Whatever’s happened, it’s not from Alison’s choice.’ She stepped forward and swept Janet’s teacup away from her. ‘Time you and the little ‘uns were over to Derek’s. Kathy’ll run you up to the lane end for the bus.’
‘I could do that,’ George volunteered.
Maureen looked him up and down, clearly finding him wanting. ‘That’s kind of you, but there’s been enough upset this morning without mucking up their routine any further. Go on, Janet, get your coat on.’ George held his hand up. ‘Before you go, Janet, just one more question. Was there any special place you and Alison used to go in the dale? A den, a gang hut, that sort of thing?’
The girl gave her mother a quick, desperate look. ‘No,’ she said, her voice revealing the opposite of her word. Janet crammed the last of her toast into her mouth and hurried out, waving her fingers at George. Maureen picked up the dirty plate and cocked her head. ‘If Alison was going to run away, she wouldn’t do it like this. She loves her mum. They were right close. It comes of being on their own for so long. Alison would never put Ruth through this.’
Thursday, 12
th
December 1963. 9.50
AM
T
he Methodist Hall had undergone a transformation. Eight trestle tables had been unfolded and each was the centre of some particular activity. At one, a constable with a field telephone was liaising with force headquarters. At three others, maps were spread out, thick red lines drawn on them to separate search areas. At a fifth table, a sergeant was surrounded by filing cards, statement forms and filing boxes, collating information as it came to him. At the remaining tables, officers pounded typewriters. Back in Buxton, CID officers were interviewing Alison Carter’s classmates, while the dale that surrounded Scardale village and shared its name was being combed by thirty police officers and the same number of local volunteers.
At the end of the hall nearest the door, a semi-circle of chairs faced a proper oak table. Behind it there were two chairs. In front of it, George was finishing his briefing of Superintendent Jack Martin. In the three months since he’d arrived in Buxton, he’d never had personal dealings with the uniformed officer in overall charge of the division. His reports had crossed Martin’s desk, he knew, but they’d never communicated directly about a case. All he knew about the man had been filtered through the consciousness of others.
Martin had served as a lieutenant in an infantry regiment in the war, apparently without either distinction or shame. Nevertheless, his years in the army had given him a taste for the minutiae of military life. He insisted on the observance of rank, reprimanding officers who addressed their equals or juniors by name rather than rank. A Christian name overheard in the squad room could raise his blood pressure by several points, according to DS Clough. Martin conducted regular inspections of his uniformed officers, frequently bawling out individuals whose boots failed to reflect their faces or whose tunic buttons were less than gleaming. He had the profile of a hawk, and the eyes to match. He marched everywhere at the double, and was said to loathe what he saw as the sloppy appearances of the CID officers under his nominal charge.
Beneath the martinet, however, George had suspected there was a shrewd and effective police officer. Now he was about to find out. Martin had listened carefully to George’s outline of events to date, his salt-and-pepper eyebrows meeting in a frown of concentration. With finger and thumb of his right hand, he rubbed his carefully manicured moustache against the grain then smoothed it back again. ‘Smoke?’ he said at last, offering George a packet of Capstan Full Strength. George shook his head, preferring his milder Gold Leaf tipped. But he took the overture as permission and immediately lit up himself. ‘I don’t like the sound of this one,’ Martin said. ‘It was carefully planned, wasn’t it?’
‘I think so, sir,’ George said, impressed that Martin had also picked up on the key detail of the elastoplast. Nobody went for a casual walk with a whole roll of sticking plaster, not even the most safety-conscious Boy Scout leader. The treatment of the dog had screamed premeditation to George, though none of his fellow officers had appeared to give it as much weight.
‘I think whoever took the girl was familiar with her habits. I think he might have watched her over a period of time, waiting for the right opportunity.’
‘So you think it’s a local?’ Martin said.
George ran a hand over his fair hair. ‘It looks that way,’ he said hesitantly.
‘I think you’re right not to commit yourself. It’s a popular hike, up Denderdale to the source of the Scarlaston. There must be dozens of ramblers who do that walk in the summer. Any one of them could have seen the girl, either alone or with her friends, and resolved to come back and take her.’
Martin nodded, agreeing with himself, flicking a morsel of cigarette ash off the cuff of his perfectly pressed tunic.
‘That’s possible,’ George conceded, though he couldn’t imagine anybody forming that sort of instant obsession and hanging on to it for months until the right opportunity presented itself.
However, the principal reason for his uncertainty was quite different. ‘I suppose what I’m saying is that I can’t picture any member of this community doing something so damaging. They’re incredibly tight-knit, sir. They’ve got accustomed to supporting each other over generations. For someone from Scardale to have harmed one of their own children would be against everything they’ve grown up believing in. Besides, it’s hard to imagine how an insider could get away with stealing a child without everybody else in Scardale knowing about it. Even so, on the face of it, it’s much likelier to be an insider.’ George sighed, baffled by his own arguments. ‘Unless everybody’s wrong about the direction the girl went in,’ Martin observed. ‘She may have broken with her usual habits and walked up the fields towards the main road. And yesterday was Leek Cattle Market.
There would have been more traffic than usual on the Longnor road. She could easily have been lured into a car on the pretext of giving directions.’
‘You’re forgetting about the dog, sir,’ George pointed out. Martin waved his cigarette impatiently. ‘The kidnapper could have sneaked round the edge of the dale and left the dog in the woodland.’
‘It’s a big risk, and he’d have had to know the ground.’ Martin sighed. ‘I suppose so. Like you, I’m reluctant to see the villain of the piece as a local. One has this romantic view of these rural communities, but sadly we’re usually misguided.’
He glanced at the hall clock then stubbed out his cigarette, shot his cuffs and straightened up. ‘So.
Let us face the gentlemen of the press.’
He turned towards the trestle tables. ‘Parkinson—go and tell Morris to let the journalists in.’
The uniformed bobby jumped to his feet with a mumbled, ‘Yessir.’
‘Cap, Parkinson,’ Martin barked. Parkinson stopped in his tracks and hurried back to his seat. He crammed his cap on and almost ran to the door. He slipped outside as Martin added, ‘Haircut, Parkinson.’ The superintendent’s mouth twitched in what might have been a smile as he led the way to the chairs behind the table.
The door opened and half a dozen men spilled into the hall, a haze of mist seeming to form around them as their cold shapes hit the airless warmth of the hall. The clump separated into individuals and they settled noisily into their folding chairs. Their ages ranged from mid-twenties to mid-fifties, George reckoned, though it wasn’t easy to tell with hat brims and caps pulled low over faces, coat collars turned up against the chill wind and scarves swathed around throats. He recognized Colin Loftus from the High Peak Courant, but the others were strangers. He wondered who they were working for.
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ Martin began. ‘I am Superintendent Jack Martin of Buxton Police and this is my colleague. Detective Inspector George Bennett. As you are no doubt already aware, a young girl has gone missing from Scardale. Alison Carter, aged thirteen, was last seen at 52 approximately four twenty
PM
yesterday afternoon. She left the family home, Scardale Manor, to take her dog for a walk. When she failed to return, her mother, Mrs Ruth Hawkin, and stepfather, Mr Philip Hawkin, contacted police at Buxton. We responded to the call and began a search of the immediate environs of Scardale Manor, using police tracker dogs. Alison’s dog was found in woodland near her home, but of the girl herself, we have found no trace.’
He cleared his throat. ‘We will have copies of a recent photograph of Alison available at Buxton Police Station by noon.’ As Martin gave a detailed description of the girl’s appearance and clothing, George studied the journalists. Their heads were bent, their pencils flying over the pages of their notebooks. At least they were all interested enough to take a detailed note. He wondered how much that had to do with the Manchester disappearances. He couldn’t imagine that they would normally have turned out in such numbers for a girl missing for sixteen hours from a tiny Derbyshire hamlet.
Martin was winding up. ‘If we do not find Alison today, the search will be intensified. We just don’t know what has happened to her, and we’re very concerned, not least because of the extremely bitter weather we’re experiencing at the moment. Now, if you gentlemen have any questions, either myself or Detective Inspector Bennett will be happy to answer.’ A head came up. ‘Brian Bond, Manchester Evening Chronicle. Do you suspect foul play?’
Martin took a deep breath. ‘At this point, we rule nothing out and nothing in. We can find no reason for Alison being missing. She was not in trouble at home or at school. But we have found nothing to suggest foul play at this stage.’
Colin Loftus lifted his hand, one finger raised. ‘Is there any indication that Alison might have met with an accident?’
‘Not so far,’ George said. ‘As Superintendent Martin told you, we’ve got teams of searchers combing the dale now. We’ve also asked all the local farmers to check their land very carefully, just in case Alison has been injured in a fall and has been unable to make her way home.’ The man on the far end of the row leaned back in his chair and blew a perfect smoke ring. ‘There seem to be some common features between Alison Carter’s disappearance and the two missing children in the Manchester area—Pauline Reade from Gorton and John Kilbride from Ashton. Are you speaking to detectives from the Manchester and Lancashire forces about a possible connection to their cases?’
‘And you are?’ Martin demanded stiffly.
‘Don Smart, Daily News. Northern Bureau.’ He flashed a smile that reminded George of the predatory snarl of the fox. Smart even had the same colouring: reddish hair sticking out from under a tweed cap, ruddy face and hazel eyes that squinted against the smoke from his panatella. ‘It’s far too early to make assumptions like that,’ George cut in, wanting for himself this question that echoed his own doubts. ‘I am of course familiar with the cases you mention, but as yet we have found no reason to communicate with our colleagues in other forces over anything other than search arrangements. Staffordshire Police have already indicated that they will give us every assistance should there be any need to widen our search area.’
But Smart was not to be put off so easily. ‘If I was Alison Carter’s mum, I don’t think I’d be impressed to hear that the police were ignoring such strong links to other child disappearances.’
Martin’s head came up sharply. He opened his mouth to rebuke the journalist, but George was there before him. ‘For every similarity, there’s a difference,’ he said bluntly. ‘Scardale is isolated countryside, not busy city streets; Pauline and John went missing on a weekend, but this is midweek; strangers would be a common sight to the other two, but a stranger in Scardale on a December teatime would put Alison straight on her guard; and, probably most importantly, Alison wasn’t alone, she had her dog with her. Besides, Scardale is a good twenty-five, thirty miles away.
Anybody looking for children to kidnap would have to pass a lot by before he got to Alison Carter.
Hundreds of people go missing every year. It would be stranger if there weren’t similarities.’ Don Smart stared a cool challenge at George. ‘Thank you, Detective Inspector Bennett. Would that be Bennett with two t’s?’ was all he said. ‘That’s right,’ George said. ‘Any further questions?’
‘Will you be draining the reservoirs up on the moors?’ Colin Loftus again.
‘We’ll let you know what steps we’re taking as and when,’ Martin said repressively. ‘Now, unless anyone’s got anything more to ask, I’m going to close this press conference now.’ He got to his feet. Don Smart leaned forward, elbows on his knees. ‘When’s the next one, then?’ he asked.
George watched Martin’s neck turn as red as turkey wattles. Oddly, the colour didn’t rise into his face. ‘When we find the girl, we’ll let you know.’
‘And if you don’t find her?’
‘I’ll be here tomorrow morning, same time,’ George said. ‘And every morning until we do find Alison.’
Don Smart’s eyebrows rose. ‘I’ll look forward to that,’ he said, gathering the folds of his heavy overcoat around his narrow frame and drawing himself up to his full five and a half feet. The other journalists were already straggling towards the door, comparing notes and deciding how they would lead off their stories.
‘Cheeky,’ Martin pronounced as the door closed behind them. ‘I suppose he’s only doing his job,’
George sighed. He could do without someone as stroppy as Don Smart on his back, but there wasn’t much he could do about it except to avoid letting the man needle him too much.
Martin snorted. ‘Troublemaker. The others managed to do their job without insinuating that we don’t know how to do ours. You’ll have to keep an eye on that one, Bennett.’
George nodded. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask, sir. Do you want me to carry on in operational charge here?’
Martin frowned. ‘Inspector Thomas will be responsible for the uniformed men, but I think you should take overall command. Detective Chief Inspector Carver won’t be going anywhere with his ankle still in plaster. He’s volunteered to take care of the CID office in Buxton, but I need a man here on the ground. Can I rely on you, Inspector?’