Wednesday's Child (18 page)

Hudson paused and licked his lips. He looked around the room and Gristhorpe could tell he didn't like what he saw. “I … well, I'd been to a company do at the White Horse. I was on my way home.”

“Where do you live?”

“Helmsley.”

“What company do you work for?”

Hudson looked surprised at the question. “Burton's. You know, the rag trade. I'm a sales rep.”

“And this do you were at, what was it in honour of?”

“Well, it wasn't really … I mean, it was just an informal affair, some of the lads getting together for a meal and a chat.”

“I see.” Gristhorpe eased back in his chair. “And what made you stop in such a godforsaken place?”

“I needed to … you know, call of nature.”

“Were you by yourself?”

“Yes.”

Gristhorpe sniffed a lie, but he left it alone.

“Why did you wait so long before coming here? You must have known what you'd found. It's been in all the papers.”

“I know. I just thought … It was very late. And I didn't want to get involved.” He leaned forward. “And I was right, wasn't I? I decide to help, and here I am being interrogated like a suspect.”

“Mr Hudson,” said Gristhorpe, “in the first place, you're not being interrogated, you're simply being questioned, and in the second place, a child is missing, perhaps dead. How would you treat someone who walks in here, drops a bundle of what looks like the child's clothes and then tries to scarper?”

“I didn't try to scarper. I just wanted you to have the clothes, in case there was a clue. As I said, I didn't want to get involved. I thought of putting them in the post, but I knew that would take too long. I know how important time is in things like this, so I finally decided to come forward.”

“Well, thank you very much, Mr Hudson.”

“Look, if I really had done anything to that child, I'd hardly have come in here at all, would I?”

Gristhorpe fixed Hudson with his baby-blue eyes. “Psychopaths are unpredictable, Mark,” he said. “We never know what they'll do next, or why they do it.”

“For God's sake!”

“Where's the girl, Mark?”

Hudson hesitated, looked away. “What girl?”

“Come on, Mark. You know who I mean. The girl who was with you. Your accomplice.”

“Accomplice?”

“Miss Peterson. Where is she?”

“I've never heard of anyone called Peterson.”

Gristhorpe gave that one a “maybe.” “Where's Gemma Scupham?”

“Please, you've got to believe me. I don't know anything. I had nothing to do with it. I'm just trying to do my civic duty.”

Gristhorpe let the staring match continue until Hudson looked down at the stained metal desk, then he asked, “Can you remember exactly where you found the bundle of clothing?”

Hudson rubbed his damp forehead. “I was thinking about that on my way here,” he said. “That you might want to know.”

“It could be useful. We still haven't found the girl's body.”

“Yes, well … I could try. I mean, I think I might remember if I saw the spot again. But it was dark and it's pretty bleak up there. I must admit after I found the clothes I didn't want to hang around.”

“And you were no doubt under the influence of Bacchus?” “What?”

“You'd been drinking.”

“I'd had a little wine, yes. But I wasn't over the limit, if that's what you mean.”

“I don't care how much you had to drink,” said Gristhorpe, standing up. “Although judging by your eyes this morning I'd say you're a bloody liar. It's your memory I'm concerned about. What I want you to do is to take me to the spot where you found the clothes. I'll go with you in your car and DS Richmond here will follow. All right?”

“I don't have much choice, do I?” “No,” said Gristhorpe. “No, you don't.”

II

Gristhorpe said nothing during the journey. They crawled up Sutton Bank into the Hambleton Hills, passed through Helmsley, then turned off the main road into Hutton-le-Hole. On the broad village green, split by Hutton Beck, the sides connected by a small white bridge, tourists ate picnics. Several sheep also picnicked from the grass itself, keeping their distance from the humans. It was a marvel of work-saving, Gristhorpe thought, letting the sheep wander the village and keep the green well cropped.

Beyond Hutton, they turned north onto a narrow, unfenced road over the desolate moors.

“I'd have more chance if we were going the other way,” Hudson said. “I mean, that was the way I was driving, and it was very dark.”

“Don't worry,” said Gristhorpe, “you'll get your chance.”

They had no luck on the way to Rosedale, so Gristhorpe turned in the car park and set off back again, up the one-in-three hill, with Richmond still behind. The moorland stretched for miles on all sides, a dark sea of purple heather, just past its prime. Hudson seemed to be concentrating as they drove, screwing up his eyes and looking into the distance, trying to remember how long he had been driving before he stopped. Finally, he pointed to a small outcrop of rocks among the heather about fifty yards from the roadside. “This is it!” he shouted. “This is the place.”

Gristhorpe turned into the lay-by and waited for Richmond to pull in behind. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Well, I can't be a hundred percent, but I'd been driving about this long, and I remember those rocks over there. There aren't many spots like that around here.”

Gristhorpe opened the door. “By the roadside here, then? Let's take a look.”

“Well, actually,” Hudson said, “it was further from the road, closer to the rocks.”

Richmond had joined them, and Gristhorpe gave him a puzzled look before he said, “Phil. If you stopped for a piss on this road at half past twelve at night, would you walk fifty yards or so away from your car to do it?”

Richmond shook his head. “No way, sir.”

“I thought not.” He fixed Hudson with his innocent gaze again.

“But you did, right?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. I wasn't really thinking about it. I suppose I didn't want to be seen.”

Gristhorpe looked around the desolate landscape in disbelief. “Didn't want to be seen?”

“That's right.”

“You had a torch, I assume?”

“Yes.”

Gristhorpe raised his bushy eyebrows and shook his head. “Come on, then, show us where.”

Hudson led them over the rough, springy heather towards the outcrop, a natural shelter, and pointed. Gristhorpe didn't want to ruin any more evidence there might be, so he stood at the entrance and looked. It was a small area, maybe three or four yards square, surrounded on all sides but one with rocks, some as high as Gristhorpe's chest, but most of them no more than knee-high stones. In the centre, a small area of heather looked as if it had been flattened recently. There had been some blood on the yellow dungarees, he recalled. In all likelihood, there would be more blood around here, and perhaps other valuable trace evidence.

“Where exactly did you find the bundle of clothes?” Gristhorpe asked.

Hudson thought for a moment, then pointed towards one of the smaller rocks near a corner of the flattened heather. “There. Stuffed under there. I think.”

“What made you look there?”

He shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe I saw something out the corner of my eye.”

Gristhorpe stood for a few moments taking in the scene, then turned to go back to the car.

“Can I go home now?” Hudson asked when they arrived. “My wife. She'll be wondering where I am.”

“You can phone her when we get back to the station.” “Station?”

“Yes. Phil?” Gristhorpe ignored Hudson's protests. “Radio in and get the SOCO team, if you can raise any of them on a Sunday afternoon.”

“Will do, sir.” Richmond went to his car.

“But I don't understand,” Hudson went on as Gristhorpe took him by the arm and gently guided him into the passenger seat.

“Don't you? It's simple really. I don't believe you. First off, I don't believe anyone would walk this far for a piss on a dark night in a place like this, and second I don't like the fact that you didn't show up at the station till nearly noon and then tried to leave as soon as you'd dumped the bag.”

“But I've explained all that.”

Gristhorpe started the car. “Not to my satisfaction, you haven't. Not by a long chalk. I don't like it at all. Besides, there's another thing.”

“What?”

“I don't like
you
.”

III

When Jenny Fuller pulled up outside Superintendent Gristhorpe's house above Lyndgarth at about seven o'clock that evening, lights shone a welcome from the lower windows. She hadn't phoned to say she was coming, but Phil Richmond had told her at the station
that the superintendent had finally abandoned his camp-bed and gone home.

She knocked at the heavy door and waited. When Gristhorpe opened it, he was clearly surprised to see her there but didn't hesitate to invite her in.

“I've just finished doing a bit of work on the wall,” he said as they stood in the hall. “Until it got too dark. Fancy a cup of tea?”

“Mm, yes please,” Jenny said.

“I can offer you something stronger if you'd like?”

“No. No, tea will be fine. I was just on my way to visit a colleague in Lyndgarth and I thought I'd drop by. I don't have much, I'm afraid, but I can give you a sketch of what I've dug up so far. It might be some help.”

Gristhorpe directed her to the study while he went to the kitchen. Jenny stood and gazed at the books, the clearly divided sections on military and naval history, general history, Yorkshire, then the novels, philosophy, poetry. On the small table by the armchair lay a paperback copy of
The Way of All Flesh
. Jenny had always loved the title but had never read it. Her background in English was distinctly weak, she realized.

Somehow the house and this room in particular spoke of a solitary, meditative, serious man, perhaps ill at ease in company. All that was missing was a pipe lying in an ashtray on the table, and perhaps a pipe-rack over the hearth. But Gristhorpe had a gregarious side to his character, too, she knew. He enjoyed telling tales with his mates and colleagues over a pint; he wasn't at all uneasy in groups. A man's man, perhaps?

Gristhorpe came back bearing a tray with a teapot and two mugs, a little jug of milk and a bowl of sugar. Jenny moved the book from the table and he set the tray down. He bade her sit in the leather armchair that she knew instinctively was “his” and pulled up a smaller chair for himself.

“That camp-bed was beginning to make me feel like an old man,” he said. “Besides, they know where I am if anything breaks.”

“No progress?”

“I wouldn't say that. We've talked to the neighbours again, and to Gemma's schoolfriends, the kids she played with, and none of
them saw anyone hanging about or heard Gemma mention anyone they didn't know. So that's a blank. But …” Gristhorpe went on to tell her about the Manleys' deserted cottage and his outing to the moors with Mark Hudson.

“What's happened to him?” she asked.

“I sent him home when I finally got the truth out of him. He led us on a merry dance, but he's got nothing to do with Gemma. He was out for a bit of extramarital activity. He'd settled on the spot in advance because it was some distance from the road and the rocks offered protection. He just stumbled across the clothing. We've got the woman's name. Of course, we'll talk to her and have another chat with him, just for procedure's sake.”

“So the clothing
is
Gemma Scupham's?”

“Yes. The mother identified it. And there's a bit of blood on it— at least, it looks like blood. But we won't know much more till tomorrow, when the forensic team gets its job done.”

“Still …” Jenny shivered.

“Cold?”

“Oh, no. I'm fine, really.” Jenny was wearing jeans and a fuzzy russet jumper that matched the colour of her hair, a warm enough outfit for a mild night. “Someone walked over my grave, that's all.” She sipped some soothing tea. “I've been looking at instances of pairs of sexual deviants, and quite frankly there's hardly any. Often you'll find a couple who might commit crimes for gain, like Bonnie and Clyde, I suppose, but deviants usually act solo.”

“What about the ones who don't?” Gristhorpe asked.

“There are
some
case studies. Usually you get a dominant leader and an accomplice, and usually they're both male. Leopold and Loeb, for example.”

Gristhorpe nodded.

“Have you read
Compulsion
?” Jenny asked.

“Yes. It was one of Ian Brady's favourite books, you know.”

“There are some parallels. The way your couple seem to have coldly planned and executed the crime, for a start,” Jenny said. “But there's another thing: mixed pairs are very rare. Brady and Hindley come to mind, of course.”

“Aye,” said Gristhorpe. “Maybe Alan's told you I've got what
you might call an unhealthy preoccupation with that case. But I was involved in the search. And I heard the tape of young Lesley Ann Downey pleading for her life.” He shook his head and let the silence hang.

“Is that why you're getting so actively involved in this case? I mean, you don't usually.”

Gristhorpe smiled. “Partly, I suppose. And maybe I'm trying to prove there's life in the old dog yet. I'm getting near retiring age, you know. But mostly I want to stop them before they do it again. We spend most of our time making cases against people we think have broken the law. Oh, we talk about prevention—we have coppers on the beat, keeping their eyes open—but mostly we come on the scene after the fact. That's also true this time, I realize. Gemma Scupham may be lost to us, but I'm damned if I'm going to let it happen to another child on my patch. Make sense?”