A Place of Execution (37 page)

‘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.’

‘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?’

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 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.’

‘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 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.

‘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.’

‘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?’