‘And the alibi for Charlie?’
Clough shrugged. ‘She could be lying for him. She would lie for him, I don’t think there’s any doubt about that. But until we find somebody saying something different, or something more solid to tie him to Alison’s disappearance, we’ve got no reason to doubt her. And I agree with her about Crowther, for what it’s worth.’
‘Me too.’ George ran a hand over his face. The skin felt raw with tiredness, the very bones seeming nearer the surface. He sighed.
‘We should let him go, sir,’ Clough said, fishing out his cigarettes and passing one to George. ‘He’s not going to run. He’s got nowhere to run to. I could call the station from the phone box and tell them to bail him. They can give him stringent conditions – he shouldn’t go within five miles of Scardale, he’s got to stay at the hostel, he should report daily. But there’s no need to keep him in, surely.’
‘You don’t think we’re exposing him to lynch-mob justice?’ George asked.
‘The longer we keep him, the worse it looks for him. We could get the duty officer to tip the wink to the newspaper lads that Crowther was never a suspect, just a vulnerable adult relative that we brought in so we could interview him away from the pressures of the outside world. Some sort of rubbish like that. And I could mention the need to spread the same word round the pubs.’ There was a stubborn set to Clough’s jaw. He had a point, and George was too tired to argue a case he didn’t feel passionately about either way.
‘All right, Tommy. You call them and say it’s my orders. And make sure somebody informs the DCI. He won’t like it, but that’s his hard cheese. I’ll see you in the caravan. If I don’t get a brew inside me, I’ll be falling off my perch before I can get anything out of the squire.’
George didn’t even wait for a response. He walked straight across the green to the police caravan. No prickle of intuition made him turn and stay Detective Sergeant Clough’s hand. After all, Clough was convinced he was doing the right thing. Not even Ma Lomas’s instincts had cried out against releasing Peter Crowther.
It was a burden of knowledge they would all share equally.
Friday, 13th December 1963. 5.52 p.m.
Ruth Hawkin was wiping her hands on her apron as she opened the kitchen door of Scardale Manor. A brief hope flared in her eyes but found nothing in their faces to fan the spark into flame. Hope abandoned, fear wasted no time in taking its place. Judging from the dark circles under her eyes and the pinched look of her pale skin, anxiety had been seldom absent in the previous two days. Seeing her distress, George quickly said, ‘We’ve no fresh news, Mrs Hawkin. I’m sorry. Can we come in a minute?’
Ruth nodded and mutely stepped aside, still rubbing her hands on the rough floral cotton of her wraparound apron. Her shoulders were slumped, her movements sluggish and abstracted. George and Clough trooped past her and stood awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen floor. The unmistakable smell of steak and kidney floated on the air, making both men salivate with hunger. George wondered fleetingly what Anne would have waiting for him if he ever got home. One thing was sure: it would be shrivelled past desirability at this rate. ‘Is your husband at home?’ he asked. ‘It was actually him we needed to have a word with.’
‘He’s been out searching with your lads,’ she said quickly. ‘He came in exhausted so he went for a bath. Is it something I could help you with?’
George shook his head. ‘It’s nothing to worry about. We just need a word with him.’
She glanced at the battered enamel alarm clock on a shelf by the cooker. ‘He’ll be down for his tea in ten minutes.’ She chewed the right-hand corner of her lower lip in an unconscious parade of anxiety. ‘It’d be better if you could come back later. After he’s eaten. Maybe about half past? I’ll tell him to expect you.’ Her smile was nervous.
‘If you don’t mind holding back the tea, Mrs Hawkin, we’ll speak to your husband when he comes down,’ George said gently. ‘We don’t want to waste any time.’ The skin round her eyes and mouth tightened. ‘You think I don’t understand that? But he’ll be needing his tea after being out in the dale all afternoon.’
‘I appreciate that, and we’ll be as quick as we can.’ ‘As quick as you can about what, Inspector?’ George half turned. He hadn’t heard Hawkin open the door behind him. The squire was wearing a shaggy camel dressing gown over striped pyjamas. His skin glowed pink from his bath, his hair even more sleek against his skull than before. He had one hand thrust in his pocket, the other holding a cigarette in a pose that would have passed for debonair in a West End theatre but only managed ridiculous in a Derbyshire farm kitchen. George dipped his head in acknowledgement. ‘We need a few minutes of your time, Mr Hawkin.’
‘I’m about to eat, Inspector,’ he said petulantly. ‘As I expect my wife will already have told you. Perhaps you could call back later?’
Interesting, George thought, that Hawkin hadn’t even asked if fresh news had brought the police back to his kitchen. Not a mention of Alison, not a hint that he was concerned about anything except filling his belly. ‘I’m afraid not, sir. As I’ve already indicated, in inquiries of this nature, we believe it’s vital not to waste time. So if Mrs Hawkin wouldn’t mind keeping your dinner warm, we’d like a word.’
Hawkin’s sigh was theatrically loud. ‘Ruth, you heard the inspector.’ He moved forward to the table, his hand snaking out from his pocket and reaching for the back of his chair.
‘It might be better elsewhere, sir,’ George said.
Hawkin’s eyebrows arched. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘We prefer to interview witnesses independently of each other. And since your wife has things to attend to in here, it seems sensible for us to go elsewhere. The living room, perhaps?’ George was inexorably polite but irresistibly firm.
‘I’m not going into the living room. It’ll be like a cold store in there and I’ve no intention of catching pneumonia for your benefit.’ He tried to soften his words with a swift triangle of a smile, but George found it unconvincing. ‘My study’s warmer,’ Hawkin added, turning towards the door.
They followed him down the chilly hall to a room that looked like a miniature gentlemen’s club. A pair of leather armchairs flanked a grate where a paraffin heater squatted. Hawkin made straight for the one that overlooked the window. A wide desk with a scarred leather top occupied the opposite end of the room, its surface scattered with ornamental paperweights. The walls were lined with mahogany bookshelves crammed with leather-bound volumes, ranging in size from tall ledgers to tiny pocketbooks. A parquet floor, worn uneven with years of use, was partly covered by a frail and faded Turkish rug. By the door was a glazed gun cupboard containing a matching pair of shotguns. George knew nothing about guns, but even he recognized that these were no common farmer’s rook controllers. ‘Lovely room, sir,’ he said, crossing to the armchair opposite Hawkin.
‘I don’t think my uncle changed anything from his grandfather’s day,’ he said. ‘I shall want to modernize it a bit. Get rid of that tatty old desk and clear out some of these books to make way for something more contemporary. I need somewhere to store my photographic books and my negatives.’
George bit his tongue. He’d have loved a room like this, redolent of a connected past and present, a room he could imagine passing on to a son. If he was lucky enough to have a son. The thought of what Hawkin might do to it was painful, even though he recognized it was none of his business. But it didn’t make him like the man any better. He glanced over his shoulder at Clough, who had slipped into the desk chair and had his notebook out, pencil poised. The sergeant nodded. George cleared his throat, wishing for the authority