Wednesday's Child ib-6 Read online

  swers, his evasions, his nervous body language, and most of all in the guilty thoughts Banks could see skittering about like tiny insects behind the slate eyes.

  IV

  Gristhorpe tried to recall whether he had left anything

  undone. He had informed the ACC, made sure the press

  had all the information they needed, set up a mobile unit

  on a patch of waste ground at the end of Brenda

  Scupham’s street, drawn up a search plan, arranged to

  draft in extra personnel, and got someone working on a

  list of all known local child-molesters. Also, he had

  faxed the bare details and a copy of Gemma’s photograph

  to the paedophile squad, which operated out of

  Vine Street police station, in London. Soon, every policeman

  in the county would be on the alert. In the morning,

  the searchers would begin. For now, though, there

  was nothing more he could do until he had discussed developments

  with Banks.

  His stomach rumbled, and he remembered the cheese-and-pickle sandwich left uneaten on the table at home, the tea going cold. Leaving a message for Banks, he went across the street to the Queen’s Arms and persuaded Cyril, the landlord, to make him a ham sandwich, which he washed down with a half-pint of bitter.

  He had been sitting hunched over his beer at a dimpled, copper-topped table for about ten minutes, oblivious to the buzz of conversation around him, when a voice startled him out of his dark thoughts.

  “Sir?”

  Gristhorpe looked up and saw Banks standing over him. “Everything all right, Alan?” Gristhorpe asked. “You look knackered.”

  “I am,” said Banks, sitting down and reaching for his cigarettes. “This Gemma Scupham business …”

  “Aye,” said Gristhorpe. “Get yourself a drink and we’ll see what we can come up with.”

  Banks bought a packet of cheese-and-onion crisps and a pint, then told Gristhorpe about his suspicions of Les Poole.

  Gristhorpe rubbed his chin and frowned. “We’ll keep an eye on him, then,” he said. “Give him a bit of slack. If we bring him in over that Fletcher’s warehouse job it’ll do us no good. Besides, we can hardly cart off the poor woman’s telly when someone’s just abducted her child, can we?”

  “Agreed,” said Banks. “OK. So far we’ve got six men working on the house-to-house, questioning the neighbours. Phil and Susan are with them. At least there’s a chance someone might have seen the car.”

  “What about the mother? Who’s with her?”

  “Susan stayed for a while, then she offered to get a WPC to come in, but Mrs Scupham didn’t want one. I don’t think either she or Les feel comfortable with the police around. Anyway, she’s got a friend in.”

  “I suppose we’d better start with the obvious, hadn’t we?” Gristhorpe said. “Do you believe the mother’s story?”

  Banks took a sip of beer. “I think so. She seemed genuinely shocked, and I don’t think she’s bright enough to make up a story like that.”

  “Oh, come on, Alan. It doesn’t take much imagination. She could have hurt the child, gone too far and killed her—or Poole could have—then they dumped the body and made up this cock-and-bull story.”

  “Yes, she could have. All I’m saying is the story seems a bit over-elaborate. It would have been a hell of a lot easier just to say that Gemma had been snatched

  while she was out playing, wouldn’t it, rather than having to make up descriptions of two people and risk us finding it odd that no one in the street saw them. They’re a nosy lot down on the East Side Estate. Anyway, I had the officers on the scene search the house thoroughly twice and they didn’t come up with anything. We’ve got a SOCO team there now doing their bit. If there’s any chance Gemma was harmed in the house then taken somewhere else, they’ll find it.”

  Gristhorpe sighed. “I suppose we can rule out kidnapping?”

  “Brenda Scupham’s got no money. She might be fiddling the social, making a bit on the side, but that hardly makes her Mrs Rothschild.”

  “What about the father? Custody battle? Maybe he hired someone to snatch Gemma for him?”

  Banks shook his head. “According to Brenda, he’s not interested, hasn’t been for years. We’re tracking him down anyway.”

  Gristhorpe waved a plume of smoke aside. “I don’t like the alternatives,” he said.

  “Me neither, but we’ve got to face them. Remember those stories a while back? Paedophiles posing as social workers and asking to examine people’s kids for evidence of abuse?”

  Gristhorpe nodded.

  “Luckily, most parents sent them away,” Banks went on. “But suppose this time they succeeded?”

  “I’ve checked on the descriptions with the divisions involved,” Gristhorpe said, “and they don’t match. But you’re right. It’s something we have to consider. Someone else could have got the idea from reading the papers. Then there’s the ritual stuff to consider, too.”

  Not long ago, the press had been rife with stories of children used for ritual abuse, often with satanic over

  tones. In Cleveland, Nottingham, Rochdale and the Orkneys, children were taken into care after allegations of just such abuse involving torture, starvation, humiliation and sexual molestation. Nobody had come up with any hard evidence—in fact, most people thought it was more likely that the children needed to be protected from the social workers—but the rumours were disturbing enough. And Gristhorpe didn’t fool himself that such a thing couldn’t happen in Eastvale. It could.

  That Satanists now existed out in the dale was beyond doubt. There had been trouble with them recently, when local farmers had complained of finding sheep ritually slaughtered in copses and hollows. There was a big difference between sheep and children, of course, as there was between Satanism and witchcraft. Gristhorpe had been aware of local witch covens for years. They consisted mostly of meek husbands and bored housewives in search of an evening’s naughtiness dancing naked in the woods. But the Satanists were a different breed. If they could go as far as killing sheep and draining their blood, what would they stop at?

  “But you know what I’m thinking about most of all, don’t you, Alan?” Banks was one of the few people Gristhorpe had talked to about his small role in the Moors Murders and the lasting effect it had on him.

  Banks nodded.

  “Different way of operating, of course. Brady and Hindley snatched their victims. But there could be reasons for that. It’s the couple aspect that bothers me. A man and a woman. I know there’s been a lot of argument about Myra Hindley’s degree of involvement, but there’s no doubt they acted together. Call it what you will— maybe some kind of psychotic symbiosis—but without the other, it’s a good bet neither would have committed those crimes. Alone, they were nothing, nobodies living

  in fantasy worlds, but together they progressed from Hitler-worship and pornography to murder. Hindley acted as a catalyst to turn Brady’s fantasies into reality, and he acted them out to impress her and exercise his power over her. Christ, Alan, if a couple like that’s got hold of little Gemma Scupham, God have mercy on her soul.” Again, Gristhorpe remembered the tape, Lesley Ann begging, “Please don’t undress me!” Brady telling her, “If you don’t keep that hand down I’ll slit your neck.” And that other gruesome touch, the children’s choir singing carols in the background.

  “We don’t know,” said Banks. “We know bugger-all so far.”

  Gristhorpe rubbed his brow. “Aye, you’re right. No sense jumping to conclusions. On the bright side, let’s hope it was some poor young childless couple who just went too far to get themselves a kiddie.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense, though, does it? If they took the child out of love, how could they reconcile themselves to the mother’s pain? There’d be too much guilt to allow them any happiness. And I doubt they’d be able to keep a secret like that for very long.”

  “I’ve a
sked Phil if he can tie in with HOLMES on this,” Banks said. “Remember that course he went on?”

  Gristhorpe nodded. HOLMES stood for Home Office Large Major Enquiry System. Developed during the hunt for the Yorkshire Ripper, HOLMES basically allows all reports coming out of an investigation to be entered and organized into a relational database. That way, a key word or phrase can be tracked more accurately through previously unrelated data than before.

  And that was as far as Gristhorpe could follow. The rest, like most computer talk, was gobbledegook to him. In fact, the mere mention of megabytes and DOS brought out the latent Luddite in him. Still, he didn’t

  underestimate their value. An enquiry like this would generate a lot of paperwork, and every statement, every report, no matter how minor or negative, would be entered, and cross-checks would be made. He wanted no cock-ups along the lines of the Yorkshire Ripper investigation, where the left hand hadn’t seemed to know what the right hand was doing.

  “Phil says he’d like computers in the mobile unit,” Banks added. “That way the officers can put everything on disk and pass it on to him without any retyping.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Any more ideas?”

  “Just a couple. I’d like a chat with the girl’s teacher, see what I can find out about her. I’m damn sure there’s been some abuse involved. Both Poole and Brenda Scupham deny it, but not convincingly enough.”

  Gristhorpe nodded. “Go on.”

  “And I think we should consider bringing Jenny Fuller in. She might at least be able to give us some idea of what kind of people we’re looking for.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Gristhorpe said. He liked Jenny Fuller. Not only was she a competent psychologist who had helped them before in unusual cases, but she was a pleasure to have around. A right bonny lass, as Gristhorpe’s father would have said.

  “Should we bring Jim Hatchley back from the seaside?” Banks asked.

  Gristhorpe scowled. “I suppose there might come a time we’ll need him. Leave it for now, though.” Detective Sergeant Jim Hatchley had been transferred to a CID outpost on the Yorkshire coast, largely to make way for Philip Richmond’s promotion. Gristhorpe had never much liked Hatchley, but grudgingly admitted he had his uses. As far as Gristhorpe was concerned, he was an idle, foul-mouthed, prejudic* d slob, but his brain worked well enough when he took the trouble to use it,

  and he had a list of dirty tricks as long as your arm that often got results without compromising procedure.

  Banks drained his glass. “Anything else?”

  “Not tonight. We’ll have a meeting first thing in the morning, see what’s turned up. You’d better get home and get some sleep.”

  Banks grunted. “I might as well have another pint first. There never seems to be anyone in these days.”

  “Where’s Sandra?”

  “Community Centre, still organizing that local artists’ exhibition. I’ll swear she spends more time there than she does at home. And Tracy’s out at the pictures with that boyfriend of hers.”

  Gristhorpe caught the anxiety in Banks’s tone. “Don’t worry about her, Alan,” he said. “Tracy’s a sensible lass. She can take care of herself.”

  Banks sighed. “I hope so.” He gestured towards Gristhorpe’s empty glass. “What about you?”

  “Aye, why not? It might help me sleep.”

  While Banks went to the bar, Gristhorpe considered the night ahead. He knew he wouldn’t be going home. For years, he had kept a camp-bed in the station storeroom for emergencies like this. Tonight, and perhaps for the next two or three nights, he would stay in his office. But he doubted that he would get much sleep. Not until he found out what had happened to Gemma Scupham, one way or the other.

  I

  Early the next morning, Banks stood on his doorstep

  holding the milk bottles and breathed in the clear air. It

  was a magnificent day: not a cloud in the light blue sky,

  and hardly any wind. He could smell peat-smoke in the

  air, and it seemed to accentuate the chill autumn edge,

  the advancing touch of winter. More than anything, it

  was a day for walking out in the dale, and it would bring

  dozens of tourists to the Eastvale area.

  He went inside and put the milk in the fridge. He could hear Tracy taking her morning shower and Sandra moving about in the bedroom, getting dressed. It had been a good night when he got back from the Queen’s Arms. Sandra had got home before him, and before bed they enjoyed a nightcap and some Ella Fitzgerald on the CD player she had bought him for his fortieth birthday. Tracy came home on time, cheerful enough, and Banks couldn’t detect any change for the worse in her that he could attribute to her boyfriend, Keith Harrison. Still, he thought as he poured himself a cup of coffee, domestic life had changed a lot over the summer.

  For one thing, Brian had left home for Portsmouth Polytechnic, where he intended to study architecture.

  28

  Much as they had locked horns the past few years—especially over music and staying out too late—Banks missed him. He was left with Tracy, now so grown-up he hardly knew her: blonde hair chopped short and layered raggedly, mad about boys, make-up, clothes, pop music.

  They never seemed to talk any more, and he missed those chats about history—her former passion—especially when he had been able to educate her on a point or two. Banks had always felt insecure about his lack of a good formal education, so Tracy’s questions had often made him feel useful. But he knew nothing about the latest pop groups, fashion or cosmetics.

  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 th
e 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