Sugar & Spice (US edition)

by Saffina Desforges

  Bristow said nothing.

  “He asked you a question, ChoMo.” 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, ChoMo.”

  “I'm sure he didn't mean it. Did you, Thomas?”

  Bristow's body was shaking, fearing the next blow.

  “Why don't you apologies 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, ChoMo.”

  “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, ChoMo?” 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 coffee. I'll have one too. How about you, Thomas? Coffee? Iced tea?”

  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, ChoMo.”

  “No. Thank you. I don't want anything.”

  “Get him a coffee, Peter. He'd love a coffee.”

  “Sugar, ChoMo?”

  “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 cigarette. I expect it's the same with you, Thomas. See a little kid and you just have to fuck 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 squad football 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 bastards.”

  “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 pedophile 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?”

  “That was then. 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 ChoMo, always a ChoMo.”

  “I swear to you I had nothing to do with the girl.”

  “Rochester police disagree. They want to talk to you. So why are you this far from home?”

  “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 realize 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 lawyer.”

  “What, at this time of morning? That's not very sociable.”

  “He won't mind. Jeremy is a friend.”

  “Oh yes? Likes 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 Lawyer 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. Rochester 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 faggot-fucking social worker types. 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 panties, little girl, and I’ll let you play with my cone?”

  “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 Greenwich. That's just up the road from the Champlain Canal

  “So?”

  “The same canal where Rebecca's body was found.”

  He understood the earlier reference now. “I've never been near it. I swear it.”

  Brown Suit leered close to Bristow’s face. “That's funny. It says on your driver’s license you were born in Fort Miller.”

  “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 Greenwich 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 lawyer.”

  “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 lawyer. 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 Rochester?”

  “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 lawyer. Any lawyer. I'm saying nothing else.”

  25

  Peter entered the room carrying a tray with three plastic cups of steaming coffee.

  “How's it going? He signed the confession yet?”

  “Mr. Whippy doesn't want to talk to us, Peter. Says he wants his attorney. Seems to think he has rights or something.”

  Bristow saw Peter's blurred figure put the tray on the table, then move towards him with a cup of coffee in his hand. “Two sugars, wasn't it?”

  He nodded.

  “Oops.” Peter poured the steaming coffee 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 coffee 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, bud. You can have the next pervert we bring in.”

  “Fucking ChoMo! 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 ChoMos.” 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, savoring it. “Please, a cigarette. Just one drag.”

  “You want a smoke, ChoMo? 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, ChoMo?” It was Peter's voice.

  Bristow stammered the answer. “My right.”

  “Which hand do you use to finger the little girls, ChoMo?”

  “I've never -” He screamed in pain as the boot came from nowhere, smashing into his groin. “Please, 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 coffee 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 Champlain 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, ChoMo.”

  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, ChoMo.” 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 Bristow’s hand to the pen, not letting go till Bristow 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.”