Wednesday, 11th December 1963. 9.07 p.m.
The dog’s breath swirled and hung in the night air as if it had a life of its own. The Alsatian sat calmly on its haunches, ears pricked, alert eyes scanning Scardale village green. PC Dusty Miller, the dog handler, stood by his charge, one hand absently fingering the short tan and brindle hair between its ears. ‘Prince’ll need some clothes and shoes belonging to the lass,’ he told Sergeant Lucas. ‘The more she’s worn them, the better. We can manage without, but it’d help the dog.’
‘I’ll have a word with Mrs Hawkin,’ George interjected before Lucas could assign anyone to the task. It wasn’t that he thought a uniformed officer would be deficient in tact; he simply wanted another chance to observe Alison Carter’s mother and her husband.
He walked into the warm fug of the kitchen, where Hawkin was still sitting at the table, still smoking. Now he had a cup of tea in front of him, as did the WPC who sat at the other end of the table. They both looked up as he entered. Hawkin raised his eyebrows in a question. George shook his head. Hawkin pursed his lips and rubbed a hand over his eyes. George was pleased to see the man finally showing some signs of concern for his stepdaughter’s fate. That Alison might be in real danger seemed finally to have penetrated his self-absorption.
Ruth Hawkin was at the sink, her hands among the suds in the washing-up bowl. But she wasn’t doing the dishes. She was motionless, staring intently into the unbroken dark of the night. The moonlight barely penetrated the area behind the house; this far down the valley, the tall limestone reefs were close enough to cut off most of it. There was nothing beyond the window but a faint, dark outline against the grey-white of the cliffs. An outbuilding of some sort, George guessed. He wondered if it had been searched yet. He cleared his throat. ‘Mrs Hawkin…’
Slowly, she turned. Even in the brief time they’d been in Scardale, she seemed to have aged, the skin tightening across her cheekbones and her eyes sinking back into her head. ‘Yes?’
‘We need some of Alison’s clothes. To help the tracker dog.’
She nodded. ‘I’ll fetch something.’
‘The dog handler suggested some shoes, and something she’s worn a few times. A jumper or a coat, I suppose.’
Ruth walked out of the room with the automatic step of the sleepwalker. ‘I wonder if I could use your phone again,’ George asked.
‘Be my guest,’ Hawkin said, waving his hand towards the hallway.
George followed Ruth through the door and made for the table where the old-fashioned black Bakelite phone squatted on a piecrust table next to a wedding photograph of a radiant Ruth with her new husband. If Hawkin hadn’t been so handsomely unmistakable, George doubted he would have identified the bride.
As soon as he closed the door behind him, he felt icy coldness grip him. If the girl was used to living in temperatures like this, she’d stand a better chance outside, he thought. He could see Ruth Hawkin disappear round the turn in the stairs as he lifted the receiver and began to dial. Four rings, then it was picked up. ‘Buxton four-two-two,’ the familiar voice said, instantly soothing his anxieties.
‘Anne, it’s me. I’ve had to go out to Scardale on a case. A missing girl.’
‘The poor parents,’ Anne said instantly. ‘And poor you, having that to deal with on a night like this.’
‘It’s the girl I’m worried about. Obviously, I’m going to be late. In fact, depending on what happens, I might not be back at all tonight.’
‘You push yourself too hard, George. It’s bad for you, you know. If you’re not back by bedtime, I’ll make up some sandwiches and leave them in the fridge so there’s something for you to eat. They’d better be gone by the time I get up,’ she added, her scolding only half teasing.
If Ruth Hawkin hadn’t reappeared on the stairs, he’d have told Anne how much he loved the way she cared about him. Instead, he simply said, ‘Thanks. I’ll be in touch when I can,’ and replaced the receiver. He moved to the foot of the stairs to meet Ruth, who was clutching a small bundle to her chest. ‘We’re doing all we can,’ he said, knowing it was inadequate.
‘I know,’ she said. She opened her arms to reveal a pair of slippers and a crumpled flannelette pyjama jacket. ‘Will you give these to the dog man?’
George took the clothes, noting with a stab of nameless emotion how pathetic the circumstances had rendered the blue velveteen slippers and the pink sprigged jacket. Holding them gingerly, to avoid contamination with his scent, George walked back through the kitchen and out into the night air. Wordlessly, he handed the items to Miller and watched while the dog handler spoke soft words of command to Prince, offering the garments to its long nose.
The dog raised its head delicately, as if scenting some culinary delight on the wind. Then it started nosing the ground by the front door, its head swinging to and fro in long arcs, inches above the ground. Every few feet, it gave a snorting snuffle then looked up, thrusting its nostrils towards Alison’s clothes and her scent, as if reminding itself what it was supposed to be seeking. Dog and handler moved forward in tandem, covering every inch of the path from the kitchen door. Then, at the very edge of the dirt track that skirted the back of the village green, the Alsatian suddenly stiffened. As rigid as a child playing statues, Prince paused for long seconds, hungrily drinking in the scent from the scrubby grass. Then in one smooth, liquid motion, the dog moved swiftly across the grass, its body close to the ground, its nose seeming to pull it forward in a low lope.
PC Miller quickened his step to keep up with the dog. On a nod from Sergeant Lucas, four of the uniformed men who’d arrived minutes after the dog team fell into step behind them, fanning out to cover the ground with the cones of their torch beams. George followed them for a few yards, not certain whether he should join their party or wait for the two CID officers he’d summoned but who hadn’t arrived yet.
Their path touched the village green at a tangent then, via a stone stile, into a narrow salient between two cottages that gave out into a larger field. As the dog led them unwaveringly across the field, George heard a car grumbling down the road into the village. As it pulled up behind the cluster of police vehicles already there, he recognized the Ford Zephyr of Detective Sergeant Tommy Clough. He threw a quick glance over his shoulder at the tracker team. Their torches gave their positions away. It wouldn’t be hard to catch up with them. He turned on his heel, strode over to the bulky black car and yanked open the driver’s door. The familiar ruddy harvest moon face of his sergeant grinned up at him. ‘How do, sir,’ Clough said on a wave of beer fumes.
‘We’ve got work to do, Clough,’ George said shortly. Even with a drink in him, Clough would still do a better job than most officers sober. The passenger door slammed and Detective Constable Gary Cragg slouched round the front of the car. He’d watched too many Westerns, George had decided the first time the lanky DC had swaggered into his line of vision. Cragg would have looked fine in a pair of sheepskin chaps with matching Colt pistols slung low on his narrow hips and a ten-gallon hat tipped over his hooded grey eyes. In a suit, he had the air of a man who’s not quite sure how he got where he is, but wishes with all his heart he was somewhere else.
‘Missing girl, is that right, sir?’ he drawled. Even his slow voice would have been more at home in a saloon, asking the bartender for a shot of bourbon. The only saving grace, as far as George could see, was that Cragg showed no signs of being a maverick.
‘Alison Carter. Thirteen years old,’ George briefed them as Clough unfolded his chunky body from under the steering wheel. He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. ‘She lives in the manor house, stepdaughter of the squire. Her and her mother are Scardale natives, though.’
Clough