RELATIVE IN CUSTODY IN MISSING GIRL HUNT
A man is being questioned by Buxton police in connection with the disappearance of Scardale schoolgirl Alison Carter.
The man assisting police with their inquiries is believed to be a relative of the missing thirteen-year-old who has not been seen since late on Wednesday afternoon.
Alison took her collie Shep for a walk in the woods by the river Scarlaston, as she often did after she came home from school.
Police with tracker dogs have led a massive two-day comb-out of the secluded dale. Local farmers have searched isolated outbuildings and High Peak Mountain Rescue Team have investigated remote gullies where Alison might have fallen.
Further searches are planned for the weekend. Volunteers are asked to assemble at the Methodist Hall on the B8673 south of Longnor at half past eight on Saturday morning.
The man in custody is thought to be a close relative of Alison Carter, and familiar with the Scardale area, although he has not lived in the dale for twenty years.
He is believed to live in a hostel for single men on the outskirts of Buxton. It is understood that he is employed at a sheltered workshop in the town, where he was met by police when he arrived for work this morning.
A police spokesman refused to confirm or deny the Courant story, saying only that wideranging inquiries into Alison’s disappearance were continuing.
Among those questioned have been Alison’s classmates at Peak Girls’ High…
George could scarcely credit what he was seeing. The glory-hunting Detective Chief Inspector Carver had wasted no time in leaking the story to the local paper. He must have been on the phone to them even before Peter Crowther was in the station. George’s heart sank. He thought he and Clough had protected Crowther by arranging for the word to be spread that the man had no connection to his niece’s disappearance. They’d reckoned without the Buxton grapevine and the early deadline of the weekly Courant. This paper was on the streets of Buxton. And thanks to him, so was Peter Crowther.
Then he caught sight of Ruth Hawkin’s stricken face and he reminded himself that his anger would have to wait. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘There’s no reason to suppose he had anything to do with Alison’s disappearance. He’s been released. That story should never have appeared.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Hawkin demanded, sounding genuinely puzzled. He jerked the paper closer and read the first few paragraphs again. ‘I don’t understand. Who is this relative who’s been arrested? Why weren’t we informed? And why have you been pestering me with pointless questions when you already have someone in custody?’
‘That’s a lot of questions, sir,’ George said. ‘Taking them one at a time, the man the story refers to is your wife’s brother, Peter Crowther.’
‘No, that’s not right. Her brother’s called Daniel,’ Hawkin protested.
‘Mrs Hawkin’s other brother is called Peter,’ George persisted.
Hawkin glared at his wife. ‘What other brother, Ruth?’ His voice was as tense as a fishing line holding a salmon.
She was still beyond speech, capable only of shaking her head. George came to her rescue. ‘Peter Crowther didn’t fit in here, so the family arranged for him to live and work in Buxton. He’s not been near Scardale in twenty years, and there’s no reason to suppose he was here on Wednesday.’
‘But you arrested him!’ Hawkin objected.
‘The paper doesn’t say that,’ George said, conscious of his prevarication. ‘It relies on innuendo and a few facts to imply that. Peter Crowther was brought to the police station for questioning because my senior officer thought it would provide better circumstances for interviewing him than his place of work or the room he shares with another resident at the hostel. He was questioned, and now he has been released.’ He turned back to Ruth, pulling out the chair next to her and sitting down. ‘I’m truly sorry about this, Mrs Hawkin. We do know the circumstances and the last thing we intended was for you to be further upset. Would you like one of us to explain to your husband, or would you rather talk to him yourself?’
She shook her head. Her hand dropped from her mouth and she reached for the dead cigarette, seeming surprised to find nothing there but a filter tip and a finger of ash. Clough had a lit cigarette in her hand before she could find her own. ‘Ask Ma,’ she said wearily, giving Hawkin a look of tired pleading. ‘She’ll tell him. Please. I can’t.’
Hawkin pushed himself upright. ‘Bloody peasants,’ he muttered. Turning sharply away from the table, he stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
Ruth sighed. ‘Was Peter frightened?’ she asked.
‘I’m afraid so,’ George said.
‘Good.’ She looked speculatively at her cigarette. ‘Bloody good.’
Friday, 13th December 1963. 9.47 p.m.
George had gone home when his eyes could no longer focus on the witness statements. There had been a planning meeting between the uniformed branch and CID to organize the volunteer searches for the morning. A representative from the water board had come along to discuss draining the two moorland reservoirs within four miles of Scardale, one on the bleak Staffordshire uplands, the other in the greener hills between Scardale and Longnor. George had found his eagerness almost ghoulish.
After the arrangements for the morning had been finalized, he’d suggested a quick drink to Tommy Clough. They’d driven down to the tiny Baker’s Arms and settled in the gloomiest corner with a pint apiece. ‘I checked with the hostel,’ Clough said. ‘Crowther went straight back after we cut him loose. He had his tea then went out about an hour later. He didn’t say where he was going, but there’s nothing unusual in that. The warden reckons he’ll have gone out for a pint. Nobody’s been there looking for him, though, so it looks like he might have avoided having the finger pointed at him.’
‘I hope so. I’ve got enough to think about without having to feel responsible for what happens to Peter Crowther.’
‘Not your fault, sir. If anything does happen, it’s down to the DCI and that thick git Colin Loftus from the Courant. If ever there was an argument for drowning at birth, it’s Loftus.’
‘I ordered Crowther’s release,’ George reminded him.
‘And quite right too. We’d no grounds for holding on to him. He’s all wrong for it.’
‘Assuming there is an “it”,’ George said morosely.
‘We both know there’s some sort of an “it”. Forty-eight hours and not a sniff except for signs of a struggle and a bit of blood? She’s dead, no two ways about it.’
‘Not necessarily. Whoever’s got her could be holding her captive.’
Clough looked sceptically at his boss. ‘With the Lindbergh baby, like as not.’
George stared into his beer. ‘I’m going to find her, Tommy. Ideally, alive. But either way, I’m going to find Alison Carter. Whatever it takes, Mrs Hawkin is going to know what happened to her lass.’ He downed the rest of his pint in one and stood up. ‘I’m going back to read some statements. You’re overdue some sleep. And that’s an order.’
He’d had to give up on the witness statements when hunger and exhaustion conspired against him. Back home, Anne had been waiting, sitting placidly in her armchair, knitting and watching TV. Within minutes of his weary return, she had a bowl of soup in front of him. He sat at the kitchen table, the monotonous motion of transferring the spoon from the plate to his mouth almost more than he could