by Val McDermid
‘But what?’
‘Nothing, sir.’
‘So what are you waiting for? I can’t lock up my office if you’re standing in the middle of the floor like piffy, can I?’
‘Sorry, sir,’ George said, picking up the sheet of paper from Carver’s desk. He turned his back and walked out into the CID room. ‘Sergeant,’ he called across to Clough. ‘Grab your coat. Let’s go.’
Surprised, Clough did as he was told. Carver scowled. ‘Where are you going? You’ve got a prisoner to charge and question.’
‘I’m going to phone Mr Naden and ask him to be here in an hour’s time. Then I’m taking Sergeant Clough home with me for a meal. We’ve neither of us eaten since breakfast, and a major interrogation needs more to sustain it than nicotine and caffeine. Sir,’ George said unapologetically.
Carver sneered. ‘Is that what they teach you at university?’
‘No, sir, it’s something I learned from Superintendent Martin, actually. He says you should never send your forces into battle on an empty stomach.’ George smiled. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse us, sir, we have work to do.’ He turned away and picked up the phone. He could feel Carver’s eyes burning into his back as he dialled. ‘Hello? Mr Naden? It’s Detective Inspector Bennett from Buxton CID here. I intend to question your client on suspicion of murder and rape in an hour’s time. I’d be much obliged if you could be here then…Fine, I’ll see you then. Thank you.’ He ended the call by depressing the rest then dialled again. ‘Anne? It’s me.’ He turned round and stared pointedly at Carver, who snorted and stalked off towards the stairs.
Precisely an hour later, Alfie Naden was shown into the interview room. He looked the epitome of a prosperous country solicitor, his neat paunch encased in a three–piece suit of irreproachable dark worsted. Gold-framed half-moon glasses perched on a fleshy nose flanked by florid cheeks. His bald head shone under the lights, and his chin was as smooth as if he’d shaved before coming out for this evening appointment. It would have been easy to mistake him for a bumpkin except for his eyes. Small and dark, they glittered like the glass eyes of an antique teddy bear. Seldom still except when he was probing a witness, they missed nothing. He was a shrewd adversary and George wished Hawkin hadn’t possessed sufficient local knowledge to engage the man.
Once Clough had brought Hawkin up from the cells, they cantered through the formalities. Hawkin said nothing, his lip curled slightly in distaste.
He looked as neat and confident as he had at ten that morning. George cautioned him, then said, ‘Following your arrest this morning on suspicion of murder, I obtained a search warrant from High Peak magistrates.’ He handed the warrant to Naden who scrutinized it and nodded briefly. ‘My officers and I executed that warrant this afternoon at Scardale Manor. In the course of that search, we discovered a safe sunk into the floor of the outbuilding which you have converted into a photographic darkroom. When that safe was opened with a key concealed in your study inside Scardale Manor, six brown envelopes were discovered.’
‘Six?’ Hawkin interjected.
‘Six envelopes which proved to contain certain photographic prints and negatives. As a result of which, I am charging you, Philip Hawkin, with rape.’
Throughout George’s formal speech, Hawkin’s face had not changed. So he wasn’t going to roll over, George thought. He thinks he’s got away with the big one, so he’s going to bite his tongue and take his medicine for the rape.
‘May we see the evidence?’ Naden said calmly.
George looked inquiringly at Hawkin. ‘Do you really want your solicitor to see the photographs? I mean, Mr Naden is the best there is. If I was you, I wouldn’t take the chance of him walking out.’
‘Mr Bennett,’ Naden warned.
‘He can’t defend me if he doesn’t know what you bastards have faked up,’ Hawkin said. His accent had slipped several notches down the social scale since the morning’s condescension.
George opened a folder in front of him. In the hour they’d been gone, Cragg had inserted every print and negative strip into its own individual plastic bag. The night-shift CID man had labelled each one as it had been slid inside the bag by its edges. Tomorrow, the forensic team would have their chance. Eventually, the force’s photographers would make copies from the negatives. But tonight, George needed to keep hold of the evidence.
Silently, he placed the first photograph ofAlison in front of Hawkin and Naden. Hawkin crossed his legs and said, ‘Did you bring me some fags?’ Naden dragged his horrified eyes away from the photograph and looked at Hawkin as if he were a creature from another universe. ‘What?’ he said faintly.
‘Fags. I’ve run out,’ Hawkin said.
Naden blinked a dozen times in quick succession then snapped open his briefcase. He took out a packet of Benson & Hedges, still in their cellophane wrapper, and tossed them in front of Hawkin, who made a point of not looking at any more of the photographs that George methodically put in front of Naden. The solicitor seemed mesmerized by the record of defilement piling up before him.
When the final photograph sat in front of him, he cleared his throat.
‘They’ve faked them,’ Hawkin said. ‘Anybody knows you can fake up photographs. My stepdaughter went missing and they’ve not been able to find her and now they’re framing me to make themselves look good.’
‘We’ve got the negatives as well,’ George said flatly. ‘You can fake negatives too,’ Hawkin said superciliously. ‘First you fake the photograph, then you photograph it. Bingo, you’ve got a negative that you can print from.’
‘Are you denying that you raped Alison Carter?’ George asked incredulously.
‘Yes,’ Hawkin said firmly.
‘We have also taken possession of a bloodstained shirt which is identical in every particular to the shirts you have made to measure at a London tailor. This was hidden in your darkroom too.’
Hawkin finally looked startled. ‘What?’
‘The shirt was very heavily stained with blood on the front, the lower sleeves and the cuffs. I expect that when it is tested, it will match the blood previously found on Alison’s underwear.’
‘What shirt? There was no shirt in my darkroom,’ Hawkin exclaimed, leaning forward and jabbing the air with his cigarette to make his point. ‘That’s where it was found. Along with the gun.’
Hawkin’s eyes widened. ‘What gun?’
‘A Webley.38 revolver. Identical to the one your mother’s neighbour Mr Wells had stolen a couple of years ago.’
‘I haven’t got a gun,’ Hawkin gabbled. ‘You’re making a big mistake here, Bennett. You might think you can get away with framing me for this, but you’re not as smart as you think you are!’
George’s smile was as icy as the wind that whistled outside. ‘You should know that it is my intention to present this information to the Director of Public Prosecutions in the firm belief that he will allow us to charge you with murder,’ he continued inexorably.
‘This is an outrage!’ Hawkin exploded. He shifted in his seat and turned his aggression on his solicitor. ‘Tell them they can’t do this. All they’ve got are some poxy faked pictures. Tell them!’
Naden looked as if he wished he’d stayed at home. ‘I must advise you to say nothing further, Mr Hawkin.’ Hawkin opened his mouth to protest. ‘Nothing further, Mr Hawkin,’ Naden repeated, a hard edge in his voice that entirely contradicted his benign appearance. ‘Mr Bennett, my client will not be making any further statement at this time. Nor will he be answering any of your questions.
Now, I require a meeting in private with my client. Other than that, we will see you before the justices tomorrow morning.’
George sat staring at the typewriter. He had to prepare a brief on the rape charge for the uniformed inspector who dealt with the magistrates’ court. It was a straightforward request for a remand in custody, but with Alfie Naden defending the squire of Scardale before a bench of the local great and good, George wanted to take no chances. It didn’t help tha
t his head pulsed with a pain so powerful that he had to resist the impulse to close one eye to relieve it.
He sighed and lit another cigarette. ‘Reasons to oppose bail,’ he muttered.
There was a peremptory knock at his door. At this time of night, it was probably one of the night shift taking pity on him and bringing tea. ‘Come in,’ he called.
Superintendent Martin pushed the door open, dressed in an immaculate dinner jacket instead of uniform. ‘Not disturbing you, am I?’ he asked. ‘You’re a very welcome interruption, sir,’ George said, meaning it. Martin settled himself in the chair opposite George and slipped a silver hip flask from his back pocket. ‘Anything to drink out of?’ he asked. George shook his head. ‘Not even a dirty cup. Sorry.’
‘No matter. We’ll just adopt battlefield manners,’ Martin said, taking a swig from the flask before wiping the top and handing it to George. ‘Go on. I bet you need it.’
Gratefully, George took a mouthful of brandy. He closed his eyes and savoured the burn as it coursed down his throat and warmed his chest. ‘I didn’t realize you had medical qualifications, sir.
That was just what the doctor ordered.’
‘I was at a Masonic dinner. So was DCI Carver. He told me what you’ve been up to.’ Martin gave George a level stare. ‘I’d rather have heard it from you.’
‘Things…moved at a bit of a lick today. I was very uneasy about that business of the newspaper photograph last week. I thought it needed further investigation. But I wasn’t planning on anything more than questioning Hawkin to see if I could unsettle him and perhaps make him slip up. Then when his wife phoned…I did think about coming to you before we searched the manor, but if I had, I would have missed the JPs at court, and you know how difficult some of them can be about signing warrants in what they see as their own time. So…I just forged ahead.’
‘So where exactly are we up to?’
‘I’ve charged him with rape. He’ll be up before the justices in the morning for a remand in custody. I’m just doing the paperwork now. I should tell you that he’s got Alfie Naden defending him and he’s already preparing the defence that we faked the photographs to make it look as if we hadn’t completely failed in the Alison Carter case.’ Martin snorted. ‘That’ll never fly. I doubt we’ve got either a photographer or the equipment to concoct something so elaborate. Still, it’ll stir up a lot of mud and he might just slide through it and out the other side.
You can never tell with juries, and he’s a good-looking beggar.’ He fished a cigar case out of his inside jacket pocket. He loosened his bow tie and undid the top collar stud in his dress shirt. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Cigar?’
‘I’ll stick with my cigarettes, thanks.’ Both men lit up.
Martin exhaled a plume of blue smoke. ‘What have we got for murder? Take me through it.’
George leaned back in his seat. ‘One, we now know he was interfering with his stepdaughter and taking pornographic photographs of her. Two, on the afternoon she disappeared, he claims he was alone in his darkroom. But we have two witnesses who saw him crossing the field between the wood where Alison’s dog was found and the copse where there were signs of a struggle involving her.’
‘Suggestive,’ Martin commented.
‘Three, the dog lived in his household. If anyone could have taped its muzzle shut without being bitten, it was someone that familiar with the dog. We’ll have to do a trawl of the local chemists to see if anyone remembers selling him a roll of elastoplast. Four, nobody in the village apart from Ma Lomas admits to ever having heard of the disused lead mine workings. But a book detailing the exact location of the entrance to the mine was found on the shelf in Hawkin’s study.’
‘Suggestive but circumstantial.’
George nodded. ‘It’s all circumstantial. But then, how often do we get a corroborated witness account of a murder?’
‘True. Let’s hear the rest of it.’
George paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. ‘OK. Five, Hawkin shared the blood group of the person who deposited semen on Alison’s underwear. There was also blood on that clothing that is the same group as Alison’s and the blood found on the tree in the copse. We know from the presence of Barr bodies that this blood was female in origin. So it’s reasonable to assume that Alison was at least injured if not killed at the hands of a sexual predator. And we know from the photographs that Hawkin fits that category. Six, the supposed identification of Alison from a newspaper photograph of a football crowd. It mirrors exactly a newspaper story about the missing Manchester girl, Pauline Reade. I believe he used this as a means of making himself look like a worried and caring father. Something he’d completely failed to do up to that point, I have to say.
‘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.’
Part Three
Trials and Tribulations
27
The Remand
It 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.
