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 lunchtime?”
“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 snatching 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 bugger spilled coloured water all over my racing form. You know, the jar she’d been dipping her bloody paintbrush 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 bloody 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
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, 3 sure as hell has done
