Wednesday's Child ib-6

by Peter Robinson

Brenda blew out more smoke and sighed. “No,” she said. “No, he never did anything like that.”

  “Maybe when you weren’t around?”

  “No. I’d have known. Gemma would have …” She paused and stared at the end of her cigarette.

  “Perhaps Gemma wouldn’t have mentioned it to you,” Banks suggested. “You told us yourself she’s a quiet, secretive child. And children are almost always afraid to speak out when things like that happen.”

  “No,” Brenda said again. “I would have known.

  Believe me.”

  Whether he believed her or not, Banks felt that line of questioning had come to a dead end. “What reason do you have to think Les was involved in her disappearance,

  then?” he asked.

  Brenda frowned. “You had him in for questioning,

  didn’t you?”

  “What made you think that had anything to do with

  Gemma?”

  “What else would it be about?”

  “So you just assumed. Is that it?”

  “Of course. Unless …”

  “Unless what?”

  Brenda reddened, and Banks noticed her glance to

  wards the television set.

  “Did you think it was about the Fletcher’s warehouse job?”

  Brenda shook her head. “I … I don’t know.”

  “Did Les ever mention an acquaintance named Carl Johnson to you?”

  “No. He never talked about his pub mates. If I ever asked him where he’d been or who he’d been with, he just told me to mind my own business.”

  “Look, this is important,” Banks said slowly. “Think about it. When you accused Les out in the street, did you have any other basis for doing so other than the fact that we’d taken him in for questioning?”

  “What?”

  Banks explained. Brenda leaned forward to put out her cigarette. She held her robe closed this time. “That and the way he’s been acting,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s hard to put into words. Ever since Gemma … well, things haven’t been the same between us. Do you know what I mean?”

  Banks nodded.

  “I don’t know why, but they haven’t. And he just looks so sheepish, the way he creeps around all the time, giving me guilty smiles. Mostly, though, he’s been keeping out of my way.”

  “In what way could he have been involved, Brenda?” Susan asked.

  Brenda looked sideways towards her, as if seeing her for the first time. “How should I know?” she said. “I’m not the detective, am I?” She spoke more harshly than she had to Banks. Woman to woman, he thought, Brenda Scupham was uncomfortable.

  Banks gently took the focus away from Susan. “Brenda, have you any proof at all that Les had some

  thing to do with Gemma’s disappearance?”

  “No. Just a feeling.”

  “Okay. I’m not dismissing that. What you told us, about this Mr Brown and Miss Peterson, that was all true, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. That’s how it happened.”

  Banks showed her the newspaper pictures of Chivers and the blonde. “Do you recognize these people?”

  She squinted at the pictures. “It could be him. The hair’s sort of the same, but a different colour. I don’t know about her, though. People look so different with their hair up. Him, though … I think … yes … I think it might be.”

  Banks put the paper aside. “You told us Les wasn’t in when they came.”

  “That’s right. He was at the pub.”

  “How did he react when you told him?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Did he seem shocked, upset, what?”

  Tears came to Brenda’s eyes. “He said I was a stupid cow for letting them take her … but…”

  “But what?”

  She rubbed the backs of her hands across her eyes. “I need a cup of tea. I can’t really get started without my cup of tea in a morning. Do you want some?”

  “All right,” said Banks. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to give her a couple of minutes to mull over his question.

  He and Susan waited silently while Brenda went into the kitchen and made tea. Outside, a car went by, a dog barked, and two laughing children kicked a tin can down the street. The wind shrilled at the ill-fitting windows, stirring the curtains in its draught. Banks studied the portrait of Elvis. It really was grotesque: a piece of kitsch dedicated to a bloated and gaudy idol.

  As a teenager, he had been a keen Elvis fan. He had

  seen all those dreadful movies of the early sixties, where Elvis usually played a slightly podgy beach-bum, and he had bought all the new singles as soon as they came out. Somehow, though, after The Beatles, Bob Dylan, The Rolling Stones and the rest, Elvis had never seemed important again.

  Still, he remembered how he had listened to “They Remind Me Too Much of You” over and over again the night June Higgins chucked him for John Hill. He had been assembling a model Messerschmitt at the time, so maybe it was the glue fumes that had made his eyes water. Glue-sniffing hadn’t been invented back then. He had been thirteen; now Elvis was dead but lived on in garish oils on walls like this.

  The whistle blew. When it stopped, Banks heard Brenda go upstairs. A few moments later she came in with the teapot and three mugs. She had taken the opportunity to get dressed, run a brush through her hair and put on a bit of makeup.

  “Where were we?” she asked, pouring the tea. “There’s milk and sugar if you want it.” Susan helped herself to a splash of milk and two teaspoons of sugar. Both Banks and Brenda took theirs as it came.

  “Les’s reaction when you told him about Gemma.”

  “Yes. I’ve been thinking about it while the tea was mashing,” Brenda said. “He didn’t believe me at first. I’d say more than anything he was surprised. It’s just that… well, he turned away from me, and I couldn’t see his face, but it was like he knew something or he suspected something, like he was frowning and he didn’t want me to see his expression. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I think so.”

  “I could just feel it. I know I’ve not got any proof or anything, but sometimes you can sense things about people, can’t you? Lenora says she thinks I’m a bit psychic,

  too, so maybe that’s it. But I never thought for a moment he had anything to do with it. I mean, how could I? What could Les have had to do with those two well-dressed people who came to the door? And we lived together. I know he didn’t care for Gemma much, she got on his nerves, but he wouldn’t hurt her. I mean he was surprised, shocked, I’m sure of that, but when it sank in, he seemed to be thinking, puzzling over something. I put it out of my mind, but it nagged. After that we never really got on well. I’m glad he’s gone.” She paused, as if surprised at herself for saying so much, then reached for a second cigarette.

  “What made you accuse him last night?” Banks asked.

  “It’s just something that had been at the back of my mind, that’s all. Like I said, I never really believed he had anything to do with it. I just had this nagging feeling something wasn’t right. I suppose I lashed out, just for the sake of it. I couldn’t help myself.”

  “What about now?”

  “What?”

  “You said you didn’t think Les had anything to do with Gemma’s disappearance at first. What do you think now?”

  Brenda paused to blow on her hot tea, cradling the mug in her palms, then she turned her eyes up to Banks and shook her head. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I just don’t know.”

  II

  Banks and Jenny dashed across the cobbles in the rain to

  the Queen’s Arms. Once through the door, they shook

  their coats and hung them up.

  “Double brandy, then?” Banks asked.

  “No. No, really, Alan. I didn’t mean it,” Jenny said. “Just a small Scotch and water, please.”

  Now she was embarrassed. She put her briefcase on the chair beside her and sat dow
n at a table near the window. She had been in Banks’s office going over all the material on the Carl Johnson murder—statements, forensic reports, the lot—and when she got to the photographs of his body, she had turned pale and said she needed a drink. She didn’t know why they should affect her that way—she had seen similar images in textbooks—but suddenly she had felt dizzy and nauseated. Something about the way the belly gaped open like a huge fish-mouth … no, she wouldn’t think about it any more.

  Banks returned with their drinks and reached for his cigarettes.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “You must think I’m a real idiot.”

  “Not at all. I just wasn’t thinking. I should have prepared you.”

  “Anyway, I’m fine now.” She raised her glass. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers.”

  She could see Market Street through a clear, rain-streaked pane. Young mothers walked by pushing prams, plastic rainhats tied over their heads, and delivery vans blocked the traffic while men in white smocks carried boxes in and out of the shops, oblivious to the downpour. All the hurly and burly of commerce so essential to a thriving English market town. So normal. She shivered.

  “I take it you’re assuming the crimes are related now?” she asked.

  Banks nodded. “We are for the moment. I’ve read over the paperwork on the Gemma Scupham case, and I’ve filled the super in on Johnson. How are you getting on with him, by the way?”

  Jenny smiled. “Fine. He doesn’t seem like such an ogre when you get to know him a bit.”

  “True, he’s not. Anyway, we know that the Manleys abducted Gemma, and that in all likelihood the man’s real name is Chivers. We still don’t know who the woman is.”

  “But you don’t know for sure that this Chivers killed Carl Johnson?”

  “No. I realize it’s a bit thin, but when you get connections like this between two major crimes you can’t overlook them. Maybe in a big city you could, but not in Eastvale.”

  “And even if he did it, you don’t know if the woman was present?”

  “No.”

  “Then what do you want from me?”

  “For a start, I want to know if you think it could be the same person, or same people, psychologically speaking.”

  Jenny took a deep breath. “The two crimes are so different. I can’t really find a pattern.”

  “Are there no elements in common?”

  Jenny thought for a moment, and the images of Johnson’s body came back. She sipped at her drink. “From all I’ve seen and heard,” she said, “I’d say that the two crimes at least demonstrate a complete lack of empathy on the criminal’s part, which leans towards the theory of the psychopath. If that’s the case, he probably wasn’t sexually interested in Gemma, only in his power over her, which he may have been demonstrating to the woman, as I said to the superintendent last time we met.” She ran her hand through her hair. “I just don’t have anything more to go on.”

  “Think about the Johnson murder.”

  Jenny leaned forward and rested her hands on the table. “All right. The couple who took Gemma showed

  no feeling for the mother at all. Whoever killed Johnson didn’t feel his pain, or if he did, he enjoyed it. You know even better than I do that murder can take many forms— there’s the heat of the moment, and there’s at least some distancing, as when a gun’s used. Even the classic poisoner often prefers to be far away when the poison takes effect. But here we have someone who, according to all the evidence you’ve shown me, must have stood very close indeed to his victim, looked him in the eye as he killed slowly. Could you do that? Could I? I don’t think so. Most of us have at least some sensitivity to another’s pain—we imagine what it would feel like if we suffered it ourselves. But one class of person doesn’t—the psychopath. He can’t relate to anyone else’s pain, can’t imagine it happening to him. He’s so self-centred that he lacks empathy completely.”

  “You keep saying ‘he.’”

  Jenny slapped his wrist playfully. “You know as well as I do that, statistically speaking, most psychopaths are men. And it might be pretty interesting to try to find out why. But that’s beside the point. That’s what the two crimes, what I know of them, have in common. There are other elements that fit the psychopath profile, too: the apparent coolness and bravado with which Gemma was abducted; the charm Chivers must have exhibited to her mother; the clever deceit he must have played to get Johnson out to the mill, if that’s what he did. And you can add that he’s also likely to be manipulative, impulsive, egocentric and irresponsible. You’re nursing your pint, Alan. Anything wrong?”

  “What? Oh, no. I’m just preserving my liver. I have to meet Jim Hatchley for dinner in a couple of hours.”

  “So he’s in town again, is he?”

  “Just for a little job.”

  Jenny held her hand up. “Say no more. I don’t want to

  know anything about it. I can’t understand why you like that man.”

  Banks shrugged. “Jim’s all right. Anyway, back to Chivers. What if he committed the Carl Johnson murder out of self-preservation?”

  “The method was still his choice.”

  “Yes.” Banks lit another cigarette. “Look, I’ll tell you what I’m getting at. Just before you arrived, I talked to my old friend Barney Merritt at the Yard, and he told me that Criminal Intelligence has got quite a file on Chivers. They’ve never been able to put him away for anything, but they’ve had reports of his suspected activities from time to time, and they’ve usually had some connection with organized crime. The closest they came to nabbing him was four years ago. An outsider trying to muscle in on a protection racket in Birmingham was found on a building site with a bullet in his brain. The police knew Chivers was connected with the local mob up there, and a couple of witnesses placed him with the victim in a pub near the site. Soon as things got serious, though, the witnesses started to lose their memories.”

  “What are you telling me, Alan, that he’s a hit man or something?”

  Banks waved his hand. “No, hold on, let me finish. Most of the information in the CI files concerns his suspected connection with criminal gangs in London and in Birmingham, doing hits, nobbling witnesses, enforcing debt-collection and the like. But word has it that when business is slack, Chivers is not averse to a bit of murder and mayhem on the side, just for the fun of it. And according to Barney, his employers started to get bad feelings about him about a year ago. They’re keeping their distance. Again, there’s nothing proven, just hearsay.”

  “Interesting,” said Jenny. “Is there any more?”

  “Just a few details. He’s prime suspect—without a

  scrap of proof—in three murders down south, one involving a fair amount of torture before death, and there are rumours of one or two fourteen-year-old girls he’s treated roughly in bed.”

  Jenny shook her head. “If you’re getting at some kind of connection between that and Gemma, I’d say it’s highly unlikely.”

  “But why? He likes his sex rough and strange. He likes them young. What happens when fourteen isn’t enough of a kick any more?”

  “The fact that he likes having sex with fourteen-year-old girls in no way indicates, psychologically, that he could be interested in seven-year-olds. Quite the opposite, really.”

  Banks frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “It was something else I discovered in my research. According to statistics, the younger the child, the older the paedophile is likely to be. Your Chivers sounds about the right age for an unhealthy interest in fourteen-year- olds, but, you know, if you’d given me no information at all about Gemma’s abduction, I’d say you should be looking for someone over forty, most likely someone who knew Gemma—a family friend, neighbour or even a relative—who lives in the area, or not far away, and probably lives alone. I certainly wouldn’t be looking for a young couple from Birmingham, or wherever.”

  Banks shook his head. “Okay, let’s get back on track. Tell me what you think of this s
cenario. We know that plenty of psychopaths have found gainful employment in organized crime. They’re good at frightening people, they’re clever, and they make good killers. The problem is that they’re hard to control. Now, what do you do with a psychopath when you find him more of a business liability than an asset? You try to cut him loose and hope to hell he doesn’t bear a grudge. Or you have him killed,

  and so the cycle continues. His old bosses don’t trust Chivers any more, Jenny. He’s persona non grata. They’re scared of him. He has to provide his own entertainment now.”

  “Hmm.” Jenny swirled her glass and took another sip. “It makes some sense, but I doubt that it’s quite like that. In the first place, if he’s hard to control, it’s more likely to mean that he’s losing control of himself. From what you told me, Chivers must have been a highly organized personality type at one time, exhibiting a great deal of control. But psychopaths are also highly unstable. They’re prone to deterioration. His personality could be disintegrating towards the disorganized type, and right now he might be in the middle, the mixed type. Most serial killers, for example, keep on killing until they’re caught or until they lose touch completely with reality. That’s why you don’t find many of them over forty. They’ve either been caught by then, or they’re hopelessly insane.”

  Banks stubbed out his cigarette. “Are you suggesting that Chivers could be turning into a serial killer?”

  Jenny shrugged. “Not necessarily a serial killer, but it’s possible, isn’t it? He doesn’t fit the general profile of a paedophile, and he’s certainly changing into something. Yes, it makes sense, Alan. I’m not saying it’s true, but it’s certainly consistent with the information you’ve got.”

  “So what next?”

  Jenny shuddered. “Your guess is as good as mine. Whatever it is, you can be sure it won’t be very pleasant. If he is experiencing loss of control, then he’s probably at a very volatile and unpredictable stage.” She finished her drink. “I’ll give you one piece of advice, though.”

  “What’s that?”