Inspector Banks: Wednesday's Child Part 5

"Look, you might think a person is simply born the way he or she is, but s.e.xual behaviour isn't fixed from the start. There are theories that almost everything is biologically based, caused by chemicals, or by genes. For what it's worth, most studies indicate that s.e.xual behaviour is mostly a matter of learning. At first, everything is diffuse, in a kind of flux-polymorphous perverse, I believe Freud called infant s.e.xuality. It depends on a number of factors what preferences come to the fore."

"Like what?"

"Experience. Learning. Family. They're probably the most important. You try something, and if you like it, you do it again. That's experience. Many people are given no information about s.e.x, or such wrong-headed information that they become very confused. That's learning, or lack of it. Even what we call normal s.e.xuality is a dark, murky thing at best. Look at the extremes of s.e.xual jealousy, of how s.e.x and desire can so easily turn to violence. There's loss of control. Then there's the a.s.sociation of o.r.g.a.s.m with death. Did you know it used to be called the 'little death'?"

"You don't make it sound like much fun."

"That's the point," Jenny said. "For a lot of people, it isn't. Desire is a ball and chain they can't get rid of, or a ringmaster they don't dare disobey. s.e.xuality has lots of possible outcomes other than what we label 'normal' or socially acceptable. It's learned behaviour. When you're prep.u.b.escent or adolescent, any object or situation could become stimulating. Remember the thrill you used to get looking at pictures of naked women? It's easy as an adolescent to get fixated on things like underwear, big b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the image rather than the real thing. Remember our peeping Tom? That was his particular fixation, a visual stimulation.

"It doesn't take long before most of us start to prefer certain stimuli to others. Pretty soon s.e.xual excitement and satisfaction become limited to a certain, fairly narrow range. That's what we call normal. Your good old, socially approved, heteros.e.xual s.e.x. The problem with most s.e.xual deviants, though, is that they can't handle what we regard as normal personal relationships. Many try, but they fail. It's a lot more complicated than that, of course. It may not be apparent on the surface that they've failed, for example. They may become very good at faking it in order to cover up their real needs and actions."

"So what kind of person are we talking about? You said it's someone who can't handle ordinary relationships."

"I'll have to do some research and see what I can come up with, but your basic deviant is probably pretty much the chap-next-door type, with some very notable exceptions, of course. By the way, you don't have to look around so nervously, you can smoke if you want. Giselle will fetch an ashtray. Remember, it's a French restaurant. Everyone smokes over there."

Banks lit up and Giselle duly brought the ashtray along with their bill. "Go on," he said. "You were telling me about the chap next door."

"It's just that most s.e.x offenders become skilled at leading quite normal lives on the surface. They learn to play the game. They can hold down a job, keep a marriage going, even raise children-"

"Paedophiles?"

"Yes."

"I must admit that's a surprise," said Banks. "I've come across psychopaths and deviants of various kinds before-I mean, I'm not entirely ignorant on the subject-and it has often amazed me how they keep their secrets. Look at Dennis Nilsen, for Christ's sake, chopping up kids and putting their heads on the ring to boil while he takes his dog for a walk, saying h.e.l.lo to the neighbours. Such a nice, quiet man." Banks shook his head. "I know the Boston Strangler was married, and Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper. But how the h.e.l.l can a paedophile keep a thing like that hidden from his wife and kids?"

"People can become very adept at keeping secrets if they have to, Alan. You don't spend all your life in someone else's company, under someone's scrutiny, do you? Surely you managed to find time alone to m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e when you were a kid? And you probably thought about it a fair bit, too, antic.i.p.ated the picture you'd look at or the girl you'd imagine undressing. The whole thing takes on a kind of magical intensity, a ritualistic element, if you like. A s.e.x offender will simply spend all his free time antic.i.p.ating and planning his deviant acts."

Banks loosened his tie a little more. Jenny noticed him look around the restaurant and smile at the three businessmen at the next table, who seemed to have been listening with growing fascination and horror to the conversation. "You seem to know a lot about adolescent male behaviour," he said.

Jenny laughed. "Alan, I've embarra.s.sed you. Oh, don't look so uncomfortable. It is part of my field, after all. The things little boys and little girls get up to."

"What's your prognosis?" Banks asked.

Jenny sighed. "For you? I'm afraid there's no hope. No, really, I honestly haven't done enough research for anything like that yet." She frowned, the lines crinkling her smooth forehead. "You know what really puzzles me, though? Again, it's probably something you've already considered from your point of view, but psychologically it's interesting, too."

"What's that?"

"The woman."

"You mean why she was there?"

"Yes. What's her part in the whole business?"

"Well, her presence would certainly give credibility to the social worker story. I doubt that even someone as thick as Brenda Scupham would have trusted a man alone."

"No. I realize that. But think about it, Alan." Jenny leaned forward, her hands clasped on the table. "She's a woman. Surely you're not telling me she didn't know what they were doing, taking the child?"

"They acted together, yes. But he may have conned her into it somehow, for the sake of credibility. She might not have known what his motives were, especially if, as you say, paedophiles are good at keeping secrets."

"Except from themselves. But I still think it's a strange thing for a woman to do-help abduct another woman's child. It's an even stranger thing for a couple to do. What on earth would she want with Gemma?"

"Now don't tell me you're going to give me all that sisterhood c.r.a.p, because I just don't accept it. Women are just as-"

Jenny held her hand up. "All right. I won't. But there's no need to start getting all shirty. It's not sisterhood I'm talking about, it's a very practical thing. As far as I know, s.e.xual deviants can be fat or thin, big or little, young or old, rich or poor, but they almost always act alone. To put it technically, we're talking about people who exhibit primary characteristics of social aversion."

"Hmm. I'm not saying we haven't considered they might have simply wanted a child so badly that they took someone else's, that they're not paedophiles. We just don't know. But think of the risk involved."

Jenny ran her fingers around the stem of her winegla.s.s. "Maybe it does seem far-fetched. But women have s.n.a.t.c.hed babies from prams. It's not my job to evaluate that kind of information. All I'm saying is that the couple element is curious, in psychological terms. And the method is unusual. As you say, think of the risk involved. Maybe the risk was part of the thrill."

A short silence followed. Banks lit another cigarette. Jenny pulled a face and waved the smoke away. She noticed that Edith Piaf had finished now, replaced by some innocuous accordion music meant to evoke the Gauloise atmosphere of Parisian cafes.

"The superintendent mentioned the Moors Murderers, Brady and Hindley," said Banks. "I know he's got a bee in his bonnet about that case, but you have to admit there are parallels."

"Hmm."

"What I'm saying," Banks went on, "is it may be one way of explaining the couple aspect. Brady thought human beings were contemptible creatures and pleasure the only end worth pursuing. And Hindley was besotted with him. She was witnessing it all as a demonstration of some form of love for him. I know it sounds weird, but ..."

"I've heard the theory," said Jenny. "It's all to do with dominance. And I've heard a lot weirder theories, too. Christ, Alan, you know as well as I do that most psychology is guesswork. We don't really know anything. But Superintendent Gristhorpe may be right. It could be something like that. I'll look into it."

"So you'll help?"

"Of course I'll help, idiot. Did you think I'd say no?"

"Quickly, Jenny," said Banks, taking money from his wallet and placing it on the bill. "Especially if there's even the slightest chance that Gemma Scupham might still be alive."

IV.

"Have you found her yet?"

Nothing much had changed in Brenda Scupham's front room by Thursday afternoon. The doll still lay in the same position on the floor, and the peculiar smell remained. But Brenda looked more tired. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her hair hung limp and lifeless beside her pale cheeks. She was wearing a grubby pink track-suit bottom and a loose green sweatshirt. Les Poole slouched in the armchair, feet up, smoking.

"What's wrong, Les?" Banks asked. "Is The Barleycorn not on all-day opening?"

"Very funny. I don't live there, you know."

Brenda Scupham shot him a mean look, then turned to Banks.

"Leave him alone. He's not done anything. He might not be much, but he's all I've got. I asked you, have you found my Gemma yet?"

"No," said Banks, turning from Poole. "No, we haven't."

"Well, what do you want? More questions?"

"I'm afraid so."

Brenda Scupham sighed and sat down. "I don't know where this is going to get us."

"I need to know more about Gemma's habits, for a start."

"What do you mean, habits?"

"Her routines. How did she get to school?"

"She walked. It's not far."

"Alone?"

"No, she met up with the Ferris girl from over the street and the Bramhope kid from two houses down."

"Did she come home with them, too?"

"Yes."

Banks made a note of the names. "What about lunch-time?" "School dinners."

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why?"

"The school's not far away. Surely it'd have saved you a penny or two if she came home for lunch?"

Brenda Scupham shrugged. "She said she liked school dinners."

"Did she ever say anything about anyone following her or stopping her in the street?"

"Never."

"And she wasn't out on her own?"

"No. She was always with her friends, whether she was off to school or playing out. Why are you asking all these questions?"

"Brenda, I'm trying to figure out why Gemma's abductors came to the house rather than s.n.a.t.c.hing her in the street. Surely she must have been alone out there at some time?"

"I dare say. She'd nip to the shop now and then. You can't keep your eyes on them every minute of the day. She is seven, you know. She knows to look right before left when she's crossing the street, and not to take sweets from strangers." When she realized what she'd said, she put her hand to her mouth and her eyes filled with tears.

"I'm sorry if this is painful for you," Banks said, "but it is important."

"I know."

"Was Gemma a happy child, would you say?"

"I suppose so. They live in their own worlds, don't they?" "Would she be given to exaggeration, to lying?"

"Not that I know of, no."

"It's just that I heard a story about Les here throwing some of Gemma's books out. Does that mean anything to you?"

Les Poole sat up and turned to Banks. "What?"

"You heard, Les. What's so important about her spilling paint on your paper at two-thirty?"

Poole looked puzzled for a few seconds, then he laughed out loud. "Who told you that?"

"Never mind. What's it all about?"

He laughed again. "It was the two-thirty. The two-thirty from Cheltenham. Silly little b.u.g.g.e.r spilled coloured water all over my racing form. You know, the jar she'd been dipping her b.l.o.o.d.y paint-brush in."

"And for that you threw her books out?"

"Don't be daft. They were just some old colouring books. She was painting in them on the other side of the table and she knocked her paint jar over and ruined my b.l.o.o.d.y paper. So I grabbed the books and tore them up."

"How did she react?"

"Oh, she whined and sulked for a while."

"Did you ever grab her hard by the arm?"

"No, I never touched her. Just the books. Look, what's all this-"

"Why wouldn't you get her the new book she wanted?"

Poole sat back in the chair and crossed his legs. "Couldn't afford it, could we? You can't give kids everything they ask for. You ought to know that if you've got kids of your own. Look, get to the point, Mr Banks. I might not have had much time for the little beggar but I didn't run off with her, did I? We're the victims, not the criminals. I think it's about time you realized that."

Banks looked at him, and Poole quickly averted his gaze. It made Banks think of his first lesson in police thinking. He had been involved in interviewing a petty thief about a burglary in Belsize Park, and he came away convinced that the man hadn't committed it. Surprised to see the charges being laid and the evidence gathered, he had mentioned his doubts to his commanding officer. The man, a twenty-year veteran called Bill Carstairs, had looked at Banks and shaken his head, then he said, "He might not have done this job, but he sure as h.e.l.l has done something he ought to be put away for." Looking at Poole made Banks feel the same way. The man was guilty of something. If he had nothing to do with Gemma's disappearance, or even with the Fletcher's warehouse job, he was still guilty of something.

Banks turned back to Brenda Scupham.

"You think we abused Gemma, don't you?" she said.

"I don't know."

"You've been listening to gossip. Probably gossip from kids, at that. Look, I'll admit I didn't want her. I was twenty-one, the last thing I wanted was to be lumbered with a kid, but I was brought up Catholic, and I couldn't get rid of her. I might not be the best mother on earth. I might be selfish, I might not be up to encouraging her in school and paying as much attention to her as I should. I'm not even a very good house-keeper. But all that ... I mean, what I'm saying is I never abused her."

It was an impa.s.sioned speech, but Banks got the feeling that she was protesting too much. "What about Les?" he asked.

She glanced over at him. "If he ever touched her he knows he'd be out of here before his feet could touch the floor."

"So why did you give her up so easily?"

Brenda Scupham chewed on her lip and fought back the tears.

"Do you think I haven't had it on my mind night and day since? Do you think there's a moment goes by I don't ask myself the same question?" She shook her head. "It all happened so fast."

"But if you hadn't abused Gemma in any way, why didn't you just tell Mr Brown and Miss Peterson that and send them away?"

"Because they were the authorities. I mean, they looked like they were and everything. I suppose I thought if they'd had some information then they had to look into it, you know, like the police. And then when they found there was nothing in it, they'd bring Gemma back."

"Did Gemma go willingly?"