Wednesday's Child (6 page)

“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 She always seems a bit withdrawn.”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.