‘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?’
29Daily News, Monday, 17
th
February 1964, p.1Missing 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.
The Committal
G
eorge woke at six on Monday, 24 February. He slipped out of bed, trying not to disturb Anne, and quietly padded downstairs in dressing gown and slippers. He made a pot of tea and carried it through to the living room. Pulling back the curtains to watch the dark give way to dawn, he was astonished to see Tommy dough’s car parked outside. The glowing coal of a cigarette revealed his sergeant was as wide awake as he was. Minutes later, Clough was sitting opposite George, a steaming china cup nestled in one of his large hands. ‘I thought you’d be up bright and early an’ all.
I hope Hawkin’s losing as much sleep as we are,’ he’ said bitterly.
‘Between Anne’s restlessness and worrying about this committal, I can’t remember the last time I had eight hours’ sleep,’ George agreed. ‘How’s she doing?’
George shrugged. ‘She gets tired easily. We went to see The Great Escape at the Opera House on Friday night, and she fell asleep halfway through.And she frets.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t suppose it helps that she never knows when I’m going to be home.’
‘Things'll ease up a bit after the trial,’ Clough consoled him.
‘I suppose so. I can’t help worrying that he’s going to get away with it. I mean, we’ve got to show our hand at the committal to get the justices to agree to send him for trial at the assizes. Then he’ll have at least a couple of months to construct a defence, knowing exactly what we’ve got to throw at him. It’s not like Perry Mason, where we can suddenly spring a surprise clincher at the last minute.’
‘The lawyers wouldn’t be going ahead with’ it if they didn’t think they had a good chance of winning,’ Clough reminded him. ‘We’ve done our bit. All we can do now is leave it up to them,’ he added philosophically.
George snorted. ‘Is that supposed to make me feel better? Tommy, I hate this stage of a case.
Everything’s out of my hands, I can’t influence what happens. I feel so powerless. And ifHawkin isn’t convicted…well, never mind the lawyers, I’m going to feel like I’ve failed.’ He leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. ‘I couldn’t bear that, for all sorts of reasons.Mostly because a killer would have walked free. But I’m human enough to take it personally. Can you imagine how happy it would make DCI Carver? Can you imagine the headlines that sewer rat Don Smart would get out of it?’
‘Come on, George, everybody knows the way you’ve sweated this one. If Carver had been in charge, we’d never even have got the evidence for the rape charge. And that’s rock solid. It’s not possible that he can wriggle out of that, whatever happens over the murder. And you can bet your bottom dollar that any judge who hears the evidence and then gets a jury stupid enough to return ‘not guilty’ on the murder charge is going to use the rape conviction to hit Hawkin with the maximum possible sentence. He’s not going to be walking Scardale again in a hurry.’ George sighed. ‘You’re right. I just wish we could have tied Hawkin more closely to the gun. I mean, how much more unlucky can we get? There’s one man who could possibly identify the gun we’ve got as the Webley that was stolen from St Albans. The previous owner, Mrs Hawkin’s neighbour Mr Wells. And where is he? Spending a few months with his daughter who’s emigrated to Australia.
And not a single one of his friends or neighbours has a forwarding address. They can’t even remember exactly when he’s due back. Of course, we suspect that Hawkin’s mother has all these details at her fingertips, being Mr and Mrs Wells’s best friend, but she’s certainly not going to tell those nasty policemen who are making those terrible allegations against her loving son,’ he added with withering sarcasm.
He got to his feet. ‘I’m going to have a wash and a shave. Do you want to make a fresh pot of tea? I’ll take Anne a cup when I get dressed. Then I’ll buy you a full English at the transport caff.’
‘Sounds good to me. We’ll need stoking up. It’s going to be a long day.’
The town hall clock struck ten, its bass note penetrating the courtroom across the road. Jonathan Pritchard raised his head from the pile of papers in front of him, his eyebrows raised in expectation.
Next to him, still absorbed in his notes, was the burly figure of Desmond Stanley, QC. A former Oxford rugby blue, Stanley had avoided running to fat in his forties with a strict regime of exercise that he insisted on conducting wherever he worked. As well as the usual wig, gown and bands of the barrister, Stanley’s court bag always contained his dumbbells. In robing rooms up and down the country, he had bent and stretched, performed pushups and squat thrusts before walking into court and prosecuting or defending the worst criminals the legal system could throw at him. What was odd was that he never looked healthy. His skin had a naturally sallow cast, his lips were bloodlessly pale and his dark-brown eyes watered constantly. He always had a flamboyantly coloured silk handkerchief tucked into one sleeve so he could make regular dabs at his rheumy eyes. The first time George had met him, he had wondered if Stanley would live long enough to try the case.
Afterwards, Pritchard had put him right. ‘He’ll outlive the lot of us,’ he confided. ‘Be glad he’s on our side and not against us because Desmond Stanley is a shark. Trust me on this.’
Pritchard felt even more grateful to have Stanley on his side when he saw who the opposing barrister was. Rupert Highsmith, QC, had earned his formidable reputation as a surgically precise and ruthless cross-examiner in a series of high-profile cases in the early 1950
s
, when he was still a young barrister. Another ten years at the bar had not blunted his skills; rather, they had taught him a series of new tricks that left his opponents smarting, so much so that lesser talents grew reluctant to draw shaky material from their witnesses because they feared what he might do to it on cross.
Now, Highsmith was leaning back confidently in his chair, scanning the crowded press benches and public gallery, his profile as sharply geometric as if it had been.constructed from a child’s set of wooden shapes. Unkind colleagues at the bar whispered that he had had cosmetic surgery to keep his jawline so taut. He always liked to check out his audience, to assess the impact his case was likely to have. It was a good turn-out today, he thought. A good showcase for his talents. He was one of the few defence barristers who shone at committals. Because the committal hearing’s only purpose was to decide whether the prosecution had a prima facie case against the accused, usually only the prosecution would put their case before the magistrates. The sole opportunity Highsmith would have to demonstrate his skills was in cross-examining their witnesses.’And that was what he did best.
A door at the side of the courtroom opened and Hawkin walked in, flanked by two police officers.
On George’s instructions, he was handcuffed to neither. The detective was determined to do nothing that might elicit the slightest sympathy for Hawkin. Besides, he knew the defence barrister’s first action would be to demand the handcuffs be removed, and the magistrates would probably agree, not least because it would be hard for them not to see landowner Hawkin as one of themselves. And Pritchard had emphasized how important it was psychologically that first blood should not go to the defence.
Eighteen nights behind bars had made little impact on Philip Hawkin’s appearance. His dark hair was shorter than usual, since prisoners have no choice of barber but must take what they are given.
But it was still glossy and smooth, slicked back from his broad, square forehead. His dark-brown eyes flicked around the courtroom before settling on his barrister. The smile that appeared to hover perpetually on his lips widened in acknowledgement of Highsmith’s curt nod. Hawkin took his time entering the dock, carefully adjusting the trousers of his sober dark suit as he settled himself on the bench seat.
The door behind the magistrates’ raised bench opened and the court clerk jumped to his feet, calling, ‘All rise.’ Chairs scraped back on the tiled floor as the three justices filed in. Hawkin was among the first to his feet, his bearing showing a deference that Pritchard noticed and filed away for further reference. Either Hawkin was a good actor, or else he really believed these magistrates had power over him that they would use to his advantage.
The three men who would sit in judgement over the case for the prosecution settled themselves, followed in shuffling disorder by everyone else except the court clerk. He reminded them that the court was in session to consider the proceedings to commit Philip Hawkin of Scardale Manor, Scardale in the county of Derbyshire for trial. Desmond Stanley got to his feet. ‘Your Worships, I appear for the Director of Public Prosecutions in this matter. Philip Hawkin is accused of the rape of Alison Carter, aged thirteen. He is further accused that on a separate occasion, on or about the eleventh of December, nineteen sixty-three, he did murder the said Alison Carter.’ The only person smiling in the courtroom was Don Smart, bent over his shorthand notebook. The ringmaster was on his feet. The circus had begun.