A Place of Execution (1999) (19 page)

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.

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…

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 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, 13
th
December 1963. 9.47
PM

G
eorge 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.

‘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.’

‘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.’

Friday, 13
th
December 1963. 10.26
PM

G
eorge 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 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.’