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It was strange, George thought, that all public offices were so similar. Somehow, he’d expected the offices of the Director of Public Prosecutions to be as grand as the title. Although the Regency building in Queen Anne’s Gate couldn’t have been less like the four-square modern brick hutch that housed the Buxton sub-division, the interior was standard government issue. The barrister he and Tommy Clough had arranged to meet four days after the remand hearing inhabited a space that was so similar to his own office it was almost disorientating. Files were stacked on top of filing cabinets, a handful of legal textbooks occupied the windowsill, and the ashtray needed emptying. The floor was covered in the identical linoleum, the walls painted the same off-white shade.

Jonathan Pritchard ran equally counter to his expectations. In his mid-thirties, Pritchard had the sort of carrot-red hair that is impossible to tame. It stuck out in tufts and angles all over his head, actually rising straight up in a kind of crest at one corner of his forehead. His features were equally unruly. His eyes, the blue-grey of wet Welsh slate, were round and widely spaced with long golden lashes. His long bony nose took a sudden swerve to the left at the end, and his mouth sloped at a wry angle. The only orderly thing about him was his immaculate dark-grey pinstripe suit, his dazzling white shirt and a perfectly knotted Guards tie.

‘So,’ the lawyer had greeted them, jumping to his feet. ‘You’re the chaps with no body. Come in, sit down. I hope you’re fuelled up in advance because there is absolutely no chance of a decent cup of coffee in these parts.’ He stood politely until George and Clough were settled, then subsided into his own battered wooden swivel chair. He opened a drawer, took out another ashtray and pushed it towards them. ‘The extent of our hospitality,’ he said ruefully. ‘Now, who’s who?’

They introduced themselves. Pritchard made a note on the pad in front of him. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘But isn’t it rather unusual for a case of this magnitude to be run by a detective inspector? Particularly a detective inspector who’s only been in post for five months?’

George stifled a sigh and shrugged. ‘The DCI had his ankle in plaster when the girl went missing, so I was in operational control, reporting to Superintendent Martin. He’s the senior officer in the Buxton subdivision. Anyway, as the case went on, HQ wanted to staff it with one of their more experienced CID officers, but the super resisted. He said he wanted it handled by his own men.’

‘Very commendable, but perhaps not something your HQ officers were terribly pleased about?’ Pritchard said.

‘I don’t know about that, sir.’

Clough leaned forward. ‘The super served in the army with the Deputy Chief Constable, sir. So the brass know they can trust his judgement.’

Pritchard nodded. ‘I was an army lawyer myself. I know the form.’ He took a box of Black Sobranie cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. George could only imagine the impression that would make in the lawyers’ room at Buxton if Pritchard ended up presenting the case for the prosecution at the committal. Thank God the justices wouldn’t be in there too. ‘I’ve read the case papers,’ Pritchard said. ‘And examined the photographs.’ He gave an involuntary shudder. ‘They are truly some of the most repugnant I have ever seen. I’ve no doubt that we’ll get a conviction on the rape charge on the basis of those photographs alone. What we need to discuss now is whether we have enough evidence to proceed with a charge of murder. The principal obstacle is, of course, the absence of a body.’

George opened his mouth, but Pritchard raised one warning finger to secure silence. ‘Now, we must consider the corpus delicti – not, as most people think, the body of the victim, but rather the body of the crime. Which is to say, the essential elements of a crime and the circumstances in which it has been committed. In the case of murder, it is necessary for the prosecution to establish that a death has occurred, that the dead person is the person alleged to have been killed, and that their death was the result of unlawful violence. The easiest way to demonstrate this is by the presence of a corpse, wouldn’t you say?’

‘There are precedents for murder convictions in the absence of a body, though,’ George said. ‘Haigh, the acid-bath murderer, and James Camb. And Michael Onufrejczyk, the pig farmer. That’s the case where the Lord Chief Justice said that the fact of death could be proved by circumstantial evidence. Surely we’ve got enough of that for it to be worth bringing a prosecution?’

Pritchard smiled. ‘I see you’ve studied the leading precedents. I must say, Inspector Bennett, I’m mightily intrigued by the circumstances of this case. There’s no denying that it presents some seemingly intractable problems. However, as you rightly point out, there is a remarkable amount of circumstantial evidence. Now, if we could just review that evidence?’

For two hours, they went through every detail that pointed to Philip Hawkin having murdered his stepdaughter. Pritchard questioned them closely and intelligently, probing to try to expose weaknesses in the chain of logic. The barrister gave little away of his personal response to their explanations, but he was clearly fascinated.

‘There’s something more, something that wasn’t in your papers,’ Clough concluded. ‘We only got the report late yesterday afternoon. The blood on the shirt is the same group as Alison’s, and it comes from a female, same as the other blood. But there’s also some scorching and powder on the shirt, as there would be if a gun had been fired very close to it. And there’s no question that it’s Hawkin’s shirt.’

‘All grist to your mill, Sergeant. Even without this latest piece of evidence, there’s little doubt in my mind that Hawkin has killed the girl. But the question remains whether we can put together a case that will satisfy a jury.’ Pritchard ran a hand through his hair, rendering it even more chaotic. George could see why he’d chosen to become a barrister; under a horsehair wig, he’d look almost normal. And although there was no denying his upper-class origins, his voice wasn’t so pukka that it would alienate a jury.

‘Wherever the body is, he’s done a good job of hiding it. We’re not going to find it unless someone stumbles over it by accident. I don’t think we’re going to get much more than we’ve already got,’ George said, trying not to sound as despondent as he always felt when Anne’s unsettled sleeping woke him to brood in the small hours.

Pritchard swivelled from left to right in his chair. ‘Still, it’s a fascinating challenge, isn’t it? I can’t remember the last time I read a set of case papers that got the old juices flowing like this. What a battle of wits in the courtroom! I can’t help thinking it would be enormous fun to get this one off the ground.’

‘Would you do the prosecuting, then?’ Clough asked.

‘Because it’s clearly going to be controversial, we’d use a QC, both for the committal hearing and the actual trial. But I would certainly be his junior, and I’d be largely responsible for preparing the case. I’m bound to say, I’m in favour of pressing forward with this.’ Again he raised an admonitory finger. ‘But that doesn’t mean you can go ahead and charge. I will have to take this to the Director himself and convince him that we will not be exposing ourselves to ridicule if we pursue this case. I’m sure you know how our betters loathe being laughed at,’ he added with an ironic smile.

‘So when will we hear?’ George asked.

‘By the end of the week,’ Pritchard said decisively. ‘He’ll want to sit on it for weeks, but time is of the essence here, I feel. I’ll call you on Friday at the latest.’ Pritchard got to his feet and held out his hand. ‘Inspector, Sergeant.’ He shook their hands. ‘It’s been a pleasure. Fingers crossed, eh?’

Daily News, Monday, 17^th February 1964, p.1

Missing girl: Murder charge By a Staff Reporter

In a sensational new development, police last night charged 37-year-old Philip Hawkin with the murder of his stepdaughter, missing schoolgirl Alison Carter.

The unusual aspect of the charge is that Alison’s body has not been discovered. The pretty blonde 13-year-old has not been seen since she left her home in the tiny Derbyshire hamlet of Scardale to walk her dog after school on 11^th December last year.

Hawkin will appear before Buxton magistrates tomorrow to be remanded for committal.

Not unique

This is not the first time murder charges have been brought where no body has been found. In the case of John George Haigh, the notorious acid-bath murderer, all that was found of his victim was a gallstone, a few bones and her false teeth.

But this residue was enough to demonstrate that a body had been disposed of and Haigh was hanged for murder.

James Camb, a steward on a luxury liner plying between South Africa and England, was accused of murdering a passenger, the actress Gay Gibson.

He claimed she had died from a fit while he had been alone with her in her cabin. He had panicked, thinking he would be accused of killing her, and pushed her body through a porthole.

His story was not believed and he was found guilty.

A further case occurred on a remote farm in Wales where a Polish war hero was convicted of murdering his business partner and feeding his body to the pigs on the farm they jointly owned.