Читать книгу Val McDermid 3-Book Crime Collection: A Place of Execution, The Distant Echo, The Grave Tattoo - Val McDermid, Val McDermid - Страница 25

Friday, 13^th 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 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 Courant?’ 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.

‘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.’

‘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, 14^th 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.

‘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 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 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 if Madame Charest is right? What if Alison 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 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 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. 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-the-moment 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.