‘What is it, exactly?’ asked Harry, who’d been scanning the text beneath the heading, unable to make much sense of the medical jargon.
‘Basically, a shortage in the body of the hormone thyroxin,’ said Evi. She was just inches away from him. He could smell her sweet, warm scent, too delicate to be perfume, maybe soap, body lotion. He had to concentrate.
‘Thyroxin is produced by the thyroid gland in the neck,’ she was saying. ‘If we don’t have enough of it we can’t grow properly and we can’t develop as we should. The condition is rare now, luckily, because it can be treated, but in the old days, it was quite common, especially in certain parts of the world.’
‘Can’t say I’ve ever heard of it,’ said Harry, shaking his head.
‘Oh, you will have,’ said Evi. ‘The less politically correct name for it is cretinism. I think Tom’s friend – shall we call her Ebba, it makes life a bit easier – is what we used to call a cretin.’
Harry rubbed both temples, thinking for a second. ‘So, she’s what?’ he asked. ‘A child?’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Evi, with a tiny cat-like smile on her face. ‘People with the condition rarely grow taller than about five foot so an adult could easily appear much younger. And they usually have the mental age of children, would act in a childlike way. Do you need some paracetamol?’
‘If I take any more I’ll rattle. How is it caused?’ asked Harry. ‘Is it genetic?’
‘In some cases,’ said Evi. ‘But mainly the causes are environmental. For the body to produce thyroxin we need iodine, which we get primarily from food. In the days when people grew their own food and fed on local livestock they were much more vulnerable. Certain soil conditions, typically remote mountainous regions like the Alps, were deficient in iodine. So if you lived in an area where there was no iodine in the soil, your thyroid gland would swell up in size to suck up as much iodine as possible. That’s what causes the goitre on the neck.’
‘We’re a long way from the Alps,’ said Harry.
‘Parts of Derbyshire were very vulnerable not too long ago,’ replied Evi. ‘Derbyshire neck was quite a well-known medical condition. Look.’
She changed the screen and Harry was looking at a picture of a woman in late-nineteenth-century dress. A massive swelling on her neck pushed her head out of position, forcing her to look upwards.’
‘That’s a goitre,’ said Evi, indicating the lump. ‘And we’re really not so far from the Peak District here, are we?’
‘So the girl that’s been frightening Tom is a local woman suffering from this condition? I can’t believe no one’s mentioned her.’
‘It does seem odd,’ agreed Evi. ‘But the Fletchers are still very new. Maybe people were just being discreet.’
Harry thought for a moment. ‘I need coffee,’ he said, standing up and crossing to the sink. Kettle in hand, he turned back. ‘And you say the condition can be treated?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Evi, nodding her head. ‘That’s what’s puzzling me. Newborn babies are routinely screened these days. If they’re found to be deficient in thyroxin, it can be administered artificially. They have to take it all their lives, but their development will be normal.’
Harry switched the kettle on and found clean mugs.
‘The only explanation I can think of is that she was born to relatively uneducated parents who haven’t maintained her treatment,’ continued Evi. ‘Maybe they suffer from it themselves. I spoke to DCI Rushton this morning, suggested he start looking at outlying farms and farm-workers’ cottages. Whoever this family are, I’m guessing they don’t come into town too often.’
‘OK, big question now,’ said Harry, spooning instant coffee into the mugs. ‘Could this girl – woman, whoever – be responsible for the deaths of Lucy, Megan and Hayley? For the threat to Millie?’
Evi flicked the screen back again. ‘I’ve spent most of today finding out everything I can about the condition,’ she said. ‘There’s no evidence I can see of these people behaving in violent or aggressive ways. Even Tom doesn’t think it was she who tried to abduct Millie now. He claims it was a much bigger person.’
‘It was dark, he was scared,’ said Harry. ‘He could have got confused.’
‘Yes, but it doesn’t feel right somehow. These people are known for their gentleness, their harmlessness. Even their name suggests that. The word "cretin" is believed to come from the Anglo-French word “Chrétien”.’
‘Meaning what?’ asked Harry, as the kettle came to the boil and switched itself off.
‘Christian,’ said Evi. ‘Cretin means Christian. It’s supposed to indicate the sufferers’ Christ-like inability to commit sin.’
He really couldn’t concentrate this morning. ‘How so?’ he asked.
‘They don’t have the mental capacity to distinguish right from wrong, so nothing they do can be considered sinful in the true sense of the word. They remain innocent.’
Harry almost shook his head and stopped himself just in time. He was never drinking again. ‘That doesn’t mean they can’t do anything wrong, just that they don’t know they’re doing wrong,’ he said. ‘What if this Ebba person likes the look of little blonde girls, sees them as some sort of plaything, and it all… oh, hang on a minute, this is ringing bells.’
‘I’d say the last thing you need right now is bells ringing in your head.’ She was laughing at him.
‘What I need right now can’t be discussed in a house of God,’ he replied. She was right though, he could really do without a hangover today. ‘Innocent Christians,’ he said, as though trying out how the words sounded in his mouth. Then he had it. ‘Innocent Christian souls,’ he said. ‘We need the burial register.’
‘Sorry?’
Harry was already reaching into the cupboard where the register was kept.
‘Look,’ he said, when he’d found the right page. ‘Sophie Renshaw, died in 1908, aged eighteen, described as An Innocent Christian soul.’
‘There’s another one,’ said Evi. ‘Charles Perkins, died in 1932, aged fifteen. How many are there?’
He counted quickly. ‘Eight,’ he said. ‘Six girls, two boys, all under twenty-five at the time of death.’
‘The condition’s more common in females,’ said Evi. ‘You think all these people could have been like Ebba?’
‘I wouldn’t be in the least bit surprised. I even remember that old bugger boasting about it. “Ninety-five per cent of the food I’ve eaten my whole life comes from this moor,” that’s what he said to me. I’ll bet the soil up here’s – what did you call it?’
‘Iodine deficient. We really need to find her, Harry.’
65
THE COACH STOPPED AND FIFTY EXCITED CHILDREN LEAPED to their feet. Through the steamed-up windows Tom could see the huge banner and posters outside King George’s Hall and the massive lights of Blackburn’s Christmas decorations. The Snow Queen, bit of a girly pantomime but who cared? It was an afternoon off school, and then tomorrow – the Christmas holidays.
Tom felt himself being pushed towards the front. ‘Climb down carefully,’ Mr Deacon, the headmaster, was saying. ‘I do not want to spend my afternoon in Accident and Emergency.’
Grinning to himself, Tom stepped down to the pavement. A second coach had pulled up on Blakeymoor Street and the Key Stage One children were climbing down. Most of them had never been on a school trip before and they gazed around, mesmerized by the Christmas lights. As Tom watched, Joe jumped out, making light work of a step that was half the size he was. He caught Tom’s eye and waved.
Following the line, unable to keep from jumping up and down as he went, Tom made his way into King George’s Hall.
66
‘DO YOU THINK WHERE IT HAPPENS IS IMPORTANT?’ ASKED Evi, as Harry walked her back through the church. ‘That of all the high places in the world small children can be thrown off, it has to be this one?’