by Val McDermid
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 1950s, 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.
After he’d given his evidence and suffered the whip of Highsmith’s incisive cross-examination, George walked out of the witness box and back through the crowded courtroom, his head high, two spots of colour burning in his cheeks. Tomorrow, he’d come back and sit in the body of the court to listen to the rest of the prosecution case. But now, he wanted a cigarette and an hour’s peace. He was about to run down the stairs when he heard Clough call his name. He half turned. ‘Not now, Tommy. Meet me in the Baker’s at opening time.’ Using the newel post as a pivot, he swung down the stairs and rushed out of the building. Within forty minutes, he was panting on the rounded summit ofMam Tor, high on the ridge where limestone meets millstone grit, the White Peak on his right, the Dark Peak on his left. The wind whipped the breath from his mouth, and the temperature was dropping even faster than the sun. George threw back his head and roared his pent-up frustration to the scudding clouds and the indifferent sheep.
He turned to face the dark crouch of Kinder Scout, its intractable moorland blocking any vista north. He swung through ninety degrees and looked along the ridge past Hollins Cross, Lose Hill Pike and the distant pimple of Win Hill, with Stanage Edge and Sheffield invisible beyond. Then another ninety-degree turn to gaze at the white scar of Winnats Pass and the dips and rises of the limestone dales beyond. Finally, he faced east, scanning the roll of Rushup Edge and the gentle descent to Chapel-en-le-Frith. Somewhere out there, Alison Carter was lying, her body prey to nature, her life snuffed out. He’d done what he could. Now it was up to others. He had to learn to let go.
Later, he found Clough nursing the remains of a pint at a quiet table in the corner of the Baker’s Arms. The locals knew enough to leave them in peace, and the landlord had already refused service to three reporters, including Don Smart. He had threatened to complain to the next session of the licensing magistrates. The landlord had chuckled and said, ‘They’d give me a medal. You’re here and gone—we’ve all got to live here.’
George walked over with a fresh pint for Clough and one for himself. ‘I needed some air,’ he said as he sat down. ‘If I’d stuck around, you’d have me in the cells on a charge of murdering a QC.’
‘What a shit,’ Clough said, pretending to spit on the floor. ‘I suppose he’d say he’s only doing his job.’ George took a deep draught of his beer. ‘Ah, that’s better. I’ve been up Mam Tor, blowing the
cobwebs away. Well, at least now we can see where the defence is coming from.
It’s a conspiracy by me to frame Philip Hawkin to ensure my future promotions.’
‘The magistrates won’t fall for that.’
‘A jury might,’ George said bitterly.
‘Why would they? You come over as Mr Nice Guy. You’ve only got to look at Hawkin and the alarm bells start ringing. He’s got that look that women can’t resist and men hate on sight. Unless Highsmith can swing an all-female jury, there’s no chance of that defence running.’
‘I hope you’re right. Anyway, cheer me up. Tell me what I missed.’ Clough grinned. ‘You missed Charlie Lomas.
He cleans up well, I’ll say that for him. He managed to wear a suit without looking like he was in a straitjacket. Nervous as a cat in a kennel, but the lad stuck to his guns, I’ll give him that. Stanley did a good catch-up on Highsmith’s smear job. He got Charlie to talk about the lead mine and how it would have been out of the question for an outsider like you to have made your way there, even with the book. He also got Charlie to explain how, although Hawkin is a relative newcomer to the dale, he’s done a lot of exploring for his picture-postcard photographs.’
George gave a sigh of relief. ‘How did he get on with Highsmith?’
‘He just stuck to his guns.
Wouldn’t be shifted. Yes, he was sure it was Wednesday he saw Hawkin walking the fields. No, it wasn’t Tuesday. Nor Monday neither. He was solid as a rock, was Charlie. He made a good impression on the mags, you could tell.’
‘Thank God somebody did.’
‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself, George. You did fine. Highsmith tried to make you look bent, but he didn’t succeed. Considering how little solid evidence we’ve got, I’d say we’re doing all right in there. Now, do you want the good news?’
George’s head came up as if it was on a string. ‘There’s good news?’ he demanded.
Clough grinned. ‘Oh aye, I think you could say that.’ He took his time getting his cigarettes out and lighting up. ‘I had another word with the sergeant down in St Albans.’
‘Wells has turned up?’ George could hardly contain himself.
‘Not yet, no.’
George slumped back in his seat, sighing. ‘That’s the news I’m holding my breath for,’ he admitted.
‘Well, this isn’t half bad. Turns out our sergeant knows Hawkin. He didn’t want to say anything till he’d spoken to one or two other folk 224 and got the nod from them that it was all right to talk to me.’ Clough drained his pint. ‘Same again?’
George nodded in amused frustration. ‘Oh, go on, I know you’re enjoying dragging it out. You might as well pay for your pleasure.’ By the time Clough returned, George had smoked half a cigarette with the nervous concentration of a man about to enter a no-smoking train compartment on a long journey. ‘Come on then,’ he urged, leaning forward and sliding his pint towards him.
‘Let’s hear it.’
‘Sergeant Stillman’s wife is a Tawny Owl at one of the local Brownie packs.
Hawkin turned up offering to be their official photographer. He’d do pictures at parades, camps, that sort of thing, and sell the pictures back to the Brownies and their families at a knockdown price. In exchange, he said he wanted to take portrait photographs of the girls for his own portfolio.
It all seemed above board. It wasn’t as if Hawkin was a stranger. Him and his mum were both members of the church the Brownie pack was attached to. And he was always perfectly happy for the girls’ mothers to come along when he was taking their pictures.’ Clough paused, eyebrows raised.
‘So what went wrong?’ George asked on cue.
‘Time went by. Hawkin got friendly with some of the older girls and started setting up sessions without their mothers. There were a couple of…incidents. First time, he denied everything, said the girl was telling lies to get attention. Second time, same thing, only this time he said that the girl was getting her own back because Hawkin wasn’t interested in photographing her any more. He said she knew the fuss there had been about the first girl’s accusation and threatened to say the same things if he wouldn’t give her money for sweets and carry on taking her photograph. Well, nobody wanted any trouble, and there wasn’t any real evidence, so Sergeant Stillman had a quiet word with Hawkin. Suggested he should stay away from young girls to avoid any possibility of misunderstanding.’ George let out a low whistle. ‘Well, well, well. I thought there must be something somewhere. Child molesters don’t suddenly start up at Hawkin’s age. Well done, Tommy. At least we know we’ve not been letting ourselves get carried away with some daft notion.
Hawkin is exactly what we think he is.’
Clough nodded. ‘The only trouble is, we can’t use any of it in court.
What Stillman has to say is second-hand hearsay.’
‘What about the girls?’
Clough snorted. ‘Stillman won’t even tell me their names. The main reason it never came to formal charges before was that the mothers were adamant that their little girls weren’t going to be put through the ordeal of going to court. If they wouldn’t hear of it on an indecency, there’s no chance of them being persuaded on a murder that’s in the headlines like this one.’
George nodded sad agreement. He couldn’t argue with people who wanted to protect their kids, even when the damage was already done. Now he was himself about to become a father, however, he felt for the first time in his life the tug ofvigilantism. He couldn’t understand why Hawkin was still at large. As a policeman, Stillman had plenty of resources to hand to damage the man, physically and socially. But he hadn’t. He’d even been reluctant to tell Clough. ‘They obviously do things differently down there,’ he said wearily. ‘If I knew, as a copper, that some pervert had molested a kid belonging to a friend of mine, I couldn’t let him walk away. I’d have to find a way of making him pay. Either through the law or…’
‘I thought you didn’t believe in the dark alleyways of justice?’ Clough said ironically.
‘It’s different with kids, though, isn’t it?’
It was the great unanswerable question. They pondered it in silence for the rest of their drinks.
When George came back with the third round, he seemed a little brighter. ‘We’ve still got enough, even without the St Albans stuff.’
‘I think Stillman feels guilty about not taking more action,’ Clough said.
‘Good. So he should. Maybe he’ll make a point of keeping an eye open for the return of Mr and Mrs Wells.’
‘I hope so, George. Even if we get our committal, we’re still a long way off home and dry.’
In a dramatic decision yesterday Buxton magistrates committed Philip Hawkin for trial to the Derby Assizes on charges of murder and rape.
Alison has not been seen since she disappeared from the remote Derbyshire village of Scardale on 11th December last year.
During the four-day committal, her mother, who married Hawkin just over a year ago, gave evidence for the prosecution. It was Mrs Carter (as she prefers now to be known) who discovered the gun which prosecuting counsel Mr Desmond Stanley, QC claimed had been used to murder her daughter.
Yeste’rday the court heard from Professor John Hammond that the absence of blood at the alleged murder scene did not necessarily mean no killing had taken place.
He also testified that blood found on a heavily stained shirt identified as belonging to Hawkin could have come from Alison. (cont. on p.2)
Daily News, Friday, 28th February 1964
Alison: Stepfather to be tried for murder
The stepfather of missing schoolgirl Alison Carter will stand trial for her murder even though the 13-year-old’s body has not been found.
30
The Trial 1
High Peak Courant, Friday, 12th June 1964
Peak Murder Trial Next Week
The trial of Scardale landowner Philip Hawkin begins on Monday at Derby Assizes.
Hawkin is charged with the
rape and murder of his stepdaughter, Alison Carter. At his committal before Buxton justices in February, his wife was among the prosecution witnesses.
Alison has not been seen since the afternoon of 11th December last year when she disappeared after taking her collie Shep for a walk in the dale after school.
The presiding judge at the trial will be Mr Justice Fletcher Sampson.
The fanfare of trumpets seemed to hang in the air like the shimmer of a rainbow. In all his scarlet and ermine glory, Mr Justice Fletcher Sampson had arrived at the oak-panelled county hall with his mounted police escort. George Bennett sat in an anteroom, smoking a cigarette at an open window.
He imagined the dramatic procession of the judge to his courtroom, to take his appointed place at the judicial rostrum beneath the royal coat of arms. At his side on this, the first day of the Assize Court, would be the High Sheriff of Derbyshire in full ceremonial uniform.
By now, he thought, they’d be in the courtroom, staring down from the rostrum at counsel, arrayed before them in their grey wigs and black gowns, their brilliant white bands and shirt-fronts making them look like strange hybrids of hooded crows and magpies. Behind the barristers, their support staff of solicitors and clerks. Behind them, the ornate but solid dock where Hawkin would sit, flanked by a pair of police officers, dwarfed by the timber and kept firmly in his place by the row of iron spikes that topped the wood. Behind Hawkin, the press benches with their assortment of eager youths desperate to make their marks, and old hacks who needed to feel they’d seen and heard it all. Don Smart’s fox-red hair would stand out among them like a blaze. Above and behind the journalists, the public gallery, crammed with the concerned faces of Scardale and the prurient eyes of the others.
And over to one side, just beyond the witness box, the most important people in the place would soon sit. The jury. Twelve men and women who would hold Philip Hawkin’s fate in their hands.
