Sugar & Spice (US edition)

by Saffina Desforges

  “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’s what 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 closet? Children's underwear? Little girls' panties?”

  “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' underwear. Greg, these items were found in the closet in your bedroom, along with your own clothes. Do you recognize 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 panties 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. “Elizabeth. 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 closet they were shown to your wife Elizabeth. 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 panties I'm holding which states they are for a nine to ten year old?”

  149

  Lovett picked up another pair of panties 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 closet.”

  “And?”

  “Quite old catalogues. Your wife Elizabeth 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 closet?”

  “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 Elizabeth 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 recognize 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 an Oswego PO Box. Dated November twenty-first. It's from the Quinlan Foundation at an address in Syracuse, 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 Jefferson Clinic, White Plains, 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 clicked the roof of his mouth with his tongue. “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 an attorney 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 White Plains 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 then.”

  “It’s a fair way. Elizabeth wasn't expecting me back until late. I had some time to kill.”


  “Just time?”

  Randall looked at Lovett, bewildered.

  “So what did you do all day?”

  “I went to Jacob Purdy’s House.”

  “A friend?”

  Pitman glared at his colleague. “George Washington’s home during the Revolutionary War. Do they not teach history anymore?” To Randall, “You went 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. Elizabeth thought I was on an IT course in the City.”

  “Mr Randall, on the day you attended, or rather did not attend, the Jefferson Clinic, White Plains, a nine year old girl was abducted and murdered. Her mutilated body was found in a trash pile 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?”

  “Sergeant 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 White Plains. 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 White Plains 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 an attorney?”

  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 Camel Silver. They could go down as expenses for the brats too. With ten minutes to spare she sat down for a coffee 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 faded. “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. Starbursts. I love starbursts, don't you?”

  No response.

  “I like the yellow ones best.” She waved the packet. “Yellow's my favorite color. What's yours?”

  The twins eyes darted between hers and the starbursts in her hand. She produced a second packet 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 waved the packs. “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 candy for myself, shall I?” She slowly and deliberately moved the packs 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 starbursts 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 pack to Natalie. Tiny fingers snatched at it and Natalie huddled back with her sister.

  Tamara hesitated, calculating the odds. Natalie would share her candies. They shared everything. But half a pack each was not as good as a full pack each. Natalie was struggling with the wrap. Bamford held the second pack 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 starbursts. She retrieved a brush from her bag and began tending their hair, offering comforting comments 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 starbursts 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 colors. 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, realizing 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 starbursts 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 candy, 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 Mommy be here?”<
br />
  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 Mommy.”

  “Me too.”

  “After.”

  “Why can't Mommy be here now?”

  “Natalie, your mommy is very busy.”

  “Is she at work?”

  “Yes.”

  Tamara eyed her with suspicion. “It's light outside. Mommy 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 disappointment. “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. ‘Specially children. Grandpa smacked us once and Daddy shouted at him really loud. Grandpa 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? Mommy or daddy?”