Sugar & Spice (US edition) Read online

  Sugar & Spice

  by Saffina Desforges

  Published by Saffina Desforges at Smashwords

  Copyright © Saffina Desforges, 2011

  Saffina Desforges has asserted her rights in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  The ground-breaking debut crime thriller that has taken the e-book world by storm.

  The #1 crime thriller best seller – available ONLY in e-book format.

  Over 50,000 copies sold already.

  Praise for Sugar & Spice:

  “Outstanding - compares well to any P.D. James novel.”

  An American Editor

  “Highly recommended.”

  Sam Millar

  “An unsettling read with echoes of Mo Hayder.”

  Crimetime.co.uk

  Sugar & Spice: When you think the unthinkable, where do you turn?

  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.

  ~

  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...

  Driven by the need for closure, a mother confronts the man accused of her daughter’s murder. 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...

  Teaming up with a second-year psychology student and a fourteen year-old truant schoolboy, Sugar & Spice is the story of a mother’s fight to bring one man's reign of terror to an end.

  ~

  But be warned: In Sugar & Spice not all things are nice...

  ~

  Read the following selected excerpts from reader reviews before you read the book!

  Full reviews and sources at www.sugarandspicethenovel.com

  Reader Reviews

  “My life was on hold for three days so I could finish it. Well researched and thought out. Horrific storyline but gripping, convincing, and believable.”

  “Firstly, I would like to say if you're of a sensitive disposition beware...This book isn't for the faint hearted!“

  “In parts I was almost reading from behind my slightly parted fingers, so uncomfortable was the subject matter but the brilliant characterisation and the seamless way each chapter led onto the next made for compulsive reading.”

  “I cannot recommend this book highly enough. Gripped me from the start and never let go until the last page! Subject matter may concern some people but remember that it is a work of fiction; just a story. The characters are realistic and believable and there are surprises galore.”

  “Not many books make me cringe but parts of this one did. It was similar to seeing a car crash and driving slowly past to watch when you know you shouldn't. I felt almost guilty reading it, but couldn't put it down.”

  “This book was frightening to say the least and full of mind provoking facts - had to leave it though at several stages as I became too scared to read on!! Came back- as curiosity took the better of me. Found I was holding my breath too as many awful situations occurred, heart pounding and even "talked" and shouted at my e-reader. Not for the feint hearted.”

  “It seems like the sort of book that it should be 'wrong' to enjoy, but it really was brilliant. I am a massive crime fiction fan, and this book did not disappoint. It certainly makes you wonder if one of these clinics exists in real life. (Or maybe it does, and I am clearly showing my ignorance!). You connect with the lead characters, and have pure sympathy and genuine feelings towards their pain and the torture they are going through as the killer is being looked for. I am certainly looking forward to the next book by this author.”

  “However, a word of warning - it is graphic in its detail and its insight into the mind of a paedophile in the character of Greg Randall. This makes it chilling but also makes it believable and realistic, if not also uncomfortable reading in places.”

  “This book is not for the faint hearted.”

  “This book has the ability to make you feel sick to your stomach, desperate to find out who is responsible and full of hope for the still-alive victims.”

  “Absolutely one of the most thought provoking and intelligent books in a long time. Knowingly uncomfortable in parts, but an absolutely outstanding example of how fiction should influence reality.”

  Sugar & Spice

  by

  Saffina Desforges

  US Edition

  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!”

  Eager eyes roamed for their next adrenalin fix. What seemed to be a mannequin’s arm, 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.

  “Cool!”

  The 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!”

  It hung just beneath the surface, suspended amid the sundry flotsam and jetsam that characterizes an urban canal in old age. Oil slick rainbows on the water’s dark surface iridescent in the August sun, added to the spectrum of colors the canal paraded, in the form of cookie packets and Wal-Mart 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 bag from The Oldest Store In America floated nearby. 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 trop
hy. 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

  The Scuba Squad was in place just after noon. By the time the first frogmen slipped into the murky water, the child’s limb was already in a pathology lab in Saratoga Springs.

  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 judgment 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 the police scuba team conducted their fingertip exploration of the canal’s depths, records of missing children were being consulted and collated in preparation for the inevitable. Across the state officers were on stand-by.

  In the operations room on Jay Street, Rochester, Lieutenant 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 materialize. 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 rubber-neckers at bay, the Crocker’s Reef banks of the Champlain Canal were rapidly populated with the curious, the concerned and the media, quick to realize 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 impossible. Vessels 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 rumors about the yellow fingernail on the severed arm were being tossed between editorial boards at news centers 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 a 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 lab.

  As crime scene investigators 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 color vibrant against the graying 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 Lieutenant Pitman, who was on his way to Pittsford to see 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. 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 from Family and Victim Services, if 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 strangled.”

  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 anxiously fingered the clay 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 descrip
tion 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.” She paused. “She was only ten?”

  “At a friend’s house, maybe?”

  Claire looked up, a sudden, frantic hope in her eyes. “Are you sure it’s her? Could it be someone else?”

  Pitman wanted, with every fiber 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 the night at Matt’s apartment on Marsh Road, overlooking the White Haven Memorial Park.

  They barely made it before the first of the reporters descended on Claire’s E. Jefferson Road home, soliciting predictable commentary from shocked neighbors. Among them, Matt’s own colleagues.

  He was seeing his job through new eyes now. His cell phone 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…