Wednesday's Child by Peter Robinson

felt the relief, too. He had always clung to a vague hope that Gemma might still be alive, but the discovery of the body had seemed to wreck all that. Nobody else in the dale had been reported missing. And now, as Manson and his men picked stone after stone away, they looked down at what was obviously the bodyof a young man, complete with moustache. A young man with unusually small hands. But, Banks asked himself, if it isn’t Gemma Scupham, then who the hell is it?
    III
    Jenny darted into the Eastvale Regional Headquarters at two o’clock, just in time for her appointment with Banks. She always seemed to be rushing these days, she thought, as if she were a watch a few minutes slow always trying to catch up. She wasn’t even really late this time.
    â€œMiss Fuller?”
    Jenny walked over to the front desk. “Yes?”
    â€œMessage from Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe, miss. Says he’s on his way. You can wait in his office if you wish.”
    Jenny frowned. “But I thought I was to see Alan—Chief Inspector Banks?”
    â€œHe’s at the scene.”
    â€œWhat scene?”
    â€œIt looks like a murder scene. I’m sorry I can’t say any more, miss. We don’t really know anything yet.”
    â€œThat’s all right,” Jenny said. “I’ll wait.”
    â€œVery well. The superintendent’s office—”
    â€œI know where it is, thanks.”
    Jenny poured herself some coffee from the machine at the bottom of the stairs then went up to Gristhorpe’s office. She had been there before, but never alone. It was larger than Alan’s, and much better appointed. She had heard that rank determines the level of luxury in policemen’s offices, but she also knew that the department itself was hardly likely to supply such things as the large teak desk, or the matching bookcases that covered one wall. The cream and burgundy patterned carpet, perhaps—it was hardly an expensive one, Jenny noticed—but not the shaded desk lamp and the books that lined the shelves.
    She glanced over the titles. They were mostly works of criminology and law—the essential Archbold’s Criminal Pleading, Evidence & Practice and Glaister’s Medical Jurisprudence and Toxicology in addition to several other technical and forensic texts—but there were also books on history, fishing, cricket, a few novels and Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch’s edition of The Oxford Book of English Verse . What surprised Jenny most was the number of mystery paperbacks: about four feet of them, mostly Margery Allingham, Ngaio Marsh, Edmund Crispin and Michael Innes.
    â€œThat’s just the overflow,” a voice said behind her, making her jump. “The rest are at home.”
    â€œI didn’t hear you come in,” Jenny said, putting her hand to her chest. “You startled me.”
    â€œWe coppers are a light-footed lot,” Gristhorpe said, with a twinkle in his baby-blue eyes. “Have to be to catch the villains. Sit down.”
    Jenny sat. “This murder, I couldn’t help thinking … It’s not … ?”
    â€œNo, it’s not, thank God. It’s bad enough, though. We don’t know who the victim is yet. I left Alan at the scene. I decided to stick with the Gemma Scupham case and let him handle the murder.”
    Jenny had never felt entirely at ease with Superintendent Gristhorpe, but she didn’t know why. He seemed very much his own man—self-contained, strong, determined—and he projected a solid, comforting presence. But something made her feel awkward. Perhaps, she speculated, it was the underlying sense of isolation she sensed, the fortress he seemed to have built around his feelings. She knew about his wife’s death from cancer several years ago, and guessed that perhaps a part of him had died with her. Susan Gay, she remembered, had said that she also felt uncomfortable with him, yet he had a