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.
Grundys heavy words sat like a stone in Georges stomach. As if to mirror their ominous nature, the roadside walls disappeared, replaced by steep cliffs of limestone, the road weaving through the narrow defile in a route entirely dictated by topography. My God, George thought, its like a canyon in a Western. We should be wearing stetsons and riding mules, not sitting in a car.
Just round the next bend, Sergeant, Grundy said from behind, his breath bitter with tobacco.
Lucas slowed the car to a crawl, following the curve of an overhanging pinnacle of rock. Almost immediately, the road ahead was blocked by a heavy barred gate. George drew his breath in sharply. If hed been driving, unaware of the obstacle, hed have crashed, for sure. As Grundy jumped out and trotted to open the gate, George noticed several paint scrapes in a variety of colours along the rock walls on either side of the road. They dont exactly welcome strangers with open arms around here, do they?
Lucass smile was grim. They dont have to. Beyond the gate, technically its a private road. Its only in the last ten years that its been asphalted. Before that, nothing that wasnt a tractor or a Land Rover got up or down the Scardale road. He eased the car forward, waiting on the far side of the gate for Grundy to close up and rejoin them.
They set off again. Within a hundred yards of the gate, the limestone cliffs fell back, sloping away on either side to form a distant horizon. Suddenly theyd emerged from gloom into full moonlight once more. Against the starry sky, it looked to George as if theyd emerged from the players tunnel into a vast stadium, at least a mile across, with an almost circular ring of steep hills in place of tiers of seats. The arena was no sports field, however. In the eerie light of the moon, George could see fields of rough pasture rising gently from the road that bisected the valley floor. Sheep huddled together against the walls, their breath brief puffs of steam in the freezing air. Darker patches revealed themselves as areas of coppiced woodland as they drove past. George had never seen the like. It was a secret world, hidden and separate.
Now he could see lights, feeble against the moons silver gleam, but strong enough to outline a straggle of buildings against the pale limestone reefs at the far end of the dale. Thats Scardale, Grundy said needlessly from the back seat.
The conglomeration of stone soon resolved itself into distinct houses huddled round a scrubby circle of grass. A single standing stone leaned at an angle in the middle of the green, and a telephone box blazed scarlet at one side, the only vivid splash of colour in Scardale by moonlight. There looked to be about a dozen cottages, none identical, each separated from its neighbours by only a few yards. Most were showing lights behind their curtains. More than once, George caught a glimpse of hands making a gap for faces to peer through, but he refused to be drawn into a sideways look.
At the very back of the green was a sprawl of ill-assorted gables and windows that George assumed must be Scardale Manor. He wasnt sure quite what hed been expecting, but it wasnt this glorified farmhouse that looked like it had been thrown together over several hundred years by people whod had more need than taste. Before he could say anything, the front door opened and an oblong of yellow light spilled out on to the yard in front of it. Against the light a womans form was silhouetted.
As the car drew to a halt, the woman took a couple of impulsive steps towards them. Then a man appeared at her shoulder and put an arm round her. Together they waited while the police officers approached, George hanging back slightly to let Bob Lucas take the lead. He could use the time Lucas was taking for the introductions to note his first impressions of Alison Carters mother and stepfather.
Ruth Hawkin looked at least ten years older than his Anne, which would put her in her late thirties. He reckoned she was about five feet three, with the sturdy build of a woman used to hard work. Her mid-brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, which emphasized the drawn look around grey-blue eyes that showed signs of recent weeping. Her skin looked weather-beaten but her pursed lips showed faint traces of lipstick in their cracks. She wore an obviously hand-knitted twin set in a blue heather mixture over a pleated grey tweed skirt. Her legs were encased in ribbed woollen stockings, her feet shod sensibly in ankle boots with a zip up the front. It was hard to square what he was seeing with Peter Grundys description of Ruth as a good-looking woman. George would not have looked twice at her in a bus queue except for her obvious distress, which showed in the tightness of her body, arms crossed defensively across her chest. He assumed it had also drained her attractiveness from her.
The man standing behind her seemed far more at ease. The hand that wasnt lightly touching his wifes shoulder was thrust casually into the pocket of a dark-brown cardigan with suede leather facings. He wore grey flannel trousers whose turn-ups flopped over well-worn leather slippers. Philip Hawkin hadnt been out knocking on village doors with his wife, George noted.
Hawkin was as handsome as his wife was ordinary. A couple of inches under six feet, he had straight dark hair swept back from a widows peak, lightly brilliantined to hold it in place. His face reminded George of a shield, with a broad, square forehead tapering to a pointed chin. Straight brows over dark-brown eyes were like an heraldic device; a slender nose seemed to point to a mouth shaped so that it appeared always to be on the point of a smile.
All of this George itemized and filed away in his memory. Bob Lucas was still speaking. So if we could come in and take some details, we can get a clearer picture of whats happened. He paused expectantly.
Hawkin spoke for the first time, his voice unmistakably alien to the Derbyshire Peaks. Of course, of course. Come inside, officers. Im sure shes going to turn up safe and well, but it doesnt hurt to follow the procedures, does it? He dropped his hand to the small of Ruths back and steered her back into the house. She seemed numb, certainly incapable of taking any initiative. Im sorry youve been dragged out on such a cold night, Hawkin added smoothly as he crossed the room.
George followed Lucas and Grundy across the thresh-old and into a farmhouse kitchen. The floors were stone flagged, the walls rough stone brightened with a coat of white distemper that had discoloured unevenly, depending on its proximity to the wood-burning stove and the electric cooker. A dresser and several cupboards of differing heights painted hospital green ranged round the walls, and a pair of deep stone sinks were set under the windows that looked out towards the end of the dale. Another pair of windows gave a view of the village green, the phone box bright against the darkness. Various pans and kitchen implements hung from the black beams that crossed the room a few feet apart. It smelled of smoke, cabbage and animal fat.
Without waiting for anyone else, Hawkin sat down immediately in a carving chair at the head of a scrubbed wooden table. Make the men some tea, Ruth, he said.
Thats very kind of you, sir, George interjected as the woman lifted a kettle off the stove. But Id rather we pressed on. Where its a matter of a missing child, we try not to waste any time. Mrs Hawkin, if you could sit down and tell us what you know.
Ruth glanced at Hawkin as if seeking his permission. His eyebrows twitched upwards, but he nodded acquiescence. She pulled out a chair and sank into it, folding her arms on the table in front of her. George sat down opposite her, with Lucas beside him. Grundy unbuttoned his overcoat and lowered himself into the carver at the opposite end to Hawkin. He took his pocketbook from his tunic and flipped it open. Licking the end of his pencil, he looked up expectantly.
How old is Alison, Mrs Hawkin? George asked gently.
The woman cleared her throat. Thirteen past. Her birthdays in March. Her voice cracked, as if something inside her were splintering.
And had there been any trouble between you?
Steady on, Inspector, Hawkin protested. What do you mean, trouble? What are you suggesting?
Im not suggesting anything, sir, George said. But Alisons at a difficult age, and sometimes young girls get things out of all proportion. A perfectly normal ticking-off can feel like the end of the world to them. Im trying to establish whether there are any grounds for supposing Alison might have run away.
Hawkin leaned back in his seat with a frown. He reached behind him, tipping the chair back on two legs. He grabbed a packet of Embassy and a small chrome lighter from the dresser and proceeded to light a cigarette without offering the packet to anyone else. Of course shes run away, he said, a smile softening the hard line of his eyebrows. Thats what teenagers do. They do it to get you worried, to get their own back for some imagined slight. You know what I mean, he continued with a man-of-the-world air that included the police officers. Christmas is coming. I remember one year I went missing for hours. I thought my mum would be so glad to see me back home safe that Id be able to talk her into buying me a bike for Christmas. His smile turned rueful. All I got was a sore backside. Mark my words, Inspector, shell turn up before morning, expecting the fatted calf.
Shes not like that, Phil, Ruth said plaintively. Im telling you, somethings happened to her. She wouldnt worry us like this.
What happened this afternoon, Mrs Hawkin? George asked, taking out his own cigarettes and offering them to her. With a tight nod of gratitude, she took one, her work-reddened fingers trembling. Before he could get his matches out, Hawkin had leaned across to light it. George lit his own cigarette and waited while she composed herself to respond.
The school bus drops Alison and two of her cousins at the road end about quarter past four. Somebody from the village always goes up and picks them up, so she gets in about the half-hour. She came in at the usual time. I was here in the kitchen, peeling vegetables for the tea. She gave me a kiss and said she were off out with the dog. I said did she not want a cup of tea first, but she said shed been shut in all day and she wanted a run with the dog. She often did that. She hated being indoors all day. Ambushed by the memory, Ruth faltered then stopped.
Did you see her, Mr Hawkin? George asked, more to give Ruth a break than because he cared about the answer.
No. I was in my darkroom. I lose all sense of time when Im in there.
I hadnt realized you were a photographer, George said, noticing Grundy shift in his seat.
Photography, Inspector, is my first love. When I was a lowly civil servant, before I inherited this place from my uncle, it was never more than a hobby. Now, Ive got my own darkroom, and this last year, Ive become semi-professional. Some portraiture, of course, but mostly landscapes. Some of my picture postcards are on sale in Buxton. The Derbyshire light has a remarkable clarity. Hawkins smile was dazzling this time.
I see, George said, wondering at a man who could think about the quality of light when his stepdaughter was missing on a freezing December night. So you had no idea that Alison had come in and gone out?
No, I heard nothing.
Mrs Hawkin, was Alison in the habit of visiting anyone when she went out with the dog? A neighbour? You mentioned cousins that she goes to school with.
Ruth shook her head. No. Shed just go up through the fields to the coppice then back. In summer, shed go further, up through the woodland to where the Scarlaston rises. Theres a fold in the hills, you can hardly see it till youre on it, but you can cut through there, along the river bank, into Denderdale. But shed never go that far of a winters night. She sighed. Besides, Ive been right round the village. Nobodys seen hide nor hair of her since she crossed the fields.
What about the dog? Grundy asked. Has the dog come back?
It was a countrymans question, George thought. Hed have got there eventually, but not as fast as Grundy.
Ruth shook her head. Shes not. But if Alison had had an accident, Shep wouldnt have left her. Shed have barked, but she wouldnt have left her. A night like tonight, youd hear Shep anywhere in the dale. Youve been out there. Did you hear her?
Thats why I wondered, Grundy said. The silence.
Can you give us a description of what Alison was wearing? asked the ever-practical Lucas.
She had on a navy-blue duffel coat over her school uniform.
Peak Girls High? Lucas asked.
Ruth nodded. Black blazer, maroon cardie, white shirt, black and maroon tie and maroon skirt. Shes wearing black woolly tights and black sheepskin boots that come up to mid-calf. You dont run away in your school uniform, she burst out passionately, tears welling up in her eyes. She brushed them away angrily with the back of her hand. Why are we sitting here like it was Sunday teatime? Why arent you out looking for her?
George nodded. Were going to, Mrs Hawkin. But we needed to get the details straight so that we dont waste our efforts. How tall is Alison?
Shes near on my height now. Five foot two, three, something like that. Shes slim built, just starting to look like a young woman.
Have you got a recent photograph of Alison that we can show our officers? George asked.
Hawkin pushed his chair back, the legs shrieking on the stone flags. He pulled open the drawer of the kitchen table and took out a handful of five-by-three prints. I took these in the summer. About four months ago. He leaned across and spread them out in front of George. The face that looked up at him from five coloured head-and-shoulders portraits was not one hed forget in a hurry.
Nobody had warned him that she was beautiful. He felt his breath catch in his throat as he looked down at Alison. Collar-length hair the colour of set honey framed an oval face sprinkled with pale freckles. Her blue eyes had an almost Slavic set to them, set wide apart on either side of a neat, straight nose. Her mouth was generous, her smile etching a single dimple in her left cheek. The only imperfection was a slanting scar that sliced through her right eyebrow, leaving a thin white line through the dark hairs. In each shot, her pose varied slightly, but her candid smile never altered.