‘Seven, two bullets were found in the lead mine. One was sufficiently unmarked to be identified as having been fired from a Webley.38 revolver. A similar gun was stolen from a house where Hawkin was a regular visitor a couple of years ago. A similar gun was found hidden in his darkroom, with the serial number filed off. We don’t know yet if the man whose gun was stolen can identify this as the same weapon. And we don’t know yet if this is the gun that fired the bullets we found in the mine. But we will. ‘And finally, we have the bloodstained shirt. It’s identical to the ones he has made to measure in London, right down to the tailor’s label on the collar. It’s been soaked with blood. If that blood corresponds to the other blood we’ve circumstantially identified with Alison, it ties Hawkin into an attack on her.’ George raised his eyebrows. ‘What do you think?’
‘If we had a body, I’d say charge him. But we haven’t got a body. We’ve got no direct evidence that Alison Carter isn’t alive and well. The DPP will never wear a murder charge without a body.’
‘There’s precedent,’ George protested. ‘Haigh, the acid-bath murderer.
There was no corpse there.’
‘There was evidence that someone’s body had been disposed of and forensic traces that pointed to his victim, if I remember rightly,’ Martin said.
‘There’s another precedent with even less evidence. In 1955. A Polish ex-serviceman who was convicted of the murder of his business partner. The prosecution claimed he’d fed the body to the pigs on their farm. All the prosecution had to go on was that friends and neighbours said the two men had been quarrelling. There were some bloodstains in the farmhouse kitchen and the business partner had vanished without trace, leaving behind his Post Office savings account. We’ve got a lot more than that. There’s been no confirmed sighting of Alison Carter since she disappeared. We’ve got evidence that she was sexually assaulted and that she lost a considerable amount of blood. It’s not likely that she’s still alive, is it?’
Martin leaned back and let his cigar smoke dribble towards the ceiling. ‘There’s a lot of difference between ‘not likely’ and ‘beyond reasonable doubt’. Even with the gun. If he killed her close up, why are there two bullets in the wall?’
‘Maybe she got away from him initially and he shot at her to scare her.
Maybe she was struggling and he threatened her with the other two shots.
To subdue her?’
Martin considered. ‘Possible. But the defence will use those two bullets to spread confusion with the jury. And if he killed the girl in the mine workings, why move the body?’
George pushed his hair back from his forehead. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps he knew an even better place to hide the body. He must have done, mustn’t he? Or else we’d have found it by now.’
‘So if he knew a better place to dispose of the body, why leave evidence of the sexual assault in the mine?’
George sighed. Frustrated as he was by Martin’s questions, he knew the defence lawyers would be a hundred times worse. ‘I don’t know. Maybe he just didn’t have the chance. He had to put in an appearance at the dinner table. He couldn’t afford to be late that night of all nights. And by the time he’d had his dinner, the word had gone out about Alison and he couldn’t chance going back?’
‘It’s thin, George.’ Martin sat up straight and looked George in the eye.
‘It’s not enough. You’re going to have to find her body.’
Trials and Tribulations
The Remand
I
t was over in minutes. Looking around the courtroom, George was struck by the astonishment on the faces of the Scardale villagers who had turned up in force. They had come to satisfy some primeval urge, to see the man they cast as villain in the dock. They required ceremony to assuage that urge, but there in a modern courtroom that looked more like a school hall than the Old Bailey of film and television, there was nothing that could satisfy that need.
All the facial variants of Scardale were there in the seven men and eight women who had come along, from Ma Lomas’s hooked nose to Brian Carter’s slab features. The notable absentee was Ruth Carter herself. The press, of course, were there, though in nothing like the numbers there would be at the committal and trial. There was so little they were allowed to report at that stage, it was scarcely worth turning up. Because of the rules governing the presumption of innocence, now Hawkin had been charged with something, editors had to tread warily. Any suggestion that Hawkin was being considered for a further charge of murder was taboo.
The prisoner was brought into the courtroom where two men and a woman Justices of the Peace sat on the bench. Alfie Naden was there, ready and waiting. So was the duty court inspector. Hawkin looked more at ease than any of them, his freshly shaved face the picture of clean innocence, his black hair gleaming under the lights. There was a low muttering from the public benches that was silenced by a sharp word from the court usher.
The court clerk stood up and outlined the charge against Hawkin.
Almost before he had finished, Naden was on his feet. ‘Your Worships, I have a submission to put before the court. As Your Worships are aware, it is the duty of the court under Section thirty-nine of the Children and Young Persons Act to protect the identity of minors who are victims of offences of indecency. With that in mind, it is normal for the court to bar the members of the press from reporting the name of the accused, since that would be an indirect way of identifying the victim where there is a family relationship such as we find in these allegations. I would therefore ask Your Worships to make such an order in this case.’ As Naden sat down, the inspector got to his feet again. He had already discussed this with George and Superintendent Martin. ‘I would oppose such a ruling,’ he said ponderously. ‘Firstly, because of the extreme gravity of the circumstances in this case. We believe this is not the first time the defendant has sexually assaulted children.
Publicizing his name may lead to other victims making themselves known to us.’ That part of the argument was little more than kite-flying; Cragg’s attempts at getting gossip out ofSt Albans officers had been a signal failure. George planned to send Clough down for a second attempt, but for now, they were only guessing. ‘Secondly,’ the inspector continued, ‘it is the prosecution’s view that the victim of this assault is no longer alive and therefore does not merit the protection of the court.’
People gasped. One of the Scardale women made a sound like a small groan. Reporters looked at each other in bafflement. Could they report this statement because it had been made in open court? Would it still be contempt? Would it depend on what the magistrates ruled? Naden was on his feet.
‘Your Worships,’ he protested, the very image of outrage. ‘This is a scandalous suggestion. It’s true that the alleged victim of this alleged assault is presently missing from home but for the police to suggest that she is dead is calculated only to generate calumny against my client. I must urge that you rule that nothing may be reported in the press except the fact a man has been charged with the crime of rape.’ The magistrates went into a huddle with the court clerk. George drummed his fingers impatiently on his knee. To be honest, he didn’t much care whether the press named Hawkin or not. All he wanted was to crack on with h’is investigation.
At last, the chairman cleared his throat. ‘We are agreed that for the purposes of a remand hearing, the press is barred from naming the accused. However, this decision need not be binding upon the examining justices at any subsequent committal hearing.’
Naden bowed his acknowledgement. ‘I am much obliged,’ he said. When the committal hearing was set for four weeks ahead, Naden bounced to his feet again. ‘Your Worships, I would ask you to consider the question of bail. My client is an upstanding member of his local community with no previous convictions nor stain on his character. He runs a large este and there is no question but that his absence will impose hardship on his tenants.’
‘Rubbish!’ a voice bellowed from the back of the room. George recognized Brian Carter, his face scarlet with emotion. ‘We’re better off without him.’
The chairman of the bench looked astonished. ‘Remove that man at once,’ he said, outraged at such an exhibition of disrespect. ‘I’m going anyway,’ Brian shouted, jumping to his feet before anyone could reach him. He stormed out, slamming the door behind him. He left a stunned silence.
The chairman took a deep breath. ‘If there are any further outbursts, I will clear this court,’ he said stiffly. ‘Please continue, Mr Naden.’
‘Thank you. As I was saying, Mr Hawkin’s presence is vital to the smooth running of the Scardale estate. As you have already heard, his stepdaughter is missing from home and he feels his place is at the side of his wife, to offer her comfort and succour. He is no feckless criminal who drifts from place to place. He has no intention of leaving the jurisdiction.
I urge you to grant bail in these exceptional circumstances.’ The inspector slowly stood up. ‘Your Worships, the police oppose bail on the grounds that the accused has sufficient funds at his disposal to be a flight risk. He has no deep roots in this area, having only moved here on the death of his uncle a little over a year ago. We are also concerned about possible interference with witnesses.
Many potential prosecution witnesses are not only his tenants but also his employees and there is a very real risk of intimidation. Also, the police view this as an extremely serious offence and it is likely that further serious charges will be brought against the accused in the near future.’
George was relieved to see the woman magistrate nodding firmly at every point the inspector made.
If the others were undecided, he thought her conviction would be enough to sway them. As they retired to discuss their decision, a buzz of conversation started again on the press bench. The Scardale contingent sat stolid and silent, their eyes boring holes in the back of Philip Hawkin’s neck. Hawkin himself was deep in conversation with his lawyer.
George wished he could smoke.
Within a couple of minutes, the magistrates trooped back to their dais. ‘Bail is refused,’ the chairman said decisively. ‘Take the prisoner down.’
As he passed George, Hawkin gave him a look of utter loathing. George stared right through him.
He’d always believed in keeping his powder dry.
28Daily News, Thursday, 6
th
February 1964, p.2Man appears in court A man charged with rape was remanded in custody by High Peak magistrates sitting at Buxton yesterday. The man, who cannot be named for legal reasons, lives in the Derbyshire village of Scardale.
The Murder Charge
I
t 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?’