Sugar & Spice

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 Š 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
[email protected]

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.”