Thats possible, George conceded, though he couldnt imagine anybody forming that sort of instant obsession and hanging on to it for months until the right opportunity presented itself. However, the principal reason for his uncertainty was quite different. I suppose what Im saying is that I cant picture any member of this community doing something so damaging. Theyre incredibly tight-knit, sir. Theyve got accustomed to supporting each other over generations. For someone from Scardale to have harmed one of their own children would be against everything theyve grown up believing in. Besides, its hard to imagine how an insider could get away with stealing a child without everybody else in Scardale knowing about it. Even so, on the face of it, its much likelier to be an insider. George sighed, baffled by his own arguments.
Unless everybodys wrong about the direction the girl went in, Martin observed. She may have broken with her usual habits and walked up the fields towards the main road. And yesterday was Leek Cattle Market. There would have been more traffic than usual on the Longnor road. She could easily have been lured into a car on the pretext of giving directions.
Youre forgetting about the dog, sir, George pointed out.
Martin waved his cigarette impatiently. The kidnapper could have sneaked round the edge of the dale and left the dog in the woodland.
Its a big risk, and hed have had to know the ground.
Martin sighed. I suppose so. Like you, Im reluctant to see the villain of the piece as a local. One has this romantic view of these rural communities, but sadly were usually misguided. He glanced at the hall clock then stubbed out his cigarette, shot his cuffs and straightened up. So. Let us face the gentlemen of the press.
He turned towards the trestle tables. Parkinson go and tell Morris to let the journalists in.
The uniformed bobby jumped to his feet with a mumbled, Yessir.
Cap, Parkinson, Martin barked. Parkinson stopped in his tracks and hurried back to his seat. He crammed his cap on and almost ran to the door. He slipped outside as Martin added, Haircut, Parkinson. The superintendents mouth twitched in what might have been a smile as he led the way to the chairs behind the table.
The door opened and half a dozen men spilled into the hall, a haze of mist seeming to form around them as their cold shapes hit the airless warmth of the hall. The clump separated into individuals and they settled noisily into their folding chairs. Their ages ranged from mid-twenties to mid-fifties, George reckoned, though it wasnt easy to tell with hat brims and caps pulled low over faces, coat collars turned up against the chill wind and scarves swathed around throats. He recognized Colin Loftus from the High Peak Courant, but the others were strangers. He wondered who they were working for.
Good morning, gentlemen, Martin began. I am Superintendent Jack Martin of Buxton Police and this is my colleague, Detective Inspector George Bennett. As you are no doubt already aware, a young girl has gone missing from Scardale. Alison Carter, aged thirteen, was last seen at approximately four twenty p.m. yesterday afternoon. She left the family home, Scardale Manor, to take her dog for a walk. When she failed to return, her mother, Mrs Ruth Hawkin, and stepfather, Mr Philip Hawkin, contacted police at Buxton. We responded to the call and began a search of the immediate environs of Scardale Manor, using police tracker dogs. Alisons dog was found in woodland near her home, but of the girl herself, we have found no trace.
He cleared his throat. We will have copies of a recent photograph of Alison available at Buxton Police Station by noon. As Martin gave a detailed description of the girls appearance and clothing, George studied the journalists. Their heads were bent, their pencils flying over the pages of their notebooks. At least they were all interested enough to take a detailed note. He wondered how much that had to do with the Manchester disappearances. He couldnt imagine that they would normally have turned out in such numbers for a girl missing for sixteen hours from a tiny Derbyshire hamlet.
Martin was winding up. 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 extremely bitter weather were experiencing at the moment. Now, if you gentlemen have any questions, either myself or Detective Inspector Bennett will be happy to answer.
A head came up. Brian Bond, Manchester Evening Chronicle. Do you suspect foul play?
Martin took a deep breath. 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. But we have found nothing to suggest foul play at this stage.
Colin Loftus lifted his hand, one finger raised. Is there any indication that Alison might have met with an accident?
Not so far, George said. As Superintendent Martin told you, weve got teams of searchers combing the dale now. Weve also asked all the local farmers to check their land very carefully, just in case Alison has been injured in a fall and has been unable to make her way home.
The man on the far end of the row leaned back in his chair and blew a perfect smoke ring. There seem to be some common features between Alison Carters disappearance and the two missing children in the Manchester area Pauline Reade from Gorton and John Kilbride from Ashton. Are you speaking to detectives from the Manchester and Lancashire forces about a possible connection to their cases?
And you are? Martin demanded stiffly.
Don Smart, Daily News. Northern Bureau. He flashed a smile that reminded George of the predatory snarl of the fox. Smart even had the same colouring: reddish hair sticking out from under a tweed cap, ruddy face and hazel eyes that squinted against the smoke from his panatella.
Its far too early to make assumptions like that, George cut in, wanting for himself this question that echoed his own doubts. I am of course familiar with the cases you mention, but as yet we have found no reason to communicate with our colleagues in other forces over anything other than search arrangements. Staffordshire Police have already indicated that they will give us every assistance should there be any need to widen our search area.
But Smart was not to be put off so easily. If I was Alison Carters mum, I dont think Id be impressed to hear that the police were ignoring such strong links to other child disappearances.
Martins head came up sharply. He opened his mouth to rebuke the journalist, but George was there before him. For every similarity, theres a difference, he said bluntly. Scardale is isolated countryside, not busy city streets; Pauline and John went missing on a weekend, but this is midweek; strangers would be a common sight to the other two, but a stranger in Scardale on a December teatime would put Alison straight on her guard; and, probably most importantly, Alison wasnt alone, she had her dog with her. Besides, Scardale is a good twenty-five, thirty miles away. Anybody looking for children to kidnap would have to pass a lot by before he got to Alison Carter. Hundreds of people go missing every year. It would be stranger if there werent similarities.
Don Smart stared a cool challenge at George. Thank you, Detective Inspector Bennett. Would that be Bennett with two ts? was all he said.
Don Smart stared a cool challenge at George. Thank you, Detective Inspector Bennett. Would that be Bennett with two ts? was all he said.
Thats right, George said. Any further questions?
Will you be draining the reservoirs up on the moors? Colin Loftus again.
Well let you know what steps were taking as and when, Martin said repressively. Now, unless anyones got anything more to ask, Im going to close this press conference now. He got to his feet.
Don Smart leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Whens the next one, then? he asked.
George watched Martins neck turn as red as turkey wattles. Oddly, the colour didnt rise into his face. When we find the girl, well let you know.
And if you dont find her?
Ill be here tomorrow morning, same time, George said. And every morning until we do find Alison.
Don Smarts eyebrows rose. Ill look forward to that, he said, gathering the folds of his heavy overcoat around his narrow frame and drawing himself up to his full five and a half feet. The other journalists were already straggling towards the door, comparing notes and deciding how they would lead off their stories.
Cheeky, Martin pronounced as the door closed behind them.
I suppose hes only doing his job, George sighed. He could do without someone as stroppy as Don Smart on his back, but there wasnt much he could do about it except to avoid letting the man needle him too much.
Martin snorted. Troublemaker. The others managed to do their job without insinuating that we dont know how to do ours. Youll have to keep an eye on that one, Bennett.
George nodded. Ive been meaning to ask, sir. Do you want me to carry on in operational charge here?
Martin frowned. Inspector Thomas will be responsible for the uniformed men, but I think you should take overall command. Detective Chief Inspector Carver wont be going anywhere with his ankle still in plaster. Hes volunteered to take care of the CID office in Buxton, but I need a man here on the ground. Can I rely on you, Inspector?
Ill do my best, sir, George said. Im determined that were going to find this girl.
Manchester Evening Chronicle, Thursday, 12th December 1963, p.1.
POLICE COMB ISOLATED DALE Dogs in manhunt for missing girlBy a Staff Reporter
Police with tracker dogs were today hunting for a 13-year-old girl missing from her home in the isolated Derbyshire hamlet of Scardale since yesterday teatime.
The girl, Alison Carter, vanished from Scar-dale Manor where she lives with her mother and stepfather after saying she was going to take her collie Shep for a walk.
Alison set off to walk across the fields to nearby woods in the limestone dale where she lives. She has not been seen since.
After her mother alerted police, a search was carried out. The dog was discovered unharmed, but no trace of Alison was found.
Questioning her neighbours and friends at Peak Girls High School has provided no reason why the pretty schoolgirl should have run away.
Today her mother, Mrs Ruth Hawkin, aged 34, waited anxiously for news as the comb-out of the dale continued. Her husband, Mr Philip Hawkin, aged 37, joined neighbours and local farmers who helped police search the lonely dale.
A senior police official said: We can find no reason for Alison being missing. She was not in trouble at home or at school. But we have found nothing to suggest foul play at this stage.
The search will continue tomorrow if Alison is not found by nightfall.
Don Smart threw aside the early edition of the Chronicle. At least they hadnt stolen his line of questioning. That was always the danger of trying something a bit different at a press conference. From now on, hed try to break away from the pack and dig for his own stories. He had a feeling in his water that George Bennett was going to be great copy, and he was determined that hed be the one to squeeze the best stories out of the handsome young detective.
He could tell that the man was a bulldog. There was no way George Bennett was going to give up on Alison Carter. Smart knew from past experience that for most of the cops, the disappearance of Alison Carter would be just another job. Sure, they felt sorry for the family. And hed have bet that the ones who were fathers themselves went home and gave their daughters an extra-tight hug every night they were out on those moors searching for Alison.
But he sensed a difference with George. With him, it was a mission. The rest of the world might have given up on Alison Carter, but George couldnt have been more passionate in her cause if shed been his own daughter. Smart could sense how intolerable failure would be to him.
For him, it was a godsend. His job in the northern bureau of the Daily News was his first on a national newspaper, and hed been on the lookout for the story that would take him to Fleet Street. Hed already done some of the Newss coverage of the Pauline Reade and John Kilbride disappearances, and he was determined to persuade George Bennett or one of his team to link them to Alison Carter. It would be a terrific page lead.
Whatever happened, Scardale was a great backdrop for a dramatic, mysterious story. In a closed community like that, everybodys life would be put under the microscope. Suddenly all sorts of secrets would be forced into the open. It was guaranteed not to be a pretty sight. And Don Smart was determined to witness it all.
Back at the Methodist Hall, George Bennett also threw aside the evening paper. He had no doubt that the morning would bring a less palatable story in the pages of the more sensational Daily News. Martin would have apoplexy if there was any suggestion of police incompetence. He stalked out of the Methodist Hall and crossed the road to his car.
Driving down to Scardale in daylight was scarcely less intimidating than approaching at night or in the early-morning darkness. At least blackness obscured the worst of the rock overhangs that George could all too easily imagine splitting off and crushing his car like a tin can beneath a steamroller. Today, though, there was one crucial difference: the gate across the road stood wide open, allowing free passage to vehicles. A uniformed constable stood by it, peering into Georges car, then snapping a salute as he recognized the occupant. Poor beggar, George thought. His own days standing around in the cold had been thankfully short-lived. He wondered how the bobbies who werent on the fast track could bear the prospect of week after week of pounding pavements, guarding crime scenes and, like today, tramping fruitlessly through inhospitable countryside.
The village was no more enhanced by daylight than the road. There was nothing charming about the dour little cottages of Scardale. The grey stone buildings seemed to crouch low to the ground, more like cowed hounds than poised animals ready to spring. One or two had sagging rooflines and most of the wood could have done with a lick of paint. Hens wandered at will, and every car that drove into the village provoked a cacophony of barking from an assortment of sheep and cow dogs tied up to gateposts. What had not changed was the eyes that watched the arrival of every newcomer. As he drove in, George was aware of the watchers. He knew more about them than he had the night before. For one thing, he knew they were all female. Every able-bodied man from Scardale was out with the searchers, adding both determination and local knowledge to the hunt.