by Val McDermid
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.
Daily News, Thursday, 6th February 1964, p.2
Man 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.
28
The Murder Charge
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 the
ir 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, 17th 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 11th 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.
29
The Committal
George 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.
