Wednesday's Child ib-6

by Peter Robinson

  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. 1 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 w
aiting 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 makeup.

  “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. 1 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.”