“It doesn’t take long before most of us start to prefer certain stimuli to others. Pretty soon sexual excitement and satisfaction become limited to a certain, fairly narrow range. That’s what we call normal. Your good old, socially approved, heterosexual sex. The problem with most sexual deviants, though, is that they can’t handle what we regard as normal personal relationships. Many try, but they fail. It’s a lot more complicated than that, of course. It may not be apparent on the surface that they’ve failed, for example. They may become very good at faking it in order to cover up their real needs and actions.”
“So what kind of person are we talking about? You said it’s someone who can’t handle ordinary relationships.”
“I’ll have to do some research and see what I can come up with, but your basic deviant is probably pretty much the chap-next-door type, with some very notable exceptions, of course. By the way, you don’t have to look around so nervously, you can smoke if you want. Giselle will fetch an ashtray. Remember, it’s a French restaurant. Everyone smokes over there.”
Banks lit up and Giselle duly brought the ashtray along with their bill. “Go on,” he said. “You were telling me about the chap next door.”
“It’s just that most sex offenders become skilled at leading quite normal lives on the surface. They learn to play the game. They can hold down a job, keep a marriage going, even raise children—”
“Paedophiles?”
“Yes.”
“I must admit that’s a surprise,” said Banks. “I’ve come across psychopaths and deviants of various kinds before — I mean, I’m not entirely ignorant on the subject — and it has often amazed me how they keep their secrets. Look at Dennis Nilsen, for Christ’s sake, chopping up kids and putting their heads on the ring to boil while he takes his dog for a walk, saying hello to the neighbours. Such a nice, quiet man.” Banks shook his head. “I know the Boston Strangler was married, and Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper. But how the hell can a paedophile keep a thing like that hidden from his wife and kids?”
“People can become very adept at keeping secrets if they have to, Alan. You don’t spend all your life in someone else’s company, under someone’s scrutiny, do you? Surely you managed to find time alone to masturbate when you were a kid? And you probably thought about it a fair bit, too, anticipated the picture you’d look at or the girl you’d imagine undressing. The whole thing takes on a kind of magical intensity, a ritualistic element, if you like. A sex offender will simply spend all his free time anticipating 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 noticed that Edith Piaf had finished now, replaced by some innocuous accordion music meant to evoke the Gauloise atmosphere of Parisian cafés.
“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’ll 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.”