Читать книгу Val McDermid 3-Book Crime Collection: A Place of Execution, The Distant Echo, The Grave Tattoo - Val McDermid, Val McDermid - Страница 27

Saturday, 14^th December 1963. 10.24 a.m.

The purgatory of the press conference was over sooner than George had feared, thanks to the brisk military approach of Superintendent Martin. He dealt with Peter Crowther’s death with a laconic expression of regret. When one of the reporters had challenged him about unofficial leaks to the Courant, Martin had turned his artillery on the man.

‘The Courant’s reckless speculation was of its own making,’ he said in a parade-ground voice that was clearly unaccustomed to dissent. ‘Had they checked the rumour they had picked up, they would have been told exactly what every other reporter was told – that a man had been brought to the police station for questioning for his own comfort and had been released without a stain on his character. I will not have my officers turned into scapegoats for the irresponsibility of the press. Now, we have a missing girl to find. I’m taking questions relevant to that inquiry.’

There were a few routine questions, then inevitably Don Smart’s foxy features twitched into view as he raised his head from his notebook. ‘I don’t know if you’ve seen the story in this morning’s News?’

Martin’s bark of laughter was as harsh as his words. ‘Until I met you, sir, the only harlots I had met in peacetime had all been women. Though maybe I’m not so wide of the mark in spite of the whiskers, because all your work is good for, sir, is for filling the columns of the most sensationalist women’s magazine. I will not dignify your feeble attempts at stirring up contention with a comment. Except to say that it is rubbish, sir, arrant rubbish. I was tempted to ban you from these press conferences altogether but I have been reluctantly persuaded by my colleagues that to do so would give you the very notoriety you crave. So you may stay, but do not forget that the purpose of our gathering here is to find a young, vulnerable girl missing from home, not to sell more copies of your vile little rag.’

By the end of his tirade, Martin’s neck was the scarlet of a rooster’s crest. Don Smart merely shrugged and dropped his eyes to his notebook again. ‘I’ll take that as a “no comment”, then,’ he said softly.

Martin had brought the conference to a swift end shortly afterwards. As the reporters filed out, muttering among themselves and comparing notes, George braced himself. Now the superintendent had warmed up against Smart, he expected to be shredded and left for dead. Martin fingered the salt-and-pepper bristles of his moustache and stared at George. Without taking his eyes off him, he took his Capstans from his pocket and lit one. ‘Well?’ he said.

‘Sir?’

‘Your version of yesterday’s events.’

George briefly outlined his personal involvement with Crowther. ‘So I instructed Sergeant Clough to tell the duty officer in Buxton that Crowther should be released. We agreed that the duty officer should also be asked to spread the word both to the press and locally through the beat officers that there was no suspicion attaching to Crowther.’

‘You had not seen the story in the Courant?’ Martin demanded.

‘No, sir. We’d been out in Scardale all day. The paper doesn’t reach there till Saturday and we’d had no opportunity to see the early edition.’

‘And the duty officer said nothing to Sergeant Clough about the story?’

‘He can’t have done. If he had, Clough would have come back to me before authorizing the man’s release.’

‘You’re sure of that?’

‘You’d have to check with Clough, sir, but based on my knowledge of him, he’d have regarded any such story as a change in circumstances that might affect the decision I’d taken.’ George registered the frown on Martin’s face and prepared himself for the onslaught.

It never came. Instead, Martin simply nodded. ‘I had a feeling it must have been a breakdown in communication. So. Two black marks against us. One, that one of our officers told the press something they should never have known. Two, that the duty officer failed to give officers in the field information relevant to their decision-making. We should be thankful that Mr Crowther’s family is too preoccupied with their other loss to give much thought to our role in his death. What are your plans for today?’

George gestured with his thumb at a short stack of cardboard boxes by one of the trestle tables. ‘I arranged for the witness statements from Buxton to be brought over here so I can go through them and still be on the spot if the searches produce anything.’

‘They’ll be finished searching by four, won’t they?’

‘Thereabouts,’ George said, puzzled by the question.

‘If they turn up nothing fresh, I expect you to be home by five.’

‘Sir?’

‘I’m aware of the way you and Clough have been working this case, and I see no reason why you should kill yourselves. You’re both off duty tonight, and that’s an order. You have an important day tomorrow, I want you rested for it.’

‘Tomorrow, sir?’

Martin tutted impatiently. ‘Has no one told you? My God, we need to do something about the communications in this division. Tomorrow, Bennett, we have the pleasure of entertaining two officers from other forces – one from Manchester and one from Cheshire. As you were doubtless aware even before Mr Smart of the Daily News drew our attention to the matter, both forces have had recent cases of puzzling disappearances of young people. They are interested in meeting to discuss whether there appear to be any significant connections between their cases and ours.’

George’s heart sank. Wasting his time being diplomatic with other forces wasn’t going to help him to find what had happened to Alison Carter. Manchester City Police had had over five months to try and find Pauline Reade and Cheshire had been searching for John Kilbride for a good three weeks without any result. The detectives on those cases were simply clutching at straws. They were more concerned with appearing to be pursuing some sort of action on their own dead-ended cases than they were with helping his inquiry. If he’d been a betting man, he’d have put money on the meeting already being the subject of a press release from the other two forces. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if DCI Carver handled the meeting?’ he asked desperately.

Martin eyed his cigarette with a look of distaste. ‘Your knowledge of the details of the case is altogether superior,’ he said shortly. He turned away and started walking towards the door. ‘Eleven o’clock, at divisional HQ,’ he said, without turning back or raising his voice.

George stood staring at the door for long moments after Martin’s straight-backed exit. He felt a mixture of anger and despair. Already other people were writing off Alison’s disappearance as insoluble. Whether it could be connected to the other cases or not, it was clear that his superiors no longer expected him to find her at all, never mind to find her alive. Clenching his jaw, he yanked a chair towards the file boxes and began the task of reading the remaining witness statements. It was probably pointless, he knew. But there was a slim chance it might not be. And slim chances felt like the only ones he had left.

Sunday, 15^th December 1963. 10.30 a.m.

For once, one of the papers had got it right. Every copy of the Sunday Standard contained a 12″ by 19″ poster. Extra copies had been distributed to every newsagent in the country, and every one that George had passed on his way to the police station was displaying it prominently. Under the thick black headline:

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL?

the paper had reproduced one of Philip Hawkin’s excellent portraits of Alison. The text beneath read:

Alison Carter has been missing from her home in Scardale village, Derbyshire, since half past four on Wednesday 11^th December.

Description: 13 years old, 5ft, slim build, blonde hair, blue eyes, pale complexion, with slanting scar running across right eyebrow; wearing navy duffel coat over school uniform of black blazer, maroon cardigan, maroon skirt, white blouse, black and maroon tie, black woollen tights and black sheepskin boots.

Any information to Derbyshire County Police office at Buxton or any police officer.

That was how journalists could help the police, George thought. He hoped Don Smart had choked over his breakfast when the poster had slid out of his copy of the Sunday Standard. He also wondered how many homes in the area would be displaying the poster by nightfall. He reckoned there would be more pictures of Alison Carter visible in High Peak windows than there were Christmas trees.

It was a good start to the day, he thought cheerfully. It had already started well. Since he hadn’t had to rush out of the door before first light, he and Anne had had the chance to wake naturally and lie chatting comfortably. He’d brought a pot of tea upstairs and they’d had a rare companionable hour that had set the seal on the evening they’d spent together. If he’d been asked in advance, George would have vehemently denied that he could have put Alison Carter from his mind for more than a minute or two. But somehow, Anne’s unfussy company had allowed him to switch off from the frustrations of his investigation. They’d had a candlelit supper, then listened to the radio cuddled up on the sofa together, giving tentative shape to their dreams for their unborn child. It had been too short a respite, but it had left him refreshed, his confidence restored in spite of a restless sleep.

George fixed the poster to the CID notice board with drawing pins borrowed from some of the official notices. It would be a striking reminder to the visiting detectives that his case was very much alive. ‘That looks well.’ Tommy Clough’s voice echoed across the room as the door swung shut behind him. He shrugged out of his overcoat and slung it over the coatstand.

‘I’d no idea they were planning this,’ George said, tapping the poster with his fingernail.

‘It was all fixed up yesterday morning,’ Clough said carelessly, fastening the top button of his shirt and tightening his tie as he crossed the room.

George shook his head. ‘I wish I was plugged into your grapevine, Tommy. Nothing happens here that gets past you.’

Clough grinned. ‘By the time you’ve been here as long as I have, you’ll have forgotten more than I’ll ever know. I only found out about the posters because I was walking through the front office when the messenger came to pick up the photo. I meant to tell you, but it slipped my mind. Sorry, sir.’

George turned and offered his cigarettes. ‘With us working so closely together on this, you might as well make it George when we’re on our own.’

Clough took a cigarette and cocked his head to one side. ‘Right you are, George.’

Before they could say more, the door swung open again and Superintendent Martin marched in. He was followed by two men dressed almost identically in navy suits, trilby hats and trench coats. In spite of their similar outfits, there was no prospect of confusing them. One had broad shoulders and a thick torso carried on legs that were almost comically short, barely allowing him to make the height requirement of five feet eight inches. The other topped six feet but looked as if he’d disappear if he stood behind a telegraph pole. Martin introduced them. The burly man was Detective Chief Inspector Gordon Parrott from Manchester City Police; the other, Detective Chief Inspector Terry Quirke from the Cheshire County force.

Martin left them to it, promising to have tea sent up from the canteen. At first, the four men were wary as strange dogs on their best behaviour in an unfamiliar parlour. Gradually, however, as they offered details of their own operations without anyone finding fault, they began to relax. A couple of hours later, all four were agreed that there was almost as much reason to suppose the three missing children had been snatched by one individual as there was to suppose there were three separate perpetrators. ‘Which is to say, we haven’t got grounds to say anything one way or the other,’ Parrott said glumly.

‘Except that you don’t often get cases where there’s nothing at all to show what’s happened,’ George said. ‘Which is what you two have got. At least I’ve got the dog tied up in one piece of woodland and the signs of a struggle in another. That’s the crucial element that separates Alison Carter’s disappearance from Pauline Reade and John Kilbride.’

There was a grumble of agreement round the table. ‘I tell you something,’ Clough added, ‘I’d put money on Pauline and John being lifted by somebody in a car. Maybe even two somebodies. One to drive and one to subdue the victim. If the abductor had been on foot, there would have had to have been witnesses. To get into a car, that’s a matter of seconds. But in spite of that old couple in Longnor who saw the Land Rover parked up by the chapel, I don’t see how that can have happened to Alison. A kidnapper couldn’t carry her all the way from Scardale woods to the Methodist Chapel, not unless he was built like Tarzan. And there were no strange vehicles seen in the village that afternoon.’

‘And they would have been seen,’ George confirmed. ‘If a mouse sneezed in Scardale, it’d have half a dozen home-made cold remedies to choose from before it could blow its nose.’

Parrott sighed. ‘We’ve wasted your time.’

George shook his head. ‘Funnily enough, you haven’t. It’s clarified my thinking. I know now what we haven’t got. The more I’ve talked and listened this morning, the more certain I am that we’re not dealing with a stranger abduction. Whatever happened to Alison, she knew who she was dealing with.’

Monday, 16^th December 1963. 7.40 a.m.

The buoyant mood that had sustained George through another day’s fruitless searching vanished with the Monday-morning edition of the Daily News. This time, Don Smart’s tame clairvoyant had earned him the front page.

LOST GIRL: FRENCH SEER GIVES DRAMATIC CLUE Exclusive by a Staff Reporter

Investigations into the disappearance of 13-year-old Alison Carter took a dramatic turn today as a clairvoyant gave police vital new leads to her whereabouts.

Madame Colette Charest has given details of what she believed were Alison’s movements when she disappeared five days ago from the tiny Derbyshire hamlet of Scardale.

Speaking from her home in Lyons, France, Mme Charest gave her findings based on an Ordnance Survey map of the district, a photograph of the pretty blonde girl and on newspaper cuttings from the News.

Impressed

The details were passed on last night to Detective Chief Inspector M. C. Carver, who heads the team of detectives investigating the mysterious disappearance. He said, ‘We cannot afford to ignore anything. Her report looks impressive.’

Mme Charest has amazed French police with her clairvoyant powers which have assisted in previous hunts.

The 47-year-old French widow said she ‘saw’ Alison walking through woodland with a man she knew. He was aged between 35 and 45, with dark hair.

She said Alison had been waiting for the man by water and that she had been sad and afraid.

Still alive

Most remarkably, Mme Charest persisted in her conviction that Alison is still alive and safe. ’She is living in a city. She is in a house that is one of a row of brick houses on a hill.

’She arrived there in something like a small van. It was night when she arrived and she has not been outside since she got there. She is not free to leave but she is not in pain.

‘There is a school playground near the house. She can hear the children playing and that makes her sad.’

Meanwhile, teams of volunteers worked tirelessly with police officers and mountain rescue teams searching the dales and moorland round Scardale.

Dogs and grappling irons were used to check a large expanse of moorland which contains several ponds and wells.

DCI Carver said, ’We are spreading the search as widely as possible.

’The public are cooperating magnificently but we still need positive information about Alison’s movements after she left home with her dog on Wednesday afternoon.

‘Perhaps this new information might jog somebody’s memory. No matter how insignificant it may seem, we want to hear from members of the public who might know something.’

‘What does Carver think he’s playing at?’ he grumbled to Anne. ‘The last thing we want is to encourage this sort of thing. We’ll be swamped by every half-baked fortune teller in the country.’

Anne placidly buttered her toast and said, ‘Most likely they twisted what he said.’

‘You’re probably right,’ George conceded. He folded the paper and pushed it across the table towards his wife as he rose. ‘I’m off now. Expect me when you see me.’

‘Try and get home at a decent time, George. I don’t want you to start getting into the habit of working all the hours God sends. I don’t want our baby growing up never knowing who its father is. I’ve listened to the way the other wives talk about their husbands. It’s almost as if they’re talking about distant relatives that they don’t like very much. It sounds like these men treat their homes as a last resort, somewhere to go when the pubs and clubs are shut. The women say even holidays are a strain. Every year it’s like going away with a stranger who spends the whole time fretting and sulking. That or drinking and gambling.’

George shook his head. ‘I’m not that sort of man, you know that.’

‘I don’t suppose most of them thought that’s what they were getting into when they were newlyweds,’ Anne said drily. ‘Yours isn’t a job like any other. You don’t leave it behind at the end of the working day. I just want to make sure you remember there’s more to your life than catching criminals.’

‘How could I forget, when I’ve got you to come home to?’ He bent over to kiss her. She smelled sweet, like warm biscuits. It was, he knew now, her particular morning fragrance. She’d told him his odour was faintly musky, like the fur of a clean cat. That’s when he’d realized that everybody had their own distinctive scent. He wondered if the memory of her daughter’s aromatic signature was yet another of the things that tortured Ruth Hawkin. Stifling a sigh, he gave Anne a quick hug and hurried out to the car before his emotions spilled over.

Swinging by the divisional headquarters to pick up Tommy Clough, George decided to give the morning press conference a miss. Superintendent Martin was far better at handling Don Smart than he’d ever be, and the last thing he needed was to be sucked into the public confrontation his anger made almost inevitable. ‘Let’s go and talk to the Hawkins,’ he said to his sergeant. ‘They must know in their hearts that hope’s running out. They won’t be wanting to admit it, either to themselves or to anybody else. We owe it to them to be honest about the situation.’

The wipers swept the rain off the windscreen with mindless monotony as they headed off over the moors towards Scardale. At last, Clough said gloomily, ‘She’s not going to be out there in this and still be alive.’

‘She’s not going to be anywhere and still be alive. It’s not like abducting a little kid that you can terrify and shut up in a cellar somewhere. Keeping a teenage girl in captivity is in a different league altogether. Besides, sex killers don’t want to wait for their gratification. They want it now. And if she’d been kidnapped by somebody who was idiot enough to think Hawkin had enough money to make a ransom worthwhile, there would have been a ransom note by now.’ George sighed as he raised a hand to greet the dripping constable who still stood guard at the gate into Scardale. ‘Never mind the Hawkins. We’ve got to face up to the fact that it’s a body we’re looking for now.’

The slap of the wipers was all that broke the silence until they pulled up on the village green alongside the caravan. The two men ran through the rain and huddled under the tiny porch waiting for Ruth Hawkin to answer George’s knock. To their surprise, it was Kathy Lomas who opened the door. She stood back to let them pass. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said brusquely.

They filed into the kitchen. Ruth was sitting at the table wrapped in a pink quilted nylon housecoat, her eyes listless, her hair loose and uncombed. Opposite her sat Ma Lomas, layered in cardigans topped with a tartan shawl pinned across her breast with a nappy pin. George recognized the fourth woman in the room as Ruth’s sister Diane, young Charlie Lomas’s mother. The three younger women were all smoking, but Ma Lomas’s chest didn’t seem to mind.

‘What’s to do?’ Ma Lomas demanded before George could say anything.

‘We’ve nothing fresh to report,’ George admitted.

‘Not like the papers, then,’ Diane Lomas said bitterly.

‘Aye, they’ve always got something to say for themselves,’ Kathy added. ‘It’ll be a load of rubbish, all that stuff about Alison being stuck in some terraced house in a city. You can’t hide somebody in the city that doesn’t want to be hid. Them houses, they’ve got walls like cardboard. Can’t you stop them printing that rubbish?’

‘We live in a free country, Mrs Lomas. I don’t like this morning’s paper any more than you do, but there’s nothing I can do about it.’

‘Look at the state of her,’ Diane said, nodding at Ruth. ‘They don’t think about the effect they’ll have on her. It’s not right.’

George’s lips pursed in a thin line. Eventually, he said, ‘That’s partly why I’ve come to see you this morning, Mrs Hawkin.’ He pulled out a chair and sat facing Ruth and her sister. ‘Is your husband in?’

‘He’s gone to Stockport,’ Ma said contemptuously. ‘He needs some chemicals for his photography. O’ course, he can come and go as he pleases. Not like them as are Scardale born and bred.’ Her words hung in the air like a thrown gauntlet.

George refused to pick it up. His own conscience was giving him enough grief about his part in Peter Crowther’s death without allowing Ma Lomas free rein with her sharp tongue. He simply bowed his head in acknowledgement and continued regardless. ‘I wanted to tell you both that we will be continuing the search for Alison. But I’d be failing in my duty if I didn’t tell you that I think it’s becoming increasingly unlikely that we’ll find her alive.’

Ruth looked up then. Her face was a mask of resignation. ‘You think that’s news to me?’ she said wearily. ‘I haven’t expected anything else since the minute I realized she was gone. I can bear that, because I have to. What I can’t bear is not knowing what’s happened to my child. That’s all I ask, that you find what’s happened to her.’

George took a deep breath. ‘Believe me, Mrs Hawkin, I am determined to do just that. You have my word that I’m not going to give up on Alison.’

‘Fine words, lad, but what do they mean?’ Ma Lomas’s sardonic voice cut through the emotional atmosphere.

‘It means we go on looking. It means we go on asking questions. We’ve already searched the dale from end to end, we’ve searched the surrounding countryside. We’ve dragged reservoirs and we’ve had police divers checking the Scarlaston. And we’ve not found anything more than we found in the first twenty-four hours. But we’re not giving up.’

Ma snorted, her nose and chin almost meeting as she screwed up her face. ‘How can you sit there and look Ruth in the eye and say you’ve searched the dale? You’ve not been near the old lead mine workings.’