Читать книгу Val McDermid 3-Book Crime Collection: A Place of Execution, The Distant Echo, The Grave Tattoo - Val McDermid, Val McDermid - Страница 30

It wasn’t the Christmas George Bennett had envisaged a few months before. He’d been looking forward to his first Christmas in their own home, just him and Anne. He’d reckoned without the pressures of family. Anne was an only child, so there were no conflicting demands on her parents; and being newlyweds, they automatically became the focus for George’s mother and father. Realizing it would be their first and last chance to celebrate alone, Anne had done her best to persuade their families that a Boxing Day get-together would be just the ticket. She had failed. As it was, they’d barely escaped George’s sister, his brother-in-law and their three small children.

Still, it had been a wonderful lunch. Anne had been planning and working for weeks ahead to make everything run smoothly. Not even Alison Carter’s disappearance could dent her determination that her first Christmas in her own home would be exemplary. And it had been. Once the presents were opened and he’d made the appropriate expressions of delight over socks, shirts, sweaters and cigarettes, George had had little to do except make sure everyone’s glass was topped up with sherry and Babycham for the women, bottled beer for the men.

As they’d decided in advance, they revealed Anne’s pregnancy after the Queen’s speech. The mothers rivalled each other in their excitement and, using the washing-up as an excuse, soon disappeared into the kitchen to give the mother-to-be the benefit of their counsel. Anne’s father congratulated George gruffly then settled down with a celebratory brandy and cigar to watch TV. George and his father Arthur remained at the dining table. As usual, they were not entirely comfortable with each other, but the news of the baby had bridged some of the distance a university degree had put between George and his train-driver father.

‘You’re looking tired, lad,’ Arthur said.

‘It’s been a hard couple of weeks.’

‘That missing lass, is it?’

George nodded. ‘Alison Carter. We’ve all been putting the hours in, but we’re not a lot further forward than we were the night she went missing.’

‘Did I not read somewhere in the papers that you’d found some of her clothes?’ Arthur asked, sending a perfect smoke ring heading for the light fitting.

‘That’s right. In a disused lead mine. But all that’s really told us is that she definitely didn’t run away. It hasn’t brought us any closer to finding out what really happened or where she is now. Except that we also found a couple of bullets embedded in the limestone,’ he added. ‘One was mangled beyond recognition, but we were lucky with the other one. It went into a crack in the limestone wall, so the forensics boys got it out more or less intact. If we ever find the gun it came from, we’ll be able to make a positive identification.’

His father sipped his brandy and shook his head sadly. ‘Poor lass. She’s not going to be alive when you find her, is she?’

George sighed. ‘You wouldn’t find a bookie to give you odds on it. It’s been keeping me awake nights. Especially with Anne in her condition. It changes things, doesn’t it? I’d never given it much thought before. You know how it is – you reckon you’ll find the right girl, get married, have a family. It’s the way things go if you’re lucky. But I’d never sat down and thought about what it would mean to be a father. But knowing that it’s going to happen, and finding it out in the middle of an investigation like this…Well, you can’t help thinking how you’d be feeling if it was your kid.’

‘Aye.’ His father breathed heavily through his nostrils. ‘You’re right, George. Having a kid makes you realize how many hazards there are in the world. You’d go mad if you let yourself brood on it. You’ve just got to tell yourself that nothing’s going to happen to your own.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘You made it through more or less in one piece.’

It was a cue to swap stories of George’s childhood brushes with danger. But part of him was immune to the shift of subject. Deep inside, Alison Carter was lodged like a crumb in the windpipe. Eventually, George extinguished his cigar and stood up. ‘If you don’t mind, Dad, I’m going to pop out for an hour. My sergeant’s volunteered for Christmas duty, and I thought I’d nip round to the station and wish him a Merry Christmas.’

‘On you go, lad. I’m going to settle down with Anne’s dad and pretend to watch the telly.’ He winked. ‘We’ll try not to snore too loud.’

George pocketed a box of fifty cigarettes he’d been given by an aunt and drove across town to the police station. He found Tommy Clough’s desk vacant, apart from the ballistics file on the bullets from the mining cavern. His jacket was slung over the back of his chair, so he couldn’t be far away, George reasoned. He picked up the familiar file and flicked through it again. One bullet was mashed beyond redemption, but the one that had found a crack in the rock had told a distinct story to the firearms examiner.

‘The exhibit is a round-nose full-metalled-jacket lead bullet,’ he read. ‘The calibre is .38. The bullet reveals seven lands and grooves, the lands narrow and the grooves broad. The grooves demonstrate a right-hand twist. These rifling marks are consistent with a projectile fired from a Webley revolver.’

The door swung open and Tommy Clough walked in, brow furrowed as he read a telex. ‘Merry Christmas, Tommy,’ George said, tossing the box of cigarettes across the room.

‘Cheers, George,’ Clough said, sounding surprised. ‘What brings you in? Family at war?’ He crossed the room and sat down, shoving the telex in the file.

‘I was sitting there with my paper hat on pulling crackers and eating goose and wondering what kind of Christmas they’re having at Scardale Manor.’

Clough ripped the cellophane off the cigarettes. Straightening up in his seat, he pushed the file to one side and offered the open box to George. ‘I’d say that depends on how bright Ruth Hawkin is. And on whether we show her this telex.’

‘Meaning?’

Clough took his time lighting a cigarette. ‘Since we didn’t get anywhere through official channels connecting Hawkin to a Webley, I decided to try coming at it sideways. So I sent out a request for information on any reports of stolen Webleys. Amongst the dross, there was one that looked a bit interesting. From St Albans. Two years ago, a Mr Richard Wells reported a break-in at his home. Among the stolen items was a Webley .38 revolver.’

From his air of expectation, George could tell there was more to come. ‘And?’ he asked.

‘Mr Wells lives two doors away from Philip Hawkin’s mother. The families used to play bridge together once a week. Mr Wells kept his Webley as a souvenir of the war, and he boasted about it often, according to their CID duty man. They never got anyone for the housebreaking, either. The family was away on holiday, so it could have happened at any time that week.’ Clough grinned. ‘Merry Christmas, George.’

‘That’s a better present than a box of fags.’

‘Fancy a run out there? Just to take the air?’

‘Why not?’

They were silent for most of the drive. As they turned into the lane that led to Scardale, George said, ‘Care to elaborate on what you said earlier about their Christmas depending on how bright Mrs Hawkin is?’

‘It’s nothing we haven’t already discussed a dozen times in the last few days,’ Clough said. ‘First off, we’ve got the conflict between what Hawkin told us about his movements on the afternoon Alison went missing and what we heard from Ma Lomas and Charlie. Second, we’ve got the lead mine. Apart from Ma Lomas, everybody in Scardale denies they’d even heard of the old workings, never mind knowing where they were. But the book that details the exact location of the entrance happens to be sitting on a shelf in Philip Hawkin’s library.’

‘And let’s not forget the lab results,’ George said softly. The irresistible conclusion of what they had found in the lead mine was that Alison Carter had been raped and almost certainly murdered. The blood that stained the clothing had all been group O, which corresponded with Alison’s medical records. Whoever had stained Alison Carter’s knickers with semen had been a secretor. Thanks to that, the police now knew her assailant’s blood group was A. That was something Philip Hawkin had in common with forty-two per cent of the population. So did three other men in the dale – two of Alison’s uncles and her cousin Brian. What separated them from Philip Hawkin was that they all had alibis for the time of her disappearance. One uncle had been in a pub in Leek following the Christmas fatstock market, and her cousin Brian had been milking the cows with his father. If Alison had been attacked by someone from inside the dale, it was beginning to appear that there was only one possible candidate.

‘It could have been somebody who came up the Scarlaston valley from Denderdale. Somebody who knew her from Buxton. A schoolteacher or a fellow pupil. Or just some pervert who’d been watching her at school,’ Clough said when he returned to the car after closing the gate that obstructed the road into the village.

‘They couldn’t have got there in time. It’s a good hour and a half’s walk from the road in Denderdale up the river banks. And they’d never have got back down there in the dark with Alison, alive or dead. They’d both have ended up in the river,’ George said positively. ‘I agree with you. All the circumstantial evidence points to one man. But we’ve no body, and we’ve no direct evidence. Without that, we can’t justify bringing him in for questioning, never mind charging him.’

‘So what do we do?’

‘Damned if I know,’ George sighed. The car came to a halt beside the brown patch of grass that marked where the police caravan had stood. On Superintendent Martin’s orders, it had been towed back to Buxton on the previous Friday. Searches had effectively ended on the same day. There was nowhere left to look.

George stepped out into the chill evening air. The village looked curiously untouched by what had happened. There was no obvious sign that anything had altered, apart from the newspaper poster pasted to the back of the phone box. Around the green, the houses still huddled. Lights burned behind curtains, the occasional bark of a dog split the silence. There were no Christmas trees visible at any of the windows, it was true. Nor were there any holly wreaths on the cottage doors of Scardale. But George wasn’t convinced that there would have been on any other Christmas in Scardale either.

He and Clough leaned against the bonnet of the Zephyr, smoking in silence. After a few moments, a wedge of yellow light spread across the doorway of Tor Cottage. The unmistakable outline of Ma Lomas appeared, silhouetted against the interior. Then the light disappeared as abruptly as it had appeared. His night vision impaired, George blinked hard. The old woman was almost upon them before he realized that she hadn’t gone back indoors.

‘Have you no home to go to?’ she asked.

‘He’s on duty,’ George said.

‘What’s your excuse?’

‘Christmas is for kids, isn’t that what they say? Well, there’s one kid I couldn’t get out of my mind.’

‘By heck, a copper with a heart,’ Ma scoffed. She opened her voluminous coat and from a poacher’s pocket she took out a bottle of the clear spirit she’d drunk when they’d interviewed her at the very beginning of the investigation. From another pocket, she took three thick tumblers. ‘I thought you might like something to keep the cold out.’

‘That would be an act of Christian charity,’ Clough said.

They watched her place the glasses on the car bonnet and pour three generous measures. Ceremoniously, she handed them a glass each, then raised hers in a toast.

‘What are we drinking to?’ George asked.

‘We’re drinking to you finding enough evidence,’ she said in a voice that was more chill than the night air.

‘I’d rather drink to finding Alison,’ he said.

She shook her head. ‘If you were going to find Alison, you’d have found her by now. Wherever he’s put her, she’s beyond anything except chance. All that’s left for us now is the hope that you can make him pay.’

‘Did you have anyone in particular in mind?’ Clough asked.

‘Same as you, I shouldn’t wonder,’ she said drily, turning to face the manor house and raising her glass. ‘To proof.’

George took a swig of his drink and almost choked. ‘About a hundred and sixty proof, I’d say,’ he gasped when he could speak again. ‘Flaming Nora, what is this stuff? Rocket fuel?’

The old woman chuckled. ‘Our Terry calls it Hellfire. It’s distilled from elderflower and gooseberry wine.’

‘We never found a still when we searched the village,’ Clough remarked.

‘Well, you wouldn’t, would you?’ She drained her glass. ‘So, what’s next? How do you get him?’

George forced himself to swallow the rest of the fiery spirit. When he’d recovered the power of speech, he said, ‘I don’t know that we can. That said, I’m not giving up.’

‘See that you don’t,’ she said grimly. She held out her hand for the empty glasses then turned her back and returned to her cottage.

‘That’s us told,’ Clough said.

‘And a Merry bloody Christmas to you, too.’

The first Monday in February, and George was at his desk by eight. Tommy Clough tapped on the door a few minutes after the hour, a couple of steaming mugs of tea gripped in one large hand. ‘How was the weather?’ he asked.

‘Better than we had any right to expect,’ George said. ‘It was freezing, but the sun shone every day. We neither of us mind the cold as long as it’s dry, and Norfolk’s so flat that Anne was able to walk for miles.’

Clough settled down opposite George and lit up. ‘You look well on it. More like you’d had a fortnight on the Costa Brava than a week in Wells-next-the-Sea.’

George grinned. ‘The Martinet was right, then.’ He’d resisted furiously when Superintendent Martin had insisted that he take off some time in lieu of the endless hours he’d expended on the Alison Carter inquiry. Eventually, when Jack Martin had turned his suggestion into an order, he’d given in with ill grace and allowed Anne to book them into a guesthouse in the Norfolk seaside town. They’d been the only residents, pampered by a landlady who believed everyone should eat at least three square meals a day. A week of regular food, fresh air and the undivided attention of his wife had filled George with energy and resolve.

‘He’s been on at me to do the same,’ Clough admitted. ‘Maybe I will, now you’re back.’

‘Any developments?’ George asked, blowing gently on his tea.

‘Well, I took that new WPC from Chapel-en-le-Frith to see Acker Bilk and his Paramount Jazz Band at the Pavilion Gardens on Friday night, and we had a very nice evening. Think I might ask her if she fancies going to see that Albert Finney film at the Opera House. Tom Jones, they call it. Apparently it’s a right good film to take a young lady to if you want to get her in the mood.’ Clough grinned, without lasciviousness.

‘I meant in the case, not in your pathetic love life,’ George responded with good humour.

‘Funnily enough, there was something. We got a call on Sunday from Philip Hawkin. He said he’d been looking at the Spot the Ball competition in the paper and he could swear that one of the people in the crowd beside the goal was Alison.’ He squinted at George through the smoke. ‘What do you make of that?’

George felt a strange fluttering in his stomach. ‘Go on, Tommy. I’m all ears.’ Tea forgotten, he leaned forward and stared intently at his sergeant.

‘I went straight out to see what was what. It was the Sunday Sentinel, the Nottingham Forest match. As soon as I saw the photo, I could see why he’d rung. Admittedly, it was a tiny photograph, but it did look a lot like Alison. So I got in touch with the newspaper, and they got their lads to blow up the original. They sent it up on the train and it got here Monday teatime.’ He didn’t need to continue; his face told the rest of the story. Closer examination had proved the girl in the football crowd was someone quite different.

George took a deep breath and closed his eyes momentarily. ‘Thank you, God,’ he said softly. He looked at Clough and smiled. ‘Do we happen to know whether Philip Hawkin takes the Manchester Evening News?’

‘Funnily enough, I do know. Kathy Lomas mentioned it when she was running through the kids’ routine. Because the daily paper doesn’t get to Scardale till lunchtime and Hawkin likes a paper with his breakfast, the newsagent at Longnor leaves an Evening News in the mailbox at the end of the lane every morning and whoever does the school run drops it off at the manor afterwards.’

George’s smile grew wider. ‘I thought as much.’ He jumped to his feet and yanked open the drawer of his filing cabinet. He scrabbled among the files, then came up with a large manila envelope. He waved it at Clough and said triumphantly, ‘This is what I call leverage.’

Clough caught the file as it sailed through the air towards him. The front of the envelope read, ‘Pauline Catherine Reade’. He opened the envelope and a thin bundle of newspaper cuttings spilled across the desk. He frowned as he saw the dates noted in red biro on the edge of the clippings. ‘You’ve been following this from the beginning, back last July. That’s four months before Alison went missing,’ he said, his voice indicating precisely how strange he found such behaviour.

George pushed his blond hair back from his forehead. ‘I always take an interest in stories that might turn up on our patch,’ was all he said.

‘What am I looking for?’ Clough asked, flicking through the cuttings.

‘You’ll know when you see it.’ George leaned against the filing cabinet, arms folded, a cool smile on his lips.

Suddenly, Clough froze. His index finger prodded a single clipping as if it could be provoked into biting. ‘Bugger me,’ he said softly.

Manchester Evening News, Monday, 2^nd November 1963, p.3

Picture dashes mother’s hopes

For a few brief hours, hopes of a reunion with her missing 16-year-old daughter were raised for Mrs Joan Reade by a crowd picture in the Manchester Evening News & Chronicle Football Pink.

But they were dashed when Mrs Reade was shown a specially enlarged copy of the photograph. Sadly she said at her home in Wiles-street, Gorton, today, ‘That is not Pauline after all.’

Pauline has been missing from home since July 12, when she went to a dance and did not return.

Mrs Reade’s 15-year-old son Paul spotted a picture in last Saturday’s Football Pink of a section of the crowd at the Lancashire Rugby League Cup Final at Swinton, and thought it was Pauline.

Clough looked up. ‘He thinks we’re thick.’

‘You’re sure it was Hawkin and not his wife who spotted the likeness?’

‘It was him that rang up and him that took all the credit. When I asked Mrs Hawkin what she thought of the likeness, she said she’d been more convinced when she’d first seen it, but looking at it again, she wasn’t at all sure. He sounded a bit brassed off with her, like she was supposed to back him up all the way and she wasn’t performing as a dutiful little wife should.’

George reached for his cigarettes and paced while he talked. ‘So we’ve got him trying to make himself look good. Why has he done it now?’ Clough waited, knowing he was supposed to let the boss answer his own question. ‘Why? Because he expected that we’d have given up on Alison long ago and moved on to the next thing. He’s disconcerted because you and I are still out there in Scardale two or three times a week, talking to folk, going over the ground, not leaving it alone. He’s not stupid; he must realize we fancy him for whatever has happened to his stepdaughter. Not to mention the fact that Ma Lomas thinks he’s done it, and I can’t imagine her being any more reticent to his face than she is behind his back.’

‘Except that everybody in that village owes Hawkin the roof over their head and the bread in their mouths,’ Clough reminded him. ‘Even Ma Lomas might think twice about telling him to his face she thinks he raped and murdered Alison Carter.’

George acknowledged the point with a dip of his head. ‘OK, I’ll grant you that. But he must be aware that the villagers suspect him of doing something terrible to Alison, if only because he’s the outsider. So when it becomes clear that this is not just going to go away, Hawkin decides it’s about time he makes himself look good. And he remembers the story he read in the Manchester Evening News about Pauline Reade.’ He stopped pacing and leaned on the desk. ‘What do you think, Tommy? Is it enough to pull him in for questioning?’

Clough pushed his lips together, in and out like a goldfish. ‘I don’t know. What are we going to ask him?’

‘If he reads the Evening News. What his relationship with Alison was like. The usual stuff. All the pressure points. Did she resent him taking her father’s place? Did he think she was attractive? Christ, Tommy, we can ask him what his favourite colour is. I just want him in here, under pressure, so we can see what happens. We’ve given him an easy ride so far because we didn’t have a big enough lever to justify not treating him like a worried parent. Well, I think we have now.’

Clough scratched his head. ‘You know what I think?’

‘What?’

‘I think they don’t pay us enough to carry the can on a decision like this. I think that’s why the DCI and the Martinet get their money. If I was you, I’d go and lay all this out before them and see what they say.’

George dropped into his chair like a sack of coal, his face dispirited. ‘Oh, Tommy, don’t tell me you think I’m talking bollocks?’

‘No, I think you’re right. I think Hawkin’s the man who knows what happened to Alison. But I don’t know if this is the right time to put the pressure on, and I don’t want to lose him because we’ve been too hungry. George, we’re too close to this case. We’ve breathed, slept and dreamed it for nigh on seven weeks. We can’t see the wood for the trees. Go and talk to the Martinet. Then if the wheels do come off, they can’t use it as a stick to beat us with.’

George’s laugh was bitter. ‘You really think so? Tommy, if the wheels come off this, we’ll be back directing traffic in Derby for the rest of our careers.’

Clough shrugged. ‘Better make sure we get it right, then.’