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 embarrassed 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 crap, 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, sexual 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 wineglass. “Maybe it does seem far-fetched. But women have snatched 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 no
ticed 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‘11 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.”
