A search led by tracker dogs failed to find any trace of the girl, although her dog was discovered unharmed in nearby woods.
Her mystery disappearance comes less than three weeks after 12-year-old John Kilbride went missing in Ashton-under-Lyne. He was last seen in the towns market at teatime. Lancashire police have so far failed to come up with a single positive sighting of him since.
Pauline Reade, 16, was going to a dance when she left her family home in Wiles Street, Gorton, Manchester in July. But she never arrived and, as with John and Alison, police have no idea what happened to her.
A senior Derbyshire police officer said: At this point, we rule nothing out and nothing in. We can find no reason for Alison being missing. She was not in trouble at home or at school.
If we do not find Alison today, the search will be intensified. We just dont know what has happened to her, and were very concerned, not least because of the very bitter weather were experiencing at the moment.
A Manchester CID officer told the Daily News, Of course, we hope Alison is found quickly. But we would be very happy to share the fruits of our investigations with Derbyshire if this case drags on.
Bloody journalists, George complained. They twist everything you say. Wheres all the stuff I said about there being more dissimilarities than there are similarities? I might as well have saved my breath. This Don Smarts just going to write what he wants to write, no matter what the truth is.
Its always the same with the Fleet Street reporters, Lucas said sourly. The local lads have to stay on the right side of the truth because they have to come back to us week after week for their stories, but that London lot dont give a monkeys whether they upset the police in Buxton or not. He sighed. Were you looking for me, sir?
Just something I wanted you to pass on to the day shift. I think its time we located any known sex offenders in the area and brought them in for questioning.
In the whole division, sir? Lucas sounded weary.
Sometimes, George thought, he understood exactly why some officers remained locked inside their uniforms for the duration of their careers. I think well concentrate on the immediate area round Scardale. Maybe a five-mile radius, extending it up on the northern side to include Buxton.
Hikers come from miles around, Lucas said. Theres no guaranteeing our man isnt from Manchester or Sheffield or Stoke.
I know, Sergeant, but weve got to start somewhere. George pushed his chair back and stood up. Im off to Scardale. Ill be there all day, I expect.
Youll have heard about the Land Rover? Lucas said, his voice as neutral as his face was smug.
Land Rover?
Your lads turned up a pair of witnesses in Longnor last night. Saw a Land Rover parked off the road near the Scardale turn-off round about the time young Alison left the house.
Georges face lit up. But thats fantastic news!
Not entirely. It were dark. The witnesses couldnt give any description except that it was a Land Rover.
But well be able to get impressions from the tyres. Its a start, George said, his irritation with Lucas and the Daily News forgotten in his excitement.
Lucas shook his head. Afraid not, sir. The spot where the Land Rover was parked? Up the side of the Methodist Chapel. Right where our cars were in and out all night and day yesterday.
Bugger, said George.
Tommy Clough was nursing a mug of tea and a cigarette when George arrived at the incident room. Morning, sir, he said, not bothering to get to his feet.
You still here? George asked. You can go off duty now, if you like. You must be exhausted.
No worse than you were yesterday. Sir, if its all right with you, Id rather stop on. This is my last night shift anyway, so I might as well get used to going to bed at the right time. If youre interviewing the villagers, happen I could be some help. Ive seen most of them already, Ive picked up a fair bit of the background.
George considered for a moment. Cloughs normally ruddy face was paler than usual, the skin around his eyes puffy. But his eyes were still alert, and he had some of the local knowledge that George lacked. Besides, it was about time George established a working partnership with one of his three sergeants that went deeper than the surface. All right. But if you start yawning when some old dear decides to tell us her life story, Im sending you straight home.
Fine by me, sir. Where do you want to start?
George crossed to one of the tables and pulled a pad of paper towards him. A map. Who lives where and who they are. Thats where I want to start.
George scratched his head. I dont suppose you know how theyre all related? he asked, staring down at the map Tommy Clough had sketched out for him.
Beyond me, he confessed. Apart from the obvious, like Charlie Lomas is Terry and Dianes youngest. Mike Lomas is the eldest of Robert and Christines. Then theres Jack who lives with them, and theyve got two daughters Denise, whos married to Brian Carter, and Angela, whos married to a smallholder over towards Three Shires Head.
George held up his hand. Enough, he groaned. Since youve obviously got a natural talent for it, youre officer in charge of Scardale genealogy. You can remind me of who belongs where as and when I need to know it. Right now, all I want to know is where Alison Carter fits in.
Tommy cast his eyes upwards as if trying to picture the family tree. OK. Never mind cousins, first, second or third. Ill stick with just the main relationships. Somehow or other, Ma Lomas is her great-grandmother. Her father, Roy Carter, was David and Rays brother. On her mothers side, she was a Crowther. Ruth is sister to Daniel and also to Terry Lomass wife Diane. Clough pointed to the relevant houses on the map. But theyre all interconnected.
There must be some fresh blood now and again, George objected. Otherwise theyd all be village idiots.
There are one or two incomers to dilute the mixture. Cathleen Lomas, Jacks wife, is a Longnor lass. And John Lomas married a woman from over Bakewell way. Lasted long enough for her to have Amy, then she was off somewhere she could watch Coronation Street and go out for a drink without it being a military operation. And of course, theres Philip Hawkin.
Yes, lets not forget the squire, George said thoughtfully. He sighed and stood up. We could do with finding out a bit more about him. St Albans, thats where he hails from, isnt it? He took out his notebook and jotted down a reminder. Dont let me forget to follow that up. Come on then, Tommy. Lets have another crack at Scardale.
Brian Carter wiped the teats of the next cow in line and, with surprising gentleness, clamped the milking machine on to her udder. Dawn had still been a few hours away when hed left the warm bed he shared with his new wife, Denise, in Bankside Cottage, the two-bedroomed house where Alison Carter was born on a rainy night in 1950. Tramping up through the silent village with his father, hed been unable to avoid thinking bitterly how much his cousins disappearance had changed his world already.
His had been a simple, uncomplicated life. Theyd always been very self-contained, very private in Scardale. Hed grown used to getting called names at school and later in the pubs when folk had had a few too many. He knew all the tired old jokes about inbreeding and secret black magic rituals, but hed learned to ignore all that and get on with his life.
When there was light, Scardale worked the land and when there wasnt, they were still busy. The women spun wool, knitted jumpers, crocheted shawls and blankets and baby clothes, made preserves and chutneys, things they could sell through the Womens Institute market in Buxton.
The men maintained the buildings, inside and out. They also worked with wood. Terry Lomas made beautiful turned wooden bowls, rich and lustrous, the grain chosen for its intricate patterns. He sent them off to a craft centre in London where they sold for what seemed ridiculous sums of money to everyone else in the village. Brians father David made wooden toys for a shop in Leek. There wouldnt have been time for the wild pagan rituals that gullible drinkers speculated about in Buxton bars, even supposing anyone had been interested. The truth was, everyone in Scardale worked too bloody hard to have time for anything except eating and sleeping.
There was little need for contact with the outside world on a daily basis. Most of what was consumed in Scardale was produced in the circle of looming limestone meat, potatoes, milk, eggs, some fruit and a few vegetables. Ma Lomas made wine from elderflowers, elderberries, nettles, dandelions, birch sap, rhubarb, gooseberries and whinberries. If it grew, she fermented it. Everybody drank it. Even the children would get a glass now and again for medicinal purposes. There was a van came on Tuesdays selling fish and greengrocery. Another van came from Leek on Thursdays, a general grocer. Anything else would be bought at the market in Leek or in Buxton by whoever was there selling their own produce or livestock.
It had been strange, the transition from being at school, where hed gone out of the dale five days a week, to being an adult, working the land and sometimes not leaving Scardale from one month to the next. There wasnt even television to disrupt the rhythm of life. He remembered when old Squire Castleton came back from Buxton with a TV hed bought for the Coronation. His father and his Uncle Roy had erected the aerial and the whole village had crowded into the squires parlour. With a flourish, the old man had switched on, and they all stared dumbfounded at a February blizzard. No matter how David and Roy had fiddled with the aerial, all it did was crackle like fat on a fire, and all they could see was interference. The only kind of interference anybody in Scardale had a mind to put up with.
Now it was all changed. Alison had disappeared and all of a sudden, their lives seemed to belong to everybody. The police, the papers, they all wanted their questions answering, whether it was any of their business or not. And Brian felt like he had no natural defences against such an invasion. He wanted to hurt someone. But there was no one to hand.
It was still dark when George and Clough reached the outskirts of the village. The first light they came to spilled out of a half-closed barn door. Might as well start here, George said, pulling the car over on to the verge. Whos this going to be? he asked as they tramped over the few yards of muddy concrete to the door.
Itll likely be Brian and David Carter, Clough said. Theyre the cowmen.
The two men in the barn couldnt hear their approach over the clattering and heavy liquid breathing of the milking apparatus. George waited till they turned round, taking in the strangely sweet smells of dung, sweating animal and milk, watching as the men washed the teats of each cow before clamping the milking machine to her udder. Finally, the older of the two turned. Georges first impression was that Ruth Hawkins careful eyes had been transplanted into an Easter Island statue. His face was all planes and angles, his cheeks like slabs and his eye sockets like a carving in pink wax. Any news? he demanded, his voice loud against the machinery.
George shook his head. I came to introduce myself. Im Detective Inspector George Bennett. Im in charge of the investigation. As he walked towards the older man, the younger stopped what he was doing and leaned against the massive hindquarters of one of his Friesians, arms folded across his chest.
Im David Carter, the older man said. Alisons uncle. And this is my lad Brian. Brian Carter gave a stately nod. He had his fathers face, but his eyes were narrow and pale, like shards of topaz. He couldnt have been much more than twenty, but the downward cast of his mouth appeared to have been set in stone.
I wanted to say were doing everything we can to find out whats happened to Alison, George said.
Havent found her though, have you? Brian said, his voice sullen as his expression.
No. We will be searching again as soon as its light and if you want to join us again, youd be more than welcome. But thats not why Im here. I cant help thinking that the answer to what happened to Alison was somewhere in her life. I dont believe that whoever did this acted on the spur of the moment. It was planned. And that means somebody left traces. Whether you know it or not, someone in this village saw something or heard something that will give us a lead. Im going to be talking to everybody in the village today, and Ill say the same to you all. I need you to search your memories for anything out of the ordinary, anyone you saw that didnt belong here.
Brian snorted. He sounded surprisingly like one of his cows. If youre looking for somebody that doesnt belong here, you dont have to look very far.
Who did you have in mind? George asked.
Brian, his father warned.
Brian scowled and fumbled in the pocket of his overall for a cigarette. Dad, he doesnt belong here. He never will.
Who are we talking about? George persisted.
Philip Hawkin, who else? Brian muttered through a mouthful of smoke. His head came up and he stared defiantly at the back of his fathers head.
Youre not suggesting her stepfather had anything to do with Alisons disappearance, are you? Clough asked, an edge of challenge in his voice that George suspected Brian Carter would find irresistible.
You didnt ask that. You asked who didnt belong here. Well, he doesnt. Ever since he turned up, hes been sticking his oar in, trying to tell us how to farm our land, as if hes the one been doing it for generations. He thinks if you read a book or an NFU pamphlet, suddenly youre an expert. And the way he courted my Auntie Ruth. He wouldnt leave her alone. The only way she was ever going to get any peace was if she married him, Brian blurted out.
Didnt think you minded that, his father said sarcastically. If Ruth and Alison hadnt moved out of Bankside Cottage, you and Denise would have had to start your married life in your old bedroom. I dont know about you, but I could do without the bedhead banging on the wall half the night.
Brian flushed and glowered at his father. You leave Denise out of this. Were talking about Hawkin. And you know as well as me that he doesnt belong here. Dont act like you dont spend half of every day maunging on about what a useless article he is and how you wish the old squire had had more sense than leave the land to an incomer like Hawkin.