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Thursday, 12^th 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 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 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 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?’

‘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.’

‘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, 12^th December 1963, p.1.

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 Scar-dale Manor where she lives with her mother 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 comb-out 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 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 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 of WPCs 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.

‘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. If Alison 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 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 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.