Hawkin’s dark eyes narrowed. ‘What kind of trick question is that? If I say no, you’ll say I wanted rid of her. If I say yes, you’ll imply there was something unnatural about my feelings for her. You want the truth? I was largely indifferent to the girl. Look…’ He leaned forward and essayed a man-to-man smile. ‘I married her mother for three reasons. First, I found her moderately attractive. Second, I needed someone to look after me and the house and I knew no half-decent housekeeper would want to live in a godforsaken place like Scardale. And third, I wanted the villagers to stop treating me like an alien from outer space. I did not marry her because I had designs on her daughter. That’s sick, frankly.’ He leaned back in his chair after this outburst, as if defying George to say anything further.
George looked at him with clinical curiosity. ‘I never suggested you did, sir. I find it interesting that your mind moves in that direction of its own accord, however. I also find it interesting that when you talk about Alison, you always use the past tense.’
His words hung in the air as palpably as the cigarette smoke. A dark flush coloured Hawkin’s cheeks but he managed to keep silent. It was clearly an effort.
‘As if you were talking about somebody who was no longer alive,’ George continued inexorably. ‘Why do you think that might be, sir?’
‘It’s just a habit of speech,’ Hawkin snapped. ‘She’s been gone so long. It means nothing. Everybody talks about Alison like that now.’
‘Actually, sir, they don’t. It’s something I’ve noticed in my visits to Scardale. They still talk about Alison in the present tense. As if she’s stepped out for a while, but she’ll be back soon. It’s not just your wife that talks like that. It’s everybody. Everybody except you, that is.’ George lit a cigarette, trying to display a relaxed confidence he did not feel. When he and Clough had rehearsed the interview, they hadn’t been at all certain how Hawkin would react. It was satisfying to see him rattled, but they were still a long way from any useful admissions.
‘I think you must be mistaken,’ Hawkin said abruptly. ‘Now, if you have no further questions?’ He pushed his chair back.
‘I’ve hardly begun, sir,’ George said, his stern expression accentuating his resemblance to James Stewart. ‘I’d like to go back to the afternoon when Alison disappeared. I know we’ve interviewed you about this already, but I want to go over it again for the record.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ Hawkin exploded.
Whatever he was about to say was cut off by a knock at the door. It opened to reveal DC Cragg’s sleepy-eyed face in apologetic mode. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I know you said not to interrupt, but I’ve got an urgent call for you.’
George tried not to show the anger and disappointment that flooded through him. The rhythm of the interview had been flowing in his direction and now the mood was shattered. ‘Can’t it wait, Cragg?’ he snapped.
‘I don’t think so, sir, no. I think you’ll want to take the call.’
‘Who is it?’ George demanded.
Cragg flashed a worried look at Hawkin. ‘I…uh…I can’t really say, sir.’
George jumped to his feet, his chair clattering on the floor. ‘Sergeant, stay here with Mr Hawkin. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’ He strode out of the room, exercising his last ounce of self-restraint in not slamming the door behind him.
‘What the bloody hell is going on?’ he hissed at Cragg as he stalked down the corridor towards his office. ‘I specifically said no interruptions. Don’t you understand plain bloody English, Cragg?’
The young detective constable scuttled along behind him, waiting for a gap in the tirade. ‘It’s Mrs Hawkin, sir,’ he finally managed to get out.
George stopped so suddenly that Cragg cannoned into him. He whirled round. ‘What?’ he said, incredulous.
‘It’s Mrs Hawkin. She’s in a state, sir. Asking for you.’
‘Did she say why?’ George turned on his heel and practically ran for his phone.
‘No, sir, just that she needed to talk to you urgently.’
‘Jesus,’ George muttered, grabbing for the phone before he was even sitting down. ‘Hello? This is DI Bennett.’
‘Mr Bennett?’ The voice was choked with tears.
‘Is that you, Mrs Hawkin?’
‘Aye, it is. Oh, Mr Bennett…’ Her sobs rose in a terrible crescendo.
‘What’s happened, Mrs Hawkin?’ he asked, desperately wondering if there was a WPC on duty.
‘Can you come, Mr Bennett? Can you come now?’ Her words were gasped out between gulps and sniffs.
‘I’ve got your husband here, Mrs Hawkin. Do you want me to bring him home?’
‘No!’ It was almost a scream. ‘Just you. Please!’
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can. Mrs Hawkin, try to calm down. Get one of your family to sit with you. I’ll be right there.’ He slammed the phone down and stood for a moment, stunned by the intensity of the phone conversation. He had no idea why Ruth Hawkin was demanding his presence, but it was clearly something traumatic. She couldn’t have found a body…He thrust the idea away before it could even form properly.
‘Cragg,’ he bellowed as he emerged from his office. ‘Go and relieve Sergeant Clough. You stay there with Mr Hawkin until we get back. You don’t let him leave. You explain politely we’ve been called away on an emergency and he’s to wait for us to get back. If he insists on leaving, you go with him. Don’t let him bully you.’
Cragg looked dumbfounded. This wasn’t the pace of life he was accustomed to in Buxton CID. ‘What if he gets in his car?’
‘His car’s not here. Sergeant Clough drove him in. Cragg, move!’
George grabbed Clough’s overcoat and his own trench coat, jamming his trilby down over his hair. As soon as Clough emerged from the interview room looking bemused, George grabbed him by the arm and hustled him down the stairs. ‘It’s Ruth Hawkin,’ George said before Clough could ask him what was up. ‘She rang me in a hell of a state. She wants me to come out to Scardale right away.’
‘Why?’ Clough said as they hurried out into the station yard and made for his car.
‘I don’t know. She was too upset to make sense. All I know is she went completely hairless when I asked if she wanted me to bring Hawkin back with me. Whatever it is, it’s big.’
Clough gunned the engine. ‘Better not hang about, then.’
George had no idea that the journey to Scardale could be completed in so short a time. Clough broke every speed limit and most rules of the road as he threw the big saloon around the bends. They said little on the way, both too tense at the prospect of something that might set the Alison Carter case moving again. As they drew up by the village green, George spoke. ‘Time we had a little bit of luck, Tommy. We’ve got him on the back foot. If Ruth Hawkin’s got something for us, this could be it.’
They took the path to the manor at a run. Before either could knock, the kitchen door swung open and Ma Lomas greeted them. ‘We’ve been doing your work for you again,’ she said.
Ruth Hawkin sat at the head of the table, her face streaked with tears and make-up, her eyes bloodshot and puffy. Kathy sat next to her. Their work-reddened hands were clasped so tight the knuckles showed white. On the table in front of them was a crumpled bundle of tattersall checked material. It was smudged with dirt, but more ominously, there were extensive patches of rust-red that looked remarkably like dried blood.
‘You’ve found something,’ George said, crossing the room and sitting opposite Kathy.
Ruth