Peter Robinson - Wednesday's Child

“No, wait. There’s more. There are some places, very bad places. Not just the pretty women in the windows, you understand?”

“Yes?”

“And Wim told me that your Mr Harkness visited one of these places.”

“How did your source know who he was?”

“Alan, you must remember Mr Harkness is well known in Amsterdam, and not without influence. Do you want me to go on?”

“Yes, please.”

“It was a very bad place,” Piet continued. “You understand prostitution is not illegal here, that there are many brothels?”

“Yes.”

“And the live sex shows and the whips and chains and all the rest. But this one brothel, Wim says, was a very special place. A place that caters for people who like little girls.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“It happens, Alan. What can I say? Girls disappear from the big cities, they turn up in these places. Sometimes they are used for snuff films. You know what they are?”

“I know. Why wasn’t he arrested?”

“Sometimes it is better to leave the little fish. Also, Harkness was an important man and, how shall I say, perhaps pressure could be brought to bear. He could have been useful.”

Banks sighed. He knew the scenario. Get something on a man like Harkness and you’ve got him in your pocket: the police version of blackmail.

“Alan, in Amsterdam, just as, I suspect, in your London, you can get anything you want if you have the money to pay for it. Anything. If we can find these places and find evidence, we close them down and arrest the people responsible. But these men are very clever. And sometimes policemen can be bought, protection can be paid. Or blackmailed. We all have skeletons in our closets. Alan? Are you still there?”

“Yes. Yes, Piet, I know. I was thinking. Listen, I’d like you to do me a big favour. I assume places like this are still in existence?”

“There is one place now we are suspicious of. On the surface, it seems like an ordinary brothel, but rumour has it that young girls can be had there, for a price. Our undercover men are watching, but we have no proof yet.”

“I’d like you to find out if there are any new girls.” He gave Piet Gemma’s description, praying he was wrong. At least it meant she might still be alive, if Harkness kept his connections in Amsterdam. He still couldn’t work out the whys and the wherefores, how everything linked up, but he knew it would not have been so difficult for Harkness or someone else to smuggle Gemma out of the country, even during the search. The ferry from Immingham, for example, was always crowded; it would be easy enough to slip in among the other families with a sleeping child on the overnight journey, when everyone was tired. “I don’t care whether you get enough proof to lock them up or not. Rumours will do fine for me. Use your contacts, informers. Maybe even your friend Wim might be able to help?”

“Yes,” said Piet slowly. “I understand. I’ll try. What more can I say?”

“And Piet.”

“Yes?”

“Thanks. Thanks a lot. You did a great job.” Then Banks slammed down the receiver and rushed to find Gristhorpe.

It was about time the place had a good cleaning, Brenda thought, wielding the Hoover like a lawnmower. She knew she wasn’t good at housekeeping, but now she had so much time on her hands and nothing but bad thoughts and terrifying dreams, she had to do something or she would fall apart. The ground-in dirt and the food stains wouldn’t come out, of course, they would need shampooing, but the dust would. At least it was a start.

The vacuum was so noisy that she didn’t hear the bell. It was only the steady thumping on her door that broke through. She turned off the machine and listened again. Another knock. For a moment she just stood there, worried it might be Les. She wasn’t frightened of him — she knew he was a coward at heart — but she didn’t feel like another public row and she was damned if she was going to let him in. On the other hand, it might be the police with news of Gemma. She glanced out of the window but couldn’t see a police car. That didn’t matter, she realized. The plain-clothes men drove ordinary cars.

She sighed and stood the Hoover in the corner. Well, if it was Les, she’d just have to tell him to stay away and call the police if he insisted on pestering her. The blurred figure through the frosted glass wasn’t Les, that was for certain, but she couldn’t tell who it was until she opened the door and saw Lenora Carlyle standing there with her long black hair and penetrating eyes. She didn’t want to let Lenora in. Somehow, she thought, that entire episode had been a weakness, a mistake. She had been grasping at straws. And look what she was left with: nothing but a video of herself, which was already beginning to feel like an embarrassment. But she stood aside politely. Lenora hung up her coat and followed her into the front room.

“Tea?” said Brenda, feeling like a cup herself.

“Yes, please, dear, if it’s no trouble.” Lenora sat on the sofa and brushed down her skirt. “Been cleaning, I see.”

“Yes.” Brenda shrugged and went to make the tea. When it was ready, she brought it in on a tray and poured, then lit a cigarette.

“I sense there’s been some great change,” Lenora said, frowning with concentration. “Some sort of upheaval.”

“If you mean I chucked Les out, I suppose you’re right.”

Lenora looked disappointed at such a prosaic explanation. “Any news?”

Brenda shook her head.

“Well, that’s why I’m here, really. You remember what I said before?”

“That Gemma’s still alive?”

“That’s right.” Her eyes glittered. “More than ever I’m convinced of it, Brenda.”

“I don’t think so.” Brenda shook her head. “Not after all this time.”

“But you must have faith. She’s frightened and weak. But she’s alive, Brenda.”

“Don’t.”

“You must listen.” Lenora put her mug down and leaned forward, clasping her hands. “I saw animals. Jungle animals, Brenda. Lions, tigers, leopards. They’re connected with Gemma somehow.”

“What are you saying? She’s been taken to Africa or something?”

Lenora flopped back on the sofa. “I don’t know. The message is very weak. That’s all I see. Gemma and animals.”

“Look, I really don’t—”

“They’re not harming her, Brenda.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“But you must believe!”

“Why must I believe? What good has it done me?”

“Don’t you want to see your Gemma again?”

Brenda stood up. “Of course I want to see Gemma again. But I can’t. She’s dead. Can’t you understand? She’s dead. She must be. If she’s not dead by now she must be suffering so much. It’s best that she’s dead.” The tears and grief she had felt welling up for so long were breaking the dam.

“We must cling to the gift of life, Brenda.”

“No. I don’t want to listen to this. You’re frightening me. Go away. Leave me alone.”

“But Brenda, I—”

“Go on.” Brenda pointed at the door, tears burning her eyes. “Go away. Get out!”

Lenora shook her head slowly, then, shoulders slumped, she got up and left the room. When Brenda heard the door close, she sank back into her chair. She was shaking now and tears burned down her cheeks. Dammit, why wouldn’t they all leave her alone? And why couldn’t she know for sure? Every day that Gemma stayed missing was more like hell. Why couldn’t they find her body, then Brenda could get her grieving done with, organize the funeral, move on. But no. Just day after day of misery. And it was all her fault, all Brenda’s fault for not loving her daughter enough, for losing control and shaking her so much she was terrified what she might do the next time.