A Place of Execution.
VAL McDERMID.
HarperCollins

Book Jacket.
Winter 1963: two children have disappeared
off the streets of Manchester; the murderous
careers of Myra Hindley and Ian Brady have
begun. On a freezing day in December,
another child goes missing: thirteen-year-old
Alison Carter vanishes from the isolated
Derbyshire hamlet of Scardale, a self
contained, insular community that distrusts
the outside world. For the young George
Bennett, a newly promoted inspector, it is the
beginning of his most difficult and harrowing,
case: a murder with no body, an	

investigation with more dead ends and
closed faces than he'd have found in the
anonymity of the inner city, an outcome
which reverberates down the years.

Decades later he finally tells his story to
journalist Catherine Heathcote, but just when
the book is poised for publication, Bennett
unaccountably tries to pull the plug. He has
new information which he refuses to divulge,
and which threatens the very foundations of
his existence. Catherine is forced to
reinvestigate the past, with results that turn
the world upside down.
A Greek tragedy in modern England, A Place
of Execution is a taut psychological suspense
thriller that explores, exposes and explodes
the border between reality and illusion in a
multilayered narrative that turns expectations
on their head and reminds us that what we
know is what we do not know. A monstrous
tale of deception, the technique of the telling
is the greatest deception of all.

val McDERMID grew up in a Scottish mining
community then read English at Oxford. She was
a journalist for sixteen years, spending the last
three years as Northern Bureau Chief of a
national Sunday tabloid. She is now a full-time
writer and lives in South Manchester.

Val McDermid is the highly acclaimed author of The Mermaids Singing and The Wire in the
Blood, tense psychological thrillers featuring
criminal profiler Tony Hill. The Mermaids
Singing won the 1995 Gold Dagger Award for
Best Crime Novel of the Year.

She has also written six crime novels featuring
Manchester P I Kate Brannigan, and the latest in
this much-praised series, Star Struck, won the
Grand Prix des Romans d'Aventure in France.
A further five novels feature journalist sleuth
Lindsay Gordon.

ISBN 0 00 232676 0

Author photograph by Jerry Bauer

Jacket image by Slatter Anderson

HarperCollins Publishers.

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A Place of Execution is compelling
and atmospheric ... A tour de force'
MINETTE WALTERS

ACCLAIM FOR
THE WIRE IN THE BLOOD
'The Wire in the Blood is truly frightening. McDermid's capacity to
enter the warped mind of a deviant criminal is shiveringly convincing...This is
a writer who just gets better and better'
MARCEL BERLINS, THE TIMES

Tension-filled... The story, handled with verve, wit and style, never flags'
FRANCES FYFIELD, MAIL ON SUNDAY

'Tense and shocking'
ANDREW TAYLOR, INDEPENDENT

This is a wholly satisfying read which cleverly subverts tradition and
expectation. Having already awarded her previous Tony Hill novel a Gold Dagger,
someone better be smelting the platinum'
IAN RANKIN, SCOTLAND ON SUNDAY

'Val McDermid is an accomplished storyteller, and this scary,
fast-moving tale is engrossing'
DAILY TELEGRAPH

Terrific chiller from Manchester's answer to Thomas Harris'
LUCRETIA STEWART, GUARDIAN

This is a clever and exciting thriller'
SUSANNA YAGER, SUNDAY TELEGRAPH

ISBN 0-00-232676-0
9 780002 326766 


BY THE SAME AUTHOR
The Wire in the Blood
The Mermaids Singing
Kate Brannigan novels
Blue Genes
Clean Break
Crack Down
Kick Back
Dead Beat
Lindsay Gordon novels
Booked for Murder
Union Jack
Final Edition
Common Murder
Report for Murder
Nonfiction
A Suitable Job for a Woman




This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or
localities is entirely coincidental.
HarperCollinsPMMi'sfiers
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The HarperCollins website address is:
www.fireandwater.com
Published by HarperCollins Publishers 1999
13579 108642
Copyright  Val McDermid 1999
Val McDermid asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library
isbn 0 00 232676 0
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Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
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Printed and bound in Great Britain by
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted,
in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior
permission of the publishers.



Acknowledgements
This was not an easy book to write. To delve into a past so recent that it
is within many people's living memory is to invite the exposure of one's
mistakes. Many people helped me to minimize the opportunities for such
embarrassment. Douglas Wynn, true-crime writer, told me the tale that
formed the distant seed of inspiration for this book and also helped
me with research into historical cases. The staff of the Social Sciences
department of Manchester Central Reference Library provided courteous
assistance, as did their colleague Jane Mathieson. Without retired inspector
Bill Fletcher, I could never have hoped to recreate the world of a county
police force in the i96os. Mark at the Buxton Advertiserprovided invaluable
access to the bound volumes in the cellar, and the Manchester Evening
News library team also went out of their way to support my quest for
authenticity. Dr Sue Black was generous with her forensic experience and
Diana Muir supplied crucial assistance that both exposed the fatal flaw
in the plot and allowed it to be salvaged. Peter N. Walker also allowed
me to pick his brains for period detail and was kind enough to check
the finished manuscript for glaring errors. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my responsibility.
I have taken some liberties with the geography of Derbyshire and with
the city of Derby itself. The village of Scardale does not exist, although
there are several approximations to it in the White Peak.
Writers are a bit like old buildings - we need a lot of shoring up. So
thanks to my scaffolding team - Jane and Lisanne, Julia and both Karens,
Jai and Paula, Leslie, Mel and, most of all, to Brigid.

To my evil twin; laissez les bon temps rouler, cher.
You shall be taken to the place from whence you came, and
thence to a place of lawful execution, and there you shall be
hanged by the neck until you be dead, and afterwards your
body shall be buried in a common grave within the precincts
of the prison wherein you were last confined before your
execution; and may the Lord have mercy on your soul.
The formal death sentence of the English legal system
LE PENDU: THE HANGED MAN
Divinatory meaning: The card suggests life in suspension.
Reversal of the mind and one's way of life. Transition.
Abandonment. Renunciation. The changing of life's forces.
Readjustment. Regeneration. Rebirth. Improvement. Efforts
and sacrifice may have to be undertaken to succeed towards
a goal which may not be reached.
Tarot Cards for Fun and Fortune Telling
S. R. Kaplan

Book 1

1;Introduction
Like Alison Carter, I was born in Derbyshire in 1950. Like her, I grew up
familiar with the limestone dales of the White Peak, no stranger to the
winter blizzards that regularly cut us off from the rest of the country. It
was in Buxton, after all, that snow once stopped play in a county cricket
match in June.
So when Alison Carter went missing in December 1963, it meant
more to me and my classmates than it can have done to most other
people. We knew villages like the one she'd grown up in. We knew the
sort of things she'd have done every day. We suffered through similar
classes and cloakroom arguments about which of the Fab Four was our
favourite Beatle. We imagined we shared the same hopes, dreams and
fears. Because of that, right from the word go, we all knew something
terrible had happened to Alison Carter, because something we also knew
was that girls like her - like us - didn't run away. Not in Derbyshire in
the middle of December, anyway.
It wasn't just the thirteen-year-old girls who understood that. My father
was one of the hundreds of volunteer searchers who combed the high
moorland and the wooded valleys around Scardale, and his grim face
when he returned home after a fruitless day scouring the landscape is
still sharply etched in my memory.
We followed the hunt for Alison Carter in the newspapers, and every day at school for weeks, someone would be bound to start the speculation
rolling. All these years later, I still had more questions for George Bennett
than the former policeman could answer.
I have not based my narrative solely on George Bennett's contemporaneous
notes and current memories. While researching this book, I made
several visits to Scardale and the surrounding area, interviewing many of
the people who played a part in the unfolding of Alison Carter's story,
gathering their impressions, comparing their accounts of events as they
experienced them. I could not have completed this book without the help
of Janet Carter, Tommy Clough, Peter Grundy, Charles Lomas, Kathy
Lomas and Don Smart. I have taken some artistic licence in ascribing

thoughts, emotions and dialogue to people, but these sections are based
on my interviews with those of the surviving protagonists who agreed to
help me to try to create a truthful picture both of a community and the
individuals within it.
Some of what happened on that terrible December night in 1963 will
of course never be known. But for everyone who has ever been touched,
however remotely, by Alison Carter's life and death, George Bennett's
story is a fascinating insight into one of the most heartless crimes of
the 1960s.
For too long, it has remained hidden in the shadow of the understandably
more notorious Moors Murders. But Alison Carter's fate is no less
terrible for coming at the hands of a killer who had but a single victim.
And the message of her death is still as important today. If Alison Carter's
story tells us one thing, it is that even the gravest of dangers can wear a
friendly face.
Nothing can bring Alison Carter back. But reminding the world of
what happened to her might prevent others coming to harm. If this book
achieves that, both George Bennett and I will feel some satisfaction.
Catherine Heathcote
Longnor, 1998

Prologue
The girl was saying goodbye to her life. And it was no easy farewell.
Like any teenager, she'd always found plenty to complain about. But now
that she was about to lose it, this life suddenly seemed very desirable. Now
at last she began to understand why her elderly relatives clung so tenaciously
to every precious moment, even if it was riven with pain. However bad this
life was, the alternative was infinitely worse.
She had even begun to regret things. All the times she'd wished her mother
dead; all the times she'd wished that her dream of being a changeling would
come true; all the hate she'd expended on the children at school who had
called her names for not being one of them; all the fervent longings to be grown
up, with these miseries behind her. It all seemed irrelevant now. The only
thing that mattered was the uniquely valuable life she was about to lose.
She felt fear, inevitably. Fear of what lay beyond as well as what lay
immediately ahead. She'd been brought up to believe in heaven and in its
necessary counterweight, hell, the equal and opposite force that held things
stable. She had her own very clear ideas of what heaven would be. More
than she had ever hoped anything in her short life, she hoped that that was
what lay in wait for her, so terrifyingly close now.
But she was desperately afraid that what she was going to was hell. She
wasn't so clear about what hell would consist of. She just knew that, compared
to everything she'd hated about her life, it would be worse. And given what
she knew, that meant it was going to be very bad indeed.
Nevertheless, there was no other possible choice for her. The girl had to
say goodbye to her life.
For ever.

Part One: The Early Stages
Manchester Evening News, Tuesday, 10th December 1963, p.3
100 reward
in boy hunt
Police continued to hunt for 12-year-old John
Kilbride todayand hoped that a 100 reward
might produce a new lead.
For a local managing director has offered
100 to anyone who gives information which
leads directly to the discovery of John who
vanished from his home in Smallshaw Lane,
Ashton-under-Lyne 18 days ago.

Wednesday, 11th December 1963. 7.53 p.m.
'Help me. You've got to help me.' The woman's voice quavered on the
edge of tears. The duty constable who had picked up the phone heard a
hiccuping gulp, as if the caller was struggling to speak.
'That's what we're here for, madam,' PC Ron Swindells said stolidly.
He'd worked in Buxton man and boy for the best part of fifteen years
and for the last five, he'd found it hard to shake off a sense that he was
reliving the first ten. There was, he reckoned, nothing new under the sun.
It was a view that would be irrevocably shattered by the events that were
about to unfold around him, but for the moment, he was content to trot
out the formula that had served him well until now. 'What seems to be
the problem?' he asked, his rich bass voice gently impersonal.
'Alison,' the woman gasped. 'My Alison's not come home.'
'Alison's your lass, is she?' PC Swindells asked, his voice deliberately
calm, attempting to reassure the woman.
'She went straight out with the dog when she came in after school. And
she's not come home.' The sharp edge of hysteria forced the woman's
voice higher.
Swindells glanced automatically at the clock. Seven minutes before
eight. The woman was right to be worried. The girl must have been out
of the house near on four hours, and that was no joke at this time of
year. 'Could she have gone to visit friends, on the spur of the moment,
like?' he asked, knowing already that would have been her first port of
call before she lifted the telephone.
'I've knocked every door in the village. She's missing, I'm telling you.
Something's happened to my Alison.' Now the woman was breaking down,
her words choking out in the intervals between sobs. Swindells thought he
heard the rumble of another voice in the background.

Village, the woman had said. 'Where exactly are you calling from,
madam?' he asked.
There was the sound of muffled conversation, then a clear masculine
voice came on the line, the unmistakable southern accent brisk with
authority. 'This is Philip Hawkin from the manor house in Scardale,'
he said.
'I see, sir,' Swindells said cautiously. While the information didn't
exactly change anything, it did make the policeman slightly wary, conscious
that Scardale was off his beat in more ways than the obvious.
Scardale wasn't just a different world from the bustling market town
where Swindells lived and worked; it had the reputation of being a law
unto itself. For such a call to come from Scardale, something well out of
the ordinary must have happened.
The caller's voice dropped in pitch, giving the impression that he was
talking man to man with Swindells. 'You must excuse my wife. She's
rather upset. So emotional, women, don't you find? Look, Officer, I'm
sure no harm has come to Alison, but my wife insisted on giving you a
call. I'm sure she'll turn up any minute now, and the last thing I want is
to waste your time.'
'If you'll just give me some details, sir,' the stolid Swindells said, pulling
his pad closer to him.
Detective Inspector George Bennett should have been at home long since.
It was almost eight o'clock, well beyond the hour when senior detectives
were expected to be at their desks. By rights, he should have been in his
armchair stretching his long legs in front of a blazing coal fire, dinner inside
him and Coronation Street on the television opposite. Then, while Anne
cleared away the dishes and washed up, he'd nip out for a pint and a chat
in the lounge bar of the Duke of York or the Baker's Arms. There was no
quicker way to get the feel of a place than through bar-room conversation.
And he needed that head start more than any of his colleagues, being an
incomer of less than six months' standing. He knew the locals didn't trust
him with much of their gossip, but gradually, they were beginning to treat
him like part of the furniture, forgiving and forgetting that his father and
grandfather had supped in a different part of the shire.
He glanced at his watch. He'd be lucky to get to the pub tonight. Not
that he counted that a great hardship. George wasn't a drinking man. If he
hadn't been obliged by his professional responsibilities to keep his finger
firmly on the pulse of the town, he wouldn't have entered a pub from
10

one week to the next. He'd much rather have taken Anne dancing to one
of the new beat groups that regularly played at the Pavilion Gardens, or
to the Opera House to see a film. Or simply stayed at home. Three months
married, and George still couldn't quite believe Anne had agreed to spend
the rest of her life with him. It was a miracle that sustained him through
the worst times in the job. So far, those had come from tedium rather
than the heinous nature of the crimes he encountered. The events of the
coming seven months would put that miracle to a tougher test.
That night, however, the thought of Anne at home, knitting in front
of the television while she waited for him to return, was far more of a
temptation than any pint of bitter. George tore a half-sheet of paper off
his scratch pad, placed it among the papers he'd been reading to mark
his place, and firmly closed the file, slipping it into his desk drawer. He
stubbed out his Gold Leaf cigarette then emptied his ashtray into the
bin by his desk, always his last act before he reached for his trench coat
and, self-consciously, the wide-brimmed trilby that always made him feel
faintly silly. Anne loved it; she was always telling him it made him look
like James Stewart. He couldn't see it himself. Just because he had a long
face and floppy blond hair didn't make him a film star. He shrugged into
the coat, noting that it fitted almost too snugly now, thanks to the quilted
lining Anne had made him buy. In spite of the slight straining across his
broad cricketer's shoulders, he knew he'd be glad of it as soon as he stepped
into the station yard and the teeth of the biting wind that always seemed
to be whipping down from the moors through the streets of Buxton.
Taking a last look around his office to check he'd left nothing lying
around that the cleaner's eyes shouldn't see, he closed the door behind
him. A quick glance showed him there was nobody left in the CID room,
so he turned back to indulge a moment's vanity. 'Detective Inspector G.
D. Bennett' incised in white letters on a small black plastic plaque. It was
something to be proud of, he thought. Not yet thirty, and a DI already.
It had been worth every tedious minute of the three years of endless
cramming for the law degree that had eased him on to the fast track, one
of the first ever graduates to make it to the new accelerated promotion
stream in the Derbyshire force. Now, seven years from swearing his oath
of allegiance, he was the youngest plain-clothes inspector the county force
had ever promoted.
There was no one about to see the lapse of dignity, so he took the
stairs at a run. His momentum carried him through the swing doors
into the uniformed squad room. Three heads turned sharply as he
11

entered. For a moment, George couldn't think why it was so quiet.
Then he remembered. Half the town would be at the memorial service
for the recently assassinated President Kennedy, a special Mass open to all
denominations. The town had claimed the murdered leader as an adopted
native son. After all, JFK had practically been there only months before his
death, visiting his sister's grave a handful of miles away in Edensor in the
grounds of Chatsworth House. The fact that one of the nurses who had
helped surgeons in the fruitless fight for the president's life in a Dallas
hospital was a Buxton woman had only strengthened the connection in
the eyes of the locals.
'All quiet, then, Sergeant?' he asked.
Bob Lucas, the duty sergeant, frowned and raised one shoulder in a
half-shrug. He glanced at the sheet of paper in his hand. 'We were until five
minutes ago, sir.' He straightened up. 'It's probably summat and nowt,' he
said. 'A pound to a penny it'll be sorted before I even get there.'
'Anything interesting?' George asked, keeping his voice light. The last
thing he wanted was for Bob Lucas to think he was the kind of CID
man who treated uniforms as if they were the monkeys and he the organ
grinder.
'Missing lass,' Lucas said, proffering the sheet of paper. 'PC Swindells
just took the call. They rang here direct, not through the emergency
switchboard.'
George tried to picture Scardale on his mental map of the area. 'Do
we have a local man there, Sergeant?' he stalled.
'No need. It's barely a hamlet. Ten houses at the most. No, Scardale's
covered by Peter Grundy at Longnor. He's only two miles away. But the
mother obviously thought this was too important for Peter.'
'And you think?' George was cautious.
'I think I'd better take the area car out to Scardale and have a word
with Mrs Hawkin, sir. I'll pick up Peter on the way.' As he spoke, Lucas
reached for his cap and straightened it on hair that was almost as black
and glossy as his boots. His ruddy cheeks looked as if he had a pair of
Ping-Pong balls tucked inside his mouth. Combined with glittering dark
eyes and straight black eyebrows, they gave him the look of a painted
ventriloquist's dummy. But George had already found out that Bob Lucas
was the last person to let anyone else put words in his mouth. He knew
that if he asked a question of Lucas, he'd get a straight answer.
'Would you mind if I came along?' George asked.
12
Peter Grundy replaced the phone softly in its cradle. He rubbed his thumb
along a jaw sandpaper-rough with the day's stubble. He was thirty-two
years old that night in December 1963. Photographs show a fresh-faced
man with a narrow jaw and a short, sharp nose accentuated by an almost
military haircut. Even smiling, as he was in holiday snaps with his children,
his eyes seemed watchful.
Two calls in the space of ten minutes had broken the routine peace of
an evening in front of the TV with his wife Meg, the children bathed and
in bed. It wasn't that he hadn't taken the first call seriously. When old
Ma Lomas, the eyes and ears of Scardale, took the trouble to subject her
arthritis to the biting cold by leaving the comfort of her cottage for the
phone box on the village green, he had to pay attention. But he'd thought
he could wait till eight o'clock and the end of the programme before he
did anything about it. After all, Ma might be dressing up the reason for
her call as concern over a missing schoolgirl, but Grundy wasn't so sure
it wasn't just an excuse to stir things up for the lass's mother. He'd heard
the talk and knew there were a few in Scardale as thought Ruth Carter
had been a bit quick to jump the broomstick with Philip Hawkin, even
if he had been the first man to put roses in her cheeks since her Roy
had died.
Then the phone had rung again, bringing a scowl to his wife's face and
dragging him out of his comfortable armchair into the chilly hall. This
time, he couldn't ignore the summons. Sergeant Lucas from Buxton knew
about the missing girl, and he was on his way. As if it wasn't bad enough
having Buxton boots tramping all over his ground, he was bringing the
Professor with him. It was the first time Grundy or any of his colleagues
had ever had to work with somebody that had been to university, and
he knew from the gossip on his occasional visits to the sub-division in
Buxton that they were none of them comfortable with the idea. He hadn't
been slow to join the mutterings about the university of life being the best
teacher for a copper. These graduates - you couldn't send them out of a
Saturday night on to Buxton marketplace. They'd never have seen a pub
fight in all their born days, never mind know how to deal with one. As
far as Grundy could make out, the only good thing that could be said
about DI Bennett was that he could turn a handy bat at cricket. And
that wasn't reason enough for Grundy to be happy about him arriving
on his patch to upset his carefully nurtured contacts.
With a sigh, he buttoned up his shirt collar. He pulled on his tunic
jacket, straightened his cap on his head and picked up his overcoat. He
i3

stuck his head round the living room door, a conciliatory smile fastened
nervously on his face. 'I've to go to Scardale,' he said.
'Shh,' his wife admonished him crossly. 'It's getting to the exciting
bit.'
'Alison Carter's gone missing,' he added, spitefully closing the living
room door behind him and hurrying down the hall before she could
react. And react she would, he knew only too well. A missing child in
Scardale was far too close to home for Longnor not to feel a chill wind
on its neck.
George Bennett followed Sergeant Lucas out to the yard where the cars
were parked. He'd have far preferred to travel in his own car, a stylish
black Ford Corsair as new as his promotion, but protocol demanded he
climb into the passenger seat of the liveried Rover and let Lucas drive. As
they turned south on the main road through the market square, George
tried to stifle the prickle of excitement that had stirred in him when he
had heard the words, 'missing lass'. Chances were, as Lucas had rightly
pointed out, that it would all come to nothing. More than ninety-five
per cent of cases of children reported missing ended in reunion before
bedtime, or at worst, before breakfast.
But sometimes, it was a different story. Sometimes, a missing child
stayed missing long enough for the certainty to grow that he or she would
never come home. Occasionally, that was from choice. More often, it was
because the child was dead and the question for the police then became
how long it would take them to find a body.
And sometimes, they seemed to vanish as cleanly as if the earth had
opened up and gulped them down.
There had been two cases like that within the last six months, both of
them less than thirty miles away from Scardale. George always made a
careful note of bulletins from outside forces as well as other Derbyshire
divisions, and he had paid particular attention to these two missing persons
cases because they were just close enough that the children might fetch up
on his patch. Dead or alive.
First had been Pauline Catherine Reade. Dark-haired and hazel-eyed,
sixteen years old, a trainee confectioner from Gorton, Manchester. Slim
build, about five feet tall, wearing a pink and gold dress and a pale-blue
coat. Just before eight on Friday, i2th July, she had walked out of the
terraced house where she lived with her parents and her younger brother
to go to a twist dance. She was never seen again. There had been no
14

trouble at home or at work. She had no boyfriend to fall out with. She
had no money to run away with, even if she'd wanted to. The area had
been extensively searched and three local reservoirs drained, all without
a trace of Pauline. Manchester police had followed up every report of a
sighting, but none had led them to the vanished girl.
The second missing child appeared to have nothing in common with
Pauline Reade apart from the inexplicable, almost magical nature of his
disappearance. John Kilbride, 12 years old, 4ft 10 ins tall with a slim build,
dark-brown hair, blue eyes and a fresh complexion. He was wearing a grey
check sports jacket, long grey flannel trousers, a white shirt and black,
chisel-toed shoes. According to one of the Lancashire detectives George
knew from cricket, he wasn't a bright lad, but a pleasant and obliging
one. John went to the cinema with some friends on Saturday afternoon,
the day after Kennedy died in Dallas. Afterwards, he left them, saying
he was going down to the marketplace in Ashton-under-Lyne, where he
often earned threepence making tea for the stallholders. The last anyone
saw of him, he was leaning against a salvage bin around half past five.
The resulting hunt had been given a last desperate boost only the day
before when a local businessman had offered a 100 reward. But nothing
appeared to have come of it. That same colleague had remarked to George
only the previous Saturday at a police dance, that John Kilbride and
Pauline Reade would have left more traces if they'd been abducted by
little green men in a flying saucer.
And now a missing girl on his patch. He stared out of the window at
the moonlit fields lining the Ashbourne road, their rough pasture crusted
with hoarfrost, the dry-stone walls that separated them almost luminous
in the silvery light. A thin cloud crossed the moon and in spite of his
warm coat, George shivered at the thought of being without shelter on
a night like this in so inhospitable a landscape.
Faintly disgusted with himself for allowing his eagerness for a big case
to overwhelm the concern for the girl and her family that should have
been all that was on his mind, George turned abruptly to Bob Lucas and
said, 'Tell me about Scardale.' He took out his cigarettes and offered one
to the sergeant, who shook his head.
'I won't, thanks, sir. I'm trying to cut down. Scardale's what you might
call the land that time forgot,' he said. In the short spurt of light from
George's match, Lucas's face looked grim.
'How do you mean?'
'It's like the Middle Ages down there. There's only one road in and
15

out and it comes to a dead end by the telephone box on the village
green. There's the big house, the manor, which is where we're headed.
There's about a dozen other cottages and the farm buildings. No pub, no
shop, no post office. Mr Hawkin, he's what you might call the squire. He
owns every house in Scardale, plus the farm, plus all the land a mile in
all directions. Everybody that lives there is his tenant and his employee.
It's like he owns them an' all.' The sergeant slowed to turn right off the
main road on to the narrow lane that led up past the quarry. 'There's only
three surnames in the place, I reckon. You're either a Lomas, a Crowther
or a Carter.'
Not, George noticed, a Hawkin. He filed the inconsistency away for
later inspection. 'Surely people must leave, to get married, to get work?'
'Oh aye, people leave,' Lucas said. 'But they're always Scardale through
and through. They never lose it. And every generation, one or two people
do marry out. It's the only way to avoid wedding your cousins. But often as
not, them as have married into Scardale come out a few years later looking
for a divorce. Funny thing is, they always leave the kids behind them.' He
cast a quick glance at George, almost to see how he was taking it.
George inhaled his cigarette and kept his own counsel for a moment.
He'd heard of places like this, he'd just never actually been in one. He
couldn't begin to imagine what it must be like to be part of a world so
self-contained, so limited, where everything about your past, present and
future must be information shared with an entire community. 'It's hard
to believe a place like that could exist so close to the town. What is it?
Seven miles?'
'Eight,' Lucas said. 'It's historical. Look at the pitch of these roads.'
He pointed up at the sharp left turn into the village of Earl Sterndale
where the houses built by the quarry company to house their workers
huddled along the hillside like a rugby scrum. 'Before we had cars
with decent engines and proper tarmac roads, it could take you the
best part of a day to get from Scardale to Buxton in the winter. That's
when the track wasn't blocked with snowdrifts. Folk had to rely on
their own. Some places around here, they just never got out of the
habit.
'Take this lass, Alison. Even with the school bus, it probably takes her
the best part of an hour to get to and from school every day. The county
have been trying to get parents to agree to sending children like her as
boarders Monday to Friday, to save them the journey. But places like
Scardale, they just flat refuse. They don't see it as the county trying to
16
help them. They think it's the authorities trying to take their children off
them. There's no reasoning with them.'
The car swung through a series of sharp bends and began to climb a
steep ridge, the engine straining as Lucas changed down through the gears.
George opened the quarterlight and flicked the remains of his cigarette
on to the verge. A draught of frosty air tinged with smoke from a coal
fire caught at his throat and he hastily closed the window. 'And yet Mrs
Hawkin wasn't slow to call us in.'
'According to PC Swindells, she'd knocked every door in Scardale first,
though,' Lucas said drily. 'Don't take me wrong. It's not that they're hostile
to the police. They're just... not very forthcoming, that's all. They'll want
Alison found. So they'll put up with us.'
The car breasted the rise and began the long descent into the village
of Longnor. The limestone buildings crouched like sleeping sheep, dirty
white in the moonlight, with plumes of smoke rising from every chimney
in sight. At the crossroads in the centre of the village, George could see
the unmistakable outline of a uniformed officer, stamping his feet on the
ground to keep them warm.
'That'll be Peter Grundy,' Lucas said. 'He could have waited indoors.'
'Maybe he's impatient to find out what's happening. It is his patch,
after all.'
Lucas grunted. 'More likely his missus giving him earache about having
to go out of an evening.'
He braked a little too hard and the car slewed into the kerb. PC Peter
Grundy stooped to see who was in the passenger seat, then climbed into
the back of the car. 'Evening, Sarge,' he said. 'Sir,' he added, inclining
his head towards George. 'I don't like the sound of this at all.'
17

2
Wednesday, 11th December 1963. 8.26 p.m.
Before Sergeant Lucas could drive off, George Bennett held up one finger.
'Scardale's only two miles away, yes?' Lucas nodded. 'Before we get there,
I want to know as much as possible about what we're getting into. Can
we give PC Grundy a couple of minutes to give us some more details?'
'A minute or two can't do any harm,' Lucas said, easing the car back
into neutral.
Bennett squirmed round in his seat so he could see at least the dim
outline of the local man's face. 'So, PC Grundy, you don't think we're
going to find Alison Hawkin sitting by the fire getting a tongue-lashing
from her mother?'
'It's Carter, sir. Alison Carter. She's not the squire's daughter,' Grundy
said with the faint air of impatience of a man who sees a long night of
explanations ahead of him.
'Thank you,' George said mildly. 'You've saved me putting my foot in
it over that at least. I'd appreciate it if you could give us a quick briefing
on the family. Just so I have an idea what we're dealing with.' He held
out his cigarettes to Grundy to defuse any idea the man might have that
he was being condescended to.
With a quick glance at Bob Lucas, who nodded, Grundy slipped a
smoke from the packet and fumbled in his overcoat pocket for a light.
'I've told the inspector the set-up in Scardale,' Lucas said as Grundy lit
his cigarette. 'About how the squire owns the village and all the land.'
'Right,' Grundy said through a swathe of smoke. 'Well, until about a
year ago, it was Hawkin's uncle who owned Scardale. Old Mr Castleton.
There've been Castletons in Scardale Manor as far back as parish records
show. Any road, old William Castleton's only son was killed in the war.
Flew bombers, he did, but he got unlucky one night over Germany and
18

the last anyone heard was he was missing believed killed in action. His
parents had been a good age when young William were born, and there
were no other children. So when Mr Castleton died, Scardale went to his
sister's son, this Philip Hawkin. A man that nobody in the place had cast
eyes on since he was in short trousers.'
'What do we know about him?' Lucas asked.
'His mother, the squire's sister, she grew up here, but she married a
wrong 'un when she wed Stan Hawkin. He were in the RAF back then,
but that didn't last long. He always claimed he'd taken the rap for one
of his senior officers, but the long and short of it was they threw him
out for selling tools out the back gate. Any road, the squire took it on
himself to see Hawkin right, and he got him a job with an old pal of his,
selling cars down south. From all accounts, he never got caught on the
fiddle again, but I reckon a leopard never changes its spots, and that's
why the family stopped coming up for visits.'
'So what about the son, Philip?' George asked, trying to speed up
the story.
Grundy shrugged, his bulk making the car rock. 'He's a good-looking
beggar, I'll say that for him. Plenty of charm and smarm, an' all. The
women like him. He's always been all right wi' me, but I still wouldn't
trust him to hold the dog while I went for a pee.'
'And he married Alison Carter's mother?'
'I was just getting to that,' Grundy said with slow dignity. 'Ruth Carter
had been a widow close on six years when Hawkin arrived from down
south to take up his inheritance. According to what I've heard, he was
right taken with Ruth from the off. She's a fine-looking woman, it's true,
but it's not every man who'd be willing to take on another man's child.
Mind you, from what I've heard, that were never a problem to him. He
never let up on Ruth, though. And she wasn't averse to it, either. He put a
sparkle back in her eye and no mistake. They were wed three months after
he first showed his face in Scardale. They made a handsome couple.'
'A whirlwind romance, then?' George said. 'I bet that caused a bit of
ill feeling, even in a place as tight-knit as Scardale.'
Grundy shrugged. 'I've heard nowt of the sort,' he said. George recognized
a stone wall when he saw it. He'd clearly have to earn Grundy's trust
before the village bobby would hand over his hard-won local knowledge.
That the knowledge was there, George didn't doubt.
'Right then, let's head on into Scardale and see what's what,' he said.
Lucas put the car in gear and drove through the village. At a 'no through
19

road' sign, he took a sharp left off the main road. 'Well signposted,' George
commented drily.
'Anybody that needs to go to Scardale knows the road there, I reckon,'
Bob Lucas said as he concentrated on driving up a narrow track that
seemed to double back on itself in a series of switchback rises and falls.
The twin cones of the headlamps made only a slight impression on the
darkness of the road, hemmed in as it was by high banks and uneven
dry-stone walls that bulged and leaned at apparently impossible angles
against the sky.
'You said when you got in the car that you didn't like the look of this,
Grundy,' George said. 'Why's that?'
'She seems like a sensible lass, this Alison. I know who she is - she
went to primary school in Longnor. I've got a niece was in the same
class and they went on to the grammar school together. While I was
waiting for you, I popped in and had a quick word with our Margaret.
She reckons Alison were the same as usual today. They came home on the
bus together, just like always. Alison were talking about stopping off in
Buxton after school one night this week to buy some Christmas presents.
Besides, she says, Alison's not one for running. If there's ever owt wrong,
she faces it head on. So it looks like whatever's happened to Alison, it's
likely not happened from choice.'
Grundy's heavy words sat like a stone in George's stomach. As if to
mirror their ominous nature, the roadside walls disappeared, replaced by
steep cliffs of limestone, the road weaving through the narrow defile in a
route entirely dictated by topography. My God, George thought, it's like
a canyon in a Western. We should be wearing stetsons and riding mules,
not sitting in a car.
'Just round the next bend, Sergeant,' Grundy said from behind, his
breath bitter with tobacco.
Lucas slowed the car to a crawl, following the curve of an overhanging
pinnacle of rock. Almost immediately, the road ahead was blocked by a
heavy barred gate. George drew his breath in sharply. If he'd been driving,
unaware of the obstacle, he'd have crashed, for sure. As Grundy jumped
out and trotted to open the gate, George noticed several paint scrapes in
a variety of colours along the rock walls on either side of the road. 'They
don't exactly welcome strangers with open arms around here, do they?'
Lucas's smile was grim. 'They don't have to. Beyond the gate, technically
it's a private road. It's only in the last ten years that it's been asphalted.
Before that, nothing that wasn't a tractor or a Land Rover got up or
20
down the Scardale road.' He eased the car forward, waiting on the far
side of the gate for Grundy to close up and rejoin them.
They set off again. Within a hundred yards of the gate, the limestone
cliffs fell back, sloping away on either side to form a distant horizon.
Suddenly they'd emerged from gloom into full moonlight once more.
Against the starry sky, it looked to George as if they'd emerged from
the players' tunnel into a vast stadium, at least a mile across, with an
almost circular ring of steep hills in place of tiers of seats. The arena was
no sports field, however. In the eerie light of the moon, George could
see fields of rough pasture rising gently from the road that bisected the
valley floor. Sheep huddled together against the walls, their breath brief
puffs of steam in the freezing air. Darker patches revealed themselves as
areas of coppiced woodland as they drove past. George had never seen
the like. It was a secret world, hidden and separate.
Now he could see lights, feeble against the moon's silver gleam, but
strong enough to outline a straggle of buildings against the pale limestone
reefs at the far end of the dale. 'That's Scardale,' Grundy said needlessly
from the back seat.
The conglomeration of stone soon resolved itself into distinct houses
huddled round a scrubby circle of grass. A single standing stone leaned at
an angle in the middle of the green, and a telephone box blazed scarlet at
one side, the only vivid splash of colour in Scardale by moonlight. There
looked to be about a dozen cottages, none identical, each separated from
its neighbours by only a few yards. Most were showing lights behind their
curtains. More than once, George caught a glimpse of hands making
a gap for faces to peer through, but he refused to be drawn into a
sideways look.
At the very back of the green was a sprawl of ill-assorted gables and
windows that George assumed must be Scardale Manor. He wasn't sure
quite what he'd been expecting, but it wasn't this glorified farmhouse
that looked like it had been thrown together over several hundred
years by people who'd had more need than taste. Before he could say
anything, the front door opened and an oblong of yellow light spilled
out on to the yard in front of it. Against the light a woman's form was
silhouetted.
As the car drew to a halt, the woman took a couple of impulsive steps
towards them. Then a man appeared at her shoulder and put an arm
round her. Together they waited while the police officers approached,
George hanging back slightly to let Bob Lucas take the lead. He could use
the time Lucas was taking for the introductions to note his first impressions
of Alison Carter's mother and stepfather.
Ruth Hawkin looked at least ten years older than his Anne, which
would put her in her late thirties. He reckoned she was about five
feet three, with the sturdy build of a woman used to hard work. Her
mid-brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, which emphasized the
drawn look around grey-blue eyes that showed signs of recent weeping.
Her skin looked weather-beaten but her pursed lips showed faint traces
of lipstick in their cracks. She wore an obviously hand-knitted twin set in a
blue heather mixture over a pleated grey tweed skirt. Her legs were encased
in ribbed woollen stockings, her feet shod sensibly in ankle boots with a zip
up the front. It was hard to square what he was seeing with Peter Grundy's
description of Ruth as a good-looking woman. George would not have
looked twice at her in a bus queue except for her obvious distress, which
showed in the tightness of her body, arms crossed defensively across her
chest. He assumed it had also drained her attractiveness from her.
The man standing behind her seemed far more at ease. The hand that
wasn't lightly touching his wife's shoulder was thrust casually into the
pocket of a dark-brown cardigan with suede leather facings. He wore grey
flannel trousers whose turn-ups flopped over well-worn leather slippers.
Philip Hawkin hadn't been out knocking on village doors with his wife,
George noted.
Hawkin was as handsome as his wife was ordinary. A couple of inches
under six feet, he had straight dark hair swept back from a widow's peak,
lightly brilliantined to hold it in place. His face reminded George of a
shield, with a broad, square forehead tapering to a pointed chin. Straight
brows over dark-brown eyes were like an heraldic device; a slender nose
seemed to point to a mouth shaped so that it appeared always to be on
the point of a smile.
AH of this George itemized and filed away in his memory. Bob Lucas
was still speaking. 'So if we could come in and take some details, we can
get a clearer picture of what's happened.' He paused expectantly.
Hawkin spoke for the first time, his voice unmistakably alien to the
Derbyshire Peaks. 'Of course, of course. Come inside, officers. I'm sure
she's going to turn up safe and well, but it doesn't hurt to follow the
procedures, does it?' He dropped his hand to the small of Ruth's back and
steered her back into the house. She seemed numb, certainly incapable of
taking any initiative. 'I'm sorry you've been dragged out on such a cold
night,' Hawkin added smoothly as he crossed the room.
22
George followed Lucas and Grundy across the threshold and into a
farmhouse kitchen. The floors were stone flagged, the walls rough stone
brightened with a coat of white distemper that had discoloured unevenly,
depending on its proximity to the wood-burning stove and the electric
cooker. A dresser and several cupboards of differing heights painted
hospital green ranged round the walls, and a pair of deep stone sinks
were set under the windows that looked out towards the end of the dale.
Another pair of windows gave a view of the village green, the phone box
bright against the darkness. Various pans and kitchen implements hung
from the black beams that crossed the room a few feet apart. It smelled
of smoke, cabbage and animal fat.
Without waiting for anyone else, Hawkin sat down immediately in a
carving chair at the head of a scrubbed wooden table. 'Make the men
some tea, Ruth,' he said.
'That's very kind of you, sir,' George interjected as the woman lifted a
kettle off the stove. 'But I'd rather we pressed on. Where it's a matter of
a missing child, we try not to waste any time. Mrs Hawkin, if you could
sit down and tell us what you know.'
Ruth glanced at Hawkin as if seeking his permission. His eyebrows
twitched upwards, but he nodded acquiescence. She pulled out a chair
and sank into it, folding her arms on the table in front of her. George
sat down opposite her, with Lucas beside him. Grundy unbuttoned his
overcoat and lowered himself into the carver at the opposite end to
Hawkin. He took his pocketbook from his tunic and flipped it open.
Licking the end of his pencil, he looked up expectantly.
'How old is Alison, Mrs Hawkin?' George asked gently.
The woman cleared her throat. 'Thirteen past. Her birthday's in March.'
Her voice cracked, as if something inside her were splintering.
'And had there been any trouble between you?'
'Steady on, Inspector,' Hawkin protested. 'What do you mean, trouble?
What are you suggesting?'
'I'm not suggesting anything, sir,' George said. 'But Alison's at a difficult
age, and sometimes young girls get things out of all proportion. A perfectly
normal ticking-off can feel like the end of the world to them. I'm trying to
establish whether there are any grounds for supposing Alison might have
run away.'
Hawkin leaned back in his seat with a frown. He reached behind him,
tipping the chair back on two legs. He grabbed a packet of Embassy and
a small chrome lighter from the dresser and proceeded to light a cigarette
23

without offering the packet to anyone else. 'Of course she's run away,' he
said, a smile softening the hard line of his eyebrows. 'That's what teenagers
do. They do it to get you worried, to get their own back for some imagined
slight. You know what I mean,' he continued with a man-of-the-world air
that included the police officers. 'Christmas is coming. I remember one
year I went missing for hours. I thought my mum would be so glad to
see me back home safe that I'd be able to talk her into buying me a bike
for Christmas.' His smile turned rueful. 'All I got was a sore backside.
Mark my words, Inspector, she'll turn up before morning, expecting the
fatted calf.'
'She's not like that, Phil,' Ruth said plaintively. 'I'm telling you, something's
happened to her. She wouldn't worry us like this.'
'What happened this afternoon, Mrs Hawkin?' George asked, taking
out his own cigarettes and offering them to her. With a tight nod of
gratitude, she took one, her work-reddened fingers trembling. Before he
could get his matches out, Hawkin had leaned across to light it. George
lit his own cigarette and waited while she composed herself to respond.
'The school bus drops Alison and two of her cousins at the road end
about quarter past four. Somebody from the village always goes up and
picks them up, so she gets in about the half-hour. She came in at the usual
time. I was here in the kitchen, peeling vegetables for the tea. She gave
me a kiss and said she were off out with the dog. I said did she not want
a cup of tea first, but she said she'd been shut in all day and she wanted
a run with the dog. She often did that. She hated being indoors all day.'
Ambushed by the memory, Ruth faltered then stopped.
'Did you see her, Mr Hawkin?' George asked, more to give Ruth a break
than because he cared about the answer.
'No. I was in my darkroom. I lose all sense of time when I'm in
there.'
'I hadn't realized you were a photographer,' George said, noticing
Grundy shift in his seat.
'Photography, Inspector, is my first love. When I was a lowly civil
servant, before I inherited this place from my uncle, it was never more
than a hobby. Now, I've got my own darkroom, and this last year,
I've become semi-professional. Some portraiture, of course, but mostly
landscapes. Some of my picture postcards are on sale in Buxton. The
Derbyshire light has a remarkable clarity.' Hawkin's smile was dazzling
this time.
'I see,' George said. wondering at a man who could think about the
24

quality of light when his stepdaughter was missing on a freezing December
night. 'So you had no idea that Alison had come in and gone out?'
'No, I heard nothing.'
'Mrs Hawkin, was Alison in the habit of visiting anyone when she went
out with the dog? A neighbour? You mentioned cousins that she goes to
school with.'
Ruth shook her head. 'No. She'd just go up through the fields to the
coppice then back. In summer, she'd go further, up through the woodland
to where the Scarlaston rises. There's a fold in the hills, you can hardly see
it till you're on it, but you can cut through there, along the river bank, into
Denderdale. But she'd never go that far of a winter's night.' She sighed.
'Besides, I've been right round the village. Nobody's seen hide nor hair
of her since she crossed the fields.'
'What about the dog?' Grundy asked. 'Has the dog come back?'
It was a countryman's question, George thought. He'd have got there
eventually, but not as fast as Grundy.
Ruth shook her head. 'She's not. But if Alison had had an accident,
Shep wouldn't have left her. She'd have barked, but she wouldn't have left
her. A night like tonight, you'd hear Shep anywhere in the dale. You've
been out there. Did you hear her?'
'That's why I wondered,' Grundy said. 'The silence.'
'Can you give us a description of what Alison was wearing?' asked the
ever-practical Lucas.
'She had on a navy-blue duffel coat over her school uniform.'
'Peak Girls' High?' Lucas asked.
Ruth nodded. 'Black blazer, maroon cardie, white shirt, black and
maroon tie and maroon skirt. She's wearing black woolly tights and
black sheepskin boots that come up to mid-calf. You don't run away
in your school uniform,' she burst out passionately, tears welling up in
her eyes. She brushed them away angrily with the back of her hand. 'Why
are we sitting here like it was Sunday teatime? Why aren't you out looking
for her?'
George nodded. 'We're going to, Mrs Hawkin. But we needed to get the
details straight so that we don't waste our efforts. How tall is Alison?'
'She's near on my height now. Five foot two, three, something like
that. She's slim built, just starting to look like a young woman.'
'Have you got a recent photograph of Alison that we can show our
officers?' George asked.
Hawkin pushed his chair back, the legs shrieking on the stone flags.
25

He pulled open the drawer of the kitchen table and took out a handful
of five-by-three prints. 'I took these in the summer. About four months
ago.' He leaned across and spread them out in front of George. The face
that looked up at him from five coloured head-and-shoulders portraits
was not one he'd forget in a hurry.
Nobody had warned him that she was beautiful. He felt his breath catch
in his throat as he looked down at Alison. Collar-length hair the colour
of set honey framed an oval face sprinkled with pale freckles. Her blue
eyes had an almost. Slavic set to them, set wide apart on either side of a
neat, straight nose. Her mouth was generous, her smile etching a single
dimple in her left cheek. The only imperfection was a slanting scar that
sliced through her right eyebrow, leaving a thin white line through the
dark hairs. In each shot, her pose varied slightly, but her candid smile
never altered.
He glanced up at Ruth, whose face had imperceptibly softened at the
sight of her daughter's face. Now he could see what had attracted Hawkin's
eye to the farmer's widow. Without the strain that had stripped gentleness
from Ruth's face, her beauty was as obvious as her daughter's. With the
ghost of a smile touching her lips, it was hard to imagine he'd believed
her plain.
'She's a lovely girl,' George murmured. He got to his feet, picking up
the photographs. 'I'd like to hang on to these for the time being.' Hawkin
nodded. 'Sergeant, if I could have a word outside?'
The two men stepped from the warm kitchen into the icy night air.
As he closed the door behind them, George heard Ruth say in a defeated
voice, 'I'll make tea now.'
'What do you think?' George asked. He didn't need Lucas's confirmation
to know that this was serious, but if he assumed authority now over the
uniformed man, it was tantamount to saying he thought the girl had been
murdered or seriously assaulted. And in spite of his growing conviction
that that was what had happened, he had a superstitious dread that acting
as if it were so might just make it so.
'I think we should get the dog handler out fast as you like, sir. She could
have had a fall. She could be lying injured. If she's been hit in a rock fall,
the dog could have been killed.' He looked at his watch. 'We've got four
extra uniformed officers on duty at the Kennedy memorial service. If
we're quick, we can catch them before they go off duty and get them
out here as well as every man we can spare.' Lucas reached past him
to open the door. 'I'll need to use their phone. No point in trying the
26
radio here. You'd get better reception down the bottom of Markham
Main pit shaft.'
'OK, Sergeant. You organize what you can by way of a search party.
I'm going to call in DS Clough and DC Cragg. They can make a start
on a door-to-door in the village, see if we can narrow down who saw
her last and where.' George felt a faint fluttering in his stomach, like
first-night nerves. Of course, that's exactly what it was. If his fears were
right, he was standing on the threshold of the first major case he'd been
entirely responsible for. He'd be judged by this for the rest of his career.
If he didn't uncover what had happened to Alison Carter, it would be
an albatross round his neck for ever.
27

3
Wednesday, 11th December 1963. 9.07 p.m.
The dog's breath swirled and hung in the night air as if it had a life of
its own. The Alsatian sat calmly on its haunches, ears pricked, alert eyes
scanning Scardale village green. PC Dusty Miller, the dog handler, stood
by his charge, one hand absently fingering the short tan and brindle hair
between its ears. 'Prince'11 need some clothes and shoes belonging to the
lass,' he told Sergeant Lucas. 'The more she's worn them, the better. We
can manage without, but it'd help the dog.'
'I'll have a word with Mrs Hawkin,' George interjected before Lucas
could assign anyone to the task. It wasn't that he thought a uniformed
officer would be deficient in tact; he simply wanted another chance to
observe Alison Carter's mother and her husband.
He walked into the warm fug of the kitchen, where Hawkin was still
sitting at the table, still smoking. Now he had a cup of tea in front of him,
as did the WPC who sat at the other end of the table. They both looked up
as he entered. Hawkin raised his eyebrows in a question. George shook
his head. Hawkin pursed his lips and rubbed a hand over his eyes. George
was pleased to see the man finally showing some signs of concern for his
stepdaughter's fate. That Alison might be in real danger seemed finally
to have penetrated his self-absorption.
Ruth Hawkin was at the sink, her hands among the suds in the
washing-up bowl. But she wasn't doing the dishes. She was motionless,
staring intently into the unbroken dark of the night. The moonlight barely
penetrated the area behind the house; this far down the valley, the tall
limestone reefs were close enough to cut off most of it. There was nothing
beyond the window but a faint, dark outline against the grey-white of the
cliffs. An outbuilding of some sort, George guessed. He wondered if it
had been searched yet. He cleared his throat. 'Mrs Hawkin ...'
28
Slowly, she turned. Even in the brief time they'd been in Scardale, she
seemed to have aged, the skin tightening across her cheekbones and her
eyes sinking back into her head. 'Yes?'
'We need some of Alison's clothes. To help the tracker dog.'
She nodded. 'I'll fetch something.'
'The dog handler suggested some shoes, and something she's worn a
few times. A jumper or a coat, I suppose.'
Ruth walked out of the room with the automatic step of the sleepwalker.
'I wonder if I could use your phone again,' George asked.
'Be my guest,' Hawkin said, waving his hand towards the hallway.
George followed Ruth through the door and made for the table where
the old-fashioned black Bakelite phone squatted on a piecrust table next
to a wedding photograph of a radiant Ruth with her new husband. If
Hawkin hadn't been so handsomely unmistakable, George doubted he
would have identified the bride.
As soon as he closed the door behind him, he felt icy coldness grip him.
If the girl was used to living in temperatures like this, she'd stand a better
chance outside, he thought. He could see Ruth Hawkin disappear round
the turn in the stairs as he lifted the receiver and began to dial. Four
rings, then it was picked up. 'Buxton four-two-two,' the familiar voice
said, instantly soothing his anxieties.
'Anne, it's me. I've had to go out to Scardale on a case. A missing
girl.'
'The poor parents,' Anne said instantly. 'And poor you, having that to
deal with on a night like this.'
'It's the girl I'm worried about. Obviously, I'm going to be late. In fact,
depending on what happens, I might not be back at all tonight.'
'You push yourself too hard, George. It's bad for you, you know. If
you're not back by bedtime, I'll make up some sandwiches and leave them
in the fridge so there's something for you to eat. They'd better be gone by
the time I get up,' she added, her scolding only half teasing.
If Ruth Hawkin hadn't reappeared on the stairs, he'd have told Anne
how much he loved the way she cared about him. Instead, he simply
said, 'Thanks. I'll be in touch when I can,' and replaced the receiver.
He moved to the foot of the stairs to meet Ruth who was clutching a
small bundle to her chest. 'We're doing all we can,' he said, knowing it
was inadequate.
'I know,' she said. She opened her arms to reveal a pair of slippers and a
crumpled flannelette pyjama jacket. 'Will you give these to the dog man?'
29

George took the clothes, noting with a stab of nameless emotion how
pathetic the circumstances had rendered the blue velveteen slippers and
the pink sprigged jacket. Holding them gingerly, to avoid contamination
with his scent, George walked back through the kitchen and out into the
night air. Wordlessly, he handed the items to Miller and watched while
the dog handler spoke soft words of command to Prince, offering the
garments to its long nose.
The dog raised its head delicately, as if scenting some culinary delight
on the wind. Then it started nosing the ground by the front door, its
head swinging to and fro in long arcs, inches above the ground. Every
few feet, it gave a snorting snuffle then looked up, thrusting its nostrils
towards Alison's clothes and her scent, as if reminding itself what it was
supposed to be seeking. Dog and handler moved forward in tandem,
covering every inch of the path from the kitchen door. Then, at the
very edge of the dirt track that skirted the back of the village green,
the Alsatian suddenly stiffened. As rigid as a child playing statues, Prince
paused for long seconds, hungrily drinking in the scent from the scrubby
grass. Then in one smooth, liquid motion, the dog moved swiftly across
the grass, its body close to the ground, its nose seeming to pull it forward
in a low lope.
PC Miller quickened his step to keep up with the dog. On a nod from
Sergeant Lucas, four of the uniformed men who'd arrived minutes after
the dog team fell into step behind them, fanning out to cover the ground
with the cones of their torch beams. George followed them for a few
yards, not certain whether he should join their party or wait for the two
CID officers he'd summoned but who hadn't arrived yet.
Their path touched the village green at a tangent then, via a stone stile,
into a narrow salient between two cottages that gave out into a larger
field. As the dog led them unwaveringly across the field, George heard a
car grumbling down the road into the village. As it pulled up behind the
cluster of police vehicles already there, he recognized the Ford Zephyr
of Detective Sergeant Tommy Clough. He threw a quick glance over his
shoulder at the tracker team. Their torches gave their positions away. It
wouldn't be hard to catch up with them. He turned on his heel, strode
over to the bulky black car and yanked open the driver's door. The familiar
ruddy harvest moon face of his sergeant grinned up at him. 'How do, sir,'
Clough said on a wave of beer fumes.
'We've got work to do, Clough,' George said shortly. Even with a drink
in him, Clough would still do a better job than most officers sober. The
30

passenger door slammed and Detective Constable Gary Cragg slouched
round the front of the car. He'd watched too many Westerns, George
had decided the first time the lanky DC had swaggered into his line of
vision. Cragg would have looked fine in a pair of sheepskin chaps with
matching Colt pistols slung low on his narrow hips and a ten-gallon hat
tipped over his hooded grey eyes. In a suit, he had the air of a man who's
not quite sure how he got where he is, but wishes with all his heart he
was somewhere else.
'Missing girl, is that right, sir?' he drawled. Even his slow voice would
have been more at home in a saloon, asking the bartender for a shot
of bourbon. The only saving grace, as far as George could see, was that
Cragg showed no signs of being a maverick.
'Alison Carter. Thirteen years old,' George briefed them as Clough
unfolded his chunky body from under the steering wheel. He gestured over
his shoulder with his thumb. 'She lives in the manor house, stepdaughter
of the squire. Her and her mother are Scardale natives, though.'
Clough snorted and clamped a tweed cap over his tight brown curls.
'She'll not have had the sense to get lost, then. You know about Scardale,
don't you? They've all been marrying their cousins for generations. Most
of them would be hard pressed to find their backsides in a toilet.'
'Alison managed to make it to grammar school in spite of her handicaps,'
George pointed out. 'Which, as I recall, is more than we can say
for you, Sergeant Clough.' Clough glared at the boss who was three years
his junior, but said nothing. 'Alison came home from school at the usual
time,' George continued. 'She went out with the dog. Neither of them's
been seen since. That was the best part of five hours ago. I want you to
do a door-to-door round the village. I want to know who was the last
person to see her, where and when.'
'It'll have been dark by the time she went out,' Cragg said.
'All the same, somebody might have seen her. I'm going to try and
catch up with the dog handler, so that's where I'll be if you need me.
OK?' As he turned away, a sudden chill thought struck him. He looked
round the horseshoe of houses huddled round the green, then swung
back to face Clough and Cragg. 'And every house - I want you to check
the kids are where they should be. I don't want some mother having
hysterics tomorrow morning when she discovers her kid's missing too.'
He didn't wait for an answer, but set off for the stile. Just before he got
there, he checked his stride and turned back to find Sergeant Lucas in the
middle of directing the remaining six uniformed officers he'd managed to
31

rustle up from somewhere. 'Sergeant,' George said. 'There's an outbuilding
you can see from the kitchen window of the house. I don't know if anyone's
checked it yet, but it might be worth taking a look, just in case she didn't
go for her usual walk.'
Lucas nodded and gestured with his head to one of the constables. 'See
what you can see, lad.' He nodded to George. 'Much obliged, sir.'
Kathy Lomas stood at her window and watched the darkness swallow the
tall man in the mac and the trilby. Illuminated by the headlights of the big
car that had just rolled to a halt by the phone box, he'd borne a remarkable
resemblance to James Stewart. It should have been a reassuring thought,
but somehow it only made the evening's events all the more unreal.
Kathy and Ruth were cousins, separated by less than a year, connected
by blood on both maternal and paternal sides. They had grown into
women and mothers side by side. Kathy's son Derek had been born a
mere three weeks after Alison. The families' histories were inextricably
intertwined. So when Kathy, alerted by Derek, had walked into Ruth's
kitchen to find her cousin pacing anxiously, chain-smoking and fretting,
she'd felt the stab of fear as strongly as if it had been her own child who
was absent.
They'd gone round the village together, at first convinced they would
find Alison warming herself at someone else's fire, oblivious to the passing
of time, remorseful at causing her mother worry. But as they drew blank
after blank, conviction had shrivelled to hope, then hope to despair.
Kathy stood at the darkened window of Lark Cottage's tiny front room,
watching the activity that had suddenly bloomed in the dismal December
night. The plain-clothes detective who had been driving the car, the one
who looked like a Hereford bull with his curly poll and his broad head,
pushed his car coat up to scratch his backside, said something to his
colleague, then started towards her front door, his eyes seeming to meet
hers in the darkness.
Kathy moved to the door, glancing towards the kitchen where her
husband was trying to concentrate on finishing a marquetry picture of
fishing boats in harbour. 'The police are here, Mike,' she called.
'Not before time,' she heard him grumble.
She opened the door just as the Hereford bull lifted his hand to knock.
His startled look turned into a smile as he took in Kathy's generous curves,
still obvious even beneath her wraparound apron. 'You'll have come about
Alison,' she said.
32
'You're right, missus,' he said. 'I'm Detective Sergeant Clough, and this
is Detective Constable Cragg. Can we come in a minute?'
Kathy stepped back and let them pass, allowing Clough to brush against
her breasts without complaint. 'The kitchen's straight ahead. You'll find
my husband in there,' she said coldly.
She followed them and leaned against the range, trying to warm herself
against the cold fear inside, waiting for the men to introduce themselves
and settle round the table. Clough turned to her. 'Have you seen Alison
since she got home from school?'
Kathy took a deep breath. 'Aye. It was my turn to pick up the kids off
the school bus. In the winter, one of us always drives up to the lane end
to collect them.'
'Was there anything different about Alison that you noticed?' Clough
asked.
Kathy thought for a moment, then shook her head. 'Nowt.' She
shrugged. 'She were just the same as usual. Just ... Alison. She said
cheerio and walked off up the path to the manor. Last I saw of her she
was walking through the door, shouting hello to her mum.'
'Did you see any strangers about? Either on the road or up at the
lane end?'
'I never noticed anybody.'
'I believe you went round the village with Mrs Hawkin?' Clough
asked.
'I wasn't going to leave her on her own, was I?' Kathy demanded
belligerently.
'How did you come to know Alison was missing?'
'It was our Derek. He's not been doing as well as he should have been
at school, so I took it on myself to make sure he was doing his homework
properly. Instead of letting him go off with Alison and their cousin Janet
when they got home from school, I've been keeping him in.'
'She makes him sit at the kitchen table and do all the work his teachers
have set him before she'll let him loose with the girls. Waste of bloody
time, if you ask me. The lad's only going to be a farmer like me,' Mike
Lomas interrupted, his voice a low rumble.
'Not if I have anything to do with it,' Kathy said grimly. 'I tell you
what's a waste of time. It's that record player Phil Hawkin bought
Alison. Derek and Janet are never away from there, listening to the
latest records. Derek was desperate to get over to Alison's tonight. She's
just got the new Beatles number one, "I Want To Hold Your Hand".
33

But it was after tea before I let him out. It must have been just before
seven. He came back within five minutes, saying Alison had gone out
with Shep and hadn't come home. Of course, I went straight over to see
what was what.
'Ruth was up to high doh. I told her she should check with everybody
in the village, just in case Alison had popped in to see somebody and lost
track of the time. She's always sitting with old Ma Lomas, her and her
cousin Charlie keeping the old witch company, listening to her memories
of the old days. Once Ma gets going, you could sit all night. She's some
storyteller, Ma, and our Alison loves her tales.'
She settled herself more comfortably against the range. Clough could
see she was on a roll, and he decided just to let her run and see where
her story took them. He nodded. 'Go on, Mrs Lomas.'
'Well, we were just about to set off when Phil came in. He said he'd
been in his darkroom, messing about with his photographs, and he'd only
just noticed the time. He was going on about where was his tea and where
was Alison? I told him there were more important things to think about
than his belly, but Ruth dished him up a plate of the hotpot she'd had
cooking. Then we left him to it and went knocking doors.' She came to
a sudden halt.
'So you never saw Alison again after she got out of the car coming
back from school?'
'Land Rover,' Mike Lomas growled.
'Sorry?'
'It were a Land Rover, not a car. Nobody has cars down here,' he said
contemptuously.
'No, I've not seen her since she walked in the kitchen door,' Kathy
said. 'But you're going to find her, aren't you? I mean, that's your job.
You are going to find her?'
'We're doing our best.' It was Cragg who trotted out the formulaic
placebo.
Before she could utter the angry retort Tommy Clough could see
coming, he spoke quickly. 'What about your lad, Mrs Lomas? Is he
where he should be?'
Her mouth dropped open in shock. 'Derek? Why wouldn't he be?'
'Maybe the same reason Alison's not where she should be.'
'You can't say that!' Mike Lomas jumped to his feet, his cheeks flaming
scarlet, his eyes tight with anger.
Clough smiled, spreading his hands in a conciliatory gesture. 'Nay, don't
34
take me wrong. All I meant was, you should check in case something's
happened to him an' all.'
By the time George got over the stile, the lights from the tracker team's
torches were no more than a hazy wavering in the distance. He guessed
they had entered some woodland by the way the yellow beams seemed
suddenly to disappear and reappear at random. Switching on the torch
he'd borrowed from the police Land Rover that had brought some of the
men over from Buxton, he hurried across the uneven tufts of coarse grass
as quickly as he could.
The trees loomed up sooner than he'd expected. At first, all he could
see was undisturbed undergrowth, but swinging the torch to and fro
soon revealed a narrow path where the earth was packed hard. George
plunged into the woodland, trying to balance haste against caution. The
torch beam sent crazy shadows dancing off in every direction, forcing him
to concentrate harder on the path than he'd had to do in the field. Frosted
leaves crunched under his feet, the occasional twig whipped his face or
brushed his shoulder, and everywhere the decaying mushroomy smell of
the woodland assailed him. Every twenty yards or so, he snapped off his
torch to check his bearings against the lights ahead. Absolute darkness
swallowed him, but it was hard to resist the feeling that there were hidden
eyes staring at him, following his every move. It was a relief to snap his
torch on again. A few minutes into the wood, he realized the lights before
him had stopped moving. Putting on a spurt that nearly sent him flying
over a tree root, he almost collided with a uniformed constable hurriedly
retracing his steps.
'Have you found her?' George gasped.
'No such luck, sir. We have found the dog, though.'
'Alive?'
The man nodded. 'Aye. But she's been tied up.'
'In silence?' George asked incredulously.
'Somebody taped her muzzle shut, sir. Poor beast could barely manage
a whimper. PC Miller sent me back to fetch Sergeant Lucas before we
did owt.'
'I'll take responsibility now,' George said firmly. 'But go back anyway
and tell Sergeant Lucas what's happened. I think it might be wise to
keep people out of this piece of woodland until daylight. Whatever's
happened to Alison Carter, there might be evidence that we're destroying
right now.'
35

The constable nodded and took off along the path at a trot. 'Bloody
mountain goats they breed around here,' George muttered as he blundered
on down the path.
The clearing he emerged into was a chiaroscuro of torchlight and
strangely elongated shadows. At the far end, a black and white collie
strained against a rope tied round a tree. Liquid brown irises stood out
against the white of its bulging eyes. The dull pink of the elastoplast that
was wound round its muzzle looked incongruous in so pastoral a setting.
George was aware of the stares of the uniformed men, looking him over
speculatively.
'I think we should put that dog out of its misery. What do you say,
PC Miller?' he asked, directing his question to the dog handler, who was
methodically covering the clearing with Prince.
'I don't think she'll argue with you on that, sir,' Miller said. 'I'll take
Prince out of the way so he won't upset her.' With a jerk on the dog's
leash and a word of command, he made for the far side of the clearing.
George noticed his dog was still casting around as he'd done outside the
house earlier.
'Has he lost the scent?' he asked, suddenly concerned about more
important matters than a dog's discomfort.
'Looks like the trail ends here,' the dog handler said. 'I've been right
round the clearing twice, and down the path in the opposite direction.
But there's nothing.'
'Does that mean she was carried out of here?' George asked, a cold
tremor twitching upwards from his stomach.
'Like as not,' Miller said grimly. 'One thing's for sure. She didn't walk
out of here unless she turned straight round and walked back to the house.
And if that's what she did, why tie up the bitch and muzzle her?'
'Maybe she wanted to creep up on her mum? Or her stepdad?' one of
the constables hazarded.
'The dog wouldn't have barked at them, would she? So there'd be no
need to muzzle her, or leave her behind,' Miller said.
'Unless she thought one or other of them might be with a stranger,'
George said, half under his breath.
'Aye well, my money says she never left this clearing under her own
steam.' Miller spoke with finality as he walked his dog down the path.
George approached the dog cautiously. The whimper in the dog's throat
turned to a soft grumble. What had Ruth Hawkin called it? Shep, that was
it. 'OK, Shep,' he said gently, holding his hand out so the dog could sniff
36

his fingers. The growl died away. George hitched up his trousers and
kneeled down, the frozen ground uneven and ungenerous beneath his
knees. Automatically, he noticed the elastoplast was the thicker kind, from
a roll two inches wide with a half-inch band of lint bulging up the middle
of it. 'Steady, girl,' he said, one hand gripping the thick hair at the scruff
of the dog's neck to hold her head still. With his other hand, he picked
at the end of the elastoplast till he had freed enough to pull clear. He
looked up. 'One of you, come over here and hold the dog's head while I
get this stuff off.'
One of the constables straddled the nervous collie and grasped her
head firmly. George gripped the end of the elastoplast strip and pulled
it as hard as he could. Inside a minute, he'd yanked the last of it free,
narrowly avoiding the snapping teeth of the collie, panicking in response
to having chunks of her fur ripped away with the tape. The constable
behind her hastily jumped clear as she swung round to try her chances
with him. As soon as she realized her mouth was free, Shep dropped to
the ground and began to bark furiously at the men. 'What do we do now,
sir?' one of the constables asked.
'I'm going to untie her and see where she wants to take us,' George said,
sounding more confident than he felt. He walked forward cautiously, but
the dog showed no sign of wanting to attack him. He took out his penknife
and sawed through the rope. It was easier than trying to untie it while the
dog was straining against it. And it had the advantage of preserving the
knot, just in case there was anything distinctive about it. George thought
not; it looked pretty much like a standard reef knot to him.
Instantly, Shep lunged forward. Taken by surprise, George gouged a
slice out of his thumb as he tried to hold on to the sheepdog. 'Damn!'
he exploded as the rope whirled through his fingers, burning the skin
where it touched. One of the constables attempted to grab the rope as
the dog fled, but failed. George clutched his bleeding hand and watched
helplessly as the dog raced down the path Miller and Prince had taken
from the clearing.
Moments later, there was the sound of a scuffle and Miller's voice shouting
sternly, 'Sit.' Then silence. Then an eerie howling split the night.
Groping in his pocket for a handkerchief, George followed the dog's
path. A dozen yards into the wood, he came upon Miller and the two
dogs. Prince lay on the ground, his muzzle between his paws. Shep sat on
the ground, her head lifted towards the sky, her mouth opening and closing
in a long series of heart-stopping wails. Miller held the rope, securing the
37

straining collie. 'She seems to want to go this way,' Miller said, gesturing
with his head down the path away from the clearing.
'Let's follow her, then,' George said. He wrapped his bleeding thumb
with the handkerchief then took the rope from the handler. 'Come on,
girl,' he encouraged the collie. 'Show me.' He shook the rope.
Immediately, Shep bounded to her feet and set off down the trail, tail
wagging. They wove through the trees for a couple of minutes, then the
track emerged from the trees on to the banks of a narrow, fast-flowing
stream. The dog promptly sat down and looked back at him, her tongue
hanging out and her eyes bewildered.
'That'd be the Scarlaston,' Miller's voice said behind him. 'I knew it
rose in these parts. Funny river. I've heard tell it just sort of seeps out of the
ground. If we have a dry summer, it sometimes vanishes altogether.'
'Where does it lead?' George asked.
'I'm not sure. I think it flows either into the Derwent or the Manifold,
I can't remember which. You'd have to look at a map for that.'
George nodded. 'So ifAlison was carried out of the clearing, we'd lose
the trail here anyway.' He sighed and turned away, guiding his torch beam
over his watch. It was almost quarter to ten. 'There's nothing more we can
do in darkness. Let's head back to the village.'
He practically had to drag Shep away from the Scariaston's edge. As they
made their slow progress back to Scardale, George fretted about Alison
Carter's disappearance. Nothing made sense. If someone was ruthless
enough to kidnap a young girl, surely they wouldn't show mercy to a
dog? Especially a dog as lively as Shep. He couldn't imagine a dog with
the collie's spirit meekly submitting to having elastoplast tightly wound
round its muzzle. Unless it had been Alison who'd done the deed?
If it had been Alison, had she acted on her own initiative or had she
been forced to silence her own dog? And if she'd done it for her own
ends, where was she now? If she'd been going to run away, why not take
the dog with her for protection, at least until dawn broke? The more he
thought about it, the less he understood.
George trudged out of the woods and through the field, the reluctant
dog trailing at his heels. George found Sergeant Lucas conferring with PC
Grundy in the light of a hurricane lamp hanging from the back of the
Land Rover. Briefly, he explained the scenario in the woods. 'There's no
point in trampling through there in the dark,' he said. 'I reckon the best
we can do is put a couple of men on guard and at first light, we search
the woodland inch by inch.'
38
Both men looked at him as if he'd gone mad. 'With respect, sir, if you're
intending to keep the villagers out of the wood, there's not a lot of point in
leaving a couple of men to catch frostbite in the field,' Lucas said wearily.
'The locals know the lie of the land far better than we do. If they want to
get into those woods, they will, and we'll never know about it. Besides,
I don't think there's a soul in the place who hasn't already volunteered
to help searching. If we tell them what's what, they'll be the last ones to
destroy any possible clues.'
He had a point, George realized. 'What about outsiders?'
Lucas shrugged. 'All we have to do is post a guard on the gate on the
road. I don't imagine anybody'll be keen enough to hike in from the next
dale. It's a treacherous path up the Scarlaston banks at the best of times,
never mind on a frosty winter night.'
'I'm happy to trust your judgement, Sergeant,' George said. 'I take it
your men have been searching the houses and outbuildings?'
'That's right. Not a trace of the girl,' Lucas said, his naturally cheery
face as sombre as it could manage. 'The building out the back of the
manor, it's where the squire develops his photographs. Nowhere for a
lass to hide in there.'
Before George could respond, Clough and Cragg appeared from the
shadows on the village green. Both looked as cold as he felt, the collars
of their heavy winter coats turned up against the chill wind that whistled
up the valley. Cragg was flipping back the pages of his notebook. 'Any
progress?' George asked.
'Not so's you'd notice,' Clough complained, offering his cigarettes
round the group. Only Cragg took one. 'We spoke to everybody, including
the cousins she came back from school with. It was Mrs Kathy Lomas's
turn to pick them up at the road end, which she did as per usual. The
last she saw of Alison, the lass was walking in the kitchen door of the
manor. So the mother's telling the truth about the lass getting home in
one piece. Mrs Lomas went indoors with her lad and never saw Alison
again. Nobody saw hide nor hair of the girl after she came home from
school. It's like she vanished into thin air.'
39

4
Thursday, 12th December 1963. 1.14 a.m.
George looked around the church hall with an air of resignation. In the
pale-yellow light, it looked dingy and cramped, the pale-green walls adding
to the institutional flavour. But they needed an incident room large enough
to accommodate a CID team as well as the uniformed officers, and there
were precious few candidates within striking distance ofScardale. Pressed,
Peter Grundy had only been able to come up with either the village hall in
Longnor or this depressing annexe to the Methodist Chapel that squatted
on the main road just past the Scardale turn-off. It had the advantage
not only of being closer to Scardale, but of having a telephone line
already installed in what claimed, according to the sign on its door, to
be the vestry.
'Just as well Methodists don't go in for vestments,' George said as he
stood on the threshold and surveyed the glorified cupboard. 'Make a note,
Grundy. We'll need a field telephone as well.'
Grundy added the telephone to a list that already included typewriters,
witness-statement forms, maps of assorted scales, filing cards and boxes,
electoral rolls and telephone directories. Tables and chairs were no problem;
the hall was already well furnished with them. George turned to
Lucas. 'We need to draw up a plan of action for the morning,' he said
decisively. 'Let's pull up some chairs and see what we need to do.'
They arranged a table and chairs directly below one of the electric
heaters that hung suspended from the roof beams. It barely dented the
damp chill of the icy night air, but the men were glad of any relief. Grundy
disappeared into the small kitchen and returned with three cups and a
saucer. 'For an ashtray,' he said, sliding the saucer across the table towards
George. Then he produced a Thermos flask from inside his overcoat and
plonked it firmly on the table.
40

'Where did that come from?' Lucas demanded.
'Betsy Crowther, Meadow Cottage,' Grundy said. 'The wife's cousin on
her mother's side.' He opened the flask and George stared greedily at the
curl of steam.
Fortified by tea and cigarettes, the three men began to plan. 'We'll need
as many uniforms as we can muster,' George said. 'We need to comb the
whole of the Scardale area, but if we draw a blank there, we'll have to
widen the search down the course of the Scarlaston river. I'll make a note
to contact the Territorial Army, to see if they can spare us any bodies to
help with the searching.'
'If we're spreading the net wider, it might be worth asking the High
Peak Hunt if they can help us out,' Lucas said, hunched over his tea to
make the most of its warmth. 'Their hounds are used to tracking, and
their riders know the land.'
'I'll bear that in mind,' George said, inhaling the smoke from his
cigarette as if it could warm his frozen core. 'PC Grundy, I want you
to make a list of all the local farmers within, say, a five-mile radius. At
first light, we'll send some men out to ask them all to check their land
to see if the girl's there. If she was running away, she could easily have
had an accident, wandering around in the dark.'
Grundy nodded. 'I'll get on to it. Sir, there was one thing I wanted
to bring up?' George nodded. 'Yesterday was Leek Cattle Market and
Christmas Show. Fatstock and dairy cattle. Decent prize money, an' all.
So that means there would have been a lot more traffic than usual on
the roads in these parts. There's a lot go over to Leek for the show,
whether they've got cattle entered or not. Some of them will have been
doing their Christmas shopping at the same time. They could have been
heading for home round about the time Alison went missing. So if the
lass was on any of the roads, there's a better than average chance that she'll have been spotted.'
'Good thinking,' George said, making a note. 'You might want to ask
the farmers about that when you talk to them. And I'll mention it at the
press conference.'
'Press conference?' Lucas asked suspiciously. He'd been reluctantly
approving of the Professor this far, but now it looked like George Bennett
was planning on using Alison Carter to make a name for himself. It was a
move that failed to impress the sergeant.
George nodded. 'I've already been on to headquarters asking them to
arrange a press conference here at ten o'clock. We need all the help we can
41

get, and the press can reach people quicker than we can. It could take us
weeks to contact everybody who was at Leek Market yesterday, and even
then we'd miss plenty. Whereas with press coverage, nearly everybody will
know there's a missing girl in a matter of days. Luckily, today's press day
for the High Peak Courant, so they should be able to get the news on the
streets by teatime. Publicity's vital in cases like these.'
'It doesn't seem to have done much for our colleagues in Manchester
and Ashton,' Lucas said dubiously. 'Other than waste officers' time chasing
down false leads.'
'If she has run away, it'll make it harder for her to stay hidden. And
if she's been taken anywhere else, it increases our chances of finding a
witness,' George said firmly. 'I spoke to Superintendent Martin, and he
agrees. He's coming out here for the press conference himself. And he's
confirmed that for now, I'm in overall charge of the operation,' he added,
feeling slightly awkward at his assertiveness.
'Makes sense,' Lucas said. 'You being here from the first shout.' He
got to his feet, pushing his chair back and leaning forward to stub out
his cigarette. 'So, shall we head back to Buxton now? I don't see there's
much we can do here. The day-shift men can set it up when they come
on at six.'
Privately, George agreed. But he didn't want to leave. Equally, he
didn't want to appear to push his authority by insisting they hang around
pointlessly. With some reluctance, he followed Lucas and Grundy out to
the car. Little was said on the way back to Longnor to drop Grundy off,
still less on the seven miles back to Buxton. Both men were tired, both
troubled by their private imaginings.
Back in the divisional headquarters in Buxton, George left the sergeant
to type up a list of orders for the day shift and the extra officers drafted
in from other parts of the county. He climbed behind the wheel of his
car, shivering at the blast of cold air that issued from his dashboard vents
when he turned the engine on. Within ten minutes, he was drawing up
outside the house that Derbyshire Police decreed was appropriate for a
married man of his rank. A three-bedroomed stone-clad semi, it sat in
a generous garden, thanks to the sharp bend in the street. From the
kitchen and the back-bedroom windows, there was a view of Grin Low
woods stretching along the ridge to the beginning of Axe Edge and the
grim miles of moorland where Derbyshire blurred into Staffordshire and
Cheshire.
George stood in the moonlit kitchen, looking out at the inhospitable
42
landscape. He'd dutifully taken the sandwiches out of the fridge and
brewed himself a pot of tea, but he hadn't eaten a bite. He couldn't
even have said what the sandwiches contained. There was a thin pile
of Christmas cards on the table, left by Anne for his attention, but
he ignored them. He cradled the fragile china cup in his broad square
hands, remembering Ruth Hawkin's ravaged face when he'd brought the
dog back and broken into her private vigil.
She'd been standing by the kitchen sink, staring out into the darkness
behind the house. Now he came to think about it, he wondered why
she wasn't devoting her attention to the front of the house. After all, if
Alison was going to return, she'd presumably come from the direction
of the village green and the fields she'd set off towards earlier. And any
news would come that way too. Perhaps, George thought, Ruth Hawkin
couldn't bear to see the familiar scene criss-crossed by police officers, their
presence a poignant and forceful reminder of her daughter's absence.
Whatever the reason, she'd been gazing out of the window, her back to
her husband and the WPC who still sat awkwardly at the kitchen table,
there to offer a sympathy that clearly wasn't wanted. Ruth hadn't even
moved when he'd opened the door. It was the sound of the dog's claws
on the stone flags that had dragged her eyes away from the window. When
she turned, the dog had dropped to the floor and, whimpering, crawled
towards Ruth on her belly.
'We found Shep tied up in the woods,' George had said. 'Someone had
taped her mouth shut. With elastoplast.'
Ruth's eyes widened and her mouth twisted in a rictus of pain. 'No,' she
protested weakly. 'That can't be right.' She dropped to her knees beside
the dog, who was squirming round her ankles in a parody of obsequious
apology. Ruth buried her face in the dog's ruff, clutching the animal to
her as if it were a child. A long pink tongue licked her ear.
George looked across at Hawkin. The man was shaking his head, looking
genuinely bewildered. 'That makes no sense,' Hawkin said. 'It's Alison's
dog. It would never have let anybody harm a hair on Alison's head.'
He gave a mirthless bark of laughter. 'I lifted a hand to her one time,
and the dog had my sleeve in its teeth before I could touch her. The
only person who could have done that to the dog was Alison herself.
It wouldn't even stand for me or Ruth doing something like that, never
mind a stranger.'
'Alison might not have had any choice,' George said gently.
Ruth looked up, her face transformed by the realization that her earlier
43

fears might truly be reflected in reality. 'No,' she said, her voice a hoarse
plea. 'Not my Alison. Please God, not my Alison.'
Hawkin got to his feet and crossed the room to his wife. He hunkered
down beside her and put an awkward arm round her shoulders. 'You
mustn't get into a state, Ruth,' he said, casting a quick glance up at
George. 'That won't help Alison. We've got to stay strong.' Hawkin
seemed embarrassed at having to show concern for his wife. George
had seen plenty of men who were uncomfortable with any display of
emotion, but he'd seldom encountered one so self-conscious about it.
He felt enormous pity for Ruth Hawkin. It wasn't the first time George
had watched a marriage crack under the weight of a major investigation.
He'd spent less than an hour in the company of this couple, but he knew
instinctively that what he was witnessing here was not so much a crack
as a major fracture. It was hard enough at any time in a marriage to
discover that the person you had married was less than you imagined,
but for Ruth Hawkin, so recently wed, it was doubly difficult, coming as
it did on top of the anxiety of her daughter's disappearance.
Almost without thinking, George had crouched down and covered one
of Ruth's hands with his own. 'There's very little we can do just now, Mrs
Hawkin. But we are doing everything possible. At first light, we'll have
men scouring the dale from end to end. I promise you, I won't give up
on Alison.' Their eyes had met and he'd felt the intensity of a clutch of
emotions far too complicated for him to separate.
As he stared out towards the moors, George realized there was no way
he could sleep that night. Wrapping the sandwiches in greaseproof paper,
he filled a flask with hot tea and softly climbed the stairs to pick up his
electric razor from the bathroom.
On the landing, he paused. The door to their bedroom was ajar, and
he couldn't resist a quick look at Anne. With his fingertips, he pushed the
door a little wider. Her face was a pale smudge against the white gleam of
the pillow. She lay on her side, one hand a fist on the pillow beside her.
God, she was beautiful. Just watching her sleep was enough to make his
flesh stir. He wished he could throw his clothes off and slide in beside
her, feeling her warmth the length of his body. But tonight, the memory
of Ruth Hawkin's haunted eyes was more than he could escape.
With a soft sigh, he turned away. Half an hour later, he was back in the
Methodist Hall, staring at Alison Carter. He'd pinned four of Hawkin's
photographs of her to the notice board. He'd left the other at the police
station, asking for it to be copied as a matter of urgency so it could
44
be distributed at the press conference. The night duty inspector seemed
uncertain whether it could be done in time. George had left him in no
doubt what he expected.
Carefully, he spread out the Ordnance Survey map and tried to study
it through the eyes of a person who'd decided to run away. Or a person
who'd decided to steal someone else's life.
Then he walked out of the Methodist Hall and started down the narrow
lane towards Scardale on foot. Within yards, the dim yellow light that
spilled out of the high windows of the hall was swallowed by the blanketing
night. The only glimmers of light came from the stars that broke through
the fitful clouds. It took him all his time to avoid tripping over tussocks
of grass at the road's edge.
Gradually, his pupils expanded to their maximum extent, allowing his
night vision to steal what images it could from the ghosts and shadows of
the landscape. But by the time they resolved themselves into hedges and
trees, sheep folds and stiles, the cold had sneaked up on him. Thin-soled
town shoes were no match for frosty ground, and not even his cotton-lined
leather gloves were proof against the icy flurry that seemed to use the
Scardale lane as a wind tunnel. His ears and nose had lost all sensation
except pain. A mile down the lane, he gave up. If Alison Carter was abroad
in this, she must be hardier than him, he decided.
Either that or beyond sensation altogether.
Manchester Evening News, Thursday, 12th December 1963, p.n
Boy camper raises hopes in John hunt
POLICE RACE TO LONELY BEAUTY SPOT
By a Staff Reporter
Police investigating the disappearance of 12-year-old John
Kilbride of Ashton-under-Lyne rushed to a lonely beauty spot
on the outskirts of the town.
A boy had been seen camping out.
Hopes soared when the boy was said to be safe and well.
But it turned out to be a false alarm.
The boy they found had been reported missing from home
and was about the same age as John - but it was 11-year-old
David Marshall of Gorse View, Alt Estate, Oldham.
45

He had been missing for only a few hours.
After 'getting into trouble' at home, he packed his belongings
- and a tent - and went to camp out near a farm in Lily Lanes,
on the Ashton-Oldham boundary.
It was another frustrating incident in the 19-day-old search
for John, of Smallshaw Lane, Ashton.
Police said today: 'We really thought we were on to something.
But at least we are glad we were able to return one boy
home safe and well.'
David was spotted at his lonely bivouac by a visitor to the
farm who informed the police immediately.
'It shows the public are really cooperating,' said police.
Thursday, 12th December 1963. 7.30 a.m.
Janet Carter reminded George of a cat his sister had once had. Her
triangular face with its pert nose, wide eyes and tiny rosebud mouth
was as closed and watchful as any domesticated predator he'd ever seen.
She even had a scatter of tiny pimples at either end of her upper lip, as
if someone had tweezed out her whiskers. They faced each other across
the table in the low-ceilinged kitchen of her parents' Scardale cottage.
Janet was picking delicately at a piece of buttered toast, small sharp teeth
nibbling crescents inwards from each corner. Her eyes were downcast,
but every few moments she'd give him a quick sidelong look through
long lashes.
Even in his younger years, he'd never been comfortable with adolescent
girls, a natural result of having a sister three years older whose friends had
regarded the fledgling George first as a convenient plaything and later as
a marvellous testing ground for the wit and charms they planned to try
on older targets. George had sometimes felt like the human equivalent of
training wheels on a child's first bike. The one advantage he'd gained from
the experience was that he reckoned he could tell when a teenage girl was
lying, which was more than most of the men he knew could manage.
But even that certainty faded in the face of Janet Carter's self-possession.
Her cousin was missing, with all the presumptions that entailed, yet Janet
looked as composed as ifAlison had merely nipped out to the shops. Her
mother, Maureen, had a noticeably less sure grip on her emotions, her
voice trembling when she spoke of her niece, tears in her eyes when she
shepherded her three younger children from the room, leaving George
to interview Janet. And her father, Ray, was already up and gone, lending
46

his local knowledge to one of the police search parties looking for his dead
brother's child.
'You probably know Alison better than anybody,' George said at last,
reminding himself to stick with a present tense that seemed increasingly
inappropriate.
Janet nodded. 'We're like sisters. She's eight months and two weeks
older than me, so we're in a different class at school. Just like real
sisters.'
'You grew up together here in Scardale?'
Janet nodded, another new moon of toast disappearing between her
teeth. 'The three of us, me and Alison and Derek.'
'So you're like best friends as well as cousins?'
'I'm not her best friend at school because we're in different classes, but
I am at home.'
'What kind of things do you do?'
Janet's mouth twisted and furled as she thought for a moment. 'Nothing
much. Some nights Charlie, our big cousin, takes us into Buxton for the
roller-skating. Sometimes we go to the shops in Buxton or Leek, but
mostly we're just here. We take the dogs for a walk. Sometimes we help
out on the farm if they're short-handed. All got a record player for her
birthday, so a lot of the time me and All and Derek just listen to records
up in her room.'
He took a sip of the tea Maureen Carter had left for him, amazed that
someone could make stronger tea than the police canteen. 'Has anything
been bothering her?' he asked. 'Any problems at home? Or at school?'
Janet raised her head and stared at him, her eyebrows coming together
in a frown. 'She never ran away,' she said fiercely. 'Somebody must have
took her. All wouldn't run away. Why would she? There's nothing to run
away from.'
Maybe not, thought George, startled by her vehemence. But maybe there
had been something to run away to. 'Does Alison have a boyfriend?'
Janet breathed heavily through her nose. 'Not really. She went to the
pictures with this lad from Buxton a couple of times. Alan Milliken. But it
wasn't a date, not really. There was half a dozen of them all went together.
She told me he tried to kiss her, but she wasn't having any. She said that if
he thought paying her in to the pictures meant he could do what he liked,
he was wrong.' Janet eyed him defiantly, animated by her outburst.
'So there isn't anybody she fancies? Maybe somebody older?'
Janet shook her head. 'We both fancy Dennis Tanner off Coronation
47

Street, and Paul McCartney out of the Beatles. But that's just fancying.
There isn't anybody real that she fancies. She always says boys are boring.
All they want to talk about is football and going into outer space on a
rocket and what kind of car they'd have if they could drive.'
'And Derek? Where does he fit in?'
Janet looked puzzled. 'Derek's just ... Derek. Anyway, he's got spots.
You couldn't fancy Derek.'
'What about Charlie, then? Your big cousin? I hear they spent a lot of
time together round at his gran's.'
Janet shook her head, one finger straying to a tiny yellow-headed spot
beside her mouth. 'All only goes round to listen to Ma Lomas's tales.
Charlie lives there, that's all. Anyway, I don't understand why you're
going on about who All fancies. You should be out looking for whoever
kidnapped her. I bet they think Uncle Phil's got loads of money, just
because he lives in a big house and owns all the village land. I bet they
got the idea off Frank Sinatra's lad being kidnapped last week. It must
have been on the television and in the papers and everything. We don't
get television down here. We can't get the reception, so we're stuck with
the radio. But even down in Scardale we heard about it, so a kidnapper
could easily have known about it and got the idea. I bet they're going to
ask for a huge ransom for All.' Her lips glistened with butter as the tip
of her tongue darted along them in her excitement.
'How does Alison get along with her stepfather?'
Janet shrugged, as if the question couldn't have interested her less. 'All
right, I suppose. She likes living in the manor, I'll tell you that for nothing.'
A sparkle of malice lit up Janet's eyes. 'Whenever anybody asks her where
she lives, she always says, right out, "Scardale Manor", like it's something
really special. When we were little, we used to make up stories about the
manor. Ghost stories and murder stories, and it's like All thinks she's
really the bee's knees now she's living there.'
'And her stepfather? What did she say about him?'
'Nothing much. When he was courting her mum, she said she thought
he was a bit of a creep because he was always round their cottage, bringing
Auntie Ruth little presents. You know, flowers, chocolates, nylons, stuff
like that.' She fidgeted in her seat and popped a spot between fingernail
and thumb, unconsciously trying to mask the action behind her hand.
'I think she was just jealous because she was so used to being the apple
of Auntie Ruth's eye. She couldn't stand the competition. But once they
got married and all that courting stuff stopped, I think All got on all
48

right with him. He sort of left her alone, I think. He doesn't act like
he's very interested in anybody except himself. And taking pictures. He's
always doing that.' Janet turned back to her toast dismissively.
'Pictures of what?' George said, more to keep the conversation going
than because he was interested.
'Scenery. He spies on people working, too. He says you've got to get
them looking natural, so he takes their pictures when he thinks they're
not looking. Only, he's an incomer. He doesn't know Scardale like we
do. So mostly when he's creeping about trying to stay out of sight, half
the village knows what he's doing.' She giggled, then, remembering why
George was there, covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes wide.
'So as far as you know, there was no reason why Alison should
run away?'
Janet put down her toast and pursed her lips. 'I told you. She never ran
away. All wouldn't run away without me. And I'm still here. So somebody
must have took her. And you're supposed to find them.' Her eyes flicked
to one side and George half turned to see Maureen Carter in the kitchen
doorway.
'You tell him, Mum,' Janet said, desperation in her voice. 'I keep telling
him, but he won't listen. Tell him All wouldn't run away. Tell him.'
Maureen nodded. 'She's right. When Alison's in trouble, she takes it
head on. If she had something on her mind, we'd all know what it was.
Whatever's happened, it's not from Alison's choice.' She stepped forward
and swept Janet's teacup away from her. 'Time you and the little 'uns were
over to Derek's. Kathy'll run you up to the lane end for the bus.'
'I could do that,' George volunteered.
Maureen looked him up and down, clearly finding him wanting. 'That's
kind of you, but there's been enough upset this morning without mucking
up their routine any further. Go on, Janet, get your coat on.'
George held his hand up. 'Before you go, Janet, just one more question.
Was there any special place you and Alison used to go in the dale? A den,
a gang hut, that sort of thing?'
The girl gave her mother a quick, desperate look. 'No,' she said, her
voice revealing the opposite of her word. Janet crammed the last of her
toast into her mouth and hurried out, waving her fingers at George.
Maureen picked up the dirty plate and cocked her head. 'If Alison was
going to run away, she wouldn't do it like this. She loves her mum. They
were right close. It comes of being on their own for so long. Alison would
never put Ruth through this.'
49

5
Thursday, 12th December 1963. 9.50 a.m.
The Methodist Hall had undergone a transformation. Eight trestle tables
had been unfolded and each was the centre of some particular activity. At
one, a constable with a field telephone was liaising with force headquarters.
At three others, maps were spread out, thick red lines drawn on them
to separate search areas. At a fifth table, a sergeant was surrounded by
filing cards, statement forms and filing boxes, collating information as
it came to him. At the remaining tables, officers pounded typewriters.
Back in Buxton, CID officers were interviewing Alison Carter's classmates,
while the dale that surrounded Scardale village and shared its name was
being combed by thirty police officers and the same number of local
volunteers.
At the end of the hall nearest the door, a semi-circle of chairs faced a
proper oak table. Behind it there were two chairs. In front of it, George
was finishing his briefing of Superintendent Jack Martin. In the three
months since he'd arrived in Buxton, he'd never had personal dealings
with the uniformed officer in overall charge of the division. His reports had
crossed Martin's desk, he knew, but they'd never communicated directly
about a case. All he knew about the man had been filtered through the
consciousness of others.
Martin had served as a lieutenant in an infantry regiment in the war,
apparently without either distinction or shame. Nevertheless, his years in
the army had given him a taste for the minutiae of military life. He insisted
on the observance of rank, reprimanding officers who addressed their
equals or juniors by name rather than rank. A Christian name overheard in
the squad room could raise his blood pressure by several points, according
to DS Clough. Martin conducted regular inspections of his uniformed
officers, frequently bawling out individuals whose boots failed to reflect
50

their faces or whose tunic buttons were less than gleaming. He had the
profile of a hawk, and the eyes to match. He marched everywhere at the
double, and was said to loathe what he saw as the sloppy appearances of
the CID officers under his nominal charge.
Beneath the martinet, however, George had suspected there was a
shrewd and effective police officer. Now he was about to find out.
Martin had listened carefully to George's outline of events to date, his
salt-and-pepper eyebrows meeting in a frown of concentration. With
finger and thumb of his right hand, he rubbed his carefully manicured
moustache against the grain then smoothed it back again. 'Smoke?' he
said at last, offering George a packet of Capstan Full Strength. George
shook his head, preferring his milder Gold Leaf tipped. But he took the
overture as permission and immediately lit up himself. 'I don't like the
sound of this one,' Martin said. 'It was carefully planned, wasn't it?'
'I think so, sir,' George said, impressed that Martin had also picked up
on the key detail of the elastoplast. Nobody went for a casual walk with
a whole roll of sticking plaster, not even the most safety-conscious Boy
Scout leader. The treatment of the dog had screamed premeditation to
George, though none of his fellow officers had appeared to give it as
much weight. 'I think whoever took the girl was familiar with her habits.
I think he might have watched her over a period of time, waiting for the
right opportunity.'
'So you think it's a local?' Martin said.
George ran a hand over his fair hair. 'It looks that way,' he said
hesitantly.
'I think you're right not to commit yourself. It's a popular hike, up
Denderdale to the source of the Scarlaston. There must be dozens of
ramblers who do that walk in the summer. Any one of them could have
seen the girl, either alone or with her friends, and resolved to come back
and take her.' Martin nodded, agreeing with himself, flicking a morsel of
cigarette ash off the cuff of his perfectly pressed tunic.
'That's possible,' George conceded, though he couldn't imagine anybody
forming that sort of instant obsession and hanging on to it for
months until the right opportunity presented itself. However, the principal
reason for his uncertainty was quite different. 'I suppose what I'm saying
is that I can't picture any member of this community doing something
so damaging. They're incredibly tight-knit, sir. They've got accustomed
to supporting each other over generations. For someone from Scardale
to have harmed one of their own children would be against everything
5i

they've grown up believing in. Besides, it's hard to imagine how an insider
could get away with stealing a child without everybody else in Scardale
knowing about it. Even so, on the face of it, it's much likelier to be an
insider.' George sighed, baffled by his own arguments.
'Unless everybody's wrong about the direction the girl went in,' Martin
observed. 'She may have broken with her usual habits and walked up the
fields towards the main road. And yesterday was Leek Cattle Market. There
would have been more traffic than usual on the Longnor road. She could
easily have been lured into a car on the pretext of giving directions.'
'You're forgetting about the dog, sir,' George pointed out.
Martin waved his cigarette impatiently. 'The kidnapper could have
sneaked round the edge of the dale and left the dog in the woodland.'
'It's a big risk, and he'd have had to know the ground.'
Martin sighed. 'I suppose so. Like you, I'm reluctant to see the villain of
the piece as a local. One has this romantic view of these rural communities,
but sadly we're usually misguided.' He glanced at the hall clock then
stubbed out his cigarette, shot his cuffs and straightened up. 'So. Let us
face the gentlemen of the press.'
He turned towards the trestle tables. 'Parkinson - go and tell Morris
to let the journalists in.'
The uniformed bobby jumped to his feet with a mumbled, 'Yessir.'
'Cap, Parkinson,' Martin barked. Parkinson stopped in his tracks and
hurried back to his seat. He crammed his cap on and almost ran to
the door. He slipped outside as Martin added, 'Haircut, Parkinson.' The
superintendent's mouth twitched in what might have been a smile as he
led the way to the chairs behind the table.
The door opened and half a dozen men spilled into the hall, a haze
of mist seeming to form around them as their cold shapes hit the airless
warmth of the hall. The clump separated into individuals and they settled
noisily into their folding chairs. Their ages ranged from mid-twenties to
mid-fifties, George reckoned, though it wasn't easy to tell with hat brims
and caps pulled low over faces, coat collars turned up against the chill
wind and scarves swathed around throats. He recognized Colin Loftus
from the High Peak Courant, but the others were strangers. He wondered
who they were working for.
'Good morning, gentlemen,' Martin began. 'I am Superintendent Jack
Martin of Buxton Police and this is my colleague. Detective Inspector
George Bennett. As you are no doubt already aware, a young girl has
gone missing from Scardale. Alison Carter, aged thirteen, was last seen at
52
approximately four twenty p.m. yesterday afternoon. She left the family
home, Scardale Manor, to take her dog for a walk. When she failed to
return, her mother, Mrs Ruth Hawkin, and stepfather, Mr Philip Hawkin,
contacted police at Buxton. We responded to the call and began a search
of the immediate environs of Scardale Manor, using police tracker dogs.
Alison's dog was found in woodland near her home, but of the girl herself,
we have found no trace.'
He cleared his throat. 'We will have copies of a recent photograph
of Alison available at Buxton Police Station by noon.' As Martin gave
a detailed description of the girl's appearance and clothing, George
studied the journalists. Their heads were bent, their pencils flying over
the pages of their notebooks. At least they were all interested enough
to take a detailed note. He wondered how much that had to do with
the Manchester disappearances. He couldn't imagine that they would
normally have turned out in such numbers for a girl missing for sixteen
hours from a tiny Derbyshire hamlet.
Martin was winding up. 'If we do not find Alison today, the search will
be intensified. We just don't know what has happened to her, and we're
very concerned, not least because of the extremely bitter weather we're
experiencing at the moment. Now, if you gentlemen have any questions,
either myself or Detective Inspector Bennett will be happy to answer.'
A head came up. 'Brian Bond, Manchester Evening Chronicle. Do you
suspect foul play?'
Martin took a deep breath. 'At this point, we rule nothing out and
nothing in. We can find no reason for Alison being missing. She was not
in trouble at home or at school. But we have found nothing to suggest
foul play at this stage.'
Colin Loftus lifted his hand, one finger raised. 'Is there any indication
that Alison might have met with an accident?'
'Not so far,' George said. 'As Superintendent Martin told you, we've
got teams of searchers combing the dale now. We've also asked all the
local farmers to check their land very carefully, just in case Alison has
been injured in a fall and has been unable to make her way home.'
The man on the far end of the row leaned back in his chair and
blew a perfect smoke ring. 'There seem to be some common features
between Alison Carter's disappearance and the two missing children in
the Manchester area - Pauline Reade from Gorton and John Kilbride
from Ashton. Are you speaking to detectives from the Manchester and
Lancashire forces about a possible connection to their cases?'
53

'And you are?' Martin demanded stiffly.
'Don Smart, Daily News. Northern Bureau.' He flashed a smile that
reminded George of the predatory snarl of the fox. Smart even had the
same colouring: reddish hair sticking out from under a tweed cap, ruddy
face and hazel eyes that squinted against the smoke from his panatella.
'It's far too early to make assumptions like that,' George cut in, wanting
for himself this question that echoed his own doubts. 'I am of course
familiar with the cases you mention, but as yet we have found no reason
to communicate with our colleagues in other forces over anything other
than search arrangements. Staffordshire Police have already indicated that
they will give us every assistance should there be any need to widen our
search area.'
But Smart was not to be put off so easily. 'If I was Alison Carter's mum,
I don't think I'd be impressed to hear that the police were ignoring such
strong links to other child disappearances.'
Martin's head came up sharply. He opened his mouth to rebuke the
journalist, but George was there before him. 'For every similarity, there's
a difference,' he said bluntly. 'Scardale is isolated countryside, not busy
city streets; Pauline and John went missing on a weekend, but this is
midweek; strangers would be a common sight to the other two, but a
stranger in Scardale on a December teatime would put Alison straight
on her guard; and, probably most importantly, Alison wasn't alone, she
had her dog with her. Besides, Scardale is a good twenty-five, thirty miles
away. Anybody looking for children to kidnap would have to pass a lot
by before he got to Alison Carter. Hundreds of people go missing every
year. It would be stranger if there weren't similarities.'
Don Smart stared a cool challenge at George. 'Thank you, Detective
Inspector Bennett. Would that be Bennett with two t's?' was all he said.
'That's right,' George said. 'Any further questions?'
'Will you be draining the reservoirs up on the moors?' Colin Loftus
again.
'We'll let you know what steps we're taking as and when,' Martin said
repressively. 'Now, unless anyone's got anything more to ask, I'm going
to close this press conference now.' He got to his feet.
Don Smart leaned forward, elbows on his knees. 'When's the next one,
then?' he asked.
George watched Martin's neck turn as red as turkey wattles. Oddly,
the colour didn't rise into his face. 'When we find the girl, we'll let
you know.'
54

'And if you don't find her?'
'I'll be here tomorrow morning, same time,' George said. 'And every
morning until we do find Alison.'
Don Smart's eyebrows rose. 'I'll look forward to that,' he said, gathering
the folds of his heavy overcoat around his narrow frame and drawing
himself up to his full five and a half feet. The other journalists were
already straggling towards the door, comparing notes and deciding how
they would lead off their stories.
'Cheeky,' Martin pronounced as the door closed behind them.
'I suppose he's only doing his job,' George sighed. He could do without
someone as stroppy as Don Smart on his back, but there wasn't
much he could do about it except to avoid letting the man needle him
too much.
Martin snorted. 'Troublemaker. The others managed to do their job
without insinuating that we don't know how to do ours. You'll have to
keep an eye on that one, Bennett.'
George nodded. 'I've been meaning to ask, sir. Do you want me to
carry on in operational charge here?'
Martin frowned. 'Inspector Thomas will be responsible for the uniformed
men, but I think you should take overall command. Detective
Chief Inspector Carver won't be going anywhere with his ankle still in
plaster. He's volunteered to take care of the CID office in Buxton, but
I need a man here on the ground. Can I rely on you, Inspector?'
'I'll do my best, sir,' George said. 'I'm determined that we're going to
find this girl.'
Manchester Evening Chronicle, Thursday, 12th December 1963, p.i.
POLICE COMB ISOLATED DALE
Dogs in manhunt for missing girl
By a Staff Reporter
Police with tracker dogs were today hunting
for a 13-year-old girl missing from her home
in the isolated Derbyshire hamlet of Scardale
since yesterday teatime.
The girl, Alison Carter, vanished from Scardale
Manor where she lives with her mother
55

and stepfather after saying she was going to
take her collie Shep for a walk.
Alison set off to walk across the fields to
nearby woods in the limestone dale where she
lives. She has not been seen since.
After her mother alerted police, a search
was carried out. The dog was discovered
unharmed, but no trace of Alison was found.
Questioning her neighbours and friends at
Peak Girls' High School has provided no
reason why the pretty schoolgirl should have
run away.
Today her mother, Mrs Ruth Hawkin, aged
34, waited anxiously for news as the combout
of the dale continued. Her husband, Mr
Philip Hawkin, aged 37, joined neighbours
and local farmers who helped police search
the lonely dale.
A senior police official said: 'We can find
no reason for Alison being missing. She was
not in trouble at home or at school. But we
have found nothing to suggest foul play at
this stage.'
The search will continue tomorrow if Alison
is not found by nightfall.
Don Smart threw aside the early edition of the Chronicle. At least they hadn't stolen his line of questioning. That was always the danger of trying
something a bit different at a press conference. From now on, he'd try to
break away from the pack and dig for his own stories. He had a feeling
in his water that George Bennett was going to be great copy, and he was
determined that he'd be the one to squeeze the best stories out of the
handsome young detective.
He could tell that the man was a bulldog. There was no way George
Bennett was going to give up on Alison Carter. Smart knew from past
experience that for most of the cops, the disappearance of Alison Carter
would be just another job. Sure, they felt sorry for the family. And he'd
have bet that the ones who were fathers themselves went home and gave
their daughters an extra-tight hug every night they were out on those
moors searching for Alison.
But he sensed a difference with George. With him, it was a mission.
The rest of the world might have given up on Alison Carter, but George
56

couldn't have been more passionate in her cause if she'd been his own
daughter. Smart could sense how intolerable failure would be to him.
For him, it was a godsend. His job in the northern bureau of the Daily
News was his first on a national newspaper, and he'd been on the lookout
for the story that would take him to Fleet Street. He'd already done
some of the News's coverage of the Pauline Reade and John Kilbride
disappearances, and he was determined to persuade George Bennett or
one of his team to link them to Alison Carter. It would be a terrific
page lead.
Whatever happened, Scardale was a great backdrop for a dramatic,
mysterious story. In a closed community like that, everybody's life would
be put under the microscope. Suddenly all sorts of secrets would be forced
into the open. It was guaranteed not to be a pretty sight. And Don Smart
was determined to witness it all.
Back at the Methodist Hall, George Bennett also threw aside the evening
paper. He had no doubt that the morning would bring a less palatable
story in the pages of the more sensational Daily News. Martin would have
apoplexy if there was any suggestion of police incompetence. He stalked
out of the Methodist Hall and crossed the road to his car.
Driving down to Scardale in daylight was scarcely less intimidating than
approaching at night or in the early-morning darkness. At least blackness
obscured the worst of the rock overhangs that George could all too easily
imagine splitting off and crushing his car like a tin can beneath a steamroller.
Today, though, there was one crucial difference: the gate across
the road stood wide open, allowing free passage to vehicles. A uniformed
constable stood by it, peering into George's car, then snapping a salute as
he recognized the occupant. Poor beggar, George thought. His own days
standing around in the cold had been thankfully short-lived. He wondered
how the bobbies who weren't on the fast track could bear the prospect of
week after week of pounding pavements, guarding crime scenes and, like
today, tramping fruitlessly through inhospitable countryside.
The village was no more enhanced by daylight than the road. There
was nothing charming about the dour little cottages of Scardale. The grey
stone buildings seemed to crouch low to the ground, more like cowed
hounds than poised animals ready to spring. One or two had sagging
rooflines and most of the wood could have done with a lick of paint.
Hens wandered at will, and every car that drove into the village provoked
a cacophony of barking from an assortment of sheep and cow dogs tied up
57

to gateposts. What had not changed was the eyes that watched the arrival
of every newcomer. As he drove in, George was aware of the watchers.
He knew more about them than he had the night before. For one thing,
he knew they were all female. Every able-bodied man from Scardale was
out with the searchers, adding both determination and local knowledge
to the hunt.
George found a space for his car on the far side of the village green,
tucked down the side of the wall of Scardale Manor. Time for another chat
with Mrs Hawkin, he'd decided. On his way to the house, he paused by the
caravan that had arrived that morning from force headquarters. They were
using it as a liaison point for searchers rather than an incident room, and a
pair ofWPCs were occupied with the continuous task of brewing tea and
coffee. George pushed the door open and silently congratulated himself
on winning his private bet that Inspector Alan Thomas would be settled
comfortably in the warmest corner of the caravan, pot of tea to one side
of his broad hands, ashtray containing his briar pipe to the other.
'George,' Thomas said heartily. 'Come and park yourself here, boy.
Bitter out, isn't it? Glad I'm not out there combing the woods.'
'Any news?' George asked, nodding acceptance at the WPC who was
offering him a mug of tea. He sugared it from an open bag and leaned
against the bulkhead.
'Not a dicky bird, boy. Everybody's drawn a blank, more or less. The
odd scrap of clothing, but nothing that hasn't been there for months,'
Thomas said, his Welsh accent somehow rendering the depressing news
cheerful. 'Help yourself,' he added, waving a hand towards a plate of
buttered scones. 'The girl's mother brought them in. Said she couldn't
be doing with sitting about waiting.'
'I'm going to bob in and see her in a minute.' George reached across and
grabbed a scone. Not half bad, he decided. Definitely an improvement over
Anne's. She was a great cook, but her bakery skills left a lot to be desired.
He'd had to lie, say he didn't really like cakes that much. Otherwise
he knew that he'd end up praising her because he didn't know how to
criticize. And he didn't want to condemn himself to fifty years of heavy
sponges, chewy pastry and rock cakes that seemed to have come straight
from the local roadstone quarries.
Suddenly, the door crashed open. A red-faced man wearing a heavy
leather jerkin over several layers of shirts and jumpers lurched into the
caravan, panting hard and sweating. 'Are you Thomas?' he demanded,
looking at George.
58
'I am, boy,' Thomas said, getting to his feet accompanied by a shower
of crumbs. 'What's happened? Have they found the girl?'
The man shook his head, hands on knees as he struggled to get his breath
back. 'In the spinney below Shield Tor,' he gasped. 'Looks like there's been
a struggle. Branches broken.' He straightened up. 'I'm supposed to bring
you there.'
George abandoned tea and scone and followed the man outside, with
Thomas bringing up the tail. He introduced himself and said, 'Are you
from Scardale?'
'Aye. I'm Ray Carter. Alison's uncle.'
And Janet's dad, George reminded himself. 'How far is this from
where we found the dog?' he asked, forcing his legs to full stride to
keep up with the farmer, who could move a lot faster than his stocky
build suggested.
'Maybe quarter of a mile as the crow flies.'
'It's taken us a while to get to it,' George said mildly.
'You can't see it from the path. So it got missed the first time through
the spinney,' Carter said. 'Besides, it's not an obvious place.' He stopped
for a moment, turning to point back at Scardale Manor. 'Look. There's
the manor.' He swivelled round. 'There's the field that leads to the wood
where the dog was found, and to the Scarlaston.' He moved round again.
'There's the way out the dale. And there,' he concluded, indicating an
area of trees between the manor and the woodland where Shep had been
restrained, 'is where we're heading. On the way to nowhere,' he added
bitterly, encompassing the high limestone cliffs and the bleak grey skies
with a final wave of his hand.
George frowned. The man was right. IfAlison had been in the spinney
when she was snatched, why was the dog tied up in a woodland clearing
a quarter of a mile away? But if she'd been captured without putting up a
fight in the clearing and the struggle had taken place when she'd seen the
chance to get away from her captor, what were they doing in the dead
end of the dale? It was another inconsistency to file away, he thought,
following Ray Carter towards the narrow belt of trees.
The spinney was a mixture of beech, ash, sycamore and elm, more
recent planting than the woodland they'd been in the previous night. The
trees were smaller, their trunks narrower. They appeared to be too close
together, their branches forming a loose-woven screen through which
almost nothing could be seen. The undergrowth was heavy between the
young trees, too thick to readily provide a way through. 'This way,' Carter
59

said, angling towards an almost invisible opening in the brown ferns and
the red and green foliage of the brambles. As soon as they entered the
spinney, they lost most of the afternoon light. Half blind, George could
see why the first wave of searchers might have missed something. He
hadn't fully appreciated how intransigent the landscape was or how easy
it could be to miss something as big as, God forbid, a body. As his eyes
adjusted to the gloom, he could make out shrubby undergrowth among
the trees. Underfoot, the path was slimy with trampled dead leaves. 'I've
been telling the squire for months now, this spinney needs thinning out,'
Carter grumbled, pushing aside the whiplash branches of a low-growing
elder. 'You could lose half the High Peak Hunt in here and never be any
the wiser.'
Suddenly, they came upon the rest of the search team. Three PCs and
a lad stood in a cluster at a bend in the path. The lad looked no more
than eighteen, dressed like Carter in leather jerkin and heavy corduroy
trousers. 'Right,' said George, 'who's going to show me and Mr Thomas
what's what here?'
One of the constables cleared his throat. 'It's just up ahead, sir. Another
team had already been through here this morning, but Mr Carter here
suggested we should take another look, on account of the undergrowth
being so dense, like.' He waved George and Inspector Thomas through
and the others stood back awkwardly to let them pass. The PC pointed
to an almost undetectable break in the undergrowth on the south side
of the path. 'It was the lad spotted it. Charlie Lomas. There's a very faint
track of broken twigs and trampled plants. A few yards in, it looks like
there's been a struggle.'
George crouched down and peered at the path. The man was right.
There wasn't much to see. It was a miracle that any of them had spotted
it. He supposed that the inhabitants of Scardale knew their territory so
well that what appeared unobtrusive to him would leap out and hit them
between the eyes.
'How many of you trampled over there in your size tens?' Thomas
asked.
'Just me and the Lomas lad, sir. We were as careful as we could be.
We tried not to disturb anything.'
'I'll take a look,' George said. 'Mr Thomas, could one of your lads
phone up to the incident room and get a photographer down here? And
I'd like the tracker dogs here as well. Once the photographer's finished,
we'll also need a fingertip search of the area.' Without waiting for a
60
response, George carefully held back the branches that overhung the
faltering trail and moved forward, trying to keep a couple of feet to
the left of the original track. Here, it was even more dim than on the
path, and he paused to let his eyes adapt to the gloom.
The PC's description had been admirable in its accuracy. Half a dozen
cramped steps, and George found what he'd been looking for. Broken
twigs and crushed ferns marked an area about five feet by six. He was
no countryman, but even George knew that this was recent damage. The
shattered branches and stems looked freshly injured. One evergreen shrub
that had been partially crushed was only wilted, not yet entirely dead. If
this wasn't connected to Alison Carter's disappearance, it was a very odd
coincidence.
George leaned forward, one hand clinging to a tree branch for support.
There might be important evidence here. He didn't want to walk over
this ground and cause any more harm than the searchers had already
done. Even as the thought crossed his mind, his close scrutiny revealed a
clump of dark material snagged on the sharp end of a broken twig. Black
woolly tights, Ruth Hawkin had said. George's stomach clenched. 'She's
been here,' he said softly.
He moved to his left, circling round the trampled area, stopping every
couple of steps to examine what lay before him. He was almost diagonally
opposite the point where he'd left the path when he saw it. Just in front
of him and to the right, there was a dark patch on the startling white
bark of a birch tree. Irresistibly drawn, he moved closer.
The blood had dried long since. But adhering to it, unmistakably, were
a dozen strands of bright blonde hair. And on the ground next to the
tree, a horn toggle with a scrap of material still attached.
61

6
Thursday, 12th December 1963. 5.05 p.m.
George took a deep breath and raised his hand to knock. Before his
knuckles could connect with the wood, the door swung open. Ruth
Hawkin stood facing him, her drawn face grey in the evening light. She
stepped to one side, leaning against the doorjamb for support. 'You've
found something,' she said flatly.
George crossed the threshold and closed the door behind him, determined
not to provide the watching eyes with more spectacle than was
inevitable. His eyes automatically swept the room. 'Where's the WPC?'
he asked, turning to face Ruth.
'I sent her away,' she said. 'I don't need taking care of like a child.
Besides, I reckoned there must be something she could do that would
be more use to my Alison than sitting on her backside drinking tea all
day.' There was an acerbic note in her voice that George hadn't heard
there before. Healthy, he thought. This was not a woman who was going
to collapse in a whimpering heap at every piece of bad news. He was
relieved about that, because he believed he definitely qualified as the
bearer of evil tidings.
'Shall we sit down?' he said.
Her mouth twisted in a sardonic grimace. 'That bad, eh?' But she
pushed herself away from the wall and dropped into one of the kitchen
chairs. George sat opposite, noticing that she was still dressed in the same
clothes she'd been wearing the night before. She'd not been to bed, then.
Certainly not slept. Probably not even tried.
'Is your husband out searching?' he asked.
She nodded. 'I don't think he was keen. He's a fair-weather countryman,
my Phil. He likes it when the sun shines and it looks like one of his picture
postcards. But days like today, cold, damp, a touch of freezing fog in
62

the air, he's either sitting on top of the stove or else he's locked in his
darkroom with a pair of paraffin heaters. I'll say this for him, though.
Today, he made an exception.'
'If you like, we can wait till he comes back,' George said.
'That won't alter what you've got to say, will it?' she said, her voice
weary.
'No, I'm afraid not.' George opened his overcoat and removed two
polythene bags from the inside poacher's pocket. One contained the soft,
fluffy ball of material snagged on the broken twig; the other, the smooth,
ridged toggle, its natural shades of brown and bone strange against the
man-made plastic. Attached to it by strong navy thread was a fragment
of navy-blue felted wool. 'I have to ask you, do you recognize either
of these?'
Her face was blank as she reached for the bags. She stared at them for
a long moment. 'What's this supposed to be?' she asked, prodding the
material with her index finger.
'We think it's wool,' George said. 'Perhaps from tights like Alison was
wearing.'
'This could be anything,' she said defensively. 'It could have been out
there for days, weeks.'
'We'll have to see what our lab can make of it.' No point in trying to
force her to accept what her mind did not want to admit. 'What about
the toggle? Do you recognize that?'
She picked up the bag and ran her finger over the carved piece of
antler. She looked up at him, her eyes pleading. 'Is this all you found of
her? Is this all there is to show?'
'We found signs of a struggle in the spinney.' George pointed in what
he thought was the right direction. 'Between the house and the wood
where we found Shep, down towards the back of the dale. It's dark now,
so there's a limit to what we can achieve, but first thing in the morning,
my men will carry out a fingertip search of the whole spinney, to see if
we can find any more traces of Alison.'
'But that's all you found?' Now there was eagerness in her face.
He hated to dash her hopes, but he couldn't lie. 'We also found some
hairs and a little blood. As if she'd hit her head on a tree.' Ruth clapped
her hand to her open mouth, suppressing a cry. 'It really was very little
blood, Mrs Hawkin. Nothing to indicate anything but a very minor injury,
I promise you.'
Her wide eyes stared at him, her fingers digging into her cheek as if
63

physically holding her mouth closed could somehow contain her response.
He didn't know what to do, what to say. He had so little experience of
people's responses to tragedy and crisis. He'd always had senior officers or
colleagues with more experience to blunt the acuteness of other people's
pain. Now he was on his own, and he knew he would measure himself
for ever according to how he dealt with this stricken woman.
George leaned across the table and covered Ruth Hawkin's free hand
with his own. 'I'd be lying if I said this wasn't grounds for concern,' he
said. 'But there's nothing to indicate that Alison has come to any serious
harm. Quite the opposite, really. And there is one thing that we can be
sure of now. Alison hasn't run away of her own accord. Now, I know that
probably doesn't seem like much of a consolation to you right now, but
it means that we won't be frittering away our resources on things that
are a waste of time. We know that Alison didn't go off on her own and
catch a bus or a train, so we won't be devoting officers to checking out
bus and railway stations. We'll be using every officer we have to follow
lines of inquiry that could actually lead us somewhere.'
Ruth Hawkin's hand fell away from her mouth. 'She's dead, isn't
she?'
George gripped her hand. 'There's no reason to think so,' he said.
'Have you got a cigarette?' she asked. 'I ran out a while back.' She
gave a bitter little laugh. 'I should have sent yon WPC up to the shop
at Longnor for me. That would have been useful.'
Once they were both smoking, he took back the plastic bags and
pushed the cigarettes across in their place. 'You keep these. I've more
in the car.'
'Thanks.' The tightness in her face slackened momentarily and George
saw for the first time the same smile that made Alison's photograph so
remarkable.
He let enough time pass for them both to gain some benefit from the
nicotine. 'I need some help, Mrs Hawkin,' George said. 'Last night, we
had to work against the clock to try and find traces of Alison. And today,
we've been searching. All the mechanical, routine things that are often
successful, that we have to do. But I've not had a proper chance to sit
down and talk to you about what kind of girl Alison was. If someone
has taken her - and I won't lie to you, that is looking increasingly likely
- I need to know everything I can about Alison so that I can work out
where the point of contact is between Alison and this person. So I need
you to tell me about your daughter.'
64
Ruth sighed. 'She's a lovely lass. Bright as a button, always has been.
Her teachers all say she could go to college if she sticks in at her books.
University even.' She cocked her head to one side. 'You'll have been to
university.' It was a statement, not a question.
'Yes. I studied law at Manchester.'
She nodded. 'You'll know what it's like then, studying. She never has to
be told to do her homework, you know, not like Derek and Janet. I think
she actually likes schoolwork, though she'd cut her tongue out soon as
admit it. God knows where that comes from. Neither me nor her dad
were ones for school. Couldn't get out soon enough. She's not a swot,
mind you. She likes her fun an' all, does our Alison.'
'What does she do for fun?' George probed gently.
'They're all daft about that pop music, her and Janet and Derek. The
Beatles, Gerry and the Pacemakers, Freddie and the Dreamers, all that lot.
Charlie too, though he's not got the time to be sitting round every night
listening to records. But he goes to the dances at the Pavilion Gardens,
and he's always telling Alison what records she should get next. She's got
more records than the shop, I'm always telling her. You'd need more than
two ears to listen to that lot. Phil buys them for her. He goes into Buxton
every week and chooses a selection from the hit parade as well as the ones
Charlie tells her about ...' Her voice tailed off.
'What else does she do?'
'Sometimes Charlie takes them into Buxton to the roller-skating on a
Wednesday night.' Her breath caught in her throat. 'Oh God, I wish he'd
been taking them last night,' she cried, sudden realization felling her. Her
head dropped and she drew so hard on her cigarette that George could
hear the tobacco crackle. When she looked up, her eyes brimmed with tears
and held an appeal that cut directly through his professional defences to
his heart. 'Find her, please,' she croaked.
He pressed his lips together and nodded. 'Believe me, Mrs Hawkin, I
intend to do just that.'
'Even if it's only to bury her.'
'I hope it won't come to that,' he said.
'Aye. You and me both.' She exhaled a narrow stream of smoke. 'You
and me both.'
He waited for a moment, then said, 'What about friends? Who was she
close to?'
Ruth sighed. 'It's hard for them, making friends outside Scardale. They
never get the chance to join in anything after school. If they get invited
65

to parties or owt, chances are they can't get back home afterwards. The
nearest they can get on a bus is Longnor. So they just don't go. Besides,
folk in Buxton are set against Scardale folk. They think we're all heathen
inbred idiots.' Her voice was sarcastic. 'The kids get picked on. So they
stick to their own, by and large. Our Alison's good company, and I hear
tell from her teachers that she's well enough liked at school. But she's
never really had what you'd call a best friend apart from her cousins.'
Another dead end. 'There's one other thing ... I'd like to look at
Alison's room, if I may. Just to get a sense of what she was like.' He
didn't add, 'and to help myself to the contents of her hairbrush so the
forensic scientists can compare what we found sticking to the blood on
the tree in the spinney.'
She got to her feet, her movements those of a woman far older.
'I've got the heater on up there. Just in case ...' She left the sentence
unfinished.
He followed her into the hall, which was no warmer than it had been
the night before. The transition nearly took his breath away. Ruth led
the way up a broad flight of stairs with barley-sugar-twist banisters in
oak turned almost black by years of polishing. 'One other thing,' he said
as they climbed. 'I presume that the fact that Alison is still called Carter
means your husband hasn't formally adopted her?'
The tensing of the muscles in her neck and back was so swift George
could almost believe he'd imagined it. 'Phil were all for it,' she said. 'He
wanted to adopt. But Alison were only six when her dad ... died. Old
enough to remember how much she loved him. Too young to see he was
a human being with faults and failings. She thinks letting Phil adopt her
would be a betrayal of her dad's memory. I reckon she'll come round in
time, but she's a stubborn lass, won't be pushed where she doesn't want to
go.' They were on the landing now and Ruth turned to him, face composed
and unreadable. 'I persuaded Phil to let it lie for now.' She pointed past
George, down a corridor that made a strange dog-leg halfway down where
the building had been extended at some indeterminate period. 'Alison's
room is the last one on the right. You won't mind if I don't come with
you.' Again, it was a statement, not a question. George found himself
admiring the way this woman still managed to know her own mind, even
under such extreme stress.
'Thanks, Mrs Hawkin. I won't be long.' He walked along the passage,
conscious of her eyes on him. But even that uncomfortable knowledge
wasn't sufficient distraction to prevent him noting his surroundings.
66
The carpet was worn, but had clearly once been expensive. Some of
the prints and watercolours that lined the wall were spotted with age,
but still retained their charm. George recognized several scenes from the
southern part of the county where he'd grown up as well as the familiar
stately historic houses of Chatsworth, Haddon and Hardwick. He noticed
that the floor was uneven at the jink in the corridor, as if the builders had
been incompetent in all three dimensions. At the last door on the right,
he paused and took a deep breath. This might be the closest he'd ever
get to Alison Carter.
The warmth that hit him like a blanket seemed curiously appropriate
to what was, in spite of its size, a snug room. Because it was on the corner
of the house, Alison's bedroom had two windows, increasing the sense
of space. The windows were long and shallow, each divided into four by
deep stone lintels which revealed the eighteen-inch thickness of the walls.
He closed the door and stepped into the middle of the room.
First impressions, George reminded himself. Warm: there was an
electric fire as well as the plug-in oil radiator. Comfortable: the threequarter-sized
bed had a thick quilt covered in dark-green satin, and the
two basket chairs had plump cushions. Modern: the carpet was thick
brown shag pile with swirls of olive-green and mustard running through
it, and the walls were decorated with pictures of pop stars, mostly cut from
magazines by the looks of their skewed edges. Expensive: there was a plain
wooden wardrobe and matching dressing table with a long, low mirror
and a vanity stool in front of it, all so unscarred they had to be relatively
new. George had seen bedroom suites like that when he and Anne were
choosing their own furniture and he had a pretty good idea how much
it must have cost. Cheap it wasn't. On a table under the window was a
Dansette record player, dark red plastic with cream knobs. A deep stack
of records was piled haphazardly underneath. Philip Hawkin was clearly
determined to make a good impression on his stepdaughter, he surmised.
Maybe he thought the way to her heart was through the material goods she
must have lacked as the child of a widow in a community as impoverished
as Scardale.
George moved across to the dressing table and folded himself awkwardly
on to the stool. He caught his eye in the mirror. The last time his eyes had
looked like that had been when he'd been cramming for his finals. And
he'd missed a patch of stubble under his left ear, a direct result of the
lack of vanity of the Methodist faith. The absence of a mirror in the
vestry had forced him to shave in his rear-view mirror. No self-respecting
67

advertising agency would hire him to promote anything except sleeping
pills. He pulled a face at himself and got to work. Alison's hairbrush lay
bristles upwards on the dressing table, and George expertly removed as
many hairs as he could. Luckily, she'd not been too fastidious and he was
able to accumulate a couple of dozen, which he transferred to an empty
polythene bag.
Then, with a sigh, he began the distasteful search of Alison's personal
possessions. Half an hour later, he had found nothing unexpected. He'd
even flicked through every book on the small bookcase that stood by
the bed. Nancy Drew, the Famous Five, the Chalet School, Georgette
Heyer, Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre held neither secret nor surprise. A well-thumbed edition ofPalgrave's Golden Treasury contained only poetry.
The dressing table yielded schoolgirl underwear, a couple of training bras,
half a dozen bars of scented soap, a sanitary belt and half a packet of towels,
a jewellery box containing a couple of cheap pendants and a baby's silver
christening bracelet inscribed, 'Alison Margaret Carter'. The only thing
he might have expected to find but hadn't was a bible. On the other
hand, Scardale was so cut off from the rest of the world, they might still
be worshipping the corn goddess here. Maybe the missionaries had never
made it this far.
A small wooden box on the dressing table yielded more interesting
results. It contained half a dozen black and white snapshots, most of
them curled and yellowing at the edges. He recognized a youthful Ruth
Hawkin, head thrown back in laughter, looking up at a dark-haired man
whose head was ducked down in awkward shyness. There were two other
photographs of the pair, arms linked and faces carefree, all obviously taken
on the Golden Mile at Blackpool. Honeymoon? George wondered. Beneath
them was a pair of photographs of the same man, dark hair flopping over
his forehead. He was dressed in work clothes, a thick belt holding up
trousers that looked as if they'd been made for a man much longer in
the torso. In one, he was standing on a harrow hitched to a tractor.
In the other, he was crouched beside a blonde child who was grinning
happily at the camera. Unmistakably Alison. The final photograph was
more recent, judging by its white margins. It showed Charlie Lomas and
an elderly woman leaning against a dry-stone wall, blurred limestone cliffs
in the background. The woman's face was shadowed by a straw hat whose
broad brim was forced down over her ears by the scarf that tied under her
chin. All that was visible was the straight line of her mouth and her jutting
chin, but it was obvious from her awkwardly bent body that she was far
68

too old to be Charlie Lomas's mother. As if they were being captured by
a Victorian photographer, held still by dire warnings of moving during
the exposure, Charlie stood stony-faced and gazed straight at the camera.
His arms were folded across his chest and he looked like every gauche
and defiant young lad George had ever seen protesting his innocence in
a police station.
'Fascinating,' he murmured. The photographs of her father were predictable,
though he'd have expected to see them framed and on display.
But that the only other image Alison Carter treasured was one that
included the cousin who had made the convenient discovery in the
copse was, to say the least, interesting to a mind as trained in suspicion
as George's. Carefully, he replaced the photographs in the box. Then, on
second thoughts, he removed the one of Charlie and the old woman and
slipped it into his pocket.
It was among the records that he found his first examples of Alison's
handwriting. On scraps of paper torn from school exercise books, he
found fragments of song lyrics that had obviously had some particular
meaning for her. Lines from Elvis Presley's 'Devil in Disguise', Lesley
Gore's 'It's My Party (And I'll Cry if I Want To)', Cliff Richard's 'It's
All in the Game' and Shirley Bassey's 'I (Who Have Nothing)' painted a
disquieting picture of unhappiness at odds with the image everyone had
projected of Alison Carter. They spoke of the pains of love and betrayal,
loss and loneliness. There was, George knew, nothing unusual about an
adolescent experiencing those feelings and believing nobody had ever been
through the same thing. But if that was how Alison had felt, she'd done a
very efficient job of keeping it secret from those around her.
It was a small incongruity, but it was the only one George had found.
He slipped the sheets of paper into another plastic bag. There was no real
reason to imagine they might be evidence, but he wasn't taking any chances
with this one. He'd never forgive himself if the one detail he overlooked
turned out to be crucial. Not only might it damage his career, but far
more importantly, it might allow Alison's killer to go free. He stopped
in his tracks, his hand halfway to the doorknob.
It was the first time he'd admitted to himself what his professional
logic said must be the case. He was no longer looking for Alison Carter.
He was looking for her body. And her killer.
69


Thursday, 12th December 1963. 6.23 p.m.
Wearily, George walked down the front path of Scardale Manor. He'd
check in at the incident room in the Methodist Hall in case anything
fresh had cropped up, then he'd drop off the hair samples at divisional
HQ in Buxton and go home to a hot bath, a home-cooked meal and a
few hours' sleep; what passed for normal life in an investigation like this.
But first, he wanted to have a few words with young Charlie Lomas.
He'd barely made it as far as the village green when a figure lurched
out of the shadows in front of him. Startled, he stopped and stared,
struggling to believe what he was seeing. His tiredness tripped a giggle
inside him, but he managed to swallow it before it spilled into the misty
night air. The shape had resolved itself into something an artist might
have fallen into raptures over. The bent old woman who peered up at
him was the archetype of the crone as witch, right down to the hooked
nose that almost met the chin, complete with wart sprouting hairs and
black shawl over her head and shoulders. She had to be the original of
the photograph he carried in his pocket. The strange suddenness of the
coincidence provoked an involuntary pat of the pocket containing her
facsimile. 'You'd be the boss, then,' she said in a voice like a gate that
creaked in soprano.
'I'm Detective Inspector Bennett, if that's what you mean, madam,'
he said.
Her skin crinkled in an expression of contempt. 'Fancy titles,' she said.
'Waste of time in Scardale, lad. Mind you, you're all wasting your time.
None of you've got the imagination to understand owt that goes on here.
Scardale's not like Buxton, you know. If Alison Carter's not where she
should be, the answer'll be somewhere in somebody's head in Scardale,
not in the woods waiting to be found like a fox in a trap.'
'Perhaps you could help me find it, then, Mrs ... ?'
'And why should I, mister? We've always sorted out our own here. I
don't know what possessed Ruth, calling strangers to the dale.' She made
to push past him on the path, but he stepped sideways to block her.
'A girl's missing,' he said gently. 'This is something Scardale can't sort
out for itself. Whether you like it or not, you live in the world. But we
need your help as much as you need ours.'
The woman suddenly hawked violently and spat on the ground at his
feet. 'Until you show some sign of knowing what you should be looking
for, that's all the help you'll get from me, mister.' She veered off at an
70
angle and moved off across the green, surprisingly quick on her feet for
a woman who couldn't, he reckoned, be a day under eighty. He stood
watching until the mist swallowed her, like a man who has found himself
the victim of a time warp.
'Met Ma Lomas, then, have you?' Detective Sergeant Clough said with
a grin, looming out of nowhere.
'Who is Ma Lomas?' George asked, bemused.
'Like with Sylvia, the question should be not, "Who is Ma Lomas?"
but, "What is she?"' Clough intoned solemnly. 'Ma is the matriarch of
Scardale. She's the oldest inhabitant, the only one of her generation left.
Ma claims she celebrated her twenty-first the year of Victoria's Diamond
Jubilee, but I don't know about that.'
'She looks old enough.'
'Aye. But who the hell in Scardale even knew Victoria was on the
throne, never mind how long she'd been there for? Eh?' Clough delivered
his punchline with a mocking smile.
'So where does she fit in? What relation is she to Alison?'
Clough shrugged. 'Who knows? Great-grandmother, second cousin
once removed, aunt, niece? All of the above? You'd need to be sharper
than Burke's Peerage to work out all the connections between this lot,
sir. All I know is that according to PC Grundy, she's the eyes and ears
of the world. There's not a mouse breaks wind in Scardale without Ma
Lomas knowing about it.'
'And yet she doesn't seem very keen to help us find a missing girl. A
girl who's a blood relative. Why do you suppose that is?'
Clough shrugged. 'They're all much of a muchness. They don't like
outsiders at the best of times.'
'Was this the. kind of attitude you and Cragg came up against last night
when you were asking people if they'd seen Alison Carter?'
'More often than not. They answer your questions, but they never
volunteer a single thing more than you've asked them.'
'Do you think they were all telling you the truth about not having seen
Alison?' George asked, patting his pockets in search of his cigarettes.
Clough produced his own packet just as George remembered leaving
his with Ruth Hawkin. 'There you go,' Clough said. 'I don't think they
were lying. But they might well have been hanging on to information
that's relevant. Especially if we didn't know the right questions to ask.'
'We're going to have to talk to them all again, aren't we?' George
sighed.
71

'Like as not, sir.'
'They'll have to wait till tomorrow. Except for young Charlie Lomas.
You don't happen to know where he is, do you?'
'One of the turnips took him up the Methodist Hall to make a statement.
Must be half an hour ago now,' Clough said negligently.
'I don't ever want to hear that again, Sergeant,' George said, his tiredness
transforming into anger.
'What?' Clough sounded bemused.
'A turnip is a vegetable that farmers feed to sheep. I've met plenty of
CID officers who'd qualify for vegetable status ahead of most uniformed
officers I've met. We need uniform's cooperation on this case, and I won't
have you jeopardizing it. Is that clear, Sergeant?'
Clough scratched his jaw. 'Pretty much, aye. Though with me not
managing to make it to grammar school, I'm not sure if I'll be able to
remember it right.'
It was, George knew, a denning moment. 'I tell you what, Sergeant.
At the end of this case, I'll buy you a packet of fags for every day you
manage to remember it.'
Clough grinned. 'Now that's what I call an incentive.'
'I'm going to talk to Charlie Lomas. Do you fancy sitting in?'
'It will be my pleasure, sir.'
George set off towards his car, then suddenly stopped, frowning at his
sergeant. 'What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were still on
night shift till the weekend?'
Clough looked embarrassed. 'I am. But I decided to come on duty this
afternoon. I wanted to give a hand.' He gave a sly grin. 'It's all right, sir,
I won't be putting in for the overtime.'
George tried to hide his surprise. 'Good of you,' he said. As they drove up
the Scardale lane, George wondered at the sergeant's capacity to confound
him. He thought he was a pretty good judge of character, but the more
he saw of Tommy Clough, the more apparent contradictions he found
in the man.
Clough appeared brash and vulgar, always the first to buy a round
of drinks, always the loudest with the dirty jokes. But his arrest record
spoke of a different man, a subtle and shrewd investigator who was adept
at finding the weakness in his suspects and pushing at it until they collapsed
and told him what he wanted to hear. He was always the first to eye up an
attractive woman, yet he lived alone in a bachelor flat overlooking the lake
in the Pavilion Gardens. He'd called round there once to pick Clough up
72.

for a last-minute court appearance. George had thought it would be a
dump, but it was clean, furnished soberly and crammed with jazz albums,
its walls decorated with line drawings of British birds. Clough had seemed
disconcerted to find George on his doorstep, expecting to enter, and he'd
been ready to leave in record time.
Now, the man who was always first to claim overtime for every extra
minute worked had given up his free time to tramp the Derbyshire
countryside in search of a girl whose existence he'd had no knowledge
of twenty-four hours previously. George shook his head. He wondered
if he was as much a puzzle to Tommy Clough as the sergeant was to him.
Somehow, he doubted it.
George put his musings to one side and outlined his suspicions of
Charlie Lomas to his sergeant. 'It's not much, I know, but we've got
nothing else at this stage,' he concluded.
'If he's got nothing to hide, it'll do him no harm to realize we're
taking this seriously,' Clough said grimly. 'And if he has, he won't have
for long.'
The Methodist Hall had a curiously subdued air. A couple of uniformed
officers were processing paperwork. Peter Grundy and a sergeant George
didn't know were poring over detailed relief maps of the immediate area,
marking off squares with thick pencils. At the back of the room, Charlie
Lomas's lanky height was folded into a collapsible wooden chair, his legs
wound round each other, his arms wrapped round his chest. A constable
sat opposite him, separated by a card table on which he was laboriously
writing a statement.
George walked across to Grundy and drew him to one side. 'I'm
planning on having a word with Charlie Lomas. What can you tell me
about the lad?'
Immediately, the Longnor bobby's face fell still. 'In what respect, sir?'
he asked formally. 'There's nothing known about him.'
'I know he hasn't got a record,' George said. 'But this is your patch.
You've got relatives in Scardale '
'The wife has,' Grundy interrupted.
'Whatever. Whoever. You must have some sense of what he's like.
What he's capable of.'
George's words hung in the air. Grundy's face slowly settled into an
expression of outraged hostility. 'You're not seriously thinking Charlie's
got something to do with Alison going missing?' His tone was incredulous.

73

'I have some questions for him, and it would be helpful if I had some
idea of the type of lad I'm going to be talking to,' George said wearily.
'That's all. So what's he like, PC Grundy?'
Grundy looked to his right then to his left, then right again, like a
child waiting to cross the road correctly. But there was no escape from
George's eyes. Grundy scratched the soft patch of skin behind his ear.
'He's a good lad, Charlie. He's an awkward age, though. All the lads
his age around here, they go out and have a few pints and try to get
off with lasses. But that's not right easy when you live in the back of
beyond. The other thing about Charlie is that he's a bright lad. Bright
enough to know he could make something of his life if he could bring
himself to get out of Scardale. Only, he's not got the nerve to strike
out on his own yet. So he gets a bit lippy from time to time, sounding
off about what a hard time he has of it. But his heart's in the right
place. He lives in the cottage with old Ma Lomas because she doesn't
keep so well and the family likes to know there's somebody around
to bring in the coal and fetch and carry for the old woman. It's not
much of a life for a lad his age, but that's the one thing he never
complains about.'
'Was he close to Alison?'
George could see Grundy considering how far he could push it. That
was one of the hardest parts of his job, this constantly having to stand
his ground and prove himself to his colleagues. 'They're all close down
there,' Grundy finally said. 'There was no bad blood between him and
Alison that I ever heard.'
However, it wasn't bad blood that George was interested in where the
two Scardale cousins were concerned.
Realizing he'd gained all he could from Grundy, he nodded his thanks
and strolled towards the rear of the hall, praying he didn't look as
exhausted as he felt. Probably he should wait till morning to interview
Charlie Lomas. But he preferred to make his move while the lad was
already on the back foot. Besides, there was always the million to one
chance that Alison was still alive, and Charlie Lomas might just hold
the key to her whereabouts. Even so slim a chance was too much to
throw away.
As he approached, George picked up a chair and dropped it casually
at the third side of the table, at right angles to both Charlie and the
uniformed constable. Without being told, Clough followed his example,
occupying the fourth side of the small table and hemming Charlie in. His
74

eyes flicked from one to the other and he shifted in his seat. 'You know
who I am, don't you, Charlie?' George asked.
The youth nodded.
'Speak when you're spoken to,' Clough said roughly. 'I bet that's what
your gran always tells you. She is your gran, isn't she? I mean, she's not
your auntie or your niece or your cousin, is she? Hard to tell down
your way.'
Charlie twisted his mouth to one side and shook his head. 'There's no
call for that,' he protested. 'I'm helping your lot.'
'And we're very grateful that you've volunteered to come and give a
statement,' George said, falling effortlessly into Good Cop to dough's
Bad Cop. 'While you're here, I wanted to ask you one or two questions.
Is that OK with you?'
Charlie breathed heavily through his nose. 'Aye. Come ahead.'
'It was impressive, you finding that disturbed spot in the spinney,' George said. 'There had been a whole team through there ahead of you,
and none of them so much as picked up a trace of it.'
Charlie managed a shrug without actually releasing any of his limbs
from their auto-embrace. 'It's like the back of my hand, the dale. You
get to know a place right well, the slightest little thing just strikes you
out of place, that's all it were.'
'You weren't the first from Scardale through there. But you were the
first to notice.'
'Aye, well, happen I've got sharper eyes than some of you old buggers,'
he said, attempting bravado but not even making the halfway line.
'I'm interested, you see, because we find that sometimes people who
have been involved in a crime try to include themselves in the investigation,'
George said mildly.
Charlie's body unwound as if galvanized. His feet slammed on the floor, his forearms on the table. Startled policemen looked around from
the front of the hall. 'You're sick,' he said.
'I'm not sick, but I've got a good idea that somebody around these
parts is. It's my job to find out who. Now, if somebody wanted to take
Alison away or do anything to her, it would be a lot easier to manage if
it was somebody she knew and trusted. Obviously, you know her. She's
your cousin, you grew up with her. You tell her what records to get
her stepfather to buy her. You sit by the fire with her in your cottage
while your granny spins her tales of bygone days in sunny Scardale.
You take her to the roller rink in Buxton on Wednesdays.' George
75

shrugged. 'You'd have no trouble persuading her to go somewhere
with you.'
Charlie pushed himself away from the table, then thrust his trembling
hands into his trouser pockets. 'So?'
George produced the photograph he'd taken from Alison's room. 'She
kept a photo of you in her bedroom,' was all he said as he showed it to
Charlie.
His face twitched and he crossed his legs. 'She'll have kept it because of
Ma,' he said insistently. 'She loves Ma, and the old witch hates having her
photo taken. This must be about the only picture of Ma in existence.'
'Are you sure, Charlie?' Clough interjected. 'Because we think, my boss
and me, that she fancied you. A nice young lass like that hanging around,
worshipping the ground you walk on, not many blokes would say no to
that, would they? Especially a lovely lass like Alison. A ripe fruit, ready
for the plucking, ready to fall right into your hand. You sure that's not
what it was like, Charlie boy?'
Charlie squirmed, shaking his head. 'You've got it all wrong, mister.'
'Has he?' George asked pleasantly. 'So how was it, Charlie? Was it
embarrassing for you, having this kid trailing around after you when you
went to the roller rink? Did Alison cramp your style with the older girls,
was that the problem? Did you meet her in the dale yesterday teatime?
Did she push you too far?'
Charlie hung his head and breathed deep. Then he looked up and
turned to face George. 'I don't understand. Why are you treating me
like this? All I've done is try and help. She's my cousin. She's part of my
family. We look out for each other in Scardale, you know. It's not like
Buxton, where nobody gives tuppence about anybody else.' He stabbed
his finger at each of the policemen in turn. 'You should be out there
finding her, not insulting me like this.' He jumped to his feet. 'Do I have
to stop here?'
George stood up and gestured towards the door. 'You're free to leave
whenever you want, Mr Lomas. However, we will need to speak to
you again.'
Clough rose and walked round to George's side as Charlie stalked
angrily out of the door, all raw-boned clumsiness and outrage. 'He's not
got the gumption,' he said.
'Maybe not,' George said. The two men walked out in Charlie's wake,
pausing on the threshold as the youth set off down the Scardale road.
George stared after Charlie, wondering. Then he cleared his throat. 'I'll
76

be heading home now. I'll be back before first light in the morning. You're
in charge, at least of CID, till then.'
Clough laughed. It seemed to die in a puff of white breath in the
oppressive night air. The and Cragg, sir, eh? That'll give the villains
something to think about. Was there any line of inquiry in particular
you wanted us to pursue?'
'Whoever took Alison must have got her out of the dale somehow,'
George said, almost thinking aloud. 'He couldn't have carried her for
long, not a normally developed thirteen-year-old girl. If he took her
down the Scarlaston valley into Denderdale, he'd have had to hike
about four miles before he got to a road. But if he brought her up
here to the Longnor road, it's probably only about a mile and a half as
the crow flies. Why don't you and Cragg do a door-to-door in Longnor
this evening, see if anybody noticed a vehicle parked by the side of the
road near the Scardale turn?'
'Right you are, sir. I'll just find DC Cragg and we'll get to it.'
George returned to the incident room and arranged for the tracker
dogs to work Denderdale the following morning, spent half an hour in
Buxton Police Station filling out requisition forms for the forensic lab on
the evidence from the spinney and Alison's hairbrush, then finally set off
for home.
The villagers would just have to wait till tomorrow.
77

7
Thursday, 12th December 1963. 8.o6 p.m.
George couldn't remember ever closing his front door with a greater sense
of relief. Before he could even take off his hat, the door to the living room
opened and Anne was there, taking the three short steps into his arms.
'It's great to be home,' he sighed, drinking in the musky smell of her hair,
conscious too that he'd not washed since the previous morning.
'You work too hard,' she scolded gently. 'You'll do nobody any favours
if you work yourself into the ground. Come on through, there's a fire on
and it won't take me five minutes to warm up the casserole.' She moved
back from his embrace and looked critically at him. 'You look worn out.
It's a hot bath and bed for you as soon as you've finished your tea.'
'I'd rather have the bath first, if the water's hot.'
'And so you shall. I've had the immersion on. I was going to have a
bath myself, but you'd better take the water. You get yourself undressed
and I'll run the bath.' She shooed him upstairs ahead of her.
Half an hour later, he was in his dressing gown at the kitchen table,
wolfing down a generous helping of beef and carrot stew accompanied
by a plate of bread and butter. 'Sorry there's no spuds,' Anne apologized.
'I thought bread and butter would be quicker and I knew you'd need
something as soon as you got in. You never eat properly when you're
working.'
'Mmm,' he grunted through a mouthful of food.
'Have you found her, then, your missing girl? Is that why you're
home?'
The food in his mouth seemed to congeal into an indigestible lump.
George forced it down his gullet. It felt like swallowing a hairball the size
of a golf ball. 'No,' he said, staring down at his plate. 'And I don't think
she'll be alive when we do.'
78


Anne's face paled. 'But that's awful, George. How can you be sure?'
He shook his head and sighed. 'I can't be sure. But we know she didn't
go off of her own free will. Don't ask me how, but we know. She's not
from the kind of family where she'd be kidnapped for a ransom. And
people who steal children generally don't keep them alive for long. So
my guess is she's already dead. And if she's not, she will be before we
can find her, because we've got absolutely nothing to go on. The villagers
act like we're the enemy instead of on their side, and the landscape is so
difficult to search properly it feels like even that's conspiring against us.'
He pushed his plate away and reached for Anne's cigarettes.
'That's terrible,' she said. 'How can her mother begin to cope with
it?'
'She's a strong woman, Ruth Hawkin. I suppose if you grow up in a
place where life is as hard as it is in Scardale, you learn to bend rather
than break. But I don't know how she's holding together. She lost her
first husband in a farming accident seven years ago, and now this. The
new husband's not a lot of use either. One of those selfish beggars who
see everything in terms of how it's going to affect them.'
'What? You mean a man?' Anne teased.
'Very funny. I'm not like that. I don't expect my tea on the table when
I walk through the door, you know. You don't have to wait on me.'
'You'd soon get fed up if it wasn't.'
George conceded with a shrug and a smile. 'You're probably right. Us
men get used to you women taking care of us. But if our child ever went
missing, I don't think I'd be demanding my tea before my wife went out
looking for her.'
'He did that?'
'According to one witness.' He shook his head. 'I shouldn't be telling
you this.'
'Who am I going to tell? The only people I know here are other
copper's wives. And they've not exactly taken me to their bosom. The
ones my age are all lower ranks' wives so they don't trust me, especially
since I'm a qualified teacher and none of them have ever done anything
more challenging than working in a shop or an office. And the officers'
wives are all older than me and treat me like I'm a silly girl. So you can
be sure I'm not going to be gossiping about your case, George,' Anne said
with an edge of acerbity.
'I'm sorry. I know it's not been easy for you to make new friends here.'
He reached out to grip her hand in his.
79

'I don't know how I'd go on if I lost a child.' Almost unconsciously,
her free hand slipped to her stomach.
George's eyes narrowed. 'Is there something you're not telling me?' he
asked sharply.
Anne's fair skin flushed scarlet. 'I don't know, George. It's just that...
well, my monthly visitor's overdue. A week overdue. So... I'm sorry, love,
I didn't mean to say anything till I was sure, what with it being a missing
child case you're on. But yes, I think I might be expecting.'
A slow smile spread across George's face as her words sank in. 'Really?
I'm going to be a dad?'
'It could be a false alarm. But I've never been late before.' She looked
almost apprehensive.
George jumped to his feet and swung her out of her chair, spinning
her around in a whirl of joy. 'It's wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.' They
staggered to a halt and he kissed her hard and passionately. 'I love you,
Mrs Bennett.'
'And I love you too, Mr Bennett.'
He pulled her close, burying his face in her hair. A child. His child. All
he had to do now was figure out how to manage what had been beyond
every parent since Adam and Eve: how to keep it safe.
Up to that point, Alison Carter had been an important case to Detective
Inspector George Bennett. Now it had symbolic importance. Now it was
a crusade.
In Scardale, the mood was as brooding as the limestone crags surrounding
the dale. Charlie Lomas's experience at the hands of the police had flashed
round the village as fast as the news of Alison's disappearance. While
the women checked anxiously and regularly that their children were
all in bed asleep, the men had congregated in the kitchen of Bankside
Cottage, where Ruth and her daughter had lived until her marriage to
Hawkin.
Terry Lomas, Charlie's father, chewed the stem of his pipe and grumbled
about the police. 'They've got no right to treat our Charlie like a criminal,'
he said.
Charlie's older brother John scowled. 'They've got no idea what's
happened to our Alison. They're just making an example of Charlie so
it looks like they're doing something.'
'They're not going to let it go at that, though, are they?' Charlie's uncle
Robert said. 'They'll go through us one by one if they get no change out
80

of Charlie. That Bennett bloke, he's got a bee in his bonnet about Alison,
you can tell.'
'But that's a good thing, isn't it?' Ray Carter chipped in. 'It means
he's going to do a proper job. He's not going to settle till he's got an
answer.'
'That's fine if it's the right answer,' Terry said.
'Aye,' Robert said pensively. 'But how do we make sure he doesn't get
distracted from what he should be doing because he's too busy persecuting
the likes of young Charlie? The lad's not tough, we all know that. They'll
be putting words in his mouth. For all we know, if they can't get the right
man, they'll decide to have Charlie anyway and to hell with it.'
'There's two roads we can go,' Jack Lomas said. 'We can stonewall
them. Tell them nothing, except what we need to to cover Charlie's back
all ways. They'll soon realize they'll have to find another scapegoat then.
Or we can bend over backwards to help them. Maybe that way they'll
realize that looking at the people who cared about our Alison isn't going
to find the lass or whoever took her.'
There was a long silence in the kitchen, punctuated by Terry sucking
on his pipe. Eventually, old Robert Lomas spoke. 'Happen we can
do both.'
Without George, the work went on. The searchers had given up for the day,
but in the incident room, uniformed officers made plans for the following
day. Already, they had accepted offers from the local Territorial Army
volunteers and the RAF cadets to join the hunt at the weekend. Nobody
was voicing their thoughts, but everyone was pessimistic. That didn't
mean they wouldn't cover every inch of Derbyshire if they had to.
Up in Longnor, Clough and Cragg were awash with tea but starved
of leads. They'd agreed to call it a night at half past nine, a farming
community being earlier abed than the townies in Buxton. Just before
close of play, Clough struck lucky. An elderly couple had been coming
home from Christmas shopping in Leek and they'd noticed a Land Rover
parked on the grass at the side of the Methodist Chapel. 'Just before five,
it was,' the husband said definitely.
'What made you notice it?' Clough asked.
'We attend the chapel,' he said. 'Normally, it's only the minister who
parks there. The rest of us leave our cars on the verge. Anybody local
knows that.'
'Do you think the driver parked off the road to avoid being noticed?'
81

'I suppose so. He wasn't to know that was the one parking place that
would make him conspicuous, was he?'
Clough nodded. 'Did you see the driver?'
Both shook their heads. 'It was dark,' the wife pointed out. 'It didn't
have any lights on. And we were past it in moments.'
'Was there anything you did notice about the Land Rover? Was it long
wheelbase or short wheelbase? What colour was it? Was it a fixed top
or a canvas one? Any letters or numbers from the registration?' Clough
probed.
Again, they shook their heads dubiously. 'We weren't paying much
attention, to be honest,' the husband said. 'We were talking about the
fatstock show. Chap from Longnor took one of the top prizes and we'd
been invited to join him for a drink in Leek. I think half the village was
going to be there. But we decided to come home. My wife wanted to get
the decorations up.'
Clough glanced around at the home-made paper chains and the artificial
Christmas tree complete with its pathetic string of fairy lights and
a garland of tinsel that looked as if the dog had been chewing it since
Christmas past. 'I can see why,' he said, deadpan.
'I always like to get them done the day of the fatstock show,' the woman
said proudly. 'Then we feel like Christmas is coming, don't we. Father?'
'We do, Doris, yes. So you see, Sergeant, our minds weren't really on
the Land Rover at all.'
Clough got to his feet and smiled. 'Never mind,' he said. 'At least you
noticed it was there. That's more than anybody else in the village did.'
'Too busy celebrating Alee Grundy's heifers,' the man said sagely.
Clough thanked them again and left, rendezvousing with Cragg in the
local pub. He'd never believed that the rule about not drinking on duty
need be strictly applied, especially on night shift. Like high-grade oil to
an engine, a couple of drinks always made his mind run more smoothly.
Over a pint of Marston's Pedigree, he told Cragg what he'd heard.
'That's great,' Cragg enthused. 'Professor'11 like that.'
Clough pulled a face. 'Up to a point. He'll like the fact we've got a pair
of witnesses who saw a Land Rover parked where locals knew not to park.
He'll like the fact that this unusual piece of parking happened around the
same time Alison disappeared.' Then Clough explained what he thought
George wouldn't like.
'Bugger,' Cragg said.
'Aye.' Clough took two inches off his pint in a single swallow. 'Bugger.'
82

Friday, 13th December 1963. 5.35 a.m.
George walked into Buxton Police Station through the front office to find
a uniformed constable attaching festive bells of honeycomb paper to the
wall with drawing pins. 'Very jolly,' he grunted. 'Sergeant Lucas here?'
'You might just catch him, sir. He said he was going to the canteen
for a bacon sandwich. First break he's had all night, sir.'
'The red bell's higher than the green one,' George said on his way
out.
The PC glared at the door as it swung shut.
George found Bob Lucas munching a bacon sandwich and staring
glumly at the morning papers. 'Seen this, sir?' he greeted him, pushing
the Daily News across the table. George picked it up and began to read.
Daily News, Friday, 13th December 1963, p.5
MISSING GIRL: IS THERE A LINK?
Dogs in manhunt for Alison
By Daily News Reporter
Police yesterday refused to rule out a link
between missing schoolgirl Alison Carter, 13,
and two similar disappearances less than thirty
miles away within the last six months.
There are striking similarities between the
three cases, and detectives spoke privately of
the need to consider whether a joint task force
should be set up among the three police forces
investigating the cases.
The latest manhunt centres round Alison
Carter, who vanished from the remote Derbyshire
hamlet of Scardale on Wednesday. She
had taken her collie, Shep, for a walk after
school, but when she failed to return home,
her mother, Mrs Ruth Hawkin, alerted local
police at Buxton.
A search led by tracker dogs failed to find
any trace of the girl, although her dog was
discovered unharmed in nearby woods.
83

Her mystery disappearance comes less than
three weeks after 12-year-old John Kilbride
went missing in Ashton-under-Lyne. He was
last seen in the town's market at teatime.
Lancashire police have so far failed to come
up with a single positive sighting of him
since.
Pauline Reade, 16, was going to a dance
when she left her family home in Wiles-street,
Gorton, Manchester in July. But she never
arrived and, as with John and Alison, police
have no idea what happened to her.
A senior Derbyshire police officer said: 'At
this point, we rule nothing out and nothing
in. We can find no reason for Alison being
missing. She was not in trouble at home or
at school.
'If we do not find Alison today, the search
will be intensified. We just don't know what
has happened to her, and we're very concerned,
not least because of the very bitter
weather we're experiencing at the moment.'
A Manchester CID officer told the Daily
News, 'Of course, we hope Alison is found
quickly. But we would be very happy to
share the fruits of our investigations with
Derbyshire if this case drags on.'
'Bloody journalists,' George complained. 'They twist everything you
say. Where's all the stuff I said about there being more dissimilarities
than there are similarities? I might as well have saved my breath. This
Don Smart's just going to write what he wants to write, no matter what
the truth is.'
'It's always the same with the Fleet Street reporters,' Lucas said sourly.
'The local lads have to stay on the right side of the truth because they have
to come back to us week after week for their stories, but that London lot
don't give a monkey's whether they upset the police in Buxton or not.'
He sighed. 'Were you looking for me, sir?'
'Just something I wanted you to pass on to the day shift. I think it's
time we located any known sex offenders in the area and brought them
in for questioning.'
'In the whole division, sir?' Lucas sounded weary.
84

Sometimes, George thought, he understood exactly why some officers
remained locked inside their uniforms for the duration of their careers.
'I think we'll concentrate on the immediate area round Scardale. Maybe
a five-mile radius, extending it up on the northern side to include
Buxton.'
'Hikers come from miles around,' Lucas said. 'There's no guaranteeing
our man isn't from Manchester or Sheffield or Stoke.'
'I know, Sergeant, but we've got to start somewhere.' George pushed
his chair back and stood up. 'I'm off to Scardale. I'll be there all day, I
expect.'
'You'll have heard about the Land Rover?' Lucas said, his voice as
neutral as his face was smug.
'Land Rover?'
'Your lads turned up a pair of witnesses in Longnor last night. Saw a
Land Rover parked off the road near the Scardale turn-off round about
the time young Alison left the house.'
George's face lit up. 'But that's fantastic news!'
'Not entirely. It were dark. The witnesses couldn't give any description
except that it was a Land Rover.'
'But we'll be able to get impressions from the tyres. It's a start,'
George said, his irritation with Lucas and the Daily News forgotten in
his excitement.
Lucas shook his head. 'Afraid not, sir. The spot where the Land Rover
was parked? Up the side of the Methodist Chapel. Right where our cars
were in and out all night and day yesterday.'
'Bugger,' said George.
Tommy Clough was nursing a mug of tea and a cigarette when George
arrived at the incident room. 'Morning, sir,' he said, not bothering to get
to his feet.
'You still here?' George asked. 'You can go off duty now, if you like.
You must be exhausted.'
'No worse than you were yesterday. Sir, if it's all right with you, I'd
rather stop on. This is my last night shift anyway, so I might as well get
used to going to bed at the right time. If you're interviewing the villagers,
happen I could be some help. I've seen most of them already, I've picked
up a fair bit of the background.'
George considered for a moment. Clough's normally ruddy face was
paler than usual, the skin around his eyes puffy. But his eyes were still
85

alert, and he had some of the local knowledge that George lacked. Besides,
it was about time George established a working partnership with one of
his three sergeants that went deeper than the surface. 'All right. But if
you start yawning when some old dear decides to tell us her life story,
I'm sending you straight home.'
'Fine by me, sir. Where do you want to start?'
George crossed to one of the tables and pulled a pad of paper towards
him. 'A map. Who lives where and who they are. That's where I want
to start.'
George scratched his head. 'I don't suppose you know how they're all
related?' he asked, staring down at the map Tommy Clough had sketched
out for him.
'Beyond me,' he confessed. 'Apart from the obvious, like Charlie Lomas
86

is Terry and Diane's youngest. Mike Lomas is the eldest of Robert and
Christine's. Then there's Jack who lives with them, and they've got two
daughters - Denise, who's married to Brian Carter, and Angela, who's
married to a smallholder over towards Three Shires Head.'
George held up his hand. 'Enough,' he groaned. 'Since you've obviously
got a natural talent for it, you're officer in charge of Scardale genealogy.
You can remind me of who belongs where as and when I need to know
it. Right now, all I want to know is where Alison Carter fits in.'
Tommy cast his eyes upwards as if trying to picture the family tree. 'OK.
Never mind cousins, first, second or third. I'll stick with just the main
relationships. Somehow or other, Ma Lomas is her great-grandmother.
Her father, Roy Carter, was David and Ray's brother. On her mother's side,
she was a Crowther. Ruth is sister to Daniel and also to Terry Lomas's wife
Diane.' Clough pointed to the relevant houses on the map. 'But they're all
interconnected.'
'There must be some fresh blood now and again,' George objected.
'Otherwise they'd all be village idiots.'
'There are one or two incomers to dilute the mixture. Cathleen Lomas,
Jack's wife, is a Longnor lass. And John Lomas married a woman from
over Bakewell way. Lasted long enough for her to have Amy, then she
was off somewhere she could watch Coronation Street and go out for a
drink without it being a military operation. And of course, there's Philip
Hawkin.'
'Yes, let's not forget the squire,' George said thoughtfully. He sighed
and stood up. 'We could do with finding out a bit more about him. St
Albans, that's where he hails from, isn't it?' He took out his notebook and
jotted down a reminder. 'Don't let me forget to follow that up. Come on
then, Tommy. Let's have another crack at Scardale.'
Brian Carter wiped the teats of the next cow in line and, with surprising
gentleness, clamped the milking machine on to her udder. Dawn had still
been a few hours away when he'd left the warm bed he shared with his
new wife, Denise, in Bankside Cottage, the two-bedroomed house where
Alison Carter was born on a rainy night in 1950. Tramping up through the
silent village with his father, he'd been unable to avoid thinking bitterly
how much his cousin's disappearance had changed his world already.
His had been a simple, uncomplicated life. They'd always been very
self-contained, very private in Scardale. He'd grown used to getting called
names at school and later in the pubs when folk had had a few too many.
87

He knew all the tired old jokes about inbreeding and secret black magic
rituals, but he'd learned to ignore all that and get on with his life.
When there was light, Scardale worked the land and when there wasn't,
they were still busy. The women spun wool, knitted jumpers, crocheted
shawls and blankets and baby clothes, made preserves and chutneys, things
they could sell through the Women's Institute market in Buxton.
The men maintained the buildings, inside and out. They also worked
with wood. Terry Lomas made beautiful turned wooden bowls, rich and
lustrous, the grain chosen for its intricate patterns. He sent them off to a
craft centre in London where they sold for what seemed ridiculous sums
of money to everyone else in the village. Brian's father David made
wooden toys for a shop in Leek. There wouldn't have been time for the
wild pagan rituals that gullible drinkers speculated about in Buxton bars,
even supposing anyone had been interested. The truth was, everyone in
Scardale worked too bloody hard to have time for anything except eating
and sleeping.
There was little need for contact with the outside world on a daily
basis. Most of what was consumed in Scardale was produced in the circle
of looming limestone - meat, potatoes, milk, eggs, some fruit and a few
vegetables. Ma Lomas made wine from elderflowers, elderberries, nettles,
dandelions, birch sap, rhubarb, gooseberries and whinberries. If it grew,
she fermented it. Everybody drank it. Even the children would get a glass
now and again for medicinal purposes. There was a van came on Tuesdays
selling fish and greengrocery. Another van came from Leek on Thursdays,
a general grocer. Anything else would be bought at the market in Leek or
in Buxton by whoever was there selling their own produce or livestock.
It had been strange, the transition from being at school, where he'd
gone out of the dale five days a week, to being an adult, working the land
and sometimes not leaving Scardale from one month to the next. There
wasn't even television to disrupt the rhythm of life. He remembered when
old Squire Castleton came back from Buxton with a TV he'd bought for the
Coronation. His father and his Uncle Roy had erected the aerial and the
whole village had crowded into the squire's parlour. With a flourish, the
old man had switched on, and they all stared dumbfounded at a February
blizzard. No matter how David and Roy had fiddled with the aerial, all it
did was crackle like fat on a fire, and all they could see was interference.
The only kind of interference anybody in Scardale had a mind to put
up with.
Now it was all changed. Alison had disappeared and all of a sudden,
88
their lives seemed to belong to everybody. The police, the papers, they
all wanted their questions answering, whether it was any of their business
or not. And Brian felt like he had no natural defences against such an
invasion. He wanted to hurt someone. But there was no one to hand.
It was still dark when George and Clough reached the outskirts of the
village. The first light they came to spilled out of a half-closed barn door.
'Might as well start here,' George said, pulling the car over on to the verge.
'Who's this going to be?' he asked as they tramped over the few yards of
muddy concrete to the door.
'It'll likely be Brian and David Carter,' Clough said. 'They're the
cowmen.'
The two men in the barn couldn't hear their approach over the clattering
and heavy liquid breathing of the milking apparatus. George waited till
they turned round, taking in the strangely sweet smells of dung, sweating
animal and milk, watching as the men washed the teats of each cow before
clamping the milking machine to her udder. Finally, the older of the two
turned. George's first impression was that Ruth Hawkin's careful eyes had
been transplanted into an Easter Island statue. His face was all planes and
angles, his cheeks like slabs and his eye sockets like a carving in pink wax.
'Any news?' he demanded, his voice loud against the machinery.
George shook his head. 'I came to introduce myself. I'm Detective
Inspector George Bennett. I'm in charge of the investigation.' As he
walked towards the older man, the younger stopped what he was doing
and leaned against the massive hindquarters of one of his Friesians, arms
folded across his chest.
'I'm David Carter,' the older man said. 'Alison's uncle. And this is my
lad Brian.' Brian. Carter gave a stately nod. He had his father's face, but
his eyes were narrow and pale, like shards of topaz. He couldn't have been
much more than twenty, but the downward cast of his mouth appeared
to have been set in stone.
'I wanted to say we're doing everything we can to find out what's
happened to Alison,' George said.
'Haven't found her though, have you?' Brian said, his voice sullen as
his expression.
'No. We will be searching again as soon as it's light and if you want
to join us again, you'd be more than welcome. But that's not why I'm
here. I can't help thinking that the answer to what happened to Alison
was somewhere in her life. I don't believe that whoever did this acted on
89

the spur of the moment. It was planned. And that means somebody left
traces. Whether you know it or not, someone in this village saw something
or heard something that will give us a lead. I'm going to be talking to
everybody in the village today, and I'll say the same to you all. I need
you to search your memories for anything out of the ordinary, anyone
you saw that didn't belong here.'
Brian snorted. He sounded surprisingly like one of his cows. 'If you're
looking for somebody that doesn't belong here, you don't have to look
very far.'
'Who did you have in mind?' George asked.
'Brian,' his father warned.
Brian scowled and fumbled in the pocket of his overall for a cigarette.
'Dad, he doesn't belong here. He never will.'
'Who are we talking about?' George persisted.
'Philip Hawkin, who else?' Brian muttered through a mouthful of
smoke. His head came up and he stared defiantly at the back of his
father's head.
'You're not suggesting her stepfather had anything to do with Alison's
disappearance, are you?' Clough asked, an edge of challenge in his voice
that George suspected Brian Carter would find irresistible.
'You didn't ask that. You asked who didn't belong here. Well, he doesn't.
Ever since he turned up, he's been sticking his oar in, trying to tell us how
to farm our land, as if he's the one been doing it for generations. He thinks
if you read a book or an NFU pamphlet, suddenly you're an expert. And
the way he courted my Auntie Ruth. He wouldn't leave her alone. The
only way she was ever going to get any peace was if she married him,'
Brian blurted out.
'Didn't think you minded that,' his father said sarcastically. 'If Ruth and
Alison hadn't moved out ofBankside Cottage, you and Denise would have
had to start your married life in your old bedroom. I don't know about you,
but I could do without the bedhead banging on the wall half the night.'
Brian flushed and glowered at his father. 'You leave Denise out of this.
We're talking about Hawkin. And you know as well as me that he doesn't
belong here. Don't act like you don't spend half of every day maunging
on about what a useless article he is and how you wish the old squire
had had more sense than leave the land to an incomer like Hawkin.'
'That doesn't mean he had anything to do with Alison going,' David
Carter said, rubbing his hand over his chin in what was clearly a familiar
gesture of exasperation.
90
'Your father's right,' George said mildly.
'Maybe so,' Brian muttered grudgingly. 'But he always has to know
best, does Hawkin. If he lays down the law in the house the way he does
on the land, then my cousin's got worse than a dog's life. I don't care
what anybody says, she can't have been happy living with Hawkin.' He
spat contemptuously on the concrete floor then turned away abruptly
and stalked off to the far end of the milking shed.
'Take no notice of the lad,' David Carter said wearily. 'His mouth works
harder than his brain. Hawkin's an idiot, but according to Ruth, he thought
the world of Alison. And I'd take my sister's word ahead of that son of
mine.' He shook his head and half turned to watch Brian fiddling with a
piece of machinery. 'I thought marrying Denise would knock some sense
into him. Too much to hope for, I suppose.' He sighed. 'We'll be out with
the searchers, Mr Bennett. And I'll think on what you've said. See if I can
think of owt.'
They shook hands. George could feel Carter's cool eyes appraising him
as he followed Clough out into the grey-streaked light of dawn. 'No love
lost between young Brian and the squire,' George commented as they
walked back to the car.
'He's saying nothing that the rest of Scardale doesn't think, according
to PC Grundy. We had a chat with him last night after we'd done the
door-to-door interviews. He says all the villagers reckon Hawkin's in love
with the sound of his own voice. He likes people to be in no doubt who
the boss is, and they don't take kindly to that in Scardale. The tradition
here has always been that the villagers get on with working the land the
way they see fit and the squire collects his rents and keeps his nose out. So
you're going to hear a lot of complaints about Hawkin,' Clough said.
He couldn't have been more wrong.
9i

8
Friday, 13th December 1963. 12.45 p.m.
Four hours later, George reckoned he'd seen all the evidence of heredity
he'd ever need. The surnames might vary according to strict genealogical
lines, but the physical characteristics seemed scattered at random. The
slab face of David Carter, the hooked nose of Ma Lomas, the feline eyes
of Janet Carter were all repeated in various combinations, along with
other equally distinctive features. George felt like a child playing with
one of those books where the pages are split horizontally and the reader
mixes and matches eyes, noses and mouths.
What the Scardale villagers also had in common was their complete
mystification at Alison's disappearance. As Clough had predicted, few were
willing to volunteer even the little that Brian Carter had given. Most of the
conversations were an uphill struggle. George would introduce himself
and deliver his little speech. The villagers would look thoughtful, then
shake their heads. No, nothing unusual had happened. No, they hadn't
seen any strangers. No, they didn't think anybody from the village would
touch a hair on Alison's head. And by the way, Charlie Lomas was as
good-natured a lad as ever walked, and he didn't deserve being treated
like a criminal.
The only point of interest was that not a finger pointed at the squire.
Not a word of complaint was uttered about him, not a voice raised against
him. True, no one sang his praises, but by the end of the morning, it
would have been tempting to think that Brian Carter was the only person
in Scardale who thought there was anything about Philip Hawkin worth
criticizing.
Finally, George and Clough retired empty-handed to the caravan,
uninhabited except for a WPC who jumped to her feet and brewed up
as soon as they walked in. 'You were wrong,' George sighed.
92

'Sir?' Clough opened his cigarette packet and tipped one out for George
without bothering to ask.
'You said we'd be hearing a lot of complaints about Hawkin. But
we've not had a cheep out of anybody except that young hothead Brian
Carter.'
Clough considered for a moment, a frown wrinkling his broad forehead
like the skin on a caramel custard. 'Maybe that's why. He's young enough
to think it matters in a case like this that Hawkin's not one of them. The
others, they're wise enough to understand that there's a hell of a difference
between not liking somebody because he tells you how to farm your land
and suspecting him of abducting a child.'
George took a cautious sip of his tea. Not so hot it would scald. He
drank down half the cup to ease his dry throat; whatever else the people
of Scardale were, they weren't generous with their hot drinks. They'd
actually been in Diane Lomas's kitchen while the woman had sat with a
pot of tea in front of her that she'd never once offered them. 'Maybe. But
I don't want to lose sight of the fact that this is a close-knit community.
Just the kind of place where they think lynch law's the best way of dealing
with their difficulties. It could be that they think Hawkin's behind this and
we're too stupid to nail him. Happen they figure the best way to deal with
him is to wait for us to give up on Alison and go away. Then a nasty farm
accident, and it's goodbye, Squire Hawkin. That gives me two problems.
One, there's no reason except prejudice to suspect Philip Hawkin had
anything to do with Alison's disappearance. And two, I don't want his
blood on my hands, whether he is involved or not.'
Clough looked politely sceptical. 'If you weren't my boss, I'd say you'd
been watching too much telly,' he said. 'But seeing as how you are, I'd
say, it's an interesting idea, sir.'
George gave Clough a hard stare. 'It's one we'll bear in mind, Sergeant,'
was all he said. He held out his mug to the WPC. 'Any more in
the pot?'
Before she could give him the refill, the door opened on Peter Grundy.
The Longnor bobby gave a satisfied nod. 'Thought I might find you here.
Message from Detective Chief Inspector Carver, sir. Will you phone him
at Buxton a.s.a.p.?'
George got to his feet, reaching for the tea. He swilled most of it back in
moments then signalled Clough to follow. 'We might as well go up to the
incident room,' he said, making for his car. Suddenly the door of a Ford
Anglia swung open in his path and Don Smart's gingery head popped up.
93

'Morning, Inspector,' he said cheerily. 'Any luck yet? Anything to report?
I was expecting to see you at the ten o'clock press conference, like you said
yesterday, but you obviously had better things to be getting on with.'
'That's right,' George said, side-stepping the car door. 'The officers
who dealt with you in Buxton this morning were fully briefed on the
situation.'
'Did you see our story?'
'I'm in the middle of a major inquiry, Mr Smart. If you want any comment
from Derbyshire Police, you'll have to go through the appropriate
channels. Now, if you'll excuse me ...'
Smart's predatory smile appeared. 'If you won't take seriously my
suggestion about links to other cases ... have you considered a clairvoyant?'

George frowned. 'A clairvoyant?'
'It could point you in the right direction. Focus your attention instead
of spreading the search so wide.'
George shook his head in wonderment. 'I deal in facts, Mr Smart,
not headlines.' He took half a dozen brisk steps away from the journalist,
then wheeled round. 'If you really want to do something for
Alison Carter rather than your own career, why not print a photograph
of her?'
'I take it that means there hasn't been a breakthrough?' Smart said to
Clough as George stalked off to his car.
'Why don't you bugger off back to Manchester?' Clough said, his voice
low but firm, his face open and smiling. Without waiting to see the effect
of his words, he followed George.
'Smart by name thinks he's smart by nature,' George said bitterly as the
car toiled up the dale. 'It makes me sick. This isn't a career opportunity,
it's a girl's life that's at risk here.'
'He can't afford to think like that. If he did, he'd never be able to write
the story,' Clough pointed out.
'That might be better for everyone,' George said. He was still stiff with
annoyance when he strode into the Methodist Hall and made straight
for the nearest table with a phone. He stood over the constable who
was using it, tapping the end of an unlit Gold Leaf against the packet.
The PC flashed a glance at him, the whites of his eyes betraying his
nervousness.
'That'll be all then, madam, thank you very much,' he gabbled, his hand
reaching for the receiver rest to cut off the call even before he'd finished
94

speaking. 'There you go, sir,' he added, thrusting the phone apprehensively
at George.
'This is DI Bennett for DCI Carver,' George snapped.
There was a pause, then he heard the nasal Midlands voice of his CID
boss. 'Bennett? Is that you?'
'Yes, sir. I got a message that you wanted to speak to me.'
'Took their time delivering it,' Carver grumbled. George had already
discovered that after almost thirty years as a police officer, Carver had
elevated complaint to an art form. George had spent his first month
at Buxton apologizing, his second appeasing. Then he'd noticed how
everyone else dealt with Carver's complaints and he too had learned
to ignore.
'Have there been some developments, sir?'
'You left instructions for the day shift with Sergeant Lucas,' Carver
accused.
'I did, sir.'
'Round up the usual suspects, generally a waste of time for all concerned.'

George waited, saying nothing. The anger from his encounter with
Smart was dammed up behind a wall of professional imperturbability,
but thanks to Carver's complaints, the weight of his fury was reaching
critical mass. The last thing his career needed was for his rage to burst
over Carver's head, so he took a deep breath and let it out slowly through
his nose.
'This time, though, we might just have come up trumps,' Carver continued.
The grudging words came out with grinding slowness. It sounded
as if he'd rather the exercise had been a failure, George thought with
incredulous bitterness.
'Is that right, sir?'
'Turns out we've got somebody on our books. Indecent exposure to
schoolgirls. Lifting women's knickers off their clothes lines. Nothing
very terrible, nothing very recent,' Carver added in a dissatisfied aside.
'But the interesting thing about this particular nonce is that he's Alison
Carter's uncle.'
George felt his mouth fall open. 'Her uncle?' he managed after a
moment.
'Peter Crowther.'
George swallowed hard. He hadn't even known there was a Peter
Crowther. 'May I sit in on the interview, sir?'
95

'Why else do you think I was phoning you? I'm in agony with this
ankle. Besides, me limping around like Hopalong Cassidy with my leg in
a pot is hardly going to put the fear of God into Crowther, is it? You get
yourself in here right now.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Oh, and Bennett?'
'Yes, sir?'
'Bring me some fish and chips, will you? I can't be doing with canteen
food. Shocking indigestion, it gives me.'
George hung up, shaking his head. He lit a cigarette, screwing up his eyes
and turning to scan the room behind him. Clough was leaning negligently
against a table, scrutinizing one of the OS maps pinned to the wall. Grundy
hovered near the door, uncertain whether he should go or stay. 'Clough,
Grundy,' George said through a mouthful of smoke. 'Car, now. We're off
to Buxton.'
The doors were barely slammed when George turned in his seat, glared
at Grundy and said, 'Peter Crowther.'
'Peter Crowther, sir?' Grundy was trying for innocence and failing, his edgy eyes giving him away.
'Yes, Grundy. Alison's uncle, the one with the record of sex offences.
That Peter Crowther,' George said sarcastically, stabbing his foot at the
accelerator and jerking them all backwards as he shot up the lane towards
Longnor.
'What about him, sir?'
'How come the first I hear about Peter Crowther is from the DCI?
How is it that, with all your local knowledge, you didn't get round to
mentioning Peter Crowther?' George had abandoned his sarcasm, going
for the silky gentleness of the sadistic teacher who lulls his unwary pupils
into false security before cutting off at the knees.
'I didn't think it was relevant. I mean, he lives in Buxton, has done
for the last twenty years or more. I never gave him a thought,' Grundy
said, his ears scarlet.
'That's why you're still a PC, Grundy,' Clough said, swivelling in his
seat and giving the constable the hard insolent stare that had catapulted
a disturbing number of prisoners into violence that would more than
double the sentences for their original offences. 'You don't think.'
'That's true, Clough, but you don't have to have a brain to get stuck
on point duty in Derby city centre for a few years,' George said, sweet
reason in a shirt and tie. 'Village bobbies, however, are supposed to be
96

able to think for themselves. PC Grundy, unless you truly fancy a change
of assignment, I suggest you use the miles between here and Buxton to
tell us all you know about Peter Crowther.'
Grundy rubbed his eyebrow with the knuckle of his index finger. 'Peter
Crowther is Ruth Hawkin's brother,' he said, like a man working out
complicated mental arithmetic. 'Diane's the oldest, that's Terry Lomas's
wife Diane. Then Peter, then Daniel, then Ruth. Peter must be a good ten
years older than Ruth. That'd make him somewhere around forty-five.
'I never really knew Peter, he was away from Scardale long before I even
became village bobby in Longnor. But I'd heard talk about him. Apparently
he's not the full shilling. His brother Daniel used to keep an eye on him
when he was still living in Scardale, but something happened - I don't
know what, nobody outside Scardale does - and they decided they didn't
want him in the dale any longer. So they had him shipped out to Buxton.
He lives in a single men's hostel up by the golf course at Waterswallows.
And he works in that sheltered workshop up the back of the railway yard,
the one that makes lampshades and wastepaper baskets. I knew he'd been
done for being a Peeping Tom, but it was summat and nowt.'
George sighed heavily. 'You knew all this about Peter Crowther, and
it never crossed your mind to mention it?'
Grundy shifted his weight from one buttock to the other. 'You'll
understand when you see him, sir. Peter Crowther's frightened of his
own shadow. I don't think he's capable of accosting anyone, never mind
abducting them.'
'He wouldn't have had to abduct Alison, though, would he?' Clough
butted in, his sarcasm cutting as a whip, his blue eyes cold. 'He was her
uncle. She wouldn't be frightened of him. If he said, "Hey, our Alison, I've
got a pair of roller-skating boots that'd fit you, d'you want to come and
see them?" she'd not have thought twice about going along with him. He
might be a bit strange, her Uncle Peter, but it's not like he was a stranger,
is it, PC Grundy?' He managed to make the rank sound like an insult.
'He's not got the nerve,' Grundy said stubbornly. 'Besides, when I said
they didn't want him in the dale, I meant it. As far as I know, Peter
Crowther's not been back to Scardale in nigh on twenty years. And
Scardale won't have been near him, neither. I doubt he'd even know
Alison if he passed her in the street.'
'We'll see about that,' Clough muttered, his face as grim as eyes narrowed
against the smoke from his cigarette.
97

Janet Carter had begged and pleaded to be kept off school in the wake of
Alison's disappearance. She might as well have saved her breath. Back in
1963, kids weren't supposed to have feelings like adults. Grown-ups fed
them all sorts of tales to shield them from things, thinking to protect
them. The worst crime to the adult mind was disrupting the routine,
for nothing would serve as a better signal to the younger generation
that something was seriously wrong. So the world could have been
about to end back in the dale, but Janet and her cousins still had to
be dropped off at the lane end and packed off to school like it was any
other morning.
But when she'd arrived at school the morning after Alison's disappearance,
it had been unexpectedly exciting. For once, Janet was the centre of
attention. Everybody knew Alison had disappeared. The police were at the
school, interviewing Alison's classmates and her teachers. There was only
one topic of playground conversation, and Janet had the inside track. She
was, in her small way, a celebrity. It was enough to make her forget the
terror that had kept her awake half the night, wondering where Alison was and what was happening to her.
There was a sort of delicious fear in the air, the sense that something
forbidden had taken place that none of the children could quite grasp
the significance of. Even those of them who lived on farms. They knew
what animals did, but somehow they never quite made the jump across the
species barrier. Of course, everyone had heard about girls being 'interfered
with', but none of them really knew what that meant, except that it was
something to do with 'down there' and the sort of thing that happened
if you let a boy 'go too far'. Though none of them really had a clue how
far too far was.
So the atmosphere at Peak Girls' High was highly charged when Alison
Carter went missing. Although most of her classmates were as scared,
anxious and almost as upset as Janet herself, there was a part of them that
felt stirred up in a way that was pleasurable even though they knew they
shouldn't be feeling like that. With all these emotions churning around,
both the Thursday and Friday had been exhausting school days. By the
time the final bell went, all Janet could think about was getting home and
letting her mother fuss over her with a cup of tea.
She had few reserves left for the shock that awaited her on the school
bus. The driver was bursting with the news that Alison's uncle was at the
police station, being questioned. Her reaction was instantaneous. It was
as if she closed in on herself. She was sitting on the front seat, where she
98

had always sat with Alison, as near to the driver as she could be. 'Which
uncle?' Derek asked.
The driver tried the usual sort of joke about everybody being related
in Scardale, but he could see Janet wasn't in the mood. So he simply said,
'Peter Crowther.'
Janet frowned. 'It must be some other Crowther, not a Scardale one.
Alison doesn't have an Uncle Peter.'
'That's all you know,' he said with a wink. 'Peter Crowther's Alison's
mother's daft brother. The one they shipped out of Scardale.'
Janet looked at Derek, who shrugged his shoulders, as baffled and
bemused as she was. They had never heard a word about a second
Crowther brother. His name had never been mentioned.
All the way back to the lane end, the bus driver kept on about Peter
Crowther, how he lived in a hostel and worked in a sheltered workshop
for nutters that the council didn't think were daft enough to be locked
up, how he supposedly had some dark secret in his past and now the
police thought he'd done away with Alison. Janet focused on the back
of his thick red neck and wanted him to die.
But she wanted the truth even more. Her father was waiting at the lane
end for the bus to drop the children off. He'd been there for ten minutes;
nobody in Scardale was taking any more chances. The first thing Janet said
when the bus door closed behind them was, 'Dad, who's Peter Crowther?
And what did he do?'
Ray Carter, being the kind of man he was, told her. Then she wished
he hadn't.
Grundy had been right about one thing at least, George thought as he
leaned against the wall of the interview room. Peter Crowther was afraid
of his own shadow. And of everyone else's. The first thing that had struck
him when he'd walked into the stuffy room was the thin acrid smell of
Crowther's fear, an odour quite distinct from the cheesy unwashed reek
of his narrow body. 'A chain-smoking interview,' Clough had muttered in
an aside, his nose wrinkled fastidiously against Peter Crowther's personal
miasma.
'What?' George had mumbled in reply as they stood on the threshold,
deliberately sizing up Crowther to lay an even heavier weight of apprehension
on the man.
'You have to chain-smoke or you throw up,' Clough illuminated him.
George nodded his understanding. 'You kick off,' he said, moving to
99

stand against the wall and letting Clough drop into the chair facing
Crowther. George jerked his head towards the door and the uniformed
PC who had been on guard slipped out with a look of relief.
'All right, Peter?' Clough said, leaning forward on his elbows.
Peter Crowther seemed to fold in on himself even more. His head was
the colour and shape of a wedge of Dairylea cheese, George decided.
Dairylea cheese with a straggle of cress stems across the top. Odd
that he should look so greasily pale while he smelled so grubby. He
didn't actually look dirty. His clean-shaven pointed chin was tucked in
towards his chest, his cat's eyes angled up towards Clough. The man could
have served as the illustrated dictionary definition of a cringe. He said
nothing in response to Clough's opening, though his lips moved, forming
silent words.
'You're going to talk to me sooner or later, Peter,' Clough said confidently,
dropping one hand to his pocket and taking out his cigarettes.
Nonchalantly, he lit up and blew smoke at Peter Crowther. When the
smoke reached him, Crowther's nose twitched as he inhaled it greedily.
'Might as well be sooner,' Clough continued. 'So tell us, what made you
decide to go back to Scardale on Wednesday?'
Crowther frowned. He looked genuinely puzzled. Whatever he felt
guilty about, it didn't seem to involve Scardale. 'Peter never,' he said,
his rising intonation indicating doubt rather than the bluster of the truly
guilty. 'Peter lives in Buxton. Waterswallows Lodgings, number seventeen.
Peter don't live in Scardale no more.'
'We know that, Peter. But you went back to Scardale on Wednesday
night. There's no point in denying it, we know you were there.'
Crowther shuddered. 'Peter never.' This time he was firm. 'Peter can't
go back to Scardale. He's not allowed. He lives in Buxton. Waterswallows
Lodgings, number seventeen.'
'Who says you're not allowed?'
Crowther's eyes dropped. 'Our Clan. He says if Peter sets foot in Scardale
ever again, he'll cut Peter's hands off. So Peter don't go there, see? Can
Peter have a fag?'
'In a minute,' Clough said, negligently blowing more smoke towards
Crowther. 'What about Alison? When did you see Alison last?'
Crowther looked up again, his troubled face confused. 'Alison? Peter
don't know no Alison. There's an Angela works beside him, she puts the
fringes on lampshades. Is it Angela you mean? Peter likes Angela. She's
got a leather jacket. She got it off her brother. He works in the tannery at
100

Whaley Bridge. Angela's brother, that is. Peter works with Angela. Peter
makes lampshade frames.'
'Alison. Your niece Alison. Your sister Ruth's girl,' Clough said
firmly.
At the sound of Ruth's name, Crowther jerked. His knees came up
towards his chest and he wrapped his arms tightly round them. 'Peter
never,' he gasped. 'Peter never!'
George moved forward and leaned his fists on the table. 'You didn't
know Ruth had a daughter?' he asked gently.
'Peter never,' Crowther kept repeating like a talisman.
George unobtrusively signalled to Clough to back off. The sergeant
leaned back in his chair and directed his smoke towards the ceiling. George
took his own cigarettes out, lit one and held it out to Crowther, who was
shivering now as he continued to mutter, 'Peter never. Peter never.' It took
a few seconds for Crowther to notice the offering. He looked suspiciously
at the cigarette, then at George. One hand snaked out and grabbed it.
He held the cigarette cupped inside his hand, the tip pinched between
thumb and forefinger, as if he expected it to be hijacked. He inhaled in
quick snatches, his eyes flickering and fluttering between George, Clough
and the cigarette.
'When did you last speak to anyone from Scardale, Peter?' George
asked kindly, slipping into the chair next to Clough.
Crowther gave a knotted shrug. 'Don't know. Sometimes Peter sees
family on the market on a Saturday. But family don't speak to Peter. One
time, in the summer, Peter was in the paper shop buying smokes and our
Diane came in. She nodded, but she didn't say owt. I think she wanted
to, but she knew if she did our Clan would hurt Peter bad. Clan always
makes Peter scared. That's why Peter never goes back to Scardale.'
'And you really didn't know Ruth had a daughter?' said Clough
the sceptic.
Crowther twitched, his face clenching round his cigarette in a tight
spasm. 'Peter never,' he moaned. He leaned forward into his knees and
began to rock. 'Peter never.'
George looked at Clough and shook his head. He stood up and walked
towards the door. 'We'll get somebody to bring you a cup of tea, Peter.'
Clough followed him into the hallway. 'He's hiding something,' George
said positively.
'I don't think it's anything to do with Alison, though,' Clough said.
'I'm not sure,' George said. 'I'm not committing myself till I know why
101



his family threw him out of Scardale. Whatever it was, it must have
been bad if his own sister still won't speak to him in passing twenty
years later.'
'You want him holding on to, then?' Clough said, unable to keep the
doubt out of his voice.
'Oh, I think so. Safest place for him, don't you think?' George said
over his shoulder as he walked towards the CID office. 'DCI Carver's
convinced he's our man, and it'll take more than my opinion to change
his mind. And a police station's always a leaky sieve. Before closing time,
half the town will know Peter Crowther's been questioned about Alison's
disappearance. I don't think Waterswallows Lodgings, number seventeen,
would be the best place for him in those circumstances.' He pushed open
the door and contemplated his chief inspector, plastered leg propped on
a wastepaper bin, evening paper in front of him. The whole room was
still fragrant with the unmistakable aroma of fish and chips soaked with
vinegar and wrapped in newspaper.
'Got him to tell you where the girl is yet?' Carver demanded.
'I don't think he knows, sir,' George said, hoping his voice didn't sound
as weary as he felt.
Carver snorted. 'Is that what a university education does for you?
Unbelievable. I'll give you till morning to get chapter and verse out of
that sad sack in the cells.' He caught himself. 'He is still in the cells, I
take it? You've not let him walk?'
'Mr Crowther is still in custody.'
'Good. I'm off home now, it's in your hands. If you've not got the
truth out of him by then, I'm taking over, pot let or no pot leg. He'll
cough, believe you me. He'll cough for me.'
'I'm sure he will, sir. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go back
out to Scardale.' George withdrew before Carver could offer any further
insults to his capabilities.
'Are we?' Clough asked, following George to the car. 'Going back to
Scardale?'
'I need to know what Peter Crowther did,' George said bluntly. 'He's
not going to tell us, so somebody else will have to. I'm tired of people in
Scardale that don't tell us what we need to know.'
102
9
Friday, 13th December 1963. 4.05 p.m.
George was beginning to think he would dream the road to Scardale
for the rest of his life. The car plunged down the narrow defile in the
gathering dusk of a gloomy winter afternoon. If the sun had made an
appearance through the day's cloud and mist, he'd certainly missed it, he
thought, slowing down as the village green grew near. Men were milling
around the police caravan, cups of tea sending wisps of steam to join the
wraiths of mist creeping down the dale. The day's fruitless searching was
over with the dying of the light.
Ignoring them, George crossed the green to Tor Cottage. It was time
Ma Lomas stopped behaving like a character from a Victorian melodrama
and started taking responsibility for what might happen to Alison if the
matriarch and her extended family continued to keep their mouths shut,
he told himself resolutely. As he rounded the woodpile that almost blocked
the path to her front door, his foot snagged on something and he pitched
forward. Only Clough's quick grasp of his arm prevented him from an
ignominious tumble.
'What the hell ... ?' George exclaimed, staggering to right himself.
He turned and peered through the gathering gloom at Charlie Lomas,
sprawled on his back amid a scattered pile of logs, and groaning.
'I think you broke my ankle,' Charlie complained.
'What in the name of God were you doing?' George demanded,
crossly rubbing his arm where Clough's strong fingers had dug into
the muscle.
'I was just sitting here, minding my own business, trying to get five
minutes' peace. It's not a crime, is it?' Charlie squirmed to an upright
position. He rubbed the back of his hand fiercely across his face and in
a gleam of light from the cottage window, George realized the youth's
103


eyes were bright with tears. He didn't look capable of abducting a kitten,
never mind a teenage girl.
'Thinking about Alison?' George said gently.
'It's a bit late to start treating me like a human being, mister.' Charlie's
shoulders hunched in defiance. 'What's the matter with you lot? She was
my cousin. My family. Ain't you got anybody to care about, that you think
it's so bloody strange that we're all upset?'
Charlie's words jolted George's memory. He'd learned early on in his
police life that he couldn't do the job as well as he wanted unless his
personal concerns were battened down firmly, protected from the raw pain
and unpleasantness of so much of his work. Mostly, he managed to keep
the Chinese walls intact. Occasionally, like now, the two realities collided.
Suddenly George remembered that overnight he'd acquired someone new
to care about.
A smile crept over him. He couldn't help it. He could see the contempt
in Charlie Lomas's eyes and the puzzlement in dough's. But the sudden
consciousness of the child that Anne was carrying was irresistible.
'What's so bloody funny?' Charlie burst out.
'Nothing's funny,' George said gruffly, dragging himself back into the
appropriate state. 'I was thinking about my family. And you're right.
I would be devastated if anything happened to them. I'm sorry if I
offended you.'
Charlie got to his feet, brushing himself down with his hands. 'Like I
said, it's a bit late for that now.' He half turned his head so his eyes were
obscured by the shadow. 'You looking for me or my gran?'
'Your gran. Is she in?'
He shook his head. 'She's not come back yet.'
'Back from where?'
'I saw her when we were coming back from looking for Alison. She was
walking across the fields, over between where you found Shep and where
we were yesterday, when you found that ... stuff.' Charlie frowned as if
recalling something half buried. 'It was like she was going over the same
road the squire was walking on Wednesday teatime.'
There are times when a particular combination of words shifts the
world into slow motion. As the significance of Charlie Lomas's words
sank in, George had the strange swimming sensation of a man whose
senses have moved into overdrive, leaving the outside world crawling by
at a pitiful pace. He blinked hard, cleared his throat then said carefully,
'What did you just say, Charlie?'
104
'I said my gran was walking over the fields. Like she was heading towards
the manor the back way,' he added. He'd obviously decided that in spite
of their treatment of him, it was in Alison's interests to be helpful to this
strange policeman who didn't behave like any copper he'd ever seen in
the flesh or at the pictures in Buxton.
George struggled to keep his self-control. He wanted to grab Charlie
by the throat and scream at him but all he said was, 'You said she was
walking the same road as the squire on Wednesday teatime.'
Charlie screwed up his face. 'So? Why wouldn't the squire be walking
his own fields?'
'Wednesday teatime, you said.'
'That's right. I particularly remember because of all the fuss later on
when Alison went missing.'
George exchanged a look with Clough. His incredulity met dough's
rage. 'You were asked if you'd seen anybody in the fields or the woods
on Wednesday,' Clough ground out.
'I wasn't,' Charlie said defensively.
'I asked you myself,' Clough said, his lips stretched tight over his teeth,
the sibilants hissing.
'No, you never,' Charlie insisted. 'You asked if we'd seen any strangers.
You asked if we'd seen anything out of the ordinary. And I didn't. I just
saw the same thing I've seen a thousand times before - the squire walking
his own land. Anyway, it can't have had anything to do with Alison going
missing. Because it was still light enough to see clearly who it was, and
according to what you said, Alison didn't go out till it was nigh on dark.
So there's no call to take that tone with me,' he added, straightening
his shoulders and attempting a maturity he hadn't earned. 'Besides, you
were too busy trying to make out I had something to do with it to listen
to anything I might have to say.'
George turned away in disgust, his eyes closing momentarily. 'We'll
need a statement about this,' he said, his excitement at the possibilities
this information opened up overcoming his frustration at the time wasted
because the literal minds ofScardale could see no further than the question
as asked. 'Get yourself up to the Methodist Hall and tell one of the officers
there I sent you. And give him every detail. The time, the direction Mr
Hawkin was walking in, whether he was carrying anything, what he was
wearing. Do it now, please, Mr Lomas, before I give in to the temptation
to arrest you for obstructing a police inquiry.'
He glanced over his shoulder in time to see Charlie's eyes widen in
105

panic. 'I never did,' he said, sounding half his age. 'He never asked me
about the squire.'
'I never asked you about the Duke of Edinburgh neither, but if he was
walking the fields, I'd expect you to tell me,' Clough snarled. 'Now, don't
waste any more time. Get your arse up the road before I decide to let my
boot help you.'
Charlie pushed past them and broke into a run, heading across the green
to one of the muddy Land Rovers parked opposite. 'Can you believe these
people?' George demanded. 'Jesus, I'm beginning to wonder if they want
Alison Carter found.' He sighed heavily. 'We'll need to talk to Hawkin
about this. He's lied to us, and I want to know the reason why.' He glanced
at his watch. 'But I want to find out about Peter Crowther too.'
'Depending on what the squire's got to say for himself, Peter Crowther
could be irrelevant,' Clough pointed out.
George frowned. 'You don't seriously think ... Hawkin?'
Clough shrugged. 'Do I think he's capable of it? I've no idea, I've hardly
spoken to the man. On the other hand, he has lied to us.' He enumerated
the possibilities on short, strong fingers. 'Either he's got something to
hide, or he's covering for somebody else he saw, or else he's criminally
absentminded.'
Before George could respond, the issue was settled by the appearance
of Ma Lomas, bundled in a winter coat and headscarf. She cocked her
head and said, 'You're blocking my path.'
The two men stepped aside. She carried on towards her door without
acknowledgement. 'We need to speak to you,' George said.
'I don't need to speak to you,' she retorted, struggling to rumble a large
iron key into the door lock. 'Never had to lock our doors before Ruth
Carter brought strangers into the dale.' The lock turned with a jarring
screech of metal on metal.
'Don't you care what happens to your own flesh and blood?' George
said.
She turned to face him, eyes narrowed. 'You know nowt, you.' Then
she opened the door.
'We'll be going to talk to the squire after we've spoken to you,' Clough
chipped in as she was about to disappear inside. She stopped on the
threshold, still as a mouse below a hovering hawk. 'We know about
him walking the field where you've just been. Mrs Lomas, we need to
eliminate Peter Crowther from our inquiries if he's an innocent man.'
For a moment she stood thinking, letting the seemingly unconnected
106

sentences settle. Then she nodded, cocking her head and fixing Clough
with a calculating stare. 'You'd better come in then,' she said at last. 'Mind
you wipe your feet. And no smoking in here. It's bad for my chest.'
They followed her into a parlour no more than nine feet square. A
dim room with only one small window, it smelled faintly of camphor
and eucalyptus. The stone floor was scattered with faded rag rugs. An
armchair sat on either side of a grate flanked by two black iron ovens,
each the size of a crate of beer. A kettle sat on one of the ovens, a curl of
steam disappearing up the chimney from its spout. A sideboard stood on
the opposite side of the room, its surface cluttered with carved wooden
animals and roughly polished chunks of limestone containing fossils. In
the tiny bay window, three tall ladder-back chairs in black oak loomed
above a small dining table, as if threatening it with a beating.
The only decorations were dozens of garish picture postcards of everything
from Spanish beaches to Scandinavian baroque town halls. Seeing
George's bemused stare, Ma Lomas said, 'They're Charlie's. It's like pen
pals, only postcards. He's a dreamer. Thing that makes me laugh is that
there's hundreds of people all over the world looking at Squire Hawkin's
postcard of Scardale and thinking Derbyshire village life is milk-white
sheep in a field full of sunshine.' She hobbled across to the chair facing
the door and settled herself down, squirming her shoulders until she was
comfortable.
'Can I sit down?' George asked.
'You won't like the armchair,' she told him. With her head, she gestured
towards the hard chairs. 'Better for your back, anyway.'
They turned a couple of chairs to face her. They waited while she leaned
forward, poking the glowing coals ablaze. 'Peter Crowther's in custody in
Buxton,' George said when she'd made herself cosy.
'Aye, I'd heard.'
'Should he be, do you think?'
'You're the copper, not me. I'm just an old woman who's never lived
outside a Derbyshire dale.'
'We could waste a lot of time trying to connect Peter Crowther to
Alison,' George continued, refusing to be diverted. 'Time that would be
better spent trying to find her.'
'I told you before, the trouble with you and your detectives is that you
understand nothing about this place,' she said, her voice irritated.
'I'm trying to understand. But people in Scardale seem more interested
in hindering than helping me. I've just had the experience of discovering
107

your grandson had omitted to mention something that could be a vital
piece of evidence.'
'That's hardly surprising, considering the way you treated the lad. How
come none of you had the sense to ask if he could have had owt to do with
Alison going missing? Because he couldn't have. When she disappeared,
he was here in the house with me. That's what you call an alibi, isn't it?'
she demanded scornfully.
'Are you sure about that?' George asked dubiously.
'I might be old, but I've got all me chairs at home. Charlie came in just
before half past four and started peeling potatoes. I can't manage them
with my arthritis the way it is, so he has to do them. Every night, it's the
same routine. He wasn't messing about with Alison, he was here, taking
care of me.'
George took a deep breath. 'It would have saved us a lot of time if
either you or Charlie had seen fit to tell us that. Mrs Lomas, in cases
involving missing children, the first forty-eight hours are crucial. That
time is almost up and we are no nearer finding a young girl who is one
of your relatives.' George's frustration made his voice rise. 'Mrs Lomas,
I swear I am going to find Alison Carter. Sooner or later, I am going to
know what happened here two days ago. If that means searching every
house in this village from roof beam to foundations, I'll do it. If I have to
dig up every field and garden in the dale, I'll do it, and to hell with your
crops and livestock. If I have to arrest every one of you and charge you
with obstruction or even with being accessories, I'll do it.' He stopped
abruptly and leaned forward. 'So tell me. Do you think Peter Crowther
had anything to do with Alison's disappearance?'
She shook her head impatiently. 'As far as I know, and believe you
me, I know most things around Scardale, Peter hasn't set foot in this
dale since the war ended. I don't think he even knows Alison exists. And
I'd put my hand on the Bible and swear she's never heard his name.' Her
lips clamped shut, her nose and chin approaching like the points of an
engineer's callipers.
'We can't be sure about that. The lass has been going to school in
Buxton. She's got the look of her mother. Don't forget, Mrs Hawkin
would have been about Alison's age when her brother last spent much time
around her. With somebody who's a bit lacking in the top storey, seeing
Alison in the street could have triggered off all sorts of memories.'
Ma Lomas folded her arms tightly across her chest and shook her head
vigorously as George spoke. 'I'll not believe it, I'll not,' she said.
108
'So, should we be interviewing Peter Crowther, Mrs Lomas?' George
asked, his voice gentler again in response to her obvious distress.
'If he'd have stepped into the dale, we'd all have known. Besides, he'd
have been at work,' she added desperately.
'They get Wednesday afternoons off. He could have been here. Mrs
Lomas, what did Peter Crowther do that got him sent away?'
'That's nobody's business now,' she said emphatically. Her eyes were
screwed up now, as if the firelight were the noonday sun.
'I need to know,' George persisted.
'You don't.'
Tommy Clough leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his notepad
dangling between his calves. George envied him his ability to appear
relaxed even in an interview as tense as this had become. 'I don't think
Peter Crowther could hurt a fly,' he said. 'Unfortunately, I'm not the
one who makes the decisions. I think it could be a while before Peter
sees daylight again. A woman like yourself, Mrs Lomas, who's never
lived outside a Derbyshire dale, you'll not have any reason to know
what prisoners do with men they think have hurt children. What they
do drives sane men mad. They hang themselves from the bars on their
windows. They swallow bleach. They'd cut their wrists with butter knives
if anybody were daft enough to let them have one. Your Peter will be used
and abused worse than a street prostitute in a war zone. I don't think you
want that for him. You or anybody else in Scardale. If you did, you'd have
seen to it that he caught what for twenty years ago. But you let him go.
You let him build a bit of a life for himself. What's the point in standing
idly by and letting him lose it now?'
It was a persuasive speech, but it had no effect. 'I can't tell you,' she
said, her head moving almost imperceptibly from side to side.
George noisily pushed his chair back, the legs shrieking on the stoneflagged
floor. 'I haven't the time to waste here,' he said. 'If you don't care
about Peter Crowther or about finding Alison, I'll go to someone who
will. I'm sure Mrs Hawkin will tell us anything we want to know. After
all, he's her brother.'
Ma Lomas's head came up as if someone had yanked at the hair on
the back of her head. Her eyes widened. 'Not Ruth. No, you mustn't.
Not Ruth.'
'Why not?' George demanded, letting some of his anger out. 'She wants
Alison found, she doesn't want us to waste our time on false leads. She'll
tell us anything we want to know, believe me.'
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She glared at him, her witch's face malevolent as a Halloween mask. 'Sit
down,' she hissed. It was a command, not an invitation. George retreated
to his chair. Ma Lomas stood up and moved unsteadily across to the
sideboard. She opened the door and took out a bottle whose label claimed
it contained whisky. The contents, however, were colourless as gin. She
filled a sherry glass with the liquid and drank it down in one. She gave
two sharp coughs, her shoulders heaving, then she turned back to them,
her eyes watering. 'Peter were always a problem,' she said slowly.
'He always had a dirty mind,' she continued, making her way back to
her chair. 'Nasty. Mucky. You'd find him out in the fields, staring at any
animals that were coupling. The older he got, the worse he got. He'd
follow anybody that was courting, his own kith and kin, desperate to see
what they were doing. You'd know when the ram were serving the ewes
because you'd walk into the wood and find Peter standing with his ...'
She paused, pursed her lips, then continued. 'His thing in his hand, eyes
on stalks, watching the beasts at their business. He'd been slapped and
shouted at, kicked and called for it, but it made no difference to him.
After a time, it didn't seem to matter so much. In a place like Scardale,
you have to endure what you can't cure.'
She stared into the fire and sighed. 'Then young Ruth started to change
from a little girl into a young woman. Peter was like a man obsessed. He
followed her around like a dog sniffing after a bitch in heat. Clan caught
him a couple of times up a ladder outside the lass's bedroom, watching
her through a crack in the curtains. We all tried to make him see sense
- she was his own sister, it couldn't go on. But Peter would never take a
telling. In the end, Clan made him move out of the house and sleep over
here in my cottage.'
Ma Lomas paused and briefly rubbed her closed eyelids. Neither George
nor Clough moved a muscle, determined not to break the momentum of
the story. 'One night, Clan came back from Longnor. He'd been having a
drink. This was during the war, when we were supposed to keep a blackout.
As soon as he turned into the dale, he could see a chink of light shining out
like a beacon from the village. He pedalled as fast as he could, wanting to
tell whoever it was that they had a light showing before the bobby saw it
and fined them. He was a good half-mile away when he realized it must
be coming from his own home. Then he really stepped on it. Soon, he
recognized the very window - Ruth's bedroom. He knew their Diane was
alone with Ruth, and he was convinced something terrible had happened
to one or other of them.' She turned to face her spellbound audience.
no

'Well, he was wrong, and he was right. He came roaring and rushing into
the house like a hurricane, up the stairs two at a time, near on hitting his
head on the beams. He flung open the door to Ruth's room and there was
Peter standing by Ruth's bed, his pants round his ankles, the lantern casting
a shadow on the ceiling that made his cock look like a broomstick. The lass
had been fast asleep, but Clan bursting in like a madman woke her up. She
must have thought she was having a nightmare.' The old woman shook
her head. 'I could hear her screaming right across the village geen.
'The next thing I heard was Peter screaming. It took three men to
drag Clan off him. I thought he was a dead man, covered in blood like
a calf that's had a hard birth. We locked him in a lambing shed until
his body had started to heal, then Squire Castleton arranged for him to
go into the hostel in Buxton. Clan told him if he ever came near Ruth
or Scardale again, he'd kill him with his bare hands. Peter believed him
then and he believes him now. I know you'll be thinking that what I've
told you means he could have seen Ruth in Alison and done something
terrible to her. But you're wrong. It means the very opposite. If you want
to make Peter Crowther crawl across the floor begging for mercy, just go
and tell him Ruth and Clan are looking for him. The last place he'd ever
come is Scardale. The last person he'd come near is anybody connected
to Scardale. Take my word for it, I know.'
She sat back in her chair, her narrative over. The oral tradition would
never die as long as Ma Lomas lived, George thought. She epitomized the
village elder who holds the tribal history, its integrity protected only by
her personal skills. He'd never expected to encounter one of those in 1963
in Derbyshire. 'Thank you for telling us, Mrs Lomas,' he said formally.
'You've been very helpful. One more thing before we leave you in peace.
Charlie said he'd seen Mr Hawkih in the field between the wood and the
copse on Wednesday afternoon. He told us you were retracing his steps
just now. Did you also see the squire on Wednesday, then?'
She gave him a calculating look, her eye as bright as a parrot's. 'Not
after Alison disappeared, no.'
'But before?'
She nodded. 'I'd been having a cup of tea with our Diane. When I
came out, Kathy were just getting into the Land Rover to go up to the
lane end to pick up Alison and Janet and Derek from off the school bus.
I saw David and Brian over by the milking parlour, bringing the cows
in. And I saw Squire Hawkin crossing the field.'
'Why didn't you mention this?' George asked, exasperated.
111

'Why would I? There was nothing out of the ordinary in it. It's his field,
why wouldn't he be walking it? He's always out and about, snapping away
with his camera when you least expect it. Besides, like I said, Alison wasn't
even home from school by then. He'd have had to be a bloody slow walker
to still be in the field when she came out with Shep. And this weather,
nobody walks slow in Scardale,' she added decisively, as if settling an
argument.
George closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his nose. When he
opened them again, he could have sworn a smile was twitching the corners
of the old woman's mouth. 'I'll have all this typed up into a statement,' he
said. 'I expect you to sign it.'
'If it's truthful, you'll get no argument from me. You going to let Peter
go now?'
George got up and deliberately tucked his chair back under the table.
'We'll be taking what you've told us into consideration when we make
our decision.'
'He's not a violent man, Inspector,' she said. 'Even supposing he had
seen Alison, even supposing she'd reminded him of Ruth, all she'd have
had to do was push him away. He's a cowardly man. Don't waste your
time on Peter and let a guilty man go free.'
'You seem to have made your mind up that whatever's happened to
Alison, somebody made it happen,' dough said, standing up, but making
a point of keeping his notebook open.
Her face seemed to close in on itself, eyes narrowing, mouth pursing,
nose wrinkling. 'What I think and what you know are very different
things. See if you can get them a bit closer together, Sergeant Clough.
Then we'll maybe all know what happened to our lass.' She glanced
up at the clock. 'I thought you said you were going to talk to Squire
Hawkin?'
'We are,' George said.
'Better get your skates on, then. He likes his tea on the table at six
sharp and I can't see him changing his ways for you.'
They saw themselves out. 'What did you make of that, Tommy?'
George asked.
'She's telling us the truth as she sees it, sir.'
'And the alibi for Charlie?'
Clough shrugged. 'She could be lying for him. She would lie for him,
I don't think there's any doubt about that. But until we find somebody
saying something different, or something more solid to tie him to Alison's
112

disappearance, we've got no reason to doubt her. And I agree with her
about Crowther, for what it's worth.'
The too.' George ran a hand over his face. The skin felt raw with
tiredness, the very bones seeming nearer the surface. He sighed.
'We should let him go, sir,' Clough said, fishing out his cigarettes and
passing one to George. 'He's not going to run. He's got nowhere to run
to. I could call the station from the phone box and tell them to bail him.
They can give him stringent conditions - he shouldn't go within five miles
of Scardale, he's got to stay at the hostel, he should report daily. But there's
no need to keep him in, surely.'
'You don't think we're exposing him to lynch-mob justice?' George
asked.
'The longer we keep him, the worse it looks for him. We could get
the duty officer to tip the wink to the newspaper lads that Crowther was
never a suspect, just a vulnerable adult relative that we brought in so
we could interview him away from the pressures of the outside world.
Some sort of rubbish like that. And I could mention the need to spread
the same word round the pubs.' There was a stubborn set to Clough's
jaw. He had a point, and George was too tired to argue a case he didn't
feel passionately about either way.
'All right, Tommy. You call them and say it's my orders. And make sure
somebody informs the DCI. He won't like it, but that's his hard cheese.
I'll see you in the caravan. If I don't get a brew inside me, I'll be falling
off my perch before I can get anything out of the squire.'
George didn't even wait for a response. He walked straight across the
green to the police caravan. No prickle of intuition made him turn and
stay Detective Sergeant Clough's hand. After all, Clough was convinced
he was doing the right thing. Not even Ma Lomas's instincts had cried
out against releasing Peter Crowther.
It was a burden of knowledge they would all share equally.
113

10

Friday, 13th December 1963. 5.52 p.m.
Ruth Hawkin was wiping her hands on her apron as she opened the kitchen
door ofScardale Manor. A brief hope flared in her eyes but found nothing
in their faces to fan the spark into flame. Hope abandoned, fear wasted
no time in taking its place. Judging from the dark circles under her eyes
and the pinched look of her pale skin, anxiety had been seldom absent in
the previous two days. Seeing her distress, George quickly said, 'We've no
fresh news, Mrs Hawkin. I'm sorry. Can we come in a minute?'
Ruth nodded and mutely stepped aside, still rubbing her hands on
the rough floral cotton of her wraparound apron. Her shoulders were
slumped, her movements sluggish and abstracted. George and Clough
trooped past her and stood awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen floor.
The unmistakable smell of steak and kidney floated on the air, making
both men salivate with hunger. George wondered fleetingly what Anne
would have waiting for him if he ever got home. One thing was sure:
it would be shrivelled past desirability at this rate. 'Is your husband at
home?' he asked. 'It was actually him we needed to have a word with.'
'He's been out searching with your lads,' she said quickly. 'He came
in exhausted so he went for a bath. Is it something I could help you
with?'
George shook his head. 'It's nothing to worry about. We just need a
word with him.'
She glanced at the battered enamel alarm clock on a shelf by the cooker.
'He'll be down for his tea in ten minutes.' She chewed the right-hand
corner of her lower lip in an unconscious parade of anxiety. 'It'd be
better if you could come back later. After he's eaten. Maybe about half
past? I'll tell him to expect you.' Her smile was nervous.
'If you don't mind holding back the tea, Mrs Hawkin, we'll speak to
114
your husband when he comes down,' George said gently. 'We don't want
to waste any time.'
The skin round her eyes and mouth tightened. 'You think I don't
understand that? But he'll be needing his tea after being out in the dale
all afternoon.'
'I appreciate that, and we'll be as quick as we can.'
'As quick as you can about what, Inspector?'
George half turned. He hadn't heard Hawkin open the door behind
him. The squire was wearing a shaggy camel dressing gown over striped
pyjamas. His skin glowed pink from his bath, his hair even more sleek
against his skull than before. He had one hand thrust in his pocket, the
other holding a cigarette in a pose that would have passed for debonair
in a West End theatre but only managed ridiculous in a Derbyshire farm
kitchen. George dipped his head in acknowledgement. 'We need a few
minutes of your time, Mr Hawkin.'
'I'm about to eat, Inspector,' he said petulantly. 'As I expect my wife
will already have told you. Perhaps you could call back later?'
Interesting, George thought, that Hawkin hadn't even asked if fresh
news had brought the police back to his kitchen. Not a mention ofAlison,
not a hint that he was concerned about anything except filling his belly.
'I'm afraid not, sir. As I've already indicated, in inquiries of this nature,
we believe it's vital not to waste time. So if Mrs Hawkin wouldn't mind
keeping your dinner warm, we'd like a word.'
Hawkin's sigh was theatrically loud. 'Ruth, you heard the inspector.'
He moved forward to the table, his hand snaking out from his pocket
and reaching for the back of his chair.
'It might be better elsewhere, sir,' George said.
Hawkin's eyebrows arched. 'I beg your pardon?'
'We prefer to interview witnesses independently of each other. And
since your wife has things to attend to in here, it seems sensible for us
to go elsewhere. The living room, perhaps?' George was inexorably polite
but irresistibly firm.
'I'm not going into the living room. It'll be like a cold store in there
and I've no intention of catching pneumonia for your benefit.' He tried
to soften his words with a swift triangle of a smile, but George found
it unconvincing. 'My study's warmer,' Hawkin added, turning towards
the door.
They followed him down the chilly hall to a room that looked like a
miniature gentlemen's club. A pair of leather armchairs flanked a grate
115

where a paraffin heater squatted. Hawkin made straight for the one
that overlooked the window. A wide desk with a scarred leather top
occupied the opposite end of the room, its surface scattered with ornamental
paperweights. The walls were lined with mahogany bookshelves
crammed with leather-bound volumes, ranging in size from tall ledgers
to tiny pocketbooks. A parquet floor, worn uneven with years of use,
was partly covered by a frail and faded Turkish rug. By the door was
a glazed gun cupboard containing a matching pair of shotguns. George
knew nothing about guns, but even he recognized that these were no
common farmer's rook controllers. 'Lovely room, sir,' he said, crossing
to the armchair opposite Hawkin.
'I don't think my uncle changed anything from his grandfather's day,'
he said. 'I shall want to modernize it a bit. Get rid of that tatty old desk
and clear out some of these books to make way for something more
contemporary. I need somewhere to store my photographic books and
my negatives.'
George bit his tongue. He'd have loved a room like this, redolent of
a connected past and present, a room he could imagine passing on to
a son. If he was lucky enough to have a son. The thought of what
Hawkin might do to it was painful, even though he recognized it was
none of his business. But it didn't make him like the man any better. He
glanced over his shoulder at Clough, who had slipped into the desk chair
and had his notebook out, pencil poised. The sergeant nodded. George
cleared his throat, wishing for the authority that a few more years would
automatically bring. 'Before I get on to the main reason we wanted to see
you, sir, I wanted to check that you haven't received any communication
asking for a ransom for Alison.'
Hawkin frowned. 'Surely nobody would imagine I have that kind of
money, Inspector? Just because I own a bit of land?'
'People get all sorts of ideas in their heads, sir. And with the Sinatra kidnapping
being in the news, it's as well to bear it in mind as a possibility.'
Hawkin shook his head sorrowfully. 'I've had no such thing. Not a
letter, not a phone call. We had several letters today from local Buxton
people who had heard about Alison's disappearance, but they were all
offering sympathy, not asking for money. You're welcome to take a look;
they're all on the dresser in the kitchen.'
'If you do, sir, it's important that you let us know. Even if you're warned
against telling us, for Alison's sake, you mustn't keep it from us. We need
your cooperation in this.'
116

Hawkin gave a nervous laugh. 'Believe me, Inspector, if anybody thinks
they're going to get their hands on my money as well as my stepdaughter,
they've got another think coming. You can rely on me to get right on
to you if anyone is foolish enough to think I'm in a position to ransom
Alison. Now, what was it you wanted to see me about? I've been out in
the dale all afternoon, and I'm famished.'
'We've discovered a small discrepancy between statements. We wanted
to clear the matter up. Finding Alison is our highest priority, so any potential
misunderstandings need to be sorted out as quickly as possible.'
'Of course they do,' Hawkin said, turning away to crush out his cigarette
in the ashtray perched on top of a pile of newspapers next to his chair.
'You stated that on the afternoon Alison disappeared, you were in your
darkroom?'
Hawkin cocked his head to one side. 'Yes,' he drawled, caution in
his eyes.
'All afternoon?'
'Why does it matter when I went into my darkroom?' he said. 'I don't
understand what my afternoon activities had to do with Alison.'
'If you could bear with me, sir, then we can resolve this problem very
quickly. Can you tell us when you went through to your darkroom?'
Hawkin rubbed the side of his narrow nose with his index finger. 'We
ate lunch at twelve thirty as usual, then I came through here to read the
paper. One of the drawbacks of rural living is that the post and the morning
paper seldom arrive before lunch. So I have my little ritual after lunch of
retiring here to deal with any post and read the Express. On Wednesday,
I had a couple of letters to answer, so it was probably somewhere in the
region of half past two when I went out to the darkroom. It's a small
outbuilding at the back of the manor that already had running water. I
had it converted. Are you interested in photography, Inspector? I promise
you, you won't have seen a private darkroom as well equipped and laid
out as mine.' Hawkin's smile was the nearest thing to unguarded candour
George had ever seen on his face.
'I'd like to take a look later, if I may.'
'You're welcome. Your uniformed lads were in there the night Alison
disappeared, just checking that she wasn't hiding there, but I explained
that it's normally kept locked. Because of the valuable equipment. But
please don't take their word for it. And if you ever need any professional photographs ...' Hawkin nodded at the gold ring gleaming on George's
finger. 'Perhaps a portrait of you and your wife?'
117

The thought of Hawkin's lounge-lizard charm focusing on Anne, even
mediated by a camera lens, was disproportionately repugnant to George.
Masking his distaste, he merely said, 'That's a very kind offer, sir. Now,
about Wednesday afternoon. You've told us you went across to your
darkroom about half-two. How long did you stay there?'
Hawkin frowned and reached for his cigarettes. 'I had quite a backlog
of printing to do. Entries for a competition, so it's important to get
the prints just so. I didn't come back indoors until just before dinner
time. I found my wife and Kathy Lomas getting themselves in a terrible
state in the kitchen about Alison. Does that answer your question,
Inspector?'
'It answers my question, but it doesn't resolve my difficulty. You see,
sir, we have been told that you were seen walking from the woodland
where we found Shep to the spinney where we discovered what we believe
to be traces of a struggle involving Alison. The time has been put at about
four o'clock on Wednesday afternoon. Can you explain why anyone might
think that, sir?'
It was Hawkin's ears that flushed first, turning a deep scarlet that
spread along his jaw and up his cheeks. 'Because they are stupid peasants,
Inspector?'
George sat up straight in his seat, astonished at the virulence of Hawkin's
response. 'I beg your pardon?'
'They've been inbreeding for centuries, Inspector. A village with three
surnames? Their not exactly going to win Top of the Form, are they?
Some of them barely know what year it is, never mind what day it is. Just
because one of those halfwits mistook Tuesday for Wednesday ... well,
it's hardly something to take seriously, is it? Look, Inspector, my uncle
ran this village as if it was his personal hobby for a very good reason.
He knew that without the protection of a squire, the people of Scardale
would never survive. They're just not equipped for the modern world.'
Suddenly, Hawkin ran out of vitriol. He ran a hand over his hair and
managed one of his neat three-cornered smiles. 'Believe me, Inspector,
I never moved out of my darkroom on Wednesday afternoon. Whoever
told you otherwise was mistaken.'
Before George could respond, Clough chimed in with the perfect timing
that makes comedy duos into stars. Ostentatiously flicking back the pages
of his notebook, he spoke apologetically, 'Sir, there were two statements.
Two individuals claim they saw you in the same place at about four o'clock
on Wednesday. If it was just the one, well, frankly, sir, we've seen enough
118

in the last couple of days to understand exactly what you're getting at.
But with two ... It's a bit more awkward.'
This time, Hawkin's smile appeared genuine. For the first time, George
had a flash of what had attracted a Scardale widow like Ruth Carter. When
he smiled, Hawkin had the same devilish quality as the young David Niven.
And the same smoothness, George added mentally as Hawkin offered both
policemen cigarettes with an expansive gesture. 'Thankfully, there's a perfectly
reasonable explanation,' he said, his voice straining for lightness.
'And that would be?' George asked, leaning forward to accept a light,
his eyes never leaving Hawkin's.
'I'm often out in the dale. I take photographs, I walk my land to make
sure everything is as it should be. You have to keep them up to the mark,
you know, or the walls would be nothing more than piles of limestone
rubble. And as for the gates ...' Pursed lips, shaken head. 'Anyway, it
so happens that on Tuesday I was in the field you mentioned. Obviously
a couple of the villagers saw me there. After Alison disappeared, they'll
have been arguing about what day it was. Now, if I had been a Carter or
a Crowther or a Lomas, I'd have been given the benefit of the doubt and
they'd all have agreed it was Tuesday. But I'm an outsider, so they're always
ready to think the worst of me. And, let's not forget, they're like children,
always playing to the gallery. So if there was any doubt in what passes
for a mind among the Carters, the Crowthers and the Lomases, they'd
automatically pick the version of events that made them look important
and me look bad.' Hawkin leaned back in his seat, crossing one leg over
the other to reveal a bony ankle and a few inches of white, hairy skin
between pyjama and slipper.
'You're certain it wasn't Wednesday?' George asked.
'I'm positive.'
'And you'd be willing to sign a sworn statement to that effect?' George
asked. Nothing Hawkin had said persuaded him Ma Lomas and Charlie
were mistaken, but it remained their word against his. And George knew
who would make the more convincing witness.
They were back in the kitchen within a couple of minutes. Ruth Hawkin
was sitting at the kitchen table, a forgotten cigarette in the ashtray next
to her transformed into three inches of marled grey ash. Her hand was
clamped over her mouth and her eyes were fixed on the front page of a
newspaper on the table in front of her.
'What's the matter?' Hawkin asked, his voice showing more concern
for his wife than he ever had in George's hearing before.
119

FR1;Wordlessly, she pushed the paper towards the three men. It was that
week's High Peak Courant, printed that very afternoon. George stared
down at the front page headlines, scarcely able to credit what he was
reading.
RELATIVE IN CUSTODY
IN MISSING GIRL HUNT
A man is being questioned by Buxton police in
connection with the disappearance of Scardale
schoolgirl Alison Carter.
The man assisting police with their inquiries
is believed to be a relative of the missing
thirteen-year-old who has not been seen since
late on Wednesday afternoon.
Alison took her collie Shep for a walk in
the woods by the river Scarlaston, as she often
did after she came home from school.
Police with tracker dogs have led a massive
two-day comb-out of the secluded dale.
Local fanners have searched isolated outbuildings
and High Peak Mountain Rescue
Team have investigated remote gullies where
Alison might have fallen.
Further searches are planned for the weekend.
Volunteers are asked to assemble at the
Methodist Hall on the B 8673 south of Longnor
at half past eight on Saturday morning.
The man in custody is thought to be a close
relative of Alison Carter, and familiar with the
Scardale area, although he has not lived in the
dale for twenty years.
He is believed to live in a hostel for single
men on the outskirts of Buxton. It is
understood that he is employed at a sheltered
workshop in the town, where he was
met by police when he arrived for work this
morning.
A police spokesman refused to confirm or
deny the Courant story, saying only that wideranging
inquiries into Alison's disappearance
were continuing.
Among those questioned have been Alison's
classmates at Peak Girls' High . . .
120

George could scarcely credit what he was seeing. The glory-hunting
Detective Chief Inspector Carver had wasted no time in leaking the story
to the local paper. He must have been on the phone to them even before
Peter Crowther was in the station. George's heart sank. He thought he
and Clough had protected Crowther by arranging for the word to be
spread that the man had no connection to his niece's disappearance.
They'd reckoned without the Buxton grapevine and the early deadline
of the weekly Courant. This paper was on the streets of Buxton. And
thanks to him, so was Peter Crowther.
Then he caught sight of Ruth Hawkin's stricken face and he reminded
himself that his anger would have to wait. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'There's
no reason to suppose he had anything to do with Alison's disappearance.
He's been released. That story should never have appeared.'
'What are you talking about?' Hawkin demanded, sounding genuinely
puzzled. He jerked the paper closer and read the first few paragraphs
again. 'I don't understand. Who is this relative who's been arrested? Why
weren't we informed? And why have you been pestering me with pointless
questions when you already have someone in custody?'
'That's a lot of questions, sir,' George said. 'Taking them one at a time,
the man the story refers to is your wife's brother, Peter Crowther.'
'No, that's not right. Her brother's called Daniel,' Hawkin protested.
'Mrs Hawkin's other brother is called Peter,' George persisted.
Hawkin glared at his wife. 'What other brother, Ruth?' His voice was
as tense as a fishing line holding a salmon.
She was still beyond speech, capable only of shaking her head. George
came to her rescue. 'Peter Crowther didn't fit in here, so the family
arranged for him to live and work in Buxton. He's not been near
Scardale in twenty years, and there's no reason to suppose he was here
on Wednesday.'
'But you arrested him!' Hawkin objected.
'The paper doesn't say that,' George said, conscious of his prevarication.
'It relies on innuendo and a few facts to imply that. Peter Crowther was
brought to the police station for questioning because my senior officer
thought it would provide better circumstances for interviewing him than
his place of work or the room he shares with another resident at the
hostel. He was questioned, and now he has been released.' He turned
back to Ruth, pulling out the chair next to her and sitting down. 'I'm
truly sorry about this, Mrs Hawkin. We do know the circumstances and
the last thing we intended was for you to be further upset. Would you
121

like one of us to explain to your husband, or would you rather talk to
him yourself?'
She shook her head. Her hand dropped from her mouth and she reached
for the dead cigarette, seeming surprised to find nothing there but a filter
tip and a finger of ash. Clough had a lit cigarette in her hand before she
could find her own. 'Ask Ma,' she said wearily, giving Hawkin a look of
tired pleading. 'She'll tell him. Please. I can't.'
Hawkin pushed himself upright. 'Bloody peasants,' he muttered. Turning
sharply away from the table, he stalked out of the room, slamming the
door behind him.
Ruth sighed. 'Was Peter frightened?' she asked.
'I'm afraid so,' George said.
'Good.' She looked speculatively at her cigarette. 'Bloody good.'
Friday, 13th December 1963. 9.47 p.m.
George had gone home when his eyes could no longer focus on the witness
statements. There had been a planning meeting between the uniformed
branch and CID to organize the volunteer searches for the morning. A
representative from the water board had come along to discuss draining
the two moorland reservoirs within four miles ofScardale, one on the bleak
Staffordshire uplands, the other in the greener hills between Scardale and
Longnor. George had found his eagerness almost ghoulish.
After the arrangements for the morning had been finalized, he'd suggested
a quick drink to Tommy Clough. They'd driven down to the tiny
Baker's Arms and settled in the gloomiest corner with a pint apiece. 'I
checked with the hostel,' Clough said. 'Crowther went straight back after
we cut him loose. He had his tea then went out about an hour later.
He didn't say where he was going, but there's nothing unusual in that.
The warden reckons he'll have gone out for a pint. Nobody's been there
looking for him, though, so it looks like he might have avoided having
the finger pointed at him.'
'I hope so. I've got enough to think about without having to feel
responsible for what happens to Peter Crowther.'
'Not your fault, sir. If anything does happen, it's down to the DCI
and that thick git Colin Loftus from the Courant. If ever there was an
argument for drowning at birth, it's Loftus.'
'I ordered Crowther's release,' George reminded him.
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'And quite right too. We'd no grounds for holding on to him. He's all
wrong for it.'
'Assuming there is an "it",' George said morosely.
'We both know there's some sort of an "it". Forty-eight hours and not
a sniff except for signs of a struggle and a bit of blood? She's dead, no
two ways about it.'
'Not necessarily. Whoever's got her could be holding her captive.'
Clough looked sceptically at his boss. 'With the Lindbergh baby,
like as not.'
George stared into his beer. 'I'm going to find her, Tommy. Ideally,
alive. But either way, I'm going to find Alison Carter. Whatever it takes,
Mrs Hawkin is going to know what happened to her lass.' He downed
the rest of his pint in one and stood up. 'I'm going back to read some
statements. You're overdue some sleep. And that's an order.'
He'd had to give up on the witness statements when hunger and
exhaustion conspired against him. Back home, Anne had been waiting,
sitting placidly in her armchair, knitting and watching TV. Within minutes
of his weary return, she had a bowl of soup in front of him. He sat at the
kitchen table, the monotonous motion of transferring the spoon from the
plate to his mouth almost more than he could manage. Behind him, Anne
stood at the stove, frying chopped bacon, onions, potatoes and eggs in a
kind of hash.
'How are you feeling?' he managed to ask, between finishing his soup
and starting his main course.
'I'm fine,' Anne said, sitting down opposite him with a cup of tea. 'I'm
expecting, not ill. You're not to worry. It's not a medical condition. I'm
more concerned about you, working without proper food or rest.'
George stared at his food, chewing automatically. 'I can't help it,' he
said. 'Alison Carter has a mother. I can't leave her not knowing what's
happened to her daughter. I keep thinking about how I'd feel if it was
my child that was missing, nobody knowing what had happened to her
or where she was, nobody seemingly able to do anything to help.'
'For heaven's sake, George, you're taking too much on your shoulders.
You're not the only policeman responsible for what's going on out
there. You take too much on yourself,' Anne said, a trace of irritation
in her voice.
'That's easy to say, but I keep being haunted with the idea that it's a
race against time. She could still be alive. While that's still a possibility,
I've got to give it everything I can.'
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'But I thought you had somebody in custody? Surely you can let up a
bit now?' She leaned across the table to refill his teacup.
George snorted. 'You've been believing what you read in the papers
again, haven't you?' he said, his voice a grim tease.
'Well, the Courant didn't leave much room for doubt.'
'The Courant story is a mess of innuendo and inaccuracy. Yes, we
picked up Alison Carter's uncle. And yes, he's got convictions for sex
offences. And there the similarity ends between the truth and what's in
the paper. He's a sad case who's scared of his own shadow. Definitely not
got all his marbles. All he's ever been done for is exposing himself, and
that was years ago. But when DCI Carver found out about him, he got
over-excited and went off like Sputnik.'
'Well, you can't really blame him, George. You're all in a state about
this case. It's not surprising if somebody loses his sense of proportion.
The uncle must have seemed like an obvious suspect. Poor man,' Anne
said. 'He must have been terrified.' She shook her head. 'This case seems
full of pain.'
'And there's no sign of it getting better.' He pushed his empty plate
away. 'Most cases, you can see a clear way forward. It's obvious who's
done what, or at worst, where you should be looking. But not this one.
It's full of dead ends and dark corners. They've searched the whole dale
and found nothing to lead us to Alison Carter. Somebody must know
what happened to her.' He sighed in exasperation. 'I wish to God I could
find out who.'
'You will, darling,' Anne said, pouring him a fresh cup of tea. 'If
anyone can, it's you. Now, try to relax. Then tomorrow, you can look
at things afresh.'
'I hope so,' George said fervently. He reached for his cigarettes, but
before he could extract one from the packet, the phone rang. 'Oh God,'
he sighed. 'Here we go again.'
124
11
Friday, 13th December 1963. 10.26 p.m.
George leaned forward in the passenger seat of Tommy Clough's Zephyr,
staring intently through the windscreen. Outside, shafts of light from
streetlamps illuminated slanted sheets of sleet that swirled in the wind
like net curtains in a draught. It wasn't the weather that interested George,
however. It was the running battle that swam in and out of the pools of
light outside the single men's hostel at Waterswallows.
'It's hard to credit,' he said, shaking his head. 'You'd think they'd be
glad to get home from the pub on a night like this. Wouldn't you rather
be in front of your own fireside instead of risking double pneumonia and
a clobbering from a bobby's truncheon?'
'After enough pints of Pedigree, you don't care,' Clough said cynically.
He'd been in the pub himself when he'd heard that a lynch mob was
marching on the men's hostel at Waterswallows. Pausing only to phone
the station, he'd driven straight to George's house, knowing his boss would
have been alerted. Now they were watching a team of a dozen uniformed
officers dispersing a mob of about thirty angry drunks with a degree of
controlled savagery that was as perfectly choreographed as a ballet. George
felt a profound sense of gratitude that it wasn't happening in weather clear
enough for anyone to photograph it. The last thing he needed was a bunch
of civil libertarians claiming the police were thugs when all they were doing
was making sure a bunch of drunken vigilantes didn't get the chance to
beat the living daylights out of an innocent man.
Suddenly three struggling men loomed up in front of the car - two
uniformed police officers and a man with shoulders a yard wide and a face
streaming blood. A truncheon rose and fell across the man's shoulders and
he slumped insensible across the bonnet of the Zephyr. 'Oh good. Now we
can have him for malicious damage as well,' Clough said ironically as one
125

officer cuffed the man's hands behind his back and left him to slide gently
to the ground, trailing blood and mucus.
'I suppose we'd better go and give them a hand,' George said with all the
enthusiasm of a man faced with dental treatment without anaesthetic.
'If you say so, sir. Only, us being in plain clothes, we might only cause
more confusion.'
'Good point. We'd better hang on till the uniformed lads have got it
sorted out.' They watched in silence for another ten minutes. By then, a
dozen men were in varying states of consciousness in the back of a paddy
wagon. A couple of constables held handkerchiefs to their noses while
another searched for the cap he'd lost in the melee. Out of the sleet,
Bob Lucas appeared, his overcoat collar turned up against the weather.
He pulled open the rear door of the car and dived in.
'Some night,' he said, his voice as bitter as the weather. 'We all know
who to blame for this, don't we?'
'The Couranff Clough asked in a butter-wouldn't-melt voice.
'Oh aye,' Lucas said. 'More like, whoever thought the Courant should
know. If I thought it was one of my lads, I'd skin him alive.'
'Aye, well,' said Clough with a sigh. 'We all know it wasn't one of your
lads, Bob. Nobody from uniform would have the nerve to give confidential
information to the press.' He softened the veiled insult with a crooked
smile over his shoulder. 'You've got them far too well trained for that.'
'Is Crowther safe?' George asked, turning round on the bench seat and
reaching over to offer the uniformed sergeant a cigarette.
Lucas nodded his appreciation and helped himself. 'He's not there.
After we released him, he came back, had his tea and went out again.
They're supposed to be back by nine, that's when the doors get locked.
But the warden says Crowther never showed up. He gave him quarter
of an hour's grace, knowing what kind of a day he'd had, but then he
locked up as usual. He says nobody rang the bell or knocked the door
before this lot showed up. Luckily, he had the sense not to open up and
they hadn't managed to break the door down before we turned up.'
'So where is he?' Clough asked, inching open his quarterlight so the
bitter wind could whip the smoke into the night.
'We've no idea,' Lucas admitted. 'His usual watering hole is the Wagon,
so I thought I'd drop by on the way back to the station, see what they had
to say for themselves.'
'We'll do it now,' George said decisively, glad to have action to divert
him from the constant nagging worry of the investigation.
126
'I've still got loose ends to sort here,' Lucas protested.
'Fine. You do that, we'll see the landlord at the Wagon.' George's nod
was dismissive. Lucas gave him a sour look, took a deep drag of the
cigarette and left the car without another word. If he'd been challenged,
he'd have said the wind slammed the car door shut.
'You know the landlord?' George asked as Clough cautiously eased the
car down the skid pan that Fairfield Road had become.
'Fist Ferguson? I know him.'
'Fist?'
'Aye. He used to be a professional boxer. Then, the story goes, he took
a bung to throw a fight, got caught and lost his licence. Then he made
a living for a while on the illegal bare-knuckle circuit. Earned enough to
buy the pub.'
'Makes you wonder whose application the licensing magistrates would
throw out,' George commented as the car slid into the kerb outside the
unappetizing Wagon Wheel pub. No lights showed behind the closed
doors and curtained windows.
'It's in his wife's name.'
They hurried from the car round the side of the building and huddled
in the lee of a stack of beer crates. Clough hammered on the door. 'I don't
fancy taking a hand searching tomorrow if this keeps up,' he said, tilting his
head back to see the upstairs windows. He banged on the door again.
A grimy yellow square appeared above their heads. A bald head popped
up, obscuring most of the light. 'Open up, Fist, it's Tommy Clough.'
They heard feet thunder down a flight of stairs. Bolts rattled behind
the door, then it opened to reveal a man who filled most of the available
space in the narrow corridor. He wore a set of woollen combs that might
once have been .white but were now the colour of dried snot. 'What the
bloody hell do you want this time of night? If it's a drink you're after,
you can sling your hook now.' He scratched his balls extravagantly.
'Nice to see you too, Fist,' Clough said. 'A minute of your time?'
Ferguson stepped back reluctantly. They filed inside, George bringing
up the rear. 'Who's that, then?' Ferguson demanded, pointing a thick
finger at him.
'My guv'nor. Say hello to Detective Inspector Bennett.'
Ferguson made a strange grunting noise that George took to be a laugh.
'Looks young enough to be your lad. What's up, then? Must be a damn
sight more than looking for a lock-in if you've brought the organ grinder,
Tommy.'
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'Peter Crowther drinks here,' Clough said.
'Not after tonight, he doesn't,' Ferguson said, his hands unconsciously
bunching into fists. 'I'm not having somebody that interferes with young
lasses in my bar.'
'What happened tonight?' George asked.
'Crowther turned up same time as usual. I thought he had more guts
than I'd given him credit for, but it turned out he had no idea anybody
knew he'd been in the nick all day. I shoved the paper under his nose
and he near about burst into tears. I told him if he wanted a drink in
Buxton tonight, he'd better find a pub where nobody could read. Then
I told him he were barred for life.' Ferguson's chest was puffed out, his
shoulders flexed back.
'Very bold of you,' George said drily. 'I take it Mr Crowther left?'
'Of course he bloody left,' Ferguson said indignantly.
'Do you know where he went?' Clough asked.
'I don't know and I don't bloody care,' Ferguson said negligently.
'For the record, Mr Ferguson,' George said, 'Mr Crowther had nothing
to do with the disappearance of his niece. The story in this week's Courant is a work of fiction. I'd be obliged if you'd lift your ban before your licence
comes up for renewal.' He turned on his heel and walked back into weather
that suddenly seemed more hospitable than the pub landlord.
'You should pay attention to Mr Bennett,' Clough said as he followed.
'He's going to be around for a very long time.' Ferguson glared at George's
back but said nothing.
They sat in the car and stared gloomily at the swirling sleet. 'Better go
back to the station and put out a request for patrols to keep a lookout for Crowther,' George sighed. 'Do you think tomorrow's going to be any
better than today?'
Saturday, 14th December 1963. 7.18 a.m.
There was little he could contribute to the search plans that the senior
uniformed officers were making for the day, so George wandered back
upstairs to his office and started the weary task of ploughing through
witness statements in search of something that might produce a lead.
He was reading an interview with Alison's English teacher when Tommy
Clough stuck his head round the door.
'Have you seen this morning's Daily News?' he asked.
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'No. The paper shop was still shut when I got in.'
Clough came in and closed the door behind him. 'Train's just in from
Manchester. I got one off the driver. I don't think you're going to like it.'
He dropped the paper in front of George, folded open to page three.
Clairvoyant joins hunt
for missing Alison
By our Staff Reporter
A top French clairvoyant has revealed exclusively
to the Daily News that missing schoolgirl
Alison Carter is still alive.
And she has offered her services in the search
for the thirteen-year-old whose disappearance
has baffled police.
Madame Colette Charest's clairvoyant powers
have amazed police in her native country
and she believes she can help find Alison,
who vanished from home on Wednesday.
With the permission of Alison's worried
parents, a member of our news team phoned
Mme Charest and gave her details of Alison's
movements after she returned from school to
the Derbyshire hamlet of Scardale where she
lived with her mother and stepfather.
Safe and well
Mme Charest said she was convinced the girl
was still alive.
'She is safe,' she told our staff reporter.
'She went away with somebody that she knew
and they travelled in a car.
'She is in a small house, one of a row of
many similar houses. I think it is in a city,
but it is many miles from her home.
'She has been in danger, but I sense that
she is safe for the time being.'
Mme Charest explained that she could not
give any more detailed information without a
photograph of Alison and a map of the area.
These have been sent to Lyons, France, by
129

special air courier and a full report of Mme
Charest's conclusions will appear in Monday's
News.
Police pledge
A police spokesman said, 'We have no plans
to consult a clairvoyant, though we do not dismiss
Mme Charest's comments out of hand.
'Stranger things have happened.'
Of Mme Charest, French gendarmes have
been quoted as saying that her powers were
'uncanny' after she had given assistance in
cases where police had no leads.
Weather permitting, members of the public
will today join Derbyshire police in further
searches of the bleak moors and dales around
Scardale.
George screwed the paper into a tight ball and threw it across the room.
'Don bloody Smart,' he swore, his cheeks scarlet against the dark bruises
under his eyes. 'Can you believe that? Safe and well?'
'I suppose it's possible.' Clough leaned against a filing cabinet and lit
a cigarette.
'Of course it's possible,' George exploded. 'It's possible that Martin
Bormann is alive and well and living in Chesterfield, but it's not bloody
likely, is it? What's this going to do to Ruth Hawkin? I can't believe any
newspaper could be so irresponsible! And who gave them that bloody
silly quote?'
'Nobody, probably. Smart likely invented it.'
'Oh God,' George sighed. 'What's it going to be next, Tommy?' He took
a cigarette from the packet lying already open on his desk and inhaled
deeply. 'I'll buy you another paper,' he apologized. 'Anything you like
except the News. Oh God, he'll be at the press conference, grinning like
a Cheshire cat.'
'You could get the super to ban him.'
'I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.' George pushed his chair back
and stood up. 'Let's go to Scardale. I'm sick of these four walls.'
Smart was there before them. As they pulled up by the village green, they
saw him pushing a paper through the letterbox of Crag Cottage. While they
130

looked on, Smart carried on to Meadow Cottage and delivered another
copy. 'I'll swing for him,' George said, opening the car door and striding
across the green to confront the journalist. With a sigh, Clough climbed
out and followed him.
'Congratulations,' George snarled while he was still a few strides away
from Smart.
'Good story, wasn't it?' Smart said, his foxy face pleasantly surprised.
'I didn't think an educated man like you would have appreciated it,
though.'
'Oh, I wasn't congratulating you on the story,' George said, now only
feet away from the man. 'I was congratulating you on your award.'
'Award?'
Clough couldn't believe Smart had walked straight into it. He bit his
lip to keep his smile secret.
'Yes, your award,' George continued with patently false bonhomie.
'The Police Federation Award for Irresponsible Journalist of the Year.'
'Oh dear, Inspector, didn't they teach you at university that sarcasm is
the lowest form of wit?' Smart leaned against the wall of Meadow Cottage
and folded his arms across his chest.
'Nobody could win the title of lowest form of anything while you're
still breathing, Mr Smart. Did you stop for one minute to consider how
cruel it is to raise Mrs Hawkin's hopes like that?'
'Are you saying she should give up hope? Is that the official police
view?' Smart leaned forward, eyes alert, beard bristling.
'Of course not. But what you held out with that piece of trash this
morning was false hope. Grabbing at headlines without thinking about the
consequences.' George shook his head in disgust. 'Does she exist, this Madame
Charest? Or did you make that up as well as your police quote?'
Now it was Smart's turn to flush with anger. His skin had the mottled
look of corned beef. 'I don't make stuff up. I keep an open mind. You might
benefit from doing the same thing, Inspector. What ifMadame Charest is
right? What ifAlison is miles from here, locked up in a house in Manchester
or Sheffield or Derby? What are you doing to check that out?'
George gave an incredulous gasp. 'Are you saying we should do a
door-to-door search of every city in England just on the off chance that
some charlatan in France might have struck lucky with her fantasies?
You're even more stupid than I thought.'
'Of course that's not what I'm saying. But you could put out an appeal
on the news. "Has anybody seen this girl? It's believed that Alison Carter
131

may be staying with somebody she knows. If you know of any house where
a teenage girl has appeared in the last few days, or if you know of anyone
who has connections to Scardale or Buxton whose behaviour has been at
all unusual, please contact Derbyshire Police on this number." That's what
I'm going to suggest to your boss at the press conference this morning.'
Smart straightened up, his face triumphant. 'Yeah, that's what I'm going
to suggest. And see how clever you look sitting beside him when he says
what a great idea it is.'
'You're sick, you know that, Smart?' It was the best George could do
and he knew it was weak even as he said it.
'You're the one that said you'd do whatever it took to find what had
happened to Alison Carter. I took you at your word. I thought you were
a bit special, George. But when push comes to shove, you're as set in your
ways as the rest of them. Well, God help Alison Carter if you're her best
hope.' Smart moved sideways, trying to pass George.
The policeman placed a hand in the middle of Smart's chest. He didn't
actually push him, just firmly held him in place. 'I will find out what
happened to Alison,' he said, his voice thick with emotion. 'And when I
do, you'll be the last to know.' He stepped back and released the journalist,
who stood staring back at him.
Then Smart smiled, a tight, sharp sickle that made no impact on the
hard glare of his eyes. 'Oh, I doubt that very much,' he said. 'You might
not like to think so, George, but you and me, we're two of a kind. Neither
of us cares who we upset as long as we get the job done the best it can
be done. You might not agree with me right now, but when you go away
and talk it over with your pretty wife, you'll know I'm right.'
George inhaled so deeply his physical size actually increased. Hastily,
Clough stepped forward and put a hand on his boss's arm. 'I think you'd
better be on your way, Mr Smart,' he said. One look at his face and the
journalist slid round the two of them and walked briskly to his car.
'How long do you think I'd get if I beat that smile off his face with a
truncheon?' George asked through stiff lips.
'Depends if the jury know him or not. Cup of tea?'
They walked together to the caravan where, even this early, the WPCs
were brewing up. George stared into a cup of tea and spoke softly. 'I
suppose you've worked this kind of case before, Tommy? Full of dead
ends and frustrations?'
'Aye, one or two,' Clough admitted, stirring three spoonfuls of sugar
into his tea. 'Thing is, sir, you just have to keep plugging away. It might
132
feel like you're battering your head against a brick wall, but as often as
not, part of the wall's just cardboard painted to look like the real thing.
The breakthroughs generally come sooner or later. And it's early days
yet, even though it doesn't feel like it.'
'And what if the breakthrough doesn't come?' What if we never find
out what happened to Alison Carter? What then?' George looked up, his
eyes wide with apprehension about what such a failure would mean, both
personally and professionally.
Clough took a deep breath then slowly exhaled. 'Then, sir, you move
on to the next case. You take the wife out dancing, you go to the pub
and have a pint and you try not to lie awake at night fretting over what
you can't change.'
'And is that a recipe that works?' George asked bleakly.
'I wouldn't know, sir, I've not got a wife.' Clough's wry smile didn't mask
the knowledge they both shared. If they didn't uncover Alison Carter's fate,
it would scar them both.
'Mine's pregnant.' The words were out before George knew he was
going to say them.
'Congratulations.' Clough's voice was curiously flat. 'Not the best of
times to get the news. How's Mrs Bennett?'
'So far, so good. She's not having morning sickness yet. I just hope ...
well, I just hope she's not in for a difficult time. Because I can't ignore
this inquiry, however long it takes.' George stared through the misted
windows of the caravan, not registering the gradual lightening of the sky
that signalled the start of another day's searching.
'It doesn't go on at this pitch for long, you know,' Clough said,
reminding George of what the younger man knew in theory but had
little direct experience of. 'If we've not found her after ten days or so,
say by next weekend, we'll stop searching. They'll close down the incident
room and pull back to Buxton. We'll still be following up leads, but if
we're no further forward after a month, it'll be put on the back burner.
You and me, we'll have other cases up to our armpits, but we won't close
this down. It'll stay open, we'll have reviews every three months or so,
but we won't be working it like this.'
'I know. Tommy, but there's something about this one. I worked an
unsolved murder when I was a DC in Derby, but it didn't get under my
skin like this. Maybe because the victim was in his fifties. It felt like he'd
had a life. Now it's looking more and more like we're not going to find
Alison alive, and that fills me with rage because she's hardly started living.
i33

Even if all she was ever going to do was stop in Scardale and have babies
and knit jumpers, it's still been taken from her and I want the law to do
the same to whoever did it to her. My only regret is that we don't hang
animals like that any more.'
'You still believe in hanging them, then?' Clough asked, leaning forward
in his seat.
'Where it's cold-blooded, yes, I do. It's different with spur-of-themoment
killings. I'd just put them away for life, give them plenty of
time to regret what they've done. But the kind of monsters who prey
on kids, or the animals that murder some innocent bystander because
they've got in the way of a robbery, yes, I'd hang them. Wouldn't you?'
Clough took his time answering. 'I used to think so. But a couple of years
back I read that book about the Timothy Evans case, Ten Rillington Place.
When he was tried, everybody believed he was bang to rights. Murdered
his wife and his kiddy. The boys in the Met even had a confession. Then
it turns out that Evans's landlord murdered at least four other women,
so chances are it was him that killed Beryl Evans. But it's too late to go
to Timothy Evans and say, "Sorry, pal, we cocked it up.'"
George gave a half-smile of acknowledgement. 'Maybe so. But I can't
take responsibility for other people's bad practice and mistakes. I don't
think I ever have or ever would push an innocent man into confessing
and I'm willing to stand by my own results. If Alison Carter has been
murdered, like we both probably think by now, then I'd happily watch
the man that did it swing from the gallows.'
'You might just do that if the bastard used a gun. They can still hang
them for that, don't forget.'
George had no chance to respond. The door to the caravan burst open
and Peter Grundy stood framed in the doorway, his face the bloodless
grey of the Scardale crags. 'They've found a body,' he said.
i34
12
Saturday, 14th December 1963. 8.47 a.m.
Peter Crowther's body was huddled in the lee of a dry-stone wall three
miles due north of Scardale as the crow flies. It was curled in on itself in a
foetal crouch, knees tucked up to the chin, arms curled round the shins.
The overnight frost that had turned the roads treacherous had given it a
sugar-coating of hoar, rendering it somehow innocuous. But there was
no mistaking death.
It was there in the blue-tinged skin, the staring eyes, the frozen drool
on the chin. George Bennett looked down at the hull of a human being,
recognition chilling him deeper than the bitter weather. He looked up at
the miraculously blue sky, oddly surprised that a winter sun was shining
as if it had something to celebrate. He certainly didn't. He felt sick, in
his spirit as well as his stomach. The bitter taste of responsibility was
sharp in his mouth. He hadn't done his job properly, and now a man
was dead.
George lowered his head and turned away, leaving Tommy Clough
squatting on his haunches by the body, giving it a minute scrutiny. He
crossed to the field gate where two uniformed men were stationed to
protect the scene until the pathologist arrived. 'Who found the body?'
he asked.
'The farmer. Dennis Dearden's his name. Well, technically, it was his
sheepdog. Mr Dearden came out at first light to check his stock like
he always does. It was the dog that alerted him to the presence of the
deceased,' the older constable said.
'Where's Mr Dearden now?' George asked.
'That's his place up the lane. The cottage.' The PC pointed to a
single-storey building a few hundred yards away.
'I'll be there if anybody needs me.' George walked up the lane, his step
i35

as heavy as his heart. On the threshold of the tiny cottage, he paused,
composing himself. Before he could knock, the door opened and a face
like a withered apple appeared opposite his, small brown eyes like pips
on either side of a nose as shapeless as a blob of whipped cream.
'You'll be the gaffer, then,' the man said.
'Mr Dearden?'
'Aye, lad, there's only me here. The wife's gone to visit her sister in
Bakewell. She always goes for a few days in December, buys all the
Christmas doings at the market. Come in, lad, you must be freezing
out there.' Dearden stepped back and ushered George into a kitchen
dazzling with sun. Everything gleamed: the enamel of the cooker, the
wood of table, chairs and shelves, the chrome of the kettle, the glassware
in a corner cabinet, even the gas fire. 'Set yourself down by the fire, there,'
Dearden added hospitably, pushing a carver chair towards George. He
lowered himself stiffly into a dining chair and smiled. 'That's better, eh?
Get a bit of heat into your bones. By heck, you look worse than Peter
Crowther.'
'You knew him?'
'Not to speak to. But I knew who he was. I've done some business
with Terry Lomas over the years. I know them all in Scardale. I tell you,
though, for a terrible minute out there, I thought it were the lass. She's
been on my mind, same as everybody round here, I suppose.' He pulled
a briar pipe from his waistcoat pocket and started prodding at it with
a penknife. 'What a business. Her poor mother must be half mad with
worry. We've all been keeping an eye out, making sure she wasn't lying
hurt in some ditch or hiding out in a barn or a sheep shed. So of course,
when I saw ... well, my natural conclusion was that it must be young
Alison.' He paused momentarily to fill his pipe, giving George his first
real opportunity to speak.
'What exactly happened?' he asked, relieved that at last he was faced
with a witness who seemed eager to offer information. After only three
days in Scardale, he had developed a fresh appreciation of garrulity.
'As soon as I opened the gate, Sherpa was off like a streak, down the
side of the wall. I knew right off something was amiss. She's not a dog that
goes off at half-cock, not without cause. Then, halfway along the field, she
drops to her belly like she'd been felled. Head down, between her front
paws, and I can hear her whimpering half a field away. Like she would
if she'd come upon a dead ewe. But I knew it wasn't no sheep, because
that field's empty right now. I only opened the gate because it's a short
136

cut to t' bottom piece.' Dearden struck a match and sucked on his pipe.
The tobacco was fragrant and filled the air with the aroma of cherries
and cloves. 'Light up yourself, if you've a mind, lad.' He pushed a worn
oilskin pouch across the table. The own mixture.'
'I don't, thanks.' George took out his cigarettes and made an apologetic
face.
'Aye, you'll not have the time for anything more complicated than
fags in your job. You should think about taking up a pipe, though. It
does wonders for the concentration. If I'm somewhere I can't smoke,
I'm damned if I can finish the crossword.' He gestured with a thumb
at the previous day's Daily Telegraph. George tried not to show he was
impressed. Everybody knew the Telegraph crossword was easier than The
Times, but it was no mean feat to complete it regularly, he knew. Obviously,
behind Dennis Dearden's loose tongue was a sharp brain.
'So when I saw the way the dog was behaving, my heart was in my
mouth,' Dearden continued. 'There's only one person I knew was missing,
and that was Alison. I couldn't bear the thought of her lying dead minutes
away from my front door. So I ran up the field as fast as I could, which is
not very fast at all these days. I'm ashamed to say, I felt kind of relieved
when I saw it were Peter.'
'Did you go right up to the body?' George asked.
'I didn't have to. I could see Peter wasn't going to be waking up much
before the last trump.' He shook his head sorrowfully. 'Bloody daft beggar.
Of all the nights to take it into his addled head to walk back to Scardale, he
had to pick the worst kind. He'd been away from the country too long.
He'd forgotten what weather like last night's can do to human beings.
The sleet soaks you through to the skin. Then when the sky clears and
the frost comes down, you've no resistance. You keep plodding on, but
the cold penetrates right to your bones. Then all you want to do is lie
down and sleep for ever. That's what Peter did last night.' He drew
on his pipe, letting a plume of smoke escape from the corner of his
mouth. 'He should have stopped in Buxton. He knew how to keep safe
in the town.'
George clamped his mouth tightly round his cigarette. Not any longer,
he thought. Peter Crowther had run out of options. His terror of losing
only the second place he'd ever felt safe had driven him back, against his
fear, to the place that had rejected him. It was exactly what George had
dreaded. But in spite of his concerns, he'd let Tommy Clough persuade
him to set Crowther free, because it was the most convenient way to deal
i37

with the problem. And thanks to a leaky CID and a sensation-hungry local
paper, now Peter Crowther was frozen stiff in a Derbyshire sheep field.
'Your farm's a bit off the beaten track for someone coming from Buxton
to Scardale, isn't it?' he asked. It was the only thing that gave him any
grounds for doubting Dearden's theory of how Crowther had died.
Dearden chuckled. 'You're thinking like a motorist, lad. Peter Crowther
thought like a countryman. You go back and look at an Ordnance Survey
map. If you drew a line from Scardale to Buxton, avoiding the worst of the
ups and downs, it'd go straight through that field. In the old days, before
we all got our Land Rovers, there would be somebody from Scardale across
my land at least once a day. It's not marked on the map as a footpath,
mind you. It's not a right of way. But anybody from round here knows
to respect livestock, so it never bothered me, nor my father before me,
that the folk from Scardale used it for a short cut.' He shook his head.
'I never thought it'd be the death of any of them.'
George got to his feet. 'Thanks for your help, Mr Dearden. And for
the warm. We'll be back to take a formal statement. And I'll make sure
somebody lets you know when we've moved the body.'
That'd be welcome.' Dearden followed him out to the front door. The
old man peered past him down the lane at a maroon Jaguar with two
wheels up on the verge. 'That'll be the doctor,' he said.
By the time George had walked back up the lane and into the field,
the police' surgeon was getting to his feet and brushing down his wideshouldered
camel overcoat. He peered curiously at George through square
glasses with heavy black frames. 'And you are?' he asked.
'This is Detective Inspector Bennett,' Clough chipped in. 'Sir, this is
Dr Blake, the police surgeon. He's just been carrying out a preliminary
examination.'
The doctor gave a curt nod. 'Well, he's definitely dead. From the rectal
temperature, I'd say he's been that way from somewhere between five
and eight hours. No signs of violence or injury. Looking at the way he's
dressed - no overcoat, no waterproof - I'd say the likeliest cause of death
is exposure. Of course, we won't know for sure till the pathologist's gutted
him on the slab, but I'd say this is natural causes. Unless you've found a
way of charging the Derbyshire weather with murder,' he added with a
sardonic twist of his mouth.
'Thanks, Doc,' George said. 'So, sometime between - what? One and
four this morning?'
'Not just a pretty face, eh? Oh, of course, you must be the graduate
138
we've all heard so much about,' the doctor said with a patronizing smile.
'Yes, Inspector, that's right. Once you know who he is, you might even
be able to figure out what he was doing wandering round the Derbyshire
moors in the middle of the night in a pair of worn-out shoes that would
hardly keep out the weather in the town, never mind out here.' Blake
pulled on a pair of heavy leather gloves.
'We know who he is and what he was doing here,' George said mildly.
He'd been patronized by experts and wasn't about to be riled by a pompous
ass who couldn't be more than five years older than him.
The doctor's eyebrows rose. 'Gosh. There you go, Sergeant, the perfect
example of how educating our police officers will advance the fight against
crime. Well, I'll leave you to it. You'll have my report early next week.' He
side-stepped George with a sketchy wave and set off towards the gate.
'Actually, sir, I'd like it tomorrow,' George said.
Blake stopped and half turned. 'It's the weekend, Inspector, and there
can be no urgency since you already have an identity for your corpse and
a reason for his being here.'
'Indeed, sir. But this death is connected to a larger investigation and I
require the report tomorrow. I'm sorry if that interferes with your plans,
but that is why the county pays you so handsomely. Sir.' George's smile
was pleasant, but his eyes held Blake's without flinching.
The doctor tutted. 'Oh, very well. But this isn't Derby, Inspector. We're
a small community out here. Most of us try to bear that in mind.' He
walked briskly away.
'It's obviously my week for making friends,' George remarked as he
turned back to Clough.
'He's a lazy sod,' Clough said carelessly. 'About time somebody reminded
him who pays for his Jag and his golf club subscription. You'd think he
would have been curious about the identity of a body he'd just been on
intimate terms with, wouldn't you? He'll be on the blower this afternoon
demanding to know what name to put on his report, I bet you.'
'We're going to have to go and break the news to Mrs Hawkin,' George
said. 'And fast. The jungle drums will have been beating. She'll know
there's a body on the moors, and she's bound to be thinking the worst.'
He shook his head. 'It's a bad day when hearing your brother's dead
passes for good news.'
Kathy Lomas was feeding her pigs, filling their troughs with a mixture
of wilted turnip tops and the vegetable trimmings and leftovers of the
139

village. The thunder of galloping feet over the frozen ground caught her
attention and she turned to see Charlie Lomas racing down the back field
as if the hounds of hell were after him. He would have run straight past
her if she hadn't reached out to grab one of his flailing arms.
His momentum whirled him round and cannoned him into the pigsty
wall, where he would have tipped right over into the sty if his aunt hadn't
grabbed the back of his heavy leather jerkin.
'What's up, Charlie?' Kathy demanded. 'What's happened?'
Winded, he bent double, hands on knees, chest heaving for breath. At
last, he managed to stammer, 'Old Dennis Dearden's dog found a body
in one of his sheep fields.'
Kathy's hand flew to her chest. 'Oh no, Charlie. No,' she gasped. 'That
can't be right. No, I won't believe it.'
Charlie struggled into a half-erect position, leaning on the wall and
panting. 'I was down by the Scarlaston. I've got some illegal traps down
there and I wanted to get them cleared out before the searchers got that
far up Denderdale. I cut back up through Carter's Copse and I overheard
a couple of bobbies talking about it. It's right, Auntie Kathy, they've found
a body on Dennis Dearden's land.'
Kathy reached out convulsively for her nephew and clung on to him.
They stood in their awkward embrace till Charlie had his breath back.
'You've got to tell Ruth,' she finally said.
He shook his head. 'I can't. I can't. I was going to tell Ma.'
'I'll come with you,' Kathy said firmly, grabbing his arm above the
elbow and marching him across the back fields to the manor. 'Those
bloody bastards,' she muttered angrily as they went. 'How dare they be
tittle-tattling about it before anybody's seen fit to tell our Ruth. Well, I'm
damned if I'm going to wait on their pleasure to break the news.'
Kathy dragged Charlie into the manor kitchen without knocking. Ruth
and Philip were sitting at the kitchen table over the remains of breakfast.
His breakfast, Kathy noticed. She didn't think Ruth had had anything but
tea and cigarettes since Alison had disappeared.
'Charlie's got summat to tell you,' she said baldly. She knew the
pointlessness of dressing up bad news.
Charlie repeated his stumbling words, anxiously eyeing Ruth. If she
hadn't been sitting down already, she'd have collapsed. What colour
was left in her face seeped away till she resembled a putty model. Then
she started shivering as if she had a fever. Her teeth were chattering
and her whole body was trembling. Kathy crossed the kitchen in half
140

a dozen strides and took hold of her, rocking her as she had her
children.
Philip Hawkin appeared oblivious to everything around him. Like Ruth,
he'd paled at the news. But that was the only common point in their
responses. He pushed his chair back from the table and walked out of
the room like a man sleepwalking. Kathy was too occupied with Ruth
to take it in at first, but Charlie stood staring after him openmouthed,
unable to credit what he'd just seen.
Ruth Hawkin was wearing fresh clothes, George noted. A brown jersey
dress under a knobbly heather-mixture cardigan indicated that she had
probably gone to bed and tried to sleep for the first time since Alison had
vanished. The dark bruises of insomnia told of her failure. She sat at the
kitchen table folded in on herself, a cigarette held in shaking fingers. Kathy
Lomas leaned against the cooker, arms folded, a frown on her face.
'I don't understand,' Kathy said. 'Why would Peter think of coming
back to Scardale now? When all this is going on?'
Ruth Hawkin sighed. 'He won't have been thinking like that, Kathy,'
she said wearily. 'Nothing penetrates his head except what affects him
directly. He'll have been upset by being at the police station, then when
he went for a drink somewhere he thought was safe, he gets terrorized
by the landlord. He only knows two places - Buxton and Scardale. But
by God, he must have been scared out of his wits if he thought coming
back to Scardale was the easy option.' She crushed out her cigarette and
rubbed her face in a washing motion. 'I can't bear it.'
'It wasn't your fault,' Kathy said bitterly. 'We all know who to blame.'
She pursed her lips and glared at George and Clough.
'No, not Peter. I can bear that. I've no grieving to do for him. It's
thinking about Alison I can't bear. When young Charlie came tearing
in saying there was a body up on Dearden's farm, I couldn't breathe.
It was like I'd been punched in the chest. Everything inside me stopped
working.'
She still hadn't been functional when he'd arrived, George thought.
Ruth had been sitting at the table, hands clasped over her head, as if she
wanted to hear nothing and see nothing. Kathy had been sitting beside
her, one arm round her shoulders, the other stroking her hair. There had
been no sign of Ruth's husband. When George had asked, Kathy had said
bitterly that Philip had gone drip-white when Charlie had brought the
news, then he'd walked out of the house. 'He'll not have gone far,' she
141


said. 'Chances are he'll be shut in that darkroom of his. It's where he
always goes when anything's going on he doesn't want to be part of.'
George decided Ruth Hawkin had more right to hear the news as
quickly as possible than her husband had to share the moment with her.
He blurted out his tidings in a single sentence. 'It's a man, the body that
we've found.'
Ruth's head jerked back. The look of dazzling joy on her face would
have outshone the Christmas lights in Regent Street.
'It's not her?' Kathy exclaimed.
'It's not Alison,' George confirmed. He drew a deep breath. 'I'm afraid
it's not all good news. We have tentatively identified the body. It'll have
to be confirmed by a member of the family, but we believe the dead man
is Peter Crowther.'
There was a long, stunned silence. Ruth simply stared at him, as if she
had taken in all she could with the news that the body in the field was not
her daughter. Kathy looked aghast. Then she jumped to her feet, disgust
on her face. She paced restlessly for a few moments, then had come to
rest against the cooker, where she still stood, glowering. She knew who
was to blame all right, George thought.
'Now, all I can think is, thank God it's not my Alison,' Ruth continued.
'Isn't that terrible? Peter was a human being too, but I doubt there'll be
anyone to mourn him.'
'We shouldn't have to be mourning anybody,' Kathy said, her voice
stinging George like a switch of nettles. 'When Ma Lomas started on with
her doom and gloom about how we'd all suffer for bringing strangers into
the dale, I thought she were gilding the lily as usual. But there was some
truth in what she said. You lot haven't managed to find Alison, and now
one of ours is dead.'
'Perhaps if you'd treated him more like one of yours when he was alive,
he still would be,' a voice from behind said. George turned to see Philip
Hawkin. He had no idea how long Hawkin had been standing in the
half-open doorway. But he'd clearly heard most of the exchange. 'They
hounded him from the village and then the Gestapo hounded him back,'
he continued. 'God, the ignorance of people. He was clearly harmless
enough. He'd never been violent; never, as far as I know, so much as laid
a hand on any female. I can't help feeling sorry for the poor wretch.'
'You must be relieved it wasn't Alison's body,' Clough said, ignoring
Hawkin's spleen.
'Of course. Who wouldn't be? I'm bound to say, though, that I'm
142
disappointed in you and your men, Inspector. Two and a half days,
and no news of Alison. You can see how distressed my wife is. Your
failure is a torment to her. Can't you do something more? Apply your
imagination? Search more thoroughly? What about this clairvoyant the
newspaper's consulted? Couldn't you pay attention to what she's come
up with?' He leaned on his fists on the table, two spots of colour in his
pale cheeks. 'We're under a terrible strain, Inspector. We don't expect
miracles, we just want you to do your job and find out what's happened
to our little girl.'
George tried to keep his frustration behind the mask of his official face.
'We're already doing our best, sir. There are more search parties going out
now. We've got hundreds of volunteers from Buxton, Stoke, Sheffield and
Ashbourne, as well as local people. If she's out there to be found, we will
find her, I promise you.'
'I know you will,' Ruth said softly. 'Phil knows you're doing your best.
It's just ... the not knowing. It's a slow torture.'
George dipped his head in acknowledgement. 'We'll keep you informed
of any developments.'
Outside, the raw winter air knifed into his lungs as he strode across the
green, gulping deep breaths. Almost trotting to keep up, Tommy Clough
said, 'There's something about Philip Hawkin that doesn't ring right.'
'His responses are all off-key. Like when you're speaking a foreign
language you've learned at evening classes. You might get all the grammar
and the pronunciation right, but you never pass for a native speaker
because they don't ever have to think about it.' George threw himself
into the passenger seat of the car. 'But just because he doesn't fit in
doesn't make him a kidnapper or a killer.'
'All the same ...' Clough started the engine.
'All the same, we'd better go and face the music at the press conference.
The superintendent's going to want to nail somebody's hide to the wall
over this, and as sure as God made little green apples, you can bet Carver
will have got his retaliation in first.' George leaned back and lit a cigarette.
He closed his eyes and wondered why he'd chosen the police. He could
have taken his law degree to some comfortable firm of solicitors in Derby
and become an articled clerk. By now, he might have been on the road
to becoming a partner specializing in something calm like conveyancing
or probate. Mostly, the idea repelled him. That morning, it was curiously
appealing.
He opened his eyes on long chains of men moving across the dale closer
i43

than arm's-length to each other. 'Nothing to find there except what the
earlier teams dropped,' he said bitterly.
'They'll be using the least fit ones here in the dale,' dough said
knowledgeably. 'They'll be keeping the top-class lads for the crags and
the dales that are off the beaten track. Terrain like this, there's always
going to be places we've missed just because we don't know it like the
back of our hands.'
'Do you think they'll find anything?'
Clough screwed his face up. 'Depends what there is to find. Do I think
they'll find a body? No.'
'Why not?'
'If we've not found the body by now, it's well hidden. That means it's
been put where it is by somebody that knows their ground far better than
anybody who's out there searching. So no, I don't think we'll find a body.
I think we've already found all that we're going to find without something
more to go on.'
George shook his head. 'I can't think like that, Tommy. That's tantamount
to saying that not only will we not find Alison, we won't find the
person who took her and probably killed her.'
'I know it's hard, sir, but that's what our opposite numbers in Cheshire
and Manchester have had to deal with. I know you don't want to be
reminded of what Don Smart's been writing, but we might have lessons
to learn from their experience, even if it's only in how to cope with
getting absolutely nowhere.' Clough stopped the car abruptly. There was
nowhere to park on the main road as far as the eye could see. Cars, vans
and Land Rovers jammed the verges. Where there were gaps, motorbikes
and scooters were slotted in. 'Oh, flaming Nora. What am I supposed to
do now?'
There was only one sensible solution. George stood by the Methodist
Chapel and watched Clough expertly swing the big car round and head
back down the lane to Scardale. He straightened his shoulders, took a
final drag of his cigarette and flicked it into the road. He had no relish
for what awaited him inside the church hall, but there was no point in
putting it off.
144

13
Saturday, 14th December 1963. 10.24 a.m.
The purgatory of the press conference was over sooner than George had
feared, thanks to the brisk military approach of Superintendent Martin.
He dealt with Peter Crowther's death with a laconic expression of regret.
When one of the reporters had challenged him about unofficial leaks to the Courant, Martin had turned his artillery on the man.
'The Courant's reckless speculation was of its own making,' he said in a
parade-ground voice that was clearly unaccustomed to dissent. 'Had they
checked the rumour they had picked up, they would have been told exactly
what every other reporter was told - that a man had been brought to the
police station for questioning for his own comfort and had been released
without a stain on his character. I will not have my officers turned into
scapegoats for the irresponsibility of the press. Now, we have a missing
girl to find. I'm taking questions relevant to that inquiry.'
There were a few routine questions, then inevitably Don Smart's foxy
features twitched into view as he raised his head from his notebook. 'I
don't know if you've seen the story in this morning's News7.'
Martin's bark of laughter was as harsh as his words. 'Until I met you,
sir, the only harlots I had met in peacetime had all been women. Though
maybe I'm not so wide of the mark in spite of the whiskers, because all your
work is good for, sir, is for filling the columns of the most sensationalist
women's magazine. I will not dignify your feeble attempts at stirring up
contention with a comment. Except to say that it is rubbish, sir, arrant
rubbish. I was tempted to ban you from these press conferences altogether
but I have been reluctantly persuaded by my colleagues that to do so would
give you the very notoriety you crave. So you may stay, but do not forget
that the purpose of our gathering here is to find a young, vulnerable girl
missing from home, not to sell more copies of your vile little rag.'
i45



By the end of his tirade, Martin's neck was the scarlet of a rooster's
crest. Don Smart merely shrugged and dropped his eyes to his notebook
again. 'I'll take that as a "no comment", then,' he said softly.
Martin had brought the conference to a swift end shortly afterwards. As
the reporters filed out, muttering among themselves and comparing notes,
George braced himself. Now the superintendent had warmed up against
Smart, he expected to be shredded and left for dead. Martin fingered the
salt-and-pepper bristles of his moustache and stared at George. Without
taking his eyes off him, he took his Capstans from his pocket and lit one.
'Well?' he said.
'Sir?'
'Your version of yesterday's events.'
George briefly outlined his personal involvement with Crowther. 'So I
instructed Sergeant Clough to tell the duty officer in Buxton that Crowther
should be released. We agreed that the duty officer should also be asked to
spread the word both to the press and locally through the beat officers
that there was no suspicion attaching to Crowther.'
'You had not seen the story in the Couranff Martin demanded.
'No, sir. We'd been out in Scardale all day. The paper doesn't reach there
till Saturday and we'd had no opportunity to see the early edition.'
'And the duty officer said nothing to Sergeant Clough about the
story?'
'He can't have done. If he had, Clough would have come back to me
before authorizing the man's release.'
'You're sure of that?'
'You'd have to check with Clough, sir, but based on my knowledge
of him, he'd have regarded any such story as a change in circumstances
that might affect the decision I'd taken.' George registered the frown on
Martin's face and prepared himself for the onslaught.
It never came. Instead, Martin simply nodded. 'I had a feeling it must
have been a breakdown in communication. So. Two black marks against
us. One, that one of our officers told the press something they should
never have known. Two, that the duty officer failed to give officers in
the field information relevant to their decision-making. We should be
thankful that Mr Crowther's family is too preoccupied with their other
loss to give much thought to our role in his death. What are your plans
for today?'
George gestured with his thumb at a short stack of cardboard boxes
by one of the trestle tables. 'I arranged for the witness statements from
146
Buxton to be brought over here so I can go through them and still be
on the spot if the searches produce anything.'
'They'll be finished searching by four, won't they?'
'Thereabouts,' George said, puzzled by the question.
'If they turn up nothing fresh, I expect you to be home by five.'
Sir?'
'I'm aware of the way you and Clough have been working this case,
and I see no reason why you should kill yourselves. You're both off duty
tonight, and that's an order. You have an important day tomorrow, I
want you rested for it.'
'Tomorrow, sir?'
Martin tutted impatiently. 'Has no one told you? My God, we need
to do something about the communications in this division. Tomorrow,
Bennett, we have the pleasure of entertaining two officers from other forces
- one from Manchester and one from Cheshire. As you were doubtless
aware even before Mr Smart of the Daily News drew our attention to the
matter, both forces have had recent cases of puzzling disappearances of
young people. They are interested in meeting to discuss whether there
appear to be any significant connections between their cases and ours.'
George's heart sank. Wasting his time being diplomatic with other
forces wasn't going to help him to find what had happened to Alison
Carter. Manchester City Police had had over five months to try and find
Pauline Reade and Cheshire had been searching for John Kilbride for a
good three weeks without any result. The detectives on those cases were
simply clutching at straws. They were more concerned with appearing to
be pursuing some sort of action on their own dead-ended cases than they
were with helping his inquiry. If he'd been a betting man, he'd have put
money on the meeting already being the subject of a press release from
the other two forces. 'Wouldn't it be better if DCI Carver handled the
meeting?' he asked desperately.
Martin eyed his cigarette with a look of distaste. 'Your knowledge of
the details of the case is altogether superior,' he said shortly. He turned
away and started walking towards the door. 'Eleven o'clock, at divisional
HQ,' he said, without turning back or raising his voice.
George stood staring at the door for long moments after Martin's
straight-backed exit. He felt a mixture of anger and despair. Already other
people were writing off Alison's disappearance as insoluble. Whether it
could be connected to the other cases or not, it was clear that his superiors
no longer expected him to find her at all, never mind to find her alive.
i47

Clenching his jaw, he yanked a chair towards the file boxes and began
the task of reading the remaining witness statements. It was probably
pointless, he knew. But there was a slim chance it might not be. And
slim chances felt like the only ones he had left.
Sunday, 15th December 1963. 10.30 a.m.
For once, one of the papers had got it right. Every copy of the Sunday
Standard contained a 12" by 19" poster. Extra copies had been distributed
to every newsagent in the country, and every one that George had passed
on his way to the police station was displaying it prominently. Under the
thick black headline:
HAVE YOU SEEN
THIS GIRL?
the paper had reproduced one of Philip Hawkin's excellent portraits of
Alison. The text beneath read:
Alison Carter has been missing from her home in
Scardale village, Derbyshire, since half past four on
Wednesday 13th December.
Description: 13 years old, 5ft, slim build, blonde
hair, blue eyes, pale complexion, with slanting scar
running across right eyebrow; wearing navy duffel
coat over school uniform of black blazer, maroon
cardigan, maroon skirt, white blouse, black and
maroon tie, black woollen tights and black sheepskin
boots.
Any information to Derbyshire County Police office
at Buxton or any police officer.
That was how journalists could help the police, George thought. He
148

hoped Don Smart had choked over his breakfast when the poster had
slid out of his copy of the Sunday Standard. He also wondered how
many homes in the area would be displaying the poster by nightfall. He
reckoned there would be more pictures of Alison Carter visible in High
Peak windows than there were Christmas trees.
It was a good start to the day, he thought cheerfully. It had already
started well. Since he hadn't had to rush out of the door before first
light, he and Anne had had the chance to wake naturally and lie chatting
comfortably. He'd brought a pot of tea upstairs and they'd had a rare
companionable hour that had set the seal on the evening they'd spent
together. If he'd been asked in advance, George would have vehemently
denied that he could have put Alison Carter from his mind for more than a
minute or two. But somehow, Anne's unfussy company had allowed him to
switch off from the frustrations of his investigation. They'd had a candlelit
supper, then listened to the radio cuddled up on the sofa together, giving
tentative shape to their dreams for their unborn child. It had been too
short a respite, but it had left him refreshed, his confidence restored in
spite of a restless sleep.
George fixed the poster to the CID notice board with drawing pins
borrowed from some of the official notices. It would be a striking reminder
to the visiting detectives that his case was very much alive. 'That looks
well.' Tommy Clough's voice echoed across the room as the door swung
shut behind him. He shrugged out of his overcoat and slung it over the
coatstand.
'I'd no idea they were planning this,' George said, tapping the poster
with his fingernail.
'It was all fixed up yesterday morning,' Clough said carelessly, fastening
the top button of his shirt and tightening his tie as he crossed
the room.
George shook his head. 'I wish I was plugged into your grapevine,
Tommy. Nothing happens here that gets past you.'
Clough grinned. 'By the time you've been here as long as I have,
you'll have forgotten more than I'll ever know. I only found out about
the posters because I was walking through the front office when the
messenger came to pick up the photo. I meant to tell you, but it slipped
my mind. Sorry, sir.'
George turned and offered his cigarettes. 'With us working so closely
together on this, you might as well make it George when we're on
our own.'
149

Clough took a cigarette and cocked his head to one side. 'Right you
are, George.'
Before they could say more, the door swung open again and Superintendent
Martin marched in. He was followed by two men dressed almost
identically in navy suits, trilby hats and trench coats. In spite of their
similar outfits, there was no prospect of confusing them. One had broad
shoulders and a thick torso carried on legs that were almost comically
short, barely allowing him to make the height requirement of five feet
eight inches. The other topped six feet but looked as if he'd disappear
if he stood behind a telegraph pole. Martin introduced them. The burly
man was Detective Chief Inspector Gordon Parrott from Manchester
City Police; the other, Detective Chief Inspector Terry Quirke from the
Cheshire County force.
Martin left them to it, promising to have tea sent up from the canteen.
At first, the four men were wary as strange dogs on their best behaviour
in an unfamiliar parlour. Gradually, however, as they offered details of
their own operations without anyone finding fault, they began to relax. A
couple of hours later, all four were agreed that there was almost as much
reason to suppose the three missing children had been snatched by one
individual as there was to suppose there were three separate perpetrators.
'Which is to say, we haven't got grounds to say anything one way or the
other,' Parrott said glumly.
'Except that you don't often get cases where there's nothing at all to
show what's happened,' George said. 'Which is what you two have got.
At least I've got the dog tied up in one piece of woodland and the signs
of a struggle in another. That's the crucial element that separates Alison
Carter's disappearance from Pauline Reade and John Kilbride.'
There was a grumble of agreement round the table. 'I tell you something,'
Clough added, 'I'd put money on Pauline and John being lifted
by somebody in a car. Maybe even two somebodies. One to drive and
one to subdue the victim. If the abductor had been on foot, there
would have had to have been witnesses. To get into a car, that's a
matter of seconds. But in spite of that old couple in Longnor who
saw the Land Rover parked up by the chapel, I don't see how that
can have happened to Alison. A kidnapper couldn't carry her all the
way from Scardale woods to the Methodist Chapel, not unless he was
built like Tarzan. And there were no strange vehicles seen in the village
that afternoon.'
'And they would have been seen,' George confirmed. 'If a mouse sneezed
150

in Scardale, it'd have half a dozen home-made cold remedies to choose
from before it could blow its nose.'
Parrott sighed. 'We've wasted your time.'
George shook his head. 'Funnily enough, you haven't. It's clarified my
thinking. I know now what we haven't got. The more I've talked and
listened this morning, the more certain I am that we're not dealing with
a stranger abduction. Whatever happened to Alison, she knew who she
was dealing with.'
Monday, 16th December 1963. 7.40 a.m.
The buoyant mood that had sustained George through another day's
fruitless searching vanished with the Monday-morning edition of the Daily News. This time, Don Smart's tame clairvoyant had earned him
the front page.
LOST GIRL: FRENCH SEER
GIVES DRAMATIC CLUE
Exclusive by a Staff Reporter
Investigations into the disappearance of 13year-old
Alison Carter took a dramatic turn
today as a clairvoyant gave police vital new
leads to her whereabouts.
Madame Colette Charest has given details
of what she believed were Alison's movements
when she disappeared five days ago
from the tiny Derbyshire hamlet of Scardale.
Speaking from her home in Lyons, France,
Mme Charest gave her findings based on
an Ordnance Survey map of the district, a
photograph of the pretty blonde girl and on
newspaper cuttings from the News.
Impressed
The details were passed on last night to Detective
Chief Inspector M. C. Carver, who heads
151

the team of detectives investigating the mysterious
disappearance. He said, 'We cannot
afford to ignore anything. Her report looks
impressive.'
Mme Charest has amazed French police with
her clairvoyant powers which have assisted in
previous hunts.
The 47-year-old French widow said she
'saw' Alison walking through woodland with
a man she knew. He was aged between 35 and
45, with dark hair.
She said Alison had been waiting for the
man by water and that she had been sad
and afraid.
Still alive
Most remarkably, Mme Charest persisted in
her conviction that Alison is still alive and
safe. 'She is living in a city. She is in a house
that is one of a row of brick houses on a hill.
'She arrived there in something like a small
van. It was night when she arrived and she has
not been outside since she got there. She is
not free to leave but she is not in pain.
"There is a school playground near the
house. She can hear the children playing and
that makes her sad.'
Meanwhile, teams of volunteers worked
tirelessly with police officers and mountain
rescue teams searching the dales and moorland
round Scardale.
Dogs and grappling irons were used to
check a large expanse of moorland which
contains several ponds and wells.
DCI Carver said, 'We are spreading the
search as widely as possible.
'The public are cooperating magnificently
but we still need positive information about
Alison's movements after she left home with
her dog on Wednesday afternoon.
'Perhaps this new information might jog
somebody's memory. No matter how insignificant
it may seem, we want to hear from
members of the public who might know something.'

152

'What does Carver think he's playing at?' he grumbled to Anne. 'The
last thing we want is to encourage this sort of thing. We'll be swamped
by every half-baked fortune teller in the country.'
Anne placidly buttered her toast and said, 'Most likely they twisted
what he said.'
'You're probably right,' George conceded. He folded the paper and
pushed it across the table towards his wife as he rose. 'I'm off now.
Expect me when you see me.'
'Try and get home at a decent time, George. I don't want you to start
getting into the habit of working all the hours God sends. I don't want
our baby growing up never knowing who its father is. I've listened to the
way the other wives talk about their husbands. It's almost as if they're
talking about distant relatives that they don't like very much. It sounds
like these men treat their homes as a last resort, somewhere to go when
the pubs and clubs are shut. The women say even holidays are a strain.
Every year it's like going away with a stranger who spends the whole time
fretting and sulking. That or drinking and gambling.'
George shook his head. 'I'm not that sort of man, you know that.'
'I don't suppose most of them thought that's what they were getting
into when they were newlyweds,' Anne said drily. 'Yours isn't a job like
any other. You don't leave it behind at the end of the working day. I just
want to make sure you remember there's more to your life than catching
criminals.'
'How could I forget, when I've got you to come home to?' He bent
over to kiss her. She smelled sweet, like warm biscuits. It was, he knew
now, her particular morning fragrance. She'd told him his odour was
faintly musky, like the fur of a clean cat. That's when he'd realized that
everybody had their own distinctive scent. He wondered if the memory
of her daughter's aromatic signature was yet another of the things that
tortured Ruth Hawkin. Stifling a sigh, he gave Anne a quick hug and
hurried out to the car before his emotions spilled over.
Swinging by the divisional headquarters to pick up Tommy Clough,
George decided to give the morning press conference a miss. Superintendent
Martin was far better at handling Don Smart than he'd ever be, and
the last thing he needed was to be sucked into the public confrontation
his anger made almost inevitable. 'Let's go and talk to the Hawkins,' he
said to his sergeant. 'They must know in their hearts that hope's running
out. They won't be wanting to admit it, either to themselves or to anybody
else. We owe it to them to be honest about the situation.'
i53


The wipers swept the rain off the windscreen with mindless monotony
as they headed off over the moors towards Scardale. At last, Clough said
gloomily, 'She's not going to be out there in this and still be alive.'
'She's not going to be anywhere and still be alive. It's not like abducting
a little kid that you can terrify and shut up in a cellar somewhere. Keeping
a teenage girl in captivity is in a different league altogether. Besides, sex
killers don't want to wait for their gratification. They want it now. And if
she'd been kidnapped by somebody who was idiot enough to think Hawkin
had enough money to make a ransom worthwhile, there would have been
a ransom note by now.' George sighed as he raised a hand to greet the
dripping constable who still stood guard at the gate into Scardale. 'Never
mind the Hawkins. We've got to face up to the fact that it's a body we're
looking for now.'
The slap of the wipers was all that broke the silence until they pulled
up on the village green alongside the caravan. The two men ran through
the rain and huddled under the tiny porch waiting for Ruth Hawkin
to answer George's knock. To their surprise, it was Kathy Lomas who
opened the door. She stood back to let them pass. 'You'd better come
in,' she said brusquely.
They filed into the kitchen. Ruth was sitting at the table wrapped in
a pink quilted nylon housecoat, her eyes listless, her hair loose and
uncombed. Opposite her sat Ma Lomas, layered in cardigans topped
with a tartan shawl pinned across her breast with a nappy pin. George
recognized the fourth woman in the room as Ruth's sister Diane, young
Charlie Lomas's mother. The three younger women were all smoking,
but Ma Lomas's chest didn't seem to mind.
'What's to do?' Ma Lomas demanded before George could say anything.

'We've nothing fresh to report,' George admitted.
'Not like the papers, then,' Diane Lomas said bitterly.
'Aye, they've always got something to say for themselves,' Kathy added.
'It'll be a load of rubbish, all that stuff about Alison being stuck in some
terraced house in a city. You can't hide somebody in the city that doesn't
want to be hid. Them houses, they've got walls like cardboard. Can't you
stop them printing that rubbish?'
'We live in a free country, Mrs Lomas. I don't like this morning's paper
any more than you do, but there's nothing I can do about it.'
'Look at the state of her,' Diane said, nodding at Ruth. 'They don't
think about the effect they'll have on her. It's not right.'
i54

George's lips pursed in a thin line. Eventually, he said, 'That's partly
why I've come to see you this morning, Mrs Hawkin.' He pulled out a
chair and sat facing Ruth and her sister. 'Is your husband in?'
'He's gone to Stockport,' Ma said contemptuously. 'He needs some
chemicals for his photography. 0' course, he can come and go as he
pleases. Not like them as are Scardale born and bred.' Her words hung
in the air like a thrown gauntlet.
George refused to pick it up. His own conscience was giving him
enough grief about his part in Peter Crowther's death without allowing
Ma Lomas free rein with her sharp tongue. He simply bowed his head
in acknowledgement and continued regardless. 'I wanted to tell you both
that we will be continuing the search for Alison. But I'd be failing in my
duty if I didn't tell you that I think it's becoming increasingly unlikely
that we'll find her alive.'
Ruth looked up then. Her face was a mask of resignation. 'You think
that's news to me?' she said wearily. 'I haven't expected anything else
since the minute I realized she was gone. I can bear that, because I have
to. What I can't bear is not knowing what's happened to my child. That's
all I ask, that you find what's happened to her.'
George took a deep breath. 'Believe me, Mrs Hawkin, I am determined
to do just that. You have my word that I'm not going to give up on
Alison.'
'Fine words, lad, but what do they mean?' Ma Lomas's sardonic voice
cut through the emotional atmosphere.
'It means we go on looking. It means we go on asking questions.
We've already searched the dale from end to end, we've searched the
surrounding countryside. We've dragged reservoirs and we've had police
divers checking the Scarlaston. And we've not found anything more than
we found in the first twenty-four hours. But we're not giving up.'
Ma snorted, her nose and chin almost meeting as she screwed up her
face. 'How can you sit there and look Ruth in the eye and say you've
searched the dale? You've not been near the old lead mine workings.'
i55

14

Monday, 16th December 1963. 9.06 a.m..
Bewildered, George saw his surprise mirrored on the faces opposite
him. Ruth's eyebrows furrowed as if she wasn't quite sure she'd heard
correctly. Diane looked baffled. 'What old lead mine workings, Ma?'
she asked.
'You know, up inside Scardale Crag.'
'First I've heard,' Kathy said, sounding mildly affronted.
'Just a minute, just a minute,' George burst in. 'What are we talking
about here? What mine workings are we on about?'
Ma gave an exasperated sigh. 'How much plainer can I make it?
Inside Scardale Crag there's an old lead mine. Tunnels and chambers
and whatnot. There's not much to it, but it's there.'
'How long is it since it was worked?' Clough asked.
'How would I know?' the old woman protested. 'Not in my lifetime,
that's for sure. For all I know, it's been there since the Romans were here.
They mined for lead and silver in these parts.'
'I've never heard of a lead mine inside the crag,' Diane insisted. 'And
I've lived here all my days.'
With difficulty, George resisted the impulse to shout at the women.
'Where exactly is this lead mine?' he asked. Clough was glad he wasn't
on the receiving end of this voice that cut like a blade. He'd had no idea
that George had such an edge in him, but it confirmed to Clough that
this had been the right star to hitch his wagon to.
Ma Lomas shrugged. 'How would I know? Like I said, it's never been
worked in my day. All I know is that you get into it some place down
the back of the spinney. There used to be a stream ran along there, but
it dried up years ago, when I was a lass.'
'So the chances are nobody knows it even exists,' George said, his
156
shoulders falling. What had seemed like a thread worth pursuing was
falling apart in his hands, he thought.
'Well, I know about it,' Ma said emphatically. 'The squire showed me.
In a book. The old squire, that is. Not Philip Hawkin.'
'What book?' Ruth said, showing the first sign of animation since the
two men had arrived.
'I don't know what it were called, but I could probably recognize it,'
the old woman said, pushing her chair back from the table. 'Has that
husband of yours chucked out the squire's books?' Ruth shook her head.
'Come on, then, let's take a look.'
In Philip Hawkin's absence, the study was as cold as the frigid hall.
Ruth shivered and pulled her housecoat tighter across her body. Diane
threw herself into one of the chairs and took out her cigarettes. She lit
up without offering them, then curled around herself in the chair like
a plump tabby cat with a mouse in its paw. Kathy fiddled with a pair
of prisms on the desk, holding them up to the light and turning them
this way and that. Meanwhile, Ma scrutinized the shelves and George
held his breath.
About halfway along the middle shelf, she pointed a bony finger. 'There,'
she said in a satisfied voice. 'A Charivari of Curiosities of the Valley of the
Scarlaston.' George thrust out an arm and pulled the volume down. It had
clearly once been a handsome volume, now ravaged by time and much use.
Bound in faded red morocco, it was about ten inches by eight, almost an
inch thick. He laid it on the desk and opened it.
'A Charivari of Curiosities of the Valley of the Scarlaston in the County
of Derbyshire, including the Giant's Cave and the Mysterious Source of the
River itself. As retailed by the Reverend Onesiphorus Jones. Published by
Messrs. King, Bailey 6- Prosser of Derby MDCCCXXII,' George read. '1822,'
he said. 'So where's the bit about the mine, Mrs Lomas?'
Her fingers with their arthritic knuckles crept across the frontispiece
and flicked over to the contents page. 'I recall it were near the middle,'
she said softly. George leaned over her shoulder and quickly scanned the
list of contents.
'Is that it?' he asked, pointing to Chapter XIV- The Secret Mysteries of
Scardale Cragg; Ancient Man in the Dale; Fool's Gold and the Alchemist's
Base Metal.
'Aye, I think so.' She stepped back. 'It were a long time ago. The squire
liked to talk to me about the history of the dale. His wife were an incomer,
you see.'
i57

George was only half listening. He flicked over thick off-white pages
flecked with occasional foxing until he came to the section he was looking
for. There, accompanied by competent line drawings that entirely lacked
atmosphere, was the story of lead mining in Scardale. The veins of lead
and iron pyrites had first been discovered in the late Middle Ages but
had not been exploited fully until the eighteenth century when four main
galleries and a couple of hollowed-out caverns were excavated. However,
the seams were less productive than they'd appeared and at some point
in the 1990S, the mine had ceased to operate commercially. At the time
the book had been written, the mine had been closed off with a wooden
palisade.
George pointed to the description. 'Are these directions good enough
for us to find the way in to these workings?'
'You'd never find it,' Diane said. She'd come up behind him and was
peering round his arm. 'I tell you who could, though.'
'Who?' George asked. It can't have been harder to get lead out of the
ground than information out of Scardale natives, he thought wearily.
'I bet our Charlie could,' Diane said, oblivious to his exasperation. 'He
knows the dale better than anybody living. And he's fit as a butcher's dog.
If there's any climbing or caving to be done, he's your lad. That's who you
need, Mr Bennett. Our Charlie. That's if he's willing, after the way you've
treated him.'
Monday, 16th December 1963. 11.33 a.m.
Charlie Lomas was as skittery as a young pup straining at the leash with
the scent of rabbit in his nostrils. Like George, he'd wanted to race down
the dale to the place where river met crag as soon as he'd known what
was afoot. But unlike George, who had learned the virtue of patience, he
saw no advantage in waiting for the trained potholers to arrive. As far
as Charlie was concerned, being a Scardale man was advantage enough
when it came to investigating the mysteries of Scardale Crag. So he'd
paced up and down outside the caravan, smoking incessantly, nervously
sipping from a cup of tea long after it must have been stone cold.
George stared out of the caravan window, glowering at the village.
'It's not as if we're not used to people withholding information, but
there's usually a motive behind it that you can see. Mostly they're either
protecting themselves or they're protecting someone else. Or else they're
158
just bloody-minded toerags who take pleasure in frustrating us. But here?
It's like getting blood out of a stone.'
Clough sighed. 'I don't think there's any malice in it. They don't even
know they're doing it half the time. It's a habit they've got into over the
centuries, and I don't see them changing it in a hurry. It's like they think
nobody's entitled to know their business.'
'It goes beyond that, Tommy. They've all lived in each other's pockets
for so long, they know everything there is to know about Scardale and
about each other. They take that knowledge totally for granted and simply
forget that we're not in the same boat.'
'I know what you mean. Whenever we uncover something they should
have told us, it's as if they're gobstruck that we hadn't already known
it.'
George nodded. 'This is the perfect example. Ma Lomas never said at
any point, "Oh, did you know there are some old lead mine workings inside
Scardale Crag? It might be worth searching there." No, like everybody else,
she assumed that we'd know about them and her only intent in mentioning
them was to get into my ribs because she thinks the police search has been
inadequate.'
Clough got up and paced the narrow confines of the caravan. 'It's
infuriating, but there's nowt we can do about it because we never know
what it is we don't know until we discover we didn't know it.'
George rubbed his eyes wearily. 'I can't help thinking that if only I was
better at getting the locals to tell us what they knew, we might have saved
Alison.'
Clough stopped pacing and stared at the floor. 'I think you're wrong.
I think by the time the first call was made to Buxton Police Station, it was
too late for Alison Carter.' He looked up and met George's eyes. Unable
to bear what he saw there, he added, 'But that might just be me whistling
in the dark because I can't stand the alternative.'
George turned away and looked again at the text in the nineteenthcentury
book, trying to marry its description to the large-scale Ordnance
Survey map. Tommy Clough, recognizing his limitations, sat down again
by the window and watched a pair of blackbirds scrabbling in the dirt
under the heavy shelter of an ancient yew tree. There would be work to do
soon enough; for now, he'd content himself with sitting and thinking.
The cavers arrived in a Commer van with rows of seats bolted to the floor.
Peak Park Cave Rescue was painted in an amateur hand across the doors.
i59

Half a dozen men spilled out across the green, apparently oblivious to
the rain, grabbing handfuls of gear out of the back of the van. One man
detached himself from the group and crossed to the caravan. Charlie
stopped pacing and stared eagerly at him, like a gun dog on point. The
man appeared in the doorway and said, 'Who's the boss man, then?'
George stood up, stooping under the low ceiling. 'Detective Inspector
George Bennett,' he said, extending a hand.
'You've got the look of Jimmy Stewart, anybody ever tell you that?' the
caver said, pumping George's hand briefly.
George frowned as he caught Clough's grin. 'It's been said. Thanks for
turning out.'
'Our pleasure. We've not had a decent rescue for ages. We're champing
at the bit for something a bit out of the ordinary. How d'you want to run
this?' He sat down on the bench seat, the rubber of his wet suit corrugating
across his lean stomach.
'We've got a vague idea where the entrance to these mine workings
might be,' George said. He gave a brief outline of what they'd learned
from the book and the map. 'Charlie here is a local. He knows the dale,
so he can probably give us some pointers on the ground. If we find it,
then I want to be with you when you go in.'
The caver looked dubious. 'You done any potholing? Any climbing?'

George shook his head. 'I won't be a liability. I'm fit and I'm strong.'
'You will be a liability, whatever you say. We're a team, we're used
to working together and looking out for each other. You'll upset our
rhythm. I don't really want to go into an unexplored cave system with
somebody that doesn't know what's what.' He rubbed his cheek with his
knuckles in a nervous gesture. 'People die in caves,' he added. 'That's
why we were set up.'
'You're right,' George said. 'People do die in caves. That's exactly why
I have to be there with you. It's possible that you might walk into a crime
scene. And I'm not prepared to compromise any potential evidence. You
have an area of expertise, I'm not denying that. But so do I. That being
the case, you're not going in there without me. Now, have you some
spare gear, or am I going to have to get one of your team to strip off
and give me his wet suit?'
The caver looked mutinous. 'I'm not putting my team at risk because
of your inexperience.'
'I'm not asking you to. I'll stay back, let you go ahead and check out
160

any potential dangers. I'll follow your orders. But I have to be there.'
George was implacable.
'I want to come an' all,' Charlie burst out, unable to keep quiet
any longer. 'I've been in caves, I've done potholing, and climbing. I'm
experienced. I know the terrain. You've got to take me.'
Tommy put a hand on his arm. 'It's not a good idea, Charlie. IfAlison's
in there, chances are she's not going to be a pretty sight. It'd upset you,
and you might destroy evidence without meaning to. My first murder, I
thought I was going to be the next victim. I threw up all over the crime
scene and the DCI looked like murdering me. Trust me. It's better if you
just help us find the way in.'
The young man frowned, pushing his hair back from his face. 'She's
family, Mr Clough. Somebody should be there for her.'
'You can trust DI Bennett to do his best for her,' Tommy said. 'You
know he wants this sorting as badly as you do.'
Charlie turned away, his shoulders slumped. 'So what are we waiting
for now?' he demanded, his bravado betrayed by the break in his voice.
'I need to get changed,' George said. 'I don't know your name,' he
added to the caver.
'I'm Barry.' He sighed. 'All right, we've got a spare suit that should fit
you. You'll need your own boots, though.'
'I've got wellies in the car. Will they do?'
Barry looked contemptuous. 'They'll have to.'
Twenty minutes later, they made a strange procession down the dale
and through the woodland where Charlie had uncovered the site of the
struggle with Alison. He led the way, closely followed by George and
Clough. Behind them the cavers walked in a clump, laughing, talking
and smoking cheerfully as if they faced nothing more demanding than
the usual Sunday exploration of some fascinating cave system.
When they reached the base of the crag, the cavers squatted on
the ground under the nearest trees and waited for directions. Charlie
moved slowly along the edge of the limestone, pushing back undergrowth
and occasionally clambering over fallen boulders to check if they were
obscuring the remains of a hundred-and-fifty-year-old palisade. George
followed where he could, but left most of the quest to Charlie, constantly
comparing the topography to the description in the book.
Charlie pushed through a thicket of young trees and dead ferns, then
pulled himself over a group of small boulders and dropped down on the
other side. He was lost from sight, but his voice carried clearly down the
161




dale to the waiting men. 'There's a gap in the cliff here. Looks like ...
looks like there's been a barricade, but it's rotted away.'
'Wait there, Charlie,' George commanded. 'Sergeant, come with me.
We need to see if there are any signs of disturbance other than Charlie's
tracks.'
They made their difficult way to the cluster of boulders, trying to
avoid being whipped in the face by overhanging small branches or
tripped by the tenacious bramble suckers that criss-crossed the undergrowth.
'It's impossible to tell if anyone's been here,' Clough said,
his frustration obvious. 'You could come at it through the woods, or
along the dale from the other side. As a crime scene, it's worse than
useless.'
They scrambled over the rocks and found Charlie dancing impatiently
from foot to foot. 'Look,' he exclaimed as soon as he saw them. 'It's got
to be this, hasn't it, Mr Bennett?'
It was hard to reconcile what they could see with the mine entrance
whose representation George had been studying all morning. Chunks of
rock had fallen away from the mouth of the tunnel, leaving it an entirely
different shape. The arch that simple tools had carved out of the soft
limestone now looked more like a narrow triangular crack, at least twice
as high as it had been. Bracken and ferns reached waist height, while an
elder tree camouflaged the higher part of what looked as if it might be the
way in. 'See,' Charlie said proudly. 'You can see the remains of the iron
spikes they hammered in to support the wooden barricade.' He pointed
to a couple of black lumps extruding from the rock at one side. 'And
down here ...' He pulled the bracken to one side to reveal the rotten
remains of heavy timber. 'I thought I knew every inch of this dale, but
I never knew about this place.'
George looked around with a heavy heart. Charlie had trampled the
area like a young elephant. IfAlison had passed this way, alone or under
restraint, there would be no traces now. He took a deep breath and
called, 'Barry? Bring your lads up here, would you?' He turned to Clough.
'Sergeant, I want you and Mr Lomas to go back to the caravan. I'm going
to need some uniformed officers down here to cordon this area off. And
not a word to the press at this stage.'
'Right you are, sir.' Clough clamped a hand on Charlie's shoulder.
'Time for us to leave it to the experts.'
'I should be in there,' Charlie said, pulling away and making a break
for the entrance. George neatly stuck out a foot between his legs. Charlie
162

crashed to the ground and rolled over, staring up at George with a look
of injured rage.
'That's us quits now,' George said. 'Come on, Charlie, don't make
this harder than it is. I promise, you'll be the first to hear if we find
anything.'
Charlie stood up and picked strands of bracken out of his hair. 'I'm
going back to tell my gran what I found,' he muttered defiantly.
But George had already turned his attention to the cavers, who swarmed
over the fallen boulders as if they were mere undulations in a path. Now
there was proper work to be done, they were quiet and methodical, each
man checking his equipment carefully. Barry handed George a hard hat
with a miner's lamp fixed to the front. 'Here's how it's going to be. You
stay back at all times. We don't know what it's going to be like in there.
Judging by the state of this, it's not looking to be too promising. Or safe.
So we go first, and you follow when I say and not before. Is that clear?'
George nodded, adjusting the strap of the hard hat. 'But if we find
anything that looks like recent disturbance, you mustn't interfere with
it. And if the girl's in there ... well, we'll just have to come straight
back out.'
Barry jerked his head towards one of his fellows. 'Trevor's got a special
camera for taking pictures underground. We brought it, just in case.' He
looked around. 'Right then. Des, you lead. I'll be at the back to make
sure George here does what he's told. You heard him, lads - no messing
with anything you find. Oh, and George - it's no smoking down there.
You never know what little surprises the earth has in store for you.'
It was like entering the underworld. The crack in the hillside swallowed
them, depriving them of light almost as soon as they had passed through its
portals. Feeble cones of yellow light splashed against streaked white walls
of carboniferous limestone. Patches of quartz glittered; damp drizzles of
wet flowstone gleamed momentarily; minerals striped and stippled the
rock with their particular colours. George remembered a trip he and
Anne had made to one of the show caverns near Castleton, but he
couldn't recall the correspondences between the strange markings and
their sources. It took him all his time to figure out that he was in a
narrow corridor, no more than four feet wide and five and a half feet tall.
He had to walk with knees bent to avoid battering the hard hat against
the strange excrescences that bloomed from the roof.
The air was damp but strangely fresh, as if it were continually renewed.
There was a constant irregular series of splashes as drips from the stalactites
163

became too weighty and their surface tension burst. The ground beneath
his feet was uneven and slippery, and George had to shine the beam from
his hand torch downwards to prevent tripping over one of the many
fledgling stalagmites that dotted the floor of the passageway.
'It's amazing, isn't it?' Barry called over his shoulder, his light briefly
blinding George.
'Impressive.'
'Leave it alone for a hundred and fifty years and it's well on its way
to becoming a show cave. I tell you, if we don't find anything here
today, we'll be back at the weekend to have a proper explore. You
know how the Scarlaston just seems to seep out of the ground? That
means there's got to be an underground cave system somewhere around
here, and this mine might just be the way through to that.' Barry's tone
of breathless excitement made George feel slightly queasy. He was far
from claustrophobic, but the other man's undisguised desire to spend
hours underneath these tons of inimical rock was entirely alien to him.
He loved the sun and the air on his skin too much to be attracted by
this strange half-world.
Before George could reply, a cry echoed back towards them from ahead,
so distorted it was impossible to decipher. He started forward, but Barry's
arm barred the way. 'Wait,' the caver ordered him. 'I'll go and see what's
what. I'll come right back.'
George stood fretting, trying to make sense of the mutter of voices
ahead of him. It felt as if he stood there for ever. But within minutes,
Barry appeared before him. 'What is it?' George asked.
'It's not a body,' Barry said quickly. 'But there's some clothes. Up
ahead. You'd better come and take a look.'
The cavers pressed against the wall to let George pass. A few yards
on, the passage widened into what had obviously been a junction of
four passages. The other exits had been blocked with rocks and rubble,
leaving a small cavern about ten feet across and seven feet high. On the
far side, barely visible by the lights from the cavers' lamps, it was possible
to make out what looked like clothing.
'Has anybody got a more powerful light?' George asked.
Hands thrust a heavy lamp towards him. He switched it on and pointed
its powerful beam towards the clothes. Something dark was bundled
against the rocks. What had at first looked like two dark strips became
identifiable as a torn pair of tights. The black cloth near them, George
realized with a lurch of pain and disgust, was a ripped pair of knickers.
164
He forced himself to breathe deeply. 'We're all going to leave now. The
man at the back, just turn round and head out. Everyone else, follow him.
I'll bring up the rear.' For a moment, no one moved. 'I said, now,' George
shouted, releasing a fraction of the pent-up tension that strung his nerves
tighter than the top string of a violin.
He stood glowering at them. At last, they turned and walked back,
their own sure-footedness a taunt to his stumbling pursuit. When they
emerged into daylight, he felt as if they'd been inside for hours, but a
glance at his watch revealed it had been less than fifteen minutes. Only
now were the two uniformed officers emerging from the woodland path
to keep the mine workings safe from prying eyes and destructive feet.
George cleared his throat and said, 'Barry, I'd like your colleague Trevor
to stay here with me and take some photographs. The rest of you, I'd
appreciate it if you'd wait here until we've got the area properly secured.
If you go back to the village now, the word will spread that we've found
something and the place'U be mobbed.'
The cavers muttered agreement. Barry fished a packet of cigarettes from
a waterproof pouch slung round his neck. 'You look like you could use
one of these,' he said.
'Thanks.' George turned to the two uniformed officers and said, 'One
of you, go back to the caravan and tell Sergeant Clough we've found
some clothing and we need a full team down here to secure a possible
crime scene. And for God's sake, man, do it discreetly. If anybody asks,
we have definitely not found a body. I don't want a repeat of Friday's
newspaper story.'
One of the bobbies nodded nervously and turned on his heel, jogging
back up the path towards the heart of the village. 'Your job is to make
sure nobody who isn't a police officer comes within twenty yards of this
mine entrance,' George told the other PC before turning back to Barry.
'That central area in there - is there any chance that any of the other
passages are accessible from there?'
Barry shrugged eloquently. 'It doesn't look like it. But I can't be sure
without a proper good look. It's always possible that there was a way
through and somebody backfilled the passage behind them to make it look
impassable. But this is a mine, not a cave system. Chances are there's only
one straightforward way in and one straightforward way out. Anybody that
dug themselves into the hill is still going to be there, but they're not very
likely to be alive and kicking. I don't think she's in there, lad.' He put a hand
on George's arm then turned away to squat on the rocks with his mates.
165

It took seven hours for a thorough search of the cave. Trevor the caver
brought his camera back underground and meticulously photographed
every inch of the walls and floor. There was no way in or out other than
the narrow passage. None of the blocked passages showed any sign of
recent interference. There was no trace of a body having been disposed
of in the mine. George couldn't decide whether that should depress or
encourage him.
By mid-afternoon, a duffel coat with a missing toggle, a pair of tights
ripped with such savagery that the legs were entirely separated, and a
pair of navy-blue gym knickers were on their way to the county police
laboratory, carefully packaged to preserve any forensic traces. But George
didn't need a scientist to tell him that the stains on the damp clothes had
a human source.
He'd been a police officer too long not to recognize blood and semen.
Two further discoveries were, if anything, even more disturbing.
Embedded in the walls of the cave, one officer had found a distorted
lump of metal that had once been a bullet. That had led to an inch-by-inch
scrutiny of the fissured limestone. Deep in a crack, a second piece of metal
had been found.
This time, there was no mistaking its function. It was, unquestionably,
a bullet from a handgun.
166
Part Two: The Long Haul
Daily News, Friday, 20th December 1963, p.5
Heartbreak Christmas
for lost girl's mother
By Staff Reporter Donald Smart
Mrs Ruth Hawkin is not buying a Christmas
present for her daughter, Alison, this year.
But Alison's stepfather, Philip, has filled the
missing girl's room with gaily wrapped parcels
containing records, books, clothes and
makeup.
Mrs Hawkin, 34-year-old mother of Alison,
cannot face Christmas shopping for her daughter.
Nine days ago, she waved goodbye to her
daughter as she set out from the family home
in the tiny Derbyshire hamlet of Scardale to
walk her pet sheepdog.
She has not seen her 13-year-old daughter
since.
A relative said, 'If Alison is not found, it
will be a very unhappy Christmas for everyone
in Scardale.
'We are a very close-knit community and
it has hit us very hard. Everybody is baffled
by Alison's disappearance. She's a lovely girl
and no one can think of any reason why she
might have run away.'
Police have questioned thousands of people,
combed remote dales and moorland and dragged
rivers and reservoirs in vain in the hunt for the
pretty blonde schoolgirl.


Two other families will also have a gap at the
Christmas table. A month ago, John Kilbride,
aged 12, of Smallshaw Lane, AshtonuLyne,
disappeared. He was last seen on Ashton Market.
Five months ago, 17-year-old Pauline
Reade left her home in Wiles-street, Gorton,
Manchester, to attend a local dance. Neither
has been seen again.
It wasn't the Christmas George Bennett had envisaged a few months
before. He'd been looking forward to his first Christmas in their own
home, just him and Anne. He'd reckoned without the pressures of family.
Anne was an only child, so there were no conflicting demands on her
parents; and being newlyweds, they automatically became the focus for
George's mother and father. Realizing it would be their first and last
chance to celebrate alone, Anne had done her best to persuade their
families that a Boxing Day get-together would be just the ticket. She had
failed. As it was, they'd barely escaped George's sister, his brother-in-law
and their three small children.
Still, it had been a wonderful lunch. Anne had been planning and
working for weeks ahead to make everything run smoothly. Not even
Alison Carter's disappearance could dent her determination that her first
Christmas in her own home would be exemplary. And it had been. Once
the presents were opened and he'd made the appropriate expressions of
delight over socks, shirts, sweaters and cigarettes, George had had little
to do except make sure everyone's glass was topped up with sherry and
Babycham for the women, bottled beer for the men.
As they'd decided in advance, they revealed Anne's pregnancy after
the Queen's speech. The mothers rivalled each other in their excitement
and, using the washing-up as an excuse, soon disappeared into the
kitchen to give the mother-to-be the benefit of their counsel. Anne's
father congratulated George gruffly then settled down with a celebratory
brandy and cigar to watch TV. George and his father Arthur remained
at the dining table. As usual, they were not entirely comfortable with
each other, but the news of the baby had bridged some of the distance
a university degree had put between George and his train-driver father.
169


'You're looking tired, lad,' Arthur said.
'It's been a hard couple of weeks.'
'That missing lass, is it?'
George nodded. 'Alison Carter. We've all been putting the hours in,
but we're not a lot further forward than we were the night she went
missing.'
'Did I not read somewhere in the papers that you'd found some of
her clothes?' Arthur asked, sending a perfect smoke ring heading for the
light fitting.
'That's right. In a disused lead mine. But all that's really told us is
that she definitely didn't run away. It hasn't brought us any closer to
finding out what really happened or where she is now. Except that we
also found a couple of bullets embedded in the limestone,' he added.
'One was mangled beyond recognition, but we were lucky with the other
one. It went into a crack in the limestone wall, so the forensics boys got
it out more or less intact. If we ever find the gun it came from, we'll be
able to make a positive identification.'
His father sipped his brandy and shook his head sadly. 'Poor lass. She's
not going to be alive when you find her, is she?'
George sighed. 'You wouldn't find a bookie to give you odds on it. It's
been keeping me awake nights. Especially with Anne in her condition. It
changes things, doesn't it? I'd never given it much thought before. You
know how it is - you reckon you'll find the right girl, get married, have
a family. It's the way things go if you're lucky. But I'd never sat down
and thought about what it would mean to be a father. But knowing that
it's going to happen, and finding it out in the middle of an investigation
like this ... Well, you can't help thinking how you'd be feeling if it was
your kid.'
'Aye.' His father breathed heavily through his nostrils. 'You're right,
George. Having a kid makes you realize how many hazards there are in
the world. You'd go mad if you let yourself brood on it. You've just got
to tell yourself that nothing's going to happen to your own.' He gave a
wry smile. 'You made it through more or less in one piece.'
It was a cue to swap stories of George's childhood brushes with danger.
But part of him was immune to the shift of subject. Deep inside, Alison
Carter was lodged like a crumb in the windpipe. Eventually, George
extinguished his cigar and stood up. 'If you don't mind, Dad, I'm going to
pop out for an hour. My sergeant's volunteered for Christmas duty, and I
thought I'd nip round to the station and wish him a Merry Christmas.'
170
'On you go, lad. I'm going to settle down with Anne's dad and pretend
to watch the telly.' He winked. 'We'll try not to snore too loud.'
George pocketed a box of fifty cigarettes he'd been given by an aunt
and drove across town to the police station. He found Tommy dough's
desk vacant, apart from the ballistics file on the bullets from the mining
cavern. His jacket was slung over the back of his chair, so he couldn't
be far away, George reasoned. He picked up the familiar file and flicked
through it again. One bullet was mashed beyond redemption, but the
one that had found a crack in the rock had told a distinct story to the
firearms examiner.
"The exhibit is a round-nose full-metalled-jacket lead bullet,'he read. 'The
calibre is .38. The bullet reveals seven lands and grooves, the lands narrow and
the grooves broad. The grooves demonstrate a right-hand twist. These rifling
marks are consistent with a projectile fired from a Webley revolver.'
The door swung open and Tommy Clough walked in, brow furrowed
as he read a telex. 'Merry Christmas, Tommy,' George said, tossing the
box of cigarettes across the room.
'Cheers, George,' Clough said, sounding surprised. 'What brings you
in? Family at war?' He crossed the room and sat down, shoving the telex
in the file.
'I was sitting there with my paper hat on pulling crackers and eating
goose and wondering what kind of Christmas they're having at Scardale
Manor.'
Clough ripped the cellophane off the cigarettes. Straightening up in his
seat, he pushed the file to one side and offered the open box to George.
'I'd say that depends on how bright Ruth Hawkin is. And on whether
we show her this telex.'
'Meaning?'
Clough took his time lighting a cigarette. 'Since we didn't get anywhere
through official channels connecting Hawkin to a Webley, I decided to
try coming at it sideways. So I sent out a request for information on any
reports of stolen Webleys. Amongst the dross, there was one that looked
a bit interesting. From St Albans. Two years ago, a Mr Richard Wells
reported a break-in at his home. Among the stolen items was a Webley
.38 revolver.'
From his air of expectation, George could tell there was more to come.
'And?' he asked.
'Mr Wells lives two doors away from Philip Hawkin's mother. The
families used to play bridge together once a week. Mr Wells kept his
171

Webley as a souvenir of the war, and he boasted about it often, according
to their CID duty man. They never got anyone for the housebreaking,
either. The family was away on holiday, so it could have happened at any
time that week.' Clough grinned. 'Merry Christmas, George.'
'That's a better present than a box of fags.'
'Fancy a run out there? Just to take the air?'
'Why not?'
They were silent for most of the drive. As they turned into the lane
that led to Scardale, George said, 'Care to elaborate on what you said
earlier about their Christmas depending on how bright Mrs Hawkin is?'
'It's nothing we haven't already discussed a dozen times in the last few
days,' Clough said. 'First off, we've got the conflict between what Hawkin
told us about his movements on the afternoon Alison went missing and
what we heard from Ma Lomas and Charlie. Second, we've got the lead
mine. Apart from Ma Lomas, everybody in Scardale denies they'd even
heard of the old workings, never mind knowing where they were. But the
book that details the exact location of the entrance happens to be sitting
on a shelf in Philip Hawkin's library.'
'And let's not forget the lab results,' George said softly. The irresistible
conclusion of what they had found in the lead mine was that Alison Carter
had been raped and almost certainly murdered. The blood that stained the
clothing had all been group 0, which corresponded with Alison's medical
records. Whoever had stained Alison Carter's knickers with semen had
been a secretor. Thanks to that, the police now knew her assailant's blood
group was A. That was something Philip Hawkin had in common with
forty-two per cent of the population. So did three other men in the dale
- two of Alison's uncles and her cousin Brian. What separated them from
Philip Hawkin was that they all had alibis for the time of her disappearance.
One uncle had been in a pub in Leek following the Christmas fatstock
market, and her cousin Brian had been milking the cows with his father.
If Alison had been attacked by someone from inside the dale, it was
beginning to appear that there was only one possible candidate.
'It could have been somebody who came up the Scarlaston valley from
Denderdale. Somebody who knew her from Buxton. A schoolteacher or
a fellow pupil. Or just some pervert who'd been watching her at school,'
Clough said when he returned to the car after closing the gate that
obstructed the road into the village.
'They couldn't have got there in time. It's a good hour and a half's
walk from the road in Denderdale up the river banks. And they'd never
172
have got back down there in the dark with Alison, alive or dead. They'd
both have ended up in the river,' George said positively. 'I agree with you.
All the circumstantial evidence points to one man. But we've no body, and
we've no direct evidence. Without that, we can't justify bringing him in
for questioning, never mind charging him.'
'So what do we do?'
'Damned if I know,' George sighed. The car came to a halt beside the
brown patch of grass that marked where the police caravan had stood.
On Superintendent Martin's orders, it had been towed back to Buxton
on the previous Friday. Searches had effectively ended on the same day.
There was nowhere left to look.
George stepped out into the chill evening air. The village looked
curiously untouched by what had happened. There was no obvious sign
that anything had altered, apart from the newspaper poster pasted to
the back of the phone box. Around the green, the houses still huddled.
Lights burned behind curtains, the occasional bark of a dog split the
silence. There were no Christmas trees visible at any of the windows,
it was true. Nor were there any holly wreaths on the cottage doors of
Scardale. But George wasn't convinced that there would have been on
any other Christmas in Scardale either.
He and Clough leaned against the bonnet of the Zephyr, smoking in
silence. After a few moments, a wedge of yellow light spread across the
doorway of Tor Cottage. The unmistakable outline ofMa Lomas appeared,
silhouetted against the interior. Then the light disappeared as abruptly as
it had appeared. His night vision impaired, George blinked hard. The old
woman was almost upon them before he realized that she hadn't gone
back indoors.
'Have you no home to go to?' she asked.
'He's on duty,' George said.
'What's your excuse?'
'Christmas is for kids, isn't that what they say? Well, there's one kid I
couldn't get out of my mind.'
'By heck, a copper with a heart,' Ma scoffed. She opened her voluminous
coat and from a poacher's pocket she took out a bottle of the clear spirit
she'd drunk when they'd interviewed her at the very beginning of the
investigation. From another pocket, she took three thick tumblers. 'I
thought you might like something to keep the cold out.'
'That would be an act of Christian charity,' Clough said.
They watched her place the glasses on the car bonnet and pour three
i73


generous measures. Ceremoniously, she handed them a glass each, then
raised hers in a toast.
'What are we drinking to?' George asked.
'We're drinking to you finding enough evidence,' she said in a voice
that was more chill than the night air.
'I'd rather drink to finding Alison,' he said.
She shook her head. 'If you were going to find Alison, you'd have found
her by now. Wherever he's put her, she's beyond anything except chance.
All that's left for us now is the hope that you can make him pay.'
'Did you have anyone in particular in mind?' Clough asked.
'Same as you, I shouldn't wonder,' she said drily, turning to face the
manor house and raising her glass. 'To proof.'
George took a swig of his drink and almost choked. 'About a hundred
and sixty proof, I'd say,' he gasped when he could speak again. 'Flaming
Nora, what is this stuff? Rocket fuel?'
The old woman chuckled. 'Our Terry calls it Hellfire. It's distilled from
elderflower and gooseberry wine.'
'We never found a still when we searched the village,' Clough remarked.
'Well, you wouldn't, would you?' She drained her glass. 'So, what's
next? How do you get him?'
George forced himself to swallow the rest of the fiery spirit. When he'd
recovered the power of speech, he said, 'I don't know that we can. That
said, I'm not giving up.'
'See that you don't,' she said grimly. She held out her hand for the
empty glasses then turned her back and returned to her cottage.
'That's us told,' Clough said.
'And a Merry bloody Christmas to you, too.'
The first Monday in February, and George was at his desk by eight.
Tommy Clough tapped on the door a few minutes after the hour, a
couple of steaming mugs of tea gripped in one large hand. 'How was
the weather?' he asked.
'Better than we had any right to expect,' George said. 'It was freezing,
but the sun shone every day. We neither of us mind the cold as long as
it's dry, and Norfolk's so flat that Anne was able to walk for miles.'
Clough settled down opposite George and lit up. 'You look well on
it. More like you'd had a fortnight on the Costa Brava than a week in
Wells-nextthe-Sea.'
George grinned. 'The Martinet was right, then.' He'd resisted furiously
i74

when Superintendent Martin had insisted that he take off some time in
lieu of the endless hours he'd expended on the Alison Carter inquiry.
Eventually, when Jack Martin had turned his suggestion into an order,
he'd given in with ill grace and allowed Anne to book them into a
guesthouse in the Norfolk seaside town. They'd been the only residents,
pampered by a landlady who believed everyone should eat at least three
square meals a day. A week of regular food, fresh air and the undivided
attention of his wife had filled George with energy and resolve.
'He's been on at me to do the same,' Clough admitted. 'Maybe I will,
now you're back.'
'Any developments?' George asked, blowing gently on his tea.
'Well, I took that new WPC from Chapel-en-le-Frith to see Acker Bilk
and his Paramount Jazz Band at the Pavilion Gardens on Friday night,
and we had a very nice evening. Think I might ask her if she fancies going
to see that Albert Finney film at the Opera House. Tom Jones, they call
it. Apparently it's a right good film to take a young lady to if you want
to get her in the mood.' Clough grinned, without lasciviousness.
'I meant in the case, not in your pathetic love life,' George responded
with good humour.
'Funnily enough, there was something. We got a call on Sunday from
Philip Hawkin. He said he'd been looking at the Spot the Ball competition
in the paper and he could swear that one of the people in the crowd beside
the goal was Alison.' He squinted at George through the smoke. 'What do
you make of that?'
George felt a strange fluttering in his stomach. 'Go on. Tommy. I'm
all ears.' Tea forgotten, he leaned forward and stared intently at his
sergeant.
'I went straight out to see what was what. It was the Sunday Sentinel, the Nottingham Forest match. As soon as I saw the photo, I could see
why he'd rung. Admittedly, it was a tiny photograph, but it did look a
lot like Alison. So I got in touch with the newspaper, and they got their
lads to blow up the original. They sent it up on the train and it got here
Monday teatime.' He didn't need to continue; his face told the rest of
the story. Closer examination had proved the girl in the football crowd
was someone quite different.
George took a deep breath and closed his eyes momentarily. 'Thank
you, God,' he said softly. He looked at Clough and smiled. 'Do we happen
to know whether Philip Hawkin takes the Manchester Evening News7'
'Funnily enough, I do know. Kathy Lomas mentioned it when she was
i75


running through the kids' routine. Because the daily paper doesn't get to
Scardale till lunchtime and Hawkin likes a paper with his breakfast, the
newsagent at Longnor leaves an Evening News in the mailbox at the end
of the lane every morning and whoever does the school run drops it off
at the manor afterwards.'
George's smile grew wider. 'I thought as much.' He jumped to his feet
and yanked open the drawer of his filing cabinet. He scrabbled among the
files, then came up with a large manila envelope. He waved it at Clough
and said triumphantly, 'This is what I call leverage.'
Clough caught the file as it sailed through the air towards him. The
front of the envelope read, 'Pauline Catherine Reade'. He opened the
envelope and a thin bundle of newspaper cuttings spilled across the
desk. He frowned as he saw the dates noted in red biro on the edge
of the clippings. 'You've been following this from the beginning, back
last July. That's four months before Alison went missing,' he said, his
voice indicating precisely how strange he found such behaviour.
George pushed his blond hair back from his forehead. 'I always take
an interest in stories that might turn up on our patch,' was all he said.
'What am I looking for?' Clough asked, flicking through the cuttings.
'You'll know when you see it.' George leaned against the filing cabinet,
arms folded, a cool smile on his lips.
Suddenly, Clough froze. His index finger prodded a single clipping as
if it could be provoked into biting. 'Bugger me,' he said softly.
Manchester Evening News, Monday, 2nd November 1963, p.3
Picture dashes
mothers hopes
For a few brief hours, hopes of a reunion with
her missing 16-year-old daughter were raised
for Mrs Joan Reade by a crowd picture in
the Manchester Evening News & Chronicle
Football Pink.
But they were dashed when Mrs Reade was
shown a specially enlarged copy of the photograph.
Sadly she said at her home in Wilesstreet,
Gorton, today, "That is not Pauline
after all.'
176

Pauline has been missing from home since
July 12, when she went to a dance and did
not return.
Mrs Reade's 15-year-old son Paul spotted
a picture in last Saturday's Football Pink of a
section of the crowd at the Lancashire Rugby
League Cup Final at Swinton, and thought it
was Pauline.
Clough looked up. 'He thinks we're thick.'
'You're sure it was Hawkin and not his wife who spotted the
likeness?'
'It was him that rang up and him that took all the credit. When I asked
Mrs Hawkin what she thought of the likeness, she said she'd been more
convinced when she'd first seen it, but looking at it again, she wasn't at
all sure. He sounded a bit brassed off with her, like she was supposed
to back him up all the way and she wasn't performing as a dutiful little
wife should.'
George reached for his cigarettes and paced while he talked. 'So we've
got him trying to make himself look good. Why has he done it now?'
Clough waited, knowing he was supposed to let the boss answer his own
question. 'Why? Because he expected that we'd have given up on Alison
long ago and moved on to the next thing. He's disconcerted because you
and I are still out there in Scardale two or three times a week, talking to
folk, going over the ground, not leaving it alone. He's not stupid; he must
realize we fancy him for whatever has happened to his stepdaughter. Not
to mention the fact that Ma Lomas thinks he's done it, and I can't imagine
her being any more reticent to his face than she is behind his back.'
'Except that everybody in that village owes Hawkin the roof over their
head and the bread in their mouths,' Clough reminded him. 'Even Ma
Lomas might think twice about telling him to his face she thinks he raped
and murdered Alison Carter.'
George acknowledged the point with a dip of his head. 'OK, I'll grant
you that. But he must be aware that the villagers suspect him of doing
something terrible to Alison, if only because he's the outsider. So when
it becomes clear that this is not just going to go away, Hawkin decides it's
about time he makes himself look good. And he remembers the story he
read in the Manchester Evening News about Pauline Reade.' He stopped
pacing and leaned on the desk. 'What do you think, Tommy? Is it enough
to pull him in for questioning?'
i77

Clough pushed his lips together, in and out like a goldfish. 'I don't
know. What are we going to ask him?'
'If he reads the Evening News. What his relationship with Alison was
like. The usual stuff. All the pressure points. Did she resent him taking
her father's place? Did he think she was attractive? Christ, Tommy, we
can ask him what his favourite colour is. I just want him in here, under
pressure, so we can see what happens. We've given him an easy ride so
far because we didn't have a big enough lever to justify not treating him
like a worried parent. Well, I think we have now.'
Clough scratched his head. 'You know what I think?'
'What?'
'I think they don't pay us enough to carry the can on a decision like
this. I think that's why the DCI and the Martinet get their money. If I
was you, I'd go and lay all this out before them and see what they say.'
George dropped into his chair like a sack of coal, his face dispirited.
'Oh, Tommy, don't tell me you think I'm talking bollocks?'
'No, I think you're right. I think Hawkin's the man who knows what
happened to Alison. But I don't know if this is the right time to put the
pressure on, and I don't want to lose him because we've been too hungry.
George, we're too close to this case. We've breathed, slept and dreamed
it for nigh on seven weeks. We can't see the wood for the trees. Go and
talk to the Martinet. Then if the wheels do come off, they can't use it as
a stick to beat us with.'
George's laugh was bitter. 'You really think so? Tommy, if the wheels
come off this, we'll be back directing traffic in Derby for the rest of our
careers.'
Clough shrugged. 'Better make sure we get it right, then.'
178
2
Clough walked Hawkin into the interview room where George was already
waiting. He was sitting at the table, intently reading the contents of a file
folder. When Hawkin walked in, George didn't even look up. He simply
carried on, a frown of concentration on his face. It was the first move in a
carefully orchestrated process. Silently, Clough indicated to Hawkin that
he should sit opposite George. Hawkin, lips compressed, eyes unreadable,
did as he was bid. Clough grabbed a chair and swung it round so it stood
between Hawkin and the door. His solid legs straddled it, his notebook
propped on its back. Hawkin breathed out heavily through his nose but
said nothing.
Eventually, George closed the file, placed it precisely on the table in
front of him and looked evenly at Hawkin. He took in the expensive
overcoat draped over his arm, the tailored tweed sports jacket over
the fine-wool polo-neck sweater and the crossed legs in their palecream
twill. He'd have bet a month's salary that Hawkin had spent
a chunk of his .inheritance buying his country squire look as a job
lot in Austin Reed. It seemed entirely wrong on a man who looked
as if he belonged in a bank clerk's cheap navy suit. 'Good of you to
come in, Mr Hawkin,' George said, his voice devoid of welcoming
inflection.
'I was planning to come into Buxton today anyway, so it was no great
hardship,' Hawkin drawled. He looked entirely at ease, his small triangular
mouth composed, apparently on the edge of a smile.
'Nevertheless, we're always glad when members of the public recognize
their duty to support the police,' George said sanctimoniously. He took
out his cigarettes. 'You're a smoker, aren't you?'
'Thank you, Inspector, but I'll stick to my own,' Hawkin said, spuming
i79

the offered packet of Gold Leaf with a slight sneer. 'Is this going to
take long?'
'That depends on you,' Clough ground out from behind Hawkin's right
shoulder.
'I don't think I like your sergeant's tone,' Hawkin said, his voice
petulant.
George stared at Hawkin, saying nothing at all. When the older man
shifted slightly in his chair, George spoke formally. 'I need to ask you
some questions relating to the disappearance of your stepdaughter, Alison
Carter, on the eleventh of December last year.'
'Of course. Why else would I be here? I'm hardly likely to be involved in
anything criminal, am I?' Hawkin's smirk was self-satisfied, as if he alone
held a secret that the others could never guess at.
'While I was away last week, you contacted us because you thought
you saw Alison in a Spot the Ball competition photograph.'
Hawkin nodded. 'Sadly, I was mistaken. I could have sworn it was
her.'
'And of course you have a photographer's eye for these things. You
wouldn't expect to be mistaken,' George continued.
'You're quite right, Inspector.' Hawkin flashed him a patronizing little
smile and reached for his cigarettes. He was relaxing now, as George had
expected.
'So it was you and not your wife who spotted the likeness?'
By now Hawkin was preening himself. 'My wife has many fine qualities,
Inspector, but in our house, I'm the one who notices things.' Then, as
if he'd suddenly remembered what the reason for the interview was, he
composed his face into an expression of solemnity. 'Besides, Inspector,
you must realize that since Alison went out of our lives, my wife has lost
the habit of paying attention to the outside world. It's all she can do to
maintain some semblance of normality in our domestic life. I insist on
that, of course. It's the best thing for her, to keep her mind on routine matters like cooking and keeping house.'
'Very considerate of you,' George said. 'This photograph was in the Sunday Sentinel, is that right?'
'Correct, Inspector.'
George frowned slightly. 'What newspapers do you take on a regular
basis?'
'We've always had the Express and the Evening News. And the Sentinel on Sundays. Of course, with all the press coverage ofAlison's disappearance,
180

I made sure we got all the papers while you were still conducting your
daily press conferences. Well, somebody's got to check that they've not
got everything wrong, haven't they? I didn't want them writing things
about us that weren't true. Plus I wanted to be forewarned. I didn't want
Ruth upset by some tactless person telling her what the papers were saying
without any advance warning. So I made sure I knew what was what.'
He flicked the ash off his cigarette and smiled. 'Dreadful people, those
reporters. I don't know how you can bring yourself to deal with them.'
'We have to deal with all sorts in our job,' Clough said insolently.
Hawkin pursed his lips but said nothing. George leaned forward slightly.
'So you do read the Evening News7.'
'I told you,' Hawkin said impatiently. 'Of course, we get it the morning
after it's published, but it's the only newspaper they can deliver in time for
breakfast, so I have to make do with its parochial view of the world.'
George opened his folder and took out a clear plastic envelope. Inside it
was a newspaper clipping. He pushed it across the table. 'You'll remember
this story, then.'
Hawkin did not reach for the clipping. All that moved was his eyes,
flickering across the lines of type. The ash on his disregarded cigarette
grew, its own weight curving it gently downward. At last, he raised his
eyes to George and said slowly and deliberately, 'I have never seen this
story before today.'
'It's a strange coincidence, don't you think?' George said. 'A missing
girl, a family member spots a likeness in a photograph of a sporting crowd,
but their hopes are dashed when it turns out to be a tragic error. And this
story appears in a paper that's delivered six days a week to your home.'
'I told you, I have never seen this story before today.'
'It's hard to miss. It was on page three of the paper.'
'Nobody reads the Evening News from cover to cover. I must have
missed the story. What interest could it possibly have held for me?'
'You are the stepfather of a teenage girl,' George said mildly. 'I'd have
thought stories about what happens to teenage girls would have been very
interesting for you. After all, this was a relatively new experience for you.
You must have felt you had a lot to learn.'
Hawkin crushed out his cigarette. 'Alison was Ruth's business. It's a
mother's place, to deal with children.'
'But you were obviously very fond of the girl. I've seen her bedroom,
don't forget. Beautiful furniture, new carpet. You've not stinted her, have
you?' George persisted.
181

Hawkin frowned in irritation before he replied. 'The girl had been
without a father for years. She'd not had most of the things other girls
take for granted. I was good to her for her mother's sake.'
'Are you sure that's all it was?' Clough chipped in. 'You bought her a
record player. Every week, you bought her new records. Whatever was in
the top ten, you got it for her. Whatever Charlie Lomas told her to ask
you for, you got her. If you ask me, that goes above and beyond being
good to her for her mother's sake.'
"Thank you, Sergeant,' George broke in repressively. 'Mr Hawkin, how
close were you and Alison?'
'What do you mean?' He reached for another cigarette. It took him
several tries before his lighter caught. He inhaled the smoke gratefully
and repeated the question that had earned him no response. 'What do
you mean? How close were we? I've told you, I left Alison to her mother
to deal with.'
'Did you like her?' George asked.
Hawkin's dark eyes narrowed. 'What kind of trick question is that? If
I say no, you'll say I wanted rid of her. If I say yes, you'll imply there was
something unnatural about my feelings for her. You want the truth? I was
largely indifferent to the girl. Look ...' He leaned forward and essayed a
man-to-man smile. 'I married her mother for three reasons. First, I found
her moderately attractive. Second, I needed someone to look after me and
the house and I knew no half-decent housekeeper would want to live in a
godforsaken place like Scardale. And third, I wanted the villagers to stop
treating me like an alien from outer space. I did not marry her because I
had designs on her daughter. That's sick, frankly.' He leaned back in his
chair after this outburst, as if defying George to say anything further.
George looked at him with clinical curiosity. 'I never suggested you
did, sir. I find it interesting that your mind moves in that direction of its
own accord, however. I also find it interesting that when you talk about
Alison, you always use the past tense.'
His words hung in the air as palpably as the cigarette smoke. A dark
flush coloured Hawkin's cheeks but he managed to keep silent. It was
clearly an effort.
'As if you were talking about somebody who was no longer alive,'
George continued inexorably. 'Why do you think that might be, sir?'
'It's just a habit of speech,' Hawkin snapped. 'She's been gone so long.
It means nothing. Everybody talks about Alison like that now.'
'Actually, sir, they don't. It's something I've noticed in my visits to
182
Scardale. They still talk about Alison in the present tense. As if she's
stepped out for a while, but she'll be back soon. It's not just your wife
that talks like that. It's everybody. Everybody except you, that is.' George
lit a cigarette, trying to display a relaxed confidence he did not feel. When
he and Clough had rehearsed the interview, they hadn't been at all certain
how Hawkin would react. It was satisfying to see him rattled, but they
were still a long way from any useful admissions.
'I think you must be mistaken,' Hawkin said abruptly. 'Now, if you
have no further questions?' He pushed his chair back.
'I've hardly begun, sir,' George said, his stern expression accentuating
his resemblance to James Stewart. 'I'd like to go back to the afternoon when
Alison disappeared. I know we've interviewed you about this already, but
I want to go over it again for the record.'
'Oh, for heaven's sake!' Hawkin exploded.
Whatever he was about to say was cut off by a knock at the door. It
opened to reveal DC Cragg's sleepy-eyed face in apologetic mode. 'I'm
sorry, sir, I know you said not to interrupt, but I've got an urgent call
for you.'
George tried not to show the anger and disappointment that flooded
through him. The rhythm of the interview had been flowing in his
direction and now the mood was shattered. 'Can't it wait, Cragg?' he
snapped.
'I don't think so, sir, no. I think you'll want to take the call.'
'Who is it?' George demanded.
Cragg flashed a worried look at Hawkin. 'I ... uh ... I can't really
say, sir.'
George jumped to his feet, his chair clattering on the floor. 'Sergeant,
stay here with Mr Hawkin. I'll be back as soon as I can.' He strode out
of the room, exercising his last ounce of self-restraint in not slamming
the door behind him.
'What the bloody hell is going on?' he hissed at Cragg as he stalked
down the corridor towards his office. 'I specifically said no interruptions.
Don't you understand plain bloody English, Cragg?'
The young detective constable scuttled along behind him, waiting
for a gap in the tirade. 'It's Mrs Hawkin, sir,' he finally managed to
get. out.
George stopped so suddenly that Cragg cannoned into him. He whirled
round. 'What?' he said, incredulous.
'It's Mrs Hawkin. She's in a state, sir. Asking for you.'
183

'Did she say why?' George turned on his heel and practically ran for
his phone.
'No, sir, just that she needed to talk to you urgently.'
'Jesus,' George muttered, grabbing for the phone before he was even
sitting down. 'Hello? This is DI Bennett.'
'Mr Bennett?' The voice was choked with tears.
'Is that you, Mrs Hawkin?'
'Aye, it is. Oh, Mr Bennett...' Her sobs rose in a terrible crescendo.
'What's happened, Mrs Hawkin?' he asked, desperately wondering if
there was a WPC on duty.
'Can you come, Mr Bennett? Can you come now?' Her words were
gasped out between gulps and sniffs.
'I've got your husband here, Mrs Hawkin. Do you want me to bring
him home?'
'No!' It was almost a scream. 'Just you. Please!'
'I'll be there as soon as I can. Mrs Hawkin, try to calm down. Get
one of your family to sit with you. I'll be right there.' He slammed the
phone down and stood for a moment, stunned by the intensity of the
phone conversation. He had no idea why Ruth Hawkin was demanding
his presence, but it was clearly something traumatic. She couldn't have
found a body ... He thrust the idea away before it could even form
properly.
'Cragg,' he bellowed as he emerged from his office. 'Go and relieve
Sergeant Clough. You stay there with Mr Hawkin until we get back. You
don't let him leave. You explain politely we've been called away on an
emergency and he's to wait for us to get back. If he insists on leaving,
you go with him. Don't let him bully you.'
Cragg looked dumbfounded. This wasn't the pace of life he was accustomed
to in Buxton CID. 'What if he gets in his car?'
'His car's not here. Sergeant Clough drove him in. Cragg, move!'
George grabbed Clough's overcoat and his own trench coat, jamming
his trilby down over his hair. As soon as Clough emerged from the
interview room looking bemused, George grabbed him by the arm and
hustled him down the stairs. 'It's Ruth Hawkin,' George said before
Clough could ask him what was up. 'She rang me in a hell of a state.
She wants me to come out to Scardale right away.'
'Why?' Clough said as they hurried out into the station yard and made
for his car.
'I don't know. She was too upset to make sense. All I know is she went
184

completely hairless when I asked if she wanted me to bring Hawkin back
with me. Whatever it is, it's big.'
Clough gunned the engine. 'Better not hang about, then.'
George had no idea that the journey to Scardale could be completed
in so short a time. Clough broke every speed limit and most rules of the
road as he threw the big saloon around the bends. They said little on the
way, both too tense at the prospect of something that might set the Alison
Carter case moving again. As they drew up by the village green, George
spoke. 'Time we had a little bit of luck, Tommy. We've got him on the
back foot. If Ruth Hawkin's got something for us, this could be it.'
They took the path to the manor at a run. Before either could knock,
the kitchen door swung open and Ma Lomas greeted them. 'We've been
doing your work for you again,' she said.
Ruth Hawkin sat at the head of the table, her face streaked with tears
and make-up, her eyes bloodshot and puffy. Kathy sat next to her. Their
work-reddened hands were clasped so tight the knuckles showed white.
On the table in front of them was a crumpled bundle oftattersall checked
material. It was smudged with dirt, but more ominously, there were
extensive patches of rust-red that looked remarkably like dried blood.
'You've found something,' George said, crossing the room and sitting
opposite Kathy.
Ruth took a shuddering breath and nodded. 'It's a shirt. And a ... And
a ...' Her voice cracked and gave up.
George took out a pen and poked at the material, separating its folds.
It was indeed a shirt, made of fine cotton twill. The maker's name was
sewn into a label in the collar. He had seen Philip Hawkin in similar
shirts more times than he could count. Lying in the centre of the material
was a revolver. George didn't know much about guns, but he'd have bet
a year's salary that this was a .38 Webley. 'Where did you find these, Mrs
Hawkin?'
Kathy gave him a sharp look. 'Have you still got Phil Hawkin at the
police station?'
'Mr Hawkin's still helping us with our inquiries,' Clough said stoutly
from the bottom of the table, where he sat with open notebook. 'He's
not going to be walking in on us.'
Kathy squeezed Ruth's hands even more tightly. 'It's all right, Ruth.
You can tell him.'
'I usually wait till he goes out for the day before I can clean his darkroom.
He hates me getting underfoot, so I always hang on till I know he's going
185


to be gone for a few hours,' she blurted out. 'I don't know what possessed
me to pull it out... I thought I could give the place a proper bottoming
for once; I was going fair mad with nowt to keep me occupied ...'
George waited patiently. Ruth pulled her hands away from Kathy and
covered her face. 'Oh God, I need a fag,' she said indistinctly.
George handed her a cigarette and managed to light it in spite of her
trembling fingers. He wished he could find some useful words, but knew
it was futile to tell Ruth that everything was going to be all right. Nothing
would ever be right again for this woman. All he could do was sit quietly
and watch her drag smoke into her lungs until the hammer of her heart
quietened enough to let her take up her tale again.
When she spoke this time, it was almost dreamily. 'The bench he works
at, it's really an old table. It's got drawers in it. I moved it away from the
wall. It was a hell of a job, it's really heavy. But I wanted to get behind
it, to clean properly. I saw this material sticking out of the hole where
one of the back drawers used to be. I wondered what it could be. So I
pulled it out.'
'She was screaming like a pig with its throat cut,' Ma Lomas interjected.
'I could hear her all the way over the fields.'
George took a deep breath. 'There could be an innocent explanation
for this, Mrs Hawkin.'
'Oh aye?' Ma sneered. 'Let's hear one, then. Take it away and test that
blood, lad. Look where the blood is, you daft lump. It's all down the
front, right where you'd expect it to be. And the gun? How innocent
can a pistol be? You check that gun. I bet it fired the bullet you found
up in the mine.' She shook her head in disgust. 'I thought your lot were
supposed to have searched this place?'
'I seem to remember Mr Hawkin was very particular about his darkroom,'
George said.
'All the more reason to go through it like a dose of salts,' Kathy said
grimly. 'Are you going to arrest him now, then?'
'Have you got a paper bag I can put the shirt and the gun in?'
George asked.
Ruth gave Kathy a look of mute appeal. She jumped up and rummaged
in the cupboard under the sink and came out with a large brown paper
sack. George picked the shirt up on the end of the pen and fed it into
the bag without touching it. The gun he wrapped meticulously in a clean
handkerchief from his pocket and carefully placed it on top of the shirt. 'I
have to go back to Buxton,' he said quietly. 'Sergeant Clough will stay here
186

and make sure nobody enters the outhouse where Mr Hawkin's darkroom
is situated.' He sighed. 'I'll be sending out a team of officers to conduct a
thorough search just as soon as I can arrange the warrant.'
'But are you going to arrest him?' Kathy persisted.
'You'll be kept fully informed of any developments,' George said.
A strange look passed among the women. 'If you don't arrest him you'd
better keep him away from here,' Ma Lomas said. 'For the sake of his
health.'
George gave her a long, steady look. 'I'm going to pretend I didn't
hear that threat, Mrs Lomas.'
He drove Tommy Clough's unfamiliar car back to Buxton with a strange
mixture of heaviness and exhilaration in his heart. He parked carefully and
walked upstairs to the interview room with an air of quiet determination.
He knew he ought to speak to DCI Carver or Superintendent Martin
before he acted, but this was his case. George pushed open the door and
stared down at Hawkin, whose petulant complaint died on his lips when
he saw the inspector's expression.
George took a deep breath. 'Philip Hawkin, I am arresting you on
suspicion of murder.'
187

3
George wasted no time. Hawkin was hustled down to the cells, bleating
about trumped-up lies and demanding a lawyer. George turned a deaf ear.
There would be plenty of time to deal with Hawkin later. If he was right,
nobody would question his actions. If he was wrong, nobody would blame
him. Nobody except, possibly, DCI Carver, who saw everything George did
as a reproach and would glory in his junior officer's embarrassment and
disgrace. But staying in DCI Carver's good books was the last consideration
in George's mind right then.
As the door slammed shut on the still protesting Hawkin, George took
DC Cragg to one side. 'Cragg, I want you to ring the divisional CID down
in St Albans, where Hawkin came from. We know he's not got a record,
because Sergeant Clough already checked that. What I want to know is
if there was ever any talk. Any rumours, any beat gossip. Any allegations
where there was never enough evidence for a charge.'
'You mean sex offences?'
'I mean anything, Cragg. Just get alongside the local lads and sound them
out.' He realized he was still clutching the paper sack containing the soiled
shirt and the carefully wrapped gun. In his hurry, he'd forgotten the need to
get them labelled and sent to the lab. He glanced at his watch. Almost noon.
If he hurried, he'd catch one of the justices at the High Peak courtrooms.
He was sure he would have no trouble getting a search warrant signed.
Everyone wanted Alison Carter's disappearance cleared up, and Hawkin
hadn't yet had time to make many influential friends in a town where
people from five miles away were still regarded as foreigners. Swiftly, he
filled in the application and left the station at a run. Ignoring his car,
he raced down Silverlands and cut through the marketplace towards the
courts. Ten minutes later, he walked out of Peak Buildings with a signed
188
search warrant in his pocket for Scardale Manor and its outbuildings. As
he emerged, so did the sun, illuminating him with a brief shaft of pale
winter light. It was hard not to interpret it as some kind of omen.
Back at divisional headquarters, still carrying the paper sack, he was
relieved to find Sergeant Bob Lucas on duty. It seemed only fitting that
the officer who had first taken him to Scardale should be available to help
search on what might possibly be the breakthrough in the case. George gave
him a succinct outline of events and finally dealt with the formal paperwork
that would send the shirt and gun to the labs, the chain of custody intact.
Meanwhile, Lucas put together a small search team of two constables and
a cadet, all he could spare from the busy day shift.
The liveried police car followed George's unmarked saloon out of the
town and through the washed-out February landscape to Scardale. The
word of Ruth's discovery had clearly spread as swiftly as the original report
of Alison's disappearance. Women stood at open cottage doorways and
men leaned against walls, their eyes never leaving the police officers as
they trooped round the side of the manor towards the outbuilding where
Philip Hawkin pursued his hobby. Even more unsettling than their stares
was their silence.
George found Clough standing outside the door of the small stone
outbuilding, arms folded, a cigarette drooping from one corner of his
mouth. 'Any problems?' he asked.
Clough shook his head. 'The hardest part was staying outside.'
George opened the door to the outbuilding and took his first look inside
Hawkin's darkroom. It was obvious that six officers would struggle to fit
inside, never mind search adequately. 'Right,' he said. 'Sergeant Clough
and I will take the darkroom. Sergeant Lucas, I'd like your men to take
the house. As you all know, it's already been searched. But our concern
then was to make sure Alison hadn't left any hidden messages or that
there were no signs of an assault or murder on the premises. Now, we're
looking for anything that sheds light on Philip Hawkin's relationship with
his stepdaughter. Or anything that gives us an insight into the man himself.
Without a body, we need every scrap of circumstantial evidence we can find
to put pressure on Hawkin. You can make a start in his study.'
'Right you are, sir,' Lucas said grimly. 'Come on, lads. Let's strip this
place to the bricks.' The four uniformed men headed for the back door.
Through the kitchen window, George could see Kathy Lomas watching.
When she caught his eye, she looked away.
'OK, Tommy, let's make a start.' George crossed the threshold and
189

flicked a light switch. Red light flooded the room. 'Great,' he muttered.
He glanced at the wall and saw a second switch. When he clicked that, an
ordinary electric light came on, replacing the eerie scarlet glow. He looked
around him, taking stock of what needed to be searched. Apart from the
heavy table that stood at an angle to the wall, everything was uncannily neat
and tidy. A pair of heavy stone slop sinks that looked as if they had been
there since the Middle Ages stood against the wall, the plumbing mounted
on them brand new and gleaming. So was the photographic equipment.
In one corner, a pair of gunmetal filing cabinets stood against the
wall. George crossed to them and rattled the drawers. They were locked.
'Bugger,' he said softly.
'Not a problem,' Clough said, moving his boss to one side. He grasped
the nearer cabinet, pulled it towards him, then, when it was about five
inches clear of the wall, he tipped it backwards. 'Can you hold it like that
for me?' he asked. George leaned against the cabinet, keeping it tilted at an
angle. Clough dropped to the floor and fiddled around underneath for a
minute or so. George heard the slide and click of a lock unfastening, then
Clough's grunt of satisfaction. 'There you go, George. Very careless of Mr
Hawkin to go out and leave his filing cabinets unlocked.'
'I'll start going through this one,' George said. 'You check the table and
the shelves.' He pulled the top drawer open and started on the dozens of
suspension files it held. Each one contained strips of negatives, contact
sheets and a varying number of prints. Quickly, he checked the other drawers.
Each was the same. He groaned. 'This is going to take for ever,' he said.
Clough came over and joined him. 'There are thousands of these.'
'I know. But we're going to have to go through every one of them. If he's
ever taken dodgy photographs, they could be mixed up with innocent ones
anywhere in these drawers.' He sighed.
'Shall we take a look in the other filing cabinet, just so we have a clear
idea of the scale of the problem?' Clough asked.
'Good idea,' George said. 'Same routine again?' This time, he manhandled
the cabinet clear of the wall himself, leaving Clough to grope
underneath.
'Wait a minute,' Clough said, fumbling beneath the metal base. 'I've
caught my sleeve on something.' His hand snaked into his jacket pocket
and emerged with his cigarette lighter. A flick of the wheel and the flame
lit up the area beneath the filing cabinet. 'Jesus Christ on a bike,' he said
softly. He looked up at George. 'You're going to love this, George. There's
a hole in the floor with a safe in it.'
190

George nearly dropped the filing cabinet in shock. 'A safe?'
'That's right.' Clough scrambled clear of the filing cabinet and stood up.
'Let's get this moved and you'll see what I mean.'
They wrestled the heavy steel cabinet out of its slot and walked it across
the room to clear enough space for them to study the safe. George crouched
down and stared at it. The green metal front was about eighteen inches
square, with a brass keyhole and a handle that protruded about an inch
above the safe door into the cavity in the base of the filing cabinet. He
sighed. 'We're going to need fingerprints out here to dust that handle
for Hawkin's prints. I don't want him walking away from the contents of
that safe on the spurious grounds that somebody else must have planted
whatever's in it.'
'Are you sure?' Clough asked dubiously. 'We'll be lucky if there's as much
as a partial on a handle like that. It's what's inside that matters. He won't
have worn gloves, his prints'll be all over whatever's in there.'
George sat back on his heels. 'You're probably right. So where's the
key?'
'If I was him, I'd have it on me.'
George shook his head. 'Cragg searched him when we put him in the
cells. The only keys on him were for his car.' He thought for a moment.
'Go and ask Sergeant Lucas if they've come across any keys that look like
they might open a safe. I'll have a look here.'
George sat down at the table and started to go through the two drawers.
One was a meticulous collection of useful implements - scissors, craft
knives, tweezers, tiny soft brushes and draughtsman's pens. The other was
the usual jumble of a junk drawer - pieces of string, drawing pins, a broken
nail file, a couple of half-used rolls ofSellotape, candle ends, torch bulbs,
matchboxes and odd screws. Neither held a key. George lit a cigarette and
smoked it furiously. He felt like a watch wound to the absolute limit of
its spring.
All through the investigation, he had forced himself to keep an open
mind, knowing how easy it was to develop a fixed idea and to force every
subsequent piece of information to fit the preconception. But if he was
honest, he'd never had an entirely open mind about Philip Hawkin. The
more likely it was that Alison was dead, the more likely it was that her
stepfather was the man responsible. That was what the statistics suggested,
and it was bolstered by his lack of liking for the man. He had tried to stifle
his own instinctive response, knowing prejudice was an enemy of building
a solid case, but time and again, Hawkin had crept into his consciousness
191

as the prime suspect if murder became the inevitable conclusion of their
inquiry.
Now it beckoned irresistibly. Certainty had dropped into place like the
tumblers of a well-oiled lock. The only question was whether he could
assemble the evidence that would turn it into a conviction.
George walked out of the darkroom and into the darkening chill of
the afternoon. The house lights burned pale yellow and he could see
figures moving behind the windows. He glimpsed Ruth Hawkin crossing
the kitchen and realized he was dreading the moment when he might have
to confirm for her what they all believed now anyway. No matter how much
she might have thought herself resigned to losing her daughter, the instant
when he told her they were formally treating Alison's disappearance as a
murder inquiry would send a blade of pain to her heart.
He lit another cigarette and paced in tight circles outside the darkroom.
What was keeping Clough? He couldn't leave the outhouse now the search
was under way, for fear of a later defence argument that while it had been
unattended, someone had slipped incriminating evidence inside. He didn't
want to continue searching either, realizing that with so circumstantial an
array of evidence, every crucial find must be witnessed. George forced
himself to breathe deeply, rotating his shoulders inside his coat to try to
release some of the tension that knotted his neck in taut cords.
As the last light faded behind the western edge of the dale, Clough
emerged, a wide grin spread across his face. 'Sorry I took so long,' he said.
'I had to go through all the desk drawers. Nothing. Then I noticed one of
the drawers wasn't closing flush. So I pulled it out, and bingo! There was
the safe key, stuck to the back of the drawer with elastoplast.' He dangled
the key in front of George. 'The same kind of elastoplast that the dog was
muzzled with, incidentally.'
'Nice work, Tommy.' He took the key and stepped back inside the
darkroom. He crouched over the safe and glanced over his shoulder at
his sergeant. 'I'm almost scared to open it.'
'In case there's proof she's dead?'
George shook his head. 'In case there's no proof of anything. I'm
convinced now, Tommy. Too many small coincidences. Hawkin's done
for Alison, and I want him to swing for it.' He turned to his task and
slotted the key into the lock. It turned in smooth silence. He closed his
eyes for a few seconds. Five minutes before he'd have called himself an
agnostic. Now, he was a zealot.
Slowly he turned the handle and used it to lift open the heavy steel
192
door. There was nothing inside but a thin stack of manila envelopes.
George lifted them out almost reverently. He counted them aloud for the
benefit of Clough, whose notebook was already open, pencil poised. 'Six
brown envelopes,' he said, rising and placing them on the bench. George
sat down. He had the feeling he'd need the support. He pulled on his soft
leather driving gloves and started work.
The flaps had all been tucked inside. George inserted his thumb and
flicked the first envelope open. It contained eight-by-ten photographs. He
removed them by pushing the sides of the envelope inwards and letting the
photos spill out on to the table, to avoid smudging any fingerprints on the
envelope or the pictures. There were half a dozen photos, which he spread
out using his pen.
Alison Carter was naked in all of them. Her face was devoid of its natural
charm, rendered ugly by fear. Her body somehow expressed her reluctance
to adopt poses that would have been lewd in an adult but which were
gut-wrenchingly tragic in a child. Unless, of course, the viewer was the
sort of paedophile who had taken them. Then, they would doubtless have
appeared erotic.
Clough looked over his shoulder. 'Ah, Jesus,' he said, his voice thick
with disgust.
George could find nothing to say. He gathered the photographs together
and slid them back into the envelope, placing it carefully to one side. The
second envelope contained strips of large-format negatives. With the aid
of the light box on the table, they were able to establish that these were
the negatives the prints had been made from. There were sixteen negatives.
Hawkin hadn't bothered printing ten of them. Those were the ones where
Alison appeared to be crying.
The third envelope was worse. The poses were even more explicit. This
time, however, there was a floppy quality to the girl's head, a distant look
in her eyes. 'She's either drunk or drugged,' Clough said. Still George could
not speak. Methodically, he replaced the photographs in their envelope
then checked that the negatives in the fourth envelope corresponded to
the photographs they'd just looked at.
The fifth envelope went beyond anything George could have imagined.
This time all sixteen negatives had been printed. This time, Hawkin
was in the photographs along with his stepdaughter. The background
was unmistakably Alison's bedroom, its very ordinariness an obscene
counterpoint to the acts it had contained. It formed an innocent backdrop
to experiences no thirteen-year-old should endure. In a series of terrible
i93

monochrome images, Hawkin's erect penis thrust into Alison's vagina,
anus and mouth. His fingers probed her body with ruthless and repellent
efficiency. All the while, he stared into the camera, exulting in his power.
'The fucking bastard,' Clough groaned.
George suddenly thrust himself away from the table, sending the chair
crashing to the ground. Pushing past his sergeant, he made it through the
door just as the wave of nausea he couldn't contain swept through him.
Hands on knees, he vomited until his stomach was in spasm and there was
nothing left inside him but pain. He half leaned, half fell against the wall,
sweating, tears pouring down his face, oblivious to the chill night wind and
the scatter of sleety rain that swept the dale.
He'd rather have found her corpse than endured those images of her
violated body. Plenty of motive there for running away. But more motive
still for the man who had invaded her if she had finally rebelled and
threatened to reveal his vile perversion. George ran a trembling hand
over his wet face and struggled upright.
Clough, standing right behind him in the doorway, handed him the
cigarette already lit. His beefy face was as pale as the night clouds. George
inhaled deeply and coughed as the smoke hit a throat left raw by his
retching. 'Still think capital punishment's such a bad thing?' he gasped.
The rain plastered his hair to his head, but he failed to react to the drops
of icy water coursing down his face.
'I could kill him with my own hands,' Clough growled, his voice coming
from deep in his throat.
'Save him for the hangman, Tommy. This one, we do by the book. He
doesn't have any accidental falls, he doesn't conveniently get put in a cell
with a drunk who hates sex offenders. We bring him to court in one piece,'
George said hoarsely.
'It won't be easy. Meanwhile, what do we tell Alison's mum? This ...
this beast's wife? How do you say to a woman, "By the way, love, this
man you married - he's raped and buggered your daughter and probably
murdered her."?'
'Oh Christ,' George said. 'We need a WPC out here. And a doctor.'
'She won't want a WPC, George. She trusts you. And she's got her family
around her. They'll take better care of her than any doctor can. We're just
going to have to go in there and find a way to tell her.'
'We better tell the uniforms as well. They can keep an eye out specifically
for photographs or negatives.' He shuddered as he breathed in deeply. 'Let's
bag and tag those envelopes. Forensic will need to do their stuff with them.'
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They forced themselves back into the darkroom and collected the envelopes
with their hellish contents. 'Take these indoors to Sergeant Lucas,'
George instructed Clough. 'I don't want to be standing there holding them
when I speak to Ruth Hawkin. I'll have a last look here to see if there's
anything else obvious. We're going to have to get a team to go through
every single one of those negatives. But not tonight.'
Clough disappeared into the night. George checked the room, but could
see nothing else deserving his notice. He stepped back outside into the
miserable weather and closed the door behind him. He carefully fixed a
pair of police seals so that nobody could tamper with the evidence. He'd
have to have an overnight guard placed on the outbuilding to protect its
contents. Tomorrow, he'd organize a team to strip the place and start the
long slog through Hawkin's photographic collection. There would be no
shortage of volunteers.
'I've handed the evidence over to Sergeant Lucas,' Clough said, running
across from the house.
'Thanks. Now, this is how I want to play it. You take the relatives, I'll
speak to Ruth Hawkin on her own. Just tell them we've found evidence
that suggests Hawkin may have been involved in Alison's disappearance
and that we'll be charging him with at least one serious offence tonight.
It's up to Ruth how much more she wants to tell them.'
'They're going to want chapter and verse. Especially Ma Lomas,' Clough
warned.
'Let them come to court, then. I'm concerned about Ruth Hawkin. She's
my key witness as of this moment, and she's got the right to decide how
much her family knows at this point,' George said dismissively. 'Tell them
as little as you need to.' He squared his shoulders and flicked his cigarette
butt into the night. He ran a hand over his soaking hair, showering Clough
with tiny droplets of water. 'Right.' He took a deep breath. 'Let's go.'
They walked through the back door and across the hall into the warm
fug of the smoky kitchen. The support team ofMa Lomas and Kathy had
been joined by Ruth's sister Diane and Janet's mother, Maureen. The five
women's faces sharpened with fear at the sight of the grim expressions on
the men's faces. 'We have some news, Mrs Hawkin,' George said heavily.
'I'd like to talk to you alone, if I may. The rest of you ladies, if you'll go
with Sergeant Clough, he'll explain what's happening.'
Kathy opened her mouth to argue, but a second look at George's face
killed her protest. 'We'll go through to the parlour,' she said meekly.
Ruth said nothing as they filed out. Her face was like a bolted door,
i95

tightly secured, her jaw muscles bulging with the effort of silence. She never
took her eyes off George as he sat down at the table opposite her. He waited
till he heard the door close behind Clough, then he said, 'There's no easy
way to say this, Mrs Hawkin. We've found evidence that Philip Hawkin has
committed serious sexual assaults against your daughter. There can be no
doubt about that, and he will be charged before the day's out.'
A whimper escaped from her lips, but her gaze continued to pin him
down. He shifted in his seat and automatically reached for his cigarettes.
She shook her head as he offered them, so he left the packet sitting on
the table between them. 'When you add that to the evidence of the stained
shirt and the gun that you found in the outbuilding, it's hard to resist the
conclusion that he very probably murdered her too. I'm really very, very
sorry, Mrs Hawkin.'
'Don't call me that,' she said, her voice a series of glottal sobs. 'Don't
give me his name.'
'I won't,' George said. 'And I'll do my best to make sure no other police
officer does.'
'You're sure, aren't you?' she said through stiff lips. 'In your heart, you're
sure she's dead?'
George wanted to be anywhere but in Ruth Carter's kitchen, nailed
by her eyes against the truth. 'I am,' he said. 'I can find no reason to
think otherwise and a significant amount of circumstantial evidence that
leads me to that conclusion. God knows, I don't want to believe it, but I
can't not.'
Ruth began rocking to and fro in her chair, her arms clamped across
her breasts, hands turned to claws in her armpits. Her head dropped back
and she let out an agonized roar, the wordless cry of an animal wounded
beyond recovery. Helpless, George sat like a block of wood. Somehow, he
knew the worst thing he could do would be to touch her.
The noise stopped and her head fell forward, slack-jawed and flushed.
Her eyes glittered with tears unshed. 'You get him hanged,' she said, hard
and clear.
He nodded, reaching for his cigarettes and lighting one. 'I'll try my best.'
She shook her head. 'Never mind trying. Do it, George Bennett. Because
if you don't make sure he dies, somebody else will and it'll be a damn
sight less humane than what the hangman will do to him.' Her vehemence
seemed to have used her last reserve of energy. She turned away and said
breathlessly. 'Now go.'
George slowly got to his feet. 'I'll be back tomorrow, to take a statement.
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If you need anything, anything at all, you can reach me at the police station.'
He scrabbled in his jacket pocket for his notebook and scribbled his home
number on a torn-out sheet of paper. 'If I'm not there, call me at home.
Any time. I'm sorry.'
He backed across the room and groped for the door handle. He closed
the door behind him and leaned against the wall, cigarette smoke dribbling
up his arm in a fragmented swirl. The sound of voices from down the hall
led him to the cheerless room where the other Scardale women were
besieging Tommy Clough. 'To hell with the monkey, here comes the organ
grinder,' Maureen Carter said, catching sight of George. 'You tell us. Are
you going to hang that bastard Hawkin?'
'I don't make those decisions, Mrs Carter,' George said, trying not to
show how far past arguing he was. 'Can I suggest that you'd be better off
spending your time and your energy with Ruth? She needs your support.
We'll be leaving shortly, but there will be a guard on the outhouse overnight.
I'd appreciate it if you'd all rally round Ruth now, and rack your
brains for any little detail that might help us build our case.'
'He's right, leave him be,' Ma Lomas said unexpectedly. 'He's only a
lad and he's had a lot to take in for one day. Come on, girls. We'd best
see to Ruth.' She shooed them out of the door ahead of her, then turned
for the inevitable parting shot. 'We won't let you off this light again, lad.
Time to shape up.' She shook her head. 'I blame the old squire. He should
have known better. Half an hour with Philip Hawkin and there's one thing
you know for certain. Who spared that would drown nothing.' The door
closed behind her with a sharp snick.
As ifchoreographed, George and Clough subsided into chairs opposite
each other, their faces as drained as their spirits. 'I never want to have to
do that again,' George sighed on an exhalation of smoke. He cast around
looking for an ashtray, but none of the ornaments held out any possibilities.
He settled for nipping the hot coal off with his fingers and dropping it in
the empty grate.
'Chances are you'll have to before you get your pension,' Clough said.
In the hall, a phone began to ring. On the sixth or seventh ring, it was
picked up. A murmur of interrogatory speech, then footsteps approached
the parlour door. Diane Lomas poked her head round and said, 'It's for
the inspector. Somebody called Carver.'
Wearily, George pulled himself out of the armchair and across the room.
He lifted the receiver and said, 'DI Bennett.'
'What the bloody hell do you think you're playing at, Bennett? I've got
i97

Alfie Naden reading the riot act in here, claiming we've shoved his client
in the cells without so much as a by-your-leave, and left him to stew while
you go gadding around Derbyshire on another wild-goose chase.'
And how, George wondered, had the town's most expensive lawyer
found out that Philip Hawkin was in custody in the first place? Cragg
was a useless wassock, but he wouldn't have phoned the solicitor without
George's say-so. It looked like Carver hadn't learned the lesson of Peter
Crowther's death and was behaving like a law unto himself again. George
choked back an angry retort and said, 'I was about to come back to the
station and charge Mr Hawkin.'
'With what? Naden said you told Hawkin he was being arrested on
suspicion of murder. You've not got a murder to charge him with!'
Carver's broad Midlands accent always thickened under pressure. George
recognized the signs of a man whose temper was about to burst the dam.
That made two of them.
Biting down hard on his anger, he spoke calmly. 'I'll be charging him
with rape, sir. For starters. That should give us enough breathing space
to ask the Director of Public Prosecutions where we stand on a murder
charge with no body.'
There was a moment's stunned silence. 'Rape?' Incredulity stretched the
word into three syllables.
'We have photographic evidence, sir. Believe me, this is copperbottomed.
Now, if you'll excuse me, sir, I'll get off. I'll be back in the
office in about half an hour and I'll show you my evidence then.' George
gently replaced the receiver and turned to see Bob Lucas in the doorway
of the study. 'DCI Carver would like us to return to Buxton,' he said. 'And
I need to take those envelopes back with me. Can I leave you to sort out
an overnight guard on the darkroom?'
'I'll deal with it, sir. Just to say, we've been through every book on the
shelves in the study and there's no photographs anywhere. We'll carry
on looking, though. Good luck with Hawkin.' His sleek head bobbed in
a supportive nod. 'Let's hope he makes it easy on Mrs Hawkin and decides
to come clean.'
'Somehow, I doubt it, Bob,' Clough said from the doorway. 'Too cocky
by half, that one.'
'While I remember, she doesn't want us calling her Mrs Hawkin any
more. I suppose we call her Mrs Carter,' George sighed. 'Pass the word
round.' He ran a hand over his still wet hair. 'Right, then. Let's go and
make this bastard suffer.'
198
4
The photographs silenced Carver. George reckoned it wouldn't be the last
time they had that effect. Carver stared as if gazing would somehow erase
the images and replace them with the picture-postcard shots of Scardale
that Hawkin sold to local shops. Then, abruptly, he turned away. He
pointed to a sheet of paper. 'Naden's home number. He'll want to be
present when you interview the prisoner.' He stood up and snatched his
overcoat from the wall hook behind his desk.
'You're not staying for the interview, sir?' George asked, something like
dismay showing in his voice.
'It's been your case from the beginning. You see it through,' Carver
said coldly. He shrugged into his coat. 'You and Clough, you do it.'
'But sir,' George started, then stopped. He wanted to say he'd never done
anything as serious as this, that he'd never conducted an interrogation
where he had so little to go on, that it was Carver's job as the DCI
to take charge in this situation. The words died in his mouth with the
realization that Carver thought the wheels were going to come off this
case somewhere along the line and he didn't want to be aboard when
they did.
'But what?'
'Nothing, sir.'
'So what are you waiting for? I can't lock up my office if you're standing
in the middle of the floor like piffy, can I?'
'Sorry, sir,' George said, picking up the sheet of paper from Carver's
desk. He turned his back and walked out into the CID room. 'Sergeant,'
he called across to Clough. 'Grab your coat. Let's go.'
Surprised, Clough did as he was told. Carver scowled. 'Where are you
going? You've got a prisoner to charge and question.'
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'I'm going to phone Mr Naden and ask him to be here in an hour's time.
Then I'm taking Sergeant Clough home with me for a meal. We've neither
of us eaten since breakfast, and a major interrogation needs more to sustain
it than nicotine and caffeine. Sir,' George said unapologetically.
Carver sneered. 'Is that what they teach you at university?'
'No, sir, it's something I learned from Superintendent Martin, actually.
He says you should never send your forces into battle on an empty
stomach.' George smiled. 'Now, if you'll excuse us, sir, we have work
to do.' He turned away and picked up the phone. He could feel Carver's
eyes burning into his back as he dialled. 'Hello? Mr Naden? It's Detective
Inspector Bennett from Buxton CID here. I intend to question your client
on suspicion of murder and rape in an hour's time. I'd be much obliged
if you could be here then ... Fine, I'll see you then. Thank you.' He
ended the call by depressing the rest then dialled again. 'Anne? It's me.'
He turned round and stared pointedly at Carver, who snorted and stalked
off towards the stairs.
Precisely an hour later, Alfie Naden was shown into the interview room.
He looked the epitome of a prosperous country solicitor, his neat paunch
encased in a three-piece suit of irreproachable dark worsted. Gold-framed
half-moon glasses perched on a fleshy nose flanked by florid cheeks. His
bald head shone under the lights, and his chin was as smooth as if he'd
shaved before coming out for this evening appointment. It would have
been easy to mistake him for a bumpkin except for his eyes. Small and
dark, they glittered like the glass eyes of an antique teddy bear. Seldom
still except when he was probing a witness, they missed nothing. He was a
shrewd adversary and George wished Hawkin hadn't possessed sufficient
local knowledge to engage the man.
Once Clough had brought Hawkin up from the cells, they cantered
through the formalities. Hawkin said nothing, his lip curled slightly in distaste.
He looked as neat and confident as he had at ten that morning.
George cautioned him, then said, 'Following your arrest this morning
on suspicion of murder, I obtained a search warrant from High Peak
magistrates.' He handed the warrant to Naden who scrutinized it and
nodded briefly. 'My officers and I executed that warrant this afternoon at
Scardale Manor. In the course of that search, we discovered a safe sunk into
the floor of the outbuilding which you have converted into a photographic
darkroom. When that safe was opened with a key concealed in your study
inside Scardale Manor, six brown envelopes were discovered.'
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'Six?' Hawkin interjected.
'Six envelopes which proved to contain certain photographic prints
and negatives. As a result of which, I am charging you, Philip Hawkin,
with rape.'
Throughout George's formal speech, Hawkin's face had not changed.
So he wasn't going to roll over, George thought. He thinks he's got away
with the big one, so he's going to bite his tongue and take his medicine
for the rape.
'May we see the evidence?' Naden said calmly.
George looked inquiringly at Hawkin. 'Do you really want your solicitor
to see the photographs? I mean, Mr Naden is the best there is. If I was you,
I wouldn't take the chance of him walking out.'
'Mr Bennett,' Naden warned.
'He can't defend me if he doesn't know what you bastards have faked
up,' Hawkin said. His accent had slipped several notches down the social
scale since the morning's condescension.
George opened a folder in front of him. In the hour they'd been gone,
Cragg had inserted every print and negative strip into its own individual
plastic bag. The night-shift CID man had labelled each one as it had been
slid inside the bag by its edges. Tomorrow, the forensic team would have
their chance. Eventually, the force's photographers would make copies
from the negatives. But tonight, George needed to keep hold of the
evidence.
Silently, he placed the first photograph ofAlison in front of Hawkin and
Naden. Hawkin crossed his legs and said, 'Did you bring me some fags?'
Naden dragged his horrified eyes away from the photograph and looked
at Hawkin as if he were a creature from another universe. 'What?' he
said faintly.
'Fags. I've run out,' Hawkin said.
Naden blinked a dozen times in quick succession then snapped open
his briefcase. He took out a packet of Benson & Hedges, still in their
cellophane wrapper, and tossed them in front of Hawkin, who made
a point of not looking at any more of the photographs that George
methodically put in front of Naden. The solicitor seemed mesmerized by
the record of defilement piling up before him. When the final photograph
sat in front of him, he cleared his throat.
'They've faked them,' Hawkin said. 'Anybody knows you can fake up
photographs. My stepdaughter went missing and they've not been able to
find her and now they're framing me to make themselves look good.'
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'We've got the negatives as well,' George said flatly.
'You can fake negatives too,' Hawkin said superciliously. 'First you fake
the photograph, then you photograph it. Bingo, you've got a negative that
you can print from.'
'Are you denying that you raped Alison Carter?' George asked incredulously.

'Yes,' Hawkin said firmly.
'We have also taken possession of a bloodstained shirt which is identical
in every particular to the shirts you have made to measure at a London
tailor. This was hidden in your darkroom too.'
Hawkin finally looked startled. 'What?'
'The shirt was very heavily stained with blood on the front, the lower
sleeves and the cuffs. I expect that when it is tested, it will match the
blood previously found on Alison's underwear.'
'What shirt? There was no shirt in my darkroom,' Hawkin exclaimed,
leaning forward and jabbing the air with his cigarette to make his point.
'That's where it was found. Along with the gun.'
Hawkin's eyes widened. 'What gun?'
'A Webley .38 revolver. Identical to the one your mother's neighbour
Mr Wells had stolen a couple of years ago.'
'I haven't got a gun,' Hawkin gabbled. 'You're making a big mistake
here, Bennett. You might think you can get away with framing me for
this, but you're not as smart as you think you are!'
George's smile was as icy as the wind that whistled outside. 'You should
know that it is my intention to present this information to the Director
of Public Prosecutions in the firm belief that he will allow us to charge
you with murder,' he continued inexorably.
'This is an outrage!' Hawkin exploded. He shifted in his seat and turned
his aggression on his solicitor. 'Tell them they can't do this. All they've
got are some poxy faked pictures. Tell them!'
Naden looked as if he wished he'd stayed at home. 'I must advise you
to say nothing further, Mr Hawkin.' Hawkin opened his mouth to protest.
'Nothing further, Mr Hawkin,' Naden repeated, a hard edge in his voice
that entirely contradicted his benign appearance. 'Mr Bennett, my client
will not be making any further statement at this time. Nor will he be
answering any of your questions. Now, I require a meeting in private with
my client. Other than that, we will see you before the justices tomorrow
morning.'
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George sat staring at the typewriter. He had to prepare a brief on the
rape charge for the uniformed inspector who dealt with the magistrates'
court. It was a straightforward request for a remand in custody, but with
Alfie Naden defending the squire of Scardale before a bench of the local
great and good, George wanted to take no chances. It didn't help that his
head pulsed with a pain so powerful that he had to resist the impulse to
close one eye to relieve it.
He sighed and lit another cigarette. 'Reasons to oppose bail,' he
muttered.
There was a peremptory knock at his door. At this time of night, it
was probably one of the night shift taking pity on him and bringing tea.
'Come in,' he called.
Superintendent Martin pushed the door open, dressed in an immaculate
dinner jacket instead of uniform. 'Not disturbing you, am I?' he asked.
'You're a very welcome interruption, sir,' George said, meaning it.
Martin settled himself in the chair opposite George and slipped a silver
hip flask from his back pocket. 'Anything to drink out of?' he asked.
George shook his head. 'Not even a dirty cup. Sorry.'
'No matter. We'll just adopt battlefield manners,' Martin said, taking
a swig from the flask before wiping the top and handing it to George.
'Go on. I bet you need it.'
Gratefully, George took a mouthful of brandy. He closed his eyes and
savoured the burn as it coursed down his throat and warmed his chest.
'I didn't realize you had medical qualifications, sir. That was just what
the doctor ordered.'
'I was at a Masonic dinner. So was DCI Carver. He told me what you've
been up to.' Martin gave George a level stare. 'I'd rather have heard it
from you.'
'Things ... moved at a bit of a lick today. I was very uneasy about
that business of the newspaper photograph last week. I thought it needed
further investigation. But I wasn't planning on anything more than questioning
Hawkin to see if I could unsettle him and perhaps make him slip
up. Then when his wife phoned... I did think about coming to you before
we searched the manor, but if I had, I would have missed the JPs at court,
and you know how difficult some of them can be about signing warrants
in what they see as their own time. So ... I just forged ahead.'
'So where exactly are we up to?'
'I've charged him with rape. He'll be up before the justices in the
morning for a remand in custody. I'm just doing the paperwork now. I
203

should tell you that he's got Alfie Naden defending him and he's already
preparing the defence that we faked the photographs to make it look as
if we hadn't completely failed in the Alison Carter case.'
Martin snorted. 'That'll never fly. I doubt we've got either a photographer
or the equipment to concoct something so elaborate. Still, it'll
stir up a lot of mud and he might just slide through it and out the other
side. You can never tell with juries, and he's a good-looking beggar.' He
fished a cigar case out of his inside jacket pocket. He loosened his bow
tie and undid the top collar stud in his dress shirt. 'That's better,' he said.
'Cigar?'
'I'll stick with my cigarettes, thanks.' Both men lit up.
Martin exhaled a plume of blue smoke. 'What have we got for murder?
Take me through it.'
George leaned back in his seat. 'One, we now know he was interfering
with his stepdaughter and taking pornographic photographs of her. Two,
on the afternoon she disappeared, he claims he was alone in his darkroom.
But we have two witnesses who saw him crossing the field between the
wood where Alison's dog was found and the copse where there were signs
of a struggle involving her.'
'Suggestive,' Martin commented.
'Three, the dog lived in his household. If anyone could have taped
its muzzle shut without being bitten, it was someone that familiar with
the dog. We'll have to do a trawl of the local chemists to see if anyone
remembers selling him a roll of elastoplast. Four, nobody in the village
apart from Ma Lomas admits to ever having heard of the disused lead
mine workings. But a book detailing the exact location of the entrance
to the mine was found on the shelf in Hawkin's study.'
'Suggestive but circumstantial.'
George nodded. 'It's all circumstantial. But then, how often do we get
a corroborated witness account of a murder?'
'True. Let's hear the rest of it.'
George paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. 'OK. Five, Hawkin
shared the blood group of the person who deposited semen on Alison's
underwear. There was also blood on that clothing that is the same group
as Alison's and the blood found on the tree in the copse. We know from
the presence of Barr bodies that this blood was female in origin. So it's
reasonable to assume that Alison was at least injured if not killed at the
hands of a sexual predator. And we know from the photographs that
Hawkin fits that category. Six, the supposed identification of Alison from a
204

newspaper photograph of a football crowd. It mirrors exactly a newspaper
story about the missing Manchester girl, Pauline Reade. I believe he used
this as a means of making himself look like a worried and caring father.
Something he'd completely failed to do up to that point, I have to say.
'Seven, two bullets were found in the lead mine. One was sufficiently
unmarked to be identified as having been fired from a Webley .38 revolver.
A similar gun was stolen from a house where Hawkin was a regular visitor
a couple of years ago. A similar gun was found hidden in his darkroom,
with the serial number filed off. We don't know yet if the man whose gun
was stolen can identify this as the same weapon. And we don't know yet if
this is the gun that fired the bullets we found in the mine. But we will.
'And finally, we have the bloodstained shirt. It's identical to the ones
he has made to measure in London, right down to the tailor's label on the
collar. It's been soaked with blood. If that blood corresponds to the other
blood we've circumstantially identified with Alison, it ties Hawkin into
an attack on her.' George raised his eyebrows. 'What do you think?'
'If we had a body, I'd say charge him. But we haven't got a body. We've
got no direct evidence that Alison Carter isn't alive and well. The DPP will
never wear a murder charge without a body.'
'There's precedent,' George protested. 'Haigh, the acid-bath murderer.
There was no corpse there.'
'There was evidence that someone's body had been disposed of and
forensic traces that pointed to his victim, if I remember rightly,' Martin
said.
'There's another precedent with even less evidence. In 1955. A Polish
ex-serviceman who was convicted of the murder of his business partner.
The prosecution claimed he'd fed the body to the pigs on their farm.
All the prosecution had to go on was that friends and neighbours said
the two men had been quarrelling. There were some bloodstains in the
farmhouse kitchen and the business partner had vanished without trace,
leaving behind his Post Office savings account. We've got a lot more
than that. There's been no confirmed sighting of Alison Carter since
she disappeared. We've got evidence that she was sexually assaulted and
that she lost a considerable amount of blood. It's not likely that she's still
alive, is it?'
Martin leaned back and let his cigar smoke dribble towards the ceiling.
'There's a lot of difference between "not likely" and "beyond reasonable
doubt". Even with the gun. If he killed her close up, why are there two
bullets in the wall?'
205


'Maybe she got away from him initially and he shot at her to scare her.
Maybe she was struggling and he threatened her with the other two shots.
To subdue her?'
Martin considered. 'Possible. But the defence will use those two bullets
to spread confusion with the jury. And if he killed the girl in the mine
workings, why move the body?'
George pushed his hair back from his forehead. 'I don't know. Perhaps
he knew an even better place to hide the body. He must have done, mustn't
he? Or else we'd have found it by now.'
'So if he knew a better place to dispose of the body, why leave evidence
of the sexual assault in the mine?'
George sighed. Frustrated as he was by Martin's questions, he knew the
defence lawyers would be a hundred times worse. 'I don't know. Maybe
he just didn't have the chance. He had to put in an appearance at the
dinner table. He couldn't afford to be late that night of all nights. And
by the time he'd had his dinner, the word had gone out about Alison and
he couldn't chance going back?'
'It's thin, George.' Martin sat up straight and looked George in the eye.
'It's not enough. You're going to have to find her body.'
206
Part Three: Trials and Tribulations

The Remand
It was over in minutes. Looking around the courtroom, George was struck
by the astonishment on the faces of the Scardale villagers who had turned
up in force. They had come to satisfy some primeval urge, to see the man
they cast as villain in the dock. They required ceremony to assuage that
urge, but there in a modern courtroom that looked more like a school
hall than the Old Bailey of film and television, there was nothing that
could satisfy that need.
All the facial variants of Scardale were there in the seven men and eight
women who had come along, from Ma Lomas's hooked nose to Brian
Carter's slab features. The notable absentee was Ruth Carter herself.
The press, of course, were there, though in nothing like the numbers
there would be at the committal and trial. There was so little they were
allowed to report at that stage, it was scarcely worth turning up. Because
of the rules governing the presumption of innocence, now Hawkin had
been charged with something, editors had to tread warily. Any suggestion
that Hawkin was being considered for a further charge of murder
was taboo.
The prisoner was brought into the courtroom where two men and a
woman Justices of the Peace sat on the bench. Alfie Naden was there,
ready and waiting. So was the duty court inspector. Hawkin looked
more at ease than any of them, his freshly shaved face the picture of
clean innocence, his black hair gleaming under the lights. There was a
low muttering from the public benches that was silenced by a sharp word
from the court usher.
The court clerk stood up and outlined the charge against Hawkin.
Almost before he had finished, Naden was on his feet. 'Your Worships, I
have a submission to put before the court. As Your Worships are aware,
209


it is the duty of the court under Section thirty-nine of the Children and
Young Persons Act to protect the identity of minors who are victims of
offences of indecency. With that in mind, it is normal for the court to bar
the members of the press from reporting the name of the accused, since
that would be an indirect way of identifying the victim where there is a
family relationship such as we find in these allegations. I would therefore
ask Your Worships to make such an order in this case.'
As Naden sat down, the inspector got to his feet again. He had already
discussed this with George and Superintendent Martin. 'I would oppose
such a ruling,' he said ponderously. 'Firstly, because of the extreme gravity
of the circumstances in this case. We believe this is not the first time the
defendant has sexually assaulted children. Publicizing his name may lead to
other victims making themselves known to us.' That part of the argument
was little more than kite-flying; Cragg's attempts at getting gossip out ofSt
Albans officers had been a signal failure. George planned to send Clough
down for a second attempt, but for now, they were only guessing.
'Secondly,' the inspector continued, 'it is the prosecution's view that
the victim of this assault is no longer alive and therefore does not merit
the protection of the court.'
People gasped. One of the Scardale women made a sound like a small
groan. Reporters looked at each other in bafflement. Could they report
this statement because it had been made in open court? Would it still be
contempt? Would it depend on what the magistrates ruled?
Naden was on his feet. 'Your Worships,' he protested, the very image of
outrage. 'This is a scandalous suggestion. It's true that the alleged victim
of this alleged assault is presently missing from home but for the police
to suggest that she is dead is calculated only to generate calumny against
my client. I must urge that you rule that nothing may be reported in the
press except the fact a man has been charged with the crime of rape.'
The magistrates went into a huddle with the court clerk. George
drummed his fingers impatiently on his knee. To be honest, he didn't
much care whether the press named Hawkin or not. All he wanted was
to crack on with h'is investigation.
At last, the chairman cleared his throat. 'We are agreed that for the
purposes of a remand hearing, the press is barred from naming the
accused. However, this decision need not be binding upon the examining
justices at any subsequent committal hearing.'
Naden bowed his acknowledgement. 'I am much obliged,' he said.
When the committal hearing was set for four weeks ahead, Naden
210

bounced to his feet again. 'Your Worships, I would ask you to consider
the question of bail. My client is an upstanding member of his local
community with no previous convictions nor stain on his character.
He runs a large este and there is no question but that his absence
will impose hardship on his tenants.'
'Rubbish!' a voice bellowed from the back of the room. George recognized
Brian Carter, his face scarlet with emotion. 'We're better off
without him.'
The chairman of the bench looked astonished. 'Remove that man at
once,' he said, outraged at such an exhibition of disrespect.
'I'm going anyway,' Brian shouted, jumping to his feet before anyone
could reach him. He stormed out, slamming the door behind him. He
left a stunned silence.
The chairman took a deep breath. 'If there are any further outbursts,
I will clear this court,' he said stiffly. 'Please continue, Mr Naden.'
'Thank you. As I was saying, Mr Hawkin's presence is vital to the
smooth running of the Scardale estate. As you have already heard, his
stepdaughter is missing from home and he feels his place is at the side of
his wife, to offer her comfort and succour. He is no feckless criminal who
drifts from place to place. He has no intention of leaving the jurisdiction.
I urge you to grant bail in these exceptional circumstances.'
The inspector slowly stood up. 'Your Worships, the police oppose bail
on the grounds that the accused has sufficient funds at his disposal to be
a flight risk. He has no deep roots in this area, having only moved here
on the death of his uncle a little over a year ago. We are also concerned
about possible interference with witnesses. Many potential prosecution
witnesses are not only his tenants but also his employees and there is a
very real risk of intimidation. Also, the police view this as an extremely
serious offence and it is likely that further serious charges will be brought
against the accused in the near future.'
George was relieved to see the woman magistrate nodding firmly at
every point the inspector made. If the others were undecided, he thought
her conviction would be enough to sway them. As they retired to discuss
their decision, a buzz of conversation started again on the press bench.
The Scardale contingent sat stolid and silent, their eyes boring holes in the
back of Philip Hawkin's neck. Hawkin himself was deep in conversation
with his lawyer.
George wished he could smoke.
Within a couple of minutes, the magistrates trooped back to their
211

dais. 'Bail is refused,' the chairman said decisively. 'Take the prisoner
down.'
As he passed George, Hawkin gave him a look of utter loathing.
George stared right through him. He'd always believed in keeping his
powder dry.
Daily News, Thursday, 6th February 1964, p.2
Man appears in court
A man charged with rape was remanded in
custody by High Peak magistrates sitting at
Buxton yesterday. The man, who cannot be
named for legal reasons, lives in the Derbyshire
village of Scardale.
212
213


FR1;The Murder Charge
It was strange, George thought, that all public offices were so similar.
Somehow, he'd expected the offices of the Director of Public Prosecutions
to be as grand as the title. Although the Regency building in Queen Anne's
Gate couldn't have been less like the four-square modern brick hutch that
housed the Buxton sub-division, the interior was standard government
issue. The barrister he and Tommy Clough had arranged to meet four
days after the remand hearing inhabited a space that was so similar to
his own office it was almost disorientating. Files were stacked on top
of filing cabinets, a handful of legal textbooks occupied the windowsill,
and the ashtray needed emptying. The floor was covered in the identical
linoleum, the walls painted the same off-white shade.
Jonathan Pritchard ran equally counter to his expectations. In his
mid-thirties, Pritchard had the sort of carrot-red hair that is impossible
to tame. It stuck out in tufts and angles all over his head, actually rising
straight up in a kind of crest at one corner of his forehead. His features were
equally unruly. His eyes, the blue-grey of wet Welsh slate, were round and
widely spaced with long golden lashes. His long bony nose took a sudden
swerve to the left at the end, and his mouth sloped at a wry angle. The
only orderly thing about him was his immaculate dark-grey pinstripe suit,
his dazzling white shirt and a perfectly knotted Guards tie.
'So,' the lawyer had greeted them, jumping to his feet. 'You're the
chaps with no body. Come in, sit down. I hope you're fuelled up in
advance because there is absolutely no chance of a decent cup of coffee
in these parts.' He stood politely until George and Clough were settled,
then subsided into his own battered wooden swivel chair. He opened a
drawer, took out another ashtray and pushed it towards them. 'The extent
of our hospitality,' he said ruefully. 'Now, who's who?'
214

They introduced themselves. Pritchard made a note on the pad in front
of him. 'Forgive me,' he said. 'But isn't it rather unusual for a case of this
magnitude to be run by a detective inspector? Particularly a detective
inspector who's only been in post for five months?*
George stifled a sigh and shrugged. 'The DCI had his ankle in plaster
when the girl went missing, so I was in operational control, reporting to
Superintendent Martin. He's the senior officer in the Buxton subdivision.
Anyway, as the case went on, HQ wanted to staff it with one of their more
experienced CID officers, but the super resisted. He said he wanted it
handled by his own men.'
'Very commendable, but perhaps not something your HQ officers were
terribly pleased about?' Pritchard said.
'I don't know about that, sir.'
Clough leaned forward. 'The super served in the army with the Deputy
Chief Constable, sir. So the brass know they can trust his judgement.'
Pritchard nodded. 'I was an army lawyer myself. I know the form.' He
took a box of Black Sobranie cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. George
could only imagine the impression that would make in the lawyers' room
at Buxton if Pritchard ended up presenting the case for the prosecution
at the committal. Thank God the justices wouldn't be in there too. 'I've
read the case papers,' Pritchard said. 'And examined the photographs.' He
gave an involuntary shudder. 'They are truly some of the most repugnant I
have ever seen. I've no doubt that we'll get a conviction on the rape charge
on the basis of those photographs alone. What we need to discuss now is
whether we have enough evidence to proceed with a charge of murder.
The principal obstacle is, of course, the absence of a body.'
George opened his mouth, but Pritchard raised one warning finger to
secure silence. 'Now, we must consider the corpus delicti - not, as most
people think, the body of the victim, but rather the body of the crime.
Which is to say, the essential elements of a crime and the circumstances
in which it has been committed. In the case of murder, it is necessary
for the prosecution to establish that a death has occurred, that the dead
person is the person alleged to have been killed, and that their death was
the result of unlawful violence. The easiest way to demonstrate this is by
the presence of a corpse, wouldn't you say?'
'There are precedents for murder convictions in the absence of a body,
though,' George said. 'Haigh, the acid-bath murderer, and James Camb.
And Michael Onufrejczyk, the pig farmer. That's the case where the Lord
Chief Justice said that the fact of death could be proved by circumstantial
215

FR1;evidence. Surely we've got enough of that for it to be worth bringing a
prosecution?'
Pritchard smiled. 'I see you've studied the leading precedents. I must
say, Inspector Bennett, I'm mightily intrigued by the circumstances of
this case. There's no denying that it presents some seemingly intractable
problems. However, as you rightly point out, there is a remarkable amount
of circumstantial evidence. Now, if we could just review that evidence?'
For two hours, they went through every detail that pointed to Philip
Hawkin having murdered his stepdaughter. Pritchard questioned them
closely and intelligently, probing to try to expose weaknesses in the chain
of logic. The barrister gave little away of his personal response to their
explanations, but he was clearly fascinated.
'There's something more, something that wasn't in your papers,' Clough
concluded. 'We only got the report late yesterday afternoon. The blood
on the shirt is the same group as Alison's, and it comes from a female,
same as the other blood. But there's also some scorching and powder on
the shirt, as there would be if a gun had been fired very close to it. And
there's no question that it's Hawkin's shirt.'
'All grist to your mill, Sergeant. Even without this latest piece of evidence,
there's little doubt in my mind that Hawkin has killed the girl.
But the question remains whether we can put together a case that will
satisfy a jury.' Pritchard ran a hand through his hair, rendering it even
more chaotic. George could see why he'd chosen to become a barrister;
under a horsehair wig, he'd look almost normal. And although there was
no denying his upper-class origins, his voice wasn't so pukka that it would
alienate a jury.
'Wherever the body is, he's done a good job of hiding it. We're not
going to find it unless someone stumbles over it by accident. I don't
think we're going to get much more than we've already got,' George
said, trying not to sound as despondent as he always felt when Anne's
unsettled sleeping woke him to brood in the small hours.
Pritchard swivelled from left to right in his chair. 'Still, it's a fascinating
challenge, isn't it? I can't remember the last time I read a set of case
papers that got the old juices flowing like this. What a battle of wits in
the courtroom! I can't help thinking it would be enormous fun to get
this one off the ground.'
'Would you do the prosecuting, then?' Clough asked.
'Because it's clearly going to be controversial, we'd use a QC, both for
the committal hearing and the actual trial. But I would certainly be his
216

junior, and I'd be largely responsible for preparing the case. I'm bound
to say, I'm in favour of pressing forward with this.' Again he raised an
admonitory finger. 'But that doesn't mean you can go ahead and charge.
I will have to take this to the Director himself and convince him that we
will not be exposing ourselves to ridicule if we pursue this case. I'm sure
you know how our betters loathe being laughed at,' he added with an
ironic smile.
'So when will we hear?' George asked.
'By the end of the week,' Pritchard said decisively. 'He'll want to sit
on it for weeks, but time is of the essence here, I feel. I'll call you on
Friday at the latest.' Pritchard got to his feet and held out his hand.
'Inspector, Sergeant.' He shook their hands. 'It's been a pleasure. Fingers
crossed, eh?'
Daily News, Monday, 17th February 1964, p.i
Missing girl: Murder charge
By a Staff Reporter
In a sensational new development, police
last night charged 37-year-old Philip Hawkin
with the murder of his stepdaughter, missing
schoolgirl Alison Carter.
The unusual aspect of the charge is that
Alison's body has not been discovered. The
pretty blonde 13-year-old has not been seen
since she left her home in the tiny Derbyshire
hamlet of Scardale to walk her dog after
school on 11th December last year.
Hawkin will appear before Buxton magistrates
tomorrow to be remanded for committal.

Not unique
This is not the first time murder charges have
been brought where no body has been found.
In the case of John George Haigh, the notorious
acid-bath murderer, all that was found of
his victim was a gallstone, a few bones and
her false teeth.
217

But this residue was enough to demonstrate
that a body had been disposed of and Haigh
was hanged for murder.
James Camb, a steward on a luxury liner
plying between South Africa and England,
was accused of murdering a passenger, the
actress Gay Gibson.
He claimed she had died from a fit while
he had been alone with her in her cabin. He
had panicked, thinking he would be accused
of killing her, and pushed her body through
a porthole.
His story was not believed and he was
found guilty.
A further case occurred on a remote farm
in Wales where a Polish war hero was convicted
of murdering his business partner and
feeding his body to the pigs on the farm they
jointly owned.
218
The Committal
George woke at six on Monday, 24* February. He slipped out of bed, trying
not to disturb Anne, and quietly padded downstairs in dressing gown and
slippers. He made a pot of tea and carried it through to the living room.
Pulling back the curtains to watch the dark give way to dawn, he was
astonished to see Tommy dough's car parked outside. The glowing coal
of a cigarette revealed his sergeant was as wide awake as he was.
Minutes later, Clough was sitting opposite George, a steaming china
cup nestled in one of his large hands. 'I thought you'd be up bright and
early an' all. I hope Hawkin's losing as much sleep as we are,' he' said
bitterly.
'Between Anne's restlessness and worrying about this committal, I can't
remember the last time I had eight hours' sleep,' George agreed.
'How's she doing?'
George shrugged. 'She gets tired easily. We went to see The Great Escape at the Opera House on Friday night, and she fell asleep halfway through.
And she frets.' He sighed. 'I don't suppose it helps that she never knows
when I'm going to be home.'
'Things'11 ease up a bit after the trial,' Clough consoled him.
'I suppose so. I can't help worrying that he's going to get away with it.
I mean, we've got to show our hand at the committal to get the justices
to agree to send him for trial at the assizes. Then he'll have at least a
couple of months to construct a defence, knowing exactly what we've
got to throw at him. It's not like Perry Mason, where we can suddenly
spring a surprise clincher at the last minute.'
'The lawyers wouldn't be going ahead with' it if they didn't think they
had a good chance of winning,' Clough reminded him. 'We've done our
bit. All we can do now is leave it up to them,' he added philosophically.
219


George snorted. 'Is that supposed to make me feel better? Tommy, I
hate this stage of a case. Everything's out of my hands, I can't influence
what happens. I feel so powerless. And ifHawkin isn't convicted ... well,
never mind the lawyers, I'm going to feel like I've failed.' He leaned back
in his chair and lit a cigarette. 'I couldn't bear that, for all sorts of reasons.
Mostly because a killer would have walked free. But I'm human enough
to take it personally. Can you imagine how happy it would make DCI
Carver? Can you imagine the headlines that sewer rat Don Smart would
get out of it?'
'Come on, George, everybody knows the way you've sweated this one.
If Carver had been in charge, we'd never even have got the evidence for the
rape charge. And that's rock solid. It's not possible that he can wriggle out
of that, whatever happens over the murder. And you can bet your bottom
dollar that any judge who hears the evidence and then gets a jury stupid
enough to return "not guilty" on the murder charge is going to use the
rape conviction to hit Hawkin with the maximum possible sentence. He's
not going to be walking Scardale again in a hurry.'
George sighed. 'You're right. I just wish we could have tied Hawkin
more closely to the gun. I mean, how much more unlucky can we get?
There's one man who could possibly identify the gun we've got as the
Webley that was stolen from St Albans. The previous owner, Mrs Hawkin's
neighbour Mr Wells. And where is he? Spending a few months with his
daughter who's emigrated to Australia. And not a single one of his friends
or neighbours has a forwarding address. They can't even remember exactly
when he's due back. Of course, we suspect that Hawkin's mother has all
these details at her fingertips, being Mr and Mrs Wells's best friend, but
she's certainly not going to tell those nasty policemen who are making
those terrible allegations against her loving son,' he added with withering
sarcasm.
He got to his feet. 'I'm going to have a wash and a shave. Do you want
to make a fresh pot of tea? I'll take Anne a cup when I get dressed. Then
I'll buy you a full English at the transport caff.'
'Sounds good to me. We'll need stoking up. It's going to be a long
day.'
The town hall clock struck ten, its bass note penetrating the courtroom
across the road. Jonathan Pritchard raised his head from the pile of papers
in front of him, his eyebrows raised in expectation. Next to him, still
absorbed in his notes, was the burly figure of Desmond Stanley, QC. A
220

former Oxford rugby blue, Stanley had avoided running to fat in his forties
with a strict regime of exercise that he insisted on conducting wherever
he worked. As well as the usual wig, gown and bands of the barrister,
Stanley's court bag always contained his dumbbells. In robing rooms up
and down the country, he had bent and stretched, performed pushups
and squat thrusts before walking into court and prosecuting or defending
the worst criminals the legal system could throw at him.
What was odd was that he never looked healthy. His skin had a naturally
sallow cast, his lips were bloodlessly pale and his dark-brown eyes watered
constantly. He always had a flamboyantly coloured silk handkerchief
tucked into one sleeve so he could make regular dabs at his rheumy
eyes. The first time George had met him, he had wondered if Stanley
would live long enough to try the case. Afterwards, Pritchard had put
him right. 'He'll outlive the lot of us,' he confided. 'Be glad he's on our
side and not against us because Desmond Stanley is a shark. Trust me
on this.'
Pritchard felt even more grateful to have Stanley on his side when
he saw who the opposing barrister was. Rupert Highsmith, QC, had
earned his formidable reputation as a surgically precise and ruthless
cross-examiner in a series of high-profile cases in the early 1950s, when
he was still a young barrister. Another ten years at the bar had not blunted
his skills; rather, they had taught him a series of new tricks that left his
opponents smarting, so much so that lesser talents grew reluctant to
draw shaky material from their witnesses because they feared what he
might do to it on cross.
Now, Highsmith was leaning back confidently in his chair, scanning the
crowded press benches and public gallery, his profile as sharply geometric
as if it had been .constructed from a child's set of wooden shapes. Unkind
colleagues at the bar whispered that he had had cosmetic surgery to keep
his jawline so taut. He always liked to check out his audience, to assess
the impact his case was likely to have. It was a good turn-out today, he
thought. A good showcase for his talents. He was one of the few defence
barristers who shone at committals. Because the committal hearing's only
purpose was to decide whether the prosecution had a prima facie case
against the accused, usually only the prosecution would put their case
before the magistrates. The sole opportunity Highsmith would have to
demonstrate his skills was in cross-examining their witnesses.'And that
was what he did best.
A door at the side of the courtroom opened and Hawkin walked in,
221


flanked by two police officers. On George's instructions, he was handcuffed
to neither. The detective was determined to do nothing that might
elicit the slightest sympathy for Hawkin. Besides, he knew the defence
barrister's first action would be to demand the handcuffs be removed,
and the magistrates would probably agree, not least because it would be
hard for them not to see landowner Hawkin as one of themselves. And
Pritchard had emphasized how important it was psychologically that first
blood should not go to the defence.
Eighteen nights behind bars had made little impact on Philip Hawkin's
appearance. His dark hair was shorter than usual, since prisoners have
no choice of barber but must take what they are given. But it was
still glossy and smooth, slicked back from his broad, square forehead.
His dark-brown eyes flicked around the courtroom before settling on
his barrister. The smile that appeared to hover perpetually on his lips
widened in acknowledgement of Highsmith's curt nod. Hawkin took his
time entering the dock, carefully adjusting the trousers of his sober dark
suit as he settled himself on the bench seat.
The door behind the magistrates' raised bench opened and the court
clerk jumped to his feet, calling, 'All rise.' Chairs scraped back on the
tiled floor as the three justices filed in. Hawkin was among the first to
his feet, his bearing showing a deference that Pritchard noticed and filed
away for further reference. Either Hawkin was a good actor, or else he
really believed these magistrates had power over him that they would use
to his advantage.
The three men who would sit in judgement over the case for the prosecution
settled themselves, followed in shuffling disorder by everyone else
except the court clerk. He reminded them that the court was in session to
consider the proceedings to commit Philip Hawkin of Scardale Manor,
Scardale in the county of Derbyshire for trial.
Desmond Stanley got to his feet. 'Your Worships, I appear for the
Director of Public Prosecutions in this matter. Philip Hawkin is accused
of the rape of Alison Carter, aged thirteen. He is further accused that
on a separate occasion, on or about the eleventh of December, nineteen
sixty-three, he did murder the said Alison Carter.'
The only person smiling in the courtroom was Don Smart, bent over
his shorthand notebook. The ringmaster was on his feet. The circus
had begun.
After he'd given his evidence and suffered the whip of Highsmith's
222

incisive cross-examination, George walked out of the witness box and
back through the crowded courtroom, his head high, two spots of colour
burning in his cheeks. Tomorrow, he'd come back and sit in the body of
the court to listen to the rest of the prosecution case. But now, he wanted
a cigarette and an hour's peace. He was about to run down the stairs when
he heard Clough call his name. He half turned. 'Not now, Tommy. Meet
me in the Baker's at opening time.' Using the newel post as a pivot, he
swung down the stairs and rushed out of the building.
Within forty minutes, he was panting on the rounded summit ofMam
Tor, high on the ridge where limestone meets millstone grit, the White
Peak on his right, the Dark Peak on his left. The wind whipped the breath
from his mouth, and the temperature was dropping even faster than the
sun. George threw back his head and roared his pent-up frustration to
the scudding clouds and the indifferent sheep.
He turned to face the dark crouch of Kinder Scout, its intractable
moorland blocking any vista north. He swung through ninety degrees
and looked along the ridge past Hollins Cross, Lose Hill Pike and the
distant pimple of Win Hill, with Stanage Edge and Sheffield invisible
beyond. Then another ninety-degree turn to gaze at the white scar of
Winnats Pass and the dips and rises of the limestone dales beyond.
Finally, he faced east, scanning the roll of Rushup Edge and the gentle
descent to Chapel-en-le-Frith. Somewhere out there, Alison Carter was
lying, her body prey to nature, her life snuffed out.
He'd done what he could. Now it was up to others. He had to learn
to let go.
Later, he found Clough nursing the remains of a pint at a quiet table in
the corner of the Baker's Arms. The locals knew enough to leave them
in peace, and the landlord had already refused service to three reporters,
including Don Smart. He had threatened to complain to the next session
of the licensing magistrates. The landlord had chuckled and said, 'They'd
give me a medal. You're here and gone - we've all got to live here.'
George walked over with a fresh pint for Clough and one for himself. 'I needed some air,' he said as he sat down. 'If I'd stuck around, you'd
have me in the cells on a charge of murdering a QC.'
'What a shit,' Clough said, pretending to spit on the floor. 'I suppose he'd say he's only doing his job.' George took a deep draught of his beer. 'Ah, that's better. I've been up Mam Tor, blowing the cobwebs
away. Well, at least now we can see where the defence is coming from.
223

It's a conspiracy by me to frame Philip Hawkin to ensure my future
promotions.'
'The magistrates won't fall for that.'
'A jury might,' George said bitterly.
'Why would they? You come over as Mr Nice Guy. You've only got to
look at Hawkin and the alarm bells start ringing. He's got that look that
women can't resist and men hate on sight. Unless Highsmith can swing
an all-female jury, there's no chance of that defence running.'
'I hope you're right. Anyway, cheer me up. Tell me what I missed.'
Clough grinned. 'You missed Charlie Lomas. He cleans up well, I'll say
that for him. He managed to wear a suit without looking like he was in a
straitjacket. Nervous as a cat in a kennel, but the lad stuck to his guns, I'll
give him that. Stanley did a good catch-up on Highsmith's smear job. He
got Charlie to talk about the lead mine and how it would have been out
of the question for an outsider like you to have made your way there,
even with the book. He also got Charlie to explain how, although Hawkin
is a relative newcomer to the dale, he's done a lot of exploring for his
picture-postcard photographs.'
George gave a sigh of relief. 'How did he get on with Highsmith?'
'He just stuck to his guns. Wouldn't be shifted. Yes, he was sure it was
Wednesday he saw Hawkin walking the fields. No, it wasn't Tuesday. Nor
Monday neither. He was solid as a rock, was Charlie. He made a good
impression on the mags, you could tell.'
'Thank God somebody did.'
'Stop feeling sorry for yourself, George. You did fine. Highsmith tried
to make you look bent, but he didn't succeed. Considering how little
solid evidence we've got, I'd say we're doing all right in there. Now, do
you want the good news?'
George's head came up as if it was on a string. 'There's good news?'
he demanded.
Clough grinned. 'Oh aye, I think you could say that.' He took his time
getting his cigarettes out and lighting up. 'I had another word with the
sergeant down in St Albans.'
'Wells has turned up?' George could hardly contain himself.
'Not yet, no.'
George slumped back in his seat, sighing. 'That's the news I'm holding
my breath for,' he admitted.
'Well, this isn't half bad. Turns out our sergeant knows Hawkin. He
didn't want to say anything till he'd spoken to one or two other folk
224
and got the nod from them that it was all right to talk to me.' Clough
drained his pint. 'Same again?'
George nodded in amused frustration. 'Oh, go on, I know you're
enjoying dragging it out. You might as well pay for your pleasure.'
By the time Clough returned, George had smoked half a cigarette with
the nervous concentration of a man about to enter a no-smoking train
compartment on a long journey. 'Come on then,' he urged, leaning
forward and sliding his pint towards him. 'Let's hear it.'
'Sergeant Stillman's wife is a Tawny Owl at one of the local Brownie
packs. Hawkin turned up offering to be their official photographer. He'd
do pictures at parades, camps, that sort of thing, and sell the pictures back
to the Brownies and their families at a knockdown price. In exchange,
he said he wanted to take portrait photographs of the girls for his
own portfolio. It all seemed above board. It wasn't as if Hawkin was
a stranger. Him and his mum were both members of the church the
Brownie pack was attached to. And he was always perfectly happy for
the girls' mothers to come along when he was taking their pictures.'
Clough paused, eyebrows raised.
'So what went wrong?' George asked on cue.
'Time went by. Hawkin got friendly with some of the older girls and
started setting up sessions without their mothers. There were a couple
of... incidents. First time, he denied everything, said the girl was telling
lies to get attention. Second time, same thing, only this time he said that
the girl was getting her own back because Hawkin wasn't interested in
photographing her any more. He said she knew the fuss there had been
about the first girl's accusation and threatened to say the same things if he
wouldn't give her money for sweets and carry on taking her photograph.
Well, nobody wanted any trouble, and there wasn't any real evidence, so
Sergeant Stillman had a quiet word with Hawkin. Suggested he should stay
away from young girls to avoid any possibility of misunderstanding.'
George let out a low whistle. 'Well, well, well. I thought there must
be something somewhere. Child molesters don't suddenly start up at
Hawkin's age. Well done, Tommy. At least we know we've not been
letting ourselves get carried away with some daft notion. Hawkin is
exactly what we think he is.'
Clough nodded. 'The only trouble is, we can't use any of it in court.
What Stillman has to say is second-hand hearsay.'
'What about the girls?'
Clough snorted. 'Stillman won't even tell me their names. The main
225

reason it never came to formal charges before was that the mothers were
adamant that their little girls weren't going to be put through the ordeal
of going to court. If they wouldn't hear of it on an indecency, there's no
chance of them being persuaded on a murder that's in the headlines like
this one.'
George nodded sad agreement. He couldn't argue with people who
wanted to protect their kids, even when the damage was already done.
Now he was himself about to become a father, however, he felt for the first
time in his life the tug ofvigilantism. He couldn't understand why Hawkin
was still at large. As a policeman, Stillman had plenty of resources to hand
to damage the man, physically and socially. But he hadn't. He'd even been
reluctant to tell Clough. 'They obviously do things differently down there,'
he said wearily. 'If I knew, as a copper, that some pervert had molested a
kid belonging to a friend of mine, I couldn't let him walk away. I'd have
to find a way of making him pay. Either through the law or ...'
'I thought you didn't believe in the dark alleyways of justice?' Clough
said ironically.
'It's different with kids, though, isn't it?'
It was the great unanswerable question. They pondered it in silence for
the rest of their drinks. When George came back with the third round,
he seemed a little brighter. 'We've still got enough, even without the St
Albans stuff.'
'I think Stillman feels guilty about not taking more action,' Clough
said.
'Good. So he should. Maybe he'll make a point of keeping an eye open
for the return of Mr and Mrs Wells.'
'I hope so, George. Even if we get our committal, we're still a long way
off home and dry.'

In a dramatic decision yesterday Buxton
magistrates committed Philip Hawkin for trial
to the Derby Assizes on charges of murder
and rape.
Alison has not been seen since she disappeared
from the remote Derbyshire village of
Scardale on 11th December last year.
During the four-day committal, her mother,
who married Hawkin just over a year ago,
gave evidence for the prosecution. It was Mrs
Carter (as she prefers now to be known) who
discovered the gun which prosecuting counsel
Mr Desmond Stanley, QC claimed had been
used to murder her daughter.
Yeste'rday the court heard from Professor
John Hammond that the absence of blood at
the alleged murder scene did not necessarily
mean no killing had taken place.
He also testified that blood found on a
heavily stained shirt identified as belonging
to Hawkin could have come from Alison. (cont. on p.2)


Daily News, Friday, 28th February 1964, p.i

227
Alison: Stepfather
to be tried for murder
The stepfather of missing schoolgirl Alison
Carter will stand trial for her murder even
though the 13-year-old's body has not been
found.
226

The Trial
High Peak Courant, Friday, 12th June 1964
Peak Murder Trial Next Week
The trial ofScardale landowner Philip Hawkin
begins on Monday at Derby Assizes.
Hawkin is charged with the rape and murder
of his stepdaughter, Alison Carter. At his committal
before Buxton justices in February, his
wife was among the prosecution witnesses.
Alison has not been seen since the afternoon
of 11th December last year when she
disappeared after taking her collie Shep for
a walk in the dale after school.
The presiding judge at the trial will be Mr
Justice Fletcher Sampson.
The fanfare of trumpets seemed to hang in the air like the shimmer
of a rainbow. In all his scarlet and ermine glory, Mr Justice Fletcher
Sampson had arrived at the oak-panelled county hall with his mounted
police escort. George Bennett sat in an anteroom, smoking a cigarette at
an open window. He imagined the dramatic procession of the judge to
his courtroom, to take his appointed place at the judicial rostrum beneath
the royal coat of arms. At his side on this, the first day of the Assize Court,
would be the High Sheriff of Derbyshire in full ceremonial uniform.
By now, he thought, they'd be in the courtroom, staring down from
the rostrum at counsel, arrayed before them in their grey wigs and black
228

gowns, their brilliant white bands and shirt-fronts making them look like
strange hybrids of hooded crows and magpies. Behind the barristers, their
support staff of solicitors and clerks. Behind them, the ornate but solid
dock where Hawkin would sit, flanked by a pair of police officers, dwarfed
by the timber and kept firmly in his place by the row of iron spikes that
topped the wood. Behind Hawkin, the press benches with their assortment
of eager youths desperate to make their marks, and old hacks who needed
to feel they'd seen and heard it all. Don Smart's fox-red hair would stand
out among them like a blaze. Above and behind the journalists, the public
gallery, crammed with the concerned faces of Scardale and the prurient
eyes of the others.
And over to one side, just beyond the witness box, the most important
people in the place would soon sit. The jury. Twelve men and women who
would hold Philip Hawkin's fate in their hands. George tried not to think
about the possibility of them rejecting the case he had worked so hard
with the lawyers to construct, but he couldn't help the niggle of fear that
squirmed inside him in the night when he tried for sleep that miserably
eluded him too often. He sighed and flicked the butt into the street below.
He wondered where Tommy Clough was. They'd been supposed to meet
at the police station at eight, but when George had arrived. Bob Lucas had
told him Clough had left a message that he'd see him at court. 'Probably
chasing some skirt down Derby way,' Lucas had said with a wink. 'Trying
to take his mind off the trial.'
George lit another cigarette and leaned on the windowsill. Now the
clerk of the assize would be calling all those who had business before
his Lady the Queen's Justices of Oyer and Terminer and General Gaol
Delivery for the Jurisdiction of the High Court to draw near and give
their attention. God save the Queen. He remembered looking up these strangely grandiose terms in his early days of infatuation with the law. The
Commission of Oyer and Terminer literally meant to hear and determine;
it was originally the royal writ that empowered the King's Judges and
Serjeants to sit in judgement on treason and felonies. By 1964, it had
become an archaic phrase to cover the commission granted to circuit
judges, giving them authority to hold courts for trial. Under General
Gaol Delivery, the custodial authorities were obliged to hand over to
the judge all the persons awaiting trial and whose names were listed in
the court calendar.
In practice, today that would only apply to Philip Hawkin. The sole
scheduled murder trial of the assizes, his case would be heard first.
229

Two days previously, George had had one last try at persuading Hawkin
to confess. He'd visited him behind the grim high walls of the prison, where
they'd come face to face in a tiny interview room that was no more
appetizing than the cells themselves. Hawkin had lost weight, George was
pleased to see. The principle that a man was regarded as innocent until
proven guilty never held fast inside a jail; George knew that Hawkin had
already been given a taste of his own medicine behind bars. Prison officers
were never quick to intervene when a rapist was on the receiving end of
an assault. And they always made sure the other prisoners knew exactly
who the child molesters were. While the civilized part of him objected,
the prospective father in George was in total sympathy.
They had eyed each other across a narrow table. 'Did you bring some
cigarettes?' Hawkin demanded.
Silently, George placed an open packet of Gold Leaf between them.
Hawkin snatched one greedily and George lit it for him. Hawkin drew
in the smoke and his whole body relaxed. He ran a hand over his hair
and said, 'I'll be out of here in a few days. You know that, don't you?
My brief is going to tell the world just how bent you bastards are. You
know I never killed Alison, and I'm going to make you eat your words,
one by one.'
George shook his head, almost admiring the man's defiance. 'You're
whistling in the dark, Hawkin,' he said, deliberately condescending.
'However hard you try to make the world believe otherwise, I'm an
honest copper. You know and I know that nobody's fitted you up. Nobody had to, because you killed Alison and we caught you.'
'I never killed her,' he said, his voice intense as his eyes. 'You've got me
locked up in here, and whoever took Alison is walking around laughing
at you.'
George shook his head. 'It's not going to work, Hawkin. It's a good
act, but all the evidence stacks up against you.' He took a cigarette from
the pack and lit it nonchalantly. 'Mind you,' he continued, 'you still have
a choice.'
Hawkin said nothing, but cocked his head to one side, his lips a thin,
unsmiling line.
'You can choose whether you do life, with a chance of seeing the outside
world again in twenty years or so. Or whether you hang. It's up to you.
It's not too late to change your plea. You go guilty and you live. You
make us work for it, and you hang. By the neck. Till you are well and
truly dead.'
230

Hawkin sneered. 'They're not going to hang me. Even if they find me
guilty, there's not a judge in the land would have the nerve to send me
to the gallows. Not on evidence like you've got.'
George leaned back in his seat, his eyebrows raised. 'You think not? If
it's good enough for a jury to convict you, it's good enough for a judge
to hang you. Especially a hard nut like Fletcher Sampson. He's not scared
of the bleeding heart liberals.' He suddenly jerked forward, forearms on
the table, gaze locked on Hawkin's. 'Look, do yourself a favour. Tell us
where to find her. Put her mother's mind at rest. It'll go down well with
the judge. You get a good mitigation from your barrister and you could
be out in ten years.'
Hawkin shook his head in frustration. 'You're not hearing properly,
George,' he said, turning the name into an insult. 'I don't know where
she is.'
George got to his feet, sweeping his packet of cigarettes into his pocket.
'Please yourself, Hawkin. No skin off my nose. I'll get the promotion
whether you cough or not. Because we are going to win out there.'
Now, as he watched the people in the street below about their business,
oblivious to the drama unfolding inside the courtroom, he wished he felt as
confident as he hoped he had sounded. He turned away from the window
and slumped into a chair. By now, the charges would have been read and
Hawkin would no doubt have answered, 'Not guilty,' twice.
Stanley would wait until the jury were settled, then make the opening
statement for the prosecution. It was, George thought, the most crucial
moment of any trial. He believed people were most impressed by
what they heard at the start of a trial, when they were fresh and their
minds most open to persuasion. If the prosecuting barrister delivered
an opening address full of conviction and stated what he intended
to prove as if it were already demonstrably incontrovertible fact, it
left the defence with a steep mountain to climb. George had every
confidence that Stanley could do just that. George didn't expect to
give his own evidence until the second day of the trial, but he couldn't
stay away.
He just wished Clough would turn up. Then at least he'd have someone
to share his restlessness with.
Desmond Stanley rose. 'Your Lordship, I appear for the Director of Public
Prosecutions in this matter. Philip Hawkin is accused of the rape of Alison
Carter, aged thirteen. He is further accused that on a separate occasion, on
231

or about the eleventh of December, nineteen sixty-three, he did murder
the said Alison Carter.'
He paused to let the gravity of the charges sink in. The courtroom
was silent; it was as if everyone had stopped breathing the better to hear
Stanley's sonorous voice.
'Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Philip Hawkin moved to Scardale
in the summer of nineteen sixty-two, following the death of his uncle.
He inherited a substantial estate - the entire dale, consisting of fertile
farmland, extensive stock in the shape of sheep and cattle, Scardale
Manor itself and eight cottages comprising the hamlet of Scardale. Everyone
who lives and works in Scardale does so solely with his blessing,
which you should bear in mind when you listen to the evidence of
those who are his tenants. It shows commendable courage and lack of
self-interest that those people are prepared to appear as witnesses for the
prosecution.
'Not long after he arrived in Scardale, Philip Hawkin began to take an
interest in one of the women in the village, Ruth Carter. Mrs Carter had
been widowed six years previously and had a daughter, Alison, from that
marriage. Alison was then twelve years old. You must consider, as our
evidence unfolds, whether Hawkin's primary interest was in the mother
or the daughter. It may have been that he sought to divert suspicion from
his perverted interest in Alison by marrying her mother. If Alison had
accused her tormentor, who would have believed such a tale from the
daughter of his new bride? Doubtless she would have been accused of
acting out of dislike of her stepfather, or jealousy of the attention he
had won from her mother. Whatever his motive, the accused pursued
Mrs Carter ruthlessly until eventually she agreed to marry him.
'It is our contention that at some point after the marriage took place,
Hawkin began to molest sexually his stepdaughter. You will see photographic
evidence of a particularly loathsome kind that demonstrates not
only the debauch of his stepdaughter but also proves beyond a scintilla
of doubt that Philip Hawkin is guilty of the rape of Alison Carter in the
most calculated and disgusting manner.
'The Crown intends to show that Alison was further victimized by a
man who owed her the duty of care of a father. We may never know the
reason why Philip Hawkin decided to silence her for ever. She may have
threatened to reveal his bestial practices to her mother or to someone
in authority; she may have refused to cooperate further with his vile
demands; he may simply have ceased to find her attractive and wished
232

to dispose of her to leave him free to debauch another child. As I said, we
may never know. But what we do intend to prove is that, whichever was
his motive, Philip Hawkin abducted Alison Carter at gunpoint, abused
her sexually for one last time and then murdered her.
'On the afternoon of the eleventh of December last year, Alison Carter
left the family home to take a walk after school with her dog, Shep. It is
our contention that Philip Hawkin followed her into a nearby wood, where
he forced her to accompany him. Her dog was later found there tied to a
tree, its muzzle taped shut with elastoplast identical to that purchased by
Hawkin the previous week in a local shop.
'He then took her to a secluded spot, a cave in some disused mine
workings whose very existence was unknown to all the other inhabitants
of the dale save one. On the way, while passing through another piece
of woodland, Alison somehow managed to break free and a struggle took
place. She struck her head against a tree in the course of this struggle
and Hawkin was then able to transport her to the cave. We will present
forensic evidence to support this.
'Once her stepfather had managed to bring her to this isolated spot,
safe from prying eyes and ears, he brutally raped her yet again. Then
he killed her. Afterwards, he moved the body to another site. Although
it has not been found, that is not entirely surprising, for the limestone
around Scardale is riddled with underground cave systems and potholes.
But he had no time to return to clear away the rest of the evidence, for by
the time he returned home in time for tea, the hunt was already afoot for
his stepdaughter.
'We know for a fact that shots were fired in that cave by a gun that
was later found on Philip Hawkin's property, in a locked outhouse which
he used as a photographic darkroom. We know that a shirt belonging to
Philip Hawkin was heavily stained with blood which is not his. There is
no forensic evidence to contradict the convincing conclusion that Hawkin
murdered Alison Carter.
'There is an overwhelming burden of evidence to support the case for
the prosecution, which we intend to demonstrate in this courtroom. With
Your Lordship's permission, I should like to call my first witness?'
Sampson nodded. 'Please proceed, Mr Stanley.'
'Thank you. I call Mrs Ruth Carter.'
Now the silence in the body of the court was disturbed by a ripple
of muttered comments. The only island of silence was the stolid-faced
contingent of Scardale villagers. Every adult who was not required as a
233

witness was there, dressed uncomfortably in Sunday best, determined to
see the justice they wanted done for their Alison.
Ruth Carter walked through the courtroom with her eyes fixed firmly
ahead of her. Not once did she succumb to the temptation to look at
her husband in the dock. She wore a simple black two-piece suit, the
collar of her white blouse the only relief from its bleakness. She carried
a small black handbag, clutched tightly between her gloved fingers. Once
she reached the witness box, she carefully positioned herself so she could
not accidentally catch a glimpse of Hawkin. She took the oath without a
stumble, her voice low and clear. Stanley mopped his eyes and looked
gravely at her. He took her through the formal questions of identity and
relationship, then moved straight into the meat of his interrogation. 'Do
you remember the afternoon of Wednesday, the eleventh of December
last year?'
'I'll never forget it,' she said simply.
'Can you tell the magistrates what happened that day?'
'My daughter Alison came home from school and came into the kitchen
where I was getting the tea ready. She went straight out again to take the
dog for a walk. She usually did that unless the weather was too bad. She
liked to get out into the open after a day in the classroom. The last words
she said to me were, "See you in a bit, Mam." I haven't seen her from
that day to this. She never came back.' Ruth looked up at the bench of
magistrates. 'I've lived in hell ever since.'
Gently, Stanley led Ruth through the events of that evening; her
desperate door-to-door search of the village, her emotional call to the
police and their arrival at the manor house. 'What was your husband's
attitude to Alison's absence?'
Her mouth tightened. 'He took it all very lightly. He kept saying she
was doing it on purpose to frighten us so that when she came home, we'd
be so glad to see her we'd let her get her own way.'
'Did he agree you should call the police?'
'No, he was very opposed to that. He said there was no need. He said
nothing could happen to harm her in Scardale, where she knew every
inch of the land and everybody on it.' Her voice shook and she took a
small white handkerchief from the black handbag. Stanley waited while
she dabbed her eyes and blew her nose.
'Did your husband resent your devotion to your daughter?' Stanley
asked. 'I mean in a general way.'
'I never thought so. I thought he spoiled her. He was always buying
234
her things. He bought her an expensive record player, and every week
he'd go into Buxton and buy her records. He spent a fortune on doing
out her bedroom - more than he ever spent on our room. He always said
he was trying to make up for what she'd missed out on, and I was daft
enough to believe him.'
Stanley let her words sink in. 'What do you think now?' he asked.
'I think he was buying her silence. I should have taken more notice of
how she was with him.'
'And how was that?'
Ruth sighed and looked down at her feet. 'She never liked him. She
wouldn't be in the same room alone with him, now I think about it.
She was moody in the house, which she'd never been before, though
everybody said she was just the same as always when she was away from
me and him. At the time, I put it down to her thinking nobody could
replace her dad. But I was just kidding myself.' She lifted her eyes and
fixed the judge with a pleading gaze. 'I thought I was doing what was best
for her as well as me when I married him. I thought she'd come round
in time.'
'Did you know your husband took photographs of Alison?'
'Oh aye,' she said bitterly. 'He was always getting her to pose for
him. He's a clever beggar, though. Nine times out of ten, it would all
be innocent and above board and out there in public. Alison posing
with the calves, Alison by the river. So I never questioned the other
times when he took her off to one of the barns, or when he'd say
he was going to have a session with her when I was out shopping.'
She put a hand to her cheek, as if appalled by what she was saying.
'She tried to tell me what was happening, but all I heard was the
words, not what. was under them. A few times, she said she hated the
photography sessions. She didn't like posing for him. But I told her not
to be daft, that it was his hobby and it was something they could do
together.'
Her words fell like stones in the courtroom. Throughout her testimony,
Hawkin sat shaking his head, as if in puzzled wonderment that she could
be saying such things about him.
'Moving on, Mrs Carter. Has your husband ever owned a gun?'
She nodded. 'Oh yes. He showed it to me after we were married. He
said it was a wartime souvenir of his father's, but it wasn't licensed so I
shouldn't tell anybody about it.'
'Did you notice anything distinctive about it?'
235

'The handle grip was all criss-crossed. But there was a chip out of the
bottom corner on one side.'
Stanley made a note, then continued. 'Where did he keep the gun?'
'It was in his study, in a locked metal box.'
'Have you seen that box recently?'
'The police found it when they searched his study the day they arrested
him. But it was empty.'
'Can Mrs Carter be shown exhibit ...' Stanley shuffled his papers.
'Exhibit fourteen.'
The court clerk handed Ruth the Webley, tagged and labelled. 'That's
it,' she said. 'The handle's chipped there, on the bottom, like I said.'
Hawkin frowned, casting a glance across at his barrister, Rupert
Highsmith, who shook his head almost imperceptibly.
Stanley moved on to the discovery of the shirt and gun in Hawkin's
darkroom, taking Ruth through the painful evidence with courtesy and
patience. At last, he seemed to have reached the end of his questions.
But halfway to his seat, he stopped, as if suddenly struck by something.
'One more thing, Mrs Carter. Have you ever asked your husband to buy
elastoplast for you?'
Ruth looked at him as if he'd lost his senses. 'Elastoplast? When we
need elastoplast, I buy it off the van.'
'The van?'
'The mobile shop that comes once a week. I never asked him to buy
elastoplast.'
'Thank you, Mrs Carter. I have no further questions, but you must wait
to see if my learned friend wants to ask you anything.' He sat down.
By then, the town hall clock had long since struck noon. Sampson
leaned back in his seat and said, 'We'll adjourn now. We shall resume
at two o'clock.'
Before the door had closed behind the judge, Hawkin was already being
hustled from the court. He threw a look over his shoulder towards his wife
and his mask of imperturbability finally slipped to reveal the bitter hatred
behind it. Highsmith registered the look and sighed. He wished there was
another way for him to exercise his skills to the full, but unfortunately,
there was nothing more exacting or enthralling than defending someone
he knew in his bones to be guilty. He was often asked how it felt to
know he'd helped murderers escape punishment. He would smile and
say it was a mistake to confuse the law with morality. It was, after all,
the prosecution's job to prove their case, not the defence barrister's.
236
After lunch, he set out to do what damage he could to the prosecution
case. He made no pretence at befriending Ruth. His face stern, he went
straight to the heart of the case. 'You've been married before, Mrs Hawkin?'
The prosecution might choose to obscure her relationship to the man in
the dock, but he would use it against her like a weapon.
Ruth frowned. 'I don't answer to Mrs Hawkin any more,' she said
coldly, but without defiance.
Highsmith's eyebrows rose and he angled his head towards the jury.
'But that is your legal name, is it not? You are the wife of Philip Hawkin,
are you not?'
'To my shame, I am,' Ruth replied. 'But I choose not to be reminded
of the fact and I'd thank you to show me the courtesy of calling me Mrs
Carter.'
Highsmith nodded. 'Thank you for making it so clear precisely where
you stand, Mrs Carter,' he said. 'Now perhaps you would be so good as to
answer my question? You have been married before you vowed to love,
honour and obey Mr Hawkin?'
'I was widowed when Alison was six.'
'So you'll know what I mean when I speak of a full married life?'
Ruth gave him a mutinous glare. 'I'm not stupid. And I did grow up
on a farm.'
'Answer the question, please.' His voice was like a blade.
'Yes, I know what you mean.'
'And did you enjoy a full married life with your first husband?'
'I did.'
'Then you married Philip Hawkin. And you enjoyed a full married life
with Mr Hawkin?'
Ruth looked him straight in the face, a dark flush on her cheeks. 'He
was up to it, but not as often as I was used to,' she said, then gave a tiny
shudder of distaste.
'So you noticed nothing abnormal in your husband's appetites?'
'Like I said, he wasn't that interested, not compared to my first
husband.'
'Who was of course much younger than Mr Hawkin. Now, did you
ever see your husband in a compromising position with Alison?'
'I don't know what you mean.'
He was impressed. She was holding her own far better than he'd
expected. Most women of her class were so intimidated by his handsome,
forbidding presence that they crumbled and gave him what he wanted to
237

hear almost immediately. He shook his head and gave her a patronizing
smile. 'Of course you do, Mrs Carter. Did he visit her alone in her bedroom
late at night?'
'Not that I ever knew about.'
'Did he enter the bathroom when she was in there?'
'Of course not.'
'Did he even sit with her on his knee?'
'No, she was too big for that.'
'In short, Mrs Carter, you never saw or heard anything that made you
in the least suspicious of your husband's relationship with your daughter.'
It was so definitely a statement rather than a question that Ruth didn't
even appear to consider answering its implications. Highsmith glanced
down at his papers. He looked up and cocked his head to one side.
'Now, the gun. You told the court your husband had a gun which he
kept in a box in his study. Did you tell anyone else about this gun? Any
of your family, your friends?'
'He said I was to keep my mouth shut about it. So I did.'
'So we only have your word for it that the gun was ever there in the
first place.' Ruth opened her mouth to speak, but he steamrollered on.
'And of course, it was you who handed the gun over to the police, so
you had plenty of opportunity to memorize any distinctive features on
this otherwise unidentifiable gun. So we only have your word for it that
there is any connection between your husband and the gun, don't we?'
'I didn't rape my daughter, mister. And I didn't shoot her either,' Ruth
ground out. 'So I've no call to lie.'
Highsmith paused. He allowed his face to slip from grimness to open
sympathy. 'But you want someone to blame, don't you, Mrs Carter? More
than anything, you want to believe you know what happened to your
daughter, and you want someone to blame. That's why you're so willing
to go along with the case the police have concocted. You want your heart
put at rest. You want someone to blame.'
Stanley was on his feet, objecting. But it was too late. Highsmith had
muttered, 'No further questions,' and sat down. The damage was done.
Sampson frowned down at Highsmith. 'Mr Highsmith, I will not have
counsel using the examination of witnesses as an excuse for making
speeches. You will have your chance to express your views to the jury.
Kindly confine yourself to that. Now, Mr Stanley, am I correct in thinking
that your next witness is the chief police witness, Detective Inspector
Bennett?'
238

'Yes, Your Lordship.'
'I think it would be as well to begin with his evidence tomorrow
morning. This court has civil matters before it and I am minded to deal
with those today.'
'As Your Lordship pleases,' Stanley said, ducking his head in a bow.
On the press benches, Don Smart drew a line across the page with a
flourish. Plenty of good stuff for the headlines there. And tomorrow, he
could watch George Bennett put the noose round Hawkin's disgusting
neck. The door had barely closed behind the judge when he was on his
feet and heading for the nearest phone.
Clough still hadn't appeared by the end of the afternoon, though a court
usher had brought a phone message from Sergeant Lucas. 'Clough has been
held up,' it read. 'He says he will see you tomorrow in Derby before the
court convenes.' George wondered fleetingly what the detective sergeant
was up to. Probably something to do with another case, he thought. In
the weeks since the arrest of Philip Hawkin, both men had had plenty
of work to occupy them during any time they had to spare from the
construction of the Alison Carter case.
George emerged from the anteroom when he heard the murmuring
of noise on the landing outside that told him the court had risen for
the day. He caught a glimpse of Ruth Carter surrounded by friends and
relatives, but made a point of not catching anyone's eye. Now the case had
started, it was important that none of the witnesses conferred before they
actually appeared to give their evidence. Instead, George moved against
the flow of bodies and made his way into the courtroom. Highsmith and
his junior had already left, but Stanley and Pritchard were still sitting at
their table, heads together, deep in discussion.
'How was it?' George asked, helping himself to the chair next to
Pritchard.
'Desmond was marvellous,' Pritchard said enthusiastically. 'Tremendous
opening speech. The jury were transfixed. Highsmith wouldn't even
speak to us at lunchtime. You'd have been so impressed, George.'
'Well done,' George said. 'How was Mrs Carter?'
The two barristers exchanged glances. 'A bit emotional,' Pritchard said.
'She broke down a couple of times in the box.' He gathered together the
rest of his papers and tucked them into a folder.
'It works to our advantage, of course,' Stanley interjected. 'Nevertheless,
I take no pleasure in making a lady cry.'
239

'She's been through the mill,' George said. 'I can't begin to imagine
how it feels to know you've married a man who's raped and killed
your child.'
Pritchard nodded. 'She's bearing up well in the circumstances. She's a
good witness. She doesn't back down, and her very stubbornness makes
Highsmith look like a bully, which the jury don't like at all.'
'What defence is he going to run? Do you know?' George asked, standing
up to let Pritchard and Stanley pick up their briefs and leave the courtroom
for the robing room.
'Hard to imagine what he could credibly run, unless he tries to convince
the jury that the police have framed his client.'
Stanley nodded. 'And that would be a bad mistake, I think. The British
jury, like the British public, resents attacks on the police.' He smiled.
'They think of policemen as they do of Labradors - noble, loyal, good
with children, man's protector and friend. In spite of evidence to the
contrary, they refuse to admit policemen can be corrupt, sly or untruthful
because to do so would be to admit we are on the very verge of anarchy.
So by attacking you, Highsmith would be employing a strategy fraught
with risk.'
'Needs must when the devil drives,' Pritchard commented drily. 'He'll be
struggling with anything else. We might only have circumstantial evidence,
but there's so much of it Highsmith needs a coherent counter-theory to
undermine it. It won't be enough merely to offer alternative explanations
for each and every piece of evidence.'
George was reassured by the calm competence of the two lawyers. 'I
hope you're right.'
'We'll see you in the witness box tomorrow,' Pritchard said. 'Go home
to that lovely wife of yours and get a good night's sleep, George.'
He watched them exit through a side door, then slowly walked from the
empty courtroom. The last thing he felt like was driving back through the
lush green Derbyshire evening. He wished he could find a quiet pub and
get drunk somewhere. But he had a wife nearly seven months pregnant
at home, and she needed to see his strength, not his weakness. With a
sigh, George dug his car keys out of his pocket and walked back into
the world.
240
The Trial
2
George entered the witness room on the second day of Philip Hawkin's
trial to find Tommy Clough sprawled in a chair, a bottle of lemonade
by his feet, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and the Daily News
spread across his lap. He greeted his boss with a nod and waved the
paper at him. 'Ruth Carter seems to have made a good impression with
the jackals. I reckoned they'd turn her into the scapegoat. You know the
kind of thing - The Woman Who Married a Monster,' Clough intoned
with mock drama.
'I'm surprised they let her off the hook so lightly,' George admitted. 'I
was expecting them to say she must have known what Hawkin was like,
what he was doing to Alison. Like you, I honestly thought they'd blame
her. But I suppose they saw for themselves the state she's in. That's not
a woman who's turned a blind eye or connived at what that bastard did
to her daughter.'
'I had breakfast with Pritchard at his fancy hotel,' Clough confided.
'He said she couldn't have been a better witness if they'd been coaching
her for months. You've got a hard act to follow, George.'
'Breakfast with the barrister, Tommy? You're mixing with the toffs. By
the way, where did you get to yesterday?'
Clough straightened up in his chair, folding his newspaper shut and
tossing it to the floor. 'Thought you'd never ask. I got a phone call late
on Sunday night. Do you remember Sergeant Stillman?'
'In St Albans?' George was suddenly alert, leaning forward like a dog
straining at a leash.
'The same. He rang to tell me Mr and Mrs Wells were back from
Australia. Back two hours, to be precise. So I jumped in the car and drove
straight down there. Eight o'clock yesterday morning I was knocking on
241

their front door. They weren't best pleased to see me, but they obviously
knew what I'd come for.'
George nodded grimly and threw himself into a chair. 'Hawkin's
mother.'
'Aye. Like we thought, she must have had a forwarding address after
all. Any road, I acted the innocent. I explained that the description of the
Webley he'd had stolen corresponded with a gun used in the commission
of a crime up in Derbyshire. I laid it on with a trowel that we were
impressed by the accuracy of his description and how it had made the
match very likely.'
George smiled. He could imagine Clough's subtle maneuvering of Mr
Wells into a corner he could only get out of with a tunnelling crew. 'So of
course, when you showed him the photographs, he couldn't do anything
else except identify his gun?'
Clough grinned. 'Got it in one. Anyway, I had to come clean then
about Hawkin and the trial this week. Wells got into a right old state
then. He couldn't testily against a friend and neighbour, we must have
made a mistake, blah, blah, blah.'
George lit a cigarette. 'So what did you do?'
'I'd been up half the night. I wasn't in the mood. I arrested him for
obstruction.'
George looked appalled. 'You arrested him?'
'Aye, I did. He was really annoying me,' Clough said self-righteously.
'Any road, before I could get the caution finished, he'd rolled over. Agreed
to testify, agreed to come back to Derby with me then and there. So we
both agreed to forget I'd arrested him. Then he gave his wife a brandy,
since she looked like she was going to pass out, got his coat and hat and
came back with me like a lamb.'
George shook his head in a mixture of outrage and admiration. 'One
day, Tommy, one day ... So where is he now?'
'In a very comfortable room at the Lamb and Flag. I took a full statement
off him yesterday when we got back here, and Mr Stanley wants to put
him on first thing this morning.' Clough grinned.
'Ahead of me?' George asked.
'Stanley doesn't want to hang about. He doesn't want to run the risk
of Mrs Wells getting hold of Hawkin's mother and warning her that
Wells is going to testify. He wants to try to catch Highsmith on the hop
if he can.'
'But Mrs Hawkin's up here for the trial.'
242

'True. But I'd bet a tanner to a gold clock Mrs Wells will know who
to ask to find out where Mrs Hawkin's staying.'
'Highsmith will object to a witness who wasn't included in the committal.'

'I know. But Stanley says the judge'U allow it, with Wells having been
out of the country at the time.' Clough got to his feet and dusted off the
cigarette ash that had drifted down his grey flannel suit. He straightened
his tie and winked at George. 'So I better go into court and see how
he does.'
Richard Wells, retired civil servant, had already taken the oath when
Clough slipped in to the back of the courtroom. He didn't look the
type to have had the sort of war that would leave him with a Webley as
a souvenir, the sergeant thought. If ever there was a man made for the
Army Pay Corps, it was Richard Wells. Grey suit, grey hair, grey tie. Even
his moustache looked timid and boring against the startling ruddiness of
skin that had not taken kindly to strong Australian sun.
Hawkin was leaning forward intently in the dock, two vertical lines visible
between his eyebrows. Clough found a childish pleasure in his obvious
concern. Stanley took Wells through the formalities, then said conversationally,
'Is there anyone in this courtroom you have seen before?'
Wells nodded towards the dock. 'Philip Hawkin.'
'How do you know Mr Hawkin?'
'His mother is a neighbour of ours.'
'Was he familiar with your house?'
'He used to accompany his mother to our house for bridge evenings
before he moved away.' Wells's eyes kept flickering away from the QC
to the prisoner. He was clearly uncomfortable with his role, in spite of
Stanley's easy manner.
'You used to own a Webley .38 revolver, did you not?'
'I did.'
'Did you ever show that gun to Mr Hawkin?'
Clough followed Wells's anguished stare up to the public gallery where
it rested on Hawkin's elderly mother. Wells took a deep breath and
mumbled, 'I may have done.'
'Think carefully, Mr Wells.' Stanley's voice was gentle. 'Did you or did
you not show the Webley to Mr Hawkin?'
Wells swallowed hard. 'I did.'
'Where did you keep the gun?'
243

Wells relaxed visibly, his shoulders dropping a little from their defensive
position. 'In a locked drawer in the bureau in the lounge.'
'And was that where you took it from when you showed it to Mr
Hawkin?'
'It would have been.' Each word was dragged out slowly.
'So Mr Hawkin knew where the gun was kept?'
Wells looked down. 'I suppose so,' he mumbled.
The judge leaned forward. 'You must speak clearly, Mr Wells. The jury
must be able to hear your answers.'
Stanley smiled. 'I am obliged, my lord. Now, Mr Wells, would you tell
us what happened to the gun?'
Wells pressed his lips hard together for a moment then answered in a
small, tight voice. 'It was stolen. In a burglary. Just over two years ago.
We were on holiday.'
'Not a pleasant homecoming for you and your wife. Did you lose much?'
Stanley asked, all sympathy.
Wells shook his head. 'A silver carriage clock. A gold watch and the
gun. They didn't go any further than the lounge. The gold watch was in
the drawer with the gun.'
'You gave a very good description of the gun to the police. Can you remember
what it was that made it distinctive, apart from the serial number?'
Wells cleared his throat and smoothed his moustache. His eyes slid
round to Hawkin, whose frown had deepened. 'There was a chip out of the
bottom corner of the grip,' he said, his words tumbling over each other.
Stanley turned to the assistant clerk of the court. 'Would you be so
kind as to show Mr Wells exhibit fourteen?'
The clerk picked up the Webley from the exhibits table and carried it
across the courtroom to Wells. He turned the gun over so the witness
had the opportunity to see both sides of the criss-crossed butt. 'Take your
time,' Stanley said softly.
Wells looked up at the public gallery again. Clough saw Mrs Hawkin's
face crumple as the weight of realization struck. 'It's my gun,' he said, his
voice empty and flat.
'You're certain of that?'
Wells sighed. 'Yes.'
Stanley smiled. 'Thank you for coming here today, Mr Wells. Now, if
you would stay where you are, my learned friend Mr Highsmith may
have some questions for you.'
This would be interesting, Clough thought. There was almost nothing
244

Highsmith could ask that wouldn't dig a deeper hole for his client. Hawkin,
who had been scribbling desperately during the last few exchanges, passed
a note to his solicitor, who gave it a swift glance then thrust it at
Highsmith's junior, who placed it in front of Highsmith himself.
The barrister was on his feet now, the sharp lines of his face broken up
in a smile. He looked briefly at the note then began to question Wells even
more genially than Stanley had done. 'When your house was burgled, you
were on holiday, is that right?'
'Yes,' Wells said wearily.
'Did you leave a key with any of your neighbours?'
Wells raised his head, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. 'Mrs Hawkin
always had a key. In case of emergencies.'
'Mrs Hawkin always had a key,' Highsmith repeated, his eyes scanning
the jury to make sure they'd taken his point. 'Did the police take fingerprints
after your burglary?'
'They tried, but whoever broke in wore gloves, they said.'
'Did they ever indicate to you whether they had an idea who might
be responsible?'
'No.'
'Did they ever say anything that might have suggested they suspected
Mr Hawkin?'
Even as Wells said, 'No,' Stanley was on his feet.
'My lord,' he protested. 'My learned friend is not only leading the
witness, but he is leading him down the path of hearsay.'
Sampson nodded. 'Members of the jury, you will disregard the last
question and the answer to it. Mr Highsmith?'
'Thank you, my lord. Mr Wells, did you ever suspect Mr Hawkin of
having burgled your home?'
Wells shook his head. 'Never. Why would Phil do a thing like that?
We were his friends.'
'Thank you, Mr Wells. I have no further questions.'
So that was the way the wind was blowing, Clough thought to himself as
he edged out of the courtroom. He slipped into the witness room ahead of
the usher. George jumped to his feet, his expression an eager question.
'The defence didn't question the ID-1 think their line's going to be
that Hawkin bought the gun in a pub, not realizing it was the one stolen
from Wells.'
George sighed. 'And I found the gun and used it to frame him. So it
doesn't change anything.'
245

'It does,' Clough said earnestly. 'It ties Hawkin to the gun. Ordinary
people don't have guns, George. Remember?'
Before George could reply, the door opened and the court usher said,
'Detective Inspector Bennett? They're ready for you now.'
It was one of the longest walks of his life. He could feel the eyes on
him, making him conscious of every step he took. When he reached the
witness box, he turned quite deliberately and stared at the impassive face
of Philip Hawkin. He hoped Hawkin felt he was looking at his nemesis.
Stanley waited while the clerk administered the oath, then rose to his
feet, delicately dabbing at his moist eyes. 'Can you state your name and
rank for the record, Inspector?'
'I am George Bennett, Detective Inspector with Derbyshire Constabulary, based at Buxton.'
'I'd like to take you right back to the beginning of this case, Inspector.
When did you first hear of Alison Carter's disappearance?'
At once, George was back in the squad room on that bitter December
night, hearing from Sergeant Lucas that there was a girl missing in Scardale.
He began his evidence with the clarity of a man who can slip back into
the scenes of memory with the immediacy of the present. Stanley almost
smiled in his relief at having such an impressive police witness. In his
experience, it was a lottery with officers of the law. Sometimes he trusted
them less than the shifty individuals in the witness box. But George Bennett
was handsome and clean cut. He looked and sounded as honest as a film
star playing the decent cop.
Stanley wasted no time, and by the end of the morning he had covered
the initial report of Alison's disappearance, George's first interview with
her mother and stepfather, the preliminary searches and the discovery of
the dog in the woodland.
Then, for a further hour and a half in the afternoon, Stanley took him
meticulously through the key discoveries in the investigation. The blood
and garment traces in the copse; the book in Hawkin's study detailing
the old workings inside the crag; the stained clothes and the bullets in
the lead mine; the bloody shirt and the gun; the appalling photographs
and negatives in the safe.
'It is unusual to charge a man with murder when there is no body,'
Stanley said towards the end of the afternoon.
'It is, sir. But in this case, we felt the evidence was so overwhelming
that there was no other conclusion that could be drawn.'
'And of course, there are other cases where men have been found
246

guilty of murder in the absence of a body. Inspector Bennett, given the
seriousness of the charges, do you have any lingering doubts about your
correctness in charging Mr Hawkin?'
'Anyone who has seen the photographic evidence of what he did to
his stepdaughter when she was alive would know this was a man who
would stop at nothing. So, no, I have no doubts at all.' It was the first
time George had let his emotions surface and Stanley was happy to see
the jurors seemed impressed with his passion.
He gathered together his papers. 'I have no further questions for the
witness,' he said.
He had never wanted a cigarette more, George thought as he waited
for Rupert Highsmith to finish fiddling with his papers and begin his
attack. Stanley's questions had been thorough and probing, but there
had been nothing he had not been well prepared for. Highsmith had
tried suggesting to the judge that they leave the cross-examination till
the morning, but Sampson was in no mood to wait.
Highsmith leaned negligently against the rail behind him. 'You won't
forget you're still under oath, Inspector? Now, tell the court how old
you are.'
'I'm twenty-nine years old, sir.'
'And how long have you been a police officer?'
'Nearly seven years.'
'Nearly seven years,' Highsmith repeated admiringly. 'And you've
already reached the lofty heights of detective inspector. Remarkable.
So you won't have had much time to gain experience of complicated,
serious cases?'
'I've done my share, sir.'
'But you're on an accelerated promotion scheme for graduates, aren't
you? Your promotions haven't come because of your brilliant performances
in the field of detection, but simply because you have a university
degree and you were promised rapid promotion regardless of whether you
had investigated murder or shoplifting. Isn't that the case?'Highsmith
frowned, as if genuinely puzzled by the thought.
George took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose. 'I did enter the
force as a graduate. But it was made plain to me that if my performance did
not match up to certain expectations, I would not automatically progress
through the ranks.'
'Really?' If Highsmith had used that tone in the cricket club, George
would have flattened him.
247




'Really,' he echoed, then clamped his mouth shut.
'It's very unusual for so junior an officer to head an investigation of
this seriousness, isn't it?' Highsmith pressed on.
'The detective chief inspector in the division was incapacitated with a
broken ankle. At the outset, we had no idea how serious the investigation
might prove to be, so Superintendent Martin asked me to take charge.
Once it began to appear more serious, it made sense to maintain continuity
rather than hand over to someone from headquarters who would have
to start from scratch. I was at all times under the direct supervision of
Detective Chief Inspector Carver and the divisional chief, Superintendent
Martin. Sir.'
'Prior to this, had you in fact ever been involved in investigating a case
involving a missing child?'
No, sir.' 
Highsmith cast his eyes upwards and sighed. 'Had you ever led a
murder inquiry?'
'No, sir.'
Highsmith frowned, rubbed the bridge of his nose with his index
finger and said, 'Correct me if I'm wrong, Inspector, but this is the
first major criminal investigation you have ever been in charge of, isn't
it?'
'In charge of, yes. But I've '
'Thank you, Inspector, you need only answer the question asked,'
Highsmith cut brutally across him.
George flashed him a look of frustration. Then, from somewhere, he
found a twitch of a smile, acknowledging that he knew what was being
done to him.
'You've taken a strong personal interest in this case, haven't you?'
'I've done my job, sir.'
'Even after the initial search was called off, you still visited Scardale
several times a week, didn't you?'
'A couple of times a week, yes. I wanted to reassure Mrs Carter that
the case was still open and we hadn't forgotten her daughter.'
'You mean Mrs Hawkin, don't you?' Highsmith's use of Ruth's current
married name was clearly directed at the jury, a device to remind them
of her relationship to the man in the dock.
George was proof against such provocative play. He smiled. 'Not
surprisingly, she prefers to be known by her previous married name.
We're happy to abide by that preference.'
248

'You even abandoned your family, including your pregnant wife, to
visit Scardale on Christmas Day.'
'I couldn't help thinking how Alison's disappearance must have affected
the way people in Scardale were feeling at Christmas. I went over with
my sergeant for a very brief visit, just to show our faces, to show we
sympathized.'
'To show you sympathized. How very commendable,' Highsmith said
patronizingly. 'You often visited the manor, didn't you?'
'I dropped in, yes.'
'You knew the study?'
'I've been in it, yes.'
'How many times, would you say?'
George shrugged. 'Hard to put an exact figure on it. Before we executed
the search warrant, maybe four or five times.'
'And were you ever alone in there?'
The question came fast as a whip and with the same sting. Now it was
clear what Highsmith was planning. 'Only briefly.'
'How many times?'
George frowned. 'Twice, I think,' he said cautiously.
'How long for?'
Stanley was on his feet. 'Your Lordship, this is supposed to be crossexamination.
My learned friend seems intent on a fishing expedition.'
Sampson nodded. 'Mr Highsmith?'
'Your Lordship, the prosecution is relying heavily on circumstantial
evidence, some of which was found in my client's study. I think it only
reasonable that I be allowed to establish that other people had opportunity
to have left it there.'
'Very well, Mr Highsmith, you may continue,' the judge grudgingly
allowed.
'How long were you left alone in the study?'
'On one occasion, a minute or two at the most. On the second occasion,
I must have been in the room for about ten minutes before Mr Hawkin
appeared,' George said reluctantly.
'Long enough,' Highsmith said, apparently to himself as he picked up
another pad and flicked over a page or two. 'Can you tell us what your
hobbies are, Inspector?' he asked pleasantly.
'Hobbies?' George demanded, caught off his stride.
'That's right.'
George looked at Stanley for guidance, but the barrister could only
249


shrug. 'I play cricket. I like to go fell-walking. I don't have time for many
hobbies,' he said, sounding as baffled as he felt.
'You've missed one out,' Highsmith said, his voice cold again. 'One
that has particular relevance to this case.'
George shook his head. 'I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking
about.'
Highsmith picked up a thin bundle of photostats. 'Your Lordship, I
would like these papers entered as defence exhibits one to five. Exhibit
one is from Cavendish Grammar School for Boys school magazine for
1951. It is the annual report of the school Camera Club, written by
the secretary, George Bennett.' He handed the top sheet to the court
clerk. 'The other exhibits are from the newsletter of the Camera Club of Manchester University, where Detective Inspector Bennett was an
undergraduate. They contain articles on photography written by one
George Bennett.' He handed over the papers to the court clerk.
'Inspector Bennett, do you deny that you wrote these articles on
photography?'
'Of course I don't.'
'You are in fact something of an expert in matters photographic?'
George frowned. He could see the trap. To deny it would make him
look like a liar. To admit it might fatally undermine the prosecution
case for a committal. 'Any knowledge I had is well out of date,' he said
carefully. 'Apart from family snaps, I haven't handled a camera for five
or six years.'
'But you would know where to go to find out how to fake photographs,'
Highsmith said.
George was wiser than Ruth Carter in the ways of barristers. He
knew better than to leave a statement unanswered. 'No more than you
would, sir.'
'Photographs can be faked, can't they?' he asked.
'In my experience, not nearly as neatly as this,' George said.
Highsmith pounced on the uncharacteristic slip. 'In your experience?
Are you telling the court you have experience of faking photographs?'
George shook his head. 'No, sir. I was referring to attempts at faking
that I have seen, not that I have produced.'
'But you do know how photographs can be faked?'
George took a deep breath. 'As I said earlier, my knowledge of photography
is well out of date. Anything I know about any aspect of photography
has probably been overtaken by changes in technique and technology.'
250


'Inspector, please answer the question. Do you or do you not know
how photographs can be faked?' Highsmith sounded exasperated. George
knew it was assumed to make him look shifty, but there was nothing he
could do to alter that impression, short of admitting to being a skilled
forger of photographs.
'I have some theoretical knowledge, yes, but I have never '
'Thank you,' Highsmith said loudly, cutting him off. 'A simple answer
will always suffice. Now, these negatives which the prosecution has entered
into evidence. What kind of camera would you need to take them?'
Beneath the level of the witness box, where the jury could not see them,
George clenched his fists till his nails left weals on his palms. 'You'd need
a portrait camera. A Leica or a Rolleiflex, something like that.'
'Do you possess such a camera?'
'I have not used my Rolleiflex for at least five years,' he said, knowing
he sounded devious even as he spoke.
Highsmith sighed. 'The question was whether you possess such a
camera, not when you last used it, Inspector. Do you possess such a
camera? Yes or no will serve.'
Yes.'
Highsmith paused and flicked through his papers. Then he looked up.
'You believe my client is guilty, don't you?'
George turned his head towards the jury. 'What I believe doesn't
matter.'
'But you do believe in my client's guilt?' Highsmith persisted.
'I believe what the evidence tells me, and so yes, I do believe Philip
Hawkin raped and murdered his thirteen-year-old stepdaughter,' George
said, emotion creeping into his voice in spite of his intention to keep it
battened down.
'Both of which are terrible crimes,' Highsmith said. 'Any reasonable
man would be appalled by them and would want to bring to justice
the person who had committed them. The problem is, Inspector, that
there is no solid evidence that either of these crimes was ever committed,
is there?'
'If there was no evidence, the magistrates would never have committed
your client for trial and we would not be here today.'
'But there is an alternative explanation for every piece of circumstantial
evidence before us today. And many of those explanations lead us firmly
to your door. It is your obsession with Alison Carter that has brought us
here today, isn't it, Inspector?'
251

Stanley was on his feet again. 'My lord, I must protest. My learned
friend seems determined to make speeches rather than ask questions, to
cast aspersions rather than to make direct accusations. If he has something
to ask Detective Inspector Bennett, well and good. But if his sole intent is
to deliver slurs and innuendo to the jury, then he should be stopped.'
Sampson glowered down from the bench. 'He's not the only one making
pretty speeches out of turn, Mr Stanley.' He looked over his glasses at the
jury like a short-sighted mole. 'You should bear in mind that what you
are here to listen to is the evidence, so you must disregard any comments
that counsel make in passing. Mr Highsmith, please continue, but to
the point.'
'Very well, my lord. Inspector, bearing in mind you should answer yes
or no, are you an ambitious man?'
Stanley intervened again. 'My lord,' he exclaimed indignantly. 'This
has nothing to do with the matter before the court.'
'It speaks to his motivation,' Highsmith said briskly. 'The defence
contends that much of the evidence against my client has been concocted.
Inspector Bennett's motivation therefore becomes an issue for
the defence.'
Sampson thought for a moment then said, 'I am minded to allow the
question.'
George took a deep breath. 'My only ambition is to contribute to justice
being done. I believe that somewhere out there is the body of a girl who
was monstrously abused before she was killed and I believe the man who
did it is sitting in the dock.' Highsmith was trying to stop him, but he
kept on to the end regardless. 'I'm here to try and make sure he pays for
what he's done, not to further my career.' He came to an abrupt halt.
Highsmith shook his head in apparent disgust. 'Yes or no, that was
what I asked for.' He sighed. 'I have no further questions of this witness,'
he said, his face - turned towards the jury and away from the judge showing
a contempt that was absent from his voice.
George stepped down from the witness box. He could no longer escape
from the sight he'd been deliberately trying to avoid all the time he'd been
in the witness box. Hawkin stared at him with a look that bordered on
the triumphant. The smile that often appeared to hover on his lips was
back and he sat as casually in the dock as if he were in his own kitchen.
With murder in his heart, George strode past the dock and straight out
of the courtroom. Behind him, he heard the judge announcing the close
of business for the day. He hurried on, down the corridor to the Gents.
252

He dived into the cubicle, slammed the bolt home and bent over the
bowl. He barely made it in time. The hot vomit splattered against the
porcelain, the thin acrid smell rising to make him gag again.
He jerked the chain then leaned against the wall of the toilet, cold
sweat on his face. For a terrible moment in the courtroom, he had felt
the horror of what Highsmith's insinuations and accusations might do to
him. All it would take would be a couple of gullible jurors with a grudge
against the police, and not only would Hawkin walk free, but he'd take
George's career and reputation with him. It was an unbearable notion,
the stuff of three a.m. nightmares and bowel-churning panics. He had
stuck his neck out for this prosecution. Now, for the first time, he was
allowing himself to understand how easily he could become the agent of
his own destruction. No wonder Carver had been so magnanimous in his
insistence George see the case through himself. He hadn't so much been
handed the poisoned chalice as wrestled it out of everyone else's hands.
But what else could he have done? Even as he stood there with the
throat-rasping smell of bleach making his watering eyes sting, George
knew there had never been any real choice for him.
When he emerged, Clough was waiting, the familiar cigarette drooping
from the corner of his mouth. 'I know a good pub on the Ashbourne road,'
he said. 'We'll have a jar on the way home.'
He was, George thought, a remarkable lieutenant.
253

The Trial
3
For the rest of the week, George sat at the back of the court, always
contriving to arrive a few minutes after each session began and slipping
away as soon as the court rose. He knew he was being ridiculous, but he
couldn't escape the idea that everyone was looking at him because they
were wondering whether he was corrupt, or, even worse, because they'd
already decided he was. He hated the thought of being taken for one of
those coppers who made up their minds to have somebody for a crime,
regardless of the evidence. But he couldn't stay away.
The third day of the trial saw the Scardale witnesses appear. Charlie
Lomas managed to repeat his unflustered performance at the committal,
impressing the jury with his open manner and his obvious unhappiness
about the disappearance of his cousin.
Next was Ma Lomas, dressed for the occasion in a rusty black coat with
a spray of white heather pinned to the collar. She admitted her name was
Hester Euphemia Lomas. It was clear she held the court in neither awe nor
deference, responding to the two QCs precisely as she would have done
to George in the comfort of her own living room. She insisted on a chair
and a glass of water, then proceeded to ignore both. Stanley treated her
with exaggerated courtesy, which she returned with utter indifference.
'And you are absolutely certain that it was Mr Hawkin you saw crossing
the field?' Stanley asked.
'I only need glasses for reading,' the old woman said. 'I can still tell a
kestrel from a sparrowhawk at a hundred yards.'
'How can you be sure it was the Wednesday?'
She looked at him with exasperation. 'Because that's the day Alison
went missing. When something like that happens, everything else that
happened that day sticks in your memory.'
254
Stanley obviously found nothing to argue with in that. He took her
on through her knowledge of the lead mine from the book in the study
of Scardale Manor. 'Did Squire Castleton often talk to you about local
history?' he eventually asked.
'Oh aye,' she said, off hand. 'I'd known him since he was a little lad.
He never lorded it over his tenants, not the old squire. We'd often sit and
talk, him and me. We always said, when we went, half the dale's history
would go with us. He was always on at me to write it all down, but I
couldn't be bothered with owt like that.'
'But that's how you knew where to find the book?'
'That's right. Many's the time we've sat and looked at that book, the
old squire and me. I was able to put my hand on it right away.'
'Why didn't you mention the old lead mine to the police earlier?' Stanley
asked, apparently casually.
She scratched her temple with a finger lumpy with arthritis. 'I don't
rightly know. I forget sometimes that not everybody knows the dale
like I do. I've lain awake often since, wondering if it would have made
any difference to poor Alison if I'd have mentioned the lead mine to
Inspector Bennett the night she went missing.' She sighed. 'It's a terrible
burden to me.'
'I have no more questions for you, Mrs Lomas, but my colleague Mr
Highsmith will need to ask you some things. So if you would wait there?'
Stanley gave the matriarch a slight bow before sitting down.
This time, Highsmith waited for a few moments before he rose. 'Mrs
Lomas,' he began. 'It must be hard for you to see the nephew of your
old friend in the dock here today.'
'I never thought I'd be glad Squire Castleton were dead,' she said in
a low voice. 'This would have broke his heart. He loved Alison like she
was his own granddaughter.'
'Indeed. If I might trouble you with a few questions, I'd be very
grateful.'
She looked up and George, sitting at the back of the court, caught the
wicked gleam in her eye. He winced. 'Questions are no trouble to me,'
she snapped. 'Tell truth and shame the devil. I've nothing to fear from
your questions, so ask away.'
Highsmith looked momentarily taken aback. Her docile responses to
Stanley's questions had not prepared him for Ma Lomas in combative
mood. 'How can you be certain it was Mr Hawkin you saw cross the
field that afternoon?'
255


'How can I be certain? Because I saw him. Because I know him. The
way he looks, the way he walks, the clothes he wears. There's nobody
in Scardale you could confuse with him,' she said, her voice outraged.
'I might be old but I'm not daft.'
A snigger stuttered round the press benches and the Scardale contingent
allowed themselves tight smiles. Ma would show this London lawyer what
was what.
'That much is obvious, ma'am,' Highsmith squeezed out.
'You don't have to "ma'am" me, lad. Ma'll do.'
Highsmith blinked hard. The point of his pencil snapped against the
pad in his hand. 'This book in the study at the manor. You say you knew
exactly where to look for it?'
'Well remembered, lad,' Ma said grimly.
'So it was where it should have been?'
'Where else would it have been? Of course it was where it should
have been.'
Highsmith pounced. 'No one had moved it?'
'I can't say that, can I? How can I know that? It wouldn't be hard to
put it back in the right place - them shelves are full. When you take a book
out, it leaves a gap. So you put it back in the same place. Automatic,' she
said scornfully.
Highsmith smiled. 'But there was no sign that anyone had done that.
Thank, you, Mrs Lomas.'
The judge leaned forward. 'You're free to go now, Mrs Lomas.'
She turned to Hawkin and smiled pure malicious triumph. George was
relieved she had her back to the jury. 'Aye, I know,' she said. 'More than
he can say, isn't it?' She paraded across the room like the royalty she
was in her village and settled in a specially vacated chair at the heart of
her family.
The following day was taken up with an assortment of specialists who
could testify on particular matters of fact. Hawkin's tailor had travelled up
from London to confirm that the stained shirt hidden in the darkroom was
one of a batch the accused had had made to measure less than a year before.
An assistant from Boots the Chemist revealed he had sold Philip Hawkin
two rolls of elastoplast which corresponded to both the tape found on
the muzzle of Alison's dog and the short section fixing the safe key to
the back of the drawer in the study.
A fingerprint officer revealed that Philip Hawkin's prints were on the
photographs and the negatives found in the safe. However, there were
256

no prints on the Webley, and the cover of the antiquarian book had been
impossible to retrieve prints from.
The final witness of the day was the firearms expert. He confirmed
that one of the bullets found in the cave was clearly identifiable as a .38
fired from the gun that Ruth Carter had found hidden in her husband's
darkroom.
Through all of this testimony, Highsmith asked little, except to attempt
to demonstrate that there were alternative explanations to all the statements
made by the prosecution. Anyone, he argued, could have obtained
a shirt belonging to Hawkin. They could even have stolen one from the
manor washing line. Hawkin might not have been buying the elastoplast
on his own account, but may have been running an errand for someone
else. Of course his prints were on the pictures and the negatives - the
police had thrown them at him across an interview room table before they
were encased in plastic, before his solicitor had ever arrived at the police
station. And the only person who had made any connection between the
gun and Hawkin was, of course, his wife, who was so desperate to find an
explanation for her daughter's disappearance that she was even prepared
to turn on her husband.
The jury sat impassively, offering no clue as to their opinion of his
performance. At the end of the third day, the court adjourned till
morning.
On Friday morning, George's mind was jolted out of his own concerns.
There, in the Daily Express, was a story that harrowed him.
Tracker dogs join
hunt for lost boy
Eight policemen with two tracker dogs searched
railway sidings, parks and derelict buildings
today for short-sighted schoolboy Keith Bennett,
missing from home for nearly three days.
Said a senior police officer: If we do not
find him today, the search will be intensified.
We just don't know what has happened to him.
We do not suspect foul play yet, but we can
find no reason for him to be missing.'
Twelve-year-old Keith of Eston Street,
257

Chorlton-on-Medlock, Manchester, disappeared
on Tuesday night on his way to visit
his grandmother.
His home is in an area of Manchester where
several murders have occurred and missing
persons have gone untraced.
Home-loving
Left behind at home are the thick-lensed spectacles
- with one lens broken - without which
he has difficulty in seeing.
Keith's mother, Mrs Winifred Johnson, aged
30, who has five other children and is expecting
her seventh in two weeks, wept today as
she talked of her missing son.
She said: 'He has never done anything like
this before. He's a home-loving lad. He can
hardly see without his spectacles.'
Said his grandmother, Mrs Gertrude
Bennett, aged 63, of Morion Street, Longsight,
Manchester: 'We can not eat, sleep
or do anything for worrying about him.'
The police search party is made up of a sergeant,
five constables and two dog handlers.
They are searching an area within a mile of
Keith's home.
George stared at the paper. The thought of another mother going
through what Ruth Carter had experienced was agonizing for him. But
in a corner of his mind, he couldn't help thinking that if it had to happen,
it could not have come at a more opportune moment. For any member
of the jury reading the paper, Winifred Johnson's anguished plight could
only reinforce Ruth Carter's agony and diminish any inclination to believe
Hawkin.
A sudden wave of shame washed over him. How could he be so callous?
How could he even think about exploiting the disappearance of another
child? Disgusted with himself, George crumpled the paper and tossed it
into the bin.
That afternoon, as he made his way up the stairs towards the courtroom,
he saw a familiar figure waiting by the door. Spotless in his dress uniform,
Superintendent Martin stood fiddling with his. soft black leather gloves.
258

As George approached, he looked up. 'Inspector,' he greeted him, his
face inscrutable. 'A word, please.'
George followed him down a side corridor to a small room that
smelled of perspiration and cigarettes. He closed the door behind them
and waited.
Martin lit one of his untipped cigarettes and said abruptly, 'I want you
back in the office next week.'
'But, sir -' George protested.
Martin held up a hand. 'I know, I know. The prosecution should finish
today and then it'll be the defence case next week. And that's precisely
why I want you back in Buxton.'
George's head came up and he glared at his station commander. 'This
is my case, sir.'
'I know. But you know as well as I do what defence Highsmith's going
to run. He's got no choice. And I will not have one of my officers sit in
a courtroom and hear his character traduced by some slick lawyer who
doesn't care what damage he does to a decent man.' The telltale scarlet
tide was rising up Martin's neck. He began to pace to and fro.
'With respect, sir, I can take anything Highsmith throws at me.'
Martin stopped pacing and eyed George. 'You think so, do you? Well,
even if you can, I'm not having you at the mercy of the press. If you're
not willing to take cover for your own sake, you ought to do it for that
wife of yours. It'll be bad enough if she has to read reports that accuse
you of all sorts of mischief without her being treated to photographs of
you skulking in and out of cars as if you were the one on trial.'
George ran a hand through his hair. 'I'm due some leave.'
'And I'm refusing you permission to take it,' Martin snapped. 'You will
stay away from .Derby until this trial is over. And that is an order.'
George turned away and lit a cigarette. It was hard not to see his
banishment as the gods' retribution for his response to Keith Bennett's disappearance.
'At least let me be here for the verdict,' he said indistinctly.
Professor John Patrick Hammond recited the qualifications that made
him one of the leading forensic experts in the north of England. His was
a name that ranked alongside that of Bernard Spilsbury, Sydney Smith
and Keith Simpson in the public imagination as one of that handful of
men who could apply their scientific knowledge to a scatter of traces and
draw from them incontrovertible evidence of guilt. It had been Pritchard
from the DPP who had insisted on bringing a high-profile expert into the
259

case. 'When we've got so little to go on, we should defend it with the big
guns,' he'd said, and Superintendent Martin had agreed.
Hammond was a small, precise man whose head was too big for his
body. He compensated for his faintly ridiculous appearance with a solemn
and portentous manner. Juries loved him because he could translate
scientific jargon into layman's language without ever making them feel
talked down to. Stanley had the good sense to keep his questions to a
minimum, allowing Hammond to explain for himself.
Hammond made sure the jurors fully appreciated the key points. The
blood on the tree in the copse, on the torn underwear in the cave, and on
the stained shirt was all from a female with blood group O, which was also
Alison's blood group. The amount of blood on the shirt was consistent
with a serious wound. The semen on the shirt had been deposited by
a secretor with blood group A. The accused was a secretor with blood
group A.
He also explained that forensic examination had revealed scorch marks
on the shirt that were entirely consistent with a gun having been fired
close to the material. Hammond demonstrated by holding the shirt
against himself. George noticed Ruth Carter's head fall into her hands.
Kathy Lomas put an arm around her and pulled her close.
'As you will see, Your Lordship,' Hammond explained, 'the gunshot
residue is present on the right cuff and also on the right front of the
shirt. If someone wearing this shirt were to have held a gun at fairly
close quarters, this is exactly what we'd expect to find. There is no other
explanation consistent with this particular arrangement of scorching and
staining.'
Highsmith rose for the cross-examination feeling faintly frustrated. This
case had not been one of the most successful performances of his life so far.
There was so little to get a grip of, and what there was seemed so flimsy.
Here at last was something concrete to attack. 'Professor Hammond, can
you tell us what proportion of the population have blood group A?'
'Approximately forty-two per cent.'
'And what percentage of the population are secretors whose blood
group is present in their other bodily fluids?'
'Approximately eighty per cent.'
'Forgive me, mathematics has never been my strong point. What percentage
of the population are group A secretors?'
Hammond's eyebrows flicked up and down. 'About thirty-three per
cent.'
260

'So all we can say is that these semen stains could have been left by a
third of the male population of this country?'
'That is correct, yes.'
'So rather than pointing specifically to my client, the best you can say is
that these tests do not rule him out.' It was not a question and Hammond
did not respond. 'Moving on to this stained shirt. Is there anything that
would indicate that the accused was the person wearing this shirt when
a shot was fired next to it?'
'In forensic terms, no.' Hammond sounded reluctant, as he always did
when forced to admit his science could not answer every question.
'So, anyone could have been wearing the shirt?'
'Yes.'
'And the person wearing the shirt need not have been the person who
deposited the semen on the other pieces of clothing?'
Hammond paused for a moment. 'I consider it rather unlikely, but I
suppose it is possible.'
'The amount of blood on the other clothing was significantly less. Would
that be consistent with the sort of bleeding that can occur when the hymen
is breached?'
'It's impossible to say. Some women lose a considerable amount of blood
when they lose their virginity. Others none at all. But if the bloodstains on
the shirt came from that source, then this woman was haemorrhaging on
a potentially fatal scale.'
'And yet there was no blood at the supposed scene of the crime. Surely
if someone had been fatally shot in that cavern, there would have been
blood everywhere? Pooled on the floor, splashed on the walls, spattered
on the roof? How is it possible that there was no blood except what
stained the various garments?'
'Are you asking me to speculate?' Hammond asked crisply.
'I'm asking if, in your experience, it would be possible for someone to
be fatally shot in that cavern without the scene exhibiting bloodstains,'
Highsmith said, his words enunciated slowly and clearly.
Hammond frowned and thought for a moment, casting his eyes upwards
in the act of memory. At last, he said, 'Yes. It would be possible.'
Highsmith frowned. But before he could speak, Hammond continued.
'If, say, the girl was held close and the gun was jammed under her ribs.
A bullet travelling with an upward trajectory would destroy the heart,
but it might well lodge behind the shoulder blade. If there was no exit
wound, there would be no forward spatter of blood. And if she was held
261


close, the back spatter would be absorbed in the larger bloodstain on
the shirt.'
Highsmith recovered quickly. 'So, of all the possible scenarios for this
putative murder, you can come up with only one that would explain the
absence of blood at the scene?'
'Always supposing the girl was killed in the cavern? Yes, I can only
come up with that one explanation.'
'One possibility out of dozens, hundreds, even. Not what one could
call a probable scenario, then?'
Hammond shrugged. 'I have no idea.'
'Thank you, Professor.' Highsmith sat down. He'd retrieved more than
he'd expected. He was confident he could baffle a jury with science and
so confuse them that acquittal was the only reasonable option.
'That concludes the case for the prosecution,' Stanley announced as Professor
Hammond gathered his papers together and left the witness box.
'I shall adjourn until next week,' Sampson announced.
262

The Trial
4
Manchester Guardian, Monday, 22nd June 1964
New clue to missing boy
Police last night switched their hunt for a
near-blind boy missing for five days after one
of his schoolfriends had told them: 'He used to
boast he had a super-secret den somewhere.'
The search was switched from around twelveyear-old
Keith Bennett' s home in Eston Street,
Longsight, Manchester, to nearby parkland.
A police spokesman said: 'The boy may
have a hideout and could have stocks of food.
Wherever his hideout, it is a good one.'
Russia admitted its space satellites could spy on its enemies; a heart attack
ended Nehru's leadership of India; Rhodesia's new leader Ian Smith was
sabre-rattling; The Searchers and Millie and the Four Pennies slugged it
out for the top spot in the pop charts. But all George was aware of were
the newspaper reports of Philip Hawkin's trial. He tried to keep the papers
away from Anne, but she walked to the newsagent every day and bought
her own copies. She had to mix with the wives of the other officers; she
wanted to know what was being said about her man so she knew how
best to strike back on his behalf if anyone was foolish enough to break
the solidarity of the police under pressure.
The only defence witness apart from Hawkin himself was his former
263

boss who gave him an anodyne and blameless reference. He was hardly
passionate in Hawkin's cause, but he did testify that he had never heard
anything against the former draughtsman.
When Hawkin went into the box, the fireworks had started. The headlines
had screamed the following morning: POLICE FRAMED ME, MAN ACCUSED OF MURDER CLAIMS. EVIDENCE IN MURDER
TRIAL WAS MANUFACTURED. LIES, LIES AND MORE
LIES, DEFENDANT SAYS. ALISON'S KILLER IS STILL AT
LARGE, COURT HEARS.
George sat in his office and stared bitterly at the words in front of him.
Never mind that they would wrap tomorrow's fish and chips. The mud
was slung and some of it would stick. Whatever happened after this case,
he was going to ask for a transfer.
Hawkin had, by all accounts, put up a dazzling performance in the
box, protesting his innocence at every possible opportunity. Highsmith
had given him plenty of those. For every piece of evidence against him
he had found a rebuttal, some carrying more conviction than others.
He had spoken frankly and faced the jury throughout, appearing open
and candid.
He had even admitted possession of the Webley, though not of having
stolen it from Richard Wells. His version was that he had bought the gun
from a former workmate, since conveniently deceased. He had always
fancied owning a gun, he confessed rather shamefacedly. The man had
offered it for sale before Hawkin had even heard about the burglary.
Afterwards, he had made the connection but had been afraid to speak
up in case he was suspected of having committed the burglary himself.
And yes, he had shown the gun to his wife. He was now bitterly ashamed
of his behaviour, he'd added. According to the papers, his testimony had
seemed fearless. Hawkin had said several times that even though he had
been betrayed by the police, he was still putting his faith in British justice
and the good sense of a British jury.
'Laying it on with a trowel,' George growled, reading the extensive
report under Don Smart's by-line in the Daily News.
Clough stuck his head round the door. 'You ask me, he's trying too
hard. There's nothing a jury hates more than feeling like they're being
flattered. You can butter them up all you like as long as they don't realize
it. But he's burying them in flannel and they'll choke on it.'
'Nice try, Tommy,' George sighed. 'I wish I was there today to hear
Stanley cross-examine.'
264

'He'll probably do a better job knowing you're not.'
Manchester Evening News, Wednesday, 24th June 1964
Missing boys - and 2
mothers who wait
By a Staff Reporter
Two sad-eyed women, who both know the
numbing mental agony of a mother whose
child is lost, met at Ashton-under-Lyne today
for the first time.
Mrs Sheila Kilbride and Mrs Winifred
Johnson sat at a table at Mrs Kilbride's council
house in Smallshaw Lane, Ashton, and talked
of their sons who have disappeared.
John Kilbride, missing from home since
last November, was 12 years old. So was
Keith Bennett, from Eston Street, ChorltononMedlock,
Manchester, whose mother is
Mrs Johnson. Keith disappeared seven days
ago.
Both are the first-born of big families. And
both disappeared without trace.
'A NIGHTMARE'
Mrs Kilbride and Mrs Johnson talked quietly
with the air of women who could not quite
believe that it had happened to them.
Said Mrs Kilbride: 'Even after all this time,
it is still like a nightmare.'
As time went by, she said, she learned to
live with the false hopes and the moments
of heart-in-the mouth suspense whenever
a car drew up outside.
But the sleepless nights go on, and so do
the days of deep despair.
She told Mrs Johnson: 'You've got to keep going. We are a big family like you, and
we find we don't even mention John's name
much now.'
265

THE HOAXERS
Mrs Kilbride warned of the cranks and hoaxers
who, with their trickery, brought pain.
'I have learned to be suspicious of everybody
who comes calling,' she said.
'If they claim to be police or reporters
and I don't know them, I ask to see their
identity cards.'
Mrs Kilbride, the wife of a building labourer,
has seven children, including John. Mrs
Johnson, whose husband is an unemployed
joiner, has six and is expecting a baby on
July 5.
POLICE HUNT
Police are still looking for their boys. Keith's
description has been circulated all over the
country.
A spokesman in Manchester said: 'We are
naturally concerned for his safety. It is an
unusual case in that this boy has never wandered
away before, and has left his glasses,
without which he can see very little.
'He had only one shilling in his pocket. We
usually pick such lads up quickly. We have
no leads, but are doing all in our power.'
266
The Trial
Extracts from the official transcript ofR v Philip Hawkin; Desmond Stanley,
QC, delivers his closing speech to the jury on behalf of the prosecution.
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I would like to thank you for your
patience during this difficult trial. It is always distressing to contemplate
the desecration of childhood, as you have had to do in this case. I will try
to be as brief as I can, but I must first respond to the suggestions made
by my learned friend during his conduct of the defence.
You have seen and heard Detective Inspector George Bennett for yourselves.
You have also seen and heard the accused, Philip Hawkin. Now, I know Inspector Bennett to be an officer of irreproachable integrity, but
you do not have the benefit of my acquaintance with him. So you must
rely on those facts we have before us. Inspector Bennett's good reputation
came into this courtroom ahead of the man himself. We heard Mrs Carter,
the wife of the accused, sing his praises. Later, we heard Mrs Hester Lomas
and Mr Charles Lomas speak with great warmth of his support for the
villagers of Scar.dale who had lost one of their young, and of his tireless
commitment to uncovering what had happened to Alison Carter.
Mr Hawkin, on the other hand, is, by his own admission, a man who
would buy an illegal firearm and keep it in a house where a teenage girl
was living.
Those are facts, ladies and gentlemen. Not conjecture, but fact. In spite
of what my learned friend has implied, there are many other facts in this
case. It is a fact that Philip Hawkin owns the Webley .38 revolver which
was fired inside an isolated cavern where clothing identified by her own
mother as belonging to Alison Carter was discovered. It is a fact that
Philip Hawkin owns a book which meticulously describes the location
of this cavern whose existence had been forgotten by everyone except
267


one elderly woman. It is a fact that Philip Hawkin is capable of having
produced the semen found on the torn remains ofAlison Carter's school
knickers.
It is a fact that Philip Hawkin's gun was wrapped in a bloodstained
shirt and concealed in Philip Hawkin's darkroom, an outhouse where
no one went other than the accused. It is a fact that that shirt belongs
to Philip Hawkin. It is a fact that the blood on that shirt, the copious
amount of blood on that shirt, could have come from Alison Carter. It is
a fact that there exists a perfectly reasonable explanation for the absence
of blood in the cavern.
Furthermore, it is a fact that the obscene photographs ofAlison Carter
and the negatives from which they were printed have Philip Hawkin's
fingerprints all over them, not Inspector Bennett's. It is a fact that
some of those photographs were taken in Alison Carter's bedroom,
not abstracted from some pornographic magazine. It is a fact that Philip
Hawkin possessed all the photographic equipment necessary to take those
photographs and process them. Inspector Bennett may have a camera that
could take those photographs, but he has no convenient darkroom at the
bottom of his garden. He does not possess developing trays, enlargers, a
stock of photographic paper or any of the other paraphernalia he would
have needed to perpetrate so elaborate a fraud. Come to that, he has not
the time.
It is a fact that the photographs were well hidden in a safe whose
key was concealed in Philip Hawkin's study. It is a fact that Hawkin
had that safe installed when he had the outhouse converted into a
darkroom.
Facts, ladies and gentlemen, are not in short supply in this case.
Those facts are evidence, and the evidence points overwhelmingly to
one conclusion. That there is no body does not mean that no crime
has been committed. It may be of some help to you to know that you
are not being asked to make a decision that has no precedent. Juries
have previously convicted defendants of murder where no body had
been found. If you are satisfied on the basis of the evidence laid before
you and on your judgement of the witnesses that the crimes of rape and
murder were committed against Alison Carter by the accused, then you
must carry out your duty and return a guilty verdict.
There is, as I have said, a clear pattern to events in this case, and it
points inescapably to one conclusion. Philip Hawkin arrived in Scardale
with power and wealth at his disposal for the first time in his life. For the
268
first time in his life, he could see the prospect of indulging his perverted
appetite for young girls.
To disguise his real desires, he paid court to Ruth Carter, a woman
who had been widowed six years before. Not only was he persuasive and
attentive, but he seemed relaxed about the prospect of taking on another
man's child. In secret, he was not relaxed; he was ecstatic at the prospect
that lay ahead of him if he could only persuade the mother that his interest
was in her and not her attractive little girl. He succeeded. And that is when
Alison Carter's childhood ended.
When she became Philip Hawkin's stepdaughter, she also became
his prey. Living under the same roof, there was no escape. He took
pornographic photographs of her. He debauched her. He raped her. He
sodomized her. He forced her to commit oral sex. He terrorized her. We
know this because we have seen it with our own eyes, in photographs that
show no sign of being faked and every indication of being real. Hideous,
vile, degrading and without a shadow of a doubt, a record of what really
happened to Alison Carter at the hands of her stepfather.
What went wrong we will never know, since the accused has refused
the opportunity to put Mrs Ruth Carter out of her misery and tell us how
he disposed of her daughter and why he did it. Perhaps Alison had had
enough and threatened to tell her mother or another adult. Perhaps he
had grown tired of her and he wanted rid of her. Perhaps a sick sexual
game got out of hand. Whatever the reason - and it is not hard to imagine
motive in a case as darkly barbaric as this - Philip Hawkin decided to kill
his stepdaughter. So, in a dark, damp cave, he raped her one final time
and then he pulled the trigger on his Webley revolver and murdered this
poor thirteen-year-old schoolgirl.
Then when he was confronted with his villainy, he had the effrontery to
attempt to wriggle off the hook by smearing the good name of an honest
police officer.
Philip Hawkin owed Alison Carter a duty of care. Instead, he used
his position to exploit her sexually then, when something went wrong,
he shot her dead. Then he disposed of her body, imagining that without
a body, there could be no prosecution, no finding of guilt.
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you can be guided by the evidence
and prove him wrong. Philip Hawkin is guilty as charged, and I urge you
to bring the appropriate verdict back to this courtroom.
269

The Trial
6
Extracts from the official transcript ofR v Philip Hawkin; Rupert Highsmith,
QC, delivers his closing speech to the jury on behalf of the defence.
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, yours is the most important task in
this courtroom. In your hands lies the life of a man accused of the rape and
murder of his stepdaughter. It is the job of the prosecution to prove beyond
reasonable doubt that he committed those crimes. It's my job to demonstrate
to you all the points in their case where they have failed to do that. I
believe that when you have heard what I have to say, you will not be able to
find it in your heart to convict Philip Hawkin of any crime whatsoever.
The first thing the prosecution has to show is that a crime has in fact
taken place. Now, this case presents some unusual problems right at the
outset. There is no complainant. Alison Carter is missing, so she is unable
to present an accusation of rape, unable to identify any assailant - if indeed
there was an assailant, for the prosecution have not been able to produce
any third party to whom Alison complained that she had been assaulted.
No one witnessed the alleged rape. Philip Hawkin did not come home
bruised and bleeding, as if he'd been involved in a violent struggle. The
only evidence of rape is the photographs. I will return to the photographs
in due course. All I will say at this stage is that you should bear in mind
that the camera can indeed lie.
You might think that the discovery of underclothes identified as belonging
to Alison and stained with blood and semen are indications of rape.
Not so, ladies and gentlemen. Sexual activity takes many shapes and forms.
Distasteful though it is for you to have to consider it, these include the
wearing of schoolgirls' outfits by older women to indulge male fantasies.
They also include the pretence of violence. So, in and of themselves, these
exhibits prove nothing.
270

Which brings us to the second charge, that of murder. But again, there
are no witnesses. The prosecution has been unable to find one single
person who will testify that Philip Hawkin was a violent man. Not one
single witness has come forward to say that Hawkin was anything other
than normal in his behaviour towards his stepdaughter. Not only are there
no witnesses, there is no body. Not only is there no body, there is no blood
at the alleged scene of the crime. The first shooting in the history of forensic
science that has left no traces in the place where it is supposed to have taken
place. For all the prosecution knows, Alison Carter is a runaway, surviving
somehow on the fringes of society. In the absence of blood, in the absence
of a body, how can they charge Philip Hawkin with murder? How dare
they charge him with murder?
All they have is a chain of circumstantial evidence. It's well known that
a chain is only as strong as its weakest link. What then are we to make of a
chain that consists solely of weak links? Let us look at this evidence, piece
by piece, and test its weakness. I am convinced, ladies and gentlemen of the
jury, that when we have done that, you will find it impossible to convict
Philip Hawkin of either of these two terrible crimes of which he stands
accused.
You have heard two witnesses testify that on the afternoon of Alison's
disappearance, they saw Philip Hawkin in the field between the wood
where Alison's dog was found and the copse where a disturbance was
later discovered to have taken place. I am not suggesting for one moment
that either or both of those witnesses are lying. I think they have both
convinced themselves that they are telling nothing less than the truth.
However, I submit that in a small farming community such as Scardale,
one winter afternoon is very much like another. It would not be difficult
to confuse Tuesday with Wednesday. Now, bear in mind that everyone
in Scardale was puzzled and upset by Alison Carter's disappearance. If
someone in authority, such as a police officer, were to suggest strongly
that a mistake had been made, and that correcting that mistake would
help to solve the conundrum, is it so very surprising that witnesses might
find themselves going along with the suggestion? Especially since it would
mean fixing the blame outside their own tight-knit community and on to
the man they all perceived as an outsider, their new and much resented
squire, Philip Hawkin? Let us not forget, ladies and gentlemen, that if
Philip Hawkin goes to the gallows, Scardale and all it contains will pass
to his wife, who is very much one of their own.
Next, we come to the evidence of Mrs Hawkin herself. And whatever
271

she says to the contrary, let us not forget that Mrs Hawkin she remains.
You might think that the very fact that she is willing to testify against
her husband speaks for itself. After all, what could induce a bride of less
than eighteen months to support her husband's prosecution other than
compelling evidence? Does it not tell us something about the accused that
she gave evidence against him when the prosecution case is so weak?
No, ladies and gentlemen, it does not. What it does tell us is that there
is nothing stronger for a woman than the bond of motherhood.
Mrs Hawkin's daughter went missing on Wednesday the eleventh of
December. She is frantic. She is distraught. She is bewildered. The one
person who seems to offer her any hope is a young detective inspector
who throws himself into the case with passion and commitment. He is
always there. He is compassionate and dedicated. But he is getting nowhere.
Eventually, he forms a suspicion that the woman's husband may have had
a hand in Alison's disappearance. And he becomes determined to establish
his theory as fact. Imagine what this does to a woman in Mrs Hawkin's
unstable frame of mind. Of course she is suggestible. And what he says to
her makes perfect sense. Because she wants answers. She wants an end to
this terrible uncertainty. It is better to blame her husband than to live in
constant fear of what might have happened to her daughter.
And so, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you must treat Mrs Hawkin's
evidence with extreme scepticism.
As for the so-called physical evidence, not a single piece on its own points
to Philip Hawkin. Somewhere around six million men in the country share
the same blood group features as Philip Hawkin and whoever left semen stains
in that lead mine. How does that point to him? There are four hundred and
twenty-three volumes in Squire Castleton's study and no sign that the single
book that details the lead mine had been touched by any hand, including
those of Hester Lomas or Detective Inspector Bennett. How does that point
to him? Boots the Chemist in Buxton sells between twenty and thirty rolls of
elastoplast every week, two of which were sold to Philip Hawkin, who lives in
a fanning community, where cuts and grazes are hardly an unusual feature of
life. How does that point to him being a rapist or a murderer?
It does not, of course. But weak as these circumstantial links are, it cannot
be denied that when they are all dumped in one side of the balance, it
does appear to tip against Mr Hawkin. So if it was not his behaviour that
produced this undoubted effect, whose was it?
There is one aspect of this job that every barrister hates. While the vast
majority of our police officers are honest and incorruptible, from time to
272
time, things go wrong. And from time to time, it falls to us to expose the
rotten apples in the barrel. What is even worse, to my mind, than the officer
who falls by the wayside out of greed is the one who takes the law into his
own hands out of zeal.
What has brought us here today is not Philip Hawkin's evil but Detective
Inspector George Bennett's zeal. His desire to solve the disappearance of
Alison Carter has led him instead to pervert the course of justice. There can
be no other explanation for events. It is truly terrible what a man will do when
he is blinded by conviction, even if that conviction is utterly mistaken.
When we examine the circumstantial evidence, it becomes clear that one
man had motive, means and opportunity to put Philip Hawkin in the frame.
He is a young and inexperienced officer who was frustrated by his failure in
this case. He must have felt the eyes of his superiors were on him and he
was determined that he would find a culprit and win a conviction.
George Bennett was left alone in Mr Hawkin's study on more than one
occasion, certainly for long enough to find a gun, to examine a book, even
to discover the hiding place of a safe key. George Bennett had Mrs Hawkin's
confidence, and he had the run ofScardale Manor long before he ever had
a search warrant. Who was better placed to remove one of Mr Hawkin's
shirts? He won the confidence of the villagers. Who was better placed to
persuade Mrs Lomas and her grandson that they were mistaken about the
day on which they saw Mr Hawkin walking in his own field?
And finally, the photographs. George Bennett shares a hobby with Philip
Hawkin. He doesn't just take holiday snaps with a Box Brownie like most of
us. He was secretary of his school Camera Club, he wrote articles on aspects
of photography when he was an undergraduate, he owns a portrait camera
of the type that must have been used to manufacture these photographs.
He knows what is possible in the world of photography. He knows about
faking pictures. Philip Hawkin has dozens of photographs of Alison in his
files, many taken spontaneously. In some of them, she is angry or upset. He
also has photographs of himself. With such material as these, and access to
the sort of confiscated pornography that many police stations hold, George
Bennett could have created these supposedly incriminating photographs.
At worst, we have uncovered a terrifying conspiracy resulting from one
man's arrogant conviction that he knew where justice lay. At best, we have
established that the prosecution's case is most certainly not proven beyond
reasonable doubt. Ladies and gentlemen, I place Philip Hawkin in your
hands. That you will acquit him on both counts is my firm and abiding
conviction. Thank you.
273

The Trial

Extracts from the official transcript ofR v Philip Hawkin; Mr Justice Fletcher
Sampson sums up for the jury.
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, it is the task of the prosecution to
prove beyond a reasonable doubt that the accused is guilty as charged. It is
the job of the defence to discover whether there are sufficient weaknesses in
their case to render it susceptible to doubt. Some of you maybe expecting
me to indicate to you at this point whether I think the accused is innocent
or guilty. But that is not my role. It is your responsibility and you must
not seek to shirk it. My role is to see fair play, and in order to ensure that
justice is seen to be done, it is my task to sum up the case and advise you
on points of law.
The case before us is a difficult one in the main because of the absence
ofAlison Carter, either alive or dead. Were she alive, the second charge, the
murder charge, would obviously fail, but she would be the most valuable
witness as to the first charge, that of rape. Had her body been discovered, it
would have had a tale to tell our forensic experts and would inevitably have
provided us with considerable amounts of evidence. But she is not here to
give us her testimony, and so we are forced to rely on other sources of
evidence.
First, I must tell you that the prosecution does not need to produce a
corpse for there to be a presumption of murder. Men have been found
guilty of murder where no corpse has ever been found. I will give you
two examples which in some respects correspond to this case.
An actress called Gay Gibson was returning home by ship from South
Africa to this country when fellow passengers reported her missing. There
was a search of the ship, and the captain even turned about and made a
search. But no trace of Miss Gibson was found. A deck steward named
274
James Camb came under suspicion because he had been seen by a fellow
crew member in the doorway of Miss Gibson's cabin in the middle of
the night. He was arrested when the ship docked and he admitted having
been in the cabin, although he claimed she had invited him there for the
purpose of sexual intercourse.
He further claimed that during intercourse, she had a fit and died. In the
course of her fit, she had gone into spasms and clutched at him, scratching
his back and shoulders. According to his story, he panicked and pushed
her body out of the porthole and into the open sea. The prosecution
argued that he had strangled her in the course of raping her and that if
events had transpired as he described there would have been no reason
for him not to seek medical help for her when she had her fit.
James Camb was found guilty of murder.
Then there was the case of Michael Onufrejczyk. A Pole who earned
a distinguished service record in the Second World War, he became a
farmer in Wales in partnership with a fellow Pole, Stanislaw Sykut. A
routine police check on resident aliens revealed Mr Sykut was missing.
Onufrejczyk claimed his partner had sold out his share of the farm and
returned to his native land.
However, when police investigated, they discovered none of Sykut's
friends knew anything of such a plan. His bank account was untouched,
and the friend Onufrejczyk claimed had lent him the money to buy the
farm denied any such thing. Further inquiries revealed the men had
quarrelled and that threats had been made. Bloodstains were found in
the farmhouse and no satisfactory explanation was forthcoming.
At his trial, it was claimed that Onufrejczyk had fed his partner's body to
the farm pigs, hence the absence of any trace of his body. In his judgement
at the appeal against conviction, the Lord Chief Justice himself indicated
that it was possible to demonstrate the fact of death by means other than
the presence of a body.
So you see, under the law of the land, it is not necessary for there
to be a body for a finding of murder to be arrived at by a jury. If you
are persuaded by the prosecution that there is sufficient evidence here
and it points inexorably to one conclusion, you are within your rights to
bring in a guilty verdict. Equally, if the defence has managed to shake
your certainty, you must bring in a verdict of not guilty.
Now, as to the evidence in this case ...
275

The Verdict

w
George was pretending to read a report on a break-in at a licensed grocery
when the phone rang. 'Jury's out,' Clough said tersely.
'I'm on my way,' George said, slamming the phone down and jumping
to his feet. He grabbed his coat and hat and ran out of his office. He
didn't stop running till he threw himself behind the wheel of the car. As
he skidded round the gatepost of the car park, he caught a glimpse of
Superintendent Martin at his office window and wondered if he'd had
the same message.
He roared through the town and out on to the old Roman road that
cut through green fields and off-white dry-stone walls like a blade across
a patchwork quilt. With his foot flat to the floor, the needle on the speedo
climbed past fifty, past sixty and trembled on the wrong side of seventy.
Whenever anything appeared ahead of him, a long blare of his horn made
sure they pulled over towards the verge to let him pass.
He had no eyes for the simple beauty of the summer afternoon.
His focus was all on the road spooling out ahead of him. He passed
the Newhaven crossroads and was forced to slow down as the
Roman road disappeared to be replaced by a more winding country
route that bounced him up and down hills, round tight corners and
through speed-defying chicanes. All he could think about was the ten
men and two women cooped up in the jury room. Eventually, he cleared
the small market town of Ashbourne and the road opened up before
him again.
Would they have reached their decision by the time he got there, George
wondered. Somehow, he didn't think so. Much as he wanted to believe he'd
supplied Stanley with enough bullets to shoot Hawkin down in flames, he
knew they'd taken collateral damage from Highsmith.
276

As he turned down the side street by the county hall building that
housed the assizes, someone pulled out of a parking place right by the
side door. 'It's a good omen,' George muttered as he swung the car into
the space. He burst into the building, bemused to find it almost empty.
The doors to the courtroom stood open, the place empty except for an
usher sitting on a chair reading the Mirror.
George walked up to him and said, 'Is the jury still out?'
The man looked up. 'That's right.'
George ran a hand through his hair. 'Do you know where I'll find the
prosecution team?'
The usher frowned. 'They'll probably be in the residents' lounge at the
Lamb and Flag. Just across the square. The canteen's shut, you see.' He
frowned. 'You were here last week,' he said accusingly. 'You're Inspector
Bennett.'
'That's right,' George said wearily.
'Your pal's been in court today,' the usher continued. 'The one that
looks like a prop forward.'
'Do you know where he's gone?'
'He said if I saw you to tell you he'd be in the Lamb and Flag an' all.
It's the only place you can be sure of hearing when the jury's coming
back, you see.'
'Thanks,' George said over his shoulder as he headed out of the front
door and across the square to the old coaching inn. He almost tripped
over Clough's legs as he swung through the main entrance. The detective
sergeant was stretched out in a chintz armchair in the reception area, a
large Scotch in his fist and a cigarette smouldering in a pedestal ashtray
next to him.
'I hope Traffic didn't catch you,' Clough said, straightening up. 'Pull
up a chair.' He gestured at the half-dozen armchairs that loomed over tiny
round tables, filling the cramped area in front of the glassed-in reception
desk. The loose covers with their designs of pink and green cabbage roses
clashed violently with the rich reds and blues of the traditional Wilton
carpet, but neither man noticed nor cared.
George sat down. 'How did you manage that?' he asked, gesturing at
the Scotch. 'They're not open for another hour at least.'
Clough winked. 'I got to know the receptionist when I brought Wells
up from St Albans. Do you want one?'
'I wouldn't say no.'
Clough crossed to the wood-veneered reception desk and leaned over.
277

George heard the murmur of voices, then his sergeant was back at his
side. 'She'll bring one over.'
'Thanks. How was the summing-up?'
'Very even-handed. Nothing to get the Appeal Court excited there. The
judge laid out the evidence, fair and square. He made you sound like a
wronged maiden one minute, then next minute he said someone had to
be lying and they had to decide who. He went on a lot about the difference
between fanciful doubt and reasonable doubt. The jury were looking very
glum as they went out, I have to say.'
'Thanks for coming down,' George said.
'It's been interesting.'
'I know, but it is your day off.'
Clough shrugged. 'Aye, but the Martinet didn't ban me from coming,
did he?'
George grinned. 'Only because he didn't think of it. Where are all the
press boys, by the way?'
'They're upstairs in Don Smart's room with a bottle of Bell's. One of
the local-paper lads drew the short straw. He's over at the court, ready
to phone through soon as there's any sign of the jury. The lawyers are all
in the residents' lounge. Jonathan Pritchard's pacing up and down like an
expectant father on hot bricks.'
George sighed. 'I know just how he feels.'
'Speaking of which, how is Anne?'
As he lit a cigarette, George raised his eyebrows. 'Upset by what she
reads in the papers. This warm weather's getting her down too. She says
she feels like she's lugging a sack of spuds round on her stomach.' He
nervously chewed the skin on the side of his thumb. 'Between her expecting
and this case, I haven't got a nerve left in my body.' He jumped to his feet
and walked over to the nearest window. Staring across the square towards
the court, he said, 'What am I going to do if they go "not guilty"?'
'Even if he gets away with the murder, they're still going to have him
for the rape,' Clough said reasonably. 'They're not going to believe you
faked those photographs, no matter what Highsmith tried to make out. I
think the worst that can happen is they might decide you got carried away
when you found the pictures and decided to have Hawkin for murder
as well.'
'But Ruth Carter found the gun before I found the pictures,' George
protested, staring at Clough in outrage.
'"So you say," the jury might be thinking,' Clough pointed out. 'Look,
278

whatever they think, they are not going to give him the benefit of the
doubt on the rape charge. Come on, you were in court when they saw
those photographs. The jury took against Hawkin then. Believe me, they'll
be dying to find a way to find him guilty on both charges. Now come on,
your drink's here. Sit down and stop fretting. You're making me nervous,'
he added, trying vainly to jolly George out of his worries.
George crossed to the table and picked up his drink, then walked back
to the window, pausing to stare unseeingly at a luridly coloured Victorian
hunting print. 'How long has it been now?' he asked.
'An hour and thirty-seven minutes,' Clough said with a glance at his
watch. Suddenly, the phone at reception rang. George swung round and
stared at the young woman behind the desk.
'Lamb and Flag reception,' she said in a bored voice. She looked across
at George. 'Yes, we do. What was the name?' She paused and stared
down at the hotel register. 'Mr and Mrs Duncan. What time will you
be arriving?'
With a frustrated sigh, George turned back to his study of the county hall
building. 'I've never understood why juries take so long,' he complained.
'They should just take a vote and go with the majority. Why does it have
to be unanimous? How many criminals walk out of court because one
stubborn juror won't be persuaded? It's not like they're all Brain of
Britain, is it?'
'George, they could be out for hours. They could be out all night and
all tomorrow, so why don't you sit down and drink your drink and smoke
your fags? Otherwise we're both going to end up in Derby Royal Infirmary
with high blood pressure,' Clough said.
George sighed heavily and dragged himself back to his chair. 'You're
right. I know you're right. I'm just on pins.'
Clough pulled a pack of cards out of his jacket pocket. 'D'you play
cribbage?'
'We've not got a board,' George objected.
'Doreen?' Clough called. 'Any chance of getting the cribbage board
from the public bar?'
Doreen cast her eyes upwards in the universal, exasperated, ThenI'
gesture, then disappeared through a door at the rear of the reception
area. 'You've got her well trained,' George commented.
'Always leave them wanting more, that's my motto.' Clough cut the
cards then dealt. Doreen returned and slid the cribbage board between
them. 'Thanks, love.'
279

She tutted. 'Watch who you're calling love, you,' she said, with a toss
of her head as she tottered back behind her desk on too-high heels.
'I'm watching,' Clough said, just loud enough for her to hear. Normally
the banter would have amused George, but today, it only served to irritate.
He forced himself to concentrate on the cards in his hand, but every time
the phone rang, he jumped like a man stung by a wasp.
They played cribbage in a tense silence, broken only by scoring claims
and the sound of flint on steel as one or other of them lit a cigarette.
By half past six, they'd smoked nearly twenty cigarettes between them
and swallowed four large Scotches apiece. As they reached the end of
a rubber, George stood up. 'I need some fresh air,' he said. 'I'm going
to walk round the square.'
'I'll keep you company,' Clough said. They left their cards and glasses
on the table, Clough telling Doreen they'd be back.
It was a warm summer evening, the city centre empty now except for
the occasional person kept late at the office by some pressing task. It was
still too early for any cinema-goers to be about, and the two men had the
square more or less to themselves. They paused under a statue of George
II, leaning against the plinth while they smoked yet another cigarette. 'I've
never felt so tense in all my life,' George said.
'I know what you mean,' Clough said.
'You? You're as relaxed as a three-toed sloth, Tommy,' George protested.

'It's all show, George. Inside, my stomach's tying itself in knots too.'
He shrugged. 'I'm just better at hiding it than you. You know you were
saying earlier you didn't know what you'd do if Hawkin gets off? Well, I
know exactly what I'm going to do. I'm going to hand my papers in and
get a job that doesn't give me ulcers.' He tossed his cigarette butt away
with a vicious sweep of his arm and folded his arms across his chest, his
mouth a thin line in his broad face.
'I... I had no idea,' George stammered.
'What? That it bothered me this much? You think you're the only
one that lies awake wondering about Alison Carter?' Clough asked
belligerently.
George rubbed both hands over his face, pushing his hair awry. 'No,
I don't think that.'
'She's got nobody else to fight her corner,' Clough said angrily. 'And
if he walks out of that courtroom tonight, we've let her down.'
'I know,' George murmured. 'You know something else, Tommy?'
280

'What?'
George shook his head and turned away. 'I can't believe I'm even
thinking like this, never mind saying it out loud. But...'
Clough waited. Then he said, 'Thinking like what?'
'The more I read in the papers that I was supposed to be this bent
copper who fitted up Hawkin, the more I kept thinking that maybe I
should have done what I could to make the whole thing more watertight,'
he said bitterly. 'That's how much this bloody case has got to me.'
Before Clough could reply, both men realized there was an exodus
from the Lamb and Flag, led by the barristers, their gowns swooping
around them like black wings in the speed of their passage. Behind them,
journalists were tumbling through the doors, some still pulling on their
jackets and cramming their hats on their heads. Clough and George looked
at each other, both taking a deep breath. 'This is it,' George said softly.
'Aye. After you, boss.'
Suddenly the square was alive with people. Carters, Crowthers and
Lomases were approaching from the west, where a cafe owner had
realized it was a profitable idea to stay open for as long as Scardale
wanted to drink tea and eat chips. Hawkin's mother appeared from
the south with Mr and Mrs Wells from St Albans. Everyone converged at the side entrance to county hall, where the bottleneck forced them
into uncomfortable proximity. George could have sworn Mrs Hawkin
took the opportunity to give him a sharp dig in the ribs, but he was
past caring. Somehow, they all squeezed through and into their allotted
places in the courtroom. As they settled like a flock of birds in city trees
at sunset, Hawkin was led in between the same two police officers who
had stood beside him for every day of his trial. He looked sombre and
more tired than he had the week before, George noticed. Hawkin looked
around him and managed a little wave for his mother in the public gallery.
This time, there was no smile for George, just a cold inscrutable stare.
Everyone shuffled raggedly to their feet for the return of the judge,
resplendent in his scarlet and ermine, and the High Sheriff. Then, at last,
the moment everyone had been dreading for their own particular reasons.
The jury filed in, studiously looking at no one. George tried to swallow,
but his mouth had gone dry. The conventional wisdom was that a jury
who wouldn't look at the accused were going to bring a guilty verdict.
His own experience was that no jury ever looked at the accused when they
returned to the box. Whatever the verdict, it appeared there was something
shaming about having sat in judgement on a fellow member of society.
281

The elected foreman, a middle-aged man with a narrow face, pink
cheeks and horn-rimmed glasses, remained standing when the others
took their seats. He kept his eyes firmly fixed upon the judge.
'Members of the jury, are you agreed upon your verdict?'
The foreman nodded. 'We are.'
'And how say you on Count One?'
'Guilty.'
A collective sigh seemed to whisper through the air of the court. George
felt the knot in his stomach begin to relax.
'Count Two?'
The foreman cleared his throat. 'Guilty,' he said.
A rising mutter filled the air like the buzz of bees round the hive
at evening. George felt no shame at the pleasure Hawkin's devastated
expression gave him. The colour had drained from those handsome
features, leaving his face as stark as a pen and ink drawing. His mouth
opened and closed as if he was gasping for air.
George peered through the animated Scardale crowd, looking for Ruth
Carter. At that moment, she turned to him, her eyes filled with tears, her
mouth a gash of relief. He saw her lips form the words, 'Thank you,'
before she turned away towards the welcoming arms of her relatives.
'Silence in court,' the clerk thundered.
The murmuring died away and everyone turned to the bench. Mr Justice
Fletcher Sampson was grim-faced. 'Philip Hawkin, have you anything to
say before sentence is passed on you according to the law?'
Hawkin got to his feet. He gripped the edge of the dock. The tip of his
tongue appeared at either corner of his mouth. Then, with desperate intensity
he said, 'I never killed her. Your Lordship, I'm an innocent man.'
For all the effect of his words on Sampson, he might as well have
saved his breath. 'Philip Hawkin, the jury by their verdict have found
that you raped your stepdaughter Alison Carter, a girl of only thirteen
years, and that you subsequently murdered her. That you used a gun
in the commission of this crime permits me to pronounce the sentence
which the law allows and justice requires.' In absolute hush, he reached
for the square of black material and carefully draped it over his wig.
Hawkin staggered slightly, but the policeman on his right gripped him
by the elbow and forced him upright.
Sampson glanced down at the card in front of him that held the fateful
words. Then he looked up and met the frantic eyes of Alison Carter's
killer. 'Philip Hawkin, you shall be taken to the place from whence you
282


came, and thence to a place of lawful execution, and there you shall be
hanged by the neck until you be dead, and afterwards your body shall be
buried in a common grave within the precincts of the prison wherein you
were last confined before your execution; and may the Lord have mercy
on your soul.'
There was a stunned silence in the courtroom. Then a woman's voice
screamed, 'No!'
'Officers, take the prisoner down,' Sampson ordered.
They almost had to carry Hawkin from the courtroom. Shock seemed to
have destroyed his ability to walk. George could understand the reaction.
His own legs seemed unwilling to support him. Suddenly, he found he was
at the centre of a group of people who all wanted to shake his hand. Charlie
Lomas, Brian Carter, even Ma Lomas were shouting their congratulations.
All the buttoned-up restraint he'd come to associate with Scardale villagers
had dissipated with the judgement and sentence on Hawkin.
Pritchard's face swam into view. 'Phone your wife and tell her you're
staying in Derby,' he shouted. 'We've got champagne across the road.'
'All in good time,' Ma Lomas shouted back. 'He's drinking with Scardale
first. Come on, George, we're not letting you out of our sight until you've
had a drink off each and every one of us. And bring that big ox of a
sergeant of yours along with you.'
His head spinning, his stomach swimming, George Bennett was carried
off into the night. Against all odds, he'd triumphed. He'd given Alison
Carter the justice she had demanded of him. He had challenged his bosses,
the tenets of the English legal system and the vile slanders of the press, and
he had triumphed.
283


A Place of Execution
On the evening of Thursday, 27th August 1964, two men descended from
the train at Derby station, each carrying a small suitcase. None of their
fellow passengers had given them a second glance, but a police car stood
ready to carry them through the streets to the prison where Philip Hawkin
sat in a cell with the two prison warders appointed to the death watch.
Later that evening, the older of the two men slid open the oiled flap that
allowed him to look into the condemned cell. He saw a moderately tall
man whose medium frame had clearly shed every spare ounce of flesh.
He was restlessly pacing the floor, a cigarette burning between his fingers.
He saw nothing to contradict the calculations he had already made based
on the piece of paper he had been handed which said, 'Five feet ten inches,
nine stone ten.' A seven-foot drop would do nicely.
Hawkin spent the night awake, devoting some of the time to writing
a letter to his wife. According to Detective Sergeant Clough, who was
shown the letter by Ruth Carter, it maintained his innocence. Whatever
wrongs I may have done you, killing your beloved daughter was not one of
them. I have committed many sins and crimes in my life, but not murder.
I should not hang for something I have not done, but my fate is sealed now
because other people have lied. My blood is on their conscience. I do not hold
it against you that you were taken in by their lies. Believe me when I say I
have no idea what happened to Alison. I have nothing left to lose now except
my life and that will be taken from me in the morning, so there is no reason
for me to lie now. I am sorry that I was not a better husband.
Less than five miles away on the other side of the city, George Bennett
was also awake. He stood smoking at the open bedroom window of the
house that had been their home since his transfer from Buxton a month
284
before. But it was not Philip Hawkin's destiny that was interfering with his
sleep. At seven fifty-three the previous evening, Anne had straightened up
in her chair and gasped with pain. She had staggered to her feet, George at
her side with breathtaking swiftness. It was clearly the moment he'd been
anticipating for the two weeks since Anne's due date had passed without
a sign of labour. Everyone had told him first babies were often late, but
that hadn't made it any easier. Now, before they had reached the living
room door, suddenly, mystifyingly to George, clear liquid was pouring
out of her. She'd stumbled to the bottom of the stairs and slumped down,
reassuring him that this was perfectly normal, but that it was time to take
her to the hospital. She'd pointed to the small suitcase, packed and ready
in a corner of the hall.
Half-crazy with worry and concern, George helped Anne out to the
car and ran back for the suitcase. Then he drove like a maniac through
the quiet streets, attracting sharp glances from respectable gardeners and
admiring ones from lads lounging on street corners. By the time they
reached the infirmary, Anne was shrieking with pain every couple of
minutes.
Almost before he could register what was happening, Anne was whisked
away from him into the alien world of the maternity wing, a place where
no man who lacked a stethoscope would ever be heeded. In spite of his
protests, George was firmly herded to the reception area where he was told
by a staff nurse who wouldn't have been out of place in Superintendent
Martin's regiment that he might as well go home since he was neither
use nor ornament to his wife or the medical staff.
Stunned and bemused, George found himself outside in the car park
without quite knowing how he'd got there. What was he supposed to
do now? Anne had been busily reading books about how to prepare for
motherhood, but nobody had told George what he was supposed to do.
Once the baby was born, that was all right. He knew about that. Cigars
all round for the lads in the office, then down to the pub to wet the
baby's head. But how was he to fill the time until that moment? Come
to that, how long would it take?
With a sigh, he got back into the car and headed home. When he
reached the smart little semi, the identical twin of the one in Buxton
except that it lacked the advantage of a corner garden, his first act was
to grab the phone and call the hospital.
'Nothing's going to happen for hours yet,' a nurse told him crossly.
'Why don't you have an early night and call us in the morning?'
285

George clattered the phone back into its cradle. He didn't even know
anybody well enough in the city CID to ring them up and suggest a drink.
He was about to raid the bottle of whisky in the sideboard when the phone
rang, startling him so much he dropped one of the crystal tumblers they'd
been given for a wedding present. 'Damn!' he exclaimed as he picked the
phone up.
'Bad moment, George?' Tommy Clough's bantering tone was as welcome
to his ears as the confession of a grass.
'I've just taken Anne to the maternity ward, but apart from that, I'm
fine. What can I do for you?'
'I've just managed to swap my shift for tomorrow. I thought I'd come
down and make sure they hang that bugger in the morning. And then
I thought we could go out and get drunk as skunks. But it sounds like
you're otherwise engaged.'
George clutched the phone like a drowning man would a life belt.
'Come down. I could use the company. Those nurses act like men have
got nothing to do with babies.'
Tommy chuckled. 'There's an answer to that, but you're a married
man so I won't sully your ears with it. I'll be there in an hour or so.'
George filled some of the time by walking down to the local pub and
buying bottles of beer to supplement the whisky. In the event, they'd
drunk very little, both affected in their different ways by the magnitude
of the events that were unfolding around them.
Some time after midnight - and George's fourth call to the maternity
ward - Clough had bedded down in the spare room. But it wasn't the soft
grumble of his snoring that kept George awake. As the long night unfurled
into dawn, he found the images of Alison Carter's ordeal intermingling
with what he imagined Anne was enduring until he could no longer
separate the sufferings. Eventually, as the eastern sky lightened, he dozed
off, curled like a foetus in one corner of the bed.
The alarm roused him at seven and his eyes snapped open, his mind
fully conscious. Was he a father? He uncoiled his legs and half ran across
the room, almost tripping as he hurried downstairs to the phone. The
tone was the same, even though the accent was different. No news. The
subtext: stop bothering us.
Clough's tousled curls and bleary eyes appeared over the banister.
'Any news?'
George shook his head. 'Nothing.'
'Seems weird,' Clough yawned. 'Anne going into labour now.'
286

'Not really. She was already two weeks overdue. Anxiety can sometimes
bring on labour, according to one of her books. And she's had more than
her fair share of anxiety out of this case,' George said, walking back
upstairs. 'First she has to cope with me working all the hours God sends
on the initial inquiry, then she has to read all that stuff in the papers about
how I'm so corrupt I'd send an innocent man to the gallows, then she had
to read it all over again after the appeal, and now she's had to think about
a man hanging because I've done my job.' He stood on the landing and
shook his head, his rumpled fair fringe swinging with the movement. 'It's
a miracle she's not lost it.'
Clough put a hand on his shoulder. 'Come on. Let's get dressed. I'll buy
you breakfast. There's a cafe not far down the road from the prison.'
George froze. 'Are you going to the prison?'
'Were you not?'
George looked surprised. 'I'm going to the office. Somebody'11 phone
me when it's all over.'
'You're not coming to the prison? They'll all be there, the Lomases and
the Carters and the Crowthers. You're the man they'll want to see.'
'Am I?' George said with an edge of bitterness in his voice. 'Well, they'll
just have to make do with you, Tommy.'
Clough shrugged. 'I've always reckoned if I've done my bit to send a
man to the gallows, I should take the consequences.'
'I'm sorry, I've not got the stomach for it. I'll buy you breakfast in the
police canteen, then you can go over there if you've a mind.'
'Aye, fine.'
George turned away and made for the bathroom.
'George?' Clough said softly. 'There's no shame in it, either way. There's
nothing worse in this job, not even telling a mother her child's dead. But
you have to survive it. I've got my way, and you're finding your way. Never
mind breakfast. I'll catch up with you later, and we'll go out tonight and
get slaughtered.'
Eight fifty-nine, and George watched the second hand of his watch stutter
round the dial. The priest would be finished with Hawkin now. George
wondered how Hawkin would be. Terrified, for sure. He thought he'd
probably try for dignity.
The hand swept up towards twelve and the nearby church clock boomed
out the first stroke of nine o'clock. The double doors in the condemned
cell would be swung open and Hawkin would walk the last twenty feet
287

Book 2
PART TWO
of his life. The hangman would be wrapping the leather strap round
his wrists.
The second stroke. Now the executioner is walking ahead of Hawkin,
his assistant behind, keeping the pace as even as possible, the official
killers trying to act as if this were another stroll in the park.
The third stroke. Hawkin is on the drop now, feet planted one on
each side of the double doors of the trap that will fall away and take
his life with it.
The fourth stroke. The hangman will be turning to face the condemned
man, holding out his hands to halt his progress while his assistant squats
and straps Hawkin's legs together.
The fifth stroke. The linen bag appears as if by a magic trick. The hangman
drops it over Hawkin's head with the ease of practice. Now it's faster
because nobody has to look at the man who will be dead inside a minute,
his eyes have ceased to implore them, to stare with the wall-eyed panic of
the condemned animal. The hangman pulls the bag down and smooths
it round the neck so the linen won't catch in the eye of the noose.
The sixth stroke. The hangman slips the noose over his head, checking
that the brass eye which had replaced the traditional slip-knot is
positioned behind Hawkin's ear for maximum speed in the fracture and
dislocation process that makes hanging theoretically swift and relatively
painless.
The seventh stroke. The hangman steps back, signals to his assistant.
The assistant pulls out the cotter pin that acts as a safety measure in the
gallows mechanism. Then, almost in the same instant, the hangman pulls
the lever.
The eighth stroke. The trap falls away, Hawkin plunges down in the
fatal drop.
The ninth stroke. It is over.
George knew there was sweat on his lip. He could see his hand tremble
as it reached for his cigarettes. Tiny human gestures lost to Hawkin now,
as they had been lost earlier to Alison Carter.
Only with the release of his breath did he realize he'd been holding it.
He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the rough skin with something
like gratitude.
When the phone rang, he jumped.
Within the same five minutes, Philip Hawkin had left the number of
the living and Paul George Bennett had joined them.
Tommy Clough and George never did get together for that drink.
288



February 1998

Even a pale winter sun made the White Peak dramatic. The chill blue of
the sky contrasted with the tired green of the fields, which seemed to
have picked up a tinge of grey from the dry-stone walls. There were more
shades of grey than seemed possible; the off-white of limestone cliffs,
striated and stippled with a spectrum that ranged from dove through
battleship to almost black; the darker tones of the barns and houses that
dotted the landscape; the flat matt-grey of slate roofs, splashed with the
white of hoarfrost where the sun had failed to reach; the dirty grey of
moorland sheep. Nevertheless, it was the green and blue of grass and sky
that dominated the landscape.
The scarlet coupe cruising smoothly down the narrow country road
stood out like an exotic parrot in an English wood. As the Methodist
Chapel came into view on the right, the blonde woman behind the wheel
touched the brakes softly. The car slowed gradually and she changed down
a gear when she caught sight of a road sign she didn't recall. Pointing to a
narrow turning on the left, it read, 'Scardale'.
At last, she thought. The unfamiliar road sign was a timely reminder that
the world had changed, she realized. Nowadays people who didn't know
where they were going had to be able to find Scardale. If she succeeded as
well as she hoped, there would be plenty of others who would be seeking
that guidance. With a shiver of excitement, she swung the car round the
bend. Even though she vaguely recalled the sudden dips and rises of the
twisting road, she kept her speed down. The high limestone walls had
kept the weak February sunshine off the single-track road and it was
still heavily rimed with frost, save where previous traffic had exposed
the black tarmac. It wouldn't be an auspicious start to the project if she
skidded and damaged her paintwork, she reminded herself.
295

It came as no shock to Catherine Heathcote when the dry-stone walls
suddenly gave way to towering cliffs of streaked grey limestone. What was
a surprise was that there was no longer a gate across the road, separating
public from private. Now, the only indications that once Scardale had
deliberately cut itself off were the stone gateposts and the cattle grid that
her wide-profile tyres bumped softly over.
Nothing in the landscape had changed significantly, she realized. Shield
Tor and Scardale Crag still loomed above the dale. Sheep still safely
grazed, although the dictates of fashion had imposed a flock of Jacob's
sheep among the more familiar hardy moorland ewes. The scatterings of
woodland were more mature, it was true, but they'd been well maintained,
with new saplings replacing the trees that had been cropped or felled by the
harsh weather. But it still felt like leaving the world behind and entering a
parallel universe, Catherine thought. For all the change in the view, she
could have been a child again, peering from the back seat over the adults'
shoulders as they drove down into this remote world to find the mysterious
source of the seeping Scarlaston on a summer Sunday afternoon.
Only when she drew up on the edge of the village green was real
change apparent. In the years since Hawkin's execution, a new prosperity
had come to Scardale. She reminded herself of what she'd learned when
she'd first written about Alison Carter's murder a dozen years before in
a news feature commissioned because a new 'no body' case had hit the
headlines. Catherine's research in the local paper archives and among her
mother's bridge-playing cronies had revealed that when Ruth Hawkin had
inherited the dale and the village from her husband, she had decided to
move away from the memories. She had sold the manor house and set up
a trust to administer the land and the farms. Tenants had been given the
opportunity to buy their homes, and over the intervening years some had
been sold to outsiders. Ruth Hawkin had also proved impossible to track
down, and had refused all Catherine's attempts to secure an interview via
the solicitor who acted for the trust.
Inevitably, the process set in train by Ruth's actions had led to a
smartening up of the village. Fresh paint gleamed on windows and doors,
gardens had been carved out of nothing and even in the grip of winter,
early crocuses, dwarf irises and snowdrops provided splashes of colour.
And of course, cars had invaded the village green where once there had
only been battered Land Rovers and the squire's Austin Cambridge. A
modern Plexiglas kiosk had replaced the old red phone box, but the
standing stone still leaned at its familiar angle. Even with the modern
296
cars and the smartened-up cottages, on an afternoon as chill as this, it
wasn't hard to picture Scardale as it had been when she'd first visited as
a child and later, innocence dispelled, as a teenager.
She'd been sixteen. Two and a half years had passed since Alison Carter's
murder, and Catherine had a boyfriend with a scooter. She'd persuaded
him to drive her to Scardale one spring afternoon, so they could see for
themselves the place where it had happened. It had, she acknowledged
with some shame, been nothing more than ghoulish curiosity. She'd been
at that age when outrage was the aim of every activity. They hadn't had the
stomach - or the footwear - for battling through the undergrowth to find
the old mine workings, but their adolescent tumblings in the woodland
behind the manor house had held an extra frisson for her because of the
very notoriety of the spot.
It had also, she now realized, been a way of exorcizing the horror that
had unfolded at Philip Hawkin's trial. Of course, most of the details
had been shrouded in the sensational euphemisms of journalese, but
Catherine and all her friends knew that something terrible had happened 
to Alison Carter, the sort of terrible something that they'd only ever beeri
warned could happen at the hands of strangers. It had been all the more
frightening because it had befallen Alison at the hands of someone she
knew and should have been able to trust. For Catherine and her friends, all
from sheltered middle-class families, the idea that home didn't necessarily
mean safety had been profoundly unsettling.
On a more mundane level, it had placed constraints on their lives,
both parental and self-imposed. They'd been chaperoned and escorted
to a stifling degree, just at a time when the rest of Britain's teenagers were
discovering the Swinging Sixties. Alison's fate had coloured Catherine's
adolescence with hitherto unsuspected darkness, and she had never been
able to forget either the case or the victim. More than any other single
factor, it had probably influenced her own decision to shake the dust of
Buxton from her heels as soon as she possibly could. University in London,
then dogsbody work with a news agency and finally a job as a news feature
writer had allowed her to sever the bonds with her past, filling her life
with new faces, new fascinations, and leaving no loose ends behind.
As she had progressed from one rung of the ladder to the next above
it, Catherine had often wondered what Alison's future would have held.
Not that she was obsessed, she told herself. Just infected with the natural
curiosity that should afflict any journalist who had grown up at one
remove from such a strange and unnerving case.
297

And now, miraculously, she would be the one finally to unshroud the
past and reveal the story behind the story. It was fitting, she thought.
There couldn't be another journalist better qualified to tell this truth.
Catherine got out of the car and fastened her Barbour jacket, tucking her
scarf tightly round her neck. She crossed the green, and climbed the stile
that led to the footpath that she knew would take her through the copse
where Shep had been found and on to the source of the Scarlaston.
As the frosty grass crunched under her feet, she couldn't help contrasting
her walk with the last time she'd been in Scardale. A hot July
afternoon ten years before, the sun blasting out of a brassy-blue sky,
the trees a welcome respite from the heat. Catherine and a couple
of friends had rented a holiday cottage in Dovedale as a base for a
walking holiday in the Peaks. One of their trips had been a hike up
the Scarlaston from Denderdale to Scardale. Hot and sticky after their
expedition, they'd called a taxi from the phone box on the green then sat
on a wall and swapped gossip about their London colleagues while they'd
waited. Catherine hadn't even mentioned Alison, strangely superstitious
when it came to sharing the story with fellow journalists.
It had never occurred to her then that she would be the person who
would manage to persuade George Bennett to break his thirty-five-year
silence and talk about the case. Although she'd never forgotten Alison
Carter, writing the definitive book on one of the most interesting cases
of the century hadn't even been on Catherine's agenda.
It certainly hadn't been on her mind the previous autumn in Brussels.
But then, in Catherine's experience, the best stories were never the ones
you went looking for. And there was no question in her mind that this
was going to be the best story of her career.
298

2
October 1997 - February 1998
The rain poured down in an unrelenting sheet. It might have been bearable
if she'd been comfortable and cosy in some glass-fronted bar looking out
over the Grand Place, a steaming Irish coffee warming her hands while
she gloated over scurrying figures wrestling their umbrellas against the
wind. But kicking her heels on a wet Wednesday afternoon in a concrete
Eurobox with a view of other office blocks while she waited for a Swedish
commissioner to remember their appointment wasn't Catherine's idea of
a good time. It wasn't at all what she'd had in mind when she'd planned
her little jaunt to Euroland.
Although Catherine was the commissioning editor for features on a
glossy women's monthly, she had never lost her taste for the news features
that had first earned her a reputation. She liked from time to time to escape
the stresses of day-to-day bureaucracy and the pettiness of office politics.
Her excuse was the need to remain in touch with her creative side, and
to keep abreast with the changing circumstances faced by the writers she
employed. So periodically, she would set up a feature that allowed her
to do the research, the interviews and the writing.
She'd thought it would be interesting to do a series of interviews with
leading women in the EU. She'd reckoned without the endless bureaucracy
and the dismal weather. Not to mention the fact that meetings always
overran and nobody was ever on time for their interviews. Sighing,
Catherine picked up the phone in the conference room and called her
minder, a British press officer called Paul Bennett. She'd expected him
to be offhand and up himself, like most government press officers, but
he'd been a pleasant surprise. Once they'd discovered they'd both grown
up in Derbyshire, the relationship had run even more smoothly, and Paul
had managed to sort out most of her glitches so far.
299

'Paul? It's Catherine Heathcote. Sigrid Hammarqvist is a no-show.'
'Oh bugger,' he said with exasperation. 'Can you hold a minute?'
Some classical music shrieked in her ears, the violins angry mosquitoes.
Catherine sometimes wished she knew one piece of classical music from
another, but she doubted that would be much help to her right then.
She moved the receiver far enough from her ear to avoid the irritation
but close enough to hear Paul when he came back on the line. A couple
of minutes passed, then he spoke. 'Catherine? I'm afraid it's bad news.
Or good, depending on your view of Mrs Hammarqvist. She's had to
go to Strasbourg for a meeting. Won't be back till the morning, but
her secretary promises faithfully she's put you in for her eleven o'clock
tomorrow. If that suits?'
'My turn to say, "oh, bugger," Catherine said wryly. 'I was hoping to
catch the shuttle back tonight.'
'Sorry,' Paul said. 'The Scandies have a tendency to see journalists as
a bit too low down the food chain to lose sleep over.'
'It's not your fault. Thanks for sorting it out for me, anyway. And at
least I get another night in sunny Brussels,' she added ironically.
Paul laughed. 'Yeah, right. I don't like to think of you hanging about
at a loose end, though. Listen, if you've not got any other plans, why
don't you come round to our flat for a drink?'
'No, don't worry, I'll be fine,' Catherine said with professional insouciance.
'I'm not just inviting you out of a sense of duty,' he said insistently.
'I'd like you to meet Helen.'
His partner, she recalled. An interpreter and translator with the Commission.
'I'm sure that's exactly what she fancies after another day in the
Tower of Babel,' she said ironically.
'She reads your magazine every month, and she'll kill me if I pass up the
chance to bring you home for a glass or three of wine. And she's another
Northern lass,' he added, as if that should clinch it.
Something had, for just after seven, Catherine found herself air-kissing
Helen Markiewicz. Not exactly a typical Derbyshire greeting, she'd thought
sardonically as she checked out Paul's partner. She certainly looked like she
could be one of Catherine's magazine's target group. Thirty-something,
her dark hair cut short in a tousled mop, falling forward over a broad
forehead. She had a heart-shaped face, with straight dark brows, high
cheekbones and a generous smile. Her make-up was subtle but effective,
just as the style pages recommended for the professional woman. Helen
seemed vaguely familiar, and Catherine wondered if she'd passed her
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in the corridors of the EU buildings she'd been in over the past few
days. Someone so striking and stylish would have caught her eye, however
unconsciously. She could see exactly why Paul was eager to show
her off.
As Paul poured generous glasses of red wine, the two women settled
into opposite corners of a squashy sofa. 'Paul tells me Mrs Hammarqvist
stood you up,' Helen said, the traces of a Yorkshire accent still strong in
her voice. 'That must be a bit like steeling yourself to go to the dentist
only to find he's gone home early.'
'She's not that bad,' Paul protested.
'She'd give Grendel's mother a run for her money,' Helen said obscurely.
'I'm sure Catherine won't let her get away with anything.'
'Oh, I'm sure she won't, love.' Helen grinned at Catherine. 'Did he
tell you I'm your number one fan? No bullshit - I actually have a
subscription.'
'I'm impressed,' Catherine said. 'But tell me, how did you two meet?
Is this a Euro-romance?'
'Watch her, Helen, she's already sussing out the feature for next year's
Valentine's Day edition.'
'Not everybody brings their work home with them,' Helen teased Paul
back. 'Yes, Catherine, we met in Brussels. Paul was the first person I'd
met in the Commission with a northern accent, so we had an instant
connection.'
'And I fancied her like hell, so she had no chance,' Paul added, looking
over at Helen.
'Where are you from, Helen?'
'Sheffield,' she replied.
'Just over the Pennines from me. I grew up in Buxton.'
Helen nodded. 'My sister's over that way now. Do you know a place
called Scardale?'
Catherine recognized the name with a jolt of surprise. 'Of course I
know Scardale.'
'Our Jan moved there a couple of years ago.'
'Really? Why Scardale?' Catherine asked.
'Just one of those things. My aunt lived with us for years and she
inherited a house there from a distant relative of her late husband. Some
second cousin, or something. When my aunt died, it went to our mum.
And when she died three years ago, she left it to me and Jan. It had always
been rented out, but Jan fancied living in the country, so she decided to
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give the tenants notice and she took it over. It'd drive me crazy, living
out there in the middle of nowhere, but she loves it. Mind you, she does
a lot of travelling with her work, so I don't suppose she gets the chance
to get too fed up with it.'
'What does she do?' Catherine asked.
'She's got a consultancy business. She works mainly for big multinationals
doing psychological assessments of key staff. She's only been doing
it a few years now, but she's done really well,' Helen said. 'She'd have to,
mind you, to pay for heating that barn of a house.'
There was only one property in Scardale that fitted that description.
'She's not living in Scardale Manor, is she?' Catherine asked.
'You obviously know the place,' Helen laughed. 'That's right. So how come you know a poky little hole like Scardale so well?'
'Helen,' Paul said, a warning note in his voice.
Catherine gave a twisted smile. 'There was a murder in Scardale when
I was a teenager. A girl was abducted and killed by her stepfather. She
was the same age as I was.'
'Alison Carter?' Helen exclaimed. 'You know about the Alison Carter
case?'
'I'm surprised you do,' Catherine said. 'You can hardly have been born
when it hit the headlines.'
'Oh, we know all about the Alison Carter case, don't we, Paul?' Helen
said, almost gleefully.
'No, Helen, we don't,' Paul said, sounding faintly cross.
'OK, maybe we don't,' Helen said, her voice placating, her hand reaching
out to touch his arm. 'But we know a man who does.'
'Leave it, Helen. Catherine's not interested in a thirty-fiveyear-old
murder case.'
'That's where you're wrong, Paul. I've always been fascinated by
the case. What's your connection?' She stared at his frowning face.
Suddenly, something clicked in her brain. A faint resemblance that
had chimed in the back of her head when they'd met, and now his
name, connected to the Alison Carter case. Rapidly, she put two and
two together. 'Wait a minute ... You're not George Bennett's son, are
you?'
'He is,' Helen said triumphantly.
Paul looked suspicious. 'You know my dad?'
Catherine shook her head. 'No, not personally. I know of him, though,
because of the Alison Carter case. He did a terrific job on that.'
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Paul said, 'Yeah, well, it was before I was born, and Dad's never been
one to talk about his work much.'
'It was a really important case, you know. Baby lawyers still have to
learn about it because of its implications in murder cases where there's
no body. And there's never been a book about the case. All you can find
is newspaper accounts from the time and dry-as-dust legal precedents.
I'm amazed your father's not written his memoirs,' Catherine said.
Paul shrugged and ran a hand through neatly barbered blond hair. 'It's
not his kind of thing. I remember some journalist turning up at the house
one time. I must have been about sixteen. This bloke said he'd covered
the case at the time and wanted Dad to cooperate on a book about it,
but Dad sent him away with a flea in his ear. He said to Mum afterwards
that Alison's mother had gone through enough at the time and she didn't
deserve to have it all raked over again.'
At once, Catherine's journalistic instincts were on full alert. 'But she's
dead now, Alison's mother. She died in ninety-five. There's no reason
why he shouldn't talk about the case now.' She leaned forward, suddenly
excited. 'I'd love to write the inside story of the Alison Carter case. It should
be told, Paul. Not least because all the reports at the time glossed over the
real truth about Philip Hawkin's sexual abuse of his stepdaughter. It was
an important case. Not just legally, but in the way it affected so many
people's lives.'
Surprisingly, Helen added her support. 'Catherine's right, Paul. You
know how unscrupulous some journalists are. And you know how these
historic cases are always resurfacing. If your dad doesn't tell his own story,
all that'll happen is that some hack with an eye on the main chance will
write about it after he's dead too and there's nobody to contradict some
sensationalist version of events. And with our Jan on the doorstep, so to
speak, Catherine would be able to get right under the skin of the place.'
Paul held up his hands in mock defeat. Clearly Helen had whatever it
took to shift him from borderline hostility to eager helpfulness. 'All right,
all right, girls. You win. I'll have a word with the old man the next time I
call home. I'll tell him I've found the last trustworthy journalist in Europe
and she wants to make him a star. Who knows, I might get to bask in his
reflected glory. Now, who fancies wandering down to Jacques's Brasserie
for a bucket of mussels?'
A week later, back in London, her phone had rung. The son had worked
on the father as no outsider could have. George Bennett was playing in
a golf tournament for retired police officers near London the following
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week and he would meet her for a drink to discuss the possibility of her
writing an account of the Alison Carter case based on his recollections.
Catherine had dressed carefully for the meeting. Her one Armani suit,
low heels. She wanted all the support she could get, and she agreed with
her magazine's fashion editor that there was nothing like superb Italian
tailoring to make a woman feel in control. She spent more time than her
impatience demanded on applying the tinted moisturizer, eye pencil, lip
liner and lipstick she needed to feel good about herself. It took a little
more with every passing year. Some of her colleagues had had cosmetic
surgery, but they had marriages to consider. Catherine knew it was a lot
harder to hold someone once the novelty had worn off than it ever was to
find someone else's someone willing to share some clandestine good times
for as long as it lasted. Not that she had designs of that kind on George
Bennett. But it wouldn't hurt to make him feel flattered that she'd taken
trouble for him.
He was still handsome, however, and that made her all the more glad
she'd made the effort. Silver-blond hair, crooked smile, eyes that still held
genuine good nature in spite of thirty years in the police; like Robert
Redford, George Bennett was a man whose best days were a memory,
but no one could look at him without knowing that there had been
splendour in the grass.
And amazingly, George Bennett was finally ready to talk. She suspected
a number of reasons. The one he articulated was that now Ruth Carter
was dead, he felt able to talk freely without the prospect of causing her
more pain. But she also thought that the dead hand of retirement was
weighing heavily on him. After he'd retired from the police as a detective
chief superintendent at fifty-three, he'd worked as a security consultant for
several companies in the Amber Valley, but his wife's increasing incapacity
because of crippling arthritis had induced him to give that up the previous
year. George Bennett was clearly not a man who liked to be out of the flow
of the world, nor did he relish the obscurity of being just another elderly
man to be dismissed as irrelevant. Catherine thought her suggestion had
come at the most opportune moment possible.
Four months later, they had a book contract and Catherine had negotiated
a six-month leave of absence from her job. And she was in Scardale,
a player at last in the drama that had shaped her adolescence.
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3
February 1998
George Bennett stared at his reflection in the kitchen window. The ghost
of the garden outside floated behind his features, blurring some of the lines
that the last thirty-five years had etched. Alison Carter's disappearance had
been the first case that had given him sleepless nights, though it had been
a long way from the last. But here she was again, stealing sleep from him
on a cold winter's night. Half past five and no chance of slipping back
into oblivion.
The kettle clicked off and he turned back to the cool fluorescence of
the kitchen. He poured boiling water on the teabag he'd already placed
in the mug and prodded it with a spoon until it had produced maximum
strength. Too many years of police canteens had left him with a taste for the
bitterness of tannin-loaded orange tea. He took the milk from the fridge
and poured in just enough to cool the tea to the point where he could
drink it immediately. Then he sat down at the kitchen table, shrugging his
dressing gown closer to his body. He reached for the packet of cigarettes
on the table and. lit up.
Now the day of Catherine Heathcote's first proper interview was upon
him, George found himself caught in the snarls of regret. He'd always
avoided talking about the case. Paul's birth had seemed to him the perfect
closure, a fresh start that would allow him to put Ruth Carter's pain behind
him. Of course, it hadn't been that clean or that easy. There were too
many regular reminders in routine police work for him to have managed
to wipe Alison Carter from the easily accessible area of his memory. But
he'd managed to stick to his resolution not to talk about the case.
None of his colleagues had understood the reason for his silence over
what they would have regarded as a triumph worth boasting about at every
opportunity. OnlyAnne had really grasped that what underlay his decision
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was his sense of personal failure. Although he'd overcome tremendous
odds to solve Alison's baffling disappearance and he'd managed to gather
enough evidence to hang the man responsible, George was plagued by
the conviction that he'd taken far too long over it. Ruth Carter had gone
through long miserable weeks of uncertainty and false hope, clinging to
the notion that her daughter might still be alive. Not only that, but Philip
Hawkin had known more days of freedom than he had deserved. He'd
been eating the meals his wife had cooked him, sleeping at night while
she lay awake and afraid, walking his land with the certainty of possession,
convinced he'd got away with murder. George blamed himself for allowing
Hawkin even that brief interlude of security.
And so he had resisted all attempts to persuade him to talk about the
case. He'd turned down offers from several writers who wanted to revisit
the case through his eyes. Even that ambulance chaser Don Smart had
thought he had the right to come knocking on his door and demand
his time and his insights. That hadn't been a difficult request to reject,
George thought with a bitter smile.
It was ironic that the very love that had made it possible for him to
move forward had been his undoing. He'd known when Paul had first
told him and Anne about Helen's sister in Scardale that if his son was
as serious about this woman as he appeared to be, then sooner or later
he would have to break his resolution never to revisit the scene of the
crime. So far, it hadn't arisen. But he knew that Helen's divorce would be
finalized soon, and he had a shrewd suspicion that the couple wouldn't
wait too long to marry. That would mean meeting Helen's sister, her only
surviving family, and he wouldn't be able to avoid Scardale indefinitely.
With that prospect hanging over him, Paul's intercession on behalf of
Catherine Heathcote had seemed fateful. It was as if events were conspiring
to force him to think about Alison Carter again. He'd decided it wouldn't
hurt just to meet the journalist, to see if she was someone he felt he could
trust. His first impression had been that she was just another glossy Fleet
Street hack, but as they had talked and she had revealed the impact Alison's
murder had made on her own life, he had realized that he was never going
to find anyone better suited to write a story that now seemed as if it were
demanding to be told.
The familiar sound of footsteps descending the stair disturbed his
thoughts. He looked up to see Anne appear in the doorway, rumpled
with sleep. 'Did I wake you, love?' he asked, reaching across and switching
the kettle on again.
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'My bladder woke me,' she said wryly, moving slowly across to the
chair opposite his. 'And your side of the bed was cold, so I thought you
might fancy some company.'
George got up and spooned the malted chocolate brew Anne loved
into a mug. 'I wouldn't say no,' he said as he poured the water in, stirring
constantly. He returned to his chair and slid her drink across the table to
her. She wrapped fingers twisted with arthritis round the mug, savouring
its warmth against the constant throb of her rheumatic pain.
'Nervous about today?' she asked.
He nodded. 'As you'd expect, I'm wishing I'd never agreed to this.'
'It would be a lesser man that didn't have cold feet over something as
important as this,' she said kindly. 'You can't help wanting to get it right,
to do Alison some kind of justice.'
He gave a quiet snort of derision. 'You're implying higher motives than
I possess, love. I'm wishing I'd never agreed to it because I don't want to
see myself exposed in print for the fool I was over Philip Hawkin.'
Anne shook her head. 'You're the only one that thinks so, George.
In everybody else's eyes, you were the hero of the hour. If they had a
Freedom of Scardale to give, they'd have granted it to you on the spot
the day the jury brought in their verdict.'
He shook his head. 'Maybe so. But you know I've never measured myself
by other people's yardsticks, only by my own, and by my standards, I let
those people down. I was part of a system that let Alison down in the
first place, a system that wouldn't listen to a young girl's claims that she
was being sexually abused.'
Anne pursed her lips impatiently. 'Now you're being daft. Back then,
nobody admitted there was any such thing as child sex abuse. Certainly
not inside families. If you want to make yourself miserable imagining you
failed Ruth Carter, that's up to you. But I won't sit by while you beat
yourself up over the failings of British society thirty-five years ago. That's
just wallowing, George Bennett, and you know it.'
He smiled, acknowledging she was right. 'You could be right. Maybe
I should have let all this out years ago. Isn't that what the trick cyclists
are always telling us? Letting it out is healthy. Keep it buttoned up and
you get all sorts of psychoses.'
Anne mirrored his smile. 'Like paranoia that you're to blame for all
the wrongs of the world.'
He ran a hand through his hair. 'There's another thing, too. I've got
to lay my ghosts to rest for Paul and Helen's sake. We're going to have
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to go to Scardale one of these days to meet Helen's sister, and I've let
Scardale become the bogeyman for me. I've got to change that or I'll
spoil it for everybody. And I don't want to do anything that might ruin
the lad's happiness. Talking to a stranger about the whole mess might
just make the difference for me.'
'I think you could be right, love, and I can't deny that I'm glad you've
finally decided to talk about Alison. Apart from anything else, it happened
at an important time in our lives. I've often had to hold back things I've
wanted to say, memories I've wanted to share, because I knew that if I
talked about when I was carrying Paul, it always reminded you of when
you were putting your case together against Philip Hawkin. So I won't be
sorry if you opening up to Catherine Heathcote means I'll be able to talk
to you about some of the memories I've had to keep to myself. And not
just to you, but to Paul too. I know that's selfish of me, but that's what
I'd like.'
George's eyes opened wide in surprise. 'I had no idea you felt like that,'
he protested, shaking his head. 'How could I not know?'
Anne sipped her drink. 'Because I never let on, love. But now you're
properly retired, not doing your security work, it's time we were able
to look back on our life together without fear. We've still got a future,
George. We're not old, not by today's standards. This is our chance to
clear the past away once and for all, for you to see that what you did
was good, and right, and it made a difference.' She reached out and put
her gnarled hand over his. 'Time for you to forgive yourself, George.'
The sigh seemed to come from the soles of his feet. 'Well, I hope
Catherine Heathcote's in a forgiving mood.' He yawned. 'For I'm not
going to be at my sparkling best at ten this morning unless I get some more
sleep.' He shifted his hand so it gently held Anne's. 'Thanks, love.'
'For what?'
'For reminding me I'm not the monster I sometimes imagine I've
become.'
'You're not a monster. Well, except when you wake up with a hangover.
It'll be fine, George,' Anne soothed him. 'It's not as if the past holds any
surprises, is it?'
308
4
February/March 1998
Waking for the first time in her rented cottage in Longnor, Catherine had
felt a momentary panic. She couldn't remember where she was. She should
be sprawled in a warm room with tall sash windows. Instead, her nose was
freezing and she was curled into a foetal ball under a strange duvet, the
only light seeping round a thin curtain covering a small casement set in
a stone wall over a foot thick.
Then memory clicked in with a thrill of excitement that almost banished
her irritation at the icy chill of this one-up, one-down stone cottage that
she'd taken a six-month lease on. The owners of the holiday cottage had
been delighted by her approach. Now she understood why. No one in their
right mind would rent this ice-box in winter, she thought as she jumped
out of bed, shivering as her long legs were exposed to the air. Sometime
today, she'd have to buy some warm pyjamas and a hot-water bottle or
she wasn't going to make it out of Longnor without a recurrence of the
chilblains that had made her childhood a misery. She cursed the landlords
as colourfully as only a journalist can, and ran from the room.
The bathroom was a welcome refuge. A wall-mounted heater blew hot
air instantaneously, and the power shower was blessedly steaming. She
knew already that the living room-kitchen would warm up quickly too,
thanks to an efficient gas fire. But the bedroom was purgatory. In future,
she resolved, as she returned there after her shower, she'd remember to
take her clothes to the bathroom with her.
As she dressed, she reminded herself that she hadn't slept anywhere this
cold since the family home in Buxton before the central heating had been
installed when she'd been fifteen. Abruptly, she stopped halfway through
pulling her sweater over her head. If she was trying to recreate Scardale
in 1963, she couldn't have ended up in a better place. Alison Carter would
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have grown up only too familiar with frost on the inside of her bedroom
windows in the depths of winter. And with a warm, welcoming cottage
kitchen, before her mother had exchanged that for life in the manor.
Catherine hadn't intended her research to involve quite such a degree
of authenticity, but since it was being handed to her on a plate, she'd
take it and be grateful. Besides, it was less than a hundred yards from
Peter Grundy's home. The retired Longnor constable was bound to be
a valuable source, she felt sure. And he would be her entree into village
life. She knew exactly how unfriendly village pubs could be to anyone
perceived as an outsider, and she didn't fancy six months of evenings
without conversation. Even if it was only the fatstock prices at Leek
Market.
Over a breakfast of black coffee and a bacon sandwich, she nicked
through the photocopied cuttings she'd laboriously uncovered in the
national newspaper archive at Colindale. She wouldn't have much need
of those today; but it didn't hurt to keep going over the ground so she
knew exactly how to shape the series of interviews she was about to embark
on with George Bennett. They'd agreed that they would meet for two hours
every morning. That would give Catherine time to transcribe the tapes of
their interviews and wouldn't disrupt the Bennetts too much. The last
thing she wanted was for them to grow fed up with her constant intrusion
into their life. Nothing would dry up George's flow of reminiscence faster
than that.
Half an hour later, she emerged from a tunnel of winter trees into the
centre ofCromford village. Following George's directions, she turned right
by the millpond and cut up the hill, swinging out to make the sharp left
turn into the drive of their detached house. As she killed the engine, the
front door was already open. George stood framed in the doorway, a hand
raised in greeting. In his dark-grey trousers, air-force blue cardigan and
light-grey polo shirt, he looked like a model for a knitwear catalogue for
the more mature man. All he needed, she thought, was a pipe clenched
between his teeth. Jimmy Stewart meets suburbia in It's A Wonderful Life
for the over-sixties.
'Good to see you, Catherine,' he called.
'And you, George.' She shivered as she walked into the warm hall. 'I'd
forgotten how piercing the weather gets up here at this time of year.'
'It takes me back,' he said, leading the way down the carpeted hall into a
living room that resembled a display in a furniture showroom. Everything
was smart, stylish, even, but curiously without character. Even the framed
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Monet prints appeared innocuous rather than indicators of taste. Not a
single newspaper disturbed the clinical tidiness of the room, which smelled
of floral air-freshener. Wherever the Bennetts displayed their individuality,
it wasn't in their living room.
'It was bitter cold like this when Alison disappeared,' George continued.
'It made me hope right from the start she'd been kidnapped, you know.
That way, there was a chance we might get her back. I knew in my heart
that she'd never survive a night in the open in that weather.'
George gestured towards an armchair that looked both firm and
comfortable. 'Have a seat.' He moved to the chair opposite. Catherine
noticed he'd automatically taken the seat that put the light behind him
and on her. She wondered if it were a policeman's deliberate choice, or
something as simple as that being his normal chair. Doubtless she'd be
better able to judge after a few of these sessions. 'So,' George said. 'How
do you want to do this?'
Before she could reply, an elderly woman walked into the room. Short
silver hair framed a face prematurely aged by the lines suffering had carved
there. She held herself with the stiff awkwardness of someone for whom
movement has ceased to be anything other than a painful necessity. Even
from the other side of the room, Catherine could see the fingers knotted
and twisted with the misshapen lumps of rheumatoid arthritis. But the
smile on her face was still genuine, giving her blue eyes the sparkle of
animation. 'You must be Catherine,' she said. 'It's lovely to meet you. I'm
Anne, George's wife. Now, I'm not going to interfere with your interviews,
except to ask if you'd rather have tea or coffee.'
'It's nice to meet you, too. Thanks for letting me invade your home like
this,' Catherine said, calculating the odds on getting a decent cup of coffee
in an English home occupied by two people in their sixties. 'I'll have tea,
please,' she said. 'Very weak, no milk or sugar.' That should be safe, she
reckoned. A couple of months of bad coffee was less than she deserved.
'Tea it is,' Anne said.
'And Mrs Bennett?' Catherine continued. 'You won't be intruding if
you want to sit in on any of our sessions. And I'd be very grateful if I
could talk to you at some point, to get a picture of what life was like for
you as a policeman's wife when your husband was investigating such a
demanding case.'
Anne smiled. 'Of course we can have a chat. But I'll leave the interviews
to you and George. I don't want to cramp his style, and besides, I've plenty
to be getting on with. And now, I'll sort you some tea.'
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As Anne left, Catherine took her tape recorder from her bag and placed
it on the table between them. 'I'll be taping the interviews. That way there's
less chance of me making mistakes. So if there's anything you want to say
that's not for publication, that's just for my information, can you make
that clear while we're talking? Also, if there's anything that you're not sure
about, can you mention that as well? That way I can keep a running list
of things I need to check.'
George smiled. 'That all sounds very sensible to me.' He took a packet
of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit up, taking an ashtray out of the
drawer in the occasional table by his side. 'I hope you don't mind these,
by the way. I've cut down a lot since I stopped work, but I still can't
manage without them altogether.'
'No problem. I've not smoked for a dozen years now, but I still think
of myself as a smoker in abeyance rather than an ex-smoker. You'll always
find me with the smokers at parties - somehow, they're usually the more
interesting ones,' she said with a smile, not simply flattering. She leaned
forward and pressed the 'record' button. 'We're probably not going to get
on to the case today. What I'd like to start with is your own background.
Most of this will never see the light of day, but it's important for me that
I have a picture of who you are and how you got to be that person if
I'm going to write about your work on this case with the insight and
the empathy I want to bring to it. Also, it's a way of easing gently into
the story. I realize you're probably quite nervous about going into the
details of the case after all these years, and I want you to feel as relaxed
and comfortable about it as possible. And of course, as a police officer,
you're much more accustomed to asking the questions than answering
them. So is it OK if we start with you?'
George smiled. 'That's fine. I'm happy to tell you anything you want
to know.' He paused as Anne walked into the room, moving slowly with
a tray that held two mugs. 'One thing I will tell you. This woman is the
reason I'm not in the lunatic asylum after thirty-odd years in Derbyshire
Police. Anne is my rock, my tower of strength.'
Anne pulled a face as she put the tray down on the coffee table. 'You're
such a flannel merchant, George Bennett. What you mean is, Anne is my
catering service, my answering machine and my housekeeper.' She looked
up at Catherine with a smile.
It was clearly a familiar line of banter. 'She had to develop arthritis so
she could get me to lift a finger around the house,' George added.
'I had to do something,' she said drily. 'Otherwise you'd have taken
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retirement as a cue to stop dead. Now, stop blethering, and tell Catherine
what she needs to know. I'll bring some biscuits, then I'll see you both
when you're finished.'
So began the pattern of days that lasted through February and March.
Catherine would start each day by reading the section of her press cuttings
that bracketed the part of the case they would be talking about. After
breakfast, she would drive to Cromford, mulling over the questions she
needed to tease more truth from her interviewee.
Then she would lead George gently through the case, patiently backtracking
to capture a particular detail of weather, of smell, of landscape.
She couldn't help but be impressed by his eagerness to make sure they got
everything spot on. He proved to have an almost photographic memory
for the Alison Carter case, though he claimed not to have a particularly
good recall of other investigations in his career. 'I suppose I got a bit obsessed with Alison,' he'd said near the beginning of their interviews.
'Oh, I know it was my first big case, and I was determined to show I could
do the business, but it was more than that. It probably had something
to do with Anne telling me she was pregnant so near the start of the
investigation. I was tormented by the worry of how I would feel if this
were to happen to my child, so I wasn't willing ever to let it go.
'That's what it was with me. I don't know what it was with Tommy
Clough, but he was as committed to every stage of the inquiry as I
was. He worked even more hours than me, and it was his persistence
with Hertfordshire Police that got us one of the most crucial pieces of
evidence, the linking of Hawkin to the gun that was used to kill Alison.
'You know, it might sound strange, but I never saw him to speak to
properly after Hawkin was hanged. Tommy was still in Buxton, but I'd
moved to Derby by then. A couple of times, we arranged to meet for a
drink, but work always got in the way. And then within a couple of years
of Alison's murder, he handed in his resignation and moved away.'
'Where did he go to?' Catherine asked. She'd already asked Peter
Grundy the same question one evening in the pub, but he'd shrugged
and told her nobody knew. It was as if Tommy Clough had vanished as
comprehensively as Alison herself.
But George had known. 'He's in Northumberland. Some little village
up there on the coast. He worked for years as a warden with the RSPB,
but he's retired now, like me. He never married, though, so he's not got
anybody like Anne to keep him going. We exchange Christmas cards,
3i3

that's about it. I think I'm the only one from the force he bothered to
stay in touch with. I can give you his address, though. He might want
to talk about Alison. I doubt it, somehow, but then, you got me talking,
didn't you?' George smiled.
And so it continued, one strand leading seamlessly into another as the
mornings slipped by. After she left George, Catherine soon developed a
routine. She would stop on the way back at a pub on the Ashbourne
road that did good lunches, then she'd be home by two. The afternoon
and early evening were devoted to transcribing tapes, a task she found
tedious beyond belief, in spite of her fascination with the material she
was gradually amassing. After every half-hour, she allowed herself a short
phone call or an e-mail session to save her from complete insanity.
Work over, she'd heat up one of the ready meals she'd bought from
the supermarket in her weekly shopping raid on Buxton. Then she'd
have an hour by the fire with either her own magazine or a competitor,
armed with a notebook. Finally, the day would end with a nightcap in
the local pub. This usually involved buying Peter Grundy a drink too,
but Catherine didn't mind the small outlay. He'd already provided her
with valuable background into Scardale and its families and besides, she'd
grown to enjoy his company.
It was, she realized, a curiously satisfying way of life. The work was
fascinating, drawing her back into a world that was both familiar and
yet alien. The more she discovered about the background to the case,
the more her respect for George Bennett had grown. She'd had no idea
of what he'd had to contend with to bring Hawkin to justice, both from
inside the force and outside. She'd never had a particularly high opinion
of the police, but George was gradually transforming that prejudice.
She'd also been nervous of returning so close to home, almost super -
stitiously afraid that somehow the stifling small-town life she'd struggled
so hard to leave behind might swallow her again. Instead, she'd found a
strange peace in the rhythm of her days and nights. Not that she'd want
to live like this for ever, she reminded herself vigorously. She had a life,
after all. This was just a pleasant interlude, nothing more.
What else could it be?
314
April 1998
Catherine had forgotten how springtime came so late out here. For anyone
living in the Derbyshire Peaks, April brought relief after the rigours of
winter. Bulbs that had bloomed a full month before a mere dozen miles
away on the Cheshire Plain finally thrust up through the ground. Trees
pushed forth tentative blossom, and the sheep-cropped grass remembered
the colour green.
In Scardale, the first leaves were starting to unfurl in copse and spinney
as Catherine drove down into the village. Almost with regret, she had
completed her initial interviews with George, and today marked the start
of the second phase of her project. Catherine had never intended that her
book should merely be George Bennett's memoirs. She had always planned
to interview as many of the people connected to the case as she could track
down. It hadn't occurred to her that so many of them would be reluctant to
share their memories of the case. To her surprise, almost all of the Carters,
Crowthers and Lomases had refused point blank to have anything to do
with the project.
However, she had managed to schedule an interview with Alison's aunt,
Kathy Lomas. Perhaps it wouldn't matter so much that other members of
the extended family had turned her down since, according to George, Kathy
had been closer to Ruth Carter than anyone else. For that reason alone,
Catherine would have wanted to talk to her. But there was a second reason
for her eagerness today.
In spite of Helen having prepared the way with her sister, Catherine still
hadn't been inside Scardale Manor. Word had come back to her via a letter
from Janis Wainwright's solicitor, who reported that his client had several
trips planned throughout the late winter and early spring and would be
working from home the rest of the time, when she preferred to remain
3i5

undisturbed. The lawyer had suggested that, since Miss Wainwright could
tell Catherine nothing about the Alison Carter case, the best solution that
would meet Catherine's needs without disrupting Janis's busy schedule
would be for the writer to view the manor on one of the occasions when
its owner was away from home.
Catherine was more than happy to agree to the lawyer's suggestion if
that was the only way she would get to see inside the manor. Finally, today
she would see the interior of Philip Hawkin's inheritance. Even better,
she'd have a guide who could reveal which room had been Alison's, which
Hawkin's study, and describe the original decor.
She couldn't help speculating about the woman she was about to meet.
George Bennett had painted a portrait of a shrewish, pushy woman who
had no respect for the police and who constantly nagged and harried at
his heels whenever she felt she had cause. Peter Grundy had described her
as a woman haunted by what might have been.
From Peter, she had also gleaned some of the bare facts ofKathyLomas's
life. Alison's aunt lived alone these days. Her husband Mike had died five
years before in a farm accident, trampled to death by a berserk bull. Her
son Derek had left Scardale to go to university in Sheffield and had become
a soil scientist for the United Nations. Kathy, now in her mid-sixties,
ran a flock of Jacob's sheep in Scardale. She spun the fleeces into yarn
which she then turned into expensive designer sweaters on a knitting
machine that, according to Peter Grundy's wife, had more controls than
the space shuttle.
Kathy and Ruth Carter were cousins, separated by less than a year,
connected by blood on both maternal and paternal sides. They had grown
into women and mothers side by side. Kathy's Derek had been born a
mere three weeks after Alison. The families' histories were inextricably
intertwined. If Catherine couldn't get what she needed from Kathy Lomas,
the chances were she wasn't going to get it anywhere else. And if she was as
awkward as George had predicted, this was one she would have to handle
with consummate skill.
Catherine pulled up outside Lark Cottage, the eighteenth-century house
Kathy had lived in continuously since her marriage nineteen years before
Alison disappeared. The woman who opened the door was still straight
and sturdy, her steel-grey hair pinned up in a cottage loaf. Coupled with
her coarse red cheeks, it made her look like Mrs Bunn the Baker's Wife from
Happy Families. Only her eyes gave the lie to her jolly appearance. They
were cool and critical, making Catherine feel she was being appraised and
3i6
costed in more than merely monetary terms. 'You'll be the writer, then,'
Kathy greeted her, reaching to one side and taking a battered anorak from
its peg. 'You'll be wanting a look at the manor first, I expect.' Her tone
offered no scope for an alternative suggestion.
'That would be great, Mrs Lomas,' Catherine said, falling in beside the
older woman as they crossed the corner of the green towards the manor.
'I really appreciate you giving up your time like this for me.' She cursed
herself for starting to gush.
'I'm not giving it up for you,' Kathy said briskly. 'It's for the sake of
Alison's memory. I often think about our Alison. She were a grand lass. I
imagine the life she would have lived if things had gone different. I see her
working with children. A teacher, or a doctor. Something positive, useful.
And then I think about the reality.' She paused at the door of the manor
and gave Catherine a bleak, hard stare.
'If I could turn back the hands of time and change one thing in my
whole life, it would be that Wednesday night,' she said bitterly. 'I'd not
let Alison out of my sight. There's no point in telling me not to blame
myself. I know Ruth Carter went to her grave wondering how she could
have changed things, and I'll go into the ground the same way when it's
my turn.
'These days, my life seems to be full of regrets. What is it they say? "If
might have beens were kings and queens, then we'd have kingdoms all."
Well, I've had plenty of years to rue the things undone and the things
unsaid. The trouble is, the only place I can say sorry to the people who
matter is the graveyard. And that's why I'm willing to talk to you, Miss
Heathcote.'
She took a key from her pocket and unlocked the door, ushering
Catherine into the kitchen. Money had clearly been no object when it had
been renovated. The pine units and dresser had a patina that indicated their
antiquity was the real thing, not some modern reproduction. The worktops
were a mix of marble and sealed wood. As well as a dark-green Aga, the
room had a matching American-style double-fronted fridge-freezer and a
dishwasher. Catherine glanced at the short stack of newspapers on the end
of the kitchen table. The top one was dated two days previously. So Janis
Wainwright wasn't long gone, she thought. In spite of that, the kitchen
had the empty air of a place long unoccupied.
'I bet it wasn't like this in 1963,' she said drily.
At last, Kathy Lomas managed a smile. 'You're not wrong.'
'Maybe you could tell me what it was like?'
3i7

'I think I'll make us a cup of tea first,' Kathy hedged.
'I appreciate Ms Wainwright letting me see over the place. You know
her sister's engaged to George Bennett's son?'
'Aye. It's a small world, right enough.' She filled the kettle.
'I met Helen in Brussels,' Catherine continued. 'A nice woman. It's a
shame her sister's not around.'
'She's away a lot. I doubt she'd fancy being involved in a book about a
murder,' Kathy said repressively, clattering two mugs out of a cupboard
on to the worktop.
Catherine walked across to the window that gave a view of the village
green. She imagined the empty hours Ruth Carter must have spent
straining vainly to pick out the rythym of her daughter's walk approaching
the house.
As if reading her thoughts, Kathy spoke. 'Something inside me turned
to stone that night when I watched those policemen milling around the
village green. If I was ever in danger of forgetting, the nightmares would
be reminder enough. I still can't see a police uniform in the village without
wanting to be sick.'
She turned back to brewing the tea. 'It changed everything, that night,
didn't it?' Catherine asked, surreptitiously switching on the tape recorder
in her coat pocket.
'Aye, it did. I'm just glad we had a copper like George Bennett on our
side. If it hadn't been for him, that bastard Hawkin might have got away
with it. That's the other reason why I was willing to talk to you. It's about
time George Bennett got the credit he deserves for what he did for Alison.'
'You're one of the few people in Scardale who seem to think so. Most
of your family don't see it like that. Apart from Janet Carter, and Charlie
in London, everybody else has refused to talk to me,' Catherine observed,
still hoping she might recruit Kathy's help in loosening their tongues.
'Aye, well, that's up to them. They'll have their own reasons for that.
I can't say I blame them for not wanting to rake it up again. There's no
good memories for any of us from that time.' She poured tea from an
earthenware pot into two matching mugs. 'Right then. You want to know
what this place looked like?'
They spent an hour going from room to room, with Kathy providing
detailed descriptions of the furnishings and decor and Catherine trying
to recreate their image in her mind's eye. She was surprised that she felt
no sense of the sinister as Kathy walked her through the house. Catherine
had imagined that somehow the events that had led to Alison Carter's
318

death would have seeped into the very walls of Scardale Manor, leaving
their ghosts in the air like motes of dust. But there was nothing of that
here. It was simply an imaginatively restored old house that, in spite of
the money spent on it, was never going to be particularly distinguished.
Even the outhouse Philip Hawkin had used as a darkroom lacked any
atmosphere. Now it was simply a storage shed for gardening tools and
old furniture, no more or less.
Nevertheless, it was a productive hour for Catherine, allowing her to set
her knowledge of events against a concrete backdrop. She said as much as
Kathy Lomas locked the door behind them and led Catherine back to Lark
Cottage for their formal interview. 'Aye, well, better you get it right,' Kathy
said. 'Now, what did you want to ask me?'
In the end, Kathy's testimony added little to the facts Catherine had
learned from George. Its value lay mostly in the inside knowledge the
older woman was able to dispense on the personalities involved. By the
end of the afternoon, Catherine felt she had finally come close enough
to knowing Ruth Carter and Philip Hawkin to write convincingly about
them. That in itself had been worth the trip.
'You're seeing Janet after,' Kathy remarked as Catherine wrote the
identifying details on the final microcassette.
'That's right. She said evenings suited her best.'
'Aye. With her working full-time, she likes to keep her weekends for her
and Alison.' Kathy got to her feet and gathered the mugs together.
'Alison?' Catherine almost yelped.
'Her lass. Our Janet never wed. Wasted her twenties on a married man.
Then she fell pregnant when she was thirty-five and old enough to know
better. Some Yank she met when she was staying down south in a hotel at
a conference. Any road, he was long gone back to Cincinnati before Janet
realized she was in the family way, so she raised the lass herself.'
'She called her daughter Alison?'
'Aye. It's like I said. She's not forgotten in Scardale. Mind you, Janet was
lucky. She had her mum as an unpaid child-minder so she was able to keep on
playing at being the career woman.' There was a surprising note of bitterness in
Kathy's voice. Catherine wondered whether she resented her own children for
flying the nest and failing to give her the chance to be a hands-on grandmother,
or if she despised Janet for resorting to such measures.
'What does she do?'
'She manages a building society branch in Leek.' Kathy glanced out of
her window where the curtains were still undrawn in spite of the darkness
3i9

outside. The headlights of a car swung into sight from the lane end. 'That'll
be her now. You'd better be off then.'
Catherine got to her feet, still feeling caught off balance by Kathy Lomas's
unpredictable swings from confiding to brusque. 'You've been very helpful.'
Kathy's narrow mouth pursed momentarily. 'Happen,' she said. 'It's
been ... interesting. Aye, interesting. I've told you things I'd forgotten I
knew. So, when do we get to read this book?'
'I'm afraid it's not due to be published until next June,' Catherine
said. 'But I'll make sure you get a copy as soon as the finished version
is available.'
'Make sure you do, lass. I don't want some reporter knocking on my
door asking questions about some book I've never read.' She opened the
front door and stood back to allow Catherine to pass into the porch. 'Tell
Janet she owes me for half a dozen eggs.'
The door was closed behind her before Catherine had reached the end
of the path. Stumbling a little in the dark, she turned to her right and walked
past Tor Cottage, where Charlie Lomas had lived with his grandmother,
and turned into the short path leading to Shire Cottage, where Janet
Carter had grown up with her parents and three siblings. According to
Peter Grundy, her parents had sold it to her three years before when
they decided to retire to Spain because of the climate. Catherine couldn't
imagine wanting to live in the house where she'd grown up. She'd been
happy enough as a child, but more than ready to make her escape to the
freedom and opportunity of London when the chance came.
Whatever had provoked Janet Carter to stay in Scardale, when Catherine
saw the interior of Shire Cottage, she realized it probably wasn't sentimentality.
The entire ground floor had been stripped out into a single large living space,
broken up by the chimney breast. As one of the newer Scardale cottages
- probably early Victorian, Janet explained - the ceilings were higher, so
opening up the walls had created a remarkable sense of space. One end of
the room held a tiny functional kitchen space with stainless-steel units that
reflected the variegated greys of the exposed stone walls. The opposite end
was a living space, dominated by the rich colours of Indian wall hangings and
rugs. Between was a large pine table which seemed to double as dining space
and work area. A teenage girl was sitting at it staring intently into a computer
screen. She barely looked up as Janet showed Catherine in.
'But it's wonderful,' Catherine exclaimed in spite of herself.
'Brilliant, isn't it?' Janet's features had grown even more feline with age.
Her almond-shaped eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled delightedly.
320

'It takes everybody by surprise. It's much more conventional upstairs, but
I wanted to make it completely different down here.'
'Janet, it's amazing. I've never seen anything like it in an old cottage.
How would you feel about my magazine doing a photo feature on it?'
Janet smirked. 'There would be a fee, wouldn't there?'
Catherine's answering smile was wry. 'I think the magazine could manage
that. I'm only sorry I can't offer you one for the book interview. But
publishers .. . they're so mean with their money.' What she meant was that
she had no intention of offering any of her substantial advance to someone
as obviously grasping as Janet Carter. She wondered how far she'd managed
to screw down the price she'd paid her parents for the cottage.
They settled down on a low sofa and Janet poured red wine into heavy
glass tumblers, waving a vague hand towards her daughter. 'Ignore Alison.
She won't hear a word we're saying. Comes home from school, sticks a
ready meal in the microwave then she's lost in cyberspace. She's the same
age now as All and me were in 1963, you know. When I look at Alison, I
feel all the same anxieties my mother must have known, although my life's
so different from hers.
'Everything changed the day All disappeared,' Janet recalled, settling
down in the manner of a woman who is ready for the conversational long
haul. 'I suppose I never appreciated how frightening it was for my aunt and
my parents until I had a child of my own. All I could think about was that All was missing; it certainly never occurred to me that I should be worried
on my own account. But for the adults, right from the word go, as well as
the awful anxiety about All, there must have been tremendous fear that
she might only be the first victim, that none of their kids was safe.
'Back then, remember, children didn't know anything about current
affairs. We didn't read the papers or follow the news unless it was about
pop groups or film stars. So we were completely oblivious to the fact that
there had already been two missing children just up the road in Manchester.
All we were aware of was that All going missing meant our freedom was
curtailed, and that was a very strange experience for us in Scardale.'
Catherine nodded. 'I know exactly what you mean. It had the same effect
on us in Buxton. Suddenly, we were treated like china. Everywhere we went,
we had to have an adult with us. My mum wouldn't even let me take the dog
for a walk in Grin Low woods on my own. Ironic really, when it turned out
the danger was so close to home. But it must have been a thousand times
worse for you, with all the fear and anxiety right on your own doorstep.'
'Tell me about it,' Janet said with feeling. 'We were used to running free in
321

the dale. We were never indoors in the summer, and even in the dead of winter,
we'd be up on the hills, or following the Scarlaston down into Denderdale, or
just hanging around in the woods. Because Derekand All and I were practically
the same age, we were like triplets, never apart. Then suddenly, it was just me
and Derek and we were stuck indoors. Like prisoners. God, it was dull.'
'People forget what a drag it was being a young teenager in the early
sixties,' Catherine said, remembering only too well how much of a part
boredom had played in her own adolescence.
'Especially in a place like Scardale,' Janet said. 'You went to school and
all your friends were talking about what they'd been watching on the TV,
what they'd seen at the pictures, who they'd got off with at the church
dance. We had none of that. They used to take the piss out of us Scardale
kids all the time because we never had a clue what the rest of the world
was on about. We weren't so much listening to a different drum as stone
bloody deaf. Well, you'll remember if you were at school in Buxton.'
Catherine nodded. 'I was the year above you at High Peak. As I remember,
it wasn't just the Scardale kids that got the piss taken out of them. We
were equally horrible to everybody from the outlying villages.'
'I can imagine. There's nobody crueller to each other than kids. And
compared to what happened to us after All went missing, being called
names was the least of our pains. When I remember the weeks after she
disappeared, the most vivid memory that comes to mind is sitting in my
bedroom with Derek, listening to Radio Luxembourg on this huge old
wireless we had. The reception was terrible, full of static and feedback.
It was freezing in there as well - that was long before central heating
came to Scardale. We used to sit in the bedroom with our winter coats
on. But even now, there are certain songs that take me right back. The
Searchers' Needles and Pins-, Cilia Black's Anyone Who Had a Heart, Peter
and Gordon's World Without Love; and the Beatles' I Want To Hold Your
Hand. Whenever I hear them, I'm back in my room, sitting on the pink
candlewick bedspread, Derek sitting on the floor with his back to the door,
his arms round his knees. And no All.
'You take so much for granted when you're a child. You spend every day
in somebody's company, and it never crosses your mind that one day they
might not be there any more. In a way, you know, I feel lucky that you're
writing this book. So many of us lose people and there's never anything to
prove they were ever there except what's in our heads. At least I'm going
to be able to pick up your book and know that All really was here. Not for
long enough, but she was here.'
322

6
May 1998
George Bennett paused for breath, hands on hips as he sucked in the mild,
humid air. His son waited a few steps ahead, savouring the spectacular
view from the Heights of Abraham across the deep gorge carved by the
River Derwent to the dramatic profile ofRiber Castle on the opposite hill.
They'd taken the cable car from Matlock Bath up to the summit and now
they were walking the wooded ridge, heading for a winding path that would
bring them gradually back down to the river.
Paul couldn't even begin to count the number of walks he and his father
had taken over the years. As soon as he was old enough to keep up, George
had taken him walking in the dales and peaks of Derbyshire. Some of those
days were carved in his memory, like climbing Main Tor the day before his
seventh birthday. Others had disappeared apparently without trace, only
surfacing when he revisited the same territory with Helen on one of their
occasional visits. When he came home alone, as he had this weekend, he
still liked to go out on the hills with his father, though these days George
favoured routes that avoided the challenging climbs and reckless scrambles
that they'd tackled when he'd been younger and fitter.
Paul turned back to face his father, who had stopped panting, though
his face was still scarlet from the effort of the short but steep section they'd
just completed. 'You OK?' he asked.
'I'm fine,' George said, straightening up and moving to Paul's side. 'I'm
just not as young as I was. It's worth it for the view, though.'
'That's one of the things I really miss, living in Brussels. I got spoilt,
growing up with countryside like this on the doorstep. Now, if we want to
go for a walk with a decent hill, we've got to drive for hours. So we tend
not to bother. And working out in the gym's no substitute for this.' His
gesture encompassed the horizon.
323

'At least it doesn't rain in the gym,' George said, pointing to clouds
further down the valley with the shadow of rain beneath them. 'We'll
have that to contend with in half an hour or so.' He started walking, Paul
falling into step beside him. 'I've not been out as much as I'd like lately
myself,' he continued. 'By the time I'd spent the morning with Catherine
and done the garden and all the other domestic bits and pieces, I hardly
had time for anything more than the odd round of golf.'
Paul grinned. 'So it's all my fault, then?'
'No, I'm not complaining. In a funny kind of way, I'm glad you talked
me into it. I'd been bottling it up for far too long. I'd thought dealing
with it would be more traumatic than it turned out.' He gave a dry laugh.
'All these years I've been advising my officers to confront their fears, to
get back on the horse, and I've been doing the very opposite.'
Paul nodded. 'You always taught me that it's better to face up to the
bogeyman.'
'Aye, as long as you pick the ground for the confrontation,' George
said wryly. 'Anyway, it turned out that the Alison Carter case wasn't
as much of a big bad bogeyman as I'd thought. And Catherine made
it very easy for me. She's done her background research, I'll give her
that. So a lot of the time, we were concentrating on quite detailed stuff
and that made me realize that I'd actually done a pretty good job in the
circumstances.' They came to a bend in the path and George stopped and
faced his son.
He took a deep breath. 'There is one thing I want to tell you because
I don't want you reading it in the book for the first time. It's something
your mother and I have always kept from you. When you were little, we
didn't tell you because we thought it might frighten you. You know how
kids are - all that imagination turns something pretty insignificant into a
big deal. And then when you were older, well, there never seemed to be
an appropriate time.'
Paul smiled uncertainly. 'Better get it over with, then. Tell me now.'
George reached for his cigarettes and fussed over lighting one in the
slight breeze that drifted along the hill. 'The day you were born was the
day they hanged Philip Hawkin,' he finally said.
Paul's smile melted into an expression of bewilderment. 'My birthday?'
he said.
George nodded. 'I'm afraid so. I got the news that you'd been born just
after they hanged him.'
'That's why you always made a big deal of my birthday? To try to take
324
your mind off the fact that you could never forget the other anniversary?'
Paul said, unable to keep the hurt from his voice.
George shook his head. 'No, no,' he protested. 'That's not how it was. No,
you being born was like -1 don't know how to put it - like a sign from the
gods that I could put Alison Carter behind me, make a new start. Every year,
it wasn't Philip Hawkin's hanging that I remembered on your birthday. It
was - listen to me, I sound like some American self-help book - it was the
sense of renewal that your birth gave me. Like a promise.'
The two men stood staring at each other, George's face pleading with
his son to believe him. A moment passed in silence, then Paul stepped
forward and put his arms round his father in a clumsy hug. 'Thanks for
telling me,' he mumbled, suddenly aware how much he loved his father,
although their physical contact had always been rare. He dropped his arms
and grinned. 'I can see why you wouldn't want me to find out something
like that from Catherine's book.'
George smiled. 'Judging by your reaction, you'd have been sure to take
it the wrong way.'
'Probably,' Paul acknowledged. 'But I can see why you didn't tell me
when I was a kid. That would have given me nightmares for sure.'
'Aye. You always were an imaginative little bugger,' George said, turning
away to stub out his cigarette under his boot heel. He looked over his
shoulder at Paul. 'Oh, and another thing. If you want, next time you
come over with Helen, maybe we could take a run out to Scardale and
meet her sister.'
Paul grinned. 'Helen would like that. She'd like that a lot. Thanks, Dad.
I really appreciate your offer. I know how hard it must have been for you
to make it.'
'Aye, well,' George said brusquely. 'Come on, lad, let's get off the hill
before that rain comes and drowns us.'
Catherine had expected her return to London to be a relief from the
narrow, quiet life she'd been leading in Longnor. It came as a shock to find
that the city that had been her home for over twenty years seemed alien:
too loud, too dirty, too fast. Even her beloved flat in Notting Hill seemed
ridiculously large for one person, its cool pastels and modern furnishings
somehow insubstantial compared to the thick stone walls and mismatched
furniture of the tiny cottage in Derbyshire.
The idea of rushing round filling her spare moments with social activities
seemed strange too, although she did force herself to arrange dinner with a
325

I
couple of friends and colleagues. It wouldn't do to become too out of touch
with the world of work, she told herself firmly. And besides, after two more
interviews, a meeting with the editor who had commissioned her book and
a brainstorming session with a TV documentary producer who wanted to
make a programme based on her research, she reckoned she was entitled
to some unrelieved pleasure.
The first of her two interviewees was Charlie - or as he now preferred,
Charles Lomas. He was the only one of her cast of characters - apart, of
course, from Alison herself- who had shown up in her newspaper searches.
She'd found a couple of feature articles about him, though neither of them
mentioned the traumatic events of 1963 and 1964.
The reason Charles Lomas had made the feature pages of the national
newspapers was nothing to do with Scardale. Rather than remain in the
dale where he'd been expected to carry on the family farming tradition,
Charles had left Scardale in the winter of 1964. He hitchhiked to London
where he found work as a messenger boy for a music publishing company
in Soho. He was lucky to arrive at the time when the whole country seemed
to be swinging to the Mersey beat. Within a matter of months, his northern
accent had earned him a part-time job singing in a group. He ended up
organizing their gigs and within five years, he had a profitable business
managing rock bands.
By the time Catherine tracked him down, he had an international
music publishing empire and still managed half a dozen of Britain's
highest-grossing rock musicians. In his reply to her written request for
an interview, he'd faxed back that he'd talk to her simply because he
believed his family owed a debt of gratitude to George Bennett and he
couldn't think of another way to repay it.
When his secretary ushered her into his fifth-floor office with its views
of Soho Square, Catherine found herself taken aback. With his neatly
barbered silver hair swept back from a high forehead, his manicured hands
and his smooth cheeks gleaming from a recent shave, his designer jeans
and shirt, it was hard to imagine the Scardale farmer Charles Lomas might
have become. But it soon became clear he had inherited his grandmother's
legendary storytelling abilities. Before he could bring himself to talk about
Alison, he entertained Catherine with gossipy tales of the music business
for half an hour.
On the third time of asking, he finally answered her question about
Alison. 'That girl was a complete no-shit,' he said admiringly. 'She never
had any problem speaking up if she was pissed off with you. You knew
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a.

where you were with her. Janet was always a bit two-faced, she'd be little
miss sweetness to your face and bitch behind your back. Still is, come to
that. But All couldn't be bothered with all that crap. That's why I never
believed she'd been lured away by someone. Whoever took All would
have had to have forced her, because she wasn't some impressionable,
silly little girl.
'Right from the off, I wanted to do everything I could to help. I joined in
with the search parties, and of course, it was me who found the place where
the struggle had taken place. I can still remember the shock of stumbling
across it. We'd developed a rhythm of searching by then, especially those
of us who lived in the dale. We knew the ground so well, anything out of
the ordinary would leap out at us, much more than it could at the bobbies
they'd ferried in from all over the county.
'When I noticed the disturbance in the undergrowth, it literally felt as
if someone reached into my chest and grabbed my heart and lungs and
squeezed them too tight for breath or circulation. And when I told my
gran about it afterwards, the first thing she said was, "Hawkin walks that copse more than anybody else."
'And I told her I'd seen the squire walking the field between the
Scarlaston woodland and the spinney the very afternoon Alison disappeared.
"Say nowt about it," Gran said. "There'll be a time and a place
to tell that copper when he'll pay proper attention. Speak too soon and
it gets buried under the weight of everybody else's tittle-tattle."
'Two days later, she said I should tell Inspector Bennett the next chance
I got. She was going to take a look at the field herself, to see if she could
pick up something the rest of us had missed.' He smiled affectionately. 'She
always played to the gallery. She looked like a witch, so she had half the county
convinced she had second sight, the power to cast spells and the ability to talk
to the animals. In reality, it was just that she was sharper than a block of knives.
She was always cottoning on to things that nobody else noticed.
'Looking back at it now, I think all she was doing that afternoon was
drawing attention to the field between the woodland and the copse so that
when I made my revelation to Inspector Bennett it would have all the more
weight. It was probably wrong of us to hold back the information, but you
have to remember that we had a very insular life in Scardale. We had no
idea who these strangers were, whether they would genuinely try to find All or just pick on the likeliest-looking yokel to frame for whatever they
decided the crime was. And as Mr Bennett has probably told you, I was
the likeliest-looking yokel at that point. Nineteen, all knees and elbows
327

and hormones. Not a pretty sight, I promise you. So of course they had
me in for questioning.'
Catherine nodded. 'George told me. That must have been very unpleasant.'
Charles nodded. 'I was torn between being outraged that they couldn't
see we were all on the same side and being terrified that they were going
to frame me. All I could think of was that I had to find a way of convincing
them that I couldn't have harmed a hair on Ali's head without actually telling
them what my gran had told me to keep to myself for the time being.
'Of course, as far as the timing of that revelation was concerned, I've suspected
for a long time that Gran was motivated by the desire to get the mysterious
Uncle Peter off the hook. I was entirely oblivious to that at the time, since I
didn't even know he existed until I read about him in the local paper. Remarkable,
really, to think the older generation actually did run Scardale as if it were
some medieval fiefdom that you could banish undesirables from. But Uncle
Peter was still one of the family and Gran always believed blood was stickier
than water. So she used the ace she'd kept up her sleeve to divert Inspector
Bennett away from the man she was convinced could never have hurt All.
'I suppose that means I have to bear some of the responsibility for what
happened later. Which is not a comfortable thought, I have to confess.' He
sighed. 'My only excuse is that it had never occurred to me in nineteen years
to stand up to my grandmother, and this didn't seem like the appropriate
time to start.'
Finding the entrance to the Scardale lead mine was Charles's other vivid
recollection. Although Catherine found it hard to see that eager young man
inside the manicured manager of today, when he spoke about his discovery,
all the passion and artlessness of the teenager he had been suddenly became
apparent.
'When my mam came to me that morning and said I was wanted to find
an old lead mine inside Scardale Crag, I was gobsmacked. I didn't believe
such a place could exist and me not know about it. I'd lived in the dale all my
life, and nobody had ever mentioned it. But what really convinced me that it
couldn't exist was that I would have sworn I knew every inch of Scardale.
'Just because you live in a place doesn't mean you have intimate knowledge
of it. Take my cousin Brian. He probably knows every blade of grass in his
cow pastures.
He'll know every step of the path from his house to the cowshed, every
inch of the way to his favourite fishing beat on the Scarlaston. But that's
all he knows. He never had the instinct to explore. I did, though. When I
was a kid, I spent every waking hour that I wasn't at school or working
328

out in the woods and the fields. First time I climbed the crag I was only
seven. I used to run up and down Shield Tor a couple of times a week,
just for the hell of it. I loved every inch of Scardale.'
For a moment his face closed down as he was transported back to what
he had left behind. 'I miss it,' he said abruptly. Then his face cleared, and
he was back in memory.
'So you see, I couldn't figure out how the lead mine entrance could still
exist without me knowing about it. Still, we were all desperate by that stage.
Any chance of finding All was worth taking, in our opinion.
'When I found the entrance, I was stunned. I'd never gone that far along
the base of the crag before. In the summer, it was too overgrown, and in the
winter it looked as if the way was impassable because of the tumble of rocks
that obscured it when you were looking up from the river. In fact, it wasn't a
hard climb at all, and actually, it was right where the book said it would be.
'What was doubly weird was that somebody else had penetrated
Scardale's secret when I hadn't. The realization that my knowledge was
so flawed was profoundly unsettling. I lost my trust in my own judgement,
and that really shook me.
'Oddly, though, it's stood me in good stead over the years. I never fall
for the flannel. I'm always on my guard against the flatterers. I know now
that it's possible to be hopelessly wrong about someone you see every day
and you think you know. So it's crazy to think you can know anyone on
the basis of a few meetings. So, although it didn't feel like it at the time,
something good came out of what happened to All.'
He passed a hand over his jaw. 'I tell you something, though. I'd happily
settle for crap judgement if it meant All was still around.'
As far as background information about the players in the drama was
concerned, Charles was much less useful than either Kathy or Janet. He
gave an apologetic smile. 'I was always a bit in my head,' he said. 'I was
always telling myself stories, making up fantasies about how I was going
to escape from Scardale and change the world. Half the time, I never really
knew what was going on around me. And as for adult relationships - they
were a mystery to me. I just knew that I didn't seem to want what everybody
else in Scardale wanted.'
He took a deep breath and looked straight into Catherine's eyes. 'I had to
come to London to find out why that was. I'm gay, you see. I never had a name
for it all those years I was growing up. I just knew I was different. So you see, I'm
not the person to ask if I noticed anything odd about Ruth and Phil's relationship.'
He smiled. 'I thought everybody's relationships were bloody odd.'
329

7
May 1998
As she nursed a gin and tonic in the upstairs room of the Lamb and Flag
in Covent Garden, Catherine's mobile phone rang. 'Catherine Heathcote.
Hello?' she said, praying it wasn't Don Smart calling to cancel their
interview.
'Catherine? It's Paul Bennett. Dad told me you're in London, is that
right?'
'Yes. I'm down for a few days to talk to some people about the
book.'
'I'm in town too. I'm going back to Brussels tomorrow, but I wondered
if you fancied dinner this evening?'
Delighted, Catherine said, 'Love to,' and they made arrangements to
meet at seven. Cheered by the prospect of dinner with Paul, she looked
up to see a gaunt-faced man staring uncertainly across at her. He paid
for his pint of bitter, then crossed the room.
'Are you Catherine Heathcote?' he asked.
'Don Smart?' She half stood and extended her hand to shake his as
he nodded and subsided into the chair opposite her. She wouldn't have
recognized him from the description George Bennett had given her. His
red hair had faded to a dirty white, he was clean-shaven and his skin was
dry and loose, mottled with age spots rather than freckles. The sharp foxy
eyes that George had remembered with such clarity were red-rimmed, the
whites tainted with a jaundiced yellow tint.
'Smart by name and smart by nature,' he said. She didn't believe a
word of it.
'Thanks for agreeing to talk to me,' was all she said.
He took an inch off the top of his pint. 'I'm cutting my own throat,' he
said. 'By rights, this should have been my book. I covered the story from
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day one, right through to the trial. But George Bennett would never open
up to me afterwards. I suppose I remind him too much of his failure.'
'His failure?'
'He desperately wanted to find Alison Carter alive. It was no consolation
to him that she was probably long dead before he ever caught the call.
I think he's been haunted by her death ever since, and that's why he
wouldn't talk to me. He couldn't sit and look at me and not feel like
he'd let Ruth Hawkin down.' He reached into his pocket and pulled out
a packet of cigarettes. 'Smoke?'
She shook her head.
'I only ever bother offering hacks these days,' he said, lighting up with
a sigh of pleasure. 'Everybody else has quit. Even bloody newsrooms are
smoke-free these days. So, Catherine, how are you getting along with
my book?'
She smiled. 'It's interesting, Don.'
'I'll bet it is,' he said bitterly. 'From day one, word one, I just knew
George Bennett was great copy. The man was a bulldog. There was no
way he was going to give up on Alison Carter. All the rest of the cops,
it was just another job to them. Sure, they felt sorry for the family. And
I bet the ones who were fathers themselves went home and gave their
daughters an extra-tight hug every night they were out on those moors
searching for Alison.
'But it was different with George. With him, it was a mission. The rest
of the world might have given up on Alison Carter, but George couldn't
have been more passionate in her cause if she'd been his own daughter.
I spent a lot of time following George Bennett on the Alison Carter case,
but I never did figure out why he felt so strongly about it. It was like it
was personal.
'For me, it was a godsend. The job in the northern bureau of the News was my first national newspaper job, and I was on the lookout for the
story that would take me to Fleet Street. I'd already done some of the Newss coverage of the Pauline Reade and John Kilbride disappearances,
and I thought if I could get the cops to link them to Alison Carter, I'd
have a great page lead.'
'Which you would have done,' she acknowledged.
His look was sour. 'George wouldn't play, of course. He was determined
not to hand Alison Carter over to the detectives investigating the
other missing children. I don't know if that was a hunch or just pure

none of us had any idea that Ian Brady and Myra Hindley even existed
then, but George seemed to know by instinct that whatever had happened
to Alison Carter, it was a one-off, and it was his.'
'But it was thanks to George you finally did get your crack at Fleet
Street, wasn't it?' Catherine asked.
'There's no doubt about that. I got some great stories out of the
Alison Carter case. I did those cracking stories with the clairvoyant, I
remember. That was my ticket to the big time. Ironically, that meant
I never got to write a line of copy about the real Moors Murders
revelations.'
Suddenly, Smart was off on the tales of his glory days working as a
reporter on various national newspapers, finally returning to the Daily
News as deputy night news editor. He'd been made redundant three years
before, but still worked three nights a week as a casual newsdesk executive
on the News. 'The reporters they've got working for them these days, they
haven't got a clue. That's why they need somebody on the night desk that
knows what he's doing.
'I tell you something, though. The Alison Carter case did more for
me than help my career,' he confessed. 'Coming on top of the other
missing kids, it put me right off the idea of having any children of my
own. Unfortunately, my then wife didn't feel the same. So you could say
that my marriage was an incidental casualty of what happened to Alison
Carter. What took place in that small Derbyshire village one December
night had effects that nobody could have predicted.
'It's often the way with cases that involve a genuinely mysterious
element. Nobody knows what's really happened, and everybody's life
gets put under the microscope. Suddenly all sorts of secrets are forced
into the open. It's often not a pretty sight.'
'Any regrets about the way you covered the case?' Catherine asked.
His smile was patronizing. 'Catherine, my love, I was one of the best.
Still am one of the best, come to that. My job as I saw it was twofold. First,
I had to provide my editor with good strong exclusive stories that made
our existing readers stick with us and brought us new readers. Secondly,
I was there to be a thorn in the flesh of the police, so they wouldn't ever
get complacent.
'If that meant the odd barney with the bobbies, well, I had broad
shoulders. The nearest George Bennett and I came to blows was over
the clairvoyant stories. I got the idea for that from a story I'd read in an
American magazine. The tabloid press here was much more staid then
332
than it is now, and one or two of the American publications had that bit
of edge we didn't have.
'I used to cannibalize them for story ideas all the time. The clairvoyant
idea was a classic example of that. I'd read this story about a murder out
in the Arizona desert that was supposedly solved by a clairvoyant and that
was in the back of my mind when the hunt for Alison Carter started. I
put the idea to my editor and he loved it. I knew the British police would
never have admitted working with a psychic so my only chance of finding
someone with a reputation was to look abroad.
'I called a friend of mine who worked at Reuters and got him to check
their files, and that's how I came across Madame Charest. I never met
the woman, and it wouldn't have made any difference if I had because
she couldn't speak a word of English. We had to do it all through
an interpreter. Of course, I never believed a word of it. But it made
great copy.
'I know George thought it was irresponsible. He thought the only thing
I was interested in was the greater good of Don Smart. But it wasn't just
that. The other side of it was that I genuinely wanted her found as much
as George did, but news stories die quickly unless there's more fuel to
throw on the flames. To keep Alison Carter's name and picture in the
paper, I needed a fresh angle. The clairvoyant gave me that, and in turn,
she gave Alison Carter a few more days in the headlines.
'In Alison's case, it probably made no difference. But it might have
done,' he said self-righteously.
'She was wrong, though, wasn't she? Your Madame Charest?'
Don Smart grinned and suddenly Catherine saw the fox that George
had described. 'So? It was a bloody good read. If you can do half as well,
Catherine, you'll maybe sell a few more copies of your book than your
friends and family can buy between them.'
Don Smart had left a nasty taste in Catherine's mouth that even a decent
glass of burgundy in the Garrick Street wine bar couldn't dispel. 'He's
such a self-serving shit,' she confided in Paul. 'He's the kind that started
British tabloids sliding into the gutter, and he's proud of it.'
'Now you can see why Dad would never talk to him,' Paul said. 'I
must say I was surprised when he agreed to your proposal. But I'm glad
now I let you and Helen talk me into persuading him to go ahead with
it. Working on the book with you seems to have given Dad a new lease
of life. He hasn't been this cheerful for ages. It's as if the process of going
333

through it all for your benefit has finally allowed him to let go the past
and move forward.'
'I sensed that too. It's strange, but before I started this project, I was
very nervous. I've never done anything on this scale before, and I didn't
know if I could sustain my interest or my effort. But it's turned into a
real mission, to tell this story properly. And realizing its importance for
George has been an added impetus for me to get it right.'
'I can't wait to read it,' Paul said. 'Although, if I'm honest, I do feel a
bit apprehensive at the thought of reading about my father, what his life
was like before I was around. Almost like spying on someone when they
don't know you're there.' He looked down, his face unreadable. 'Most
of it will be completely fresh to me, you know. Dad's never been one
of those policemen who bores everybody rigid with his war stories. I
don't think he'd ever mentioned Alison Carter in my hearing until that
journalist turned up on the doorstep.'
He looked up with a reminiscent smile. 'But when I went up there at
the weekend, he was full of it. He told me all sorts of things he'd never
spoken about before, even though we've always got on well. In a funny
kind of way, this project seems to have brought us closer. It's as if working
with you has given him an insight into the kind of work I do every day. He
was asking me all sorts of detailed questions about the way I do my job,
what it's like working with journalists, how they differ from each other,
how they go about their jobs. As if he's comparing what he's been doing
with you.
'It's been good for Mum too. It was like walking on eggshells for her
whenever I asked questions about what it was like when they first got
married. She always had to watch her tongue in case she said something
that upset Dad. Only, I never understood before exactly what was going
on.' He pulled a face. 'I used to think it was something to do with them
not wanting to talk about their lives before I came along in case they made
it sound like they'd been happier without me. I don't know, Catherine,
this has been such a good thing for our family, I almost wish I'd stolen
your idea and worked on the book with him myself.'
Catherine laughed. 'He'd never have been able to be as honest with
you as he has been with me. Knowing your father as I do now, he'd have
been constantly playing down his successes in case you thought he was
boasting.'
'And I'd have been turning him into a hero,' Paul said sadly. 'As it is, I
seem to be getting obsessed by it. I seem to be talking about it all the time.
334
I'll be doing Helen's head in completely if I'm not careful. Which reminds
me. Helen wants one of the first copies off the press to give to her sister.
It'll be interesting for Jan to read about what happened in her house.'
Catherine pulled a face. 'Maybe she won't be so keen on living there
in splendid isolation after she finds out the whole story. It's not exactly
going to be a comfortable read for her.'
'Still, better she knows the real story than gossip and rumour, eh?'
'Well, she'll get the truth from me. That's one thing I'm absolutely
determined about.' Catherine raised her glass. 'To truth.'
'To truth,' Paul echoed. 'Better out than in.'
335

8
May/June/July 1998
Catherine turned off the Ai and found herself immediately on a narrow country lane that wound between fertile fields and mature woodland, the
sea a distant glint ahead of her. For some reason she couldn't quite put
her finger on, the prospect of meeting Tommy Clough excited her more
than interviewing any of the other secondary players in Alison Carter's
story. Partly it was because both George and Anne spoke of him with
such affection, even after thirty-five years with almost no contact. But
the more she thought about it, the more it seemed to her that Clough
was the most enigmatic figure of all.
According to George, on the surface, his sergeant had appeared bluff,
even brutal at times. Far more than George himself, Clough had seemed
a typical police officer of his time. Always one of the lads, always in tune
with the rumour and gossip that swirled round every police station,
always high up the league table of crimes solved and arrests made,
he'd given the impression of being a round peg in a round hole. And
yet he had resigned from Derbyshire Police two years after the Alison
Carter case was closed and become resident warden at a bird sanctuary
in Northumberland. He had cut himself off comprehensively from his
past, exchanging camaraderie for isolation.
Now sixty-eight and retired, he still lived in the north east. Anne had
told Catherine how she had once visited him for an hour when she'd
driven Paul up for an open day at Newcastle University when he'd been
making his mind up where to do his degree. According to her, Tommy
Clough spent his days watching and photographing birds and his evenings
drawing them. In the background, his beloved jazz kept the outside world
at bay. As she described it, it was a solitary and peaceful life, strangely at
odds with the fifteen years he'd spent bringing criminals to justice.
336

The road wound gently down the hill to Catherine's destination, a
cluster of houses - too small to be called a village - a few miles south
of Seahouses. Both excited and apprehensive, she lifted the heavy brass
knocker on the door of the former fisherman's cottage.
She would have recognized Tommy Clough anywhere from the photographs
George had lent her. He still had a full head of curls, though they
glinted silver now instead of light brown. His face was weather-beaten,
but his eyes were still intelligent, his mouth still clearly more accustomed
to smiling than scowling. Although he was dressed in baggy corduroy
trousers and a fisherman's guernsey, it was clear his broad frame was
still well-muscled. He'd supposedly resembled a bull in his youth; now
his white curls made him look more like a Derby ram, she thought as
she returned his smile. 'Mr Clough,' she said.
'Miss Heathcote, I presume. Come in.' He stood back to let her enter
a spartan but spotless living room. The walls were covered with beautiful
line drawings of birds, some hand-tinted, others plain black ink on brilliant
white paper. In the background, Catherine recognized Branford Marsalis's
'Romances for Saxophone'.
She turned to study the drawings nearest her. 'They're wonderful,' she
said, meaning it as she seldom did when she attempted to put interviewees
at ease by praising their taste.
'They're not bad,' he said. 'Now, sit yourself down and have a brew.
You must be ready for it after that drive up from Derbyshire.'
He vanished into the kitchen, returning with a tray containing teapot,
milk jug, sugar bowl and two RSPB mugs. 'I've no coffee,' he said. 'One
of the things I promised myself when I left the police was that I was
never going to drink another cup of disgusting instant coffee. And there's
nowhere around .here does a decent roast, so I content myself with tea.'
'Tea's fine,' Catherine said with a smile. Already she trusted this man.
She couldn't have said why, but she did. 'Thank you for agreeing to
see me.'
'It's George you should be thanking,' he said, picking up the pot and
gently agitating it to help the tea brew. 'I decided long ago that it was
up to him to decide if the time was ever right to speak about it. I know
we worked hand in hand on the investigation, but my take on things is
different from George. He's an organizational man, but I was always more
of the maverick type. So my version could never be the straightforward
story that he'll have told you.
'The Alison Carter case was a defining moment for me, you see. I'd
337

gone into the police because I believed in the idea of justice. The way
things panned out on that one, I wasn't so sure the system could be
relied on to deliver. I think we got justice in that case, but it was damn
close. It could so easily have gone the other way, and there would have
been nothing to show for months of work and a girl's life. I came to the
conclusion that if a police force can't be depended upon to produce the
end result that is its only justification for existence, there doesn't seem a
lot of point in being part of it.'
He shook his head and gave a mocking little laugh as he poured the
tea. 'Listen to me. Thought for the Day. I sound as pious as a preacher.
George Bennett wouldn't recognize me. I used to be one of the lads, you
know. I liked a pint, a smoke, a laugh and a joke. It wasn't an act, either.
It was just one side of me that happened to fit the job, so I exaggerated
it a bit, I suppose.
'But I've always been a thoughtful sort of bloke as well. And when Alison
Carter went missing, it was like my imagination went into overdrive. My
mind was full of different scenarios, each one worse than the last. I could
keep it at bay when I was working, but when I was off duty, I found myself
increasingly tormented by waking nightmares. I was drinking a lot too it
was the only way I could get to sleep at night.
'I've often thanked God for George Bennett's obsession with the case.
It meant there was always stuff to be getting on with, files to be checked,
potential witnesses to be interviewed. Even after we were supposed to have
put the case on the back burner. Without either of us ever formalizing it,
I became his bagman on the investigation. It made me feel useful. But
God, it was hard work getting under the skin of Scardale.
'Do you remember that film in the seventies, The Wicker Man7 Edward
Woodward plays this cop who goes off to this mysterious Scottish island
to investigate a missing girl and he gets caught up in the pagan rites of
the inhabitants. It's very eerie and there are undercurrents of perverse
sexual practices and strange beliefs. Well, that's sort of what it felt
like in Scardale in 1963, except we got to go home to normality at
the end of the working day. And nobody tried to turn me or George
into a human sacrifice,' he added with an embarrassed laugh, as if conscious
of having said more than a down-to-earth ex-policeman should
admit to.
'And of course, we solved the mystery. Which is more than Edward
Woodward got to do.' He put milk in his tea and took a deep draught
of it.
338

'Anne told me that none of your neighbours up here knows you were
a police officer,' Catherine observed.
'It's not that I'm ashamed of it,' he said self-consciously, getting up
to change the CD. More subdued saxophone, though this time it was
unfamiliar to her. She kept quiet, knowing Tommy would pick up where
he had left off when he was ready.
He settled back into his chair. 'It's just that people make a certain set
of assumptions about you if they know you've been a copper. I wanted to
avoid that. I wanted to start again with a clean sheet. I thought that maybe
if I could ignore my past, Alison Carter might finally leave me alone.' His
mouth twisted into something closer to a grimace than a smile. 'Didn't
work. Did it? Here you are, and here I am, going over it all again.
'I was thinking about it last night, getting my thoughts in order. And
it's all as vivid as it was going through it the first time,' he added. 'I'm
as ready as I'll ever be. Ask away.'
Tommy Clough had been the missing element in Catherine's story. His
unique perception had filled the gaps in her understanding, somehow
turning a kaleidoscope of jumbled pieces into a coherent picture. He had
given her insight into George Bennett as a man as well as a police officer,
and he had allowed her to comprehend things that had previously been
unclear. At last she had grasped the underlying reasons behind what had
sometimes appeared to be a lack of cooperation between the villagers and
the police. And she could see the overall shape of her story with much
greater clarity.
Back in Longnor, she started on the long and complex task of organizing
her material. Her printer ground away constantly in the background as she
stacked separate piles of paper round the living room floor. Transcripts
of her long series of interviews with George; a separate pile for her notes
and transcripts of each of her other witnesses; a stack of photocopied
newspaper clippings; the copies she'd been able to obtain of the trial
transcript, thanks to a friend who worked in a law library, and a neat
pile of battered second-hand green Penguin editions of famous trials to
provide hints and tips as she went along.
Catherine had taken down the innocuous watercolours of the glories
of the Peak District that the landlords had chosen and replaced them
with photographs of Scardale then and now, including Philip Hawkin's
postcards. One wall featured nothing but blown-up photographs of the
key players, from Alison herself to a stern-faced George, snapped by a
339

newspaper photographer, emerging from a press conference in mac and
trilby. The third wall was taken up with large-scale Ordnance Survey
maps of the area.
For the best part of two months, she entirely immersed herself in
Scardale. She would rise at eight and work until half past noon. Then
she would drive the seven miles into Buxton, park by Poole's Cavern and
walk up through the woods to the open moorland above, crossing the
open ground to Solomon's Temple, the Victorian folly that overlooked
the town. She would descend through the leafy shadows of Grin Low
woods and walk back along Green Lane, past the house where she had
grown up with her parents. Her father had died five years before and
her mother had cashed in the house and moved to a retirement home
in Devon where the climate was easier on old bones. Catherine had no
idea who lived in the house now, nor did she much care.
She supposed there must still be plenty of people around that she'd
been to school with, but Catherine had shed her past like a snake its
skin when she'd moved to London. As far as friendships were concerned,
she'd been a late developer. As an only child, she'd found the country
of her imagination more interesting than the real world of her teenage
contemporaries. It was only when she'd started to work with others
whose minds ran along the same tracks that she'd found people she
could truly forge bonds with. So there were no treasured childhood ties
she'd wanted to resurrect. She'd expected to run into half-familiar faces
in the supermarket where she shopped, but it hadn't happened. She felt
no regrets on that score. The only part of her past that she cared to be
connected to was the stash of memories that allowed her to get under
the skin ofAlison Carter's life and death.
After her daily walk, she'd drive back to Longnor and have a snack of
bread, cheese and salad before returning to her task. At six, she opened
a bottle of wine and watched the TV news. Then it was back to work
until nine, when she'd stop and eat a pizza or some other instant
meal from the supermarket. For the rest of the evening, she'd answer
e-mail and read some trashy airport paperback. That, and occasional
conversations with her editor about the progress of her book, and
with the documentary maker about his timetable, were all she was
capable of.
For the first time in her life, Catherine's days had ceased to revolve
around a gregarious office and an active social life. She was bemused
by how little she missed human company. She had, she thought wryly,
340
become what six months previously she would have categorized as a sad
bastard.
When the phone rang one afternoon and she heard George Bennett's
voice on the other end, it seemed as if her words had suddenly taken
on a life of their own and for a moment, she couldn't take in what he
was saying.
'Sorry, George, I was miles away when you rang, can you just run that
past me again?' she said uncertainly.
'I hope I haven't interrupted the creative flow at a crucial moment.'
'No, no, nothing like that. How can I help you?' Catherine was back
in control, slipping straight into her professional persona.
'I was ringing to tell you Paul is bringing Helen over for a few days
next week. Anne and I wondered if you'd like to join us for dinner on
Friday?'
'I'd be delighted,' she said. 'I should have the first draft finished by the
end of this week. I'll bring it over with me so you can check it over after
they've gone back to Brussels.'
'You have been working hard,' George said. 'That'll be a real treat for
me. So, Friday at seven it is. See you then, Catherine.'
She replaced the receiver and stared at her wall of photographs. She'd
done almost all she could to make them come to life. Now, like Philip
Hawkin, she'd have to wait for the verdict of others.
34i

9
August 1998
Catherine ceremoniously handed George the thick padded envelope. 'The
first draft,' she said. 'Don't be kind, George. I need to know what you
really think.'
She followed him into the living room, where Paul and Helen were sitting
on the sofa. 'Here's a cause for celebration,' George said. 'Catherine's
delivered her book.'
Helen grinned. 'Well done, Catherine. You've not wasted any time.'
Catherine shrugged. 'I'm due back at work in three weeks. I didn't have
any time to waste. That's the beauty of a journalistic training - writing
expands or contracts to fill the time available.'
Before they could discuss it further, Anne came through with a tray
of glasses and a bottle of champagne. 'Hello, Catherine. George said
you had something to celebrate, so we thought we'd crack open the
bubbly.'
Paul grinned. 'Not for the first time this week. Helen's divorce finally
came through, and we've decided we're going to get married. So we had
a couple of bottles the other night to set the seal on it.'
Catherine crossed the room and leaned forward to kiss Helen on both
cheeks. 'That's great news,' she enthused. She turned to Paul and kissed
him too. 'I'm thrilled for both of you.'
George took the tray and put it down. 'We're pretty pleased, too.
This has turned into a vintage week.' George opened the champagne
and filled their glasses. 'A toast,' he said, handing the drinks round. 'To
the book.'
'And the happy couple,' Catherine added.
'No, the book, the book,' Paul protested. 'That way we'll have to open
another bottle so you can toast me and Helen. And you'll have to come to
342

the wedding,' he added. 'After all, if it wasn't for you, we'd never have got
Dad to come to Scardale to meet Helen's sister.'
'You've been to Scardale?' Catherine couldn't hide her astonishment.
The one failure she regretted in her research was that she had been unable
to persuade George to return to the village and go over the physical ground
with her.
George looked faintly sheepish. 'We've not been yet. But we're going
to lunch with Helen's sister Janis on Monday.'
Catherine raised her glass to Paul. 'You've pulled it off again. I tried
everything short of kidnapping to get him to come there with me.'
Paul grinned. 'You did the groundwork.'
'Well, whoever's responsible, I'm glad you're going,' Catherine said.
'And I don't think you'll find any memories lingering in Scardale Manor,
George.'
'What do you mean?' he asked, leaning forward.
'It's been gutted. According to Kathy Lomas, who gave me the tour,
there's not a single room that's anything like it was back in 1963. It's
not just decorated differently - there's even been a bit of structural
work, knocking a couple of small rooms into one bigger one, turning
a bedroom into a bathroom, that sort of thing. If you closed your eyes
all the way down the Scardale road and didn't open them till you were
inside the manor, I guarantee you wouldn't feel a single memory stirring,'
she added with a smile.
George shook his head. 'I wish I could believe you,' he said. 'But I've
got a feeling that I won't be able to escape the past that easily.'
'I don't know, George,' Helen chipped in. 'You know how houses have
an atmosphere? Some places you just walk in and know it's a friendly,
welcoming place? And other times, no matter how much money's been
spent on it, the house feels cold and hostile? Well, Scardale Manor's one
of those houses that feels like home from the moment you cross the
threshold. That's what Jan said when she first went to look at the place
after we inherited it. She rang me up to tell me she'd known as soon as
she walked in that this was the house for her. And I can sense exactly
what she means. Whenever I've stayed there, I've always slept like a log
and felt totally at home. So if there ever were any ghosts, they moved
out a long time ago.'
'So you might be in for a pleasant surprise, love,' Anne said reassuringly.

Still the doubt remained on George's face. 'I hope so,' he said.
343

Book 2
PART THREE
'Never mind being worried about memories lying in ambush for you,
George. If the remaining Carters, Crowthers and Lomases get wind that
you're coming back to the dale, they'll probably roll out the red carpet
and decorate their houses with bunting,' Catherine said. 'The only threat
to your health and wellbeing might come from an excess of hospitality.'
'Speaking of which, I think it's time for that second bottle,' Paul said,
jumping to his feet.
'There is one small thing, George,' Catherine said, smiling as charmingly
as she knew how. 'If you manage to survive your return to Scardale, would
you consider going back again with me?'
'I thought you'd finished the book,' he said, looking for an excuse
to refuse.
'Only the first draft. There's still plenty of time to add to what I've
already written.'
George sighed. 'I suppose I owe you that much. All right, Catherine. If
I make it out of Scardale alive, I'll go back with you. That's a promise.'
344

August 1998
Catherine stared at the letter in utter disbelief. Her first thought was
that it was a joke. But she rejected that idea before it was even fully
formed. She knew George Bennett was far too much the gentleman and
the gentle man - to make this kind of savage joke. She read the letter
again and wondered if he was having some kind of breakdown. Perhaps
visiting Scardale on top of reliving the Alison Carter case might have
caused the crack-up some people would have experienced at the time.
She dismissed that too; George Bennett was far too sane a man to lose
his marbles thirty-five years on, no matter how traumatic the memories.
And he himself had remarked more than once that going over the case
had been less disturbing than he had feared.
That recognition left Catherine without a straw to clutch at. Outrage
began to burn inside her like indigestion. She had been halfway through
a late breakfast when the post had arrived. She'd been expecting a letter
from her editor with her comments and requests for any rewrites, not this
catastrophe. Her first impulse was to pick up the phone, but before she'd
got three digits into George's number, she slammed it down again. Years
of journalism had taught her exactly how easy it was to fob somebody off
on the phone. This was one she had to deal with face to face.
She left the half-drunk coffee and half-eaten toast on the table. Forty
minutes later, she was turning right by the millpond. For every minute
of those forty, Catherine had seethed with frustration. All she could see
was George's high-handedness and she couldn't understand what had
provoked it. He'd never shown the slightest sign that he was capable of
such overbearing behaviour. She'd thought they'd become friends, but
she couldn't understand how a friend could treat her like this.
In her heart, Catherine knew the book was more hers than it was his,
347

and that he had no right to take it from her. She wasn't daunted by his
threat of legal action, knowing what the book contract said. But she was
disturbed by the effect his opposition could have on both her sales and her
reputation. To have the book repudiated by the one person who knew the
case inside out could damage her beyond repair. And that was something
Catherine wouldn't accept without a fight. If George had set aside their
friendship, then she would have to find it in her heart to do the same,
however difficult she might find it.
She edged the car up the narrow road. Both the Bennetts' cars were
in the drive, so she had to carry on past their limestone villa and leave
the car in a lay-by halfway up the hill. She strode back down to the house
and stormed up the drive.
The doorbell echoed, as it does in an empty house. But surely even if
George had gone to the village on foot, Anne should be at home. Her
arthritis meant that any journey required a car. Catherine stepped away
from the front door and walked round the side of the house, thinking they
might be in the garden, enjoying the sunshine before it grew too warm
for comfort. But she drew a blank there too. There was nothing in sight
but manicured lawn and colour-coded flower beds like some miniature
Sissinghurst.
It was as she returned to the front of the house that a possible solution
came to her. If Paul and Helen had hired a car, it was possible they had
taken George and Anne out for the day. The thought simply increased her
determination to have it out with George. If she had to wait till bedtime to
speak to him, so be it. She was standing in the drive, wondering whether
to stake the house out from the car or to browse the bookshop by the
millpond for an hour when she heard her name.
The next-door neighbour was standing on her doorstep, looking surprised.
'Catherine?' she repeated.
'Hello, Sandra,' Catherine said, finding a purely professional smile from
deep inside. 'I don't suppose you know where George and Anne have
gone off to?'
She gaped at her. 'Haven't you heard?' she eventually said, unable
to keep a note of glee out of her voice because she knew something
Catherine didn't.
'Is there something I should have heard?' she asked coolly.
'I thought you'd have known. He's had a heart attack.'
Catherine stared in disbelief. 'A heart attack.
'Rushed to hospital in an ambulance early this morning,' Sandra said
348

with relish. 'Of course, Anne went with him in the ambulance. Paul and
Helen followed in their car.'
Appalled, Catherine cleared her throat. 'Is there any news yet?'
'Paul came back to pick up some of his dad's things earlier on and we
had a word, of course. George is in intensive care. Paul said it's been
touch and go, but the doctors say George is a fighter. Of course, we all
knew that.'
Catherine couldn't work out why the woman was so smug about what
had happened. She didn't want to think it was because she was hugging
to herself the pleasure of knowing something Catherine didn't, but no
other explanation came to mind. 'Which hospital?' she asked.
'They've taken him to the specialist cardiac care unit in Derby,' she
said.
Catherine was already walking back up the hill to the car. 'They won't
let you in,' Sandra called after her. 'You're not family. They won't let
you in.'
'We'll see about that,' Catherine said grimly under her breath. Predictably,
her fears for George manifested themselves in unreasonable rage. How
dare George deprive her of the satisfaction of finding out what the hell
was going on by contriving to be at death's door?
It was only as she drove down to Derby that she simmered down and
began to realize what a terrible night it must have been for all of them -
Anne, Paul, Helen, and of course, George himself, trapped inside a body
that wasn't functioning the way he demanded it should. She couldn't
imagine anything worse for a man like George. Even at sixty-five, she
knew he was trim and fit; his mind too was sharper than most of the
serving police officers she'd ever encountered. He could still complete
the Guardian crossword three days out of four, which was more than
Catherine had ever managed. Working so closely with him had provoked
respect, but also affection. She hated to think of him diminished by
disease.
The intensive care unit wasn't hard to find. Catherine pushed open one
of the double doors and found herself in an empty reception area. She
pressed the buzzer on the desk and waited. After a couple of minutes,
she pressed it again. A nurse in a white overall emerged from one of the
three closed doors. 'Can I help you?' she said.
'I'm inquiring about George Bennett?' Catherine said with an anxious
half-smile.
'Are you family?' the nurse asked automatically.
349

'I've been working with George. I'm a friend of the family.'
'I'm afraid we can only allow visits from immediate family,' she said,
her voice entirely empty of regret.
'I appreciate that.' Catherine smiled again. 'I wonder, though, if you
could tell Anne - Mrs Bennett, that is - that I'm here? Perhaps we could
go somewhere for a cup of tea, if that's all right with her?'
The nurse smiled for the first time. 'Of course I'll tell her. Your
name is?'
'Catherine Heathcote. Where would be a good place to meet Mrs
Bennett?'
The nurse pointed her in the direction of the coffee bar, and as she
turned away, Catherine called after her, 'And George? Is there anything
you can tell me about George?'
This time, the nurse's voice softened. 'He's what we call critical but
stable. The next twenty-four hours will be crucial.'
Catherine walked back to the lifts in a daze. Being in the hospital
brought George's personal catastrophe home to her in a way that
Sandra's words hadn't. Somewhere behind those closed doors, George
was wired up to machines and monitors. Leaving aside what was happening
to his body, what was happening to his brain? Would he remember
sending the letter to her? Would he have told Anne about it?
Should she act as if nothing untoward had happened? Not just in
her own interest, she rationalized, but also to keep the family from
one extra worry?
Catherine found the coffee bar and settled herself at a corner table with
a mineral water. She was so preoccupied with her thoughts, she didn't see
Paul until he was practically on top of her. Today, his resemblance to
George was spooky. She'd spent so much time staring at a photograph
of his father at almost the same age, it was as if the image on her wall
had come to life and swapped a mac and trilby for a pair of faded jeans
and a polo shirt. He dropped into a chair as if his legs couldn't hold him
up any longer.
'I'm really sorry,' Catherine said.
'I know.' He sighed.
'How is he?'
Paul shrugged. 'He's not good. They're saying he had a massive heart
attack. He hasn't recovered consciousness yet, but they seem to think he'll
come round. Oh God ...' He covered his face with his hands, obviously
overcome. Anxiously, Catherine watched his shoulders heave with deep
350

breaths as he struggled to regain control. Eventually, he recovered enough
to continue. 'His heart stopped in the ambulance, and I think they're
concerned there might be some brain damage. They're talking about
doing a scan, but they're being very noncommittal about the prognosis.'
He stared down at the table. Catherine covered his hand with hers in a
simple gesture of sympathy.
'What happened?' she asked gently.
He sighed again. 'I can't help feeling it's our fault. Mine and Helen's,
that is -' He broke off. 'Do you mind if we go outside? It's so oppressive,
this hospital atmosphere. My head feels like it's stuffed with cotton wool.
I could do with some fresh air.'
They were silent in the lift down. Catherine pointed out a row of benches
on the far side of the car park. They sat down and stared unseeingly at a
regimented square of rose bushes. Paul tilted his head back and breathed
deeply. 'Why would your father's heart attack be your fault?' Catherine
asked eventually.
Paul ran a hand through his hair. 'When we went to Scardale, something
happened that made him really agitated. I don't really know
what it was, exactly ... He didn't say anything, but I could see he
was getting really wound up when we arrived at Jan's. Then when
we went indoors, I almost thought he was going to faint. He went
pale and sweaty, the way people do when they've got a terrible headache.
He seemed distracted. He hardly said a word to Jan, he just kept
looking around him as if he expected ghosts to start coming out of the
woodwork.'
'Did he say anything about what had upset him?'
Paul rubbed the bridge of his nose with his finger. 'I think it was just
the trauma of going back to Scardale again. It's been on his mind so
much, obviously, with all the work the two of you have been doing on
this book.' His shoulders drooped. 'This is all my fault. I should have
realized he wasn't making a fuss over nothing when he said he really
didn't want to go to Scardale.'
'There's no reason why you should have thought it would make him ill,
though,' Catherine said gently. 'You mustn't blame yourself. Heart attacks
don't just happen overnight - it takes a lifetime for the conditions to build
up. In your dad's case, years of irregular hours, too many cigarettes, too
many greasy-spoon meals eaten on the hoof. It's not your fault this has
happened.'
Paul's face was bitter. 'Taking him to Scardale was the trigger.'
35i


'Not necessarily. You've already told me you didn't notice anything in
particular that made him especially upset.'
'I know. And I've been through it again and again in my head. We all
had lunch out in the garden. He hardly ate anything, which isn't like Dad
at all. He blamed the heat, and to be fair, it was warm. After lunch, Jan
took Mum round the garden. They were ages, comparing notes, arranging
to swap cuttings, all that sort of thing. Dad went for a stroll round the
village green, but he was only gone about ten minutes. Then he just sat
there under the chestnut tree, staring into space. We left around three
because Mum wanted to drop in on the craft fair down in Buxton, and
we were home again by six.'
'And George didn't say whether anything special was bothering him?'
Paul shook his head. 'Nothing. He said he had a letter to write and
he went upstairs. Helen and Mum put a salad together for the tea and I
mowed the lawn. He came downstairs after about half an hour and said
he was going to the main post office in Matlock because he wanted to
be sure of this letter catching the post and there's no local collection in
the evening. I thought it was a bit strange, but he's never been one for
putting things off.'
Catherine took a deep breath. It wasn't fair to leave Paul guessing about
the letter that had been so important to his father. 'The letter was to me,'
she said.
'To you? What on earth was he writing to you about?' Paul was clearly
baffled.
'I don't think he wanted to deal with me face to face,' she said. 'I don't
think he was up for the argument he knew he'd get.'
'I don't understand what you're saying.' Paul frowned.
'Your father wanted me to cancel the publication of the book. With
no explanation at all,' Catherine said.
'What? But that doesn't make any sense.'
'It didn't make sense to me either. That's why I came down to
Cromford this morning. Then the next-door neighbour told me what
had happened.'
Paul glared at Catherine. 'So you thought you'd come and hassle him
here? Very sensitive, Catherine.'
She shook her head. 'No, you misunderstand me, Paul. When I heard
what had happened to George, my first thought was for him, for all of
you. I wanted to offer my help, my support. Whatever.'
Paul was silent, thinking over what she'd said, his eyes dubious.
352

'I've grown very fond of your parents over the last six months. Whatever
the problem with the book is, it can wait. Believe me, Paul, I'm more
concerned now about how your dad's doing.'
Paul began drumming his fingers on the arm of the bench. He clearly
lacked his father's gift of stillness. 'Look, Catherine, I'm sorry I snapped
at you, but it's been a tough night. I'm not thinking straight.'
She put her hand out and touched his arm. 'I know. If there's anything
I can do to help, just tell me - please?'
Paul sighed deeply. 'You can do something for me. I want to know what
set this off. I want to know what happened yesterday to trigger this heart
attack. If I'm going to help him, I have to know what's behind it. You
know more about my dad's involvement with Scardale than anybody
else, so maybe you can figure out what the hell happened to get him
so worked up that his heart packed in on him.'
Catherine felt some of the tension slip away from her shoulders. To
have the course of action she'd already decided on endorsed by Paul made
her feel easier. 'I'll do my best,' she said. 'Nothing else happened last night
that might have upset him? After he'd been to the post, I mean.'
Paul shook his head. 'We all went down to the village pub. They've got
a garden out the back and we just sat out there with our glasses of beer
and talked about nothing much.' He paused and frowned. 'He was edgy,
though. A couple of times, I had to tell him something twice because he
just wasn't tuned in to the conversation.'
'Does Helen think there was anything odd in the way he was behaving?'

'She agreed with me, that he seemed to have slipped a gear. She
reckoned he'd been like that since we arrived in Scardale. She'd noticed,
but it probably wasn't obvious to anybody that didn't know him. If her
sister was offended by Dad's silence, she certainly didn't say anything to
Helen ...'
'George wouldn't have done anything to offend Janis,' Catherine said.
'No matter how upset he was. He's such a kind man.'
Paul cleared his throat. 'Yes. He is.' He glanced at his watch. 'I'd better
be getting back.'
'When do you have to be in Brussels?' Catherine asked, getting to
her feet.
He shrugged. 'We were supposed to be going home the day after
tomorrow. Obviously we won't be leaving now. I'll have to wait and
see how he is.'
353

'I'll walk you back.'
As they approached the hospital, Paul exclaimed, 'That's Helen!' and
broke into a panicky run.
Helen swung round at his approach, a can of Coke halfway to her lips.
Her face lit up in a smile but he was oblivious to that. 'Has something
happened with Dad?' he demanded.
'No, I just needed some fresh air.' She reached out and put an arm
round his waist, pulling him to her in a gesture of support.
'Any news on George?' Catherine asked.
Helen shook her head. 'Still the same. Paul, I think we should try to
persuade your mum to go and have a cup of tea and a bite to eat.' She
gave Catherine an apologetic smile. 'You know Anne - she hasn't left
his side since they brought him up to intensive care. She's going to wear
herself out.'
'I'll let you go,' Catherine said.
Paul took her hand. 'Find out what he saw. Or heard. Or remembered,'
he said. 'Please?'
'I'll do my best,' Catherine said. She watched them walk back into the
hospital, glad that she had something to do that might possibly ease the
burden of guilt that Paul had assumed. That it would also serve her own
interests had become a secondary consideration, she suddenly realized
with surprise. George Bennett had clearly become more important to
her than she had previously acknowledged. That made it all the more
important that a book that would do him justice would eventually be published, she told herself firmly. And that was one service she could
certainly provide.
354

2
August 1998
Whatever had happened to change George Bennett's mind, it had happened
in Scardale. Catherine felt certain of that. He'd seen something, but
what. .. ? How could so brief a visit have produced so seismic a response?
Catherine could have understood it if he had decided she needed to make
some changes to her draft in the light of a fresh realization, but what could
have been so extraordinary that it derailed the whole project? And if it had
been so portentous a moment, how had it passed unnoticed among the
rest of the family?
In the shimmering heat of an August afternoon, Scardale was hardly
recognizable as the grim winter hamlet she had first revisited in February.
Because the summer had been so wet, the grass was lush, the trees more
shades of green than any painter could capture. In their shade, even
the undistinguished farm labourers' cottages of Scardale looked almost
romantic. There was no sense of gloom, no trace of the sinister events
of thirty-five years before.
Catherine pulled up outside the manor house, where a five-year-old
Toyota estate car sat in the drive. It looked as ifJanis Wainwright was at
home. She sat in the car for a moment and pondered. She could hardly
walk up the path and say, 'What happened to George Bennett yesterday
that made him want to scrap our book? What was so terrible about his
visit to your house that he collapsed in the night with a massive heart
attack?' But what else would work?
She thought about asking Kathy Lomas if she'd seen George the day
before. She turned in her seat towards Lark Cottage, but Kathy's car was
nowhere to be seen. Exasperated, Catherine got out of the car. When
all else failed, she could try the trusted journalistic technique of lying
through her teeth. She walked up the narrow path to the kitchen door and
355

raised the heavy brass knocker. She let it fall and heard it echo through the
house. A full minute passed, then the door suddenly opened. Dazzled by
the sunlight, Catherine could barely make out the woman's shape in the
dark interior. 'Can I help you?' she said.
'You must be Janis Wainwright. I know your sister, Helen. My name's
Catherine Heathcote. You were kind enough to arrange for me to see
round the manor house to help me with a book I'm writing about the
Alison Carter case?' She couldn't have sworn to it, but Catherine sensed
the woman withdraw at her words.
'I remember,' she said tonelessly.
'I wondered if I might have another look around your house?'
Catherine's eyes were beginning to adjust to the dimness of the kitchen.
Janis Wainwright definitely seemed startled, she thought. 'It's not convenient.
Another time. I'll arrange something with Kathy,' she said quickly,
her words running together in her haste.
'Just the ground floor. I won't be in your way.'
'I'm in the middle of something,' she said firmly.
The door began to shut. Instinctively, Catherine moved closer so Janis
would stop closing it. Then she saw what George Bennett had seen the
day before. She didn't so much step back as stagger.
'Speak to Kathy,' Janis Wainwright said. As if from a great distance,
Catherine heard the lock click, then the crash of bolts being shot home.
Dazed, she turned and walked back to her car, stumbling blindly like a
sleepwalker.
Now she thought she understood why George had written the letter.
But if she was right, it wasn't something she could readily explain to his
son. And it wasn't something that made her want to abort the book. It
made her realize that there might be a deeper truth behind the Alison
Carter case that neither she nor George had so much as guessed at. And it
made her even more determined to tell the truth that she had so cheerfully
toasted with Paul that night in London.
Catherine sat stock-still in the car, oblivious to the sweltering heat. Now
the first moment of shock was past, she could hardly bring herself to
credit what she'd seen. It made no sense, she told herself. Her eyes had
lied to her. But if that was true, George Bennett's eyes had also lied. The
resemblance was remarkable, uncanny even. If that had been all, she could
almost have written it off as bizarre coincidence, but Catherine knew that
there was no resemblance in the world that stretched to include scars.
356

She had learned from her reading and her interviews that the one
distinguishing mark Alison Carter had possessed was a scar. It was a
thin white line about an inch long that ran diagonally through her
right eyebrow. It touched the edge of her eye socket and cut up into
her forehead. It had happened the summer after her father died. Alison
had been running across the school playground with her bottle of milk
at playtime when she'd tripped and fallen. The bottle had shattered and
a piece of glass had sliced through her flesh. The scar, according to her
mother, had always been most prominent in summer when she had a bit
of colour from the sun. Just as Janis Wainwright had.
From nowhere, Catherine had a pounding headache. She turned the car
around and drove slowly and cautiously back to Longnor. There seemed
only one explanation for what she had seen, and that was impossible.
Alison Carter was dead. Philip Hawkin had been hanged for her murder. But if Alison Carter was dead, who was Janis Wainwright? How could a
woman who could have been Alison's clone be living in Scardale Manor
and not be connected to what happened in 1963? But if she were, how
was it possible that her own sister knew nothing of it?
Catherine parked the car and walked back to the newsagent's. She
bought twenty Marlboro Lights and a box of matches. Back in her cottage,
she poured herself a glass of wine so cold it made her teeth hurt. That
at least made sense. Then she lit her first cigarette for a dozen years. It
made her head swim, but that was an improvement. The nicotine hit her
bloodstream and it felt like the most normal thing in the world at that
moment.
She smoked the cigarette with devoted attention then sat down with
paper and pencil and made notes. After an hour, Catherine had two
propositions:
Proposition i. If Alison Carter had not died she would look exactly
like Janis Wainwright.
Proposition 2: Alison Carter is Janis Wainwright.
She also had an action plan. If she was right, it was going to take more
than a bit of tweaking and polishing to finish her book. But that was fine
by her. If Alison Carter was still alive, A Place of Execution was going to be
even more exciting than it was already. And somehow she would persuade
George to see her point of view, once he was well enough to consider all
the implications properly.
The first step was a phone call to her editorial assistant in London.
357

'Beverley, it's Catherine,' she said, injecting energy she didn't feel into
her voice.
'Hi! How's life in the sticks?'
'When the sun's shining like it is today, I wouldn't swap it for London.'
'Well, I can't wait for you to get back. It's a madhouse here. You'll
never guess what Rupert wants to do with the Christmas issue '
'Not now, Bev,' Catherine said firmly. 'I've got an urgent bit of business
for you. I need somebody who specializes in computer ageing of
photographs. Preferably up in this neck of the woods.'
'Sounds interesting.'
Twenty minutes later, her assistant had rung her back with the number
of a man called Rob Kershaw at Manchester University.
Catherine checked her watch. It was almost four. If Rob Kershaw wasn't
escaping the stresses of life in some foreign city, the chances were that he'd
still be at work. It was worth a phone call, she reckoned.
The phone was answered on the third ring. 'Rob Kershaw's phone,' a
woman's voice said.
'Is Rob there?'
'Sorry, he's on holiday. He'll be back on the twenty-fourth.'
Catherine sighed.
'Can I take a message?' the woman asked.
'Thanks, but there's no point.'
'Is it something I can help you with? I'm Rob's research assistant, Tricia
Harris.'
Catherine hesitated. Then she remembered she had nothing to lose.
'Can you do computer ageing of photographs?'
'Oh yes, it's my speciality.'
Within minutes, they were in business. Tricia had nothing more pressing
planned than a night in front of the TV, and she suffered from the
perennial penury of all graduate students. Once Catherine had dangled
the promise of a substantial fee in front of her, she was more than happy
to hang on at work while Catherine drove over with her copies of Philip
Hawkin's photographs of his stepdaughter.
When she arrived, Tricia efficiently scanned in the two pictures, asked
a few questions and then started serious work with keyboard and mouse.
Catherine left her to it, knowing how much she hated people peering
over her shoulder when she was trying to work. She retreated to the
far end of the room where there was an open window and lit her
fifth Marlboro Light. She'd give up again tomorrow, she thought. Or
358

whenever she found out what the hell was going on. Whichever was
the sooner.
After about an hour and another three cigarettes, Tricia called her over.
She picked three sheets ofA4 off the printer and spread them out before
Catherine. 'The one on the left is what I'd call the best-case scenario,' she
said. 'Minimal stress, well nourished and well cared for, maybe about seven
pounds over ideal weight. The one in the middle is more typical in some
respects - more stress, not quite so much attention paid to looking good,
right on the button weight wise. The third one is the one nobody wants
to be. She's the one who's had the hard life, the crappy diet, smokes too
much - very bad for your lines and wrinkles, you know,' she added with
a sly smile at Catherine. 'She's a bit underweight.'
Catherine stretched out a finger and pulled the middle of the three
photographs towards her. Apart from the hair colour, it could have been
a photograph of the woman who'd answered the door at Scardale Manor.
Janis Wainwright's hair had been silver with hints of blonde. Alison Carter,
as aged by computer, was still golden, with only a few strands of grey at
the temples. 'Amazing,' Catherine said softly.
'Is that what you expected?' Tricia said. Catherine had told her almost
nothing, saying she was working on a story about a missing heir who'd
turned up to claim a legacy.
'It confirms what I was afraid of,' Catherine said. 'There's somebody
walking around who isn't who she says she is.'
Tricia pulled a face. 'Bad luck.'
'Oh no,' Catherine said, feeling excitement gripping her chest. 'Not
bad luck at all. Quite the opposite.'
359

3
August 1998
As she drove away from Manchester University, Catherine felt the hot buzz
that burned in her veins whenever she knew she was on the verge of a major
story. She was so thrilled she'd temporarily lost sight of the starting point
for her exhilaration. That a man was lying on life-support machines in a
hospital in Derby had become irrelevant for the moment. Too wound up
to eat, she drove back to Longnor with the dizzying possibilities tumbling
round in her head.
Catherine decided the first thing she had to do was to find out who
Janis Wainwright was legally. That Janis Wainwright had a legal existence
she didn't doubt. It would be difficult for her either to own property or
to have any significant career without one. Finding it would mean a search
through public records for births, marriages and deaths. It would take
her days to do it herself, but there were agencies that did that sort of
work routinely for journalists. She switched on the laptop and started
to formulate an e-mail request to the Legal Search Agency, a company
that specialized in tracing information relating both to individuals and
to companies.
Catherine was reasonably sure Janis had never married. For one thing,
Helen hadn't mentioned a husband. Also, a quick check on the letter
she'd had from Janis's lawyer arranging the guided tour of the manor
revealed that the lawyer referred to her as, 'Miss Wainwright'. And of
course, Helen herself had been married and divorced, which explained
why her surname was different.
Somewhere, therefore, there had to be details of Janis Wainwright's
birth certificate. To be doubly sure, Catherine decided to ask for Helen's
details too. And because, like all good journalists, she had a healthy stock
of suspicion, she requested a further check to see if there was a record
360
of Janis Wainwright's death at any point between her birth and Alison's
disappearance in December 1963. From the details in the birth certificate,
it would be possible to track down the marriage certificate of Janis's
parents, and from there, their birth certificates if that proved necessary.
That would be the starting point to discover whether there was any real
connection between Janis Wainwright and Alison Carter.
Catherine sent off her request, making it clear that she wanted the
express option, with results e-mailed to her as well as hard copies sent
by post. Even so, she knew it would be late the following afternoon before
she could reasonably hope for a reply. She had no idea how she was going
to fill the time until then.
Then she remembered George. Feeling guilt at having wiped him from
the front of her mind, Catherine phoned the hospital and inquired after
him. The intensive care nurse told her there was no change. With mixed
emotions, she hung up. She hated the thought of what had happened
to George; but the moment of recognition that had triggered his heart
attack also seemed to be leading to the biggest story of her life. She had
sufficient self-knowledge to understand exactly how much that meant to
her. Catherine had always been more committed to her job than she ever
had been to another human being. She knew that the commonly held
view was that that was sad; but Catherine thought it was sadder to put
all your eggs in the basket of humanity when people invariably let you
down somewhere along the line. People came and went, and there was
a lot of enjoyment to be had from human relationships. She knew that,
and she took what pleasure and satisfaction was to be had. But no one
individual had ever been as constant as the rush of excitement that came
from a well-crafted exclusive.
She poured herself another drink and debated her next move. By the
time she'd reached the bottom of the glass, she knew there was only one
possible destination.
Three hours later, Catherine was booking into a four-star hotel just outside
Newcastle. One of the secrets of good journalism, she had learned, was
knowing when to press ahead and when to possess her soul in patience.
Her thirst for removing the wraps on this story was tempered by the
wisdom of experience. Turning up unannounced on someone's doorstep
was always a bad idea late at night. She knew they'd invariably associate
it with bad news before she'd even opened her mouth.
But in the morning, people were more optimistic. Long before the
36i

invention of the postman with his prospect of good news, everybody knew
that. So when she had still been a news reporter, wherever possible she had
avoided the late-night knock and gone for the early-morning arrival.
Catherine finally fell asleep to the movie channel, and it was after nine
when she woke, grateful that she'd managed a decent night's sleep, given
what she had on her mind. The first thing she did was call the hospital.
There was, they said, little change, though there were some grounds for
optimism. She tried the Bennetts' home number, but only the answering
machine responded. She left her best wishes and hung up.
An hour later, she was heading up the Ai. She was halfway up the path
to the cottage when the door opened. 'Catherine,' Tommy said, his broad
face crinkled in a smile. 'You're an unexpected treat. Come through, we'll
sit out the back.'
She followed him through the spotless living room and kitchen into
his back garden, a paradise of fragrant flowers and shrubs, all chosen, so
he'd told her on her earlier visit, to attract birds and butterflies. Today,
it was humming softly with bees, and the flutter of multicoloured wings
continually snagged the corner of her eye as they spoke.
Tommy pulled up a wooden chair for Catherine then sat on the bench
that looked down the garden to the sea beyond. 'So, what brings you up
here?' he asked once they were settled.
She sighed. 'I don't know where to start, Tommy. However I say this,
it's going to sound like I've finally lost it.' She looked down at the ground.
'Have you heard about George?'
'What's happened?' he asked, alarm in his voice.
Catherine met his stare. 'He's had a heart attack. A bad one, by all
accounts. He's in Derby Royal, in the intensive care ward. He's been
unconscious since the early hours of yesterday, as far as I'm aware.
According to Paul, his heart stopped in the ambulance on the way to
the hospital.'
'And you came up all this way to tell me? Catherine, that's really good
of you.' Tommy patted her hand. 'I appreciate it.'
'I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings.' For the moment, she was
content to occupy the role of concerned friend.
He shrugged. 'At my age, you come to expect it. How's Anne taking
it? She must be devastated.'
'She's not left his bedside. Paul's home just now, with his fiancee, and
they're with her.'
'Poor Anne. She's lived her life for George. And with her arthritis, she's
362

not fit for heavy nursing, if it comes down to that.' Tommy sighed and
shook his head. He gazed out across the garden to the blue sparkle of
the North Sea.
Catherine took out her fresh pack of Marlboros. 'Do you mind if I
smoke?' she asked.
His bushy eyebrows rose. 'I didn't think you did. But be my guest.' He
rose and crossed to the shed in the corner of the garden. He returned
with a terracotta plant saucer. 'You can use that as an ashtray. Take your
time.' Tommy leaned back, crossing his legs at the ankle and stuffing his
hands in the pockets of his baggy corduroy trousers.
'On Monday, George went to Scardale. And on Monday night, he had
his heart attack,' she said baldly.
'You got George to go to Scardale?' Tommy's eyes widened in surprise.

'I didn't. I could never manage to persuade him. But Paul did. He's over
on a visit with Helen, his fiancee. They're planning on getting married
later this year. Anyway, it turns out that Helen's sister Janis moved to
Scardale Manor a couple of years back. And they'd arranged to take
George and Anne over there for lunch on Monday. I knew George was
uncomfortable about going to Scardale, but once he got there, according
to Paul, his behaviour became quite odd.'
'Odd how?'
'Paul said he seemed very tense. He had no appetite. Apart from taking
a turn round the village green, he just sat in the garden, not talking to
anyone. Paul said he was very distracted and wound up for the rest of
the day and the evening.' Catherine paused to collect her thoughts. She
needed to be careful how she expressed herself to Tommy. He was very
quick at picking, up nuances of what he wasn't being told.
'Before he was taken ill, he'd written to me, asking me to put a stop on
the book. No reason, except that he'd come across some new information
that meant the book must be suppressed. Of course, I told Paul about
the letter when I saw him at the hospital. I was already convinced that
George must have seen something in Scardale that had - I don't know given
him fresh insight into some aspect of the case, or set him worrying
about something we'd included in the book. And Paul had come to the
same conclusion. He's racked with guilt. He thinks he's responsible for
George's heart attack because he persuaded him to go back to Scardale.
And he's asked me if I can try to find out what lay behind George's letter
to me. So .. .' She shrugged. 'I have to get the answers.'
363

'You'd have been a good copper,' he said drily.
'Coming from you, I'm not sure that's a compliment.' She fiddled with
her cigarette, then firmly stubbed it out.
'Oh, I've nothing but respect for them as could do a job that was too
much for me,' he said, pretending a ruefulness she knew he didn't feel.
'And where did you go for your answers? As if I couldn't guess.'
'That's right. I went back to Scardale. I thought I'd ask Helen's sister
if I could have another look round the manor, to see if I could discover
what had upset George so much.' She shifted in her chair so she could
look out over the sea.
'And did you?'
Catherine busied herself with another cigarette. Out of the corner of
her eye, she could see Tommy weighing her up, eyes shrewd in his
weather-browned face. He knew there was something, but not even in
his wildest imaginings could he have come up with what she was about
to say, she thought. 'I didn't get to look round the manor,' she said on
an exhalation of smoke. 'But I did get to see what must have sent George
reeling.' She opened her bag and took out the folder where she'd stashed
the computer-aged photograph ofAlison Carter.
Tommy held out his hand. She shook her liead. 'In a minute. The woman
who opened the door, the one who's supposed to be Helen's sister - it's
Alison Carter's double. Right down to the scar through the eyebrow.' She
handed the folder to Tommy. He opened it gingerly, as if he expected it to
explode in his face. What he saw was worse than anything he could have
feared. His mouth fell open. 'I couldn't believe my eyes either. I took Philip
Hawkin's photos ofAlison to an expert and had them computer aged. That
could be a photograph of the woman who answered the door of Scardale
Manor. But it's also what Alison would look like if she was still alive.'
The folder was trembling in Tommy's hands. 'No,' he breathed. 'That
can't be right. It must be a relative.'
'The scar's the same, Tommy. You don't get identical scars.'
'You must have made a mistake. You can't have seen her properly.
Your imagination's playing tricks.'
'Is it? I don't think so, Tommy. It wasn't my imagination that gave
George a heart attack. Whatever I saw, I think he saw it before me. That's
why I came to you. I need your help. I need you to come and look at
Janis Wainwright and tell me and George it's not Alison Carter. Because
from where I'm sitting, it looks like I've stumbled across the scoop of the
century.'
364
He covered his face with his free hand, rubbing his leathery skin so it
resembled a crumpled animal hide. His hand dropped to his lap and he
stared dully at Catherine. 'You know what this means, if you're right?'
She nodded slowly. She'd thought of little else on the long drive north,
her mind on a rollercoaster where the high point was the professional
effect of the revelation she would make, and the low point was what that
would do to George Bennett and his family. Somewhere down the line,
she knew she'd have to find a balance between those two consequences.
But first she would have to hold the whole truth in her hand. Catherine
looked Tommy straight in the eye and said, 'It means they hanged Philip
Hawkin for a crime that never happened.'
365

4
August 1998
Tommy Clough was not a sentimental man. He had always lived in the
present, drawing his nourishment from what was around him. His other
great quality was persistence. So although he'd never felt particularly
enriched by his years in the police, he'd stuck with the job because of the
abiding desire for justice that had taken him there in the first place. Even
then, however, he'd been able to sustain himself with his twin passions of
birds and jazz.
But he'd been telling Catherine nothing less than the truth when he
had revealed that it had been the Alison Carter case that had marked
the beginning of the end of his police career. He had cared too much
about the outcome of a case that was at best shaky. The idea of Alison's
killer walking free had tormented him night and day in the lead-up to
the trial, and he never wanted to go through that experience again. It had
taken him a couple of years to work through what he really felt about the
investigation and its results, but once he had made the decision, he'd been
out of Derbyshire Police in a matter of weeks. And he had never regretted
it for a moment.
Catherine Heathcote's arrival a couple of months earlier had forced
him to re-examine the past for almost the first time since he had quit
the force. For days before their interview, he had walked the cliffs and
headlands near his cottage, turning the Scardale case over and over in
his mind.
One of his strengths as a copper had been his intuition. It had frequently
made him push even when there was no concrete evidence, and it had paid
off more often than not in arrests and convictions. He'd been convinced
from the start that Philip Hawkin was a nasty piece of work. All his
instincts had screamed that from his first encounter with the man. Long
366
before George Bennett ever voiced the first stirrings of suspicion about
Hawkin, Tommy Clough had sensed the squire had something serious
to hide.
As soon as George had indicated he wanted them to look more closely
at Hawkin, Tommy had been a terrier, running himself into the ground
to sniff out any possible shred of evidence that might support the case.
No one had worked harder, not even George himself, in the quest to nail
Philip Hawkin.
In spite of which, Tommy had never quite been settled in his own mind
that Hawkin was a killer. He'd had no doubt that the man had been a
vicious sexual predator, and he'd had nightmares over the photographs,
which he knew hadn't been doctored, either by George Bennett or anyone
else. But even though he despised and loathed Hawkin, he had never been
entirely convinced that the man was the killer they had revealed him to
be. Perhaps it had been that niggle of doubt that had made him work so
hard to build a rock-solid case against the man. He had been trying to
convince himself as much as the jury. And the final conviction that his
gut instinct had failed him had undermined his confidence in the way
he did his job.
And now Catherine had dropped her twin bombshell. She believed
George Bennett was lying on a life-support machine because he'd realized,
as she had, that Alison Carter was alive and well and living in Scardale. In
one way, it made no sense. However, if Catherine was right, it vindicated
Tommy dough's own past uneasiness. Nevertheless, this was one time
when he would give almost anything to have been wrong all those
years before. For if Alison Carter truly was alive, then the repercussions
would be appalling. Never mind any possible legal consequences, whoever
Paul Bennett's fiancee was, she was somehow intimately connected to
a terrible mistake her future father-in-law had been instrumental in
making.
All of this rolled around Tommy's head without resolution as he sat
in his Land Rover, following Catherine's car down the Ai towards
Derbyshire. There had seemed no alternative but to go back with her
and do what he could to protect George and his family from the fallout
from what Catherine thought she'd discovered. She was, he thought, both
headstrong and single-minded, and that was a dangerous combination
around such potentially explosive material. She'd wanted to drive him
back with her, but he'd been adamant that he wanted the freedom to
come and go that he would lack if he was dependent on Catherine to
367

ferry him around. 'I'll be wanting to visit George,' he'd said. 'And it might
not always be convenient for you.' Besides, he wanted to be alone with
his thoughts.
The five-hour journey seemed to flash past, and suddenly they were
drawing up outside a cottage just off the main street in Longnor. Catherine
announced that the first thing they had to do was find Tommy somewhere
to stay. The pub did rooms, but in mid-August, they were all full of hikers
and fishermen. Tommy shrugged, then marched straight up to Peter
Grundy's front door and announced that he'd be needing the Grundys'
spare room for a few days; would ten pounds a night be fine for bed and
breakfast?
Grundy's wife, who'd never liked her husband's bosses and was happy
to part one from his money, nearly bit his hand off, though Peter had
the grace to look embarrassed. Any questions they had about what had
brought Tommy back to Derbyshire were satisfied by the news of George's
heart attack. 'You need your friends around you at a time like this,' Mrs
Grundy said profoundly.
'You certainly do,' was Tommy's grim response. 'And I intend to do
everything I can to help George and Anne.' He'd given Catherine a quick
glance, making sure she registered that their interests might not entirely
coincide. She inclined her head in acknowledgement, and refused a cup
of Mrs Grundy's industrial-strength builder's tea.
'I'll be in the cottage when you're ready, Tommy,' was all she said.
Catherine had no time to ponder exactly what Tommy Clough thought
he was up to. She was too impatient to get to her laptop. She went straight
on-line and found that LSA had come up with the goods. They'd scanned
in the photocopies of the certificates they'd tracked down and sent them
to her as graphics files.
First, Janis Hester Wainwright. Born January 12th 1951 in Consett. A
female child, daughter of Samuel Wainwright and Dorothy Wainwright
nee Carter. Father's occupation, steel worker. Usual address, 27 Upington
Terrace, Consett.
Mother's maiden name, Carter. It was a coincidence, but not much
of one. Carter was too common a name to set any store by it, she
told herself firmly. This was too important for her to clutch at straws.
Concrete evidence was what she needed.
Next, Helen's certificate. Helen Ruth Wainwright. Born June 10th 1964
in Sheffield. A female child, daughter of Samuel Wainwright and Dorothy



CERTIFICATE COPY OF AN ENTRY OF BIRTH GIVEN AT THE GENERAL REGISTER OFFICE, LONDON


Registration District:                                 County Durham

Sub District of:                                          Consett

Application Number:                                 7211758

Name:  Janis Hester              Sex:             Female

When and Where Born:                            Twelfth January 1951,Consett

Address:                     27 Upington Terrace, Consett, County Durham

Name and Surname of Father:                 Samuel Wainwright

Name, Surname and Maiden name of Mother:
                                     Dorothy Wainwright formerly Carter

Occupation of Father:                               Steel Worker

When Registered:                                     Eighteenth January 1951


CERTIFICATE COPY OF AN ENTRY OF BIRTH GIVEN AT THE GENERAL REGISTER OFFICE, LONDON


Registration District:                                Sheffield

Sub District of:                                          Rivelin Valley

Application Number:                                 2214389

Name:          Helen Ruth           Sex:          Female

When and Where Born:                           Tenth June 1964, Rivelin Valley

Address:                    18 Lee Bank, Rivelin Valley

Name and Surname of Father:               Samuel Wainwright

Name, Surname and Maiden Name of Mother:
                                      Dorothy Wainwright formerly Carter

Occupation of Father:                             Steel Worker

When Registered:                                    Fourteenth June 1964
Wainwright nee Carter. Father's occupation, steel worker. Usual address, 18 Lee Bank, Rivelin Valley, Sheffield.
368

Middle name Ruth. Coupled with Carter, this was starting to look
significant, Catherine thought, feeling the excitement stirring inside her.
She hit the page down key for the marriage certificate for Samuel and
Dorothy Wainwright. The excitement was a physical sensation growling
deep in her stomach. Place of marriage; St Stephen's Church, Longnor
in the district of Buxton. Date of marriage: April 5th 1948. Samuel Alfred
Wainwright, bachelor, had married Dorothy Margaret Carter, spinster. He

CERTIFICATE COPY OF AN ENTRY OF MARRIAGE PURSUANT TO THE MARRIAGE ACT 1836

Registration District:                                               Buxton

Marriage Solemnized at:                               St Stephen's Church, Longnor

In the:                                                              County of Derbyshire

Application Number:                                     87

When Married:                                               Fifth April 1948

Name:            Samuel Alfred          Surname:       Wainwright

Age:               22                            Condition:      Batchelor

Rank or Profession:                                      Steel Worker

Residence:    27 Upington Terrace, Consett

Father's Name and Surname:                      Alfred Wainwright

Occupation of Father:                                  Steel worker

Name:           Dorothy Margaret      Surname:     Carter

Age:              21                             Condition:     Spinster

Rank or Professon:                                      Dairymaid

Residence:    Shire Cottage, Scardale, Derbyshire

Father's Name and Surname:                     Albert Carter

Occupation of Father:                                 Farm Labourer

In the presence of:                       Roy Carter, Joshua Wainwright

Solemnized by:                                             Paul Westfield

370
was 22, she was 21. He was a steel worker, she was a dairymaid. At the time
of their marriage, he was living at 27 Upington Terrace, Consett. She was
living at Shire Cottage, Scardale, Derbyshire. Her father was Albert Carter,
farm labourer. The witnesses were Roy Carter and Joshua Wainwright.
Catherine could hardly trust her eyes. She read the details again. Janis
Wainwright's mother was Dorothy Carter of Shire Cottage, Scardale. One
of the witnesses at Dorothy's wedding was Roy Carter. Also of Shire
Cottage, Scardale, she wouldn't have minded betting. The same Roy
Carter who was Ruth Crowther's husband and Alison Carter's father. So
it wouldn't be surprising to find there was a strong resemblance between
Janis and Alison. Genetic inheritance could be a strange thing. But that
still didn't explain the scar. If Janis wasn't Alison, how did she happen
to have the identical distinguishing mark?
The one explanation she could come up with was that the scar had been
some bizarre form of self-mutilation that the teenage Janis had inflicted
after Alison's disappearance and presumed death. She could imagine them
growing up, the family commenting that they could be identical twins, two
peas in a pod. And then Alison died and Janis decided to keep her alive by
branding herself in the same way, reinstating Alison's uniqueness. It was
a grotesque notion, but Catherine knew that teenage girls were capable
of the most fantastic behaviour, self-harming included.
The flashing cursor caught her eye. LSA had sent more than the three
certificates. She hit the page down key again and this time, she sat
staring at the screen, slack-jawed and bewildered. She'd submitted her
request only out of a routine habit of covering all the bases. But LSA had
found the thing she hadn't really believed she should be looking for.
Janis Hester Wainwright had died on May 11th 1959.
Catherine sat staring at the screen for a long time. Only one thing made
any kind of sense. She lit a cigarette and tried to imagine any other scenario
that would fit the facts, but she came up empty-headed. Nothing fitted
unless she started with the assumption that Alison Carter did not die in
December 1963. Who was more likely to take on a girl in hiding than a
physically distant branch of her family? So she'd assumed the identity of
her dead cousin Janis and had grown into womanhood in Sheffield.
A thought struck her, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on
end. All those years ago, Don Smart had persuaded the Daily News to
consult a clairvoyant who had said Alison was alive and well and safe,
living in a house in a street in a big city. Everyone had scoffed at the time.
It had been such an unlikely outcome of the picture they were presented
37i

DEATH CERTIFICATE
IIIHSKBIIBSt County Durham
llltel Consett
II Janis Hester Wainwright Female
Ig Eleventh May 1959 8
Tuberculosis
Dr James Inchbald and Dr Andrew Witherwick
III 27 Upington Terrace, Consett, County Durham
Dorothy Wainwright formerly Carter
with. But it looked now as if that clairvoyant might, against all the odds,
have been right.
Catherine was startled out of her reverie by a knock at the door.
Tommy had come to tell her he was going to drive down to Cromford
to see if anyone was home. If he drew a blank, he intended to continue
on to Derby.
'Before you go,' she said, 'take a look at these.' She gestured for him
to sit in front of the laptop and showed him how to scroll down. He sat
in silence, reading the four certificates with painstaking care.
Then he turned to face her, his eyes troubled. 'Tell me you've come
up with another explanation,' he said, his voice a quiet plea.
Catherine shook her head. 'There isn't one that I can think of.'
He massaged his jaw with fingers still strong and thick. 'I need to
go and pay my respects to the family,' he said at last. He sighed.
'We need to talk about what happens next. Will you be up when I
get back?'
'I'll be up. I'm going into Buxton for something to eat, because these
four walls will drive me crazy otherwise,' she said, gesturing at the pictures
of Scardale surrounding her. 'I'll be back by nine.'
372

He nodded. 'So will I, then. Don't worry, Catherine, we'll figure it out
between us.'
'Oh, I think we've figured out the crucial fact already. Tommy. It's
what we do with it that's a bit harder to work out.'
Tommy smiled at the intensive care nurse. 'I'm family,' he said, with
the air of quiet assurance that had seldom failed him. 'George is my
brother-in-law.' The metaphorical truth of his words gave him a certain
satisfaction.
The nurse nodded. 'His son and daughter-in-law have gone to get
something to eat, so there's only his wife with him just now. You can
go straight through.' She opened the door for him. 'Third bed down,'
she added.
Tommy walked slowly down the ward. He paused a few feet away from
the array of life-support machines that sustained his old friend. Anne was
sitting with her back to him, her head bent, one hand clasping George's,
the other stroking his arm, automatically careful of the drip feeding into
a vein. George's skin was pale, with a faint clammy sheen. His lips had
a slightly bluish tinge and there were dark shadows under his closed
eyes. Beneath the thin sheet, his body looked strangely frail, in spite of
the wide shoulders and well-defined muscles. Seeing him like that, the
vitality stripped from him, Tommy felt his own mortality like a breath
of cold air on his skin.
He stepped forward and laid a hand on Anne's shoulder. She looked
up, her eyes weary and resigned. For a moment she looked confused,
then the shock of recognition hit her. 'Tommy?' she gasped, incredulous.

'Catherine told me what happened,' he said. 'I wanted to come.'
Anne nodded, as if what he said made perfect sense. 'Of course
you did.'
Tommy pulled up a chair and sat down next to her. The hand that
had been stroking George's arm reached out and grasped his. 'How is
he?' Tommy asked.
'They say he's holding his own, whatever that means,' she said wearily.
'I don't understand why he's still unconscious, though. I thought heart
attacks were over and done and you either survived or else ... But he's
been like this nigh on two days now, and they won't say when they think
he'll come round.'
'I suppose it's the body's way of healing itself,' Tommy said. 'If I know
373

George, if he was conscious you'd have to tie him to the bed to get him
to rest and convalesce properly.'
A faint smile ghosted across Anne's lips. 'You're probably right, Tommy.'
They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching George's chest rise and fall.
Eventually, Anne said, 'I'm glad you came.'
'I'm just sorry it took this to get me to make the journey.' Tommy
patted Anne's hand. 'What about you, Anne? How are you doing?'
'I'm frightened, Tommy. I can't begin to think of what life would be
like without him.' She gazed at her husband, despair in the slump of her
shoulders.
'When did you sleep last? Or eat?'
Anne shook her head. 'I can't sleep. I went for a lie-down last night.
They've got a room for relatives here. But I couldn't get off. I don't like
leaving him. I want to be here when he wakes up. He'll be frightened, he
won't know where he is. I need to be here. Paul's offered to spell me, but
I don't feel right about that. He's already too upset. He blames himself,
and I'm afraid of what he'll say to George if he's on his own with him
when he comes round. I don't want George set off again.'
'But I'm here now, Anne. I could sit with George while you at least
get yourself a cup of tea and something to eat. You look like you're ready
to drop.'
She turned and looked curiously at him. 'And what's he going to think
if he sees you sitting there like the ghost of Christmas past?' she said, with
a trace of her normal good humour.
'Well, at least it'll take his mind off what's wrong with him,' Tommy
replied with a smile. 'You need a break, Anne. Get a cup of tea. Some
fresh air.'
Anne bowed her head. 'Maybe you're right. I'm not going outside,
though. I'll have ten minutes in the relatives' room. You've got to talk
to him, though. They say that's supposed to help. And if he so much as
stirs, call the nurse. Send somebody to get me.'
'On you go,' Tommy said. 'I'll keep an eye on him.'
Reluctantly, Anne stood up and moved slowly away. She walked
down the ward, casting a backward look every couple of steps. Tommy
moved across to her empty chair and leaned forward, elbows on his
knees. He began to talk to George in a soft voice about his recent
bird-watching experiences. After about ten minutes, a nurse appeared,
checking George's vital signs. 'I don't know how you managed it,' she
said, 'but Mrs Bennett's sleeping for the first time since they brought
374
her husband in. Even if she only has a nap, it'll do her the world
of good.'
'I'm glad.' Tommy waited till the nurse had gone, then he resumed
his one-sided conversation. 'You'll be wondering what I'm doing here,'
he said. 'It's a bit of a long story, I suppose, and one I shouldn't really
be telling you. So never mind what brought me here, just be grateful
that my ugly mug was enough to inspire your Anne to go and have a
lie-down.'
As he spoke, he noticed George's eyelids fluttering. Then suddenly his
eyes opened. Tommy leaned forward, taking George's hand. 'Welcome
back, George,' he said softly. He waved his free arm, trying to attract a
nurse's attention. 'Don't panic, old pal. You're going to be all right.'
George frowned, puzzlement in his eyes. 'Anne'll be right here,' Tommy
said. 'There's nothing to worry about.' As he spoke, a nurse arrived at the
bedside. Tommy looked up. 'He's awake.'
As the nurse moved in, Tommy stepped back. 'I'll get Anne,' he
promised. He hurried down the ward, following signs to the relatives'
room. Anne was sprawled over a sofa, fast asleep. He hated to wake her,
but she'd never forgive him if he didn't. Tommy placed a hand on her
shoulder and shook it gently. Anne's eyes snapped open, immediately
alert, panic in her face.
'It's all right,' he said. 'He's waking up, Anne.'
She struggled to her feet. 'Oh, Tommy!' she exclaimed, throwing her
arms round him and hugging his neck. He stood awkward in the embrace,
unsure what to do with his hands.
'I'll come back tomorrow,' he said as she released him and turned to
go.
In the doorway, she glanced back. 'Thanks, Tommy. You're a miracle.'
He stood for a moment looking after her. 'There's more than one kind
of miracle,' he said sadly, making his way out of the intensive care unit.
375

August 1998
Catherine managed to make an indifferent dinner last the best part
of an hour and a half. Even so, it was barely half past eight when
she got back to Longnor. But Tommy was already waiting, sitting in
the warm evening air on the limestone dyke outside her cottage. He
looked grey and pale and Catherine felt a pang of concern. She kept
forgetting he was an old man, so fit and sprightly did he seem. But
he'd driven more than half the day, and he probably hadn't had an
evening meal.
He greeted her with, 'Thank God you're back. We need to sit down
and talk.'
'How's George?' she asked as she let them both in. 'Drink?'
'Have you any whisky?'
'Only Irish.' She pointed to the sideboard. 'Let me get a glass of wine.'
She went through to the kitchen and opened a bottle. When she came
back. Tommy had two inches ofBushmills in the bottom of a petrol-station
tumbler.
'So how is George?' she repeated, expecting the worst.
'He's recovered consciousness. I was with him when his eyes opened.'
'You were with him? How did you manage to get in?'
Tommy sighed. 'How do you think? I lied. Obviously, he wasn't up to
talking. But he seemed to recognize me. I told Anne I'd be back tomorrow
morning. Maybe I'll be able to speak to him then.'
'I don't think this is the time to talk about Scardale and Alison with
him,' Catherine said.
Tommy gave her a hard stare. He hadn't lost his touch over the years;
Catherine felt like a butterfly on a pin. 'You mean you don't want him
remembering that he told you to cancel the whole thing.'
376
'No,' she protested. 'I just think that if whatever happened in Scardale
really precipitated the heart attack, he shouldn't be talking about it.'
Tommy shrugged. 'I'd say that was up to George. I'm not going to
push it, but if he wants to talk about it, I'm not going to stop him.
Better he gets it out of his system with me than he bottles it up and
maybe sets off another attack,' he said stubbornly. 'And while we're on
the subject, I met Paul as I was leaving. He introduced me to his fiancee.
And we have to talk about that,' he said heavily, taking a swig from his
glass that disposed of half the whiskey. 'Let's have another look at those
certificates.'
Catherine booted up the computer while Tommy paced to and fro
in the tiny living room. As soon as she had the first certificate up on
the screen, he was at her side. 'Show me Helen's birth certificate again,'
he said. She nicked a finger over the page down key and her details
appeared before them.
'Oh God,' he groaned. He turned away and crossed to the fireplace.
He leaned his arm across the mantel and laid his head down.
Catherine swung round in her chair. 'Tommy, are you going to tell me
what's going on?'
His big shoulders heaved and he turned back to face her. If he didn't
tell her, she was perfectly capable of working it out for herself. At least
this way, he could have some control over what she knew and what she
did with it. 'You've seen Helen, haven't you?' he said wearily.
Catherine nodded. 'We first met last year, in Brussels.'
'Did she not remind you of anybody?'
'Funnily enough, I did think I'd seen her before. But now we know
she's connected to the Scardale clans, I think what I'm seeing is a sort
of generic Carter resemblance.'
Tommy sighed. 'Aye, there is a bit of that. A look of her mother. But
it's her father she takes after.'
She frowned. 'Tommy, you're not making any sense. When did you
ever come across Samuel and Dorothy Wainwright?'
Tommy sat down heavily in the armchair. 'I've never seen either of
them in my life. I'm not talking about the Wainwrights. I'm talking about
Philip Hawkin.'
'Hawkin?' Catherine echoed, completely lost.
'She's the spit of Philip Hawkin across the eyes. And she's got his
colouring. I don't think you'd pick up the resemblance from the photos,
but it's clear as day in the flesh.'
377

'You can't be right,' she protested. 'George would have seen the likeness,
surely?'
'He wouldn't necessarily have made the connection until the Scardale
link was right in front of his nose. Besides, you said Paul said he'd been
uneasy, even before they got to Scardale.'
'It could still be coincidence,' Catherine said stubbornly. If she was going
to nail this story, she needed to fight every fact so her defences were already
established before she had to persuade an editor. She might as well take
advantage of Tommy's experience to help construct her arguments.
'Look at the birth certificate,' he said. 'She's called Helen Ruth. I know
Ruth's not exactly an uncommon name, but back then it was usual practice
round these parts to give a child a family name for a middle name, usually
a grandparent. When you add in all the rest of the details we've got here,
Helen's middle name being Ruth is stretching coincidence too far.'
Catherine lit a cigarette to put off the inevitable question. 'So if Philip
Hawkin was Helen's father ... who was her mother?'
'Well, it wasn't his wife, that's for sure. Ruth Carter wasn't having
a baby in June 1964 - she was attending her husband's trial. We saw
her at least once a week in the run-up to the trial, and she wasn't
pregnant.'
'Some women don't show it,' she pointed out. 'They just look like
they've put on a bit of weight.'
He shook his head. 'Catherine, when we first met Ruth, she was a sturdy
farmer's wife. By the time we got to the trial, she looked like a strong wind
would lift her from Scardale into Denderdale without noticing. She could
not have borne a daughter in June 1964.'
'So who was it?' Catherine persisted. 'I presume we're ruling out a mad,
passionate affair with Dorothy Wainwright?'
'It's always possible, I suppose,' Tommy said. 'Dorothy would only
have been in her mid-thirties. But if Hawkin had been sleeping with
her, I'd have expected him to bring it out at the trial as evidence that
he was a normal, red-blooded male, not some pervert into little girls. We
always figured that was the only reason he married Ruth - so that if there
was ever any question mark over him molesting Alison, he'd be able to
point to his marriage to prove he was just like every other bloke. Anyway,
there's no evidence to indicate he ever met the Wainwrights. But if we
go with our theory about the real identity of the woman calling herself
Janis Wainwright, then we do have a female of child-bearing age in the
Wainwrights' house who had a demonstrable connection to Hawkin. A
378

female that we know from photographic evidence was raped by Hawkin.'
His words fell heavy as stones.
'Alison Carter is the mother of Helen Markiewicz, nee Wainwright,'
Catherine said, putting Tommy's circumlocutions into hard unequivocal
terms. 'And Philip Hawkin is her father.'
She looked at Tommy and he stared back at her. Nothing else made
sense of the solid facts and the physical congruence they had found. But
it was a solution that begged so many questions Catherine didn't even
know where to begin.
She took a deep breath and said what she knew Tommy would be
thinking. 'So George Bennett is about to become the father-in-law of the
daughter of a man he was responsible for having hanged for the murder
of her mother. Except that Helen hadn't actually been born at the time
when her father was supposed to have murdered her mother.' Put like
that, she thought, it made Oedipus Rex sound like an everyday story of
country folk.
'So it would seem,' Tommy said. He drained his glass and reached over
to the sideboard for the whiskey bottle.
'I know this sounds crazy... but it looks like Ruth and Alison conspired
to have Philip arrested.'
Tommy slowly poured out another stiff Bushmills. He sipped at it,
looking directly at her from under his bushy eyebrows. Then he lowered
the glass and said, 'At the very least, Catherine. At the very least.'
She tipped more red wine into her glass. Her hand was shaking, she
noticed. This was more than the best story she'd ever stumbled across
- it was a tragedy with the potential to reach out across thirty-five years
and blight a second generation of lives who had no idea their history
was so dramatically charged. She was in a position at once terrifying
and exhilarating. She didn't think she was entirely to be trusted with
the information she already possessed; she was almost glad Tommy was
there to act as a brake on her wilder instincts.
'So what now?'
'Good question,' Tommy said.
'Oh, I've got plenty of those.'
'I think there's only one real option. I think we have to walk away
right now and forget the whole thing. Leave Alison Carter - if it is
her - in peace. Let Helen and Paul get married without a cloud on the
horizon.'
'No way,' Catherine protested. 'I can't ignore this. It turns one of the
379

most significant legal cases of the post-war years on its head. It screws
up an important legal precedent.'
'Spare me all that, Catherine,' Tommy said angrily. 'You don't give a
damn about legal precedents. All you can see is the scoop of a lifetime
and the money you can make off it. Can't you see how many lives you're
going to destroy if you go public with this? You leave George with his
reputation in tatters. You destroy Paul and Helen's future, not to mention
shattering Helen's life completely. How's she going to feel when she finds
out her sister is really her mother, and the woman she thought was her
mother conspired to have her father killed? And then there's Janis, or
Alison or whatever you want to call her. You expose her to prosecution
for conspiracy to commit murder. All that just so you can have your
fifteen minutes of fame?' He was shouting now, his presence filling the
room and leaving Catherine breathless.
She swallowed hard and said, 'So I'm just supposed to write off the
last six months of my life? I've got a stake in this, too, Tommy. You were
the one who talked to me about the importance of justice. How you left
the police because you reckoned they couldn't deliver justice. And now
you're saying, fuck justice, fuck truth, I'm going to protect my reputation
and cover up the fact that me and my boss got an innocent man hanged?'
Now she was as angry as he was.
Tommy tossed back some whiskey and tried to suppress his anger. 'This
is not about me, Catherine. It's about a good man and his innocent family.
None of them deserve to have their lives destroyed over something that
should have been dead and buried thirty-five years ago. Listen, you don't
have to waste the last six months. You can still publish your book as it
is and let sleeping dogs lie.'
'But George didn't want to let sleeping dogs lie. He's got more integrity
than you have, Tommy. He wanted the book suppressed because it isn't
the truth.'
Tommy shook his head. 'He was acting on the spur of the moment.
When he's had time to think things over, he'll see the sense in letting it
go ahead.'
'You mean when you've talked him into it,' Catherine said savagely. 'That's not good enough any more. Tommy. I can wipe the e-mail off
my computer, but I can't erase the knowledge in my head. I'm going to
find out the truth, and actually, you can't stop me.'
There was a long silence. Tommy felt his hands bunch into fists and
struggled to straighten his fingers. Finally, he took a deep breath and said,
380

'Maybe I can't stop you. But I can certainly trash you when the book comes
out. I can tell the press about how you exploited a man on a life-support
machine. I can talk about how you deliberately took advantage of George
Bennett's incapacity to stitch up him and his family. You won't look so
much like a crusader for justice when I'm finished with you, I promise.
You'll look as shabby as Philip Hawkin.'
Neither of them moved, glaring like two dogs in a Mexican standoff.
At last, Catherine spoke. 'Neither of us has any right to make the decision
without George,' she said, forcing herself to sound calm. 'We don't even
know if we're right. Before we can go any further, we need to speak to
Alison Carter.'
Tommy turned from her eyes and stared at the photographs on the
wall. Alison Carter, George Bennett, Ruth Carter, Philip Hawkin. In his
heart, he knew she was right. It wasn't their choice to make alone. And
no choice so important should be made in the dark. He sighed. 'All right.
Tomorrow, we'll go to Scardale and get some answers.'
381

6
August 1998
Tommy stood on Catherine's doorstep at eight the next morning. When
she opened the door, he thought she looked as if she'd had as little sleep
as he'd managed. 'You're early,' she said, stepping back and letting him
in. 'Alison's not going to be thrilled to see us at this time.'
'We're not going to Scardale yet,' he said.
'We're not?'
'No. I promised Anne I'd go back to the hospital this morning. I want
to do that first. And I want you to drive me there,' Tommy said, helping
himself to the toast on Catherine's plate.
'Make yourself at home, why don't you?' she said, surprised to find
herself amused rather than irritated. 'I get it. You don't trust me to wait
for you to come back. You think I'll shoot off on my own and get the
whole story out ofAlison.'
Tommy shook his head. 'Funnily enough, you're wrong. Any more
toast?'
'I'll make some.'
He followed her through to the kitchen. 'It's not that I don't trust you.
It's something to do with me not being as young as I was. I drove more
yesterday than I do in an average month back home, and I never sleep
well in a strange bed. The long and short of it, Catherine, is that I'd
rather be driven than have to drive all the way to Derby and back.'
She dropped two slices of bread into the toaster and said approvingly,
'Good pitch, Tommy. I almost believe you.' She grinned at the hurt look
on his face. 'It's all right, of course I'll drive you to Derby. Whatever Janis
Wainwright's got to say isn't going to change between now and then.'
They said little on the drive to Derby, both lost in their own thoughts.
Catherine was still racking her brains to come up with a strategy for the
382
meeting that lay ahead in Scardale. She had stayed up long past midnight,
smoking, drinking and thinking. She had always believed that a large part
of the success of any interview lay in how thorough the preparation had
been. But no matter how she turned over in her head what she and Tommy
now knew, she couldn't think of a way of approaching this story that would
actually produce the truth. Janis Wainwright still had too much to lose.
Their first surprise of the day came when Tommy told the intensive care
nurse that he'd come to see his brother-in-law, George Bennett. 'He's not
with us any longer,' the nurse said, consulting a clipboard on her desk.
For a moment, Tommy felt his own heart constrict in his chest. 'That
can't be right. He'd come round last night. I saw his eyes open.'
The nurse smiled. 'That's right. We've moved him to another ward
because he's out of immediate danger now.' She directed them to the
cardiac care ward where George had been transferred.
'Tact and diplomacy by the NHS,' Catherine said drily.
They turned the corner of the corridor and found the ward they were
looking for. Tommy peered through the window in the door. There were
four beds in the room, two unoccupied. By the window, he spotted Anne
sitting by a bed, obscuring the occupant, who appeared to be propped up
in a half-sitting position. Tommy turned back to Catherine. 'I think you
should wait outside.'
Reluctantly, she agreed. 'There's a cafeteria on the sixth floor. I'll wait
there for you.' She took her tape recorder out of her pocket. 'I don't
suppose ... ?'
Tommy shook his head. 'This is between me and George. You needn't
worry, though. I won't lie to you.'
He watched her walk off towards the lifts, then he squared his shoulders
and pushed the door open. As he drew near, he could see George's face. It
was hard to believe this was the same man who had looked one step away
from a corpse only the night before. Although he still looked exhausted,
there was some colour in his cheeks, and the dark circles under his eyes
were less prominent. When he caught sight of Tommy, his face brightened
in a wide smile.
'Tommy Clough,' George said, his voice weak but recognizably pleased.
'And there was me thinking I'd died and gone to hell when I opened my
eyes and saw you staring down at me.'
Tommy reached out and clasped his old boss's hand in both of
his. 'I reckon it was the shock of hearing my voice that woke you
up.'
383

'Damn right. I knew I couldn't trust a ladies' man like you around my
Anne without me to chaperone.'
'George,' Anne scolded. 'That's a terrible thing to say to Tommy when
he's come all this way to see you.'
'Pay no attention to him, Anne, he's obviously still delirious. How are
you feeling, George?'
'Knackered, if you want the truth. I've never been so weary in all my
born days.'
'You gave us all a bit of a fright,' Tommy said.
'Sorry about that. Mind you, if I'd known this was the way to prise you
out of your hermit's existence, I'd have done it years ago,' said George.
Tommy and Anne exchanged looks, both glad that George, weak as he
was, hadn't lost his sense of humour.
'Aye, well, I won't be such a stranger in future. It was Catherine who
told me, you know. She drove all the way up to Northumberland to break
the news.'
George nodded, the light in his eyes dimming. 'I should have guessed,'
he said. 'Anne, my love, would you do me a favour? Would you leave me
and Tommy alone for a bit? Not long, quarter of an hour or so? It's just
that... we've things to talk about, love.'
Anne frowned. 'They said you weren't to tire yourself, George.'
'I know. But I'll do myself more harm fretting than I will by talking
to Tommy. Trust me, my love. I'm not dicing with death again.' He
reached for her hand and patted it gently. 'I'll explain it all, I promise.
But not now.'
Anne pursed her lips in disapproval. But she got to her feet. 'Don't
you wear him out now, Tommy.' She turned back to George. 'I'll go and
phone Paul and tell him they should come over this afternoon.'
'Thanks, my love.' George's eyes followed her to the door. Then, with
a sigh, he told Tommy to sit down. 'I was afraid she wouldn't give it up,'
he said. 'How much do you know?'
'We don't know much, but I think we've more or less worked it out.'
Tommy gave a brief outline of Catherine's investigation. 'It doesn't leave
a lot of room for doubt,' he concluded.
'It's unbelievable, isn't it? But I knew as soon as I clapped eyes on her,'
George said. 'I lived with that face for eight months and it haunted me
for years. I knew that whatever she might be calling herself, the woman
in Scardale Manor was Alison Carter. And then I realized who Helen had
to be.' His eyes closed and his chest rose and fell with his shallow breaths.
384
He opened his eyes on Tommy's concern. 'I'm OK,' he reassured him.
'I'm just tired, that's all.'
'Take your time. I'm in no hurry.'
George managed a faint smile. 'No, but I bet Catherine is. I don't
suppose there's any chance of stopping her?'
Tommy shrugged. 'I don't know. She's a tough cookie. Last night, I got
her to promise that she would consult you before she made any decisions
about what to do. But the promise had a price. I've got to go to Scardale
with her to confront the woman we all believe is Alison. Catherine's
adamant that we need all the facts, and I can't argue with that.'
'I don't care on my own account,' George said. 'It's Paul and Helen
I'm bothered about. We made a terrible mistake before they were even
born, but they're the ones who'll end up paying for it. I can't see how they
can survive it all coming out. And I don't see how Anne could forgive me
for the damage it'd cause them.'
'I know. And it's not just them, George. It's Alison too. Whatever she's
done, it's already cost her more than we'll ever know. They could still
prosecute her for conspiracy, and I don't reckon she deserves that.'
'So what's to be done, Tommy? I'm no bloody use, lying here.'
Tommy shook his head, unable to hide his frustration. 'I reckon we'll
have a better idea once we've heard what Alison has to say for herself.'
'Do what you can.' George's voice was growing weaker. 'I'm tired now.
You'd best be off.'
Tommy stood up. 'I'll do my best.'
George nodded. 'You always did, Tommy. No reason to expect any
different now.'
Feeling twenty years older than he had a mere day before, Tommy
walked out of the room towards an encounter he had never expected
that side of the grave. The last time he'd felt this burden on his shoulders
had been during the construction of the case against Philip Hawkin. This
time, he hoped he'd make a better job of it.
385

7
August 1998
The weather had swung back to the dismal grey skies and intense showers
that had been the hallmark of most of the summer. As they turned down
the Scardale road, a sudden torrent of water spilled over the car, turning
the tarmac ahead into a swirl of shallow flood water.
'Great day for it,' Tommy said laconically. He felt a turbulent mixture
of emotions. His curiosity was stirred by the prospect of uncovering the
final truth, but he was apprehensive of the possible consequences of
those revelations. He was aware of his responsibility towards George
and his family, and uncertain if he could fulfil that obligation. And he
felt enormous pity for the woman whose sanctuary they were about to
destroy. He wished with all his heart that George had never agreed to
break his silence. Or that he had chosen a less intelligent and tenacious
writer to work with.
For her part, Catherine refused to allow herself to consider anything
other than how she was going to get Janis Wainwright to tell the truth.
There would be plenty of time to figure out what she would do with the
information once she'd garnered it. Her job now was to make sure that
whatever decisions were taken later, they were made in full possession
of the facts. She checked her small tape recorder, tucked into the pocket
of her linen blazer. All she had to do was to depress the 'record' and
'play' buttons together and she'd have a perfect record of what Janis
Wainwright - or rather, Alison Carter - had to say.
They drew up outside the manor, Catherine parking across the drive
so Janis couldn't escape except on foot. In silence, they waited for the
shower to pass, then squelched across the grass to the path leading to the
kitchen door.
Tommy let the knocker fall. The door opened almost at once. Without
386

the handicap of the sun, Catherine was able to take a proper look at
the woman who faced them, a guarded look in her eyes. The scar was
incontrovertible. Almost beyond question, this was Alison Carter. The
woman opened her mouth to speak but Tommy held up his hand and
shook his head. 'I'm Tommy Clough. Formerly Detective Sergeant Clough.
We'd like to come in for a chat.'
The woman shook her head. The door began to inch shut. Tommy
placed his large hand against it, not quite pushing, but preventing it
closing further unless she leaned her weight against it. 'Don't slam the
door in our faces, Alison,' he said, his voice firm but gentle. 'Remember,
Catherine's a journalist. She already knows enough to write one version of
the story. There's no statute of limitation on conspiracy to commit murder.
And what Catherine's in a position to write now means you could still face
prosecution.'
'I've got nothing to say,' she blurted, her face closed down in panic,
the hand that wasn't holding the door creeping up automatically to
her cheek.
Sometimes, Catherine thought, brutality was the only effective route
left. 'That's fine,' she said. 'I'll just have to see what Helen can tell me.'
The woman's eyes blazed momentary anger, then her shoulders rose
and fell in a resigned shrug. She stepped to one side, holding the door
open as her mother must have done hundreds of times before her. 'Better
I correct whatever rubbish you think you know than you go upsetting
Helen without due cause,' she said, her voice cold and harsh.
Tommy stood just inside the threshold as she closed the door behind
them. 'You've made some changes here,' he said, looking round at the
farmhouse kitchen that could have featured in a period homes magazine
with almost no set dressing.
'Nothing to do with me. When my aunt owned it, she had the kitchen
done out for her tenants,' she said brusquely.
'I'm not surprised,' Tommy said. Beside him, Catherine surreptitiously
pressed the buttons on her tape recorder. 'Hawkin was happy to spend
his money on his photography - or on you, Alison, but he never spent
a shilling on your mother's comfort.'
'Why do you keep calling me Alison?' she demanded, back to the wall,
arms folded over her chest, the smile on her face attempting to demonstrate
an ease she clearly didn't feel. 'My name is Janis Wainwright.'
'Too late, Alison.' Catherine noisily pulled out a chair and sat down at
the waxed pine table. If Tommy had decided that today he was playing
387

Good Cop, she was more than willing to take up the Bad Cop role. 'You
should have trotted out the puzzled act when Tommy called you Alison
the first time. You just looked shocked, not confused. You didn't say,
"Sorry, you've got the wrong house, there's no Alison lives here."'
Alison glared at her. For the first time, Catherine noticed how much
she resembled her mother. In the photographs she'd seen, Ruth must
have been ten years younger than Alison was now, though she'd looked
older. 'You're very like your mother,' Catherine said.
'How would you know? You never met my mother,' Alison said
defiantly.
'I've seen photographs of her. She was in all the papers during the
trial.'
Alison shook her head. 'There you go again, talking nonsense. I've no
idea what you're on about, you know. My mother was never involved in
a trial in her life.'
Tommy walked across the room and stationed himself opposite her.
He shook his head with a sympathetic half-smile. 'It's too late, Alison.
There's no point in keeping up the pretence any longer.'
'What pretence? I keep telling you, I don't have the faintest idea what
you're on about.'
'Are you still claiming to be Janis Wainwright?' Catherine said coldly.
'What do you mean, claiming? What is this? I'm calling the police,' she
said, setting off for the phone.
Tommy and Catherine did nothing and said nothing. Alison opened
the phone book and looked up the number. Then she glanced over her
shoulder to see if they were going anywhere. Catherine smiled politely
and Tommy shook his head again. 'You know that's not a good idea,'
he said sadly, as her hand crept towards the phone.
'No, Tommy, let her. I really want to hear her explaining how she
managed the resurrection,' Catherine said, the epitome of sweet reason.
Alison froze. 'That's right, Alison. I know Janis died in 1959. Eleventh
of May, to be precise. It must have been hard for your Auntie Dorothy
and Uncle Sam. Hard for you too, with you and Janis being much of
an age.'
Alison's eyes were fearful now. She must have had nightmares about
this moment for years, Tommy thought with a pang of pity. And at last
it was unfolding before her. He could only imagine the fear that must
be coursing through her right now. Two strangers in her kitchen, one
with good reason to want to take revenge on her for making a fool of
388
him thirty-five years before, the other apparently hellbent on exposing
her darkest secrets to a sensation-hungry world. And Catherine wasn't
making it any easier with her aggressiveness. Somehow, he had to calm
things down, to make Alison feel that they were her best chance of
salvaging something from this appalling situation.
'Sit down, Alison,' he said kindly. 'We're not out to get you. We just
want to know the truth, that's all. If we were planning on destroying
you, we'd have gone to the police as soon as Catherine turned up Janis
Wainwright's death certificate.'
Slowly, uneasily, like an animal that expects danger, she moved across
to the table and sat at the opposite end from Catherine. 'What's any of
this to you?' she asked her.
'George Bennett's lying in hospital in Derby because of what he
saw in this house. I'm sure Helen's been on the phone to tell you,'
Catherine said.
She nodded. 'Yes. And I'm sorry. I only ever wished George Bennett
well.'
'You should never have let him come here, if you wished him well,'
Tommy said, unable to keep the edge of anger and pain out of his voice.
'You must have known he'd recognize you.'
She sighed. 'What else could I do? How could I explain to Helen that
I didn't want to meet her future in-laws? It had to be better that we got
it over with than him coming face to face with me at the wedding. But
you still haven't answered my question. What's any of this to you?'
Catherine leaned forward. Her voice was as intense as her expression.
'I've spent six months of my life working with George Bennett to tell a
story. Now I find out that we've both been manipulated into believing
a lie. George Bennett's paid a hell of a price for finding that out. And
I won't be a party to allowing that lie to persist.'
'Whatever the cost to other people? Even if it shames George Bennett?
Even if it destroys Paul Bennett and Helen too?' Alison exploded, her
composure shattering like a light bulb on a stone floor. 'And it's not just
them.' Her hand flew to her mouth in a classic gesture, her eyes widening
as she realized she had told them more than they knew.
'If you want me to hold off, you're going to have to give me a better
reason than sentimentality. It's time to talk, Alison,' Catherine said coldly.
'Time for the whole story.'
'Why should I say anything to you? This could be a trick. Everybody
knows how far hacks like you will go to get a story. How do I know you
389

know anything about me at all?' It was a last desperate throw of the dice,
and everyone in the room knew it.
Catherine opened her bag and took out print-outs of the four certificates.
'This is where we start,' she said, tossing them down the table
to Alison. They landed in an unruly flurry. Alison slowly read through
them, using the time to regain control of herself. When she looked up,
her face was impassive once more. But Catherine could see dark sweat
stains forming under the arms of her pale-green blouse.
'So?' Alison said.
Catherine took out the computer-aged photograph and slid it towards
Alison. 'According to the computers at Manchester University, this is what
Alison would look like if she was still alive. Looked in a mirror lately?'
Alison's lips parted, revealing clenched teeth and she drew in a hiss
of breath. The look she gave Catherine made her glad she had Tommy
with her.
'What we know is that you are not Janis Wainwright. Thanks to the
wonders of DNA, what can probably be proved is that you are Alison
Carter. What can definitely be proved is that Helen is not your sister but
your daughter. The daughter you had when you were barely fourteen,
following the systematic abuse and rape that you suffered at the hands of
your stepfather, Philip Hawkin. The man they hanged for your murder.
If we went to the police with what we have, they could exhume the
bodies and prove these relationships, no bother at all.' Catherine spoke
with clinical precision.
'I'm afraid she's right, Alison,' Tommy said. 'But I meant what I said.
We didn't come here to make a case against you. For the sake of everybody
involved in this, we need to know what happened. So we can all decide
together about the best way to deal with this.'
Without asking for permission, Catherine took out her cigarettes and
lit one. Tommy walked across to the draining board and brought her a
plate. The activity filled a long silence while Alison stared wordlessly at
the computer-aged photograph. Her eyes were glassy with unshed tears.
'Here's what we think happened,' Tommy said gently, sitting down
near her. 'Hawkin was abusing you, and we think you didn't know what
to do about it. You were afraid of what would happen if you told your
mum. Most kids are. But you'd already seen her lose one husband and
you were afraid she'd have the same terrible grief if you forced her to
choose between Hawkin and you. Then you fell pregnant. And your mum
realized what had happened.'
390

Alison's nod was almost imperceptible. A single tear slid from her right
eye and trickled down her cheek. She made no move to wipe it away.
'So she sent you off to live with your aunt and uncle, telling you that
from now on you had to be Janis,' Tommy continued. 'And then she set
him up. With the information you gave her, she was able to arrange for
George Bennett to stumble over the clues she'd planted. She even found
where the photographs were kept. And through it all, you kept your
silence. You endured the horrors of a pregnancy you didn't want, you
lost your childhood and you lost any chance you had of happiness. You
didn't even get to bring up your daughter as your own child. For years, the
sacrifice was bearable because it meant you all had something approaching
a decent life. And now, because of one terrible coincidence, because Paul
and Helen met and fell in love, it's all gone tragically wrong.'
Alison took a deep shuddering breath. 'You seem to have managed to
work it all out without any help from me,' she said shakily.
Tommy laid a hand on her arm. 'We're right, aren't we?'
'No, Tommy,' Catherine interjected, apparently unmoved by the emotional
scene playing itself out before her. 'There's more. We thought before we
got here that that was the whole story, but it's not, is it? You gave it away,
Alison. When you said it wasn't Just Paul and Helen whose lives could be
destroyed. There's more to this, and you're going to tell us.'
She looked up at Catherine, her eyes dark with anger. 'You're wrong.
There's nothing more to tell.'
'Oh, I think there is. And I think you're going to tell us. Because as
things stand, I'm not on your side. You and your mother murdered
Philip Hawkin. It wasn't something done on the spur of the moment,
under immediate provocation. It took months to achieve, and the pair
of you kept your mouths shut all that time. You certainly made a meal
of your revenge. But I don't see any reason why you should be protected
from the consequences of what you did. If you wanted to avoid the risk
of Helen's life being destroyed, you should have told her the truth years
ago,' Catherine said, injecting anger into her voice. She was determined
not to be diverted by Alison's pain, no matter how genuine it was. 'Now
all you've achieved is that you've risked another man's life, a good man's
life, all because your mother didn't have the courage to deal with Philip
Hawkin head on.'
Alison's head came up. 'You don't understand a damn thing,' she said
bitterly. 'You have no idea what you're talking about.'
'So help me to understand,' Catherine challenged.
39i

Alison stared at Catherine long and hard then stood up. 'I have to
fetch something. 'Don't worry,' she added as Tommy pushed his chair
back. 'I'm not going to run away. I'm not going to do anything silly.
But there's something I need to show you. Then maybe you'll believe
me when I tell you what really happened.'
She walked out of the kitchen, leaving Tommy and Catherine staring
at each other, wondering what was coming next. 'You're being a bit hard
on her,' Tommy said. 'She's been through hell. We don't have the right
to make her suffer.'
'Come on, Tommy. She's holding out on us. You have to ask what
could be worse than we already know. She's admitted to conspiring with
her mother to murder her stepfather, but there's still something locked
away inside her that she thinks is even worse.'
Tommy gave Catherine a look that bordered on the contemptuous.
'And you think you've a right to that knowledge?'
'I think we all have.'
He sighed. 'I hope we don't all live to regret this, Catherine.'
392

8
August 1998
Alison returned, carrying a locked metal file case. She unlocked it with
a key from the table drawer, flipped the top open and stepped back as
if afraid the contents might bite. Her shoulders hunched protectively as
she crossed her arms over her chest. 'I'm putting the kettle on,' she said.
'Tea or coffee?'
'Black coffee,' Catherine replied.
'Tea,' Tommy said. 'Milk, one sugar.'
'I've had my fill of what's in that box,' Alison said, turning her back
and crossing to the Aga. 'You look as much as you want, and maybe then
you won't be so bloody glib about my past,' she added, turning briefly to
glare at Catherine.
Tommy and Catherine approached with the cautious reverence of
bomb-disposal experts moving in on a suspect device. The box contained
perhaps a dozen manila envelopes, all around ten inches by eight. Tommy
pulled out the first. In straggling block capitals, the ink faded, it was
labelled, 'Mary Crowther'.
Against the routinely domestic background noises of hot drinks being
made, Tommy inserted his thumb under the tucked-in flap of the envelope.
He tipped the contents on to the table. There were a dozen black and
white photographs, some strips of negatives and two contact sheets. These
were not happy portraits of an innocent seven-year-old girl. They were
obscene parodies of adult sexuality, lewd poses that turned Catherine's
stomach. In one, Philip Hawkin appeared, his hand thrusting between
the weeping child's legs.
There were envelopes for Mary's nine-year-old brother Paul; for
thirteen-year-old Janet, eight-year-old Shirley, six-year-old Pauline, and
even three-year-old Tom Carter; for Brenda and Sandra Lomas, aged seven
393

and five; and for four-year-old Amy Lomas. The horror contained in those
envelopes was almost beyond their comprehension. It was a guided tour
of a hell Catherine would rather not have known about. Her legs gave
way and she slumped into a chair, her face white and strained.
Tommy turned his face away and shuffled the envelopes back into the
file box. Now he understood the primeval urge to destroy Philip Hawkin.
What had been done to Alison had been bad enough. But this was infinitely
worse in its scale and its depravity. If he had seen these photographs
thirty-five years before, he doubted whether he'd have been able to keep
his hands away from the man's throat.
Alison dumped a tray on the table. 'If you want something stronger,
you'll have to go to thpub at Longnor. I don't keep alcohol in the
house. In my early twenties, I had a bad patch when the world looked
better through a glass. Then I realized it was just another way of letting
him win. Damned if I was going to do that after all we'd been through.'
Her voice was cold and hard, but her lips quivered as she spoke.
She poured out coffee and tea and sat down at the opposite end of
the table from Catherine and Tommy and the Pandora's box she'd gifted
them. 'You wanted the truth,' she said. 'Now it's going to be your burden
too. See how you like living with it.' Catherine stared dumbly at her, only
barely beginning to realize the weight of the curse she had brought on
her own head. Images engraved on her mind's eye, she already knew she
had condemned herself to nightmares.
Tommy said nothing, his head bowed, his eyes hidden beneath his
heavy brows. He knew he was still numb from shock and wished that
state would never pass.
'I don't know how to tell this story,' Alison said wearily. 'It's been in
my head for thirty-five years but I've had no practice. Once it was all
over, none of us ever spoke of it again. I see Kathy Lomas every day I'm
in Scardale, and we never mention it. Even with you coming round and
digging up old memories, we've none of us sat down and talked about it.
We did what we thought we had to do, but that doesn't mean we didn't
feel guilty. And guilt isn't something anybody finds easy to share. I learned
that from personal experience long before I studied psychology.'
She pushed her hair back from her face and looked Catherine in the
eye. 'I never thought we'd get away with it. I lived every day in fear of
the knock at the door. I remember my real mum ringing up Dorothy to
talk about what was happening with the investigation. Every day she'd
phone. And she was on pins because George Bennett was such a good,
394
honest copper. He was so persistent, she said. She was convinced he was
going to work out what was really going on. But he never did.'
Tommy raised his head. 'You all lied like you were born to it,' he said
stonily. 'Come on, Alison, you might as well let us have the rest of it.'
Alison sighed. 'You have to remember what life was like in the nineteensixties.
Child abuse didn't exist inside families or communities. It was
something that some pervert, some stranger, might do. But if you'd gone
to your teacher or your doctor or the village bobby and said the squire of
Scardale was fucking and buggering all the village kids, you'd have been
locked up for being mentally ill.
'You also have to remember that Philip Hawkin owned us, lock, stock
and barrel. He owned our livelihoods, our homes. Under old Squire
Castleton, we'd grown up in a feudal system, more or less. Not even
the grown-ups questioned the squire. And we were little kids. We didn't
know we could tell on the new squire. And we none of us knew about
the others, not for sure. We were all too terrified to talk about what was
happening, even to each other.
'He was a shrewd bastard, you see. He'd never shown any signs of being
a paedophile when he was courting my mother. He never had much time
for me before he married her. He was nice enough, buying me things. But
he never bothered me at all. I'm convinced the only reason he married my
mother was a way of covering his back. If any of us had dared to speak
out against him, he could have played the outraged innocent, the happily
married man.' She stabbed a finger at Tommy. 'And you lot would have
believed him.'
Tommy sighed and nodded. 'You're probably right.'
'I know I'm right. Anyway, like I say, he never came near me before the
wedding. But as soon as they were married, it was a different story. Then
it was, "little girls have to show their fathers how grateful they are for all
he does for them," and all that sort of pernicious emotional blackmail.
'But I wasn't enough for him. That bastard Hawkin was abusing each
and every one of us. Except Derek. I think Derek was that little bit too
old for him to fancy.' She cupped her hands round her mug of tea and
sighed again. 'And we all kept our mouths shut. We were bewildered and
terrified, but none of us knew what to do.
'And then one day, my mother asked me why I'd not been using
the sanitary towels she'd bought me when my first period had started.
I told her I'd not had another period since. She started asking questions,
and it all came out. What he'd been doing to me, how he'd been
395

taking pictures of himself doing it to me. And she realized I must be
pregnant.'
Alison took a sip of her tea to ease the huskiness in her voice and
compose herself. 'Next time he went into Stockport for the day, she
ransacked his darkroom. And that's when she found the rest of the
pictures, in his stupid bloody safe. She knew then what he was. She
got all the adults together and showed them the photographs. You can
imagine what it was like. People were baying for Hawkin's blood. The
women were all for castrating him and letting him bleed to death. The
men talked about killing him and making it look like a farm accident.
'It was old Ma Lomas that talked sense into them. She said that if we
killed him, somebody would have to take the blame. Even if he died under
a tractor, it wouldn't be written off as just another farm accident. It would
be investigated, because he was important. He was the squire, not just
some farm labourer who didn't count for anything. One little slip, and
somebody from the village would end up in the dock, especially once it
became obvious I was pregnant. Besides, she reckoned he wouldn't suffer
nearly enough from a quick death.
'The other thing everybody was worried about was that if it came out
about the other kids, they'd all be taken into care because their parents
hadn't looked after them properly. They reckoned outsiders wouldn't
understand life in the dale, how the kids more or less ran wild as they
pleased because it was such a safe place with no traffic and next to no
strangers, even at the height of summer.
'So they talked about it all that day, and eventually, somebody remembered
reading a story in the paper about a missing girl. I don't know
whose idea it was, but they decided then that I should go missing and
they'd arrange it so that it looked like he'd killed me. Because they knew
he had a gun, and because of the photographs of me, they knew he'd hang
if they could make it stick. And that way, it wouldn't have to come out
about the other kids, so they wouldn't have the pain of going through it
all for the police.'
Alison sighed. 'That was the end of my life as I'd known it. The plans
were made quickly. It was mostly my mum and Kathy and Ma Lomas
who worked it out, but they thought of everything. My Auntie Dorothy
and Uncle Sam in Consett were roped in. Auntie Dorothy had been a
nurse, so she knew how to take blood. She came over a few days before
I disappeared and took a pint from me. They used that to mark the tree
in the wood, and to stain one of Hawkin's shirts. They had to delay the
396

discovery of the shirt and my underclothes because they needed his semen.
They knew they'd get it eventually because he always used a condom when
he went with my mother.' She gave a bitter laugh. 'He didn't want kids
of his own. Anyway, my mother eventually got him to have sex with her.
She had to plead with him that she needed it for comfort. So they used the
sperm in the condom to stain my clothes. They didn't know how much
the scientists could tell from the blood and the semen, but they wanted
to make sure they didn't trip up on the details.
'And of course, everybody had to be clear about their stories. They all
had their roles to play, and they had to get it right. The little kids were
kept in the dark, but Derek and Janet were in on it too. Kathy spent hours
with them, making sure they knew how important it was not to let anything
slip. Me, I wandered round in a daze most of the time. I kept taking Shep
out for walks, trying to memorize everything I knew I was going to lose.
I felt so guilty all the time. All this upheaval, everybody wound up like
clock springs, and all I could think was that it was all my fault.' She bit
her lip and closed her eyes momentarily. 'It took me a long time and a lot
of therapy to understand that I wasn't the one to blame. But at the time,
I really, really hated myself.' She hesitated briefly, her eyes glistening with
tears again. She blinked hard, brusquely rubbed a hand across her eyes
and continued.
'While all this was going on in the dale, Dorothy and Sam arranged to
move house from Consett to Sheffield the same week the disappearance
was planned so the new neighbours wouldn't realize I wasn't really their
Janis. It was pretty easy in 1963.' Alison paused for a moment, her eyes
looking inward as if searching for the next chapter in her tragic tale.
'The glory days of full employment,' Tommy muttered.
'That's right. Sam was a skilled steel worker and it wasn't hard for
him to walk into a new job. And back then, houses went with jobs,'
Alison said.
'The day it was all set for, Sam waited for me up by the Methodist
Chapel in his Land Rover. He drove me to Sheffield, and I moved in with
them. They put it about that I'd had TB and I had to stay indoors and
not mix with folk until I was completely better again, so nobody would
find out about the pregnancy. As time went on, Dorothy padded herself
up so she'd look pregnant.'
Alison closed her eyes and a spasm of pain crossed her face. 'It was
so hard,' she said, looking up and meeting Catherine's eyes. It was the
writer who looked away first. 'I lost everything. I lost my family, my
397

friends, my future. I lost Scardale. Strange things were happening to my
body, and I hated it. My mum couldn't even come and visit until after
the trial because nobody in the village had mentioned the existence of
the Wainwrights to the police, and she didn't want to have to explain
where she was going. Dorothy and Sam were really good to me, but it
never made up for what I'd lost. It was drummed into me that I had to
go through with it for the sake of all the other children in Scardale; that
we were doing it so Hawkin could never hurt another child the way he'd
hurt me.'
'It made a kind of sense, I suppose,' Catherine said dully.
Alison sipped more tea and said defiantly, 'I'm not ashamed of what
we did.' Neither Tommy nor Catherine said anything.
Alison pushed her hair back from her face again and continued her
story. 'Helen was born in my bedroom one afternoon in June, just a couple
of weeks before that bastard Hawkin's trial. Sam registered her as being his
and Dorothy's child, and they brought her up like that, thinking I was her
big sister and Dorothy was her mum. A couple of years went by, then I got
a job in an office.' A wry smile appeared for the first time that morning. 'A solicitor's office, would you believe? You'd think I'd have had my fill
of the law, wouldn't you? Anyway, I went to night classes to catch up on
the stuff I'd missed at school. I even did an Open University degree. I
did some training in occupational psychology and eventually set myself
up in business. And every step of the way felt like a spit in the eye to
that bastard. But it was never enough, you know?
'My real mum came and lived with us after Hawkin was hanged. I was
glad of that. I really needed her. She didn't want to go back to Scardale,
so she set up the Scardale Trust to administer the estate. She kept this
place, though. She knew I'd want to come back one day. We kept Helen
in the dark about the Scardale connection. She thinks to this day that
Ruth and her husband lived just outside Sheffield. Ruth told her that
Roy had been cremated, so there was no grave for her to visit. Helen
never questioned it.
'When my mother died, the manor went to Dorothy on the understanding
that it was meant for me and Helen, and when Dorothy died,
it came to us. Helen thinks I'm mad, living in this backwater. But it's my
home, and it was lost to me for so long, I just want to enjoy it now.'
She stared into her tea. 'So now you know.'
Catherine frowned. She knew there must be so many questions she
should ask, but she could think of none.
398

'And every time you look at Helen, you must see him staring back at
you,' Tommy said.
The muscles along Alison's jaw bunched as she clenched her teeth.
'When she was little, it wasn't so obvious,' she finally said. 'By the time
she'd really started to resemble him, I'd learned that I could use that to
help me. That bastard destroyed my childhood, he deprived me of my
family and friends. He would have killed me if he'd discovered I was
pregnant, I know he would. He was the powerful one, I was the weak
one. So I never want to forget the way I helped turn the tables. Let me
tell you, taking your own life is a very powerful thing. And that's what I
did. But it's a lot easier to lose control over your life than it is to win it.
That's why I wanted to make sure I never got complacent, never lost sight
of my past. So I learned to be glad Helen was there as a constant reminder
that we'd fought back against the man who tried to strip us of everything
that made us who we were,' she said passionately. After a long pause, she
said, almost in a tone of wonder, 'And you know, there's nothing of him
in her. She's got all my mother's strength and goodness. As if everything
that made my mother special jumped a generation into her skin.'
Tommy cleared his throat, obviously moved by Alison's story. 'So the
whole village was in on the conspiracy?'
'All the adults,' she confirmed. 'Ma Lomas said everyone had to pretend
they didn't trust the police to begin with, and only let stuff trickle out
gradually. You and George Bennett were a bonus, really. They couldn't
have predicted that they'd get a pair of cops who'd become so obsessed
by the case that they wouldn't give up. It meant the villagers really could
hold back and know that they wouldn't have to go chasing the police to
get them to pick up the threads after things had gone quiet initially.'
Tommy shook his head, bemused by the terrible irony. 'We were the
victims of our own integrity.' He gave a half-smile. 'It's not often you
can say that about coppers. But if we'd been less determined to get a
result, to see justice done, you'd never have got away with a conspiracy
on this scale.'
For a moment, nobody said anything. Alison got up and walked over
to the window. She stared across the village green into the dale she'd set
out from on a December night thirty-five years before and had obviously
never stopped loving. Now she possessed it again, Catherine thought, but
she'd paid a terrible price. Eventually, Alison dragged her eyes away from
the view, straightened her shoulders and said, 'So, what now?'
'That's a hell of a good question,' Tommy said.
399

9
August 1998
Catherine and Tommy bought another bottle of Bushmills on the way
back to the cottage. Suitable equipment for a wake, she thought. Tonight
they would bury once and for all the ghost of Alison Carter. Tomorrow
they would each have a hangover, though that would be the least
of their worries, Catherine suspected. But tonight, she wanted to be
insensible by the time her head hit the pillow. Anything to escape that
parade of horror and degradation that Philip Hawkin had bequeathed to
the world.
When she closed the door behind them, Catherine spoke for the first
time since they'd left Alison Carter to her memories. 'Well, that's it,' she
said. 'We got the truth.' She crossed to the sideboard and poured them
both stiff whiskeys.
Tommy accepted his glass in silence. He was staring at the wall of
photographs, facing the bitter knowledge that Ma Lomas and her clan
had managed to fool the world long enough to send Philip Hawkin down
the terrible road that led to judicial murder. It gave him no satisfaction
to realize that his own gut instinct had been right about Hawkin. The
man hadn't been a killer, after all.
Faced with the photographs Alison had devastated them with, Catherine
could not resist the conclusion that the villagers of Scardale had had
right on their side when they turned their sleepy backwater into a
place of execution. They had known that nothing but death would
stop Hawkin and save the other children he would lure into his grasp.
Even sending their own children away would not have prevented him
from continuing. He would have found other children to destroy; he
had both the power and the money to do what he would with witnesses
who would not be believed even if they could bring themselves to speak.
400
'It never occurred to me that there would be others,' Catherine said
bleakly.
'No.' Tommy turned away from the accusing photographs and slumped
into a chair.
'I can't find it in me to blame them for what they did,' Catherine
said.
'In their place, I wouldn't have had second thoughts about joining in,'
Tommy acknowledged.
'The terrible irony is that compared to what Alison's gone through,
Philip Hawkin's suffering was blessedly brief. She's lived with it every
day of her life since then. She lost so much, and always at the back of
her mind there must have been the fear that one day she was going to
open the door and find somebody like me on the other side.' Catherine
picked up the whiskey bottle and put it on the table between them.
They sat in stunned silence, like the survivors of a terrible accident
who can't quite take in their lucky escape. Both remained locked in their
thoughts for the time it took them to smoke a handful of cigarettes apiece.
'George was right,' Catherine finally said. 'I can't go ahead with the book.
Sure, I'd get all the glory for revealing that such a famous case was
built on lies and deceit. But I can't do that to George and Anne. It's
not just the shame it would bring to George, but the pain it would give
him to watch Helen and Paul disintegrate. And all the surviving Scardale
villagers would face prosecution for conspiracy, not just Alison.' Like a
Greek tragedy, she thought, the reverberations of what had happened in
Scardale thirty-five years before would shake apart other lives far distant
from that afternoon, innocent lives who deserved protection from a past
that was no fault of theirs.
Tommy drained his glass and refilled it. 'I'll drink to that,' he said. 'I
don't think anybody would argue with you.'
'You can go and tell George in the morning,' Catherine said.
'Don't you want to tell him yourself?'
She shook her head. 'I've got enough to do, trying to get us out of the
book contract without explaining the real reason. No, Tommy, you tell
him. It's only right. If it hadn't been for you, I don't know if I'd ever
have worked out that Helen was Alison's daughter by Hawkin. And then
I wouldn't have had the leverage to get her to talk. Or any reason to keep
silence now. So you deserve the credit.'
He snorted. 'Credit? For taking the lid off this can of worms? I'll pass,
if it's all the same to you. But I'll be happy to tell George that nobody's
401

going to blow Paul and Helen's lives to bits. I know how much it will
mean to him. I'll spare him the details, though.'
Catherine reached for the bottle. "That'd be a good idea,' she said,
pouring another inch of whiskey into her tumbler. 'And then I suggest
we all do our best to forget the last few days ever happened.'
402
10
October 1998
George Bennett stared through the windscreen. It was late October, and
now the leaves were off the trees, the field gateway he had pulled into gave
a clear view down the dale to the village of Scardale. The familiar grey
cottages looked like an organic part of the landscape from this distance,
reminding him how the peculiarities of topography had shaped the social
world of the village he'd first entered thirty-five years before. He gazed
across the fields to Scardale Manor and thought about the woman who
was about to become his son's official sister-in-law. Some might think
she - and the others who had taken part  deserved to be punished for
the conspiracy that had hanged a man who, whatever his other crimes,
had been innocent of murder. But George didn't care about retribution.
He cared about the future more than the past. There was nothing like
staring his own death in the face to make a man value his life.
That was why he was making this trip today. Only three days before, the
doctor had agreed that he could start to drive again, provided he didn't
undertake any long journeys. Cromford to Scardale wasn't a long journey
in terms of distance, he had reasoned. The distance here was all emotional
and psychological, a span of thirty-five years and a compass of passions
too complex to be calculated. Four days ahead lay the wedding that could
finally resolve this dreadful history, and George was determined to do all
he could to make sure the ghosts were laid to rest at last. And so he had
phoned the woman he would never be able to call by her real name after
today and asked for a meeting.
Thirty-five years ago, he had first travelled this narrow road. Even
then, his feelings had been mixed. He remembered with bitter irony
his excitement at the possibility of taking charge of his first big case, a
guilty excitement mixed with his concern both for the missing girl and
403

her family. Not even in his wildest imaginings could he have foreseen
how the disappearance of Alison Carter would come back to threaten not only his own peace of mind, but also the future happiness of his
beloved son.
One of the deeper ironies of the events of the last year had been the
replacement of one guilt with another. He had always carried the conviction
that he had somehow failed Ruth Carter until the process of working
through the case with Catherine had finally allowed him to understand
that he had done the best he could have done in the circumstances. But
now he knew what had truly been happening in Scardale over that bitter
winter, he was oppressed by a fresh burden. Surely there were points in
the investigation at which he could have realized something was going
on that went far beyond the surface he was being shown? Had he been
so blinded by his arrogance and his obsession with getting a conviction
that he'd missed pointers that a more experienced detective would have
picked up on? And if he had uncovered the truth, would it have given
Alison Carter a better life than she'd otherwise endured?
Tommy Clough had assured him that wasn't the case, that he'd been
taken in every bit as much as George himself. But that was no real consolation.
Tommy, he felt sure, would have said that anyway as reassurance
to a sick man.
Whatever his past failings, he had to find a way to reconcile himself
to them. Whether his damaged heart would give him months or years to
live, he didn't want that time to be contaminated with self-recrimination
beyond bearing. He needed to forgive himself, and perhaps the first step
on that journey was for him and Alison Carter to forgive each other for
pains real and imagined.
With a deep sigh, George put his car in gear and slowly edged back on
to the Scardale road. No matter what the future might hold, it was time
to take the first step on the road to burying the past, this time for ever.