They never seemed to talk any more, and he missed those chats about history — her former passion — especially when he had been able to educate her on a point or two. Banks had always felt insecure about his lack of a good formal education, so Tracy’s questions had often made him feel useful. But he knew nothing about the latest pop groups, fashion or cosmetics.
And Sandra had become absorbed in her work. He told himself, as he buttered his toast, not to be so damned selfish and to stop feeling sorry for himself. She was doing what she wanted — getting involved in the arts — after so many years of sacrifice for the sake of the family and for his career. And if he hadn’t wanted an independent, spirited, creative woman, then he shouldn’t have married her. Still, he worried. She was late so often, and some of these local artists were handsome young devils with the reputation of being ladies’ men. They were more free-spirited than he was, too, with Bohemian attitudes about sex, no doubt.
Perhaps Sandra found him boring now and was looking for excitement elsewhere. At thirty-eight, she was a fine-looking woman, with an unusual mix of long blonde hair and dark eyebrows over intelligent blue eyes. The slim, shapely figure she had worked hard to maintain always turned heads. Again he told himself not to be such a fool. It was the work that was taking up her time, not another man.
Sandra and Tracy were still upstairs when he had finished his coffee and toast. He called out goodbye, put on his charcoal sports jacket, patting the side pocket for cigarettes and lighter, and set off. It was such a fine morning — and he knew how quickly the day could turn to misery — that he decided to walk the mile or so to Eastvale Regional Headquarters rather than drive. He could always sign a car out of the pool if he needed one.
He stuck the Walkman in his pocket and turned it on. Ivor Gurney’s setting of “In Flanders” started: “I’m homesick for my hills again — My hills again!” Banks had come to Gurney first through some of his poems in an anthology of First World War poetry, then, learning he had been a composer too, went in search of the music. There wasn’t much available, just a handful of songs — settings of other people’s poems — and some piano music, but Banks found the spareness and simplicity intensely moving.
As he walked along Market Street, he said hello to the shopkeepers winding out their awnings and called in at the newsagent’s for his copy of The Independent. Glancing at the front page as he walked, he spotted Gemma Scupham’s photograph and a brief request for information. Good, they’d been quick off the mark.
When he got to the market square, the first car was disgorging its family of tourists, dad with a camera slung around his neck, and the children in orange and yellow cagoules. It was hard to believe on such a day that a seven-year-old girl probably lay dead somewhere in the dale.
Banks went straight to the conference room upstairs in the station. It was their largest room, with a well-polished oval table at its centre, around which stood ten stiff-backed chairs. It was rare that ten people actually sat there, though, and this morning, in addition to Banks, only Superintendent Gristhorpe, Susan Gay and Phil Richmond occupied chairs. Banks helped himself to a black coffee from the urn by the window and sat down. He was a few minutes early, and the others were chatting informally, pads and pencils in front of them.
First, Gristhorpe tossed a pile of newspapers onto the table and bade everyone have a look. Gemma Scupham’s disappearance had made it in all the national dailies as well as in the Yorkshire Post. In some of the tabloids, she even made the headline: the photo of the melancholy-looking little girl with the straggly blonde hair appeared under captions such as HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL? in “Jesus type.” The stories gave few details, which hardly surprised Banks as there were scant few to give. A couple of pieces implied criticism of Brenda Scupham, but nothing libellous. Most were sympathetic to the mother.
“That might help us a bit,” Gristhorpe said. “But I wouldn’t count on it. And remember, the press boys will be around here in droves as soon as the London trains come in this morning. Let’s be careful what we say, eh, or before we know it we’ll be up to our necks in tales of satanic rituals.” Gristhorpe stood up, grimaced and put his hand to the small of his back. “Anyway, let’s get on. We’ve circulated Gemma’s picture, and Susan managed to lift a set of her prints from a paint-box, so we’ve got them on file for comparison. Nothing new came up during the night. We did about as well as can be expected on the house-to-house. Four people say they remembered seeing a car parked outside Brenda Scupham’s house on Tuesday afternoon. Of these, two say it was black, one dark brown and one dark blue.” Gristhorpe paused. “I think, therefore, that we can be certain it was a dark car.” He refilled his coffee cup and sat down again. “As far as the make is concerned we got even less. They all agreed it was a pretty small car, but not as small as a Mini, and it looked quite new. It wasn’t an estate car or a van of any kind, so we’re looking at a compact. One said it reminded him of those Japanese jobbies he’s seen advertised on television, so it may be an import. Needless to say, no one got the number.”
“Did anyone see the couple?” Banks asked.
“Yes.” Gristhorpe looked at the file in front of him. “The woman at number eleven said she was washing her windows and she saw a well-dressed couple going up the path. Said they looked official, that’s all. She thought maybe Mrs Scupham or her friend had got in trouble with DHSS.”
“Hmm,” said Banks. “Hardly surprising. I don’t suppose anybody saw them leaving with the child?”
Gristhorpe shook his head.
“Well,” Banks said, “at least it helps confirm Brenda Scupham’s story.”
“Aye.” Gristhorpe looked over at Susan Gay, who had done most of the questioning. “Who would you say was our most reliable witness?”
“Mr Carter at number sixteen, sir. It wasn’t so much that he’d seen more than the others, but he seemed to be thinking very seriously about what he had seen, and he told me he had a strong visual memory — not quite photographic, but he could close his eyes and picture scenes. He seemed careful not to make anything up. You know, sir, how a lot of them embroider on the truth.”
“What colour did he say the car was?” Banks asked.
“Dark blue, and he thought it was a Japanese design, too. But he didn’t see this Peterson and Brown couple, just the car.”
“Shame,” said Gristhorpe. “Had he seen it around before?”
“No, sir.”
“Think it would do any good talking to him again?”
“It might,” said Susan. “I’ll drop by sometime today. He’s a pensioner and I get the impression he’s lonely. He seemed pleased to have a bit of company. It took me a while to get him round to what he’d seen.”
Gristhorpe smiled. “Let him ramble a while, if it helps. Indulge him. And we’d better organize a house-to-house of the entire estate. I want to know if anything like this has happened there before, people posing as social workers after children. No one’s likely to admit to it, but if you get the feeling that anyone’s being particularly evasive, for whatever reason, make a note and we’ll get back to them. Can you handle that, Susan?”
Susan Gay nodded.
“Take as many PCs as you can find, and make sure you give them a damn good briefing first. Most of the lads are out on the search, but we’ve been promised extra manpower on this.” He turned to Richmond. “We’ve got to check with all the garages in the area and see if they remember anyone matching the description stopping for petrol. And I want to see all the police traffic reports — parking or speeding tickets — for Tuesday. In fact, make it for the past week. I want to know if anyone remembers a smartly dressed couple with a little girl in a dark blue compact. Better check with the car-rental agencies, too. Phil, can you handle all that?”