George found a space for his car on the far side of the village green, tucked down the side of the wall of Scardale Manor. Time for another chat with Mrs Hawkin, hed decided. On his way to the house, he paused by the caravan that had arrived that morning from force headquarters. They were using it as a liaison point for searchers rather than an incident room, and a pair of WPCs were occupied with the continuous task of brewing tea and coffee. George pushed the door open and silently congratulated himself on winning his private bet that Inspector Alan Thomas would be settled comfortably in the warmest corner of the caravan, pot of tea to one side of his broad hands, ashtray containing his briar pipe to the other.
George, Thomas said heartily. Come and park yourself here, boy. Bitter out, isnt it? Glad Im not out there combing the woods.
Any news? George asked, nodding acceptance at the WPC who was offering him a mug of tea. He sugared it from an open bag and leaned against the bulkhead.
Not a dicky bird, boy. Everybodys drawn a blank, more or less. The odd scrap of clothing, but nothing that hasnt been there for months, Thomas said, his Welsh accent somehow rendering the depressing news cheerful. Help yourself, he added, waving a hand towards a plate of buttered scones. The girls mother brought them in. Said she couldnt be doing with sitting about waiting.
Im going to bob in and see her in a minute. George reached across and grabbed a scone. Not half bad, he decided. Definitely an improvement over Annes. She was a great cook, but her bakery skills left a lot to be desired. Hed had to lie, say he didnt really like cakes that much. Otherwise he knew that hed end up praising her because he didnt know how to criticize. And he didnt want to condemn himself to fifty years of heavy sponges, chewy pastry and rock cakes that seemed to have come straight from the local roadstone quarries.
Suddenly, the door crashed open. A red-faced man wearing a heavy leather jerkin over several layers of shirts and jumpers lurched into the caravan, panting hard and sweating. Are you Thomas? he demanded, looking at George.
I am, boy, Thomas said, getting to his feet accompanied by a shower of crumbs. Whats happened? Have they found the girl?
The man shook his head, hands on knees as he struggled to get his breath back. In the spinney below Shield Tor, he gasped. Looks like theres been a struggle. Branches broken. He straightened up. Im supposed to bring you there.
George abandoned tea and scone and followed the man outside, with Thomas bringing up the tail. He introduced himself and said, Are you from Scardale?
Aye. Im Ray Carter. Alisons uncle.
And Janets dad, George reminded himself. How far is this from where we found the dog? he asked, forcing his legs to full stride to keep up with the farmer, who could move a lot faster than his stocky build suggested.
Maybe quarter of a mile as the crow flies.
Its taken us a while to get to it, George said mildly.
You cant see it from the path. So it got missed the first time through the spinney, Carter said. Besides, its not an obvious place. He stopped for a moment, turning to point back at Scardale Manor. Look. Theres the manor. He swivelled round. Theres the field that leads to the wood where the dog was found, and to the Scarlaston. He moved round again. Theres the way out the dale. And there, he concluded, indicating an area of trees between the manor and the woodland where Shep had been restrained, is where were heading. On the way to nowhere, he added bitterly, encompassing the high limestone cliffs and the bleak grey skies with a final wave of his hand.
George frowned. The man was right. If Alison had been in the spinney when she was snatched, why was the dog tied up in a woodland clearing a quarter of a mile away? But if shed been captured without putting up a fight in the clearing and the struggle had taken place when shed seen the chance to get away from her captor, what were they doing in the dead end of the dale? It was another inconsistency to file away, he thought, following Ray Carter towards the narrow belt of trees.
The spinney was a mixture of beech, ash, sycamore and elm, more recent planting than the woodland theyd been in the previous night. The trees were smaller, their trunks narrower. They appeared to be too close together, their branches forming a loose-woven screen through which almost nothing could be seen. The undergrowth was heavy between the young trees, too thick to readily provide a way through. This way, Carter said, angling towards an almost invisible opening in the brown ferns and the red and green foliage of the brambles. As soon as they entered the spinney, they lost most of the afternoon light. Half blind, George could see why the first wave of searchers might have missed something. He hadnt fully appreciated how intransigent the landscape was or how easy it could be to miss something as big as, God forbid, a body. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could make out shrubby undergrowth among the trees. Underfoot, the path was slimy with trampled dead leaves. Ive been telling the squire for months now, this spinney needs thinning out, Carter grumbled, pushing aside the whiplash branches of a low-growing elder. You could lose half the High Peak Hunt in here and never be any the wiser.
Suddenly, they came upon the rest of the search team. Three PCs and a lad stood in a cluster at a bend in the path. The lad looked no more than eighteen, dressed like Carter in leather jerkin and heavy corduroy trousers. Right, said George, whos going to show me and Mr Thomas whats what here?
One of the constables cleared his throat. Its just up ahead, sir. Another team had already been through here this morning, but Mr Carter here suggested we should take another look, on account of the undergrowth being so dense, like. He waved George and Inspector Thomas through and the others stood back awkwardly to let them pass. The PC pointed to an almost undetectable break in the undergrowth on the south side of the path. It was the lad spotted it. Charlie Lomas. Theres a very faint track of broken twigs and trampled plants. A few yards in, it looks like theres been a struggle.
George crouched down and peered at the path. The man was right. There wasnt much to see. It was a miracle that any of them had spotted it. He supposed that the inhabitants of Scardale knew their territory so well that what appeared unobtrusive to him would leap out and hit them between the eyes.
How many of you trampled over there in your size tens? Thomas asked.
Just me and the Lomas lad, sir. We were as careful as we could be. We tried not to disturb anything.
Ill take a look, George said. Mr Thomas, could one of your lads phone up to the incident room and get a photographer down here? And Id like the tracker dogs here as well. Once the photographers finished, well also need a fingertip search of the area. Without waiting for a response, George carefully held back the branches that overhung the faltering trail and moved forward, trying to keep a couple of feet to the left of the original track. Here, it was even more dim than on the path, and he paused to let his eyes adapt to the gloom.
The PCs description had been admirable in its accuracy. Half a dozen cramped steps, and George found what hed been looking for. Broken twigs and crushed ferns marked an area about five feet by six. He was no countryman, but even George knew that this was recent damage. The shattered branches and stems looked freshly injured. One evergreen shrub that had been partially crushed was only wilted, not yet entirely dead. If this wasnt connected to Alison Carters disappearance, it was a very odd coincidence.
The PCs description had been admirable in its accuracy. Half a dozen cramped steps, and George found what hed been looking for. Broken twigs and crushed ferns marked an area about five feet by six. He was no countryman, but even George knew that this was recent damage. The shattered branches and stems looked freshly injured. One evergreen shrub that had been partially crushed was only wilted, not yet entirely dead. If this wasnt connected to Alison Carters disappearance, it was a very odd coincidence.
George leaned forward, one hand clinging to a tree branch for support. There might be important evidence here. He didnt want to walk over this ground and cause any more harm than the searchers had already done. Even as the thought crossed his mind, his close scrutiny revealed a clump of dark material snagged on the sharp end of a broken twig. Black woolly tights, Ruth Hawkin had said. Georges stomach clenched. Shes been here, he said softly.
He moved to his left, circling round the trampled area, stopping every couple of steps to examine what lay before him. He was almost diagonally opposite the point where hed left the path when he saw it. Just in front of him and to the right, there was a dark patch on the startling white bark of a birch tree. Irresistibly drawn, he moved closer.
The blood had dried long since. But adhering to it, unmistakably, were a dozen strands of bright blonde hair. And on the ground next to the tree, a horn toggle with a scrap of material still attached.
6
Thursday, 12th December 1963. 5.05 p.m.
George took a deep breath and raised his hand to knock. Before his knuckles could connect with the wood, the door swung open. Ruth Hawkin stood facing him, her drawn face grey in the evening light. She stepped to one side, leaning against the doorjamb for support. Youve found something, she said flatly.
George crossed the threshold and closed the door behind him, determined not to provide the watching eyes with more spectacle than was inevitable. His eyes automatically swept the room. Wheres the WPC? he asked, turning to face Ruth.
I sent her away, she said. I dont need taking care of like a child. Besides, I reckoned there must be something she could do that would be more use to my Alison than sitting on her backside drinking tea all day. There was an acerbic note in her voice that George hadnt heard there before. Healthy, he thought. This was not a woman who was going to collapse in a whimpering heap at every piece of bad news. He was relieved about that, because he believed he definitely qualified as the bearer of evil tidings.
Shall we sit down? he said.
Her mouth twisted in a sardonic grimace. That bad, eh? But she pushed herself away from the wall and dropped into one of the kitchen chairs. George sat opposite, noticing that she was still dressed in the same clothes shed been wearing the night before. Shed not been to bed, then. Certainly not slept. Probably not even tried.
Is your husband out searching? he asked.
She nodded. I dont think he was keen. Hes a fair-weather countryman, my Phil. He likes it when the sun shines and it looks like one of his picture postcards. But days like today, cold, damp, a touch of freezing fog in the air, hes either sitting on top of the stove or else hes locked in his darkroom with a pair of paraffin heaters. Ill say this for him, though. Today, he made an exception.
If you like, we can wait till he comes back, George said.
That wont alter what youve got to say, will it? she said, her voice weary.
No, Im afraid not. George opened his overcoat and removed two polythene bags from the inside poachers pocket. One contained the soft, fluffy ball of material snagged on the broken twig; the other, the smooth, ridged toggle, its natural shades of brown and bone strange against the man-made plastic. Attached to it by strong navy thread was a fragment of navy-blue felted wool. I have to ask you, do you recognize either of these?
Her face was blank as she reached for the bags. She stared at them for a long moment. Whats this supposed to be? she asked, prodding the material with her index finger.
We think its wool, George said. Perhaps from tights like Alison was wearing.
This could be anything, she said defensively. It could have been out there for days, weeks.
Well have to see what our lab can make of it. No point in trying to force her to accept what her mind did not want to admit. What about the toggle? Do you recognize that?
She picked up the bag and ran her finger over the carved piece of antler. She looked up at him, her eyes pleading. Is this all you found of her? Is this all there is to show?
We found signs of a struggle in the spinney. George pointed in what he thought was the right direction. Between the house and the wood where we found Shep, down towards the back of the dale. Its dark now, so theres a limit to what we can achieve, but first thing in the morning, my men will carry out a fingertip search of the whole spinney, to see if we can find any more traces of Alison.
But thats all you found? Now there was eagerness in her face.
He hated to dash her hopes, but he couldnt lie. We also found some hairs and a little blood. As if shed hit her head on a tree. Ruth clapped her hand to her open mouth, suppressing a cry. It really was very little blood, Mrs Hawkin. Nothing to indicate anything but a very minor injury, I promise you.
Her wide eyes stared at him, her fingers digging into her cheek as if physically holding her mouth closed could somehow contain her response. He didnt know what to do, what to say. He had so little experience of peoples responses to tragedy and crisis. Hed always had senior officers or colleagues with more experience to blunt the acuteness of other peoples pain. Now he was on his own, and he knew he would measure himself for ever according to how he dealt with this stricken woman.
George leaned across the table and covered Ruth Hawkins free hand with his own. Id be lying if I said this wasnt grounds for concern, he said. But theres nothing to indicate that Alison has come to any serious harm. Quite the opposite, really. And there is one thing that we can be sure of now. Alison hasnt run away of her own accord. Now, I know that probably doesnt seem like much of a consolation to you right now, but it means that we wont be frittering away our resources on things that are a waste of time. We know that Alison didnt go off on her own and catch a bus or a train, so we wont be devoting officers to checking out bus and railway stations. Well be using every officer we have to follow lines of inquiry that could actually lead us somewhere.
Ruth Hawkins hand fell away from her mouth. Shes dead, isnt she?
George gripped her hand. Theres no reason to think so, he said.
Have you got a cigarette? she asked. I ran out a while back. She gave a bitter little laugh. I should have sent yon WPC up to the shop at Longnor for me. That would have been useful.
Once they were both smoking, he took back the plastic bags and pushed the cigarettes across in their place. You keep these. Ive more in the car.
Thanks. The tightness in her face slackened momentarily and George saw for the first time the same smile that made Alisons photograph so remarkable.