Best of all, as far as Jenny was concerned, was that Le Bistro was actually situated in a converted Georgian semi only four houses south of her own. The new owners had, somehow, received planning permission to knock down the wall between the two houses and turn them into a café. For Jenny it was a godsend, as she often couldn’t be bothered to cook after a hard day. The food was good and the prices were relatively reasonable.
She dashed through the door. The place was fairly busy, but she saw Banks immediately. There he was in a dark grey sports jacket, white shirt and tie. As usual, his top button was open and the tie loose and askew. Under close-cropped black hair, his dark blue eyes sparkled as he looked over at her. He was working on a crossword and holding what looked like a glass of mineral water. Jenny couldn’t suppress a giggle as she sat down in a flurry of apologies. Le Bistro didn’t serve pints.
“It’s all right,” said Banks rather glumly, putting his newspaper away in his briefcase. “I’m supposed to be cutting down on the ale anyway.”
“Since when?”
Banks patted his stomach. “Since I turned forty and noticed this beginning to swell.”
“Nonsense. You’re as lean as ever. You’re just suffering from male menopause. Next you’ll be having an affair with a twenty-one-year-old rookie policewoman.”
Banks laughed. “Chance would be a fine thing. But don’t joke about it. You never know. Anyway, how are you?”
Jenny shrugged and tossed back the thick mane of red hair that cascaded over her shoulders. “Okay, I suppose. I’m not sure I like teaching summer school though.”
“Working in summer?” mocked Banks. “Tut-tut, what a terrible thing. What is the world coming to?”
Jenny thumped him on the arm. “It’s supposed to be one of the perks of the job, remember? Teachers get summers off. Not this year, though.”
“Never mind. You’re looking well for it.”
“Why, thank you, kind sir.” Jenny inclined her head graciously. “And you haven’t changed. Honestly, Alan. You still don’t look a day over thirty-nine. How’s Sandra?”
“Busy.”
“Oh-oh. Feeling all neglected, are we?”
Banks grinned. “Something like that. But we’re not here to talk about me.”
“And how’s Susan Gay?” Jenny had spent some time helping Susan adjust to her CID posting, on a semi-professional basis, and the two had become fairly close.
They were different personalities, but Jenny saw something in Susan — a sense of determination, a single-mindedness — that both appealed to her and disturbed her. If she could persuade Susan to relax a little, she felt, then a more balanced and attractive personality might be permitted to emerge.
Banks told her Susan was doing well, though she still seemed a little tense and prickly, and the two chatted about family and mutual friends. “Have you studied the menu yet?” Jenny asked him after a short silence.
“Mm. No sausage and chips, I noticed. How’s the croque monsieur?”
“Good.”
“Then I’ll have that. And by the way, I like the music.”
Jenny cocked an ear. Singing quietly in the background was the unmistakable voice of Edith Piaf. Typical of him to notice that, she thought. Left to herself she would have ignored it as wallpaper music.
“Wine?” she asked.
“Not for me. It makes me sleepy and I’ve a lot of paperwork to do this afternoon.”
“So, it’s about little Gemma Scupham, is it?” Jenny said, unfolding a coral napkin and spreading it over her lap. “That’s why you’ve called me in?”
Banks nodded. “Superintendent Gristhorpe thought you might be able to help.”
“At least I’m not the token feminist this time.”
“No. Seriously, Jenny, can you help?”
“Maybe. What do you want from me?”
“For the moment I’d just like grounding in a few basics. I can understand a lot about things most people don’t even want to think about — robbery, murder, even rape — but I can’t seem to grasp the motivation for something like this.”
Jenny took a deep breath and held it a moment. “All right. I’ll do what I can. Shall we order first, though?” She called over the waitress and gave their orders, asking for a glass of white wine for herself right now, and a coffee for Banks, then she sat back in her chair. “First you’d better tell me the details so far,” she said.
Banks told her. Before he finished, the food arrived, and they both tucked in.
Jenny pushed her plate away and set the half-full wineglass in front of her. Banks ordered another coffee.
“I don’t really know where to start,” she said. “I mean, it’s not really my field.”
“You do know something about sexual deviance, though.”
“Honestly, Alan, you make me sound like a real pervert. Basically, nobody really knows what causes someone to be a paedophile or a rapist or a sadist. They don’t necessarily realize they’re doing anything wrong.”
“Are you telling me that a man who sexually assaults little children doesn’t think he’s doing anything wrong?”
“Depends what you mean by wrong. He would know he’s breaking the law, of course, but… He’s only satisfying desires he can’t help feeling. He never asked to feel them in the first place. And many also feel tremendous guilt and remorse.”
“For doing something they don’t even think is wrong? You make it sound almost legitimate.”
“You asked. I’m just telling you what little I know.”
“I’m sorry. Go on.”
“Look, you might think a person is simply born the way he or she is, but sexual behaviour isn’t fixed from the start. There are theories that almost everything is biologically based, caused by chemicals, or by genes. For what it’s worth, most studies indicate that sexual behaviour is mostly a matter of learning. At first, everything is diffuse, in a kind of flux — polymorphous perverse, I believe Freud called infant sexuality. It depends on a number of factors what preferences come to the fore.”
“Like what?”
“Experience. Learning. Family. They’re probably the most important. You try something, and if you like it, you do it again. That’s experience. Many people are given no information about sex, or such wrong-headed information that they become very confused. That’s learning, or lack of it. Even what we call normal sexuality is a dark, murky thing at best. Look at the extremes of sexual jealousy, of how sex and desire can so easily turn to violence. There’s loss of control. Then there’s the association of orgasm with death. Did you know it used to be called the ‘little death’?”
“You don’t make it sound like much fun.”
“That’s the point,” Jenny said. “For a lot of people, it isn’t. Desire is a ball and chain they can’t get rid of, or a ringmaster they don’t dare disobey. Sexuality has lots of possible outcomes other than what we label ‘normal’ or socially acceptable. It’s learned behaviour. When you’re prepubescent or adolescent, any object or situation could become stimulating. Remember the thrill you used to get looking at pictures of naked women? It’s easy as an adolescent to get fixated on things like underwear, big breasts, the image rather than the real thing. Remember our peeping Tom? That was his particular fixation, a visual stimulation.