Wednesday's Child (4 page)

Banks left The Barleycorn for the dark autumn evening. He was wearing only his sports jacket over his shirt, and he felt the chill in the air as he walked back to Brenda Scupham's with a terrier yapping at his heels. Television screens flickered behind curtains, some pulled back just an inch or two so the neighbours could watch all the excitement at number twenty-four.

As he turned up the path, he thought of Brenda and the enormity of what she had allowed. He could have told her about the recent Children's Act, designed to protect parents from overzealous social workers, but he knew he would only get a blank stare in return. Besides, telling her that was as clear an example as you can get of bolting the stable door after the horse has gone.

He thought again about Les Poole and wondered what he was hiding. Maybe it had just been the criminal's typical nervousness at an encounter with the police. Whatever it was, it had been evident in his clipped answers, 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 feels 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 overtones. 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 asked 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, prejudiced 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.

TWO

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. 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 inse-
cure 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.