall, whatever his name is."
"Forget him, Claire. It's over."
"There's still the trial."
"That's just a formality. Life will mean life for this one. He'll spend his 
every remaining Christmas behind bars."
"That's all I wanted to hear."





160


The Dynamite Twins were sat on the floor, a foot away from the screen, watching 
Snow White on DVD, taking turns with the remote to rewind every other scene. 
Their grandmother sat in her chair, watching them.
"Girls, move back a bit. You'll damage your eyes sitting that close."
Tamara looked to Bethan for support. "Mummy, do we have to? I like sitting 
close."
"Me too," said Natalie. "You can see all the really important bits from 
here."
Bethan sighed. "Twins, just do what Grandma asks. I don't want any 
arguments."
"Daddy lets us sit close."
Bethan's barked response made the twins flinch. "Do as you're told! Now!"
The twins stood up as one, took a step back, then sat down and dragged 
themselves back to their original position. Bethan was about to bring them to 
order when she realised their grandmother had been taken in by the manoeuvre. 
She let it go.
The twins had been back two days. 
There was no apology. 
No admission that Social Services had been wrong. 
It had been a narrow escape, Bamford had told her. Only the swift action of 
Social Services had prevented a tragedy. The father was on the verge of raping 
them.
Two weeks had passed since the girls had last seen their father, in handcuffs, 
as they themselves were dragged screaming from the house. Bethan had managed to 
visit Greg just once, on remand in Brixton.
Some of the offers had been tempting. 
Other wives might have took the money, told their story, and moved on. 
But Bethan shut the door in their faces, leaving crumpled cheque books and 
bruised egos. To even consider their offers would have been an admission of her 
husband's guilt. 
She knew he loved the twins. 
She knew he was no killer.
Coming to terms with the underwear found in the drawer wasn't so easy. That and 
the visit to the Clinic in Woolwich. Isaac could only assure her he believed her 
husband had been going with the best of intentions, for his family's sake, 
because he loved her and the children.
She took the new call from Isaac in the spare room. 
"Good news, Bethan. The lab results will be ready in the morning. I'll make an 
emergency application for bail the moment he's cleared. With any luck he'll be 
home Christmas Eve." 
He hesitated. 
"That's if he's welcome. Bethan, you do still want him home, after what's 
happened?"
"More than anything."





161


The DNA match with the nasal mucous on the handkerchief had left Randall 
devastated. 
He'd been told the odds of a chance match were hundreds of millions to one.
He gave the semen sample willingly. This, above all, would surely prove his 
innocence. 
When the sample came back an exact match for the semen found on the child's body 
he began to question his very sanity.
But for the public, this was the best Christmas present their children could ask 
for.
Uncle Tom was securely locked away in Brixton jail.





162


Matt threw a towel over his shoulders, dripping water in a trail across the 
carpet to grab the phone.
"Ceri, nice to hear from you." He instinctively whipped the towel around his 
waist in a gesture of pointless modesty. "How's the New Year treating you?"
"Matt, another girl's been abducted."
He sat down, reaching automatically for pen and jotter, wet hair dripping over 
the paper. "Another child? When was this?"
"A week ago.
"A week? It's news to me, Ceri. Are you sure about this?"
"My parents sent me the local papers."
"You mean Wales?"
"A town called Mold."
Matt thought for a second "Ceri, it's just a coincidence."
"Matt, it happened on the second. The day Uncle Tom would have struck 
again."
Matt sighed. "They've caught him, Ceri. The sick bastard's locked up, awaiting 
trial. Uncle Tom is history."
"But the girl..."
"There's more than one sick pervert out there. We all know that."
"Matt, it was Uncle Tom."
Matt threw down his jotter impatiently. "Ceri, listen to me. I know how you 
must feel. You're disappointed your profile didn't match. But that's nothing to 
be ashamed of. The Dunst profile blew out too. Put it down to experience. You're 
still young. You can learn from your mistakes."
"I'm not mistaken, Matt."
He struggled to hide his annoyance. "Ceri, the semen on the child's body was 
an identical DNA match to Randall. How much more proof do you need? Linking him 
to the other victims is just a matter of time. Randall is Uncle Tom. Or are you 
suggesting Randall killing the Woolwich child was a one-off? Come on, be 
serious."
"I don't know what to think, Matt. I was pleased when they caught this guy, of 
course, but not convinced. And now this girl in Mold..."
"A tragic coincidence. Your profile was flawed, Ceri. Face facts. Sure, we all 
believed it. I certainly did. But we were all too personally involved. It 
clouded our judgements. We saw that with the Isle of Wight murders. He didn't 
follow the pattern you predicted. Ventnor was convincing, but then Godshill? No 
U. That's when it began to unravel."
"But then Woolwich, Matt. Back to the pattern again. Don't you see?"
"No, I don't see. Randall was attending a paedophile-clinic in Woolwich, being 
treated for an obsession with little girls, for God's sake. Nothing to do with 
following any pattern. He's just another sick fucking pervert. And anyway, now 
you're talking about, what was it, Mold? If it was Yeovil or York then maybe 
you'd have a case, Ceri. But Mold? M? You're arguing against your own profile 
now."
"Matt, hear me out. Mold is in North Wales. Most places are signposted with 
their English name and their Welsh name. And the Welsh name for Mold is Yr 
Wyddgrug."





163


Matt caught up with Bill Wright in the canteen. The staff restaurant as it was 
glamorously titled.
Wright was tucking into a plate of greasy bacon and eggs, browsing the FT, when 
Matt slipped into the chair beside him, slopping his coffee over the table.
Wright glanced at his watch. "What's the special occasion?"
Matt accepted the comment with good grace. He wasn't noted for turning up for 
work on time. "How are they doing?"
"Three pence down on yesterday. I don't understand it. Kennet assured me 
they'd be up by now."
"How many times has he been wrong so far this year? And it's only January! 
You'd be better off sticking your savings on Trap Six at the dogs. At least that 
way you can watch the mutt lose first hand."
"It's all about timing, Matt. A friend of a friend made ten grand overnight 
when the market moved the right way. Anyway, it's not nine o'clock yet. What 
brings you here at this ungodly hour?"
"Had to meet someone in the canteen."
Wright looked around the empty canteen curiously. "Who?"
"The Southern Media science correspondent."
Wright stopped chewing. "So what's the problem?"
"DNA fingerprinting."
"My files are open access, Matt. Help yourself."
"I wanted a personal touch."
Wright eyed his colleague suspiciously. "What's the story?"
"There isn't one. It's research."
Wright grinned broadly. "Matt Burford researching? Whose birthday is it?"
"Bill, this is serious."
Wright lowered his fork. "Try me."
"Genetic fingerprinting. The how, why and wherefore. I thought I had a grasp 
of it, but now I'm not sure. I just want a straight-fward explanation. How does 
it work? And how reliable is it? Just five minutes of your valuable time. Pretty 
please?"
Wright stuffed his mouth with egg to keep himself going. Egg yolk ran slowly 
down his chin.
"Is it reliable? Yes, pretty much so. Not infallible, but a pretty good 
indicator. We're talking about value in criminal identification, right?"
"Well, me being a crime reporter an' all..."
"You could always use Wikipedia."
"I need something I can trust."
"Matt, I'm flattered! Well, let's start with the theory. The body is made up 
of billions of cells, each of which has a nucleus. Back in 1911 , "
"No history, Bill. How reliable is it? There have been mistakes in the past, 
right?"
"And there will be again. Nothing is infallible. Human error is the biggest 
factor, of course. But by using two independent multi-locus probes the odds of a 
mistaken identification are phenomenal. Absolutely phenomenal."
"Hypothetically, supposing forensic had three separate samples, say hair, 
semen and nasal mucus. Supposing all three matched identically. Could there 
still be a mistake?"
"Not a chance in hell."





164


"This is very impressive." Isaac took another mouthful, washing it down with 
a crisp chardonnay. What was it again?" 
"Skate, with crushed coriander, peppercorns and oregano."
Isaac nodded vigorously, anxious to demonstrate his approval. "Very nice. 
Locally caught, I take it?"
"Off the West Cliff, last Wednesday. My neighbour's a regular supplier. He 
catches, I cook. Skate is a personal favourite. It's one of the few fish to 
improve with age. Straight from the sea and it's a pretty bland affair."
"I'm surprised you're not a food reporter."
Matt smiled graciously. "The next course is prunes."
Isaac flinched momentarily as he retrieved the last morsel of skate, hiding 
beneath a tranche of lemon. He tried to sound casual. "Can't say as I've had 
them in recent years. Mind you, my father swore by them."
"It's not the school-dinner nightmare of prunes and custard," Claire assured 
him.
Isaac sat back, trying to look full. "What else can one do with a prune?"
"Black-bellied streusel tart. Genuine French prunes from the Agen. None of 
those overgrown Californian currants that pass as prunes to the uninitiated. 
Soaked in Earl Grey tea, pureed on an apricot base with a crumb topping. Served 
with Greek yoghurt. Or we have fresh cream if you prefer."
Isaac felt his appetite slowly returning.
"Matt makes an exquisite prune and Armagnac ice cream in the summer," Claire 
said as she brought the streusel to the table.
Over second helpings Isaac suggested there might be an ulterior motive to his 
invitation than just sampling Matt's culinary skills.
As he summarised Ceri's profile and her last message Matt uncorked a grande 
reserve rioja. Isaac listened with polite interest, quickly becoming more 
attentive to the point where the velvet rioja was all but forgotten.
"This is all very intriguing, Matt. No question. Anything that will put my 
client in a favourable light is welcome. But this girl, Ceri. She's a student? 
"
"Jeremy, she's a bright, intelligent nineteen year old," Claire said. "Not 
the type given to flights of fancy. No-one wants more than me to believe Uncle 
Tom is locked up and will never kill again. No-one. But the police were wrong 
last time, with Thomas Bristow. That's why we asked you here. We thought you of 
all people would be willing to hear this out."
"I'm not dismissing anything, Claire, but this is a bolt out of the blue for 
me. You've both obviously given the matter serious thought, and I respect that. 
I just need to get things straight in my own head."
Matt said, "Your man, Randall, he's denying everything, right?"
"The murs, yes. He admits to an interest in young girls, but that's not a 
crime in itself. Social Services found no evidence whatsoever that he had 
touched his daughters in any way, despite their Gestapo tactics."
"I can imagine."
"But so far as the media is concerned, Uncle Tom is history. They're just 
waiting for the show-trial. Randall hasn't a chance in hell of a fair hearing. 
The jury members have decided he's guilty before they even know they've been 
selected."
"Then Ceri's profile could be an innocent man's only hope."
"Which is why, against my better judgement, I'm here listening. But I need to 
take this away and go through it on my own, objectively. And come to my own 
conclusions. If that's okay with you?"
"That copy is all yours, Jeremy. All we ask is you keep it to yourself, and 
keep Ceri's name out of anything that follows."
Isaac nodded. "In which case I must leave you. I have some other matters I 
need to work on tonight, which must take priority, but I promise you I will read 
it through again in a few days."





165


Isaac fixed a hot chocolate as a night-cap and settled down with the papers for 
a pending hearing, silently cursing himself for staying so long over dinner. 
But his mind wouldn't focus. 
Ten-thirty. 
Reluctantly he reached for Ceri's profile and began making a few tentative 
notes.
When the alarm shattered the silence at six-fifteen Isaac was still in the 
chair, bleary-eyed, on his fifth mug of black coffee. At eight-thirty he 
telephoned Karen and told her to cancel all appointments for the morning. He 
dialled again. 
"Matt, we need to talk. The three of us."
"Where?"
"Claire's place?"
"I'll be there. Ceri's right, isn't she?"
"It may be nothing. And this is strictly off the record, you understand? My 
client's confidentiality must be respected."
"My glory days are long past, Jeremy. This one is personal. All I want is the 
truth. One way or another."
"Bring any background material you have. Everything. I've followed the case as 
best I can, but you're bound to know more than me. Oh, and Matt, bring an 
Ordnance Survey map. Of the Isle of Wight."





166


"Call me old-fashioned, but I find this easier than looking at a computer 
screen," Isaac confessed as he spread the map out across the table. "Now 
bear with me. I'm not entirely sure what I'm looking for, but a thought occurred 
to me last night. I went to the Isle of Wight as a kid. School trip. You know, 
Osborne House, the dinosaur footprints..."
Matt looked blank. "And?"
Isaac scanned the map methodically, eyes following his finger as it traced paths 
across the paper. Suddenly he grabbed a pencil and circled an area. "There it 
is! The Undercliffe. I knew there'd be something."
"I don't follow."
"The Undercliffe. It's the missing U that makes the link. It looks like your 
girl's theory was spot on."
"Jeremy, the child was abducted from Godshill. Godshill and Ventnor," Claire 
objected.
"Says who?"
Claire shook her head in disbelief. "The police reports said so."
"How do they know?"
"Of course they know! The girls lived there."
"Claire, last night you told me how Ceri's profile went from nebulous to 
concrete when she realised you lived in Pegwell Bay, not Ramsgate. P not R."
Matt sat forward. "Of course. Don't you see, Claire. The girl might have lived 
at Godshill, but she was abducted in this Undercliffe place. Look, it can't be 
more than a mile or two away. Why the hell didn't Danny have that on his 
list?"
Isaac looked up. "Danny?"
"It's a long story. Danny produced the list of prospective abduction locations 
we submitted to the police
"And of course The Undercliffe wasn't on it. How did he compile this list?"
"Computer. There's not much Danny can't do with a computer."
"Trouble is, Matt, computers only do what you tell them to do. Look, this 
place is listed as The Undercliffe, not just plain Undercliffe. There's the 
problem. This Danny fellow searched under U. The Undercliffe will be indexed 
under T."
"If the sequence of locations was right up to here, then X and Y would have 
been next." Matt said excitedly. "Danny ran a search and said there were no 
Xs, so Uncle Tom would have to skip that, and move on to Y, this town Mold, or 
whatever it's called in Welsh."
"Yr Wyddgrug," Isaac said, rather pleased with his pronunciation.
"Whatever. Which means he'd next move on to W. That brings us to Woolwich and 
your man Randall. In the right place, at the right time. And with a ton of 
evidence that puts him in the frame."
Isaac agreed. "A ton of evidence against him. A ton of evidence, you said, 
Matt. Right?"
Matt shrugged. "It's just a figure of speech."
"I think I understand, Jeremy," Claire said. "Think about it, Matt. Every 
child so far has been found forensically clean. What was the phase Dunst used? 
That Uncle Tom demonstrated forensic awareness."
"Exactly. Then suddenly we have the Woolwich girl, Victoria, and like you 
said, Matt, there's a ton of evidence, a veritable forensic paradise, pointing 
at one man? A man actively seeking treatment for an interest in little girls, 
who was in Woolwich that day, and for an appointment that didn't actually 
exist."
"You're saying he was framed? That's ridiculous."
"Call it what you like, Matt. But it strikes me as just too coincidental how 
one minute the police were floundering, not knowing which way to turn, then 
suddenly they have a fresh body, a conveniently used handkerchief dropped at the 
scene and a self-confessed paedophile, undergoing treatment, in the town, on the 
day. I mean, doesn't it stretch credulity just a little?"
"But the DNA matched. Even the semen. How could anyone set that up?"
"I can't begin to say, Matt. But alarm bells are ringing. This map bears out 
your girl's theory. So does the abduction in Mold. My guess is, Uncle Tom's 
somehow put Greg Randall in the frame, and now he's back roaming the streets."
"But the cops are convinced they've got the right man this time. The evidence 
is overwhelming. Only another child's body turning up with Uncle Tom's exact MO 
will make them reconsider."
Claire grabbed at Matt's arm. "We can't wait for that. We have to do 
something."





167


Isaac nodded. "At the moment this Mold abduction is regarded as an unrelated 
incident. North Wales Police will give it their best shot, but if Uncle Tom's 
got any sense, he'll make sure this body isn't found. There'll be no calling 
cards this time."
Claire ventured, "Are we being realistic here, or letting hope outweigh 
reality?"
"Realistic," Isaac assured her. "Remember that Thomas Bristow was first 
picked up by the Met after an anonymous tip-off saying his car had been seen in 
Southall, near to where the body was found. Someone must have known of his 
interest in children to put his name forward."
"That was a matter of public record. He'd been splashed across the papers in 
his time, and he was on the Sex Offender's Register."
"Granted. But Greg Randall's sexual predilections were most definitely not 
public knowledge. Again, Matt, this is strictly off the record. Greg approached 
a private clinic earlier this year because he was concerned about a burgeoning 
sexual interest in children. Young girls. Yes, he's a paedophile, but don't let 
that cloud your judgement. That doesn't make him capable of murder any more than 
it did Thomas Bristow."
"So what put the cops on to him in the first plac> 
"I'm coming to that. Greg had paid for, and commenced, an expensive course of 
treatment, aversion therapy, to try and do something about his unwanted desires. 
He kept the whole thing secret from his family, workmates, everyone. In December 
he was in Woolwich supposedly to attend a pre-arranged appointment at a clinic. 
For reasons not yet clear this didn't go ahead and Greg found himself at a loose 
end in the town. On the same day, almost literally round the corner, the girl is 
killed. A nurse who worked at the clinic where Greg was being treated apparently 
put two and two together and called in the police and Social Services."
"You're not suggesting this nurse set him up?"
"Of course not. I'm thinking maybe the real Uncle Tom is also a patient at 
this clinic. Someone who maybe met Greg there, or at the very least knew he was 
being treated there."
"This clinic. Where is it, exactly?"
"The Quinlan Foundation, Sevenoaks. They have any number of convicted sex 
offenders going through their doors for treatment. Now call me paranoid, but 
Thomas Bristow also attended the Quinlan Foundation, many years back."
"My God!" Claire was bolt upright. "Michael Bates was treated there 
too!"
"Who?"
Matt briefly outlined their meeting with Bates. 
"And how, may I ask, did you find out about him in the first place? No, I 
don't want to know." Isaac shook his head in disbelief. "But it's a safe bet 
his licence went missing, lost or stolen, while he was at this Foundation."
"We have to tell the police, Matt."
"Not yet, Claire. Not after last time. Once bitten, twice shy. I think we need 
to poke around a bit ourselves first. See what else we can come up with."
"Agreed," Isaac said. "But it will be mainly down to you two. I'm playing 
second-fiddle to a barrister in Crown Court most of this week and probably next 
week too. Greg Randall is not the only person whose name I'm trying to clear. 
But I would imagine a closer look at the Quinlan Foundation wouldn't be a 
complete waste of time. Investigative journalism, I believe they call it. Right, 
Matt?"
"Your confidence in me is inspiring, Jeremy, but misplaced. I wouldn't know 
where to start."
"How about talking to the nurse who informed on Greg Randall? She sounds like 
a wishy-washy liberal type. Play on her guilt feelings. Convince her that she's 
helped put away an innocent man and she'll probably hand over the files on every 
sick pervert that's ever knocked on their doors, just to ease her conscience."





168


The tears came easily. There was no need to act. 
The mother of the first child killed, desperately wanting to understand why. 
Would Dr Reynolds be willing to talk to her? 
To help ease the pain? 
With some misgivings, Reynolds agreed to fifteen minutes. Punctuality was 
essential. Her schedule could not be revised in any circumstances.
"It must have been a very difficult ethical decision, to break your 
professional code of confidence," Claire opened.
Reynolds warmed to the compliment. "One of the most challenging decisions of 
my career. But once I realised, I couldn't have lived with myself if he'd hurt 
another child."
"I wondered... That is, I hoped perhaps you could tell me a bit about him. 
About Uncle Tom. About Greg Randall." She felt like every word she uttered was 
being analysed for some hidden meaning.
"I'm sorry, Claire, but that's still confidential."
"Of course. But Dr Reynolds, what drives a man - any man - to kill a child? To 
abuse and murder a little girl?" She felt her eyes moistening and made no 
attempt to stem the tears. "If I could just begin to make sense of it..."
Reynolds glanced impatiently at her watch, regretting having ever agreed to 
this. She had more important things to do than console a distressed visitor. 
"It's vey difficult to put into layman's terms, Claire. There are deep-rooted 
reasons why men abuse women and children. It's not something that can be summed 
up without the confusing technical jargon of our field."
Claire dabbed her eyes. She was getting nowhere. "Are you a psychologist 
yourself?"
Reynolds looked genuinely horrified. "Good gracious, no. I'm a 
psychotherapist. There's a huge difference. But as I said, Claire, there simply 
isn't the time to go into it all. I have an extremely busy schedule to adhere to 
here at the Foundation."
"I understand. And I really appreciate your making time for me. Are there many 
psychotherapists working here?"
"Only myself and Dr Quinlan. We operate a small, intensive unit. Obviously 
sexual dysfunction is not something that can be treated by handing out a few 
aspirin and spending a week in bed. It's intensive, one-to-one treatment. Some 
of our clients are dangerous believe me, Claire. Very dangerous. Rapists. 
Paedophiles. Killers. Men just like Uncle Tom."
Claire shuddered involuntarily. "It must be very unnerving at times, 
especially for you, as a woman, I mean." There was a glimmer in Reynolds' cold 
eyes when she was mentioned personally and Claire elected to develop it. "You 
must be very brave, to meet them face to face, on your own."
"Oh not really, Claire." Reynolds was almost preening. "It's about 
maturity as much as anything. You see, sex offenders don't offend for sex."
"They don't?"
"That sounds strange to you, of course, but sexual abuse is about power, not 
sexual gratification. Male power over women. Male power over children. Even over 
other, weaker men. As men mature they become, gradually, more able to cope with 
their baser instincts. But the underlying need for control is always there. 
That's why older men have all the top jobs, the senior management positions. 
It's nothing to do with ability or experience. It's all about the exercise of 
power."
Claire encouraged her to continue, wondering how she could turn the conversation 
to the other Foundation clients.
"As women mature, by contrast, they are better able to understand what's going 
on in the male mind, so they can handle men better. But all the men who come 
here for treatment are fundamentally immature, whatever their chronological age. 
They're unable to even begin to function normally in relations with the opposite 
sex, so they use their brute strength, the power of their bodies, to express 
themselves."
Reynolds sat upright, full of self-importance. "As a mature woman facing them 
it's a simple matter for me to look them in the eye and challenge their power 
base. And because all men are fundamentally cowards, they back down. Believe me, 
if you're ever confronted by a rapist, just stare him in the eye and he'll run a 
mile."
Claire thought, Thanks, but I'll stick with the can of mace and a kick in the 
balls.





169


Claire looked into Reynolds' eyes. "That's amazing. I've never thought 
about it like that."
"It's not how you're brought up to think, Claire. It starts at school. Even 
though most teachers are women, it's men who dictate teaching methods. Right 
from the start girls are taught subservience to their male counterparts. Men 
dominate the power bases in society and make the rules to suit their own 
interests. Their power needs." She puffed up importantly. "But in twenty 
years working with these sick perverts, I've never yet been intimidated."
Claire feigned awe. "Never?"
"Not since I reached adulthood. Maturity. Of course, I was sexually abused as 
a girl. But then, what child wasn't?"
"I wasn't."
The smile was one of pure, unadulterated condescension. "Claire, you don't 
remember it, but I can assure you, you were. Relatives, neighbours, teachers... 
Men you trusted."
"Dr Reynolds, I can assure you I was never -" 
"It's okay, Claire." Reynolds reached out a hand, offering comfort. "It's 
called victim denial. It's entirely natural. Your mind has shut out the 
memories. Your subconscious self won't let you face the truth about what 
happened. It's a protective mechanism."
Claire could not hide her incredulity.
Reynolds smiled. "See, you're in denial right now, which proves my point. 
The truth is, Claire, all men abuse. It's in their nature. Have you heard of 
recovered memory syndrome? It's about retrieving deeply submerged memories from 
the subconscious. Memories that the mind has locked away precisely because they 
are so painful. But under hypnosis, assisted by delicate psychotherapeutic 
coaxing, these memories can be unlocked, Claire. The abuse can be experienced 
again, as a mature adult, to enable the woman to come to terms with it. To face 
up to the truth."
Claire had read about recovered memory syndrome before, but not in these stark 
terms. She let Reynolds talk.
"Think back to your own childhood, Claire. Can you honestly remember 
everything that happened to you? Every little thing, from every day of your 
life? Of course not. There are vast tracts of your memory, possibly years of 
your childhood, which are lost, locked away because the memory of what happened 
is just too unbearable to think about." Reynolds stared into Claire's eyes. 
"I would strongly recommend therapy for you, Claire. Not here, of course, but 
I've a colleague in Canterbury you really should see. It's quite obvious from 
your expression, from your body language, that your subconscious is in turmoil, 
that I've struck a chord in your mind. Your mind knows these horrific memories 
are there, but its natural defence mechanism is to keep them locked away."
It was a struggle, but Claire kept control. The woman was obviously demented. 
Gavin Large had warned her about psychotherapists. 
She let her eyes dart to the clock. Her time was almost up. 
Her mind raced for a way to turn this conversation to her advantage. "But the 
man who killed Rebecca: Greg Randall. Social Services found no evidence he had 
abused his daughters. Surely if what you say were true then..."
If Reynolds was surprised she hid it well. "That just proves my point, Claire. 
The reason social workers can't obtain evidence in abuse cases is simply that 
they have their hands tied by legislation. Legislation brought in by a 
government made up almost entirely of men, designed to protect men's interests. 
Remember the Cleveland inquiry? I'm sorry, before your time. But because a 
doctor, a woman doctor, decided things had gone too far and was brave enough to 
expose the true scale of child abuse, satanic child abuse, at that time, our 
parliament has spent most of its days since then introducing new ways of 
inhibiting social workers from doing their jobs properly. Barely a week passes 
when they're not being blamed for something or other. Okay, so the men who 
hurt these children were eventually jailed, but it was the poor social workers 
who took the blame."
Reynolds shook her head, as if unable to believe her own words. "Social 
workers are prevented from proving abuse by guidelines written by men, to 
protect other men from investigation. It's a no-win situation, Claire. All we 
woman can do is face up to our own abuse in childhood, through recovered memory 
if necessary, and then join the battle to stop other men abusing. Before they 
become totally power obsessed and start killing innocent women and children. 
Just like the man who killed your daughter, Claire. Just like Greg Randall." 
Claire struggled to keep her composure. "But supposing he was innocent? 
Doesn't it worry you that Greg Randall might not be Uncle Tom? That it might 
have been a mistake?"
Anger flashed in Reynolds' eyes. "Now you're being ridiculous, Claire." 
She made a point of looking at the clock. "I think your time is up."
"No, please. Hear me out. Supposing the man who killed Rebecca is still out 
there, stalking children?" The tears were rolling now, but the act had long 
finished. "I need to be sure, Dr Reynolds. Please."
"Claire, the forensics found Randall's semen on the child's body. It couldn't 
be clearer if he'd been photographed in the act. It's over, Claire. Greg Randall 
is Uncle Tom. He's been caught. He's behind bars, where he belongs. Where all 
men belong." 
"But another child's gone missing in Wales, following the same pattern. 
Randall doesn't match Ceri's profile."
For a few seconds there was silence, Reynolds eyes like ice, her features stone. 

Then the spell was broken. A warm, sympathetic voice took over and she reached 
out a comforting hand to Claire's shoulder. 
"Ceri? Profile?"
Suddenly Reynolds' schedule was elastic.
"Would you like a cup of tea?"





170


The first two voice messages were from his mother. 
Surprise, surprise. He felt vindicated in turning his mobile off all evening to 
stay over at Claire's. 
His mother hoped he'd had nothing to do with that rabble of journalists on 
television hounding that poor politician. When was he going to visit? The garden 
needed some work doing. Matt made a mental note to pop in over the weekend.
He was torturing his face with a Gillette when he realised his mother's voice 
had been replaced by the urgent tones of Ceri. He dropped the razor and grabbed 
a pen and jotter.
"Matt, it's Ceri. I know it's late but I had to call. I'm convinced we're 
right now. Randall's not Uncle Tom. He's killed twice since Randall was 
arrested. The girl in Mold, and before that in Oxford. It was so obvious! I know 
where we went wrong now. We assumed Rebecca was the first. She wasn't. Just the 
first to die. The painted nails were a blind. But there will be no more bodies 
found. Matt, my credit's about to go. Call me back. We can find him, using 
Canter's circle, but there's less than a week before -"
Matt hit the return call button but it went straight to voice mail. Seconds 
later he was through to Professor Large.
"Gavin? Matt Burford. Have you seen Ceri today?"
"Her first lecture with me is this afternoon. Something up?"
"Gavin, when you see her tell her to call me immediately. Lend her your phone 
if need be."
"Matt, I can't go chasing wayward students all the time."
"This is important, Gavin. It's about the profile."
A deep sigh. "I thought that was history."
"So did we. Now I'm not so sure. Has Ceri said anything to you?"
"She's tried, but I told her in no uncertain terms to forget it and get some 
studying done."
"Gavin, just make sure she rings me. As soon as she can."
He hit the dial again. "Jeremy. Matt Burford."
"Matt, I was just trying to ring you."
"You were?"
"Yes. I've been burgled. My office."
"Sorry to hear it, but why would you want to tell me?"
"You misunderstand, Matt. We haven't been burgled. I have. Just my office. On 
the top floor. Professional, too, through the window."
"Just you?"
"And here's the rub. All that's missing are my files on sex offenders. 
Including Bristow and Randall. CID have just left, but there's no forensics. A 
professional job through and through. After our little meeting the other evening 
I thought you ought to know."
"Did you mention that to the cops?"
"No, not yet. Thought I should talk to you first."
"Jeremy, I had a call from Ceri. A cryptic message on voice-mail. Listen."
Matt played back the recording into the hand-set. Isaac listened in silence.
"Mean anything?"
"Not a jot."
"Nor me. Her mobile's off, but I'll get back to you as soon as she calls 
me."
"Do that."
Matt dialled again.
"Danny? A favour."





171


"So what did you last slave die of?" Danny slid the milk carton across the 
table, waving the receipt in Matt's face.
"It's not all glamour work being junior partner to a top-notch reporter like 
me."
"Why can't I be the senior partner for a change?"
"You're not old enough. Listen, you want to do something really useful? At the 
fore-front of media operations? At the core of modern journalism?"
Danny's face lit up. "Too right!"
"Then get the kettle on. What were you doing at home anyway? Playing 
Pac-Man?"
"You are so old."
"If the phone rings, don't go grabbing it. It'll be Ceri. For me. I don't want 
you frightening her off with your adolescent drooling."
"As if." Danny suddenly grinned. "Hey, guess what? I got a letter from her 
last week. I think she fancies me."
"In your dreams."
"You'll see. What's she want to ring an old codger like you for, anyway?"
"Never you mind."
Matt was settling down with some late breakfast cornflakes when the phone rang. 
Danny grabbed the receiver while Matt was still disengaging from the bowl.
"Hello? Yes, I think so. One moment." Danny grinned, his hand over the 
receiver. "Is Matthew there? It's your mum! Wow, she must be prehistoric!"
Matt gestured wildly. "Get rid of her!"
Danny was grinning broadly. "Sorry, he's just popped out. Can I take a 
message? Okay. See ya, mate." He put the phone down. 
"See ya, mate?"
"She wants you to phone her the minute you get in. Says it's very important. 
Something about a lawn?"
"She just wants some company. You fancy it, Danny? Retired widow, own house 
and car, seeks toy boy, early teens, for shared computer games experiences."
"Up yours, granddad." Danny picked up the message pad. "Been doodling, 
have we? I s'pose this is shorthand? Let me see, Canter. That's gotta be 
Canterbury, right? See, Matt, I'm a natural at this game."
"It's nothing to do with Canterbury."
"Horses, then?"
"You tell me, Einstein. Ceri mentioned it. Canter's circle. Hence I've drawn a 
circle with the word Canter in it. It's all clever stuff."
The smile.
Matt eyed his junior partner warily.
"Not all that clever, if you don't know who Canter is."
"And you do, I suppose?"
"If Ceri said it then it's got to be David Canter. She probably means his 
circle theory."
"Are you bullshitting me?"
"Straight up. You're telling me you've never heard of Canter? He got criminal 
profiling off the ground in this country."
Matt's eyes lit up. "Danny, right now I could kiss you."
"Thanks, but I'll hold out for Ceri. She's more my type."
Matt pushed the bowl to one side. "You'll have a long wait, kid. She prefers 
real men, not little boys."
Danny looked crestfallen. "It's not so little, actually."
"So what about this circle?"
Danny stared out of the window.
"Danny? The Canter circle?"
Danny crossed his arms in a sulk. "I'm just a kid, remember?"
Matt sighed. "All right. I admit it. I'm out of my depth. I can just about 
keep up with ordinary criminals. Drugs barons and bank robbers. Why do you think 
I'm working for some backwater publishing outfit like Southern Media and not in 
the City? I bow to your superior knowledge, okay? If you bloody well know 
something, just tell me!"
Danny looked suitably smug. "I'm not an expert like Ceri, you understand. It's 
just things what I've read."
"Which is probably everything ever written on the subject. Get to the 
point."
"Well what Canter did was to mark out crime scenes on a map. Then draw a 
circle big enough to take in all those places, and somewhere within the circle 
is where the criminal would be found. Ceri could explain it much better. So 
what's the big deal? Uncle Tom's locked up, ain't he?"
"We're not so sure."
"For real?"
Matt looked at the kid. All of fourteen years old, his knowledge gained 
second-hand, through the sanitized protective filter of a news report, magazine 
or book. Was it right to involve the boy further? 
"Just listen carefully."
Danny's face lit up as Matt replayed the voicemail. "Yes! I knew it!"
"Knew what?"
"That it wasn't Randall. Anyone could see that."
"What? How?"
"Remember that photo of him and his kids in the Sunday papers the other 
week?"
"So?
"So his daughters... Their faces were airbrushed to protect their identity , 
as if they could hide when their dad's front-page news , but their hair, it 
was loose brushed."
"As I said before, so?"
"Well that's it. Their hair was loose brushed. Every girl killed had their 
hair put into pig-tails or something similar, right? It was part of the ritual 
Uncle Tom went through. Obviously Uncle Tom had this thing about girls' hair. If 
he had any daughters of his own he wouldn't let them go about with their own 
hair loose like that. It was just too important to him."
Matt stared at the kid in wonderment. "Why the hell didn't you say something 
before?"
"I'm just the tea-boy. Remember?"
Matt looked apologetic. "Okay, Danny, cards on the table. But just remember, 
professional ethics. This is strictly confidential."
"Have I ever let you down?"
Danny listened in respectful silence, occasionally interjecting a pertinent 
question. The played Ceri's words over again and again.
"She says he's killed twice."
"Mold was the Y, What about the X? You said there weren't any."
"I guarantee it. The computer doesn't lie. Not to me, anyway. It wouldn't 
dare."
"What about The Undercliffe?"
"That was different. It was indexed under T. I'll run a check on the Xs again, 
just to be safe, but I promise you there's nothing."
"You can do it here if you like."
Danny cast a disparaging glance at Matt's computer. "On that dinosaur? Who 
made it? Clive Sinclair? I need to go home."
"So what are you waiting for?"
Danny was half-way across the room when Matt said, "What are your plans for 
tonight?"
The kid shrugged. "The usual."
"Meet me here, six-forty-five. Bring anything you can find with you. And don't 
go stuffing your face beforehand. You're coming to dinner at Claire's."
"For real?"
"For real. Danny, you're on the payroll!"





172


"All I ever get at home is chips. This is scrumptious, Claire. Got any 
more?"
"You certainly have an appetite."
"Real food! Doesn't happen very often. Mum can't cook, you see. Can't even 
boil an egg properly."
"Not many people can," Matt assured him. "You'd be surprised how difficult 
it is to judge an egg correctly."
"Yeah, like you can, I s'pose? All you can make is coffee."
"Actually, Danny, Matt's a very good cook."
Danny looked askance at Matt. "You big girl's blouse!"
Matt aimed a playful hand at the boy's head. "Well, it looks like we're not 
going to hear from Ceri today after all. So whenever you're ready... Time to 
show Claire what you're really made of."
Danny scraped the plate clean before beginning.
"It's like I said on the way, Matt. There's nothing that makes any sense. I've 
checked and double checked. There are no place names beginning with X, near 
Oxford or anywhere else in the country. I guarantee it. I've checked all the 
news sites for missing kids. The girl in Mold is still missing, but there's 
nothing to link her with Uncle Tom."
"It was worth a try. But I'm thinking maybe we should get a map of the whole 
country, on paper, and go over it with a magnifying glasnch by inch, on the 
off-chance we turn up something like Jeremy did."
"Way ahead of you, Matt. As Ceri specifically mentioned Oxford I went and 
bought the Ordnance Survey map covering Oxford and surrounding countryside."
"Told you he was good, Claire."
Danny unfolded the map across the table. "But there's nothing. I've been 
over it twice."
"What about the whole country?"
"It's not that simple. Take this one. Landranger series. It's pretty detailed, 
as you can see, but it's eighty centimetres across."
"What's that in real money?"
"You are so old! Two and a half feet."
"We'll manage. Did you bring them all?"
"There's over two hundred of them, covering England, Scotland and Wales."
Matt let out a low whistle. "Okay, so let's move to Plan B."
"What's Plan B?"
" I was hoping you'd know."
Matt's mobile interrupted them. "Might be Ceri."
"Matt, Gavin Large."
"Is Ceri with you?"
"That's why I'm calling. Ceri missed my lecture today. Nothing new there, 
mind, but I asked around her friends and they're a little concerned. She hasn't 
been seen by anyone for a couple of days. When did you get that message?"
"I got it this morning, but she left it yesterday evening sometime."
"That's a relief. I was beginning to worry. Maybe she's just sick. But her 
friends say she's been acting kinda odd recently."
"Odd?"
"Spending too much time in the library. Researching. Not the kind of thing she 
normally does, you understand. And she's been in our biology department, asking 
about diabetes."
"Has she ever gone off like this before?"
"Not that I know of, but students do. You know, the pressure of exams."
"Does she have an exam due soon?"
"No."
"We need to speak to her. Urgently. Gavin, does Canter's circle mean anything 
to you?"
"David Canter? His circle hypothesis? Sure. It's a tool for identifying the 
likely home base of repeat offenders. Hold on honey! Just coming! Matt, I'm 
sorry, I gotta go. When you get to my age, women are hard to come by. You don't 
keep them waiting."
"The circle, Gavin. How does it work?"
"Ring me tomorrow! Bye!"
"Fuck!" Matt threw the phone down. 
"Matt, what's happened? Is Ceri okay?"
"Not sure. No-one's seen her for several days."
"If she phoned last night it can't be anything to worry about."
"Maybe. But it doesn't add up. She leaves a message like that, desperate to 
talk, then turns her phone off so I can't call back? Not a dickie-bird 
since..."
"Maybe her battery's flat," Danny suggested. "Maybe someone's nicked her 
phone."
"Or maybe she knows more than she's letting on and she's panicking."
"We have to go to her, Matt," Claire declared. "We owe her that much."
"You're right. If we can get Ceri and Gavin sat round a table together maybe 
we can slot everything into place."
"I'm coming too," Danny said.
"You, young man, are staying put. Your parents would never agree to you going 
off to Liverpool with a stranger."
"I came here without them knowing."
"That's different. It's just up the road. Liverpool is hundreds of miles 
away."
Danny scowled at Matt.
"Besides, there's something this end you can follow up."





173


Danny's smile returned. 
"There is?"
"I need the dirt on one Leroy McKenzie. Some sort of sex-offender. Not kids, I 
know that much. But his case notes were stolen from Jeremy Isaac's office, along 
with Randall's and Bristow's. Jeremy thinks it was probably picked up with the 
other two by accident."
"And you don't?"
"I don't know what to think, Danny. Clutching at straws. But that's your next 
job"
"Pips. Where's your computer, Claire?"
"No way," Matt said. "Supposing they trace you back here?"
"So it's okay for me to risk my neck on my computer."
"That's not the point. Anyway, we have other things to discuss now. You can 
email me the McKenzie info' later tonight. Who's for coffee? Claire?"
"Please."
"Danny?"
"Haven't you anything stronger?" He shot a glance at the bottle of wine on 
the cabinet.
"Coffee or tea. We might be able to stretch to an orange juice if you're 
lucky."
"You're treating me like a kid again."
"Drinking alcohol doesn't make you more grown up, Danny. It just ages your 
body."
Matt brought in the tray of two coffees and a hot chocolate for Danny and they 
moved to the easy chairs.
"Sweeteners?" Danny dropped five in his cup. "Gross! What's up with the 
real thing?"
"Rebecca was a diabetic, Danny. I never have sugar in the house."
Matt asked quietly, "Did you tell Ceri that Rebecca was diabetic?"
"She spotted the insulin pack in the fridge. Why?"
"Gavin said Ceri had been asked questions about diabetes."
"Why would she?"
"I don't know. But she phoned me about a week ago, in the middle of the night, 
asking whether Rebecca was Type-1 or not. I hadn't give it another thought 
until..." Matt stared into the distance.
"Until?"
"Until now. Now it's beginning to make sense." Matt sat forward. "Remember 
what Ceri said on the voicemail? That Rebecca wasn't the first. Just the first 
to die."
"So?"
"So supposing she wasn't murdered? Supposing she died because she hadn't 
received her insulin?"
"But the post-mortem..."
"Said strangulation. But it also said the findings were tentative. That her 
body had been in the water too long to deliver anything concrete. Just suppose, 
Claire... Just suppose he abducted Rebecca and then she died on him." Matt 
took Claire's hand. "I'm sorry, but try think this through. Suddenly he's got 
a dead child on his hands. He has to do something. So he makes it look like 
strangulation."
"Forensics can easily tell which injuries are inflicted before death and which 
after," said Danny.
"If she'd been found immediately, maybe. But after all that time..."
Claire fought back the tears. "Then maybe he's assaulted other girls? That are 
still alive?"
"Of course!" Danny spilt his hot chocolate in his excitement. "There'll be 
a record of assaults going back!"
"But surely the police would have linked them?"
Matt's mind was racing. "Not if they were in different counties, across Force 
boundaries."
"Force boundaries?"
"It's a central tenet in the argument for a national police force. At present 
each police force has its own area and its own preferred methods. Sometimes 
information isn't exchanged easily or willingly, especially about minor 
offences."
"But Matt, this is a murder inquiry. The police all over the country are 
working together, surely?"
"But they weren't before," Danny said. "Matt's right. Sex assaults are 
so common nowadays that if they happen across force boundaries they might never 
be linked."
Matt paced the room, thinking out loud. "What did Ceri say? That the paint was 
a blind? I think Uncle Tom was trying to draw the cops away from his earlier 
assaults. Once he had a dead child on his hands he'd be facing manslaughter 
charges at the very least. He'd have nothing to lose by killing his victims 
after that. Just the opposite. It would reduce the chances of being identified. 
The classic argument against capital punishment. Might as well be hanged for a 
sheep as a lamb."
Claire dabbed moist eyes with a tissue. "Surely we have to go to the police 
now?"
"We need more than just vague ideas, Claire. We have to identify the series of 
assaults that pre-dated Rebeccas feasible he was following the same pattern as 
before. Right, Danny?"
Danny was nodding enthusiastically. "That's what Ceri was telling us! If we 
can identify the locations we can use Canter's circle to trace him."
"I need access to Southern Media's news database. Danny, you need to get home 
and dish the dirt on Leroy McKenzie. Email me with what you find. Claire, I 
suggest you get an early night. We've a long drive tomorrow."
"I want to see Ceri too."
"We've been through this already, Danny. The answer's no."
"Matt, please."
"You're not coming, Danny, and that's final."





174


Matt had felt uneasy about letting the boy walk home on his own at that time of 
night, but Danny had been adamant. 
He wasn't a kid, he'd said. 
He was fourteen. 
He could look after himself. 
Matt smiled at the thought. He liked the boy. He could see echoes of his own 
childhood in Danny. 
The kid was cheerful. 
He was happy-go-lucky. 
He was thoughtful. 
He was bright.
He was in the back seat.
"What the fuck are you doing here?"
The boy's bleary-eyed features appeared in the rear-view mirror as they sped 
along the M2 at a steady eighty-five.
"I thought you might need some company. Where's Claire?"
"At home. Like you should be."
"I thought she was going with you."
"Change of plan."
Danny clambered into the front seat. "No point me being back here then."
"Don't go making yourself comfortable. I'm taking the next exit and you're 
going home."
"Matt, face facts. You need me. I got the dirt on McKenzie, didn't I?
"You're still going home. What's that in your bag?"
"A flask. Coffee?"
"Forget it. How the hell did you get in here anyway? I thought I locked it."
"You did. Jeez, it was cold waiting for you. I nearly froze my balls off."
"I don't suppose they've even dropped yet."
"Catty in the mornings, aren't you."
"Pass me that coffee a minute."
"See you need me, Matt.
Matt took the plastic cup gratefully. He looked askance at Danny. "Now what 
are you bloody grinning about?" 
"You just passed the next exit."





175


Leroy McKenzie was a dangerous man, Matt had stressed to Claire. 
He agreed to meet her there on the way back from Liverpool. There was no way she 
was seeing him on her own. 
McKenzie extended a hand and she took it cautiously. 
The hand of a rapist. 
Another rapist. 
She was becoming quite blase about meeting sex offenders.
Claire followed him through to the living room on the first floor. Dressed in 
loose jogging pants and an athletic vest that hugged his torso, the muscular 
frame was eye-catching, the biceps huge. She guessed there wasn't an ounce of 
excess fat anywhere on him. If he tried anything she wouldn't stand a chance.
"Tea? Coffee?"
She didn't want to stay that long, but remembered how Matt had handled Michael 
Bates. "Tea, please."
From the kitchen, "Like I said on the phone, I'm not proud of my past, but I'm 
still a thousand times better than someone who hurts little kids. I was a father 
myself once, you know. A baby boy."
"Once?"
"Meningitis. Nine months old. So I know what it's like to lose a child. That's 
why I agreed to meet you."
"I'm so sorry."
"A long time ago. Milk and sugar?"
"Just milk. Nice photo. Is this you?" She picked up a framed photo from a 
shelf. Workmen building coastal defences.
He reappeared with the tea. "Sorry, I don't have a saucer. Not used to lady 
visitors. Yeah, that's me. Years back. Down your neck of the woods as it 
happens. Reculver. Yt?" 
"You were a builder?" She thought of Dunst's profile. Then Ceri's voicemail 
saying the paint was a blind.
"Civil engineering is what they call it, but yeah, just a glorified bricklayer 
at the end of the day. I was the only black guy on the firm. They gave me all 
the shit jobs. The bastards."
"Is that what you do now?"
"I wish. Haven't had a job in years. Stupid when you think about it. Okay, I'm 
a convicted rapist, but what difference would that make to me working in 
construction? The tea okay? "
"It's lovely, thank you. The baby... You were married?"
"Were being the operative word, yeah. She left me during my first stint 
inside. I came out with nothing. No family. No job. Just these." He held up 
his arms. "The only good thing to come out of it all. There was a fantastic 
gym there." He flexed his biceps proudly. "Coldingley, in Surrey. You know 
it?"
"Never heard of it."
"Crazy place. The country's first industrial prison, way back before they 
started privatising everything. I used to make road signs there."
"Road signs?" Claire felt uneasy. Road signs. Road markings. Was there a 
difference?
"So what brought you to Milton Keynes?"
"Came to see the concrete cows one day and couldn't find my way out." He 
grinned. "Work, what else? No one comes here by choice! No, seriously, it's a 
great place, despite all the jokes. It's only a few years back unemployment was 
unheard of round here. I had no problem finding work before... Well, you know. 
Anyway, I did my time. Came out and moved to this cheap rabbit hutch, on my own. 
Della left me the day I was arrested. Didn't even hang around to see if I'd 
get off."
Claire wondered briefly how she would have reacted in similar circumstances, but 
Leroy interrupted her thoughts.
"Now I'm stuck in this limbo. Benefits just about cover my rent and food. I 
get a few notes for a lock-up I rent out. Can't afford a car myself, so may as 
well let someone use it. Still, I don't suppose you came here to hear my sordid 
life story. So, what exactly can I do for you?"
"It's a long story. I'm still trying to come to terms with my daughter's 
murder. As you know, someone's been charged."
McKenzie put forward his palms defensively. "I didn't know him, if that's 
what you're wondering. Fact is, I hope they hang the bastard. Fucking nonce! 
Sorry, excuse my language, but kiddie-killers? They don't deserve to live."
If they're guilty, Claire thought. "Leroy, I... That is... Can I ask you 
some personal questions?"
"I've got no secrets, Claire. I did what I did, and like I say, I ain't proud 
of it, but you can't rewrite history. Ask me anything you like. If you think you 
can handle the answers."





176


"Jeremy Isaac was your solicitor, right?"
"Isaac? Oh yeah, back on my first arrest. Well, it was Crown Court, so a 
barrister dealt with most of it, but yeah, Isaac was my brief back then. You 
know him?"
"Jeremy's office was broken into a few days ago."
"Hey, it wasn't me!"
"Of course not. I didn't mean... The thing is, some files were stolen, and 
yours was one of them."
McKenzie shrugged indifferently. "Ain't nothing in the files that ain't a 
matter of public record."
"So no reason why someone would want your steal your details?"
"They just stole my file?"
"No, a couple of others. Jeremy thinks they probably picked up yours by 
mistake."
"Most likely. Who the fuck would want my details?"
"So there's nothing in there likely to be of interest to anyone else?"
McKenzie shrugged again. "All that would be in it would be the legal bull 
about the first rape. I had a different brief after that."
"So Jeremy didn't deal with all your cases?"
"Nope. Wish he had've. Hs a smart guy. Don't take no shit from the old bill 
if they overstep the mark. But when I was arrested the second time he was 
unavailable. It was a straight guilty plea anyway, so it didn't really matter. 
Went straight to Grendon."
"Grendon?"
"Grendon Underwood. Hey, lady, you don't know much about Her Majesty's 
prisons, and that's a fact."
"I've never had the pleasure. Though I did visit someone in Canterbury jail 
once. Thomas Bristow?"
If the name meant anything to McKenzie it didn't show. 
"Problem with prisons like that is they just bang you up and then throw you 
out. That's what happened to me the first time round. Two years inside, then out 
on parole. I came straight through the gates, not having even seen a woman for 
two years, and, well... I just couldn't help it. Hey! I'm sorry. Didn't mean to 
make you feel uncomfortable."
"It's okay." It was a lie. She felt sick. She eyed his huge biceps warily. 
Did she have the mace in her bag? She forced herself to continue. "What 
happened?"
"Three years. But thankfully they sent me to Grendon."
"Thankfully?"
"It's just up the road. Aylesbury. Much more comfortable than Coldingley. Home 
from home, really. Not as good as Woodhill, mind. They've even got carpets in 
the peters there."
"Peters?"
"Hey, you really are from a different planet, lady! Peterbell: cell. Prison 
slang."
"But what was so good about Grendon?"
"Well, Grendon's a nonces' nick. Sex offenders get sent there to be sorted. 
It's not like any other nick I've been in. There's five wings, and each wing is 
divided into what they call communities, where the cons have a say in how things 
are run. That is, providing they agree to the therapy."
"Therapy?" Ruth Reynolds came to Claire's mind. She shuddered at the 
thought.
"Therapy, therapy and more fucking therapy. Sitting in circles telling each 
other what we were in for and slapping each others' wrists. There I was one day, 
sitting next to some sick bastard who'd been doing it to his son. His own son! 
Well I just belted him one. Would have killed him if they hadn't pulled me off. 
Lost a month's remission, and nearly got ghosted."
"Ghosted?"
"It's when the screws come in during the night, while everyone's asleep, and 
you just disappear."
Claire looked horrified. "In this country?"
McKenzie laughed. "Just to another prison. But a real nick. No frills. It's a 
big deterrent, I assure you. Now in some countries I hear they actually pay 
prostitutes to visit men in jail. To make sure they don't come out desperate 
like I did. Sounds like a good idea to me. Twice I was locked up, and twice I 
came out and raped again. I'm sorry. I shouldn't be telling you this."
"It's okay." Another lie. "They caught you again, obviously."
"Third time lucky. The judge sentenced me to four years. I just stood in the 
dock and told him straight. It was all just so fucking pointless. I knew I'd 
just rape again as soon as I came out. I wanted help, not punishment. Real help, 
to stop me raping again."
"But you've stopped now?" She paused. "Haven't you?" 
McKenzie leaned forward. "Sweetheart, don't you worry yourself none. I'm in 
control now. I don't hurt nobody no more. Not even someone as pretty as you."
"I'm relieved to hear it."
"Fact is, lady, I met a real doctor. He near enough cured me. Mind you, I'd 
never have agreed to it if I'd known what it involved."
"They forced you?"
McKenzie stretched out. "Listen, lady. When you've got a choice of spending 
another year inside, or you can be free as a bird just by agreeing to have your 
sweetmeat frazzled once a week, it's not such a hard choice."
"Your what frazzled?"
"Your sweetmeat, lady. Your John Thomas. Love puppet. Chopper. Screwdriver. 
You want me to show you?"
Claire raised her hands . "It's okay!"
"Well running ten thousand volts through your tackle is one sure way of 
reducing your love drive, I can tell you. Not that it hurt, you understand. Sort 
of like a cattle prod. But it was just so degrading."
"This was after you left prison, right?"
"Part of my parole conditions. The judge took me seriously about wanting help, 
and sent me to this place in Kent. You probably know it. The Quinlan 
Foundation."





177


Claire held her breath, thinking fast. "Never heard of it."
"It's a sex clinic. For sex offenders, I mean. I'd heard rumours about it 
when I was in Grendon. They say there's a museum there. A nonce museum. Can you 
believe that? Mind you, Dr Q. himself is a real cool dude. For a white man."
"Dr Q.?"
"Dr Quinlan. The boss-man. In a wheelchair, poor bastard. As old as the hills. 
But he knows his stuff. A few sessions at the Foundation and I've never even 
thought about raping a woman since."
"Did Dr Quinlan treat you personally?"
"Funnily enough, no. Too old to bend over, I guess. No, this woman did it. I 
forget her name. Irish sounding. Began with an R. What was it again? Damn, it's 
on the tip of my tongue."
"Reynolds?" It was an involuntary response. She looked at the floor, biting 
her lip.
"How on Earth did you know that?"
Claire racked her mind for a plausible explanation. "Irish sounding, you said. 
There was an Irish prime minister called Reynolds."
"Hey! Don't go getting political on me, lady!"
She breathed a sigh of relief.
"Yeah, Ruth Reynolds, that was her. Dr Q. said it was part of the therapy to 
have a woman doing it. Because rape was about men dominating women, so it sort 
of reversed the situation. She dominated the men. Even me, and I'm not dominated 
easily, I can tell you."
"So what did she do?"
"Well, she stuck all these gadgets to my todger. It was quite embarrassing at 
first, this dragon of a woman handling your best bits. Hunched up old witch, a 
face like the back of a bus. But even so, things can happen."
"Things?"
"Hey, lady! Now it's you making me feel uncomfortable. But she was a strange 
one, I can tell you. She hated me. Hated all men, you know?"
"I know the type. Thinks all men are rapists. Oh, sorry..."
McKenzie laughed. "Yeah, of course me being a real one didn't help none. Are 
you sure you want to hear all this?"
Claire was going nowhere till she had. "Try me."
"Well, the bitch sticks this thing on your baby-maker and it kinda expands 
when yours does, and measures how excited you are on a computer screen. Can you 
believe that? I mean, she's only gotta look down to work that out. If it's 
standing to attention then you're excited, right?"
Claire couldn't help but smile. "Then what?"
"Well they fit you out with all these probes and things, then show you dirty 
movies. I mean real porn, not top-shelf in the newsagents rubbish. Whatever 
you're into, they've got it. It even made me feel dirty, some of it. So she 
makes you watch all these porno's just to get your flag pole waving. One time 
I just couldn't get it up, no matter what. And get this! The bitch only gave me 
a hand job, just to get things moving! Jesus, that was so embarrassing! I tell 
you, lady, beneath this glossy black exterior I was as red as a beetroot."
"Did you ever meet any of the other patients at the clinic, while you were 
there?"
"No way, lady. No way. Dr Q is very mindful about that. There's only one 
client treated at a time. It's always spic and span. Nothing ever to show anyone 
else has ever been there. Dr Q is a very neat and tidy man."
"You have a lot of respect for Dr Quinlan, don't you?"
"Hey, he cured me, lady. Never raped a woman since. Honest! He's been very 
good to me. Still is."
"Still is?"
"Okay, may I shouldn't be saying this, but he still helps me out. Stops me 
wanting to re-offend."
"In what way?"
"You won't mention this to anyone? It's a private arrangement."
"Not a soul will know, Leroy."
"I have a lock-up over on the Lakes. Our old house, in Bletchley? Well, Dr Q., 
he rents it from me. Fuck knows what for, but Dr Q., he says he wants to help 
me. So he slips me a few smackers every week. After-care service, he says."
"In Bletchley?"
"Prince William Close, on the Lakes Estate. Number five with the green 
door."
"You've lost me, Leroy. How does that help you not re-offending?"
McKenzie dropped his voice to a loud whisper. "So I can afford a prozzie once 
a week, lady, how else? A guy's gotta have regular pussy, you know."





178


Matt's call came as Claire was getting in her car.
"No sign of Ceri so far, Claire. Just waiting for Gavin to finish a lecture. 
Are you still at home. We'll be late for Milton Keynes. Sorry."
"I'm already here."
"What! For Christ's sake, Claire, I told you to wait till I got there. You're 
not to see him on your own."
"Done and dusted, Matt. I've just left him."
"Jesus. Did he try anything?"
"Matt, he was a perfect gentleman. And guess what. He's a former patient at 
the Foundation. Things are beginning to add up."
"Like?"
"I need some time to think it all through."
"Claire, don't go doing anything silly."
"I'm not a kid, Matt."
"Now you know how I feel, Claire."
"Danny?"
Matt sounded embarrassed. "He sort of came along, for the ride."
Claire held back a laugh. "Give my love to Ceri when you see her, Danny."
"You bet!"





179


The row of lock-ups had seen better days, but even if McKenzie's description had 
not been fresh in Claire's mind, the huge chain and padlock would have drawn her 
to it. Number five with the green door.
"Have you lost something, miss?"
Claire turned to see two young boys eyeing her suspiciously. She smiled 
politely. "I'm just looking, but thank you anyway."
She made her way round to the side window. The glass had long since been 
vandalised, heavy mesh wire barring her view. The kids were watching her with 
great interest.
Claire smiled at them. "Would you happen to know who this belongs to?"
"Who wants to know?"
"I do. Is it a secret?"
"Are you a copper?"
"Do I look like a cop... Like a poliewoman?"
"You sound like one, asking lots of questions."
"I just wondered to whom this garage might belong, that's all."
"Dunno. 'E don't live round 'ere."
"How can you be so sure?"
"We know everyone round 'ere."
"I see."
"Anyway, you'd better not go near it."
"And why might that be?"
"Baldy don't like it."
"Baldy?"
"Yeah, that's what we call him. He ain't got no 'air, you see."
Claire nodded her understanding. "I guessed that might be the case. He doesn't 
like you going near it?"
"Yeah, he goes crazy if he sees us."
"Crazy," the second boy confirmed. "Even my mum says he's a loony. She 
says we're not to go near 'im. An 'specially not Megan."
"Megan?"
"My sister."
Claire could feel the adrenaline rise. "What about your sister?"
"He offered her a quid to pull her knickers down."
"My God! She didn't, did she?"
"No fear! For a quid? She ain't that stupid."
"Yeah," said the other boy. "That's gotta be worth at least a fiver."
"Boys! Really! Did your parents tell the police?"
The boys looked aghast. 'No fear! We don't want the old bill round here. They 
always accuse us of nicking things."
"Yeah, last week a copper 'ad a go at me just because I was looking through 
a car window. An' I wasn't even gonna nick nuffink. It was a crap car anyway. 
Not even worth running a key down."
"Your sister. Was she okay? He didn't try to touch her or anything?"
"No chance. I would've kicked 'im in the bollocks if he 'ad. Oops! Sorry, 
miss. Didn't mean to swear."
Claire managed a nervous smile. "When did this happen?"
"Just after Christmas."
"You're sure?"
"Course I am."
"How does he get here?"
"Bus. Then he drives off in his van." 
"A bus?" 
"What's up with that? I s'pose you're too posh to go on a bus."
"No, I didn't mean that. This bus, where does it go?"
"City centre."
"You mean Milton Keynes?"
"That's what I said. City centre."
"And where does the bus come from, before it gets here?"
"City centre, obv! It's a circular."
"I'm sorry, boys. I'm not from this area."
"We can tell that."
"So this man, he gets the bus here, goes off in his van, and then brings it 
back and gets another bus?"
"Yeah. Don't see why he can't park outside his own house."
"Prob'ly coz he lives in a flat like we do, thick twat."
"Don't you call me a thick twat, you tosser."
Claire raised a hand to quieten them.
"This wouldn't be a white van by any chance? With no windows?"
"Yeah, why? You gonna buy it off him?"
"Maybe. I'd certainly like to see it."
"Tough. He went off in it this morning."
Claire felt her stomach convulse. She searched her mind for the date. January 
thirtieth. "Are you sure?"
"Do we look stupid? He was 'ere just a couple of hours ago."
"Can you describe him for me?"
"What, baldy? Well, he ain't got no 'air."
"Boys, this is important."
The boys considered carefully. "Well, he's bald, like I said. And big! Built 
like a brick shit-house. Oops, I mean..."
"It's okay. Just tell me. It doesn't matter if you swear."
The boys' eyes brightened. "Don't it? Fucking ace!"
"Bollocks, arse-holes, shit, cunt, fanny," said the second boy quickly, just 
in case she changed her mind.
"Boys, please. Just describe him to me."
"Bald."
"And big."
She thought of Leroy McKenzie. "He wasn't... He wasn't black by any chance?"
"No way! We don't have no coons round here."
Claire let the remark pass. This was too important. "Anything else? How old 
was he?"
"Ancient. At least twenty."
"Or sixty. I'm ten next month."
"I was ten in October."
"Yeah, on Halloween."
"Fuck off. It was in the day time."
"Still Halloween though. That means your mum's a witch."
Claire raised hand to quieten them. "Listen to me, boys, if this man comes 
back, just stay well away from him, okay?"
They waved a dismissive hand. 
"Whatever."





180


Professor Gavin Large eyed Danny with practised disdain, firm in the belief that 
his students were mere kids and anyone below their late teens should still be in 
nappies. He looked to Matt for an explanation. Was there something he didn't 
know?
"Gavin, meet Danny. Danny, Gavin Large. Professor Large, no less. That's what 
can happen of you eat all your greens and study hard. You've been warned!"
Danny held out a hand and Large took it reluctantly.
"Pleased to meet you, son."
"Ditto, dad."
Large looked to Matt. He had more than enough insolence off his students.
"Danny's working with me."
"On this story?"
"It's complicated. He's not as dumb as he looks."
Large looked unconvinced. The kid looked pretty dumb to him. 
"No sign of Ceri yet?"
"Not a dickie bird. Admin's spoken to her parents. They haven't heard from her 
either. Of course, they're worried sick now."
"Have the police been told?"
"Not by us. Students wander off all the time. Just one of those things. We can 
hardly send out a search party every time someone misses a lecture. But I admit 
I'm concerned, Matt. Ceri's been preoccupied with this Uncle Tom business for 
far too long. Her course-work was seriously suffering. The last thing she can 
afford is to miss more lessons. So what was this message? I assume it's related 
somehow?"
"We wouldn't be here otherwise," said Danny.
Large glared at the boy, then raised an eyebrow to Matt. "Your right-hand man, 
is he?"
Matt smiled. "Ceri said she's certain the man they've got in custody, Greg 
Randall, is innocent. She's convinced Uncle Tom has killed twice more since 
Randall's arrest."
"And you believe her?"
"Gavin, it was you who gave us her profile in the first place."
Large raised his hands defensively. "I hope she isn't leading you on a wild 
goose chase, Matt. This Randall character, there's a DNA match, isn't there? The 
way I heard it they found his semen on the last victim. That's pretty damned 
conclusive in my book."
"Mistakes have been made before."
"The odds are literally millions to one against a chance match, Matt. You know 
that. Ceri spent best part of a week pestering me about the statistics."
"But Ceri said..." Danny gave way under the professor's stern gaze. 
"The fact is, she got too personally involved. I should never have agreed to 
her going down to you and Claire. It went to her head. I don't want to be 
unkind, but she's just a second-rate student on one of my piss-poor courses, for 
God's sake. What the hell was I thinking of, sending you that profile? I'm 
sorry, Matt. I thought there was something in it. I was wrong. Dunst was wrong 
too. But at least we admit it."
"But Ceri..." Danny began.
"Ceri think she knows it all," Large said. "They're all the same at that 
age. Now I expect she's skulking in some library somewhere desperate to find 
some obscure fact to try breathe life back in to her discredited theory. I'm 
going to have to fail her, Matt. Too much imagination, too little hard work. A 
dead loss."
"That's not fair. Ceri's well cool."
Large eyed Danny with disdain. "Listen, son, when you've got a few degrees 
beneath your belt and letters after your name... When you've been round the 
block a few times, come back and we'll discuss it, okay?"
"We still need to talk to her," Matt insisted.
"Be my guest. If you can find her. You can tell her from me to get her pretty 
little backside into my lecture hall or she's finished. I can give you her 
address, Matt, but she's not there. I called round myself this morning."
"You called round? That's a lot of effort for a dead loss."
Large shifted in his seat. "Yeah, well I feel responsible. I should've given 
her a bollocking when she handed it that damned profile, and put her back to 
work on the curriculum. She might have got a decent grade if it wasn't for all 
this nonsense."
"We're not convinced it's nonsense, Gavin. Supposing Randall is innocent like 
she says. There are a lot of grey areas. There's nothing so far to link Randall 
with any of the other victims. Nothing at all. Social Services found nothing to 
suggest he'd abused his own kids. Two six year olds. Is it likely whoever killed 
all these kids could have two daughters himself and never have touched them?"
Large considered the point while he grabbed an apple from his case. "It's 
possible. The Yorkshire Ripper disembowelled his victims, but never harmed his 
own wife."
"Peter Sutcliffe," Danny said. 
"Very good, son. Now if ou don't mind, we're having a conversation."
Danny scowled. Matt winked at him. "Let me fill the professor in on what we've 
come up with so far, then you can annoy him some more."
Large listened with at first impatient amusement, then more serious mood. By the 
time Matt got to Ceri's voicemail, Large was intense.





181


Large said, "At the time I was semi-convinced about Ceri's theory. I must 
admit the Isle of Wight murders threw us all off the scent, though by the sound 
of it your solicitor friend has come up with a plausible explanation for that 
one. But again, that just builds the case against Randall."
"How?"
"Given the pattern that has emerged it seems likely Uncle Tom was following 
this ordered procedure of date and place quite compulsively. By which I mean 
clinically compulsive. He has no more control over adhering to this pattern than 
a kleptomaniac does over stealing or an anorexic does over not eating. Now, Ceri 
identified a pattern whereby Uncle Tom made two attacks on successive days, on 
the same days of the month, right? So where was the other attack to accompany 
the Woolwich victim?"
"There wasn't one."
"Exactly. And why?"
"Because there was no place anywhere beginning with the letter X."
"You've got it," Large said. "That explains why the Woolwich attack was 
different from all the others. I think he wanted to be caught, because his 
raison d'atre, the series of assaults following the pattern, was suddenly 
brought to an end because there was no place beginning with an X to meet his 
clinical need. That is so painful for him that he lets himself be caught, to 
justify in his own warped mind why he can't continue the pattern."
"The suicide complex," Danny said quietly.
Large nodded grudging approval. "Very good, son. Think of it logically, Matt. 
A string of victims left forensically clean, with the taunting calling card, 
then suddenly all this new evidence that puts him bang in the frame. Sorry, 
Matt, but everything points to Randall."
"But what about Ceri's voicemail," Danny objected.
"Danny's right, Gavin," Matt agreed. "She said Uncle Tom has killed twice 
since Randall's arrest. We know for sure there was an abduction in that Welsh 
town."
"An abduction, maybe. Even that's not for sure. The kid might just have run 
away. It happens. There's nothing to link it to the other murders. And where's 
this other victim Ceri has apparently conjured up?"
"We don't know. Listen to the voicemail, Gavin. Maybe it will mean something 
to you."
Large listened intently as Matt replayed the message. Afterwards he said 
nothing, deep in thought. He started on another apple. "Oxford somewhere, 
right?"
"That's what Ceri says, but there's no place anywhere in the country beginning 
with X, least of all Oxford."
"Why so certain?"
"Computers, CD-Roms, the internet, you name it. We've even been over the 
Ordnance Survey."
"The Ordnance Survey map of Oxford?"
"Of course," Danny said. "We're not amateurs."
"I'm beginning to see that. You wouldn't happen to have it with you?"
"I told you, I've got everything. But you're wasting your time. We've been 
over it a billion times."
Large took the map and laid it out. "Maybe you weren't looking for the right 
thing."
"Yeah, silly us. We were looking for a place beginning with an X."
Large smiled smugly. "Look at this." He passed Matt's note book to Danny. 
"Read it out to me."
"I can't read this crap! It's all in shorthand."
"Right. Which shorthand, Matt?"
"Pitman 2000 originally, but I use my own version now. We all do."
Large nodded. "Ceri too. Her course notes are always wrapped up in some 
hieroglyphic or other." He was tracing his finger over the map as he spoke, 
ees never leaving the table. "But what I'm thinking is much more basic. 
Everyday abbreviations. The type everyone uses. Even the kid here. X marks the 
spot, my friend. X marks the spot."
"You won't find anything," Danny persisted. "I guarantee it."
"Maybe, maybe not. But I thought you had faith in the girl."
Large leant over the map tracing increasingly wide finger circles while munching 
on his apple, then suddenly, "Sweet Jesus!"
"What?"
Large sat back, mopping his brow. "That girl is incredible. My star pupil."
"Gavin?"
"You can bet your last penny there's a child missing from this village."
Matt and Danny craned their necks to see the location south-east of Oxford that 
Large was marking with his index finger. 
As one they read it out loud.
"Christmas Common."





182


"We're very worried about her, Mrs Epstein," Matt said in a feeble attempt 
at a Welsh accent. "As soon as we heard she was missing classes we drove right 
over."
"What, from Wales?"
"From Rhyl."
"I used to go to Rhyl when I was a little girl." She stared into the 
distance. "Is that chip shop still there?"
"Still where?"
"In Rhyl?"
Matt had never been to Rhyl in his life. "Yes, it's still going strong. 
Beautiful fish and chips."
Mrs Epstein glared at him. "They were the worst chips I've ever tasted."
Matt looked bewildered. "It's under new management."
Mrs Epstein was studying their faces with a puzzled expression. "And you're 
her brother, you say?" She peered at Danny closely. "You don't look much 
alike."
"Half-brother," Danny said quickly.
The old lady considered the possibility. "Ceri never mentioned you."
"She wouldn't have," Danny said. "She prefers her real sister to me."
"I see." She still didn't look convinced.
"Mrs Epstein, you're absolutely sure Ceri never gave any indication where she 
might have gone? You can imagine how worried her mother is right now."
"I'm sorry, dear, but as I explained to that nice Professor Big this morning, 
I really haven't the foggiest. Her rent's overdue, you know."
"Mrs Epstein, would you have a spare key to her room. If we could just take a 
quick look around. There may be a clue where she might have gone."
"Mr Jones, I make it a strict policy never to let anyone into a guest's room 
without permission. I'm sorry."
"But I'm her father. Surely..."
"You say you're her father, but you could be anyone. You're not the first 
strange man to turn up wanting to see her recently."
"Someone else was asking about Ceri?"
"Oh, this was a very refined gentleman, not any old rabble." She looked the 
pair up and down, making sure they knew who she meant. "And so very 
well-spoken."
Matt produced his wallet. "Mrs Epstein, would it help if I offered to pay 
Ceri's rent for her? Would that be proof enough I'm her father? I mean, a 
complete stranger is not going to pay someone else's rent now, is he?"
The old lady's embattled features softened at the site of the twenty pound 
notes. "Well, no. I suppose you have a point, dear. Would it be asking too 
much to collect two months, seeing as you're here. I'm sure Ceri would 
appreciate it."
"Two?"
"Go on, Dad," Danny said, nudging his arm. "You know she's worth it."
"Could I have a receipt?" Maybe he could claim it back off McIntyre as 
expenses. "How much was it again?"
"For two months?" Mrs Epstein looked them up and down as if the figure was 
an arbitrary one dependant on how much she thought they could afford. "Four 
hundred."
"Pounds? For a bed-sit?"
"Cash, of course."
"Of course." Fortunately in Matt's line of work a wad of cas a tool of the 
trade. "The things I do for that girl."
Mrs Epstein's hand shot out at a pace that belied her frail appearance. 
"You're too kind, dear. Too kind. One moment, I'll get the spare key."
Matt and Danny were whispering together when she returned. Large had given them 
the address, but not the room number.
"Here you are, dears. Be sure to lock everything up before you go. Just slip 
the key under my door here. I think I need to lie down."
Plan B came into action.
"What was the number again, son? Room Five?"
"I don't think so, Dad. I'm sure Ceri said Room Six."
"No, no, dears. Room Nine. Right at the top."
"Nine. See, Dad. I told you it wasn't five."
"It wasn't six, either, son," said Matt, enjoying the subterfuge.
"I was close, though," said Danny. "Six is like nine, only upside down."
"A bit less lip, son." Matt turned to Mrs Epstein. "I do hope Ceri doesn't 
answer you back like this one."





183


"You're in no fit state to drive, Claire." Pitman relieved her of her keys. 
"Asthma you say? Are you sure an ambulance wouldn't have been more 
appropriate?"
"I'm fine now. Can we get going, Inspector? Please?"
"Claire, you sound terrible. I just hope this is worth the upset you're 
causing yourself." Pitman indicated and slowly pulled out of the Bluewater car 
park. "You were lucky to have got hold of me. I'd only popped into the Station 
to collect some paperwork when your call came through. Now, obviously didn't 
drag me here just for my charming company. So I think some explanations are in 
order. If you're feeling up to it."
"I'm sorry, Inspector," Claire's voice rasped. "The asthma came on 
while I was crossing the QE2 bridge. There was no way I could continue driving. 
But I have to get to Sevenoaks." 
"With me in attendance."
"They might take me seriously if you're there."
"No doubt. But should I be taking you seriously, that's the question. I'm 
not going knocking on anyone's door without very good reason."
"You'll have every reason, Inspector, once I can speak properly. Just drive, 
please."
As Claire's stressed breathing eased, she summarised what they had learned so 
far. Pitman listened politely, occasionally shaking his head in disbelief.
"And now this girl, Ceri, she's missing too, you say?"
"Matt's there now, trying to find her. We think she may have panicked. We're 
all worried sick."
"Well, there's one thing you can be sure of. Uncle Tom attacks little 
children, not grown women. And if Matt's there with her, I'm sure she's in safe 
hands."





184


The building was quiet, most of the resident students either in class or 
skipping lectures around town. Mrs Epstein's kettle could be heard faintly 
whistling downstairs. 
Matt knocked on the door out of courtesy, but waited only a few seconds before 
slipping the key in the lock.
He put a tentative step over the threshold, feeling like a trespasser. Suddenly 
things were serious again. He felt Danny behind him, urging him in.
"Don't touch anything unless you have to. Look for any written notes, press 
cuttings, maps, that sort of thing. Anything that might give us a clue where she 
might have gone."
Danny scanned the room with a look of disdain. It was a joint living-room come 
bedroom with what looked like a small kitchenette beyond. "And I thought I was 
untidy."
"Students have more important things to worry about," said Matt. "Just 
like journalists. Expect to find a week's worth of washing up in the sink."
"So you won't be stopping for coffee, then?" Okay, so Ceri was no domestic 
goddess. Danny wouldn't hold it against her.
"Let's jus look round and get out of here. Supposing she walks in now and 
finds us here?" Matt was almost praying she would.
Matt methodically worked his way down one side of the room while Danny picked up 
and discarded things at random. Any newspaper, notebook or jotting received 
their attention. Nothing.
From the kitchenette Matt heard a noise.
A stifled cry. 
Then silence.
"Danny?"
No response.
"Danny, are you okay?"
Matt was heading towards the door when Danny backed into him, shoulders slumped, 
an arm raised, a quivering finger pointing into the room before him. 
Matt leapt across the coffee table and burst into the kitchenette. 
He stopped in his tracks, paralysed for several seconds before his knees 
weakened and he slumped down, clutching at the door for support. 
Ceri's stripped body was barely recognisable, the face and neck contorted by 
ligature strangulation.
But there could be no doubt it was her, and no doubt who killed her. 
The calling card was on the floor, weighed down by a pair of scissors arrowed to 
the teenager's coarsely shaven genitals. 
But it was the sight of her chest that shook him to the core. 
Each breast severed from the torso, the flesh removed and the skin returned, 
flattened and stretched out against the body, crudely stitched in place with 
black cotton.
The flaming red hair, neatly plaited into pig-tails, completed the imagery. 
The body of a nineteen year old, transformed into that of a pre-pubescent 
schoolgirl.





185


Danny's traumatised body shook gently as he sobbed intermittently. 
Matt threw the room key on the dashboard . The boy instinctively reached for it, 
slipping his finger through the key-ring, clutching the cool metal in his clammy 
fist. It was all he had left of Ceri. He held it against his chest, sobbing.
"I didn't want Mrs Epstein wandering in there." Matt punched the dial on his 
mobile.
No answer. At the Bluewater car park Claire's phone lay unheard in her car. 
Cursing beneath his breath Matt dialled again.
"Gavin, it's Matt." A long pause. "I'm sorry, I have some bad news."
The chewing at the other end slowly stopped. "My God, it's Ceri, isn't it."
Slowly, "She's dead, Gavin."
Danny began crying again.
"He found her somehow. We were too late." Matt's voice choked over. 
"Gavin, I'm so sorry."
A longer silence. "What did he... No. I don't want to know. Where are you 
now?"
"Just leaving her flat. We're going back to Claire. If he knew about Ceri he 
must know about Claire too."
"Are the fuzz there?"
"They don't know yet. Gavin, will you deal with them? I have to get to Claire. 
Before he does."
"I understand. But hell, this will take some explaining."
"You know as much as we do."
"I'll do my best. Just be careful." Silence, then, "Oh, and Matt..."
"I'm listening."
"Don't let anything happen to the kid."





186


"Can't you go any faster?"
"Supposing a child ran out in front of me?"
We're on a motorway for God's sake. Out loud, "Supposing he kills again before 
we get there?
Pitman drew on his unlit pipe. He was too much the gentleman to light up with a 
lady passenger present, too much the addict not to need the comfort of the cool 
clay between his lips. "I hardly think he's going to be sitting there waiting 
for us, Claire. That's if he has any connection at all with this clinic. Run it 
by me one more time, so I don't make any slip-ups." It was partly for his 
benefit, mostly for hers, to occupy her mind, to keep her asthmatic breathing 
calm.
Claire rehearsed the case again. Ceri's profile. The pattern of attacks. The 
timing. She explained again her visit to see Reynolds.
"I've had that pleasure, too, at a Social Services case conference. Not the 
person I'd most like to be stranded on a desert island with."
"But don't you see, Inspector? The Foundation is the one thread that links all 
this."
"Claire, I think you're right; up to a point." Pitman negotiated the 
overtaking of an Eddie Stobart haulage vehicle with consummate care. "Heaven 
only knows how we missed the connection, but yes, it's obvious now that someone 
was using, abusing, this clinic for their own ends. But to my mind that just 
backs the case against Randall. We know he attended the clinic several times. He 
would have had any number of opportunities to find out about other patients. I'm 
confident this Quinlan fellow will be able to confirm that."
"And the missing children in Mold and Oxford?"
"The Mold case is intriguing, I grant you. But there is such a thing as sheer 
coincidence. Children went missing before Uncle Tom, and will do long after he's 
forgotten. As for this Oxford scenario, all you have is this cryptic message 
from your friend. According to your theory there should have been an abduction 
at a place beginning with X, yet by your own admission no such place exists. 
Don't you see? Your friend was right all along. But the profile she built up was 
of Greg Randall, right down to this suicide complex, that culminated in the body 
being found in Woolwich."
"But the van... It was missing from Leroy McKenzie's lock-up."
"There are tens of thousands of white vans out there, Claire. Look, there's 
two now. And another. It doesn't mean a thing."
"Not even what those kids told me?"
"They're just kids, Claire."
"And the assaults preceding Rebecca? They're just coincidences too, I 
suppose?"
"With all due respect, I know nothing about them."
"Matt has all the details with him. Danny printed them off last night."
"Danny?" Pitman shook his head in disbelief. "For heavens' sake, Claire, 
how many more people have you got roped into this little vigilante detective 
force of yours?"
"We're not vigilantes, Inspector. We just want to be certain the man you put 
away for killing my daughter is the right one."
"I can understand that, Claire, believe me. But you have to put your faith in 
the criminal justice system."
"After Thomas Bristow?"
"That was different. But all the evidence says Randall is guilty. Officially 
Uncle Tom is safely behind bars in Brixton prison, awaiting trial."
"And unofficially?"
"Let's just say I wouldn't be here with you now if I didn't have serious 
reservations about this whole affair."





187


Danny clutched the key to his chest, still sobbing gently. 
Matt held the wheel in one hand, repeatedly dialling Claire's home and mobile 
numbers. The answer-phone chipped in at the empty house, the mobile unheard in 
the parked car. 
He hit the number for Margate CID.
"I'm sorry, the Inspector's off-duty today. Can another officer help?"
"No, it has to be Pitman." There was no point even attempting to explain. 
"Can you get a message to him?"
"Not easily. He's not in a force vehicle, and doesn't carry a mobile, as you 
may know."
"Don't I just. If he calls in again, can you pass on an urgent message?"
"Of course, Sir."
"Tell him Matt Burford called. Tell him to find Claire and stay with her until 
I get there."
"Claire?"
"Claire Meadows. It's imperative he finds her. She could be in danger."
"What did you say your name was again, Sir?"
"Burford. Matthew Burford."
"And your relationship to Mrs Meadows?"
"A friend. A close friend."
Hesitantly, "I don't know if I should be saying this, Sir, but I believe 
Inspector Pitman is alreads Meadows. She called earlier today, asking 
specifically for him."
"Thank God. Where are they now?"
"Sir, as I said, he's officially off-duty. All I know is, he ran off a Google 
map before he left."
"A map?"
"Somewhere in Sevenoaks."





188


"You obviously have a lot of respect for this girl." 
"She's incredible, Inspector."
"And just a student, you say? All the more remarkable."
"You'll have a chance to meet her soon. I've asked Matt to invite her down 
again when her course finishes."
"I'll look forward to that, Claire. I bet she found it a contrast to life in 
Wales. Which university is she at? Bangor?"
"Liverpool."
"Liverpool?" A silence. Then, "You said earlier you thought you knew how 
Randall might have been fitted up with the DNA evidence?"
"You didn't want to hear it," Claire reminded him. "You told me to stick 
to reality."
"Run it by me anyway. I want to be fully armed when I speak to this Quinlan 
fellow."
Claire slowly and methodically recounted her meeting with Leroy McKenzie. The 
speedometer slowly crept up as Pitman listened.
"Supposing Greg Randall went through some similar sort of treatment?" Claire 
struggled to find the right words, embarrassed to be discussing this with a man 
old enough to be her father. "I don't know quite how to phrase this, 
Inspector, but supposing Randall was aroused to the point of orgasm? He cleaned 
himself on a tissue or whatever. Could Uncle Tom have got hold of it somehow?"
Pitman shook his head slowly. "I don't know what to say, Claire. The idea is 
so bizarre it could even be true. Could I borrow your mobile phone a moment?"
"Sure." She reached for her bag. "Oh. Sorry. It's in my car. Put in on 
charge."
"No matter. I'll find a pay-phone somewhere. I'm sure there must be one or two 
left. I just want to put the Super in the picture. This Quinlan fellow sounds 
well-connected. Best I clear it with my superiors before I go making waves."
A few minutes later Pitman pulled over and made his way to a roadside kiosk. 
Claire waited in the car. The radio news was reporting heavy snow across much of 
the country, blizzards heading south. She wondered if Matt was caught up in it. 
So far they had been lucky in the south-east, with just a light dusting of snow. 

In the kiosk Pitman's demeanour caught her eye. The wrinkled smile was gone, the 
face ashen. He was leaning against the cabinet. Desperately she tried to 
decipher his silent mouth movements.
He got back into the car in silence, staring into the distance, gathering his 
thoughts.
"Inspector?"
Pitman slowly turned to face her, reaching a hand out to her shoulder.
"Lord help us, Claire, but you were right all along. He's still out there."
"Oh my God. They've found another body."
"It wasn't a child this time." Pitman took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, 
Claire. I wish I could break this to you more gently." A single tear rolled 
down his cheek.
"Your friend, Ceri Jones. Uncle Tom found her first."





189


The bronze plate announcing the entrance to the Quinlan Foundation was barely 
visible through the thick strands of ivy that smothered the enclosing wall, a 
thick carpet of polished green against the blanched winter landscape. 
The car slowly negotiated the long winding drive, passenger and driver coping 
with their own deep thoughts.
For Claire, the reality of Ceri's death had yet to impact fully, for now eased 
by the certain knowledge that Inspector Pitman was about to put together the 
final pieces of the jigsaw.
For Pitman, the tragedy of lives lost was balanced by professional concerns. 
He was only human. The thrill of the cha was still there and, if too old for 
promotion, it was in the back of his mind that to wrap up the case here and now, 
reducing the actual apprehension of Britain's most wanted criminal to a 
formality and clearing the name of an innocent man, would be a fine way to cap 
forty years of service and justify the early retirement his wife so wanted him 
to take.
"Claire, I think it would be best if you wait here. Do you mind? This is 
strictly Police business now." He pulled up his collar against the cold wind 
and the strengthening snow flurries. "I'll be as quick as I can." As an 
afterthought he added, "Keep the doors locked, Claire. Just in case."
A shiver ran down her spine as he left her. She pushed each lock, then 
instinctively checked each handle.
"Detective Inspector Pitman, Kent CID." He held up his badge to the camera. 
"I'd like to speak to Dr Quinlan."
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No. It's Police business."
"I'm sorry. Dr Quinlan is not in residence at the moment."
"Miss Reynolds is here, I take it?"
"Doctor Reynolds is here, yes. But I'm not sure she is free."
"Kindly advise her I would like to speak to her as a matter of some 
urgency."
"One moment please."
The one moment lasted a full five minutes. Pitman stamped his feet to keep warm, 
his patience wearing thin. He was about to press the bell again when he heard 
automatic bolts sliding. The door opened and he instantly recognised the hunched 
figure of Ruth Reynolds, blinking at him through thick, tinted glasses.
"Inspector?"
"Miss Reynolds, I need to speak with Dr Quinlan as soon as possible. When is 
he due back?"
"I'm sorry, but he's away on business."
Pitman sighed loudly. "In that case you'll have to do."
"You've picked a rather inconvenient time, Inspector. I've had clients back 
and forth all day."
Pitman cast a glance around the forecourt. The thin layer of snow lay 
undisturbed but for his own tyre and footprints. "Using the tradesman's 
entrance, I suppose. Is there somewhere we can talk?"
Reynolds glared at him. "Come through." She led him down past reception to 
the interview lounge.
"I'll come straight to the point, Miss Reynolds."
"Ruth, please. It's Ruth." She forced the smile. "It's David, isn't it?"
"Miss Reynolds, a girl is dead."
She tried to look sympathetic. "I'm very sorry to hear that, of course, 
but..."
"A teenager. Nineteen years old."
"I'm sorry, Inspector. Am I missing something here?"
"She was murdered. By Uncle Tom."
The surprise was genuine, or Pitman was ready to hand in his badge. Reynolds 
quickly recovered, her words carefully selected. "My goodness, Inspector. You 
mean Greg Randall has escaped?"
"That's not what I said, Miss Reynolds. I have good reason to believe 
Randall's arrest to be a mistake. He's not Uncle Tom. The real killer is still 
at large."
"I'm not sure I understand, Inspector."
"Which is why I should be talking to Dr Quinlan," Pitman muttered beneath 
his breath. "I don't know how I can make it any clearer for you, Miss 
Reynolds. I believe the real Uncle Tom is someone who attends this clinic. One 
of your patients."
"They are clients, Inspector, not patients. And I'm sorry, but I still don't 
follow."
"I believe uncle Tom somehow gained access to your patients' details. That he 
somehow learned of Greg Randall's interest in children, and of his appointment 
at the Woolwich clinic."
"Quite impossible, Inspector. Absolutely not. Our records are totally secure. 
As for Greg Randall, I can assure you he is an extremely dangerous man. My only 
regret is that I didn't act sooner in bringing him to the attention of the 
authorities."
"Miss Reynolds, I'd like to have a look round, if I may. To view your security 
arrangements. Where you keep your patients' records, that sor of thing."
"Out of the question, Inspector. Client confidentiality is of paramount 
consideration in an establishment such as ours."
"Even so, I'd like to see the set-up first hand."
"As I said, Inspector. Out of the question. Were Dr Quinlan here he would say 
exactly the same thing."
"You don't seem to understand, Miss Reynolds. This is a Police matter. A 
murder inquiry."
"I'm sorry, Inspector, but the answer is no."
Pitman took out his pipe and began stuffing the bowl.
Reynolds looked alarmed. "Inspector, this is a no-smoking establishment."
Pitman lit up. "Miss Reynolds, let me put it another way. You can show me what 
I need to see now, quietly, just the two of us. Or I can return in an hour or so 
with a warrant and a dozen officers and we can do it room by room, drawer by 
drawer."
Reynolds was unable to hide her annoyance. "Very well, Inspector, but I must 
insist I accompany you at all times."
"Believe me, I wouldn't have it any other way."





190


Large rang just as they passed the Leatherhead junction on the M25 eastbound. 
The blizzard had reduced traffic to a crawl.
"The place is swarming with fuzzies. I met them outside and took them up to 
her room. Jesus, Matt, you could have warned me."
"Sorry, Gavin. I didn't think you'd..."
"Obviously the fuzz want to speak to you as a matter of urgency. I tried to 
explain what I knew, but you can guess how that went down."
"They need to contact Kent Police."
"Already done, Matt. It was Pitman, wasn't it? That's what I told them, 
anyhow."
" He's with Claire now. I think they're heading for the Foundation. I'm going 
to try meet them there, if weather permits."
"Better be quick, Matt, before they find you."
"Jesus, they don't think I..."
"Hell, no. But you're the key to the mystery, Matt. You, Claire and that kid. 
He still with you?"
"He's out cold. In shock, I think. He got to Ceri before I did."
"Christ, no. But he's okay?"
"Just about."
"Keep an eye on him, Matt."
"Don't worry. I can't imagine Uncle Tom even knows he exists, but I can assure 
you I'm not letting him out of my sight."
"Glad to hear it."
"What's next your end?"
"Hard to say. The fuzz aren't giving anything away. They're with Student 
Admin' now, for Ceri's next of kin. I don't envy them that one."
"Poor kid. She had so much going for her."
"My star pupil, Matt. She was brilliant."
"She was beautiful."
"Danny? I thought you were asleep."
"What, with you two yakking like a couple of old women?" He sounded more his 
old self. "Hi, Professor."
"Hullo, kid. You okay?"
"I guess. How about you?"
"Yeah, I'm okay too. Listen, kid, will you do me a favour?"
"What's that, Professor?"
"Just stick close to Matt and don't do anything stupid, understand? It's still 
not clear in my mind quite how you fit into all this, but I kinda like you. Just 
take care, alright?"
"Will do, Professor."
"Gavin, the snow's getting worse. Keep me informed."
"You know it. Take care."
Matt hit the off button and flicked the indicator, taking the exit at junction 
five.
Danny struggled to make the sign out through the blizzard. "What's in 
Sevenoaks?"
Matt said quietly, "Claire, Inspector Pitman. And the one recurring theme in 
this whole sordid affair, slap bang in the middle of that damn circle of yours. 
The Quinlan Foundation."





191


"This really is most irregular, Inspector."
"Murder inquiries are irregular, Miss Reynolds. What are all these rooms 
for?"
"I an't see how that can have any bearing on your investigation, Inspector."
Pitman stopped outside a door at random. "As I said earlier, Miss Reynolds, we 
can do this informally, now, or we can do it later, properly. Every room so far 
has a security lock. Why is that?"
Reynolds produced a card and swiped an electronic lock in a show of annoyance. 
The bolts clicked and the door swung open. 
"See for yourself, Inspector. I don't know what you think it is we're hiding, 
but you won't find it in there."
Pitman smiled sweetly. "I'm sure I won't."
As he stepped across the threshold a light clicked on automatically, 
illuminating shelf upon shelf of neatly stacked magazines and rows of DVDs.
"And this is?"
"Therapeutic stimulation resources."
"In English?"
"Pornography, Inspector. Hard core pornography. We obtain it direct from 
police sources, through the Home Office." She saw Pitman's wince and took full 
advantage. "The Foundation is licensed and personally approved by the Home 
Secretary. He and Dr Quinlan are on first name terms."
"No doubt." Pitman picked up a magazine at random and flicked a few pages, 
hurriedly returning it to the shelf with an embarrassed smile. "Very... Not 
exactly top shelf in the local newsagents." 
"As I said, Inspector, direct from police sources, In order to successfully 
treat offenders we first need to establish exactly what it is that stimulates 
them, that drives them: Women, other men, children, animals. Whatever their 
particular predilection, we can only offer treatment by first recreating that 
desire in controlled conditions. It's all very straight-forward."
"And in the case of a paedophile, for example, you would use child 
pornography?"
The two top shelves just there. Courtesy of the Paedophile Unit, Scotland Yard. 
Would you like to see some?"
"That won't be necessary."
As he led the way from the room the door automatically locked behind them.
"All fully secure, as you can see. Now, what's next on your little tour?" 
She gestured to a row of unmarked doors. "The kitchen? The toilet 
facilities?"
"Where you keep your patient records, please, Miss Reynolds."
He followed her along one corridor and down another. "Big place, this. What on 
earth do you need so many rooms for?"
Reynolds ignored the question. She led him into a windowless office. "All our 
client records are kept in this one room, on disks."
Pitman ran his eyes around the room with mild interest. Computers left him cold. 
"Exactly how secure is this room?"
"Totally. No windows, as you can see. Access can only be gained by security 
card."
"And who holds these cards?"
"Myself and Dr Quinlan, of course. And Molly."
"Molly?"
"Molly Hammett, our admin' secretary. She's been fully vetted, naturally."
"No-one else?"
"No-one at all. Visitors are escorted at all times, just as you are now. An 
obvious precaution given all our guests are current or former criminals. Present 
company excepted, of course."
"And these computers, could they be accessed from outside? What's the phrase, 
hacked into?"
"Out of the question, Inspector. Our internal computers are totally 
independent of the on-line access in Reception. The only way anyone could access 
information is by being in this room. And even then they'd need to know the 
computer security codes."
"Which are known only to the three of you?"
"No, just Dr Quinlan and I. Molly's role is purely administrative. She has no 
knowledge of the codes."
"And there's been no break-ins of any sort?"
"Inspector, I don't know where you're leading, but let me assure you right now 
the Quinlan Foundation is one hundred percent secure. Perhaps you'd like to see 
our security operations room next. I'm sure that will put your mind at rest."
As they made their way to the security room Pitman said, "I'd like a list of 
all you clients before I leave."
Reynolds stopped in her tracks. "I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me, Miss Reynolds. All your current and past clients. Say the last 
three years?"
"Quite impossible."
"Because?"
"Client confidentiality, of course. Data protection. Privacy laws. There is no 
way on Earth I could release such information."
"Believe me, Miss Reynolds, the Foundation will cooperate. We can get a Court 
order if necessary."
"You do that, Inspector. Dr Quinlan is very well connected. He'll soon put a 
stop to your games."
"This is no game, Miss Reynolds. As I said, this is a murder inquiry, and one 
of your patients is prime suspect."
"Yes, Greg Randall. Nothing you've said so far has given me any reason 
whatsoever to doubt his guilt."





192


"I understand Randall was receiving aversion therapy?"
"That's not for me to say."
"I'd like to see the place where this so-called therapy takes place, after 
I've seen the security set-up. Isn't it the case that you give your patients 
electric shocks while showing them obscene videos? A rather strange way to try 
and cure someone, if you ask me."
"Nobody is asking you, Inspector. I don't presume to make judgements about 
police procedures and I'll thank you to extend the same courtesy to our work 
here at the Foundation. I've already said, we're a licensed operator, authorised 
by the Home Office, to conduct this type of therapy. It may not be to your 
personal taste, but someone has to do it. And frankly the world is a safer place 
for it."
"Right. And I've got fairies at the bottom of my garden."
"Clearly, Inspector, you have no concept whatsoever of therapeutic methods, 
and I certainly have no intention of debating them with you. I really don't 
think you understand my position."
"I understand perfectly, Miss Reynolds. I'm sure that Dr Quinlan will prove 
less obstructive."
Reynolds stopped outside an unmarked door and swiped the card. Pitman was 
speechless. He'd seen high-tech security systems before, but this was impressive 
by any standard. On one of the many monitors he could see himself and Reynolds 
on screen. He swung round to see the camera, but saw nothing.
"Hidden lenses. All part of the Foundation's security. The only cameras you'll 
actually see are the external ones, for deterrent purposes, but the entire 
premises are covered. As I told you, Inspector, we take our security very 
seriously." 
On another screen he could see the secretary, Molly, at her desk. As he watched 
she got up and left the room. The monitor darkened and an adjacent screen lit 
up, showing Molly in the corridor, stopping outside another door. As she swiped 
a card and entered the monitor darkened and another monitor lit up to reveal 
Molly in a sparkling bathroom. He saw her reach for a button on the wall and the 
screen blanked. The words Privacy Requested appeared.
"Certain rooms have a privacy facility, for obvious reasons," Reynolds 
explained. "But I can over-ride it if you wish?"
"I'll take your word for it." Seeing Reynolds' secretary on the john was not 
high on his list of priorities.
"The audio is off at the moment, but we can hear every sound, when 
required." She hit a button and Pitman listened to Molly humming as she 
flushed the toilet. Reynolds hit another button and Pitman saw himself at the 
front door, shivering in the cold. He watched on fast-forward as they whizzed 
through the building together. Another button and the monitors returned to 
normal. Molly was making her way back to Reception.
"I'm impressed." Pitman pointed to an electronic blueprint of the building, 
with green and amber lights. "What's that?"
"Personnel monitoring. It's a back-up system, just in case the video 
surveillance failr a lens is obscured. It registers body heat. We can tell at a 
glance which rooms are occupied."
There were two green lights on. Reception and security. "So we're the only 
people in the building," Pitman surmised.
"Precisely, Inspector."
"What are the amber lights?"
"Threshold monitors. They indicate whether a door is secure or not. Every door 
in the building is covered. As you see, most of them are locked."
"And the ones that are not?"
"All internal doors. We're having some renovation done on the far side of the 
building. A pet project of Dr Quinlan's. No outside contractors, before you ask. 
Dr Quinlan and his son undertake all the work themselves."
A buzzer sounded and Reynolds picked up the receiver. Pitman could see Molly on 
the screen, but only hear Reynolds' response.
"One moment, Molly, then put him through." She turned to Pitman. 
"Inspector, I have to speak with a client, on a confidential mater. Would you 
mind waiting outside? Perhaps you'd like to go on ahead and inspect the Aversion 
Therapy Unit."
"Alone?"
"No personal details or effects are there, and as I've made clear, none will 
be made available. But if you wish to go ahead I'll join you shortly and explain 
the broad principles."
"And how will I get in without the magic card?"
Reynolds flicked a switch and an amber light appeared on the board. "There, 
it's unlocked ready for you. Turn right out of here, left at the end, take 
another left and it's the fourth door. You can't miss it. It's the only one that 
will be open. I'll join you as soon as I can."
"I'll find it." Pitman pulled the door shut behind him. Turn right, she 
said. He turned left and set off, pushing against every closed door as he went.
Reynolds watched his progress on the monitors. So predictable.
Something caught her eye on the forecourt monitor. She zoomed in on Pitman's 
car.
"Molly, I can't take that call after all. Be and dear and put me through to 
James."





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.





201


It was a fleeting glimpse. 
Cold, staring eyes peering through the glass.
Instinctively she knew this was the face of her daughter's killer.
A split second and he was gone, leaving just the swirling snow. Claire moved 
closer, the finger-marks on the window confirming she hadn't imagined it. In 
desperation she picked up the laptop and threw it at the French windows. The 
snow fell in an avalanche, the computer shattering into myriad pieces, but the 
strengthened glass stood firm. 
She grabbed the heavy coffee table and threw it against the glass. The table 
legs gave way. The window stood defiant.
Reynolds sipped her beverage, watching the monitor with amusement. A 
sledgehammer couldn't break that glass, let alone the feeble efforts of an 
asthma-stricken women. 
Beside her, Dr Quinlan stirred his tea calmly. An amber light flicked on, 
accompanied by a buzzer, indicating the rear entrance to the museum was open.
"Excellent," he said. "Now we are all here, it's time I met our guests and 
brought this matter to a satisfactory conclusion."





202


Above the howl of the wind neither could hear the other, but Claire's stricken 
face and the broken computer and table at the foot of the window told their own 
story. Danny gave a thumbs-up sign and stepped back into the snow.
He came to the van from the passenger side, slowly raising his head to window 
level, relieved to find the cabin empty. 
He opened the door and reached across to grab the keys from the ignition, at any 
moment expecting the deadly grip of Uncle Tom on his shoulder. He was about to 
throw the keys into the snow when the thought struck him. 
He hesitated, not sure he wanted to know, then slowly, almost against his will, 
he moved to the back of the van and unlocked the rear doors.
He had an idea of what to expect from his True Crime magazines, but reality, 
even by the fast-fading light, was more sobering than any sanitized magazine 
article. 
The cushioned walls, leather thongs and video camera told their own sordid 
story. 
Fear dictated he run, but the strewn clothes in the dim light found him 
clambering into the vehicle, his heart racing. 
The woollen leggings. 
The sweatshirt. 
The blouse. 
The mound of blankets in the corner.
He stopped short, paralysed with fear, not anting to know. 
He edged forward, psyching himself for the unthinkable. 
The inevitable.
It was the slightest movement, but his heart leapt. He was on the mound in a 
second, pulling back the blankets.
Raw eyes stared back at him, tear ducts long-since exhausted, fear gouged into 
the child's face. 
She struggled to breathe through her nose, the gag so tight Danny could barely 
loosen the knot. He slipped Ceri's key between the bonds, severing the cloth. 
As the gag released, the child slipped into fitful bursts of tears, her 
partially clothed body shaking, her words incoherent. 
Danny found himself in tears with her as he clutched the traumatised girl to 
him.
His mind racing, he weighed the options. The child was safer in the van than 
out, where hypothermia would end her young life as surely as Uncle Tom himself. 
He threw her clothes to her, offering comforting words that went unheard above 
the whine of trauma. 
He closed and locked the door after him, slipping the van key into his jacket 
pocket, clutching Ceri's key tightly in his hand, tapping strength and 
reassurance from its presence. A constant reminder of his purpose there. 
He knew the child's life hung in the balance. 
Perhaps his too.
He tried to think what Ceri might have done in the circumstances. 
Slowly, stealthily, he followed the footprints around the side of the building.





203


"You poor thing. You must be freezing." She stretched up with difficulty and 
brushed the snow from his collar, gazing into his eyes. 
"There's tea in the pot. We've had visitors today, Thomas. Three of them, 
snooping. That nosey copper I met at Social Services? He found the exhibit. But 
don't worry. I've taken care of him."
He swung his massive arms around her scrawny frame, lifting her in a bear-hug. 
"I saw the woman as I passed. The face is familiar."
"Claire Meadows. Remember Rebecca?"
He licked his lips. "Every second."
Reynolds couldn't help but smile. Then her face became serious.
"Thomas, you've been to Liverpool."
He shrugged. "The student. She was too smart for her own good."
"We should have discussed it first."
"She had it coming. Interfering slut."
"We don't need this, Thomas. What's your father going to say?"
"I know what I'm doing."
"Four bodies in three days?"
He smiled. "Five. I picked up a little something for the weekend."
Reynolds recoiled. "My God, Thomas, you're really losing it!" Her eyes 
widened in worry. "The suicide complex!"
He grabbed her shoulders. "Look at me? Do I look unstable?"
"But Thomas, what about the controls? Your father's work means nothing without 
the controls."
"One more won't hurt."
"Thomas, you didn't need another girl."
"You don't understand. This isn't just any girl. She's ten years old. Eleven 
at most. On the cusp of puberty. This is totty. Top totty. I tell you, this 
child is gagging for it."
Reynolds leant up and kissed him on the cheek. "Thomas, you really are quite 
incorrigible. I love you so much."
"I love you too, Mum."





204


The footprints led to double doors on the newly built extension. 
Danny pushed against the entrance, mortified to find it ease open, snow 
preventing the seal that would have allowed the electronic bolts to engage. 
There could be no turning back. 
He clutched the key to his chest. "This is for you, Ceri."
The faint light from outside was extinguished as he cautiously pushed the door 
to, his confidence bolstered by the sure knowledge of an escape route.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness a semblance of vision slowly returned, 
allowing him to mak out the parameters of the hall. He felt for the wall and 
slowly began following the boundary, feeling for a switch or door handle. His 
hand gripped the velvet drape, the sudden illumination of the amber spotlight 
startling him. The green light stood out in the gloom, and the drape furled as 
he hit it.
Frederick West committed suicide in HMP Winston Green, Birmingham on New Year's 
Day 1995 while awaiting joint trial with his wife Rosemary, for what was to have 
been one of Britain's biggest sex-crime trials of the twentieth century.
Danny hit the red button, fascination giving way to fear someone might have 
heard. 
A keen mind surmised he was in a museum of some kind, but this was no time to 
explore. 
He moved cautiously on, the amber light following him. The next green light 
flashed on as he approached, but he ignored it, reaching past to pull across the 
drape by hand. He recognised instantly the sinister features of Robert Black. He 
let the curtain fall, casting a glance around the countless hidden exhibits. 
He felt the key in his palm and focused on the task. He made for the double 
doors, now just discernible in the gloom.
He paused, hesitant. He could still turn back. The police were on the way. 
Inspector Pitman was already here somewhere. 
He remembered Claire's frightened face through the window. 
He thought of the child in the van. 
The double doors refused to budge. He could see the card-reader on the wall and 
felt a mixture of frustration and relief. Now he had good reason for going no 
further. 
The streak of moisture on the floor glistened in the amber light, catching his 
eye. 
He looked closer and saw what looked like a credit card. Guessing it might be 
the key-card for the door he bent down to pick it up, registering horror as he 
realised it was stained with blood. 
Perhaps he was blase about death by now, perhaps just driven by the adrenalin 
of the moment, but he remained calm as he pulled the drape aside to reveal the 
knife sticking from the back of the man he guessed must be Inspector Pitman.
He swiped the card. 
There would be no turning back.
He stepped into the harsh light of the corridor, and began systematically 
swiping the card at each door, hesitantly pushing the door open, each time 
relieved to find the room empty.





205


"How do I look?"
Reynolds savoured the scent of Imperial Leather. She adjusted a cuff-link. 
"The perfect gentleman."
"Where's Dad?"
"Waiting for you outside Room 8. The journalist is locked in there."
"I'm going to enjoy this."
Reynolds gave him a playful slap. "Do behave! Your father's quite capable of 
dealing with Burford. You know how people demure to his professional image. But 
he wants you there as back-up. Just in case."
He flexed his muscles. "I'll take care of him."
"No. No more bloodshed today. Least of all here."
"But the copper. You said..."
"We'll worry about that later. Just leave it to your father."
"What was it like?"
"What?"
"The cop. How did it feel?"
A smile spread across her face. "The knife went in so easily. I was really 
surprised. But Thomas, you were so right. It was everything you said it was."





206


"Mr Burford, I'm so very sorry. There's been a breakdown in our security 
system."
Matt's anger was instantly dissipated by the appearance of the wheelchair-bound 
pensioner in the doorway. 
"The whole building was locked for a while. Dr Reynolds and I had to wait for 
the arrival of my son to bypass the circuit. Electronics is not my field of 
expertise, as I'm sure you understand." He held out a hand. "Please accept 
my most sincere apologies. I'm Dr Quinlan. James Quinlan."
Matt ignored the hand. He eyed the second figure behind the old man with 
suspicion. "Where's Claire?"
"Mrs Meadows? Dr Reynolds is with her now." 
His hand remained outstretched. Matt took it reluctantly, suspicion fading 
slowly. Being locked in an empty room had allowed his imagination to run riot, 
yet here was the eponymous Dr Quinlan offering heartfelt apologies and an 
entirely plausible explanation.
The man behind Quinlan stepped forward, a friendly smile. "I'm Dr Quinlan's 
son, Thomas. Pleased to meet you."
Matt shook hands but did not reciprocate the smile. "I want to see Claire. 
Now."
Dr Quinlan's eyes sparkled. "As I said, she's with Dr Reynolds. Her asthma... 
Claire is in good hands, I can assure you."
"She's okay?"
"Nothing a hot cup of tea cannot put right. But I'm forgetting my manners. Can 
I get you some refreshments?"
"Is Pitman with them?"
"Inspector Pitman is searching the premises as we speak. I've allowed him a 
free run of the building, of course. You know how policeman are. Never satisfied 
until they've upturned every last stone. Was that a yes to tea? Coffee? Thomas, 
would you be so kind? Molly was sent home early." To Matt, "Please, come 
this way. We'll find somewhere more comfortable."
Matt followed the old man as he wheeled slowly down the corridor. 
"The Inspector 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 civilised 
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. 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 
this solicitor fellow, Isaac, and lord only knows who else."
"The police 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 solicitor, 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."





207


"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 a solicitor 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 quit 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 idolised the media image of Uncle Tom. There 
would be many, I can assure you. Especially after the way the tabloid press 
manipulated and sensationalised 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, while an innocent man is behind bars."
"Innocent? Forgive me, Matthew, but I didn't realise 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 paedophile 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 Mold. A simple 
coincidence. As for Uncle Tom being fluent in Welsh... It's no laughing matter, 
of course, but Dr Reynolds and I were particularly amused by that one."
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 Tom beyond an obscure Welsh 
town that no-one has ever heard of. 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 town beginning with the letter X? There are none."
"Oh, but there is, Dr Quinlan."
Quinlan leaned forward. "Please enlighten me."
"We believe a child was abducted from Christmas Common."
Quinlan let out a long sigh. "Very well, Matthew, let's hear the whole story. 
I couldn't live with myself if a professional misjudgement on my part resulted 
in the death of another child."





208


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 heat 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. 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 Inspector 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 own. He followed Pitman into the museum, 
knowing what was to come. He looked away as the knife plunged silently into the 
Inspector'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 of 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.





209


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 mobile.
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 apologised 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?"





210


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 brandished 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 mesmerised as Uncle Tom 
blocked the attack with one hand, the other smashing deep into his 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 Matt 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 the boy at arm's length off 
the ground, the screwdriver falling from his hand. 
Danny felt the fingers tightening, the oxygen supply slowing. 
icked 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 forced 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 agonised screams as Uncle Tom struggled to get up 
from his knees, then Matt seized the heavy anglepoise 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 Inspector... 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."





211


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...
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 recognised it 
was the Inspector. 
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.





212


In the security control centre Danny was cursing his earlier enthusiasm as he 
toyed with the loose wires of the console to try 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.





213


As the final drape fell 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 recognised 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 takes 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 paedophile 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 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 Inspector Pitman. Of Ceri and Danny. Of the 
police officers, neighbours, 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-dependant? 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." She 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?"





214


As Reynolds advanced, knife raised, Claire lunged forward with 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, defenceless, 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 savouring 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 louder. "Help me! She's mad!"
Matt kicked the knife away, taking Claire by the arm, easing her to her 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.





215


The three of them watched the evening bulletin together. 
Matt clutched and 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, "Laura Coverton, from Queensferry. 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 encyclopaedia of crime. Right, partner?"
Danny said quietly, "Not any more, Matt. The first thing I'm gonna do when I 
get home is bin 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."

The End.