Peter Robinson: Wednesday's Child

“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.

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 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.