Stanley smiled. ‘I am obliged, my lord. Now, Mr Wells, would you tell us what happened to the gun?’
Wells pressed his lips hard together for a moment then answered in a small, tight voice. ‘It was stolen. In a burglary. Just over two years ago. We were on holiday.’
‘Not a pleasant homecoming for you and your wife. Did you lose much?’ Stanley asked, all sympathy.
Wells shook his head. ‘A silver carriage clock. A gold watch and the gun. They didn’t go any further than the lounge. The gold watch was in the drawer with the gun.’
‘You gave a very good description of the gun to the police. Can you remember what it was that made it distinctive, apart from the serial number?’
Wells cleared his throat and smoothed his moustache. His eyes slid round to Hawkin, whose frown had deepened. ‘There was a chip out of the bottom corner of the grip,’ he said, his words tumbling over each other.
Stanley turned to the assistant clerk of the court. ‘Would you be so kind as to show Mr Wells exhibit fourteen?’
The clerk picked up the Webley from the exhibits table and carried it across the courtroom to Wells. He turned the gun over so the witness had the opportunity to see both sides of the criss-crossed butt. ‘Take your time,’ Stanley said softly.
Wells looked up at the public gallery again. Clough saw Mrs Hawkin’s face crumple as the weight of realization struck. ‘It’s my gun,’ he said, his voice empty and flat.
‘You’re certain of that?’
Wells sighed. ‘Yes.’
Stanley smiled. ‘Thank you for coming here today, Mr Wells. Now, if you would stay where you are, my learned friend Mr Highsmith may have some questions for you.’
This would be interesting, Clough thought. There was almost nothing Highsmith could ask that wouldn’t dig a deeper hole for his client. Hawkin, who had been scribbling desperately during the last few exchanges, passed a note to his solicitor, who gave it a swift glance then thrust it at Highsmith’s junior, who placed it in front of Highsmith himself.
The barrister was on his feet now, the sharp lines of his face broken up in a smile. He looked briefly at the note then began to question Wells even more genially than Stanley had done. ‘When your house was burgled, you were on holiday, is that right?’
‘Yes,’ Wells said wearily.
‘Did you leave a key with any of your neighbours?’
Wells raised his head, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. ‘Mrs Hawkin always had a key. In case of emergencies.’
‘Mrs Hawkin always had a key,’ Highsmith repeated, his eyes scanning the jury to make sure they’d taken his point. ‘Did the police take fingerprints after your burglary?’
‘They tried, but whoever broke in wore gloves, they said.’
‘Did they ever indicate to you whether they had an idea who might be responsible?’
‘No.’
‘Did they ever say anything that might have suggested they suspected Mr Hawkin?’
Even as Wells said, ‘No,’ Stanley was on his feet.
‘My lord,’ he protested. ‘My learned friend is not only leading the witness, but he is leading him down the path of hearsay.’
Sampson nodded. ‘Members of the jury, you will disregard the last question and the answer to it. Mr Highsmith?’
‘Thank you, my lord. Mr Wells, did you ever suspect Mr Hawkin of having burgled your home?’
Wells shook his head. ‘Never. Why would Phil do a thing like that? We were his friends.’
‘Thank you, Mr Wells. I have no further questions.’
So that was the way the wind was blowing, Clough thought to himself as he edged out of the courtroom. He slipped into the witness room ahead of the usher. George jumped to his feet, his expression an eager question.
‘The defence didn’t question the ID – I think their line’s going to be that Hawkin bought the gun in a pub, not realizing it was the one stolen from Wells.’
George sighed. ‘And I found the gun and used it to frame him. So it doesn’t change anything.’
‘It does,’ Clough said earnestly. ‘It ties Hawkin to the gun. Ordinary people don’t have guns, George. Remember?’
Before George could reply, the door opened and the court usher said, ‘Detective Inspector Bennett? They’re ready for you now.’
It was one of the longest walks of his life. He could feel the eyes on him, making him conscious of every step he took. When he reached the witness box, he turned quite deliberately and stared at the impassive face of Philip Hawkin. He hoped Hawkin felt he was looking at his nemesis.
Stanley waited while the clerk administered the oath, then rose to his feet, delicately dabbing at his moist eyes. ‘Can you state your name and rank for the record, Inspector?’
‘I am George Bennett, Detective Inspector with Derbyshire Constabulary, based at Buxton.’
‘I’d like to take you right back to the beginning of this case, Inspector. When did you first hear of Alison Carter’s disappearance?’
At once, George was back in the squad room on that bitter December night, hearing from Sergeant Lucas that there was a girl missing in Scardale. He began his evidence with the clarity of a man who can slip back into the scenes of memory with the immediacy of the present. Stanley almost smiled in his relief at having such an impressive police witness. In his experience, it was a lottery with officers of the law. Sometimes he trusted them less than the shifty individuals in the witness box. But George Bennett was handsome and clean cut. He looked and sounded as honest as a film star playing the decent cop.
Stanley wasted no time, and by the end of the morning he had covered the initial report of Alison’s disappearance, George’s first interview with her mother and stepfather, the preliminary searches and the discovery of the dog in the woodland.
Then, for a further hour and a half in the afternoon, Stanley took him meticulously through the key discoveries in the investigation. The blood and garment traces in the copse; the booking Hawkin’s study detailing the old workings inside the crag; the stained clothes and the bullets in the lead mine; the bloody shirt and the gun; the appalling photographs and negatives in the safe.
‘It is unusual to charge a man with murder when there is no body,’ Stanley said towards the end of the afternoon.
‘It is, sir. But in this case, we felt the evidence was so overwhelming that there was no other conclusion that could be drawn.’
‘And of course, there are other cases where men have been found guilty of murder in the absence of a body. Inspector Bennett, given the seriousness of the charges, do you have any lingering doubts about your correctness in charging Mr Hawkin?’
‘Anyone who has seen the photographic evidence of what he did to his stepdaughter when she was alive would know this was a man who would stop at nothing. So, no, I have no doubts at all.’ It was the first time George had let his emotions surface and Stanley was happy to see the jurors seemed impressed with his passion.
He gathered together his papers. ‘I have no further questions for the witness,’ he said.
He had never wanted a cigarette more, George thought as he waited for Rupert Highsmith to finish fiddling with his papers and begin his attack. Stanley’s questions had been thorough and probing, but there had been nothing he had not been well prepared for. Highsmith had tried suggesting to the judge that they leave the cross-examination till the morning, but Sampson was in no mood to wait.
Highsmith leaned negligently against