A Place of Execution (1999) (34 page)

After he’d given his evidence and suffered the whip of Highsmith’s 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.

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 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 11
th
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, 28
th
February 1964

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.

The Trial 1

High Peak Courant, Friday, 12
th
June 1964

Peak Murder Trial Next Week

The trial of Scardale 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 11
th
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 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.

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.