With a sigh, he buttoned up his shirt collar. He pulled on his tunic jacket, straightened his cap on his head and picked up his overcoat. He stuck his head round the living room door, a conciliatory smile fastened nervously on his face. Ive to go to Scardale, he said.
Shh, his wife admonished him crossly. Its getting to the exciting bit.
Alison Carters gone missing, he added, spitefully closing the living room door behind him and hurrying down the hall before she could react. And react she would, he knew only too well. A missing child in Scardale was far too close to home for Longnor not to feel a chill wind on its neck.
George Bennett followed Sergeant Lucas out to the yard where the cars were parked. Hed have far preferred to travel in his own car, a stylish black Ford Corsair as new as his promotion, but protocol demanded he climb into the passenger seat of the liveried Rover and let Lucas drive. As they turned south on the main road through the market square, George tried to stifle the prickle of excitement that had stirred in him when he had heard the words, missing lass. Chances were, as Lucas had rightly pointed out, that it would all come to nothing. More than ninety-five per cent of cases of children reported missing ended in reunion before bedtime, or at worst, before breakfast.
But sometimes, it was a different story. Sometimes, a missing child stayed missing long enough for the certainty to grow that he or she would never come home. Occasionally, that was from choice. More often, it was because the child was dead and the question for the police then became how long it would take them to find a body.
And sometimes, they seemed to vanish as cleanly as if the earth had opened up and gulped them down.
There had been two cases like that within the last six months, both of them less than thirty miles away from Scardale. George always made a careful note of bulletins from outside forces as well as other Derbyshire divisions, and he had paid particular attention to these two missing persons cases because they were just close enough that the children might fetch up on his patch. Dead or alive.
First had been Pauline Catherine Reade. Dark-haired and hazel-eyed, sixteen years old, a trainee confectioner from Gorton, Manchester. Slim build, about five feet tall, wearing a pink and gold dress and a pale-blue coat. Just before eight on Friday, 12th July, she had walked out of the terraced house where she lived with her parents and her younger brother to go to a twist dance. She was never seen again. There had been no trouble at home or at work. She had no boyfriend to fall out with. She had no money to run away with, even if shed wanted to. The area had been extensively searched and three local reservoirs drained, all without a trace of Pauline. Manchester police had followed up every report of a sighting, but none had led them to the vanished girl.
The second missing child appeared to have nothing in common with Pauline Reade apart from the inexplicable, almost magical nature of his disappearance. John Kilbride, 12 years old, 4ft 10 ins tall with a slim build, dark-brown hair, blue eyes and a fresh complexion. He was wearing a grey check sports jacket, long grey flannel trousers, a white shirt and black, chisel-toed shoes. According to one of the Lancashire detectives George knew from cricket, he wasnt a bright lad, but a pleasant and obliging one. John went to the cinema with some friends on Saturday afternoon, the day after Kennedy died in Dallas. Afterwards, he left them, saying he was going down to the marketplace in Ashton-under-Lyne, where he often earned threepence making tea for the stallholders. The last anyone saw of him, he was leaning against a salvage bin around half past five.
The resulting hunt had been given a last desperate boost only the day before when a local businessman had offered a £100 reward. But nothing appeared to have come of it. That same colleague had remarked to George only the previous Saturday at a police dance, that John Kilbride and Pauline Reade would have left more traces if theyd been abducted by little green men in a flying saucer.
And now a missing girl on his patch. He stared out of the window at the moonlit fields lining the Ashbourne road, their rough pasture crusted with hoarfrost, the dry-stone walls that separated them almost luminous in the silvery light. A thin cloud crossed the moon and in spite of his warm coat, George shivered at the thought of being without shelter on a night like this in so inhospitable a landscape.
Faintly disgusted with himself for allowing his eagerness for a big case to overwhelm the concern for the girl and her family that should have been all that was on his mind, George turned abruptly to Bob Lucas and said, Tell me about Scardale. He took out his cigarettes and offered one to the sergeant, who shook his head.
I wont, thanks, sir. Im trying to cut down. Scardales what you might call the land that time forgot, he said. In the short spurt of light from Georges match, Lucass face looked grim.
How do you mean?
Its like the Middle Ages down there. Theres only one road in and out and it comes to a dead end by the telephone box on the village green. Theres the big house, the manor, which is where were headed. Theres about a dozen other cottages and the farm buildings. No pub, no shop, no post office. Mr Hawkin, hes what you might call the squire. He owns every house in Scardale, plus the farm, plus all the land a mile in all directions. Everybody that lives there is his tenant and his employee. Its like he owns them an all. The sergeant slowed to turn right off the main road on to the narrow lane that led up past the quarry. Theres only three surnames in the place, I reckon. Youre either a Lomas, a Crowther or a Carter.
Not, George noticed, a Hawkin. He filed the inconsistency away for later inspection. Surely people must leave, to get married, to get work?
Oh aye, people leave, Lucas said. But theyre always Scardale through and through. They never lose it. And every generation, one or two people do marry out. Its the only way to avoid wedding your cousins. But often as not, them as have married into Scardale come out a few years later looking for a divorce. Funny thing is, they always leave the kids behind them. He cast a quick glance at George, almost to see how he was taking it.
George inhaled his cigarette and kept his own counsel for a moment. Hed heard of places like this, hed just never actually been in one. He couldnt begin to imagine what it must be like to be part of a world so self-contained, so limited, where everything about your past, present and future must be information shared with an entire community. Its hard to believe a place like that could exist so close to the town. What is it? Seven miles?
Eight, Lucas said. Its historical. Look at the pitch of these roads. He pointed up at the sharp left turn into the village of Earl Sterndale where the houses built by the quarry company to house their workers huddled along the hillside like a rugby scrum. Before we had cars with decent engines and proper tarmac roads, it could take you the best part of a day to get from Scardale to Buxton in the winter. Thats when the track wasnt blocked with snowdrifts. Folk had to rely on their own. Some places around here, they just never got out of the habit.
Take this lass, Alison. Even with the school bus, it probably takes her the best part of an hour to get to and from school every day. The county have been trying to get parents to agree to sending children like her as boarders Monday to Friday, to save them the journey. But places like Scardale, they just flat refuse. They dont see it as the county trying to help them. They think its the authorities trying to take their children off them. Theres no reasoning with them.
Take this lass, Alison. Even with the school bus, it probably takes her the best part of an hour to get to and from school every day. The county have been trying to get parents to agree to sending children like her as boarders Monday to Friday, to save them the journey. But places like Scardale, they just flat refuse. They dont see it as the county trying to help them. They think its the authorities trying to take their children off them. Theres no reasoning with them.
The car swung through a series of sharp bends and began to climb a steep ridge, the engine straining as Lucas changed down through the gears. George opened the quarterlight and flicked the remains of his cigarette on to the verge. A draught of frosty air tinged with smoke from a coal fire caught at his throat and he hastily closed the window. And yet Mrs Hawkin wasnt slow to call us in.
According to PC Swindells, shed knocked every door in Scardale first, though, Lucas said drily. Dont take me wrong. Its not that theyre hostile to the police. Theyre justnot very forthcoming, thats all. Theyll want Alison found. So theyll put up with us.
The car breasted the rise and began the long descent into the village of Longnor. The limestone buildings crouched like sleeping sheep, dirty white in the moonlight, with plumes of smoke rising from every chimney in sight. At the crossroads in the centre of the village, George could see the unmistakable outline of a uniformed officer, stamping his feet on the ground to keep them warm.
Thatll be Peter Grundy, Lucas said. He could have waited indoors.
Maybe hes impatient to find out whats happening. It is his patch, after all.
Lucas grunted. More likely his missus giving him earache about having to go out of an evening.
He braked a little too hard and the car slewed into the kerb. PC Peter Grundy stooped to see who was in the passenger seat, then climbed into the back of the car. Evening, Sarge, he said. Sir, he added, inclining his head towards George. I dont like the sound of this at all.
2
Wednesday, 11th December 1963. 8.26 p.m.
Before Sergeant Lucas could drive off, George Bennett held up one finger. Scardales only two miles away, yes? Lucas nodded. Before we get there, I want to know as much as possible about what were getting into. Can we give PC Grundy a couple of minutes to give us some more details?
A minute or two cant do any harm, Lucas said, easing the car back into neutral.
Bennett squirmed round in his seat so he could see at least the dim outline of the local mans face. So, PC Grundy, you dont think were going to find Alison Hawkin sitting by the fire getting a tongue-lashing from her mother?
Its Carter, sir. Alison Carter. Shes not the squires daughter, Grundy said with the faint air of impatience of a man who sees a long night of explanations ahead of him.
Thank you, George said mildly. Youve saved me putting my foot in it over that at least. Id appreciate it if you could give us a quick briefing on the family. Just so I have an idea what were dealing with. He held out his cigarettes to Grundy to defuse any idea the man might have that he was being condescended to.
With a quick glance at Bob Lucas, who nodded, Grundy slipped a smoke from the packet and fumbled in his overcoat pocket for a light.
Ive told the inspector the set-up in Scardale, Lucas said as Grundy lit his cigarette. About how the squire owns the village and all the land.
Right, Grundy said through a swathe of smoke. Well, until about a year ago, it was Hawkins uncle who owned Scardale. Old Mr Castleton. Thereve been Castletons in Scardale Manor as far back as parish records show. Any road, old William Castletons only son was killed in the war. Flew bombers, he did, but he got unlucky one night over Germany and the last anyone heard was he was missing believed killed in action. His parents had been a good age when young William were born, and there were no other children. So when Mr Castleton died, Scardale went to his sisters son, this Philip Hawkin. A man that nobody in the place had cast eyes on since he was in short trousers.
What do we know about him? Lucas asked.
His mother, the squires sister, she grew up here, but she married a wrong un when she wed Stan Hawkin. He were in the RAF back then, but that didnt last long. He always claimed hed taken the rap for one of his senior officers, but the long and short of it was they threw him out for selling tools out the back gate. Any road, the squire took it on himself to see Hawkin right, and he got him a job with an old pal of his, selling cars down south. From all accounts, he never got caught on the fiddle again, but I reckon a leopard never changes its spots, and thats why the family stopped coming up for visits.
So what about the son, Philip? George asked, trying to speed up the story.
Grundy shrugged, his bulk making the car rock. Hes a good-looking beggar, Ill say that for him. Plenty of charm and smarm, an all. The women like him. Hes always been all right wi me, but I still wouldnt trust him to hold the dog while I went for a pee.
And he married Alison Carters mother?
I was just getting to that, Grundy said with slow dignity. Ruth Carter had been a widow close on six years when Hawkin arrived from down south to take up his inheritance. According to what Ive heard, he was right taken with Ruth from the off. Shes a fine-looking woman, its true, but its not every man whod be willing to take on another mans child. Mind you, from what Ive heard, that were never a problem to him. He never let up on Ruth, though. And she wasnt averse to it, either. He put a sparkle back in her eye and no mistake. They were wed three months after he first showed his face in Scardale. They made a handsome couple.
A whirlwind romance, then? George said. I bet that caused a bit of ill feeling, even in a place as tight-knit as Scardale.
Grundy shrugged. Ive heard nowt of the sort, he said. George recognized a stone wall when he saw it. Hed clearly have to earn Grundys trust before the village bobby would hand over his hard-won local knowledge. That the knowledge was there, George didnt doubt.
Right then, lets head on into Scardale and see whats what, he said. Lucas put the car in gear and drove through the village. At a no through road sign, he took a sharp left off the main road. Well signposted, George commented drily.
Anybody that needs to go to Scardale knows the road there, I reckon, Bob Lucas said as he concentrated on driving up a narrow track that seemed to double back on itself in a series of switchback rises and falls. The twin cones of the headlamps made only a slight impression on the darkness of the road, hemmed in as it was by high banks and uneven dry-stone walls that bulged and leaned at apparently impossible angles against the sky.
You said when you got in the car that you didnt like the look of this, Grundy, George said. Whys that?
She seems like a sensible lass, this Alison. I know who she is she went to primary school in Longnor. Ive got a niece was in the same class and they went on to the grammar school together. While I was waiting for you, I popped in and had a quick word with our Margaret. She reckons Alison were the same as usual today. They came home on the bus together, just like always. Alison were talking about stopping off in Buxton after school one night this week to buy some Christmas presents. Besides, she says, Alisons not one for running. If theres ever owt wrong, she faces it head on. So it looks like whatevers happened to Alison, its likely not happened from choice.