She finished her gin and lit another cigarette. Now she had talked to the reporter she thought she might like to go on television. They had asked her on the second day, but she had been too scared. Maybe, though, in her best outfit, with the right make-up, she might not look too bad. She could make an appeal to the kidnapper, and if Gemma was still alive… Still alive… no, she couldn’t think about that again. But it might help.
She heard a key in the door. Les back from the pub. Her expression hardened. Over these past few days, she realized, she had come to hate him. The door opened. She went and poured herself another gin and tonic. She would have to do something about Les soon. She couldn’t go on like this.
V
Later that Saturday night, after closing-time, a car weaved its way over a desolate stretch of the North York Moors some thirty miles east of Eastvale. Its occupants — Mark Hudson and Mandy Vernon — could hardly keep their hands off one another. They had been for a slap-up dinner and drinks at the White Horse Farm Hotel, in Rosedale, and were now on their way back to Helmsley.
As Mark tried to concentrate on the narrow, unfenced road, the rabbits running away from the headlights’ beam, his hand kept straying to Mandy’s thigh, where her short skirt exposed a long stretch of delectable nylon-encased warm flesh. Finally, he pulled into a lay-by. All around them lay darkness, not even a farmhouse light in sight.
First they kissed, but the gear-stick and steering wheel got in the way. Metros weren’t built for passion. Then Mark suggested they get in the back. They did so, but when he got his hand up her skirt and started tugging at her tights, she banged her knee on the back of the seat and cursed.
“There’s not enough room,” she said. “I’ll break my bloody leg.”
“Let’s get out, then,” Mark suggested.
“What? Do it in the open air?”
“Yes. Why not?”
“But it’s cold.”
“It’s not that cold. Don’t worry, I’ll keep you warm. I’ve got a blanket in the back.”
Mandy considered it for a moment. His hand found her left breast inside her blouse and he started rubbing her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
“All right,” she said. “We’ve not got much choice, have we?”
And indeed they hadn’t. They couldn’t take a room at the hotel because Mark was married, supposed to be at a company do, and Mandy still lived with her mother and brother, who expected her home from her girlfriend’s by midnight. He had bought her an expensive five-course dinner, and they had drunk Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Going home, he had even negotiated the winding one-in-three hill that led over the open moors because it was more isolated up there than on the valley road. This might be one of the last warm evenings of the year; he might never get another chance.
Using the torch, they made their way over the heather and found a shaded knoll surrounded by rocks and boulders about fifty yards from the road. Mark spread the blanket and Mandy lay down. Open moorland stretched for miles all around, and a half-moon frosted the heather and gave the place the eerie look of a moon-scape. It was cold, but they soon ceased to notice as they warmed each other with caresses. Finally, Mark got Mandy’s tights and knickers down around her ankles, pushed her knees apart and lay on top of her.
Mandy stretched out her arms and snatched at the heather as the waves of pleasure swept through her. Soon, Mark speeded up and began to make grunting sounds deep in his throat. Mandy knew the end was close. She could smell the port and Stilton on his breath and feel his stubble against her shoulder. The more he groaned, the more she snatched at the heather by the nearest rock, but even as he came and she encouraged him with cries of ecstasy, she was aware that what she clutched in her right hand wasn’t grass or heather, but something softer, some kind of material, more like an article of clothing.
SIX
I
That Sunday morning in Eastvale passed as most Sundays did. The locals read the papers, washed their cars, put the roast in, went to church, messed about in the garden. Some took walks in the dale or went to visit nearby relatives. The fine weather held, and tourists came, of course, jamming the market square with their cars, posing by the ancient cross or the façade of the Norman church for photographs, perhaps enjoying a pub lunch at the Queen’s Arms or tea and sandwiches at the Golden Grill, then driving on to the craft show at Helmthorpe, the sheep fair at Relton, or the big car-boot sale in Hoggett’s field near Fortford. And out in the dale, around massive Witch Fell between Skield and Swainshead, the search for seven-year-old Gemma Scupham went into its fourth full day.
Back in Eastvale, at eleven-thirty that morning, a very nervous and hungover Mark Hudson walked into the police station carrying a Marks and Spencer’s bag. He quickly placed it on the front desk, mumbling. “You might be interested in this,” then tried to make a casual exit.
It was not to be. The desk sergeant caught a glimpse of yellow cotton in the bag, and before he knew it Mark Hudson was whisked politely upstairs to the CID.
Gristhorpe, aware that his office was far too comfortable for the interrogation of suspects, had Hudson taken to an interview room with a metal desk and chairs bolted to the floor and a small window covered by a metal grille. It smelled of Dettol and stale cigarette smoke.
With Richmond along to take notes, Gristhorpe planted himself firmly opposite a sweating Mark Hudson and began.
“Where did you find the clothes?”
“On the moors.”
“More precisely?”
“On the road between Rosedale Abbey and Hutton-le-Hole. I don’t remember exactly where.”
“When?”
“Last night. Look, I just—”
“What were you doing out there?”
Hudson paused and licked his lips. He looked around the room and Gristhorpe could tell he didn’t like what he saw. “I… well, I’d been to a company do at the White Horse. I was on my way home.”
“Where do you live?”
“Helmsley.”
“What company do you work for?”
Hudson looked surprised at the question. “Burton’s. You know, the rag trade. I’m a sales rep.”
“And this do you were at, what was it in honour of?”
“Well, it wasn’t really… I mean, it was just an informal affair, some of the lads getting together for a meal and a chat.”
“I see.” Gristhorpe eased back in his chair. “And what made you stop in such a godforsaken place?”
“I needed to… you know, call of nature.”
“Were you by yourself?”
“Yes.”
Gristhorpe sniffed a lie, but he left it alone.
“Why did you wait so long before coming here? You must have known what you’d found. It’s been in all the papers.”
“I know. I just thought… It was very late. And I didn’t want to get involved.” He leaned forward. “And I was right, wasn’t I? I decide to help, and here I am being interrogated like a suspect.”
“Mr Hudson,” said Gristhorpe, “in the first place, you’re not being interrogated, you’re simply being questioned, and in the second place, a child is missing, perhaps dead. How would you treat someone who walks in here, drops a bundle of what looks like the child’s clothes and then tries to scarper?”
“I didn’t try to scarper. I just wanted you to have the clothes, in case there was a clue. As I said, I didn’t want to get involved. I thought of putting them in the post, but I knew that would take too long. I know how important time is in things like this, so I finally decided to come forward.”
“Well, thank you very much, Mr Hudson.”
“Look, if I really had done anything to that child, I’d hardly have come in here at all, would I?”
Gristhorpe fixed Hudson with his baby-blue eyes. “Psychopaths are unpredictable, Mark,” he said. “We never know what they’ll do next, or why they do it.”
“For God’s sake!”
“Where’s the girl, Mark?”
Hudson hesitated, looked away. “What girl?”
“Come on, Mark. You know who I mean. The girl who was with you. Your accomplice.”
“Accomplice?”
“Miss Peterson. Where is she?”
“I’ve never heard of anyone called Peterson.”
Gristhorpe gave that one a “maybe.” “Where’s Gemma Scupham?”
“Please, you’ve got to believe me. I don’t know anything. I had nothing to do with it. I’m just trying to do my civic duty.”
Gristhorpe let the staring match continue until Hudson looked down at the stained metal desk, then he asked, “Can you remember exactly where you found the bundle of clothing?”
Hudson rubbed his damp forehead. “I was thinking about that on my way here,” he said. “That you might want to know.”
“It could be useful. We still haven’t found the girl’s body.”
“Yes, well… I could try. I mean, I think I might remember if I saw the spot again. But it was dark and it’s pretty bleak up there. I must admit after I found the clothes I didn’t want to hang around.”
“And you were no doubt under the influence of Bacchus?”
“What?”
“You’d been drinking.”
“I’d had a little wine, yes. But I wasn’t over the limit, if that’s what you mean.”
“I don’t care how much you had to drink,” said Gristhorpe, standing up. “Although judging by your eyes this morning I’d say you’re a bloody liar. It’s your memory I’m concerned about. What I want you to do is to take me to the spot where you found the clothes. I’ll go with you in your car and DS Richmond here will follow. All right?”
“I don’t have much choice, do I?”
“No,” said Gristhorpe. “No, you don’t.”