There was only one sensible solution. George stood by the Methodist Chapel and watched Clough expertly swing the big car round and head back down the lane to Scardale. He straightened his shoulders, took a final drag of his cigarette and flicked it into the road. He had no relish for what awaited him inside the church hall, but there was no point in putting it off.
Saturday, 14th December 1963. 10.24 a.m.
The purgatory of the press conference was over sooner than George had feared, thanks to the brisk military approach of Superintendent Martin. He dealt with Peter Crowther’s death with a laconic expression of regret. When one of the reporters had challenged him about unofficial leaks to the Courant, Martin had turned his artillery on the man.
‘The Courant’s reckless speculation was of its own making,’ he said in a parade-ground voice that was clearly unaccustomed to dissent. ‘Had they checked the rumour they had picked up, they would have been told exactly what every other reporter was told – that a man had been brought to the police station for questioning for his own comfort and had been released without a stain on his character. I will not have my officers turned into scapegoats for the irresponsibility of the press. Now, we have a missing girl to find. I’m taking questions relevant to that inquiry.’
There were a few routine questions, then inevitably Don Smart’s foxy features twitched into view as he raised his head from his notebook. ‘I don’t know if you’ve seen the story in this morning’s News?’
Martin’s bark of laughter was as harsh as his words. ‘Until I met you, sir, the only harlots I had met in peacetime had all been women. Though maybe I’m not so wide of the mark in spite of the whiskers, because all your work is good for, sir, is for filling the columns of the most sensationalist women’s magazine. I will not dignify your feeble attempts at stirring up contention with a comment. Except to say that it is rubbish, sir, arrant rubbish. I was tempted to ban you from these press conferences altogether but I have been reluctantly persuaded by my colleagues that to do so would give you the very notoriety you crave. So you may stay, but do not forget that the purpose of our gathering here is to find a young, vulnerable girl missing from home, not to sell more copies of your vile little rag.’
By the end of his tirade, Martin’s neck was the scarlet of a rooster’s crest. Don Smart merely shrugged and dropped his eyes to his notebook again. ‘I’ll take that as a “no comment”, then,’ he said softly.
Martin had brought the conference to a swift end shortly afterwards. As the reporters filed out, muttering among themselves and comparing notes, George braced himself. Now the superintendent had warmed up against Smart, he expected to be shredded and left for dead. Martin fingered the salt-and-pepper bristles of his moustache and stared at George. Without taking his eyes off him, he took his Capstans from his pocket and lit one. ‘Well?’ he said.
‘Sir?’
‘Your version of yesterday’s events.’
George briefly outlined his personal involvement with Crowther. ‘So I instructed Sergeant Clough to tell the duty officer in Buxton that Crowther should be released. We agreed that the duty officer should also be asked to spread the word both to the press and locally through the beat officers that there was no suspicion attaching to Crowther.’
‘You had not seen the story in the Courant?’ Martin demanded.
‘No, sir. We’d been out in Scardale all day. The paper doesn’t reach there till Saturday and we’d had no opportunity to see the early edition.’
‘And the duty officer said nothing to Sergeant Clough about the story?’
‘He can’t have done. If he had, Clough would have come back to me before authorizing the man’s release.’
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘You’d have to check with Clough, sir, but based on my knowledge of him, he’d have regarded any such story as a change in circumstances that might affect the decision I’d taken.’ George registered the frown on Martin’s face and prepared himself for the onslaught.
It never came. Instead, Martin simply nodded. ‘I had a feeling it must have been a breakdown in communication. So. Two black marks against us. One, that one of our officers told the press something they should never have known. Two, that the duty officer failed to give officers in the field information relevant to their decision-making. We should be thankful that Mr Crowther’s family is too preoccupied with their other loss to give much thought to our role in his death. What are your plans for today?’
George gestured with his thumb at a short stack of cardboard boxes by one of the trestle tables. ‘I arranged for the witness statements from Buxton to be brought over here so I can go through them and still be on the spot if the searches produce anything.’
‘They’ll be finished searching by four, won’t they?’
‘Thereabouts,’ George said, puzzled by the question.
‘If they turn up nothing fresh, I expect you to be home by five.’
‘Sir?’
‘I’m aware of the way you and Clough have been working this case, and I see no reason why you should kill yourselves. You’re both off duty tonight, and that’s an order. You have an important day tomorrow, I want you rested for it.’
‘Tomorrow, sir?’
Martin tutted impatiently. ‘Has no one told you? My God, we need to do something about the communications in this division. Tomorrow, Bennett, we have the pleasure of entertaining two officers from other forces – one from Manchester and one from Cheshire. As you were doubtless aware even before Mr Smart of the Daily News drew our attention to the matter, both forces have had recent cases of puzzling disappearances of young people. They are interested in meeting to discuss whether there appear to be any significant connections between their cases and ours.’
George’s heart sank. Wasting his time being diplomatic with other forces wasn’t going to help him to find what had happened to Alison Carter. Manchester City Police had had over five months to try and find Pauline Reade and Cheshire had been searching for John Kilbride for a good three weeks without any result. The detectives on those cases were simply clutching at straws. They were more concerned with appearing to be pursuing some sort of action on their own dead-ended cases than they were with helping his inquiry. If he’d been a betting man, he’d have put money on the meeting already being the subject of a press release from the other two forces. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if DCI Carver handled the meeting?’ he asked desperately.
Martin eyed his cigarette with a look of distaste. ‘Your knowledge of the details of the case is altogether superior,’ he said shortly. He turned away and started walking towards the door. ‘Eleven o’clock, at divisional HQ,’ he said, without turning back or raising his voice.
George stood staring at the door for long moments after Martin’s straight-backed exit. He felt a mixture of anger and despair. Already other people were writing off Alison’s disappearance as insoluble. Whether it could be connected to the other cases or not, it was clear that his superiors no longer expected him to find her at all, never mind to find her alive. Clenching his jaw, he yanked a chair towards the file boxes and began the task of reading the remaining witness statements. It was probably pointless, he knew. But there was a slim chance it might not be. And slim chances felt like the only ones he had left.
Sunday, 15th December 1963. 10.30 a.m.
For once, one of the papers had got it right. Every copy of the Sunday Standard contained a 12″ by 19″ poster. Extra copies had been distributed