Wednesday's Child by Peter Robinson

her.”
    It was an impassioned speech, but Banks got the feeling that she was protesting too much. “What about Les?” he asked.
    She glanced over at him. “If he ever touched her he knows he’d be out of here before his feet could touch the floor.”
    â€œSo why did you give her up so easily?”
    Brenda Scupham chewed on her lip and fought back the tears.
    â€œDo you think I haven’t had it on my mind night and day since? Do you think there’s a moment goes by I don’t ask myself the same question?” She shook her head. “It all happened so fast.”
    â€œBut if you hadn’t abused Gemma in any way, why didn’t you just tell Mr Brown and Miss Peterson that and send them away?”
    â€œBecause they were the authorities. I mean, they looked like they were and everything. I suppose I thought if they’d had some information then they had to look into it, you know, like the police. And then when they found there was nothing in it, they’d bring Gemma back.”
    â€œDid Gemma go willingly?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWhen she left with them, did she cry, struggle?”
    â€œNo, she just seemed to accept it. She didn’t say anything.”
    Banks stood up. “That’s it for now,” he said. “We’ll keep you informed. If you remember anything, you can report it at the mobile unit at the end of the street.”
    Brenda folded her arms and nodded. “You make me feel like a criminal, Mr Banks,” she said. “It’s not right. I’ve tried to be a good mother. I’m not perfect, but who is?”
    Banks paused at the door. “Mrs Scupham,” he said, “I’m not trying to prove any kind of case against you. Believe it or not, all the questions I ask you are to do with trying to find Gemma. I know it seems cruel, but I need to know the answers. And if you think about it for a while, considering how many other children there are on this estate, and all over Swainsdale, and how many of them really are abused, there’s a very important question needs answering.”
    Brenda Scupham’s brow furrowed, and even Poole glanced over from his fireside seat.
    â€œWhat’s that?” she asked.
    â€œWhy Gemma?” Banks said, and left.

THREE
    I
    Marjorie Bingham lingered behind the others on the narrow track and kicked at small stones as she walked. She could hear her husband’s muffled voice, carried back on the breeze, as he explained the history of Dales lead mining to Andrew and Jane.
    â€œMost people think that lead mining here only goes back as far as Roman times. It doesn’t, you know. It goes back much further than that. It might even go back as far as the Bronze Age—though there’s no hard evidence for that, of course—but certainly the Brigantes …”
    God, she thought, what a bloody bore Roger has become. Only six months up from Coventry after the company move and here he is, playing the country squire and rabbiting on about spalling hammers, knockstones, buckers and hotching tubs. And just look at him: pants tucked into the expensive hiking boots, walking-stick, orange Gore-Tex anorak. All for a quarter-mile track from the Range Rover to the old mine.
    Knowing Andrew, Marjorie thought, he was probably thinking about opening time, and Jane was absorbed with her new baby, which she carried in a kind of makeshift sack on her back. Little Annette was asleep, one leg poking out each side of the central strap, her head lolling, oblivious to them all, and especially oblivious to the bloody lead mines.
    â€œOf course, the Romans used lead in great quantities. You know how advanced their plumbing systems were for their time. I know you’ve been to the Roman Baths in Bath, Andrew, and I’m sure you’ll agree …”
    Young Megan capered ahead picking flowers, reciting, “He loves me, he loves me not …” as she pulled off the