by Val McDermid
‘Yes,’ Wells said wearily.
‘Did you leave a key with any of your neighbours?’ Wells raised his head, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. ‘Mrs Hawkin always had a key. In case of emergencies.’
‘Mrs Hawkin always had a key,’ Highsmith repeated, his eyes scanning the jury to make sure they’d taken his point. ‘Did the police take fingerprints after your burglary?’
‘They tried, but whoever broke in wore gloves, they said.’
‘Did they ever indicate to you whether they had an idea who might be responsible?’
‘No.’
‘Did they ever say anything that might have suggested they suspected Mr Hawkin?’
Even as Wells said, ‘No,’ Stanley was on his feet. ‘My lord,’ he protested. ‘My learned friend is not only leading the witness, but he is leading him down the path of hearsay.’ Sampson nodded.
‘Members of the jury, you will disregard the last question and the answer to it. Mr Highsmith?’
‘Thank you, my lord. Mr Wells, did you ever suspect Mr Hawkin of having burgled your home?’
Wells shook his head. ‘Never. Why would Phil do a thing like that? We were his friends.’
‘Thank you, Mr Wells. I have no further questions.’ So that was the way the wind was blowing, Clough thought to himself as he edged out of the courtroom. He slipped into the witness room ahead of the usher. George jumped to his feet, his expression an eager question. ‘The defence didn’t question the ID-1 think their line’s going to be that Hawkin bought the gun in a pub, not realizing it was the one stolen from Wells.’
George sighed. ‘And I found the gun and used it to frame him. So it doesn’t change anything.’
‘It does,’ Clough said earnestly. ‘It ties Hawkin to the gun. Ordinary people don’t have guns, George. Remember?’
Before George could reply, the door opened and the court usher said, ‘Detective Inspector Bennett? They’re ready for you now.’ It was one of the longest walks of his life. He could feel the eyes on him, making him conscious of every step he took. When he reached the witness box, he turned quite deliberately and stared at the impassive face of Philip Hawkin. He hoped Hawkin felt he was looking at his nemesis. Stanley waited while the clerk administered the oath, then rose to his feet, delicately dabbing at his moist eyes. ‘Can you state your name and rank for the record, Inspector?’
‘I am George Bennett, Detective Inspector with Derbyshire Constabulary, based at Buxton.’
‘I’d like to take you right back to the beginning of this case, Inspector.
When did you first hear of Alison Carter’s disappearance?’ At once, George was back in the squad room on that bitter December night, hearing from Sergeant Lucas that there was a girl missing in Scardale. He began his evidence with the clarity of a man who can slip back into the scenes of memory with the immediacy of the present. Stanley almost smiled in his relief at having such an impressive police witness. In his experience, it was a lottery with officers of the law. Sometimes he trusted them less than the shifty individuals in the witness box. But George Bennett was handsome and clean cut. He looked and sounded as honest as a film star playing the decent cop.
Stanley wasted no time, and by the end of the morning he had covered the initial report of Alison’s disappearance, George’s first interview with her mother and stepfather, the preliminary searches and the discovery of the dog in the woodland.
Then, for a further hour and a half in the afternoon, Stanley took him meticulously through the key discoveries in the investigation. The blood and garment traces in the copse; the book in Hawkin’s study detailing the old workings inside the crag; the stained clothes and the bullets in the lead mine; the bloody shirt and the gun; the appalling photographs and negatives in the safe.
‘It is unusual to charge a man with murder when there is no body,’ Stanley said towards the end of the afternoon.
‘It is, sir. But in this case, we felt the evidence was so overwhelming that there was no other conclusion that could be drawn.’
‘And of course, there are other cases where men have been found guilty of murder in the absence of a body. Inspector Bennett, given the seriousness of the charges, do you have any lingering doubts about your correctness in charging Mr Hawkin?’
‘Anyone who has seen the photographic evidence of what he did to his stepdaughter when she was alive would know this was a man who would stop at nothing. So, no, I have no doubts at all.’ It was the first time George had let his emotions surface and Stanley was happy to see the jurors seemed impressed with his passion.
He gathered together his papers. ‘I have no further questions for the witness,’ he said.
He had never wanted a cigarette more, George thought as he waited for Rupert Highsmith to finish fiddling with his papers and begin his attack. Stanley’s questions had been thorough and probing, but there had been nothing he had not been well prepared for. Highsmith had tried suggesting to the judge that they leave the cross-examination till the morning, but Sampson was in no mood to wait.
Highsmith leaned negligently against the rail behind him. ‘You won’t forget you’re still under oath, Inspector? Now, tell the court how old you are.’
‘I’m twenty-nine years old, sir.’
‘And how long have you been a police officer?’
‘Nearly seven years.’
‘Nearly seven years,’ Highsmith repeated admiringly. ‘And you’ve already reached the lofty heights of detective inspector. Remarkable. So you won’t have had much time to gain experience of complicated, serious cases?’
‘I’ve done my share, sir.’
‘But you’re on an accelerated promotion scheme for graduates, aren’t you? Your promotions haven’t come because of your brilliant performances in the field of detection, but simply because you have a university degree and you were promised rapid promotion regardless of whether you had investigated murder or shoplifting. Isn’t that the case?’Highsmith frowned, as if genuinely puzzled by the thought. George took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose. ‘I did enter the force as a graduate. But it was made plain to me that if my performance did not match up to certain expectations, I would not automatically progress through the ranks.’
‘Really?’ If Highsmith had used that tone in the cricket club, George would have flattened him.
‘Really,’ he echoed, then clamped his mouth shut. ‘It’s very unusual for so junior an officer to head an investigation of this seriousness, isn’t it?’ Highsmith pressed on. ‘The detective chief inspector in the division was incapacitated with a broken ankle. At the outset, we had no idea how serious the investigation might prove to be, so Superintendent Martin asked me to take charge.
Once it began to appear more serious, it made sense to maintain continuity rather than hand over to someone from headquarters who would have to start from scratch. I was at all times under the direct supervision of Detective Chief Inspector Carver and the divisional chief, Superintendent Martin. Sir.’
‘Prior to this, had you in fact ever been involved in investigating a case involving a missing child?’
No, sir.’
Highsmith cast his eyes upwards and sighed. ‘Had you ever led a murder inquiry?’
‘No, sir.’
Highsmith frowned, rubbed the bridge of his nose with his index finger and said, ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Inspector, but this is the first major criminal investigation you have ever been in charge of, isn’t it?’
‘In charge of, yes. But I’ve ‘ ‘Thank you, Inspector, you need only answer the question asked,’ Highsmith cut brutally across him.
George flashed him a look of frustration. Then, from somewhere, he found a twitch of a smile, acknowledging that he knew what was being done to him.
‘You’ve taken a strong personal interest in this case, haven’t you?’
‘I’ve done my job, sir.’
‘Even after the initial search was called off, you still visited Scardale several times a week, didn’t you?�
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‘A couple of times a week, yes. I wanted to reassure Mrs Carter that the case was still open and we hadn’t forgotten her daughter.’
‘You mean Mrs Hawkin, don’t you?’ Highsmith’s use of Ruth’s current married name was clearly directed at the jury, a device to remind them of her relationship to the man in the dock.
George was proof against such provocative play. He smiled. ‘Not surprisingly, she prefers to be known by her previous married name. We’re happy to abide by that preference.’
‘You even abandoned your family, including your pregnant wife, to visit Scardale on Christmas Day.’
‘I couldn’t help thinking how Alison’s disappearance must have affected the way people in Scardale were feeling at Christmas. I went over with my sergeant for a very brief visit, just to show our faces, to show we sympathized.’
‘To show you sympathized. How very commendable,’ Highsmith said patronizingly. ‘You often visited the manor, didn’t you?’
‘I dropped in, yes.’
‘You knew the study?’
‘I’ve been in it, yes.’
‘How many times, would you say?’
George shrugged. ‘Hard to put an exact figure on it. Before we executed the search warrant, maybe four or five times.’
‘And were you ever alone in there?’
The question came fast as a whip and with the same sting. Now it was clear what Highsmith was planning. ‘Only briefly.’
‘How many times?’
George frowned. ‘Twice, I think,’ he said cautiously.
‘How long for?’
Stanley was on his feet. ‘Your Lordship, this is supposed to be crossexamination.
My learned friend seems intent on a fishing expedition.’
Sampson nodded. ‘Mr Highsmith?’
‘Your Lordship, the prosecution is relying heavily on circumstantial evidence, some of which was found in my client’s study. I think it only reasonable that I be allowed to establish that other people had opportunity to have left it there.’
‘Very well, Mr Highsmith, you may continue,’ the judge grudgingly allowed.
‘How long were you left alone in the study?’
‘On one occasion, a minute or two at the most. On the second occasion, I must have been in the room for about ten minutes before Mr Hawkin appeared,’ George said reluctantly.
‘Long enough,’ Highsmith said, apparently to himself as he picked up another pad and flicked over a page or two. ‘Can you tell us what your hobbies are, Inspector?’ he asked pleasantly.
‘Hobbies?’ George demanded, caught off his stride.
‘That’s right.’
George looked at Stanley for guidance, but the barrister could only shrug. ‘I play cricket. I like to go fell-walking. I don’t have time for many hobbies,’ he said, sounding as baffled as he felt.
‘You’ve missed one out,’ Highsmith said, his voice cold again. ‘One that has particular relevance to this case.’
George shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Highsmith picked up a thin bundle of photostats. ‘Your Lordship, I would like these papers entered as defence exhibits one to five. Exhibit one is from Cavendish Grammar School for Boys school magazine for 1951. It is the annual report of the school Camera Club, written by the secretary, George Bennett.’ He handed the top sheet to the court clerk. ‘The other exhibits are from the newsletter of the Camera Club of Manchester University, where Detective Inspector Bennett was an undergraduate. They contain articles on photography written by one George Bennett.’ He handed over the papers to the court clerk. ‘Inspector Bennett, do you deny that you wrote these articles on photography?’
‘Of course I don’t.’
‘You are in fact something of an expert in matters photographic?’ George frowned. He could see the trap. To deny it would make him look like a liar. To admit it might fatally undermine the prosecution case for a committal. ‘Any knowledge I had is well out of date,’ he said carefully.
‘Apart from family snaps, I haven’t handled a camera for five or six years.’
‘But you would know where to go to find out how to fake photographs,’ Highsmith said.
George was wiser than Ruth Carter in the ways of barristers. He knew better than to leave a statement unanswered. ‘No more than you would, sir.’
‘Photographs can be faked, can’t they?’ he asked.
‘In my experience, not nearly as neatly as this,’ George said.
Highsmith pounced on the uncharacteristic slip. ‘In your experience? Are you telling the court you have experience of faking photographs?’ George shook his head. ‘No, sir. I was referring to attempts at faking that I have seen, not that I have produced.’
‘But you do know how photographs can be faked?’ George took a deep breath. ‘As I said earlier, my knowledge of photography is well out of date. Anything I know about any aspect of photography has probably been overtaken by changes in technique and technology.’
‘Inspector, please answer the question. Do you or do you not know how photographs can be faked?’ Highsmith sounded exasperated. George knew it was assumed to make him look shifty, but there was nothing he could do to alter that impression, short of admitting to being a skilled forger of photographs.
‘I have some theoretical knowledge, yes, but I have never ‘ ‘Thank you,’ Highsmith said loudly, cutting him off. ‘A simple answer will always suffice. Now, these negatives which the prosecution has entered into evidence. What kind of camera would you need to take them?’ Beneath the level of the witness box, where the jury could not see them, George clenched his fists till his nails left weals on his palms. ‘You’d need a portrait camera. A Leica or a Rolleiflex, something like that.’
‘Do you possess such a camera?’
‘I have not used my Rolleiflex for at least five years,’ he said, knowing he sounded devious even as he spoke.
Highsmith sighed. ‘The question was whether you possess such a camera, not when you last used it, Inspector. Do you possess such a camera? Yes or no will serve.’
Yes.’
Highsmith paused and flicked through his papers. Then he looked up.
‘You believe my client is guilty, don’t you?’
George turned his head towards the jury. ‘What I believe doesn’t matter.’
‘But you do believe in my client’s guilt?’ Highsmith persisted. ‘I believe what the evidence tells me, and so yes, I do believe Philip Hawkin raped and murdered his thirteen-year-old stepdaughter,’
George said, emotion creeping into his voice in spite of his intention to keep it battened down.
‘Both of which are terrible crimes,’ Highsmith said. ‘Any reasonable man would be appalled by them and would want to bring to justice the person who had committed them. The problem is, Inspector, that there is no solid evidence that either of these crimes was ever committed, is there?’
‘If there was no evidence, the magistrates would never have committed your client for trial and we would not be here today.’
‘But there is an alternative explanation for every piece of circumstantial evidence before us today. And many of those explanations lead us firmly to your door. It is your obsession with Alison Carter that has brought us here today, isn’t it, Inspector?’
Stanley was on his feet again. ‘My lord, I must protest. My learned friend seems determined to make speeches rather than ask questions, to cast aspersions rather than to make direct accusations.
If he has something to ask Detective Inspector Bennett, well and good. But if his sole intent is to deliver slurs and innuendo to the jury, then he should be stopped.’ Sampson glowered down from the bench. ‘He’s not the only one making pretty speeches out of turn, Mr Stanley.’ He looked over his glasses at the jury like a short-sighted mole. ‘You should bear in mind that what you are here to listen to is the evidence, so you must disregard any comments that counsel make in passing. Mr Highsmith, please continue,
but to the point.’
‘Very well, my lord. Inspector, bearing in mind you should answer yes or no, are you an ambitious man?’
Stanley intervened again. ‘My lord,’ he exclaimed indignantly. ‘This has nothing to do with the matter before the court.’
‘It speaks to his motivation,’ Highsmith said briskly. ‘The defence contends that much of the evidence against my client has been concocted. Inspector Bennett’s motivation therefore becomes an issue for the defence.’
Sampson thought for a moment then said, ‘I am minded to allow the question.’
George took a deep breath. ‘My only ambition is to contribute to justice being done. I believe that somewhere out there is the body of a girl who was monstrously abused before she was killed and I believe the man who did it is sitting in the dock.’ Highsmith was trying to stop him, but he kept on to the end regardless. ‘I’m here to try and make sure he pays for what he’s done, not to further my career.’ He came to an abrupt halt. Highsmith shook his head in apparent disgust. ‘Yes or no, that was what I asked for.’ He sighed. ‘I have no further questions of this witness,’ he said, his face—turned towards the jury and away from the judge showing a contempt that was absent from his voice.
George stepped down from the witness box. He could no longer escape from the sight he’d been deliberately trying to avoid all the time he’d been in the witness box. Hawkin stared at him with a look that bordered on the triumphant. The smile that often appeared to hover on his lips was back and he sat as casually in the dock as if he were in his own kitchen. With murder in his heart, George strode past the dock and straight out of the courtroom. Behind him, he heard the judge announcing the close of business for the day. He hurried on, down the corridor to the Gents.
He dived into the cubicle, slammed the bolt home and bent over the bowl. He barely made it in time. The hot vomit splattered against the porcelain, the thin acrid smell rising to make him gag again. He jerked the chain then leaned against the wall of the toilet, cold sweat on his face. For a terrible moment in the courtroom, he had felt the horror of what Highsmith’s insinuations and accusations might do to him. All it would take would be a couple of gullible jurors with a grudge against the police, and not only would Hawkin walk free, but he’d take George’s career and reputation with him. It was an unbearable notion, the stuff of threeAM nightmares and bowel-churning panics. He had stuck his neck out for this prosecution. Now, for the first time, he was allowing himself to understand how easily he could become the agent of his own destruction. No wonder Carver had been so magnanimous in his insistence George see the case through himself. He hadn’t so much been handed the poisoned chalice as wrestled it out of everyone else’s hands. But what else could he have done? Even as he stood there with the throat-rasping smell of bleach making his watering eyes sting, George knew there had never been any real choice for him. When he emerged, Clough was waiting, the familiar cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth. ‘I know a good pub on the Ashbourne road,’ he said. ‘We’ll have a jar on the way home.’
