Wednesday's Child ib-6

by Peter Robinson

  “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 no

  ticed 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‘11 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 lunchtime?”

  “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 paintbrush 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 didn’t run off with her, did I? We’re the victims, not the criminals. I think it’s about time you realized that.”p>

  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, 3 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 housekeeper. 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.

  I

  Marjorie Bingham lingered behind the others on the narrow

  track and kicked at small stones as she walked. She

  could hear her husband’s muffled voice, carried back on

  the breeze, as he explained the history of Dales lead mining

  to Andrew and Jane.

  “Most people think that lead mining here only goes back as far as Roman times. It doesn’t, you know. It goes back much further than that. It might even go back as far as the Bronze Age—though there’s no hard evidence for that, of course—but certainly the Brigantes …”

  God, she thought, what a bloody bore Roger has become. Only six months up from Coventry after the company move and here he is, playing the country squire and rabbiting on about spalling hammers, knockstones, buckers and notching tubs. And just look at him: pants tucked into the expensive hiking boots, walking-stick, orange Gore-Tex anorak. All for a quarter-mile track from the Range Rover to the old mine.

  Knowing Andrew, Marjorie thought, he was probably thinking about opening time, and Jane was absorbed with her new baby, which she carried in a kind of makeshift sack on her back. Little Annette was asleep, one leg

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  poking out each side of the central strap, her head lolling, oblivious to them all, and especially oblivious to the bloody lead mines.

  “Of course, the Romans used lead in great quantities. You know how advanced their plumbing systems were for their time. I know you’ve been to the Roman Baths in Bath, Andrew, and I’m sure you’ll agree …”

  Young Megan capered ahead picking flowers, reciting, “He loves me, he loves me not …” as she pulled off the petals and tossed them in the air. Then she spread her arms out and pretended to walk a tightrope. She didn’t have a care in the world, either, Marjorie thought. Why do we lose that sense of wonder in nature? she asked herself. How does it happen? Where does it go? It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate the countryside—there was no denying it was beautiful, not to mention healthy, especially on a lovely autumn morning like this—but she couldn’t feel ecstatic about it. To be honest, she loved the shops and the busy hum of city life much more. Even Eastvale would have been preferable. But no: Roger said they had to seize their opportunity for a newer, better lifestyle when it came along. And so they had ended up in dull, sleepy Lyndgarth.

  A weekend in the country now and again suited Marjorie perfectly—that was what it was there for, after all, unless you were a farmer, a painter or a poet—but this felt more like incarceration. She hadn’t been able to find a job, and the new neighbours weren’t particularly friendly, either. Someone told her you have to winter out two years before you are accepted, but she didn’t think she could stand it that long. And the fact that Roger was in his element didn’t help much either. She was bored stiff. She didn’t have children to fill her days like Jane. Still, a
t least their visit had brought a welcome break to the routine. She should be grateful for that. She would

  have been if it hadn’t been for Roger seizing his chance to pontificate.

  “The Pennine mines are the only ones in Yorkshire. Know why? It’s because the lead ore occurs in Carboniferous rocks—the Yoredale Series and Millstone Grit. The ores aren’t exactly part of the rocks, you understand, but…”

  At last they reached the old smelting mill, not much more than a pile of stones, really, and not much bigger than a detached house. Most of the roof had collapsed, leaving only the weatherworn beams. Inside, sunlight shone through the roof and through the gaps between the stones onto the ruined ore hearths and furnaces, and picked out the motes of dust they kicked up. Marjorie had never liked the old mill. It was a dry, smelly, spidery sort of place. Over in one corner, the dusty ground was darkened, as if some wandering drunk had been sick there.

  “In the earlier mills,” Roger went on, “they used to burn off the sulphur first, changing the lead to oxide. Of course, for that you need places to roast then reduce the ore. But by the time this mill was built, they’d invented vertical furnaces that used bellows …”

  They all obediently followed his pointing stick and oohed and aahed. He should have been a bloody tour guide, Marjorie thought.

  Suddenly, Jane looked nervously around the mill. “Where’s Megan?” she asked.

  “Probably playing outside,” Marjorie said, noting the anxiety in her voice. “Don’t worry, I’ll find her. I’ve heard this bit before, anyway.” Roger glared at her as she left.

  Thankful to be out of the gloomy smelting mill and away from the droning echo of Roger’s voice, Marjorie shielded her eyes and looked around. Megan was clam