Wednesday's Child (5 page)

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.