Читать книгу Val McDermid 3-Book Crime Collection: A Place of Execution, The Distant Echo, The Grave Tattoo - Val McDermid, Val McDermid - Страница 32

George wasted no time. Hawkin was hustled down to the cells, bleating about trumped-up lies and demanding a lawyer. George turned a deaf ear. There would be plenty of time to deal with Hawkin later. If he was right, nobody would question his actions. If he was wrong, nobody would blame him. Nobody except, possibly, DCI Carver, who saw everything George did as a reproach and would glory in his junior officer’s embarrassment and disgrace. But staying in DCI Carver’s good books was the last consideration in George’s mind right then.

As the door slammed shut on the still protesting Hawkin, George took DC Cragg to one side. ‘Cragg, I want you to ring the divisional CID down in St Albans, where Hawkin came from. We know he’s not got a record, because Sergeant Clough already checked that. What I want to know is if there was ever any talk. Any rumours, any beat gossip. Any allegations where there was never enough evidence for a charge.’

‘You mean sex offences?’

‘I mean anything, Cragg. Just get alongside the local lads and sound them out.’ He realized he was still clutching the paper sack containing the soiled shirt and the carefully wrapped gun. In his hurry, he’d forgotten the need to get them labelled and sent to the lab. He glanced at his watch. Almost noon. If he hurried, he’d catch one of the justices at the High Peak courtrooms. He was sure he would have no trouble getting a search warrant signed. Everyone wanted Alison Carter’s disappearance cleared up, and Hawkin hadn’t yet had time to make many influential friends in a town where people from five miles away were still regarded as foreigners. Swiftly, he filled in the application and left the station at a run. Ignoring his car, he raced down Silverlands and cut through the marketplace towards the courts. Ten minutes later, he walked out of Peak Buildings with a signed search warrant in his pocket for Scardale Manor and its outbuildings. As he emerged, so did the sun, illuminating him with a brief shaft of pale winter light. It was hard not to interpret it as some kind of omen.

Back at divisional headquarters, still carrying the paper sack, he was relieved to find Sergeant Bob Lucas on duty. It seemed only fitting that the officer who had first taken him to Scardale should be available to help search on what might possibly be the breakthrough in the case. George gave him a succinct outline of events and finally dealt with the formal paperwork that would send the shirt and gun to the labs, the chain of custody intact. Meanwhile, Lucas put together a small search team of two constables and a cadet, all he could spare from the busy day shift.

The liveried police car followed George’s unmarked saloon out of the town and through the washed-out February landscape to Scardale. The word of Ruth’s discovery had clearly spread as swiftly as the original report of Alison’s disappearance. Women stood at open cottage doorways and men leaned against walls, their eyes never leaving the police officers as they trooped round the side of the manor towards the outbuilding where Philip Hawkin pursued his hobby. Even more unsettling than their stares was their silence.

George found Clough standing outside the door of the small stone outbuilding, arms folded, a cigarette drooping from one corner of his mouth. ‘Any problems?’ he asked.

Clough shook his head. ‘The hardest part was staying outside.’

George opened the door to the outbuilding and took his first look inside Hawkin’s darkroom. It was obvious that six officers would struggle to fit inside, never mind search adequately. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Sergeant Clough and I will take the darkroom. Sergeant Lucas, I’d like your men to take the house. As you all know, it’s already been searched. But our concern then was to make sure Alison hadn’t left any hidden messages or that there were no signs of an assault or murder on the premises. Now, we’re looking for anything that sheds light on Philip Hawkin’s relationship with his stepdaughter. Or anything that gives us an insight into the man himself. Without a body, we need every scrap of circumstantial evidence we can find to put pressure on Hawkin. You can make a start in his study.’

‘Right you are, sir,’ Lucas said grimly. ‘Come on, lads. Let’s strip this place to the bricks.’ The four uniformed men headed for the back door. Through the kitchen window, George could see Kathy Lomas watching. When she caught his eye, she looked away.

‘OK, Tommy, let’s make a start.’ George crossed the threshold and flicked a light switch. Red light flooded the room. ‘Great,’ he muttered. He glanced at the wall and saw a second switch. When he clicked that, an ordinary electric light came on, replacing the eerie scarlet glow. He looked around him, taking stock of what needed to be searched. Apart from the heavy table that stood at an angle to the wall, everything was uncannily neat and tidy. A pair of heavy stone slop sinks that looked as if they had been there since the Middle Ages stood against the wall, the plumbing mounted on them brand new and gleaming. So was the photographic equipment.

In one corner, a pair of gunmetal filing cabinets stood against the wall. George crossed to them and rattled the drawers. They were locked. ‘Bugger,’ he said softly.

‘Not a problem,’ Clough said, moving his boss to one side. He grasped the nearer cabinet, pulled it towards him, then, when it was about five inches clear of the wall, he tipped it backwards. ‘Can you hold it like that for me?’ he asked. George leaned against the cabinet, keeping it tilted at an angle. Clough dropped to the floor and fiddled around underneath for a minute or so. George heard the slide and click of a lock unfastening, then Clough’s grunt of satisfaction. ‘There you go, George. Very careless of Mr Hawkin to go out and leave his filing cabinets unlocked.’

‘I’ll start going through this one,’ George said. ‘You check the table and the shelves.’ He pulled the top drawer open and started on the dozens of suspension files it held. Each one contained strips of negatives, contact sheets and a varying number of prints. Quickly, he checked the other drawers. Each was the same. He groaned. ‘This is going to take for ever,’ he said.

Clough came over and joined him. ‘There are thousands of these.’

‘I know. But we’re going to have to go through every one of them. If he’s ever taken dodgy photographs, they could be mixed up with innocent ones anywhere in these drawers.’ He sighed.

‘Shall we take a look in the other filing cabinet, just so we have a clear idea of the scale of the problem?’ Clough asked.

‘Good idea,’ George said. ‘Same routine again?’ This time, he manhandled the cabinet clear of the wall himself, leaving Clough to grope underneath.

‘Wait a minute,’ Clough said, fumbling beneath the metal base. ‘I’ve caught my sleeve on something.’ His hand snaked into his jacket pocket and emerged with his cigarette lighter. A flick of the wheel and the flame lit up the area beneath the filing cabinet. ‘Jesus Christ on a bike,’ he said softly. He looked up at George. ‘You’re going to love this, George. There’s a hole in the floor with a safe in it.’

George nearly dropped the filing cabinet in shock. ‘A safe?’

‘That’s right.’ Clough scrambled clear of the filing cabinet and stood up. ‘Let’s get this moved and you’ll see what I mean.’

They wrestled the heavy steel cabinet out of its slot and walked it across the room to clear enough space for them to study the safe. George crouched down and stared at it. The green metal front was about eighteen inches square, with a brass keyhole and a handle that protruded about an inch above the safe door into the cavity in the base of the filing cabinet. He sighed. ‘We’re going to need fingerprints out here to dust that handle for Hawkin’s prints. I don’t want him walking away from the contents of that safe on the spurious grounds that somebody else must have planted whatever’s in it.’

‘Are you sure?’ Clough asked dubiously. ‘We’ll be lucky if there’s as much as a partial on a handle like that. It’s what’s inside that matters. He won’t have worn gloves, his prints’ll be all over whatever’s in there.’

George sat back on his heels. ‘You’re probably right. So where’s the key?’

‘If I was him, I’d have it on me.’

George shook his head. ‘Cragg searched him when we put him in the cells. The only keys on him were for his car.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Go and ask Sergeant Lucas if they’ve come across any keys that look like they might open a safe. I’ll have a look here.’

George sat down at the table and started to go through the two drawers. One was a meticulous collection of useful implements – scissors, craft knives, tweezers, tiny soft brushes and draughtsman’s pens. The other was the usual jumble of a junk drawer – pieces of string, drawing pins, a broken nail file, a couple of half-used rolls of Sellotape, candle ends, torch bulbs, matchboxes and odd screws. Neither held a key. George lit a cigarette and smoked it furiously. He felt like a watch wound to the absolute limit of its spring.

All through the investigation, he had forced himself to keep an open mind, knowing how easy it was to develop a fixed idea and to force every subsequent piece of information to fit the preconception. But if he was honest, he’d never had an entirely open mind about Philip Hawkin. The more likely it was that Alison was dead, the more likely it was that her stepfather was the man responsible. That was what the statistics suggested, and it was bolstered by his lack of liking for the man. He had tried to stifle his own instinctive response, knowing prejudice was an enemy of building a solid case, but time and again, Hawkin had crept into his consciousness as the prime suspect if murder became the inevitable conclusion of their inquiry.

Now it beckoned irresistibly. Certainty had dropped into place like the tumblers of a well-oiled lock. The only question was whether he could assemble the evidence that would turn it into a conviction.

George walked out of the darkroom and into the darkening chill of the afternoon. The house lights burned pale yellow and he could see figures moving behind the windows. He glimpsed Ruth Hawkin crossing the kitchen and realized he was dreading the moment when he might have to confirm for her what they all believed now anyway. No matter how much she might have thought herself resigned to losing her daughter, the instant when he told her they were formally treating Alison’s disappearance as a murder inquiry would send a blade of pain to her heart.

He lit another cigarette and paced in tight circles outside the darkroom. What was keeping Clough? He couldn’t leave the outhouse now the search was under way, for fear of a later defence argument that while it had been unattended, someone had slipped incriminating evidence inside. He didn’t want to continue searching either, realizing that with so circumstantial an array of evidence, every crucial find must be witnessed. George forced himself to breathe deeply, rotating his shoulders inside his coat to try to release some of the tension that knotted his neck in taut cords.

As the last light faded behind the western edge of the dale, Clough emerged, a wide grin spread across his face. ‘Sorry I took so long,’ he said. ‘I had to go through all the desk drawers. Nothing. Then I noticed one of the drawers wasn’t closing flush. So I pulled it out, and bingo! There was the safe key, stuck to the back of the drawer with elastoplast.’ He dangled the key in front of George. ‘The same kind of elastoplast that the dog was muzzled with, incidentally.’

‘Nice work, Tommy.’ He took the key and stepped back inside the darkroom. He crouched over the safe and glanced over his shoulder at his sergeant. ‘I’m almost scared to open it.’

‘In case there’s proof she’s dead?’

George shook his head. ‘In case there’s no proof of anything. I’m convinced now, Tommy. Too many small coincidences. Hawkin’s done for Alison, and I want him to swing for it.’ He turned to his task and slotted the key into the lock. It turned in smooth silence. He closed his eyes for a few seconds. Five minutes before he’d have called himself an agnostic. Now, he was a zealot.

Slowly he turned the handle and used it to lift open the heavy steel door. There was nothing inside but a thin stack of manila envelopes. George lifted them out almost reverently. He counted them aloud for the benefit of Clough, whose notebook was already open, pencil poised. ‘Six brown envelopes,’ he said, rising and placing them on the bench. George sat down. He had the feeling he’d need the support. He pulled on his soft leather driving gloves and started work.

The flaps had all been tucked inside. George inserted his thumb and flicked the first envelope open. It contained eight-by-ten photographs. He removed them by pushing the sides of the envelope inwards and letting the photos spill out on to the table, to avoid smudging any fingerprints on the envelope or the pictures. There were half a dozen photos, which he spread out using his pen.

Alison Carter was naked in all of them. Her face was devoid of its natural charm, rendered ugly by fear. Her body somehow expressed her reluctance to adopt poses that would have been lewd in an adult but which were gut-wrenchingly tragic in a child. Unless, of course, the viewer was the sort of paedophile who had taken them. Then, they would doubtless have appeared erotic.

Clough looked over his shoulder. ‘Ah, Jesus,’ he said, his voice thick with disgust.

George could find nothing to say. He gathered the photographs together and slid them back into the envelope, placing it carefully to one side. The second envelope contained strips of large-format negatives. With the aid of the light box on the table, they were able to establish that these were the negatives the prints had been made from. There were sixteen negatives. Hawkin hadn’t bothered printing ten of them. Those were the ones where Alison appeared to be crying.

The third envelope was worse. The poses were even more explicit. This time, however, there was a floppy quality to the girl’s head, a distant look in her eyes. ‘She’s either drunk or drugged,’ Clough said. Still George could not speak. Methodically, he replaced the photographs in their envelope then checked that the negatives in the fourth envelope corresponded to the photographs they’d just looked at.

The fifth envelope went beyond anything George could have imagined. This time all sixteen negatives had been printed. This time, Hawkin was in the photographs along with his stepdaughter. The background was unmistakably Alison’s bedroom, its very ordinariness an obscene counterpoint to the acts it had contained. It formed an innocent backdrop to experiences no thirteen-year-old should endure. In a series of terrible monochrome images, Hawkin’s erect penis thrust into Alison’s vagina, anus and mouth. His fingers probed her body with ruthless and repellent efficiency. All the while, he stared into the camera, exulting in his power.

‘The fucking bastard,’ Clough groaned.

George suddenly thrust himself away from the table, sending the chair crashing to the ground. Pushing past his sergeant, he made it through the door just as the wave of nausea he couldn’t contain swept through him. Hands on knees, he vomited until his stomach was in spasm and there was nothing left inside him but pain. He half leaned, half fell against the wall, sweating, tears pouring down his face, oblivious to the chill night wind and the scatter of sleety rain that swept the dale.

He’d rather have found her corpse than endured those images of her violated body. Plenty of motive there for running away. But more motive still for the man who had invaded her if she had finally rebelled and threatened to reveal his vile perversion. George ran a trembling hand over his wet face and struggled upright.

Clough, standing right behind him in the doorway, handed him the cigarette already lit. His beefy face was as pale as the night clouds. George inhaled deeply and coughed as the smoke hit a throat left raw by his retching. ‘Still think capital punishment’s such a bad thing?’ he gasped. The rain plastered his hair to his head, but he failed to react to the drops of icy water coursing down his face.

‘I could kill him with my own hands,’ Clough growled, his voice coming from deep in his throat.

‘Save him for the hangman, Tommy. This one, we do by the book. He doesn’t have any accidental falls, he doesn’t conveniently get put in a cell with a drunk who hates sex offenders. We bring him to court in one piece,’ George said hoarsely.

‘It won’t be easy. Meanwhile, what do we tell Alison’s mum? This…this beast’s wife? How do you say to a woman, “By the way, love, this man you married – he’s raped and buggered your daughter and probably murdered her.”?’

‘Oh Christ,’ George said. ‘We need a WPC out here. And a doctor.’

‘She won’t want a WPC, George. She trusts you. And she’s got her family around her. They’ll take better care of her than any doctor can. We’re just going to have to go in there and find a way to tell her.’

‘We better tell the uniforms as well. They can keep an eye out specifically for photographs or negatives.’ He shuddered as he breathed in deeply. ‘Let’s bag and tag those envelopes. Forensic will need to do their stuff with them.’

They forced themselves back into the darkroom and collected the envelopes with their hellish contents. ‘Take these indoors to Sergeant Lucas,’ George instructed Clough. ‘I don’t want to be standing there holding them when I speak to Ruth Hawkin. I’ll have a last look here to see if there’s anything else obvious. We’re going to have to get a team to go through every single one of those negatives. But not tonight.’

Clough disappeared into the night. George checked the room, but could see nothing else deserving his notice. He stepped back outside into the miserable weather and closed the door behind him. He carefully fixed a pair of police seals so that nobody could tamper with the evidence. He’d have to have an overnight guard placed on the outbuilding to protect its contents. Tomorrow, he’d organize a team to strip the place and start the long slog through Hawkin’s photographic collection. There would be no shortage of volunteers.

‘I’ve handed the evidence over to Sergeant Lucas,’ Clough said, running across from the house.

‘Thanks. Now, this is how I want to play it. You take the relatives, I’ll speak to Ruth Hawkin on her own. Just tell them we’ve found evidence that suggests Hawkin may have been involved in Alison’s disappearance and that we’ll be charging him with at least one serious offence tonight. It’s up to Ruth how much more she wants to tell them.’

‘They’re going to want chapter and verse. Especially Ma Lomas,’ Clough warned.

‘Let them come to court, then. I’m concerned about Ruth Hawkin. She’s my key witness as of this moment, and she’s got the right to decide how much her family knows at this point,’ George said dismissively. ‘Tell them as little as you need to.’ He squared his shoulders and flicked his cigarette butt into the night. He ran a hand over his soaking hair, showering Clough with tiny droplets of water. ‘Right.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Let’s go.’

They walked through the back door and across the hall into the warm fug of the smoky kitchen. The support team of Ma Lomas and Kathy had been joined by Ruth’s sister Diane and Janet’s mother, Maureen. The five women’s faces sharpened with fear at the sight of the grim expressions on the men’s faces. ‘We have some news, Mrs Hawkin,’ George said heavily. ‘I’d like to talk to you alone, if I may. The rest of you ladies, if you’ll go with Sergeant Clough, he’ll explain what’s happening.’

Kathy opened her mouth to argue, but a second look at George’s face killed her protest. ‘We’ll go through to the parlour,’ she said meekly.

Ruth said nothing as they filed out. Her face was like a bolted door, tightly secured, her jaw muscles bulging with the effort of silence. She never took her eyes off George as he sat down at the table opposite her. He waited till he heard the door close behind Clough, then he said, ‘There’s no easy way to say this, Mrs Hawkin. We’ve found evidence that Philip Hawkin has committed serious sexual assaults against your daughter. There can be no doubt about that, and he will be charged before the day’s out.’

A whimper escaped from her lips, but her gaze continued to pin him down. He shifted in his seat and automatically reached for his cigarettes. She shook her head as he offered them, so he left the packet sitting on the table between them. ‘When you add that to the evidence of the stained shirt and the gun that you found in the outbuilding, it’s hard to resist the conclusion that he very probably murdered her too. I’m really very, very sorry, Mrs Hawkin.’

‘Don’t call me that,’ she said, her voice a series of glottal sobs. ‘Don’t give me his name.’

‘I won’t,’ George said. ‘And I’ll do my best to make sure no other police officer does.’

‘You’re sure, aren’t you?’ she said through stiff lips. ‘In your heart, you’re sure she’s dead?’

George wanted to be anywhere but in Ruth Carter’s kitchen, nailed by her eyes against the truth. ‘I am,’ he said. ‘I can find no reason to think otherwise and a significant amount of circumstantial evidence that leads me to that conclusion. God knows, I don’t want to believe it, but I can’t not.’

Ruth began rocking to and fro in her chair, her arms clamped across her breasts, hands turned to claws in her armpits. Her head dropped back and she let out an agonized roar, the wordless cry of an animal wounded beyond recovery. Helpless, George sat like a block of wood. Somehow, he knew the worst thing he could do would be to touch her.

The noise stopped and her head fell forward, slack-jawed and flushed. Here yes glittered with tears unshed. ‘You get him hanged,’ she said, hard and clear.

He nodded, reaching for his cigarettes and lighting one. ‘I’ll try my best.’

She shook her head. ‘Never mind trying. Do it, George Bennett. Because if you don’t make sure he dies, somebody else will and it’ll be a damn sight less humane than what the hangman will do to him.’ Her vehemence seemed to have used her last reserve of energy. She turned away and said breathlessly, ‘Now go.’

George slowly got to his feet. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow, to take a statement. If you need anything, anything at all, you can reach me at the police station.’ He scrabbled in his jacket pocket for his notebook and scribbled his home number on a torn-out sheet of paper. ‘If I’m not there, call me at home. Any time. I’m sorry.’

He backed across the room and groped for the door handle. He closed the door behind him and leaned against the wall, cigarette smoke dribbling up his arm in a fragmented swirl. The sound of voices from down the hall led him to the cheerless room where the other Scardale women were besieging Tommy Clough. ‘To hell with the monkey, here comes the organ grinder,’ Maureen Carter said, catching sight of George. ‘You tell us. Are you going to hang that bastard Hawkin?’

‘I don’t make those decisions, Mrs Carter,’ George said, trying not to show how far past arguing he was. ‘Can I suggest that you’d be better off spending your time and your energy with Ruth? She needs your support. We’ll be leaving shortly, but there will be a guard on the outhouse overnight. I’d appreciate it if you’d all rally round Ruth now, and rack your brains for any little detail that might help us build our case.’

‘He’s right, leave him be,’ Ma Lomas said unexpectedly. ‘He’s only a lad and he’s had a lot to take in for one day. Come on, girls. We’d best see to Ruth.’ She shooed them out of the door ahead of her, then turned for the inevitable parting shot. ‘We won’t let you off this light again, lad. Time to shape up.’ She shook her head. ‘I blame the old squire. He should have known better. Half an hour with Philip Hawkin and there’s one thing you know for certain. Who spared that would drown nothing.’ The door closed behind her with a sharp snick.

As if choreographed, George and Clough subsided into chairs opposite each other, their faces as drained as their spirits. ‘I never want to have to do that again,’ George sighed on an exhalation of smoke. He cast around looking for an ashtray, but none of the ornaments held out any possibilities. He settled for nipping the hot coal off with his fingers and dropping it in the empty grate.

‘Chances are you’ll have to before you get your pension,’ Clough said. In the hall, a phone began to ring. On the sixth or seventh ring, it was picked up. A murmur of interrogatory speech, then footsteps approached the parlour door. Diane Lomas poked her head round and said, ‘It’s for the inspector. Somebody called Carver.’

Wearily, George pulled himself out of the armchair and across the room. He lifted the receiver and said, ‘DI Bennett.’

‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at, Bennett? I’ve got Alfie Naden reading the riot act in here, claiming we’ve shoved his client in the cells without so much as a by-your-leave, and left him to stew while you go gadding around Derbyshire on another wild-goose chase.’

And how, George wondered, had the town’s most expensive lawyer found out that Philip Hawkin was in custody in the first place? Cragg was a useless wassock, but he wouldn’t have phoned the solicitor without George’s say-so. It looked like Carver hadn’t learned the lesson of Peter Crowther’s death and was behaving like a law unto himself again. George choked back an angry retort and said, ‘I was about to come back to the station and charge Mr Hawkin.’

‘With what? Naden said you told Hawkin he was being arrested on suspicion of murder. You’ve not got a murder to charge him with!’ Carver’s broad Midlands accent always thickened under pressure. George recognized the signs of a man whose temper was about to burst the dam. That made two of them.

Biting down hard on his anger, he spoke calmly. ‘I’ll be charging him with rape, sir. For starters. That should give us enough breathing space to ask the Director of Public Prosecutions where we stand on a murder charge with no body.’

There was a moment’s stunned silence. ‘Rape?’ Incredulity stretched the word into three syllables.

‘We have photographic evidence, sir. Believe me, this is copper-bottomed. Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll get off. I’ll be back in the office in about half an hour and I’ll show you my evidence then.’ George gently replaced the receiver and turned to see Bob Lucas in the doorway of the study. ‘DCI Carver would like us to return to Buxton,’ he said. ‘And I need to take those envelopes back with me. Can I leave you to sort out an overnight guard on the darkroom?’

‘I’ll deal with it, sir. Just to say, we’ve been through every book on the shelves in the study and there’s no photographs anywhere. We’ll carry on looking, though. Good luck with Hawkin.’ His sleek head bobbed in a supportive nod. ‘Let’s hope he makes it easy on Mrs Hawkin and decides to come clean.’

‘Somehow, I doubt it, Bob,’ Clough said from the doorway. ‘Too cocky by half, that one.’

‘While I remember, she doesn’t want us calling her Mrs Hawkin any more. I suppose we call her Mrs Carter,’ George sighed. ‘Pass the word round.’ He ran a hand over his still wet hair. ‘Right, then. Let’s go and make this bastard suffer.’