Sugar & Spice (US edition)

by Saffina Desforges

  “My God!” Claire was bolt upright. “Quinlan? 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 license 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 trial lawyer in 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 realized, 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 analyzed 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 very 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, Clare, 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. Pedophiles. 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 why there are so few women CEOs. 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, neighbors, 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 Pennsylvania you really should see. It's quite obvious from your e
xpression, 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 defense 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.

  He 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. Congress spends most of its time 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 are sometimes jailed, but it’s the poor social workers who carry 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 Yonkers, 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 cell 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 congressman. When was he going to visit? The yard 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 realized 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 Yonkers, and before that in the center of New York City. It was so obvious! We could have been there. But 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?”

  “When you see her tell her to call me immediately. Lend her your cell-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. The police 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 cell's off, but I'll get back to you as soon as she calls me.”

  “Do that.”

  Matt dialed again.

  “Danny? A favor.”

  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. Tell her she owes me an email.”

  “You’ve been emailing her?”

  Danny grinned. “All the time. 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. Has she said anything about Uncle Tom?”

  Danny shrugged. “Only that she had some worries. Not heard from her since. Guess she’s been busy.”

  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 mom! 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, bud.” He put the phone down.

  “See ya, bud?”

  “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 something to do with horses, right? See, Matt, I'm a natural at this game.”

  “It's nothing to do with horses.”

  “Then what?”

  “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 journalistic stuff. Not for kids.”

  The smile.

  Matt eyed his junior partner warily.

  “Not all that clever, if you don't know who Canter is.”

  “Who? It’s a person?”

  “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’s one of the profiling pioneers. British guy, I think.”

  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 Lake Ontario 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.”