time.
“Miss Fuller?”
Jenny walked over to the front desk. “Yes?”
“Message from Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe, miss. Says he’s on his way. You can wait in his office if you wish.”
Jenny frowned. “But I thought I was to see Alan— Chief Inspector Banks?”
“He’s at the scene.”
“What scene?”
“It looks like a murder scene. I’m sorry I can’t say any more, miss. We don’t really know anything yet.”
“That’s all right,” Jenny said. “I’ll wait.”
“Very well. The superintendent’s office?”
“I know where it is, thanks.”
Jenny poured herself some coffee from the machine at the bottom of the stairs then went up to Gristhorpe’s office. She had been there before, but never alone. It was larger than Alan’s, and much better appointed. She had heard that rank determines the level of luxury in policemen’s offices, but she also knew that the department itself was hardly likely to supply such things as the large teak desk, or the matching bookcases that covered one wall. The cream and burgundy patterned carpet, perhaps?it was hardly an expensive one, Jenny noticed? but not the shaded desk lamp and the books that lined the shelves.
She glanced over the titles. They were mostly works of criminology and law?the essential Archbold’s Criminal Pleading, Evidence & Practice and Glaister’s Medical Jurisprudence and Toxicology in addition to several other technical and forensic texts?but there were also books on history, fishing, cricket, a few novels and Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch’s edition of The Oxford Book of English Verse. What surprised Jenny most was the number of mystery paperbacks: about four feet of them, mostly Margery Allingham, Ngaio Marsh, Edmund Crispin and Michael Innes.
“That’s just the overflow,” a voice said behind her, making her jump. “The rest are at home.”
“I didn’t hear you come in,” Jenny said, putting her hand to her chest. “You startled me.”
“We coppers are a light-footed lot,” Gristhorpe said, with a twinkle in his baby-blue eyes. “Have to be to catch the villains. Sit down.”
Jenny sat. “This murder, I couldn’t help thinking … It’s not… ?”
“No, it’s not, thank God. It’s bad enough, though. We don’t know who the victim is yet. I left Alan at the scene. I decided to stick with the Gemma Scupham case and let him handle the murder.”
Jenny had never felt entirely at ease with Superintendent Gristhorpe, but she didn’t know why. He seemed very much his own man?self-contained, strong, determined?and he projected a solid, comforting presence. But something made her feel awkward. Perhaps, she speculated, it was the underlying sense of isolation she sensed, the fortress he seemed to have built around his feelings. She knew about his wife’s death from cancer several years ago, and guessed that perhaps a part of him had died with her. Susan Gay, she remembered, had said that she also felt uncomfortable with him, yet he had a reputation as a kind and compassionate man.
His physical presence was difficult to ignore, too. He was a big man?bulky, but not fat?with bushy eyebrows and an unruly thatch of grey hair. With his reddish, pock-marked complexion and the slightly hooked nose, he was very much the dalesman, she thought, if indeed there was such a creature, weathered and moulded by the landscape.
“I did a bit of preliminary research last night,” Jenny began. “I can probably give you a capsule version of the paedophile types.”
Gristhorpe nodded. As she spoke, Jenny somehow felt that he probably knew more than she did about the subject. After all, some of his books dealt with criminal psychology and forensic psychiatry, and he was reputed to be well read. But she didn’t feel he was simply being polite when he let her speak. No, he was listening all right, listening for something he might not have come across or thought of himself. Watching her carefully with those deceptively innocent eyes.
She balanced her black-rimmed reading-glasses on her nose and took her notes out of her briefcase. “Basically, there are four types of paedophile,” she began. “And so far it doesn’t seem like your couple fits any. The first kind is someone who hasn’t really been able to establish satisfactory relationships with his peers. It’s the most common type, and he only feels sexually comfortable with children. He usually knows his victim, maybe a family friend, or even a relation.”
Gristhorpe nodded. “What about age, roughly?”
“Average age is about forty.”
“Hmm. Go on.”
“The second type is someone who seems to develop normally but finds it increasingly difficult to adjust to adult life?work, marriage, et cetera. Feels inadequate, often turns to drink. Usually the marriage, if there is one, breaks down. With this type, something sets things in motion. He reaches a kind of breaking-point. Maybe his wife or girlfriend is having an affair, intensifying his feelings of inadequacy. This kind doesn’t usually know his victim. It may be someone he sees passing by in a car or something. Again, not much like the situation you described at Brenda Scupham’s.”
“No,” agreed Gristhorpe. “But we’ve got to keep an open mind at this point.”
“And I think we can dismiss the third type, too,” Jenny went on. “This is someone who generally had his formative sexual experiences with young boys in an institution of some kind.”
“Ah,” said Gristhorpe. “Public school?”
Jenny looked up at him and smiled. “I suppose that would qualify.” She turned back to her notes. “Anyway, this type is generally a homosexual paedophile, the type that cruises the streets for victims or uses male prostitutes.”
“And the last?”
“The wild card,” Jenny said. “The psychopathic paedophile. It’s hard to pin this type down. He’s in search of new sexual thrills, and pain and fear are generally involved. He’ll hurt his victims, introduce sharp objects into the sexual organs, that kind of thing. The more aggressive he gets, the more excited he becomes. A person like this usually has a history of anti-social behaviour.”
