Wednesday's Child

I

Early the next morning, Banks stood on his doorstep holding the milk bottles and breathed in the clear air. It was a magnificent day: not a cloud in the light blue sky, and hardly any wind. He could smell peat-smoke in the air, and it seemed to accentuate the chill autumn edge, the advancing touch of winter. More than anything, it was a day for walking out in the dale, and it would bring dozens of tourists to the Eastvale area.

He went inside and put the milk in the fridge. He could hear Tracy taking her morning shower and Sandra moving about in the bedroom, getting dressed. It had been a good night when he got back from the Queen’s Arms. Sandra had got home before him, and before bed they enjoyed a nightcap and some Ella Fitzgerald on the CD player she had bought him for his fortieth birthday. Tracy came home on time, cheerful enough, and Banks couldn’t detect any change for the worse in her that he could attribute to her boyfriend, Keith Harrison. Still, he thought as he poured himself a cup of coffee, domestic life had changed a lot over the summer.

For one thing, Brian had left home for Portsmouth Polytechnic, where he intended to study architecture. Much as they had locked horns the past few years — especially over music and staying out too late — Banks missed him. He was left with Tracy, now so grown-up he hardly knew her: blonde hair chopped short and layered raggedly, mad about boys, make-up, clothes, pop music.

They never seemed to talk any more, and he missed those chats about history — her former passion — especially when he had been able to educate her on a point or two. Banks had always felt insecure about his lack of a good formal education, so Tracy’s questions had often made him feel useful. But he knew nothing about the latest pop groups, fashion or cosmetics.

And Sandra had become absorbed in her work. He told himself, as he buttered his toast, not to be so damned selfish and to stop feeling sorry for himself. She was doing what she wanted — getting involved in the arts — after so many years of sacrifice for the sake of the family and for his career. And if he hadn’t wanted an independent, spirited, creative woman, then he shouldn’t have married her. Still, he worried. She was late so often, and some of these local artists were handsome young devils with the reputation of being ladies’ men. They were more free-spirited than he was, too, with Bohemian attitudes about sex, no doubt.

Perhaps Sandra found him boring now and was looking for excitement elsewhere. At thirty-eight, she was a fine-looking woman, with an unusual mix of long blonde hair and dark eyebrows over intelligent blue eyes. The slim, shapely figure she had worked hard to maintain always turned heads. Again he told himself not to be such a fool. It was the work that was taking up her time, not another man.

Sandra and Tracy were still upstairs when he had finished his coffee and toast. He called out goodbye, put on his charcoal sports jacket, patting the side pocket for cigarettes and lighter, and set off. It was such a fine morning — and he knew how quickly the day could turn to misery — that he decided to walk the mile or so to Eastvale Regional Headquarters rather than drive. He could always sign a car out of the pool if he needed one.

He stuck the Walkman in his pocket and turned it on. Ivor Gurney’s setting of “In Flanders” started: “I’m homesick for my hills again — My hills again!” Banks had come to Gurney first through some of his poems in an anthology of First World War poetry, then, learning he had been a composer too, went in search of the music. There wasn’t much available, just a handful of songs — settings of other people’s poems — and some piano music, but Banks found the spareness and simplicity intensely moving.

As he walked along Market Street, he said hello to the shopkeepers winding out their awnings and called in at the newsagent’s for his copy of The Independent. Glancing at the front page as he walked, he spotted Gemma Scupham’s photograph and a brief request for information. Good, they’d been quick off the mark.

When he got to the market square, the first car was disgorging its family of tourists, dad with a camera slung around his neck, and the children in orange and yellow cagoules. It was hard to believe on such a day that a seven-year-old girl probably lay dead somewhere in the dale.

Banks went straight to the conference room upstairs in the station. It was their largest room, with a well-polished oval table at its centre, around which stood ten stiff-backed chairs. It was rare that ten people actually sat there, though, and this morning, in addition to Banks, only Superintendent Gristhorpe, Susan Gay and Phil Richmond occupied chairs. Banks helped himself to a black coffee from the urn by the window and sat down. He was a few minutes early, and the others were chatting informally, pads and pencils in front of them.

First, Gristhorpe tossed a pile of newspapers onto the table and bade everyone have a look. Gemma Scupham’s disappearance had made it in all the national dailies as well as in the Yorkshire Post. In some of the tabloids, she even made the headline: the photo of the melancholy-looking little girl with the straggly blonde hair appeared under captions such as HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL? in “Jesus type.” The stories gave few details, which hardly surprised Banks as there were scant few to give. A couple of pieces implied criticism of Brenda Scupham, but nothing libellous. Most were sympathetic to the mother.

“That might help us a bit,” Gristhorpe said. “But I wouldn’t count on it. And remember, the press boys will be around here in droves as soon as the London trains come in this morning. Let’s be careful what we say, eh, or before we know it we’ll be up to our necks in tales of satanic rituals.” Gristhorpe stood up, grimaced and put his hand to the small of his back. “Anyway, let’s get on. We’ve circulated Gemma’s picture, and Susan managed to lift a set of her prints from a paint-box, so we’ve got them on file for comparison. Nothing new came up during the night. We did about as well as can be expected on the house-to-house. Four people say they remembered seeing a car parked outside Brenda Scupham’s house on Tuesday afternoon. Of these, two say it was black, one dark brown and one dark blue.” Gristhorpe paused. “I think, therefore, that we can be certain it was a dark car.” He refilled his coffee cup and sat down again. “As far as the make is concerned we got even less. They all agreed it was a pretty small car, but not as small as a Mini, and it looked quite new. It wasn’t an estate car or a van of any kind, so we’re looking at a compact. One said it reminded him of those Japanese jobbies he’s seen advertised on television, so it may be an import. Needless to say, no one got the number.”

“Did anyone see the couple?” Banks asked.

“Yes.” Gristhorpe looked at the file in front of him. “The woman at number eleven said she was washing her windows and she saw a well-dressed couple going up the path. Said they looked official, that’s all. She thought maybe Mrs Scupham or her friend had got in trouble with DHSS.”

“Hmm,” said Banks. “Hardly surprising. I don’t suppose anybody saw them leaving with the child?”

Gristhorpe shook his head.

“Well,” Banks said, “at least it helps confirm Brenda Scupham’s story.”

“Aye.” Gristhorpe looked over at Susan Gay, who had done most of the questioning. “Who would you say was our most reliable witness?”

“Mr Carter at number sixteen, sir. It wasn’t so much that he’d seen more than the others, but he seemed to be thinking very seriously about what he had seen, and he told me he had a strong visual memory — not quite photographic, but he could close his eyes and picture scenes. He seemed careful not to make anything up. You know, sir, how a lot of them embroider on the truth.”

“What colour did he say the car was?” Banks asked.

“Dark blue, and he thought it was a Japanese design, too. But he didn’t see this Peterson and Brown couple, just the car.”

“Shame,” said Gristhorpe. “Had he seen it around before?”

“No, sir.”

“Think it would do any good talking to him again?”

“It might,” said Susan. “I’ll drop by sometime today. He’s a pensioner and I get the impression he’s lonely. He seemed pleased to have a bit of company. It took me a while to get him round to what he’d seen.”

Gristhorpe smiled. “Let him ramble a while, if it helps. Indulge him. And we’d better organize a house-to-house of the entire estate. I want to know if anything like this has happened there before, people posing as social workers after children. No one’s likely to admit to it, but if you get the feeling that anyone’s being particularly evasive, for whatever reason, make a note and we’ll get back to them. Can you handle that, Susan?”

Susan Gay nodded.

“Take as many PCs as you can find, and make sure you give them a damn good briefing first. Most of the lads are out on the search, but we’ve been promised extra manpower on this.” He turned to Richmond. “We’ve got to check with all the garages in the area and see if they remember anyone matching the description stopping for petrol. And I want to see all the police traffic reports — parking or speeding tickets — for Tuesday. In fact, make it for the past week. I want to know if anyone remembers a smartly dressed couple with a little girl in a dark blue compact. Better check with the car-rental agencies, too. Phil, can you handle all that?”

Richmond nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ve already got a computer printout of locals with any kind of history of child molestation. None of the descriptions match. Do you want me to start on that too?”

“How many?”

“Six, sir — that’s four in the Swainsdale area and two in Sergeant Hatchley’s patch. But we’ve no way of telling where our couple started out from.”

“I know,” said Gristhorpe. “I’ll get onto DS Hatchley, and you just do the best you can. We’ll see if we can’t pay a couple of visits ourselves. But I want priority on tracking down that car. Someone must have noticed it. By the way, those computers you wanted have been delivered to the mobile unit. Do you think you can take a trip out there and give the lads a quick lesson?”

“No problem.”

“Any questions?” Gristhorpe asked.

“Did forensics find anything at the house?” Banks asked.

Gristhorpe shook his head. “Not a sausage. The SOCO team did a thorough job, and they couldn’t find any traces of a struggle — no blood, nothing — or any indications that Gemma had been harmed on the premises. I think we can assume that Mrs Scupham is telling the truth and this couple really did abduct the lass.”

“Anything new on Les Poole?” Banks asked.

“Nothing,” Gristhorpe answered. “According to the PCs on the night shift, he got back from the pub about ten o’clock and hasn’t been out since. Anything else?”

“What about Gemma’s father?” Susan asked.

“As far as we know, he’s serving with the army in Belfast, poor sod. We’ll arrange to get the locals to interview him today, if possible, just to make sure he’s got nothing to do with it.” Gristhorpe clapped his hands. “Right. If there’s nothing else, we’d better get cracking.” As they left, he touched Banks on the shoulder. “Alan, a moment?”

“Of course.”

Gristhorpe poured more coffee for himself and Banks. He didn’t look too bad for someone who hadn’t had much sleep, Banks thought. Perhaps the bags under his eyes were heavier than usual, but he seemed alert and full of drive.

“I’m getting involved in this one, Alan,” he said. “At every level. I’ll not be content just to sit in my office and co-ordinate, though I’ll be doing that, of course. I’ll be spending a fair amount of time at the mobile unit and I’ll be conducting some interviews myself. I want you to know that, and I want you to know so you don’t let it interfere with your usual way of working. I’ve always given you a pretty free hand, and it’s usually got results. I don’t want to change that. What I do want is to be present when we get the breaks. Know what I mean?”

Banks nodded.

“And there’s something else,” Gristhorpe said. “Something the ACC made very clear as a priority concern.”

Banks thought he could guess what was coming, but kept silent while Gristhorpe went on.

“Gemma Scupham might be the first,” he said, “but she might not be the last. Let’s bear that in mind.”

Banks carried his coffee through to his office, where he lit a cigarette, then stood by the venetian blind and looked down on the market square. The façade of the Norman church and the cobbles of the market square shone pale gold in the pure light. Two more cars had arrived, and yet another was just pulling in. Banks watched the young couple get out and stand hand in hand gazing around them at the ancient square with its weathered stone cross. Honeymooners, by the look of them. The church clock rang nine.

He thought about Brenda Scupham, with her aura of sexuality, and of the sly, weasly Les Poole, and he tried to imagine what kind of parents they must have made. They can’t have had much time for Gemma, with Les always at the pub or the bookie’s and Brenda at home doing God knows what. Watching television, most likely. Did they talk to her? Play with her? And did they abuse her?

Then he thought of Gemma herself: that haunted face, those eyes that had seen much more and much worse than her young mind could comprehend, possibly lying dead out there right now in some ditch, or buried in a makeshift grave. And he thought of what Gristhorpe had just said. He stubbed out his cigarette and reached for the telephone. No time for brooding. Time to get to work.

II

A desolate, stunned air pervaded the East Side Estate that morning, Banks sensed, as he walked from the mobile unit to the school. Even the dogs seemed to be indoors, and those people he did see going on errands or pushing babies in prams had their heads bowed and seemed drawn in on themselves. He passed the maisonettes with their obscene messages scrawled on the cracked paintwork, and the two blocks of flats — each fourteen storeys high — where he knew the lifts, when they worked, smelled of urine and glue. Hardly anyone was out on the street.

The school itself was a square red brick building with only a few small windows. A high chain-link fence bordered the asphalt playground. Banks looked at his watch. Eleven o’clock. Gemma’s teacher should be waiting for him in the staff-room.

He walked through the front doors, noting that one of the glass panes was cracked in a spider-web pattern, and asked the first adult he saw the way to the staff-room. As he walked along the corridor, he was struck by the brightness of the place, so much in contrast with its ugly exterior. Most of it, he thought, was due to the children’s paintings tacked along the walls. These weren’t skilled, professional efforts, but the gaudy outbursts of untrained minds — yellow sunbursts with rays shooting in all directions, bright golden angels, red and green stick figures of mummy and daddy and cats and dogs.

There was a funny smell about the place, too, that transported him back to his own infants’ school, but it took him some moments to identify it. When he did, he smiled to himself, remembering for the first time in ages those blissful, carefree days before school became a matter of learning facts and studying for exams. It was Plasticine, that coloured putty-like stuff he had tried in vain to mould into the shapes of hippos and crocodiles.

He walked straight into the staff-room, and a woman, who looked hardly older than a schoolgirl herself, came forward to greet him. “Chief Inspector Banks?” she asked, holding out her hand. “I’m Peggy Graham.”

It was a big room with well-spaced tables and chairs, a notice-board full of mimeographed memos, handwritten notes and printed flyers for concerts, courses and package holidays. A couple of other teachers, sitting over newspapers, glanced up at his entry, then looked down again. One corner of the room had been converted into a mini-kitchen, complete with a fridge, microwave and coffee-maker. Here and there on the rough, orange-painted walls hung more examples of untrammelled art.

“A bit overwhelming, isn’t it?” Peggy Graham asked, noticing him looking around. “I could do without the orange walls myself, but it was a playroom before we got it, so… Sit down. Can I get you some coffee or something?”

“If it’s no trouble,” Banks said.

She went to get it. Peggy Graham, Banks noticed, was a small, bird-like woman, perhaps fresh out of teachers’ training school. Her grey pleated skirt covered her knees, and a dark blue cardigan hung over her white cotton blouse. She wore her mousy hair in a pony tail, and large glasses made her nose look tiny. Her eyes, behind them, were big, pale and milky blue, and they seemed charged with worry and sincerity. Her lips were thin and curved slightly downwards at the corners. She wore no make-up.

“Well,” she said, sitting down beside him with the coffee. It came in a mug with a picture of Big Bird on it. “This is just dreadful about Gemma, isn’t it? Just dreadful.”

She spoke, he thought, as if she were talking to a class of five-year-olds, and her mouth was so mobile she looked as if she were miming. Banks nodded.

“What could have happened?” she asked. “Have you got any idea?”

“I’m afraid not,” Banks said.

“I don’t suppose you could say anything even if you did have, could you?”

“We have to be very careful.”

“Of course.” She sat back in her chair, crossed her legs and rested her hands on her lap. Banks noticed the thin gold wedding band. “How can I help you?” she asked.

“I’m not really sure. In cases like this it helps to find out as much as you can about the child. What was Gemma like?”

Peggy Graham pursed her lips. “Well, that’s a hard one. Gemma’s a very quiet child. She always seems a bit withdrawn.”

“In what way?”

“Just… quiet. Oh, she’s bright, very bright. She’s an excellent reader, and I think, given the opportunity, she could be very creative. That’s one of hers on the wall.”

Banks walked over to the crayon sketch Peggy had pointed at. It showed a girl with pigtails standing beside a tree on a carpet of grass under a bright sun. The leaves were individually defined in bright green, and the grass was dotted with yellow flowers — buttercups, perhaps, or dandelions. The girl, a stick-figure, just stood there with her arms stretched out. Banks found something disturbing about it, and he realized that the girl’s round face had no features. He went back to his chair.

“Very good,” he said. “Did you ever get the feeling that there was something bothering her?”

“She always seems… well, preoccupied.” Peggy gave a nervous laugh. “I call her Wednesday’s child. You know, ‘Wednesday’s child is full of woe.’ She seemed woeful. Of course, I tried to talk to her, but she never said much. Mostly she was attentive in class. Once or twice I noticed she was weeping, just quietly, to herself.”

“What did you do?”

“I didn’t want to embarrass her in front of the others. I asked her afterwards what was wrong, but she wouldn’t say. Gemma’s always been a very secretive child. What goes on in that imagination of hers I’ve no idea. Half the time she seems to be in another world.”

“A better one?”

Peggy Graham twisted her ring. “I don’t know. I like to think so.”

“What was your impression?”

“I think she was lonely and she felt unloved.”

Her first use of the past tense in reference to Gemma wasn’t lost on Banks. “Lonely? Didn’t she have any friends?”

“Oh yes. She was quite popular here, even though she was quiet. Don’t get the wrong impression. She liked playing games with the other girls. Sometimes she seemed quite gay — oops, I shouldn’t have said that, should I, now they’ve censored it from all the Noddy books — cheerful, I suppose. It’s just that she was moody. She had these woeful, silent moods when you just couldn’t reach her. Sometimes they’d last for days.”

“And you don’t know why?”

“I can only guess. And you mustn’t tell anyone I said this. I think it was her home life.”

“What about it?”

“I think she was neglected. I don’t mean she wasn’t well fed or clothed, or abused in any way. Though she did look a bit… well, shabby… sometimes. You know, she was wearing the same dress and socks day after day. And sometimes I just felt like picking her up and dumping her in a bath. It wasn’t that she smelled or anything. She was just a bit grubby. I don’t think her parents spent enough time with her, encouraging her, that sort of thing. I think that was the root of her loneliness. It happens a lot, and there isn’t much you can do about it. A supportive home environment is perhaps even more important than school for a child’s development, but we can’t be parents as well as teachers, can we? And we can’t tell parents how to bring up their children.”

“You mentioned abuse,” Banks said. “Did you ever notice any signs of physical abuse?”

“Oh, no. I couldn’t… I mean, if I had I would certainly have reported it. We did have a case here a year or so ago. It was dreadful, just dreadful what some parents can sink to.”

“But you saw no signs with Gemma? No bruises, cuts, anything like that?”

“No. Well, there was one time. About a week or so ago, I think it was. It was quite warm, like now. Gemma was wearing a short-sleeved dress and I noticed a bruise on her upper arm, the left one, I think. Naturally, I asked her about it, but she said she’d got it playing games.”

“Did you believe her?”

“Yes. I had no reason to doubt her word.”

“So you didn’t report it?”

“No. I mean, one wouldn’t want to be alarmist. Not after that business with the Cleveland social workers and everything. Look, maybe I should have done something. Lord knows, if I’m in any way responsible… But if you brought in the authorities every time a child had a bruise there’d be no time for anything else, would there?”

“It’s all right,” Banks said. “Nobody’s blaming you. Everybody’s a bit sensitive about things like that these days. I picked up plenty of bruises when I was a lad, believe me, and my mum and dad wouldn’t have appreciated being accused of abusing me. And I got a good hiding when I deserved it, too.”

Peggy smiled at him over her glasses. “As I said,” she went on, “Gemma’s explanation seemed perfectly reasonable to me. Children can play pretty rough sometimes. They’re a lot more resilient than we give them credit for.”

“Was that the only mark you ever saw on her?”

“Oh, yes. I mean, if it had been a regular occurrence I’d have said something for certain. We do have to keep an eye open for these things.”

“And she never seemed in pain of any kind?”

“Not physical pain, no. She just sometimes seemed withdrawn, lost in her own world. But children often create their own imaginary worlds. They can be very complex beings, Chief Inspector. They’re not all the same. Just because a child is quiet, it doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with her.”

“I understand. Please believe me, I’m not criticizing. I’m just trying to find out something about her.”

“How could it help?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“You think she’s dead, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“She’s been gone nearly two days now. That’s what the papers say. Not in so many words, perhaps, but…”

“She could still be alive.”

“Then she might be better off dead,” Peggy Graham whispered. She felt up the sleeve of her cardigan for a tissue, lifted her glasses and wiped her moist eyes. They looked small and shy without the lenses to magnify them. “I’m sorry. It’s just… we’re all so upset.”

“Did you, or anyone else on staff, notice any strangers hanging around the school recently?”

“No. And I’m sure anything like that would have been reported. We have very strict guidelines to follow.”

“Nobody saw a dark blue car? Are you sure?”

She shook her head. “I’m sure.”

“Did you ever see Gemma talking to any strangers nearby? Male or female?”

“No. She always came and left with her friends, the ones from the same street. She didn’t live far away.”

Banks stood up. “Thank you very much,” he said. “If you do remember anything, here’s my card. Please call.”

Peggy Graham took the card. “Of course. But I don’t see how there could be anything else.”

“Just in case.”

“All right.” She got to her feet. “I’ll walk to the door with you.” As they walked, a host of children came out of one of the class rooms. Some were laughing and scrapping, but many of them seemed subdued. Perhaps they were too young to understand the enormity of what had happened, Banks thought, but they were old enough to sense the mood of tension and fear. One little girl with glossy dark curls and brown spaniel eyes tugged at Banks’s sleeve.

“Are you the policeman?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered, wondering how on earth she knew.

“Are you looking for Gemma?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Please find her,” the little girl said, clutching his sleeve tighter. “Bring her back. She’s my friend.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Banks. He turned to Peggy Graham. She blushed.

“I’m afraid I told them a policeman was coming,” she said. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right. Look, can I talk to this girl?”

“Elizabeth? Well… I suppose so. Though I don’t know what… Come this way.” And she led both Banks and Elizabeth into the empty classroom.

“Now, Elizabeth,” she said. “The nice policeman wants to talk to you about Gemma, to help him to find her. Just answer his questions. I’ll stay here with you.” She glanced at Banks to ask if he minded, and he nodded his agreement. Elizabeth took hold of Peggy Graham’s hand and stood beside her.

Banks crouched, hearing his knees crack as he did so, and rested his elbows on his thighs. “You know we’re trying to find Gemma,” he said. “Did she ever say anything to you about going away?”

Elizabeth shook her head.

“Or about anyone wanting to take her away?” Another shake.

“Did she have any older friends, big girls or big boys?”

“No.”

“Did she ever talk about her mummy and daddy?”

“It wasn’t her daddy.”

“Mr Poole?”

Elizabeth nodded. “She wouldn’t call him Daddy.”

“What did she say about him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did she like him?”

“No.”

“Did he ever hurt Gemma?”

“She cried.”

“Why did she cry?”

“Don’t know.”

“Did he ever hurt her, Elizabeth?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t like him. She said he smelled and he always told her to go away.”

“When did he tell her to go away?”

“He said she was a sp… sp… a spilled cat.”

“A spilled cat? Do you mean ‘spoiled brat’?”

“Yes.”

“When did he say this?”

“He wouldn’t let her have the book.”

“What book?”

“She wanted a book and he wouldn’t let her have it. He threw her other books away.”

“Why?”

“She spilled some paint on his newspaper. It too dirty. He was angry. He threw her books away and he wouldn’t let her have any more.”

“What was too dirty, Elizabeth?”

“No. It too dirty.”

Banks looked at Peggy Graham. “I think she’s trying to say ‘at two-thirty,’” she said, frowning.

“Is that right?” Banks asked Elizabeth. “She spilled paint on his newspaper at two-thirty, so he threw her books away?”

She nodded.

“What were the books?”

“Story books. With pictures. Gemma likes reading. She reads to me. I’m not very good. Please find her.” Elizabeth started crying. Peggy Graham put an arm around her. “It’s all right, dear. The nice policeman will find Gemma. Don’t cry.”

Elizabeth sniffled a few moments longer, then wiped her nose on her sleeve and left the room. Banks sighed.

“What was all that about?” Peggy asked.

“I wish I knew. Thanks for letting me talk to her anyway. I hope she doesn’t stay upset.”

“Don’t worry. Elizabeth’s tough enough.”

Banks walked through the playground full of children. They were skipping, playing hopscotch, running around as usual, but like the ones coming out of the classroom they seemed much quieter, more subdued than children usually are.

He looked at his watch. Close to noon. Time to write up his notes before lunch with Jenny. Not that he had learned much from the teacher that he hadn’t known or suspected already. Gemma kept herself to herself, perhaps suffered neglect at home, but was probably not physically abused. Still, there was the business of the bruise. How had she got it? And what had Elizabeth meant about “at two-thirty” and Gemma’s books? Banks walked past the tower block with JESUS SAVES written in red on the wall and back to the unmarked car he had parked by the mobile unit.

III

Damn it, cursed Jenny Fuller. She had pulled up at the lights just in time and all the essays on the back seat had slid off onto the floor. So few of the students bothered with paper-clips or staples; it would be a hell of a job reshuffling them. If she hadn’t been in such a hurry to meet Banks it would never have happened. She was on the south-eastern edge of Eastvale, coming up to the roundabout by the Red Lion, and she only had five minutes to park and get to Le Bistro. Still, Alan would wait.

The lights changed and the car lurched off again. To hell with the papers. She shouldn’t be teaching until October anyway, and if it hadn’t been for those American students — those American students with odd ideas of academic timetables and thousands of dollars to spend on an English education — then she could have been relaxing on a beach somewhere.

She smiled to herself, imagining Alan Banks sitting at one of Le Bistro’s wobbly little tables, no doubt feeling out of place among the yuppie lunch crowd with their Perriers and portable telephones. He would be far more comfortable in the Queen’s Arms with a pie and a pint in front of him, not at a table covered in a coral cloth with a long-stemmed rose in a vase at its centre. But Jenny had been lecturing to the Americans all morning, and she was damned if she was going to be done out of the shrimp provençale and the glass of white wine she had promised to treat herself.

Jenny remembered her surprise the first time the Eastvale CID had brought her into a case, involving a peeping Tom, three years ago. She had guessed (correctly) that they wanted a visible female presence as a sop to Dorothy Wycombe and the Eastvale feminist contingent, WEEF, Women of Eastvale for Emancipation and Freedom. Still, she had done a good job, and since then her professional field of interests had broadened to include a certain amount of criminal and deviant psychology. She had even attended a series of fascinating lectures on the psychological profiling of serial killers, given by a visiting American from the FBI Behavioral Sciences section.

She had also had a brief fling with the visitor, but she didn’t care to remember that too clearly. Like most of her affairs, it was best forgotten. Still, that was eighteen months ago, when she had been still hurting over her split with Dennis Osmond. Since then she had not been involved with anyone. Instead, she had done a lot of thinking about her lousy relationships, and the reasons for them. She hadn’t come up with any answers yet. Most often she ended up wondering why the hell her professional insights seemed to shed no light at all on her personal life.

The tires screeched as she turned right at the market square and drove down by Castle Hill between the terraced river gardens and the formal gardens. People sat on the terraces and ate packed lunches on one side of the road, while on the other, mothers dragged bored children around the displays of fading flowers.

At last, she crossed the small bridge over the River Swain, turned right and pulled up outside the café.

Le Bistro was one of Eastvale’s newest cafés. Tourism, the dale’s main industry, had increased, and the many Americans drawn to do the “James Herriot” tour wanted a little more than fish and chips and warm beer, quaint as they found such things. In addition, a more sophisticated, cosmopolitan crowd had moved up from London while property in the north was still a good deal cheaper than down south. Many of them commuted from Eastvale to York, Darlington, and even as far as Tyneside, Leeds and Bradford, and they naturally demanded a little more diversity in matters of dining.

Best of all, as far as Jenny was concerned, was that Le Bistro was actually situated in a converted Georgian semi only four houses south of her own. The new owners had, somehow, received planning permission to knock down the wall between the two houses and turn them into a café. For Jenny it was a godsend, as she often couldn’t be bothered to cook after a hard day. The food was good and the prices were relatively reasonable.

She dashed through the door. The place was fairly busy, but she saw Banks immediately. There he was in a dark grey sports jacket, white shirt and tie. As usual, his top button was open and the tie loose and askew. Under close-cropped black hair, his dark blue eyes sparkled as he looked over at her. He was working on a crossword and holding what looked like a glass of mineral water. Jenny couldn’t suppress a giggle as she sat down in a flurry of apologies. Le Bistro didn’t serve pints.

“It’s all right,” said Banks rather glumly, putting his newspaper away in his briefcase. “I’m supposed to be cutting down on the ale anyway.”

“Since when?”

Banks patted his stomach. “Since I turned forty and noticed this beginning to swell.”

“Nonsense. You’re as lean as ever. You’re just suffering from male menopause. Next you’ll be having an affair with a twenty-one-year-old rookie policewoman.”

Banks laughed. “Chance would be a fine thing. But don’t joke about it. You never know. Anyway, how are you?”

Jenny shrugged and tossed back the thick mane of red hair that cascaded over her shoulders. “Okay, I suppose. I’m not sure I like teaching summer school though.”

“Working in summer?” mocked Banks. “Tut-tut, what a terrible thing. What is the world coming to?”

Jenny thumped him on the arm. “It’s supposed to be one of the perks of the job, remember? Teachers get summers off. Not this year, though.”

“Never mind. You’re looking well for it.”

“Why, thank you, kind sir.” Jenny inclined her head graciously. “And you haven’t changed. Honestly, Alan. You still don’t look a day over thirty-nine. How’s Sandra?”

“Busy.”

“Oh-oh. Feeling all neglected, are we?”

Banks grinned. “Something like that. But we’re not here to talk about me.”

“And how’s Susan Gay?” Jenny had spent some time helping Susan adjust to her CID posting, on a semi-professional basis, and the two had become fairly close.

They were different personalities, but Jenny saw something in Susan — a sense of determination, a single-mindedness — that both appealed to her and disturbed her. If she could persuade Susan to relax a little, she felt, then a more balanced and attractive personality might be permitted to emerge.

Banks told her Susan was doing well, though she still seemed a little tense and prickly, and the two chatted about family and mutual friends. “Have you studied the menu yet?” Jenny asked him after a short silence.

“Mm. No sausage and chips, I noticed. How’s the croque monsieur?”

“Good.”

“Then I’ll have that. And by the way, I like the music.”

Jenny cocked an ear. Singing quietly in the background was the unmistakable voice of Edith Piaf. Typical of him to notice that, she thought. Left to herself she would have ignored it as wallpaper music.

“Wine?” she asked.

“Not for me. It makes me sleepy and I’ve a lot of paperwork to do this afternoon.”

“So, it’s about little Gemma Scupham, is it?” Jenny said, unfolding a coral napkin and spreading it over her lap. “That’s why you’ve called me in?”

Banks nodded. “Superintendent Gristhorpe thought you might be able to help.”

“At least I’m not the token feminist this time.”

“No. Seriously, Jenny, can you help?”

“Maybe. What do you want from me?”

“For the moment I’d just like grounding in a few basics. I can understand a lot about things most people don’t even want to think about — robbery, murder, even rape — but I can’t seem to grasp the motivation for something like this.”

Jenny took a deep breath and held it a moment. “All right. I’ll do what I can. Shall we order first, though?” She called over the waitress and gave their orders, asking for a glass of white wine for herself right now, and a coffee for Banks, then she sat back in her chair. “First you’d better tell me the details so far,” she said.

Banks told her. Before he finished, the food arrived, and they both tucked in.

Jenny pushed her plate away and set the half-full wineglass in front of her. Banks ordered another coffee.

“I don’t really know where to start,” she said. “I mean, it’s not really my field.”

“You do know something about sexual deviance, though.”

“Honestly, Alan, you make me sound like a real pervert. Basically, nobody really knows what causes someone to be a paedophile or a rapist or a sadist. They don’t necessarily realize they’re doing anything wrong.”

“Are you telling me that a man who sexually assaults little children doesn’t think he’s doing anything wrong?”

“Depends what you mean by wrong. He would know he’s breaking the law, of course, but… He’s only satisfying desires he can’t help feeling. He never asked to feel them in the first place. And many also feel tremendous guilt and remorse.”

“For doing something they don’t even think is wrong? You make it sound almost legitimate.”

“You asked. I’m just telling you what little I know.”

“I’m sorry. Go on.”

“Look, you might think a person is simply born the way he or she is, but sexual behaviour isn’t fixed from the start. There are theories that almost everything is biologically based, caused by chemicals, or by genes. For what it’s worth, most studies indicate that sexual behaviour is mostly a matter of learning. At first, everything is diffuse, in a kind of flux — polymorphous perverse, I believe Freud called infant sexuality. It depends on a number of factors what preferences come to the fore.”

“Like what?”

“Experience. Learning. Family. They’re probably the most important. You try something, and if you like it, you do it again. That’s experience. Many people are given no information about sex, or such wrong-headed information that they become very confused. That’s learning, or lack of it. Even what we call normal sexuality is a dark, murky thing at best. Look at the extremes of sexual jealousy, of how sex and desire can so easily turn to violence. There’s loss of control. Then there’s the association of orgasm with death. Did you know it used to be called the ‘little death’?”

“You don’t make it sound like much fun.”

“That’s the point,” Jenny said. “For a lot of people, it isn’t. Desire is a ball and chain they can’t get rid of, or a ringmaster they don’t dare disobey. Sexuality has lots of possible outcomes other than what we label ‘normal’ or socially acceptable. It’s learned behaviour. When you’re prepubescent or adolescent, any object or situation could become stimulating. Remember the thrill you used to get looking at pictures of naked women? It’s easy as an adolescent to get fixated on things like underwear, big breasts, the image rather than the real thing. Remember our peeping Tom? That was his particular fixation, a visual stimulation.

“It doesn’t take long before most of us start to prefer certain stimuli to others. Pretty soon sexual excitement and satisfaction become limited to a certain, fairly narrow range. That’s what we call normal. Your good old, socially approved, heterosexual sex. The problem with most sexual deviants, though, is that they can’t handle what we regard as normal personal relationships. Many try, but they fail. It’s a lot more complicated than that, of course. It may not be apparent on the surface that they’ve failed, for example. They may become very good at faking it in order to cover up their real needs and actions.”

“So what kind of person are we talking about? You said it’s someone who can’t handle ordinary relationships.”

“I’ll have to do some research and see what I can come up with, but your basic deviant is probably pretty much the chap-next-door type, with some very notable exceptions, of course. By the way, you don’t have to look around so nervously, you can smoke if you want. Giselle will fetch an ashtray. Remember, it’s a French restaurant. Everyone smokes over there.”

Banks lit up and Giselle duly brought the ashtray along with their bill. “Go on,” he said. “You were telling me about the chap next door.”

“It’s just that most sex offenders become skilled at leading quite normal lives on the surface. They learn to play the game. They can hold down a job, keep a marriage going, even raise children—”

“Paedophiles?”

“Yes.”

“I must admit that’s a surprise,” said Banks. “I’ve come across psychopaths and deviants of various kinds before — I mean, I’m not entirely ignorant on the subject — and it has often amazed me how they keep their secrets. Look at Dennis Nilsen, for Christ’s sake, chopping up kids and putting their heads on the ring to boil while he takes his dog for a walk, saying hello to the neighbours. Such a nice, quiet man.” Banks shook his head. “I know the Boston Strangler was married, and Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper. But how the hell can a paedophile keep a thing like that hidden from his wife and kids?”

“People can become very adept at keeping secrets if they have to, Alan. You don’t spend all your life in someone else’s company, under someone’s scrutiny, do you? Surely you managed to find time alone to masturbate when you were a kid? And you probably thought about it a fair bit, too, anticipated the picture you’d look at or the girl you’d imagine undressing. The whole thing takes on a kind of magical intensity, a ritualistic element, if you like. A sex offender will simply spend all his free time anticipating and planning his deviant acts.”

Banks loosened his tie a little more. Jenny noticed him look around the restaurant and smile at the three businessmen at the next table, who seemed to have been listening with growing fascination and horror to the conversation. “You seem to know a lot about adolescent male behaviour,” he said.

Jenny laughed. “Alan, I’ve embarrassed you. Oh, don’t look so uncomfortable. It is part of my field, after all. The things little boys and little girls get up to.”

“What’s your prognosis?” Banks asked.

Jenny sighed. “For you? I’m afraid there’s no hope. No, really, I honestly haven’t done enough research for anything like that yet.” She frowned, the lines crinkling her smooth forehead. “You know what really puzzles me, though? Again, it’s probably something you’ve already considered from your point of view, but psychologically it’s interesting, too.”

“What’s that?”

“The woman.”

“You mean why she was there?”

“Yes. What’s her part in the whole business?”

“Well, her presence would certainly give credibility to the social worker story. I doubt that even someone as thick as Brenda Scupham would have trusted a man alone.”

“No. I realize that. But think about it, Alan.” Jenny leaned forward, her hands clasped on the table. “She’s a woman. Surely you’re not telling me she didn’t know what they were doing, taking the child?”

“They acted together, yes. But he may have conned her into it somehow, for the sake of credibility. She might not have known what his motives were, especially if, as you say, paedophiles are good at keeping secrets.”

“Except from themselves. But I still think it’s a strange thing for a woman to do — help abduct another woman’s child. It’s an even stranger thing for a couple to do. What on earth would she want with Gemma?”

“Now don’t tell me you’re going to give me all that sisterhood crap, because I just don’t accept it. Women are just as—”

Jenny held her hand up. “All right. I won’t. But there’s no need to start getting all shirty. It’s not sisterhood I’m talking about, it’s a very practical thing. As far as I know, sexual deviants can be fat or thin, big or little, young or old, rich or poor, but they almost always act alone. To put it technically, we’re talking about people who exhibit primary characteristics of social aversion.”

“Hmm. I’m not saying we haven’t considered they might have simply wanted a child so badly that they took someone else’s, that they’re not paedophiles. We just don’t know. But think of the risk involved.”

Jenny ran her fingers around the stem of her wineglass. “Maybe it does seem far-fetched. But women have snatched babies from prams. It’s not my job to evaluate that kind of information. All I’m saying is that the couple element is curious, in psychological terms. And the method is unusual. As you say, think of the risk involved. Maybe the risk was part of the thrill.”

A short silence followed. Banks lit another cigarette. Jenny pulled a face and waved the smoke away. She noticed that Edith Piaf had finished now, replaced by some innocuous accordion music meant to evoke the Gauloise atmosphere of Parisian cafés.

“The superintendent mentioned the Moors Murderers, Brady and Hindley,” said Banks. “I know he’s got a bee in his bonnet about that case, but you have to admit there are parallels.”

“Hmm.”

“What I’m saying,” Banks went on, “is it may be one way of explaining the couple aspect. Brady thought human beings were contemptible creatures and pleasure the only end worth pursuing. And Hindley was besotted with him. She was witnessing it all as a demonstration of some form of love for him. I know it sounds weird, but…”

“I’ve heard the theory,” said Jenny. “It’s all to do with dominance. And I’ve heard a lot weirder theories, too. Christ, Alan, you know as well as I do that most psychology is guesswork. We don’t really know anything. But Superintendent Gristhorpe may be right. It could be something like that. I’ll look into it.”

“So you’ll help?”

“Of course I’ll help, idiot. Did you think I’d say no?”

“Quickly, Jenny,” said Banks, taking money from his wallet and placing it on the bill. “Especially if there’s even the slightest chance that Gemma Scupham might still be alive.”

IV

“Have you found her yet?”

Nothing much had changed in Brenda Scupham’s front room by Thursday afternoon. The doll still lay in the same position on the floor, and the peculiar smell remained. But Brenda looked more tired. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her hair hung limp and lifeless beside her pale cheeks. She was wearing a grubby pink track-suit bottom and a loose green sweatshirt. Les Poole slouched in the armchair, feet up, smoking.

“What’s wrong, Les?” Banks asked. “Is The Barleycorn not on all-day opening?”

“Very funny. I don’t live there, you know.”

Brenda Scupham shot him a mean look, then turned to Banks. “Leave him alone. He’s not done anything. He might not be much, but he’s all I’ve got. I asked you, have you found my Gemma yet?”

“No,” said Banks, turning from Poole. “No, we haven’t.”

“Well, what do you want? More questions?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Brenda Scupham sighed and sat down. “I don’t know where this is going to get us.”

“I need to know more about Gemma’s habits, for a start.”

“What do you mean, habits?”

“Her routines. How did she get to school?”

“She walked. It’s not far.”

“Alone?”

“No, she met up with the Ferris girl from over the street and the Bramhope kid from two houses down.”

“Did she come home with them, too?”

“Yes.”

Banks made a note of the names. “What about lunch-time?”

“School dinners.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“The school’s not far away. Surely it’d have saved you a penny or two if she came home for lunch?”

Brenda Scupham shrugged. “She said she liked school dinners.”

“Did she ever say anything about anyone following her or stopping her in the street?”

“Never.”

“And she wasn’t out on her own?”

“No. She was always with her friends, whether she was off to school or playing out. Why are you asking all these questions?”

“Brenda, I’m trying to figure out why Gemma’s abductors came to the house rather than snatching her in the street. Surely she must have been alone out there at some time?”

“I dare say. She’d nip to the shop now and then. You can’t keep your eyes on them every minute of the day. She is seven, you know. She knows to look right before left when she’s crossing the street, and not to take sweets from strangers.” When she realized what she’d said, she put her hand to her mouth and her eyes filled with tears.

“I’m sorry if this is painful for you,” Banks said, “but it is important.”

“I know.”

“Was Gemma a happy child, would you say?”

“I suppose so. They live in their own worlds, don’t they?”

“Would she be given to exaggeration, to lying?”

“Not that I know of, no.”

“It’s just that I heard a story about Les here throwing some of Gemma’s books out. Does that mean anything to you?”

Les Poole sat up and turned to Banks. “What?”

“You heard, Les. What’s so important about her spilling paint on your paper at two-thirty?”

Poole looked puzzled for a few seconds, then he laughed out loud. “Who told you that?”

“Never mind. What’s it all about?”

He laughed again. “It was the two-thirty. The two-thirty from Cheltenham. Silly little bugger spilled coloured water all over my racing form. You know, the jar she’d been dipping her bloody paint-brush in.”

“And for that you threw her books out?”

“Don’t be daft. They were just some old colouring books. She was painting in them on the other side of the table and she knocked her paint jar over and ruined my bloody paper. So I grabbed the books and tore them up.”

“How did she react?”

“Oh, she whined and sulked for a while.”

“Did you ever grab her hard by the arm?”

“No, I never touched her. Just the books. Look, what’s all this—”

“Why wouldn’t you get her the new book she wanted?”

Poole sat back in the chair and crossed his legs. “Couldn’t afford it, could we? You can’t give kids everything they ask for. You ought to know that if you’ve got kids of your own. Look, get to the point, Mr Banks. I might not have had much time for the little beggar but I didn’t run off with her, did I? We’re the victims, not the criminals. I think it’s about time you realized that.”

Banks looked at him, and Poole quickly averted his gaze. It made Banks think of his first lesson in police thinking. He had been involved in interviewing a petty thief about a burglary in Belsize Park, and he came away convinced that the man hadn’t committed it. Surprised to see the charges being laid and the evidence gathered, he had mentioned his doubts to his commanding officer. The man, a twenty-year veteran called Bill Carstairs, had looked at Banks and shaken his head, then he said, “He might not have done this job, but he sure as hell has done something he ought to be put away for.” Looking at Poole made Banks feel the same way. The man was guilty of something. If he had nothing to do with Gemma’s disappearance, or even with the Fletcher’s warehouse job, he was still guilty of something.

Banks turned back to Brenda Scupham.

“You think we abused Gemma, don’t you?” she said.

“I don’t know.”

“You’ve been listening to gossip. Probably gossip from kids, at that. Look, I’ll admit I didn’t want her. I was twenty-one, the last thing I wanted was to be lumbered with a kid, but I was brought up Catholic, and I couldn’t get rid of her. I might not be the best mother on earth. I might be selfish, I might not be up to encouraging her in school and paying as much attention to her as I should. I’m not even a very good house-keeper. But all that… I mean, what I’m saying is I never abused her.”

It was an impassioned speech, but Banks got the feeling that she was protesting too much. “What about Les?” he asked.

She glanced over at him. “If he ever touched her he knows he’d be out of here before his feet could touch the floor.”

“So why did you give her up so easily?”

Brenda Scupham chewed on her lip and fought back the tears. “Do you think I haven’t had it on my mind night and day since? Do you think there’s a moment goes by I don’t ask myself the same question?” She shook her head. “It all happened so fast.”

“But if you hadn’t abused Gemma in any way, why didn’t you just tell Mr Brown and Miss Peterson that and send them away?”

“Because they were the authorities. I mean, they looked like they were and everything. I suppose I thought if they’d had some information then they had to look into it, you know, like the police. And then when they found there was nothing in it, they’d bring Gemma back.”

“Did Gemma go willingly?”

“What?”

“When she left with them, did she cry, struggle?”

“No, she just seemed to accept it. She didn’t say anything.”

Banks stood up. “That’s it for now,” he said. “We’ll keep you informed. If you remember anything, you can report it at the mobile unit at the end of the street.”

Brenda folded her arms and nodded. “You make me feel like a criminal, Mr Banks,” she said. “It’s not right. I’ve tried to be a good mother. I’m not perfect, but who is?”

Banks paused at the door. “Mrs Scupham,” he said, “I’m not trying to prove any kind of case against you. Believe it or not, all the questions I ask you are to do with trying to find Gemma. I know it seems cruel, but I need to know the answers. And if you think about it for a while, considering how many other children there are on this estate, and all over Swainsdale, and how many of them really are abused, there’s a very important question needs answering.”

Brenda Scupham’s brow furrowed, and even Poole glanced over from his fireside seat.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Why Gemma?” Banks said, and left.