Clough took his time answering. ‘I used to think so. But a couple of years back I read that book about the Timothy Evans case, Ten Rillington Place. When he was tried, everybody believed he was bang to rights. Murdered his wife and his kiddy. The boys in the Met even had a confession. Then it turns out that Evans’s landlord murdered at least four other women, so chances are it was him that killed Beryl Evans. But it’s too late to go to Timothy Evans and say, “Sorry, pal, we cocked it up.”’
George gave a half-smile of acknowledgement. ‘Maybe so. But I can’t take responsibility for other people’s bad practice and mistakes. I don’t think I ever have or ever would push an innocent man into confessing and I’m willing to stand by my own results. If Alison Carter has been murdered, like we both probably think by now, then I’d happily watch the man that did it swing from the gallows.’
‘You might just do that if the bastard used a gun. They can still hang them for that, don’t forget.’
George had no chance to respond. The door to the caravan burst open and Peter Grundy stood framed in the doorway, his face the bloodless grey of the Scardale crags. ‘They’ve found a body,’ he said.
Saturday, 14th December 1963. 8.47 a.m.
Peter Crowther’s body was huddled in the lee of a dry-stone wall three miles due north of Scardale as the crow flies. It was curled in on itself in a foetal crouch, knees tucked up to the chin, arms curled round the shins. The overnight frost that had turned the roads treacherous had given it a sugar-coating of hoar, rendering it somehow innocuous. But there was no mistaking death.
It was there in the blue-tinged skin, the staring eyes, the frozen drool on the chin. George Bennett looked down at the hull of a human being, recognition chilling him deeper than the bitter weather. He looked up at the miraculously blue sky, oddly surprised that a winter sun was shining as if it had something to celebrate. He certainly didn’t. He felt sick, in his spirit as well as his stomach. The bitter taste of responsibility was sharp in his mouth. He hadn’t done his job properly, and now a man was dead.
George lowered his head and turned away, leaving Tommy Clough squatting on his haunches by the body, giving it a minute scrutiny. He crossed to the field gate where two uniformed men were stationed to protect the scene until the pathologist arrived. ‘Who found the body?’ he asked.
‘The farmer. Dennis Dearden’s his name. Well, technically, it was his sheepdog. Mr Dearden came out at first light to check his stock like he always does. It was the dog that alerted him to the presence of the deceased,’ the older constable said.
‘Where’s Mr Dearden now?’ George asked.
‘That’s his place up the lane. The cottage.’ The PC pointed to a single-storey building a few hundred yards away.
‘I’ll be there if anybody needs me.’ George walked up the lane, his step as heavy as his heart. On the threshold of the tiny cottage, he paused, composing himself. Before he could knock, the door opened and a face like a withered apple appeared opposite his, small brown eyes like pips on either side of a nose as shapeless as a blob of whipped cream.
‘You’ll be the gaffer, then,’ the man said.
‘Mr Dearden?’
‘Aye, lad, there’s only me here. The wife’s gone to visit her sister in Bakewell. She always goes for a few days in December, buys all the Christmas doings at the market. Come in, lad, you must be freezing out there.’ Dearden stepped back and ushered George into a kitchen dazzling with sun. Everything gleamed: the enamel of the cooker, the wood of table, chairs and shelves, the chrome of the kettle, the glassware in a corner cabinet, even the gas fire. ‘Set yourself down by the fire, there,’ Dearden added hospitably, pushing a carver chair towards George. He lowered himself stiffly into a dining chair and smiled. ‘That’s better, eh? Get a bit of heat into your bones. By heck, you look worse than Peter Crowther.’
‘You knew him?’
‘Not to speak to. But I knew who he was. I’ve done some business with Terry Lomas over the years. I know them all in Scardale. I tell you, though, for a terrible minute out there, I thought it were the lass. She’s been on my mind, same as everybody round here, I suppose.’ He pulled a briar pipe from his waistcoat pocket and started prodding at it with a penknife. ‘What a business. Her poor mother must be half mad with worry. We’ve all been keeping an eye out, making sure she wasn’t lying hurt in some ditch or hiding out in a barn or a sheep shed. So of course, when I saw…well, my natural conclusion was that it must be young Alison.’ He paused momentarily to fill his pipe, giving George his first real opportunity to speak.
‘What exactly happened?’ he asked, relieved that at last he was faced with a witness who seemed eager to offer information. After only three days in Scardale, he had developed a fresh appreciation of garrulity.
‘As soon as I opened the gate, Sherpa was off like a streak, down the side of the wall. I knew right off something was amiss. She’s not a dog that goes off at half-cock, not without cause. Then, halfway along the field, she drops to her belly like she’d been felled. Head down, between her front paws, and I can hear her whimpering half a field away. Like she would if she’d come upon a dead ewe. But I knew it wasn’t no sheep, because that field’s empty right now. I only opened the gate because it’s a short cut to t’ bottom piece.’ Dearden struck a match and sucked on his pipe. The tobacco was fragrant and filled the air with the aroma of cherries and cloves. ‘Light up yourself, if you’ve a mind, lad.’ He pushed a worn oilskin pouch across the table. ‘Me own mixture.’
‘I don’t, thanks.’ George took out his cigarettes and made an apologetic face.
‘Aye, you’ll not have the time for anything more complicated than fags in your job. You should think about taking up a pipe, though. It does wonders for the concentration. If I’m somewhere I can’t smoke, I’m damned if I can finish the crossword.’ He gestured with a thumb at the previous day’s Daily Telegraph. George tried not to show he was impressed. Everybody knew the Telegraph crossword was easier than The Times, but it was no mean feat to complete it regularly, he knew. Obviously, behind Dennis Dearden’s loose tongue was a sharp brain.
‘So when I saw the way the dog was behaving, my heart was in my mouth,’ Dearden continued. ‘There’s only one person I knew was missing, and that was Alison. I couldn’t bear the thought of her lying dead minutes away from my front door. So I ran up the field as fast as I could, which is not very fast at all these days. I’m ashamed to say, I felt kind of relieved when I saw it were Peter.’
‘Did you go right up to the body?’ George asked.
‘I didn’t have to. I could see Peter wasn’t going to be waking up much before the last trump.’ He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Bloody daft beggar. Of all the nights to take it into his addled head to walk back to Scardale, he had to pick the worst kind. He’d been away from the country too long. He’d forgotten what weather like last night’s can do to human beings. The sleet soaks you through to the skin. Then when the sky clears and the frost comes down, you’ve no resistance. You keep plodding on, but the cold penetrates right to your bones. Then all you want to do is lie down and sleep for ever. That’s what Peter did last night.’ He drew on his pipe, letting a plume of smoke escape from the corner of his mouth. ‘He should have stopped in Buxton. He knew how to keep safe in the town.’
George clamped his mouth tightly round his cigarette. Not any longer, he thought. Peter Crowther had run out of options. His terror of losing only the second place he’d ever felt safe had driven him back, against his