Carefully, he spread out the Ordnance Survey map and tried to study it through the eyes of a person who’d decided to run away. Or a person who’d decided to steal someone else’s life.
Then he walked out of the Methodist Hall and started down the narrow lane towards Scardale on foot. Within yards, the dim yellow light that spilled out of the high windows of the hall was swallowed by the blanketing night. The only glimmers of light came from the stars that broke through the fitful clouds. It took him all his time to avoid tripping over tussocks of grass at the road’s edge.
Gradually, his pupils expanded to their maximum extent, allowing his night vision to steal what images it could from the ghosts and shadows of the landscape. But by the time they resolved themselves into hedges and trees, sheep folds and stiles, the cold had sneaked up on him. Thin-soled town shoes were no match for frosty ground, and not even his cotton-lined leather gloves were proof against the icy flurry that seemed to use the Scardale lane as a wind tunnel. His ears and nose had lost all sensation except pain. A mile down the lane, he gave up. If Alison Carter was abroad in this, she must be hardier than him, he decided.
Either that or beyond sensation altogether.
Manchester Evening News, Thursday, 12th December 1963, p.11
Boy camper raises hopes in John hunt POLICE RACE TO LONELY BEAUTY SPOT By a Staff Reporter
Police investigating the disappearance of 12-year-old John Kilbride of Ashton-under-Lyne rushed to a lonely beauty spot on the outskirts of the town.
A boy had been seen camping out.
Hopes soared when the boy was said to be safe and well. But it turned out to be a false alarm.
The boy they found had been reported missing from home and was about the same age as John – but it was 11-year-old David Marshall of Gorse View, Alt Estate, Oldham.
He had been missing for only a few hours.
After ‘getting into trouble’ at home, he packed his belongings – and a tent – and went to camp out near a farm in Lily Lanes, on the Ashton-Oldham boundary.
It was another frustrating incident in the 19-day-old search for John, of Smallshaw Lane, Ashton.
Police said today: ‘We really thought we were on to something. But at least we are glad we were able to return one boy home safe and well.’
David was spotted at his lonely bivouac by a visitor to the farm who informed the police immediately.
‘It shows the public are really cooperating,’ said police.
Thursday, 12th December 1963. 7.30 a.m.
Janet Carter reminded George of a cat his sister had once had. Her triangular face with its pert nose, wide eyes and tiny rosebud mouth was as closed and watchful as any domesticated predator he’d ever seen. She even had a scatter of tiny pimples at either end of her upper lip, as if someone had tweezed out her whiskers. They faced each other across the table in the low-ceilinged kitchen of her parents’ Scardale cottage. Janet was picking delicately at a piece of buttered toast, small sharp teeth nibbling crescents inwards from each corner. Her eyes were downcast, but every few moments she’d give him a quick sidelong look through long lashes.
Even in his younger years, he’d never been comfortable with adolescent girls, a natural result of having a sister three years older whose friends had regarded the fledgling George first as a convenient plaything and later as a marvellous testing ground for the wit and charms they planned to try on older targets. George had sometimes felt like the human equivalent of training wheels on a child’s first bike. The one advantage he’d gained from the experience was that he reckoned he could tell when a teenage girl was lying, which was more than most of the men he knew could manage.
But even that certainty faded in the face of Janet Carter’s self-possession. Her cousin was missing, with all the presumptions that entailed, yet Janet looked as composed as if Alison had merely nipped out to the shops. Her mother, Maureen, had a noticeably less sure grip on her emotions, her voice trembling when she spoke of her niece, tears in her eyes when she shepherded her three younger children from the room, leaving George to interview Janet. And her father, Ray, was already up and gone, lending his local knowledge to one of the police search parties looking for his dead brother’s child.
‘You probably know Alison better than anybody,’ George said at last, reminding himself to stick with a present tense that seemed increasingly inappropriate.
Janet nodded. ‘We’re like sisters. She’s eight months and two weeks older than me, so we’re in a different class at school. Just like real sisters.’
‘You grew up together here in Scardale?’
Janet nodded, another new moon of toast disappearing between her teeth. ‘The three of us, me and Alison and Derek.’
‘So you’re like best friends as well as cousins?’
‘I’m not her best friend at school because we’re in different classes, but I am at home.’
‘What kind of things do you do?’
Janet’s mouth twisted and furled as she thought for a moment. ‘Nothing much. Some nights Charlie, our big cousin, takes us into Buxton for the roller-skating. Sometimes we go to the shops in Buxton or Leek, but mostly we’re just here. We take the dogs for a walk. Sometimes we help out on the farm if they’re short-handed. Ali got a record player for her birthday, so a lot of the time me and Ali and Derek just listen to records up in her room.’
He took a sip of the tea Maureen Carter had left for him, amazed that someone could make stronger tea than the police canteen. ‘Has anything been bothering her?’ he asked. ‘Any problems at home? Or at school?’
Janet raised her head and stared at him, her eyebrows coming together in a frown. ‘She never ran away,’ she said fiercely. ‘Somebody must have took her. Ali wouldn’t run away. Why would she? There’s nothing to run away from.’
Maybe not, thought George, startled by her vehemence. But maybe there had been something to run away to. ‘Does Alison have a boyfriend?’
Janet breathed heavily through her nose. ‘Not really. She went to the pictures with this lad from Buxton a couple of times. Alan Milliken. But it wasn’t a date, not really. There was half a dozen of them all went together. She told me he tried to kiss her, but she wasn’t having any. She said that if he thought paying her in to the pictures meant he could do what he liked, he was wrong.’ Janet eyed him defiantly, animated by her outburst.
‘So there isn’t anybody she fancies? Maybe somebody older?’
Janet shook her head. ‘We both fancy Dennis Tanner off Coronation Street, and Paul McCartney out of the Beatles. But that’s just fancying. There isn’t anybody real that she fancies. She always says boys are boring. All they want to talk about is football and going into outer space on a rocket and what kind of car they’d have if they could drive.’
‘And Derek? Where does he fit in?’
Janet looked puzzled. ‘Derek’s just…Derek. Anyway, he’s got spots. You couldn’t fancy Derek.’
‘What about Charlie, then? Your big cousin? I hear they spent a lot of time together round at his gran’s.’
Janet shook her head, one finger straying to a tiny yellow-headed spot beside her mouth. ‘Ali only goes round to listen to Ma Lomas’s tales. Charlie lives there, that’s all. Anyway, I don’t understand why you’re going on about who Ali fancies. You should be out looking for whoever kidnapped her. I bet they think Uncle Phil’s got loads of money, just because he lives in a big house and owns all the village land. I bet they got the idea off Frank Sinatra’s lad being kidnapped last week. It must have been on the television and in the papers and everything. We don’t get television down here. We can’t get the reception, so we’re stuck with the radio. But even down in Scardale we heard about it, so a kidnapper could easily have known about it and got the idea. I bet they’re going to ask for a huge ransom for Ali.’ Her lips glistened with butter as the tip of her tongue darted along them in her excitement.
‘How does Alison get along with her stepfather?’
Janet shrugged, as if the question couldn’t have interested her less. ‘All right, I suppose. She likes living in the manor, I’ll tell you that for nothing.’ A sparkle of malice lit up Janet’s eyes. ‘Whenever anybody asks her where she lives, she always says, right out, “Scardale Manor”, like it’s something really special. When we were little, we used to make up stories about the manor. Ghost stories and murder stories, and it’s like Ali thinks she’s really the bee’s knees now she’s living there.’
‘And her stepfather? What did she say about him?’
‘Nothing much. When he was courting her mum, she said she thought he was a bit of a creep because he was always round their cottage, bringing Auntie Ruth little presents. You know, flowers, chocolates, nylons, stuff like that.’ She fidgeted in her seat and popped a spot between fingernail and thumb, unconsciously trying to mask the action behind her hand.
‘I think she was just jealous because she was so used to being the apple of Auntie Ruth’s eye. She couldn’t stand the competition. But once they got married and all that courting stuff stopped, I think Ali got on all right with him. He sort of left her alone, I think. He doesn’t act like he’s very interested in anybody except himself. And taking pictures. He’s always doing that.’ Janet turned back to her toast dismissively.
‘Pictures of what?’ George said, more to keep the conversation going than because he was interested.
‘Scenery. He spies on people working, too. He says you’ve got to get them looking natural, so he takes their pictures when he thinks they’re not looking. Only, he’s an incomer. He doesn’t know Scardale like we do. So mostly when he’s creeping about trying to stay out of sight, half the village knows what he’s doing.’ She giggled, then, remembering why George was there, covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes wide.
‘So as far as you know, there was no reason why Alison should run away?’
Janet put down her toast and pursed her lips. ‘I told you. She never ran away. Ali wouldn’t run away without me. And I’m still here. So somebody must have took her. And you’re supposed to find them.’ Her eyes flicked to one side and George half turned to see Maureen Carter in the kitchen doorway.
‘You tell him, Mum,’ Janet said, desperation in her voice. ‘I keep telling him, but he won’t listen. Tell him Ali wouldn’t run away. Tell him.’
Maureen nodded. ‘She’s right. When Alison’s in trouble, she takes it head on. If she had something on her mind, we’d all know what it was. Whatever’s happened, it’s not from Alison’s choice.’ She stepped forward and swept Janet’s teacup away from her. ‘Time you and the little ’uns were over to Derek’s. Kathy’ll run you up to the lane end for the bus.’
‘I could do that,’ George volunteered.
Maureen looked him up and down, clearly finding him wanting. ‘That’s kind of you, but there’s been enough upset this morning without mucking up their routine any further. Go on, Janet, get your coat on.’
George held his hand up. ‘Before you go, Janet, just one more question. Was there any special place you and Alison used to go in the dale? A den, a gang hut, that sort of thing?’
The girl gave her mother a quick, desperate look. ‘No,’ she said, her voice revealing the opposite of her word. Janet crammed the last of her toast into her mouth and hurried out, waving her fingers at George.
Maureen picked up the dirty plate and cocked her head. ‘If Alison was going to run away, she wouldn’t do it like this. She loves her mum. They were right close. It comes of being on their own for so long. Alison would never put Ruth through this.’
5
Thursday, 12th December 1963. 9.50 a.m.
The Methodist Hall had undergone a transformation. Eight trestle tables had been unfolded and each was the centre of some particular activity. At one, a constable with a field telephone was liaising with force headquarters. At three others, maps were spread out, thick red lines drawn on them to separate search areas. At a fifth table, a sergeant was surrounded by filing cards, statement forms and filing boxes, collating information as it came to him. At the remaining tables, officers pounded typewriters. Back in Buxton, CID officers were interviewing Alison Carter’s classmates, while the dale that surrounded Scardale village and shared its name was being combed by thirty police officers and the same number of local volunteers.
At the end of the hall nearest the door, a semi-circle of chairs faced a proper oak table. Behind it there were two chairs. In front of it, George was finishing his briefing of Superintendent Jack Martin. In the three months since he’d arrived in Buxton, he’d never had personal dealings with the uniformed officer in overall charge of the division. His reports had crossed Martin’s desk, he knew, but they’d never communicated directly about a case. All he knew about the man had been filtered through the consciousness of others.
Martin had served as a lieutenant in an infantry regiment in the war, apparently without either distinction or shame. Nevertheless, his years in the army had given him a taste for the minutiae of military life. He insisted on the observance of rank, reprimanding officers who addressed their equals or juniors by name rather than rank. A Christian name overheard in the squad room could raise his blood pressure by several points, according to DS Clough. Martin conducted regular inspections of his uniformed officers, frequently bawling out individuals whose boots failed to reflect their faces or whose tunic buttons were less than gleaming. He had the profile of a hawk, and the eyes to match. He marched everywhere at the double, and was said to loathe what he saw as the sloppy appearances of the CID officers under his nominal charge.
Beneath the martinet, however, George had suspected there was a shrewd and effective police officer. Now he was about to find out. Martin had listened carefully to George’s outline of events to date, his salt-and-pepper eyebrows meeting in a frown of concentration. With finger and thumb of his right hand, he rubbed his carefully manicured moustache against the grain then smoothed it back again. ‘Smoke?’ he said at last, offering George a packet of Capstan Full Strength. George shook his head, preferring his milder Gold Leaf tipped. But he took the overture as permission and immediately lit up himself. ‘I don’t like the sound of this one,’ Martin said. ‘It was carefully planned, wasn’t it?’
‘I think so, sir,’ George said, impressed that Martin had also picked up on the key detail of the elastoplast. Nobody went for a casual walk with a whole roll of sticking plaster, not even the most safety-conscious Boy Scout leader. The treatment of the dog had screamed premeditation to George, though none of his fellow officers had appeared to give it as much weight. ‘I think whoever took the girl was familiar with her habits. I think he might have watched her over a period of time, waiting for the right opportunity.’
‘So you think it’s a local?’ Martin said.
George ran a hand over his fair hair. ‘It looks that way,’ he said hesitantly.
‘I think you’re right not to commit yourself. It’s a popular hike, up Denderdale to the source of the Scarlaston. There must be dozens of ramblers who do that walk in the summer. Any one of them could have seen the girl, either alone or with her friends, and resolved to come back and take her.’ Martin nodded, agreeing with himself, flicking a morsel of cigarette ash off the cuff of his perfectly pressed tunic.
‘That’s possible,’ George conceded, though he couldn’t imagine anybody forming that sort of instant obsession and hanging on to it for months until the right opportunity presented itself. However, the principal reason for his uncertainty was quite different. ‘I suppose what I’m saying is that I can’t picture any member of this community doing something so damaging. They’re incredibly tight-knit, sir. They’ve got accustomed to supporting each other over generations. For someone from Scardale to have harmed one of their own children would be against everything they’ve grown up believing in. Besides, it’s hard to imagine how an insider could get away with stealing a child without everybody else in Scardale knowing about it. Even so, on the face of it, it’s much likelier to be an insider.’ George sighed, baffled by his own arguments.
‘Unless everybody’s wrong about the direction the girl went in,’ Martin observed. ‘She may have broken with her usual habits and walked up the fields towards the main road. And yesterday was Leek Cattle Market. There would have been more traffic than usual on the Longnor road. She could easily have been lured into a car on the pretext of giving directions.’
‘You’re forgetting about the dog, sir,’ George pointed out.
Martin waved his cigarette impatiently. ‘The kidnapper could have sneaked round the edge of the dale and left the dog in the woodland.’
‘It’s a big risk, and he’d have had to know the ground.’
Martin sighed. ‘I suppose so. Like you, I’m reluctant to see the villain of the piece as a local. One has this romantic view of these rural communities, but sadly we’re usually misguided.’ He glanced at the hall clock then stubbed out his cigarette, shot his cuffs and straightened up. ‘So. Let us face the gentlemen of the press.’
He turned towards the trestle tables. ‘Parkinson – go and tell Morris to let the journalists in.’
The uniformed bobby jumped to his feet with a mumbled, ‘Yessir.’
‘Cap, Parkinson,’ Martin barked. Parkinson stopped in his tracks and hurried back to his seat. He crammed his cap on and almost ran to the door. He slipped outside as Martin added, ‘Haircut, Parkinson.’ The superintendent’s mouth twitched in what might have been a smile as he led the way to the chairs behind the table.
The door opened and half a dozen men spilled into the hall, a haze of mist seeming to form around them as their cold shapes hit the airless warmth of the hall. The clump separated into individuals and they settled noisily into their folding chairs. Their ages ranged from mid-twenties to mid-fifties, George reckoned, though it wasn’t easy to tell with hat brims and caps pulled low over faces, coat collars turned up against the chill wind and scarves swathed around throats. He recognized Colin Loftus from the High Peak Courant, but the others were strangers. He wondered who they were working for.
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ Martin began. ‘I am Superintendent Jack Martin of Buxton Police and this is my colleague, Detective Inspector George Bennett. As you are no doubt already aware, a young girl has gone missing from Scardale. Alison Carter, aged thirteen, was last seen at approximately four twenty p.m. yesterday afternoon. She left the family home, Scardale Manor, to take her dog for a walk. When she failed to return, her mother, Mrs Ruth Hawkin, and stepfather, Mr Philip Hawkin, contacted police at Buxton. We responded to the call and began a search of the immediate environs of Scardale Manor, using police tracker dogs. Alison’s dog was found in woodland near her home, but of the girl herself, we have found no trace.’
He cleared his throat. ‘We will have copies of a recent photograph of Alison available at Buxton Police Station by noon.’ As Martin gave a detailed description of the girl’s appearance and clothing, George studied the journalists. Their heads were bent, their pencils flying over the pages of their notebooks. At least they were all interested enough to take a detailed note. He wondered how much that had to do with the Manchester disappearances. He couldn’t imagine that they would normally have turned out in such numbers for a girl missing for sixteen hours from a tiny Derbyshire hamlet.
Martin was winding up. ‘If we do not find Alison today, the search will be intensified. We just don’t know what has happened to her, and we’re very concerned, not least because of the extremely bitter weather we’re experiencing at the moment. Now, if you gentlemen have any questions, either myself or Detective Inspector Bennett will be happy to answer.’
A head came up. ‘Brian Bond, Manchester Evening Chronicle. Do you suspect foul play?’
Martin took a deep breath. ‘At this point, we rule nothing out and nothing in. We can find no reason for Alison being missing. She was not in trouble at home or at school. But we have found nothing to suggest foul play at this stage.’
Colin Loftus lifted his hand, one finger raised. ‘Is there any indication that Alison might have met with an accident?’
‘Not so far,’ George said. ‘As Superintendent Martin told you, we’ve got teams of searchers combing the dale now. We’ve also asked all the local farmers to check their land very carefully, just in case Alison has been injured in a fall and has been unable to make her way home.’
The man on the far end of the row leaned back in his chair and blew a perfect smoke ring. ‘There seem to be some common features between Alison Carter’s disappearance and the two missing children in the Manchester area – Pauline Reade from Gorton and John Kilbride from Ashton. Are you speaking to detectives from the Manchester and Lancashire forces about a possible connection to their cases?’
‘And you are?’ Martin demanded stiffly.
‘Don Smart, Daily News. Northern Bureau.’ He flashed a smile that reminded George of the predatory snarl of the fox. Smart even had the same colouring: reddish hair sticking out from under a tweed cap, ruddy face and hazel eyes that squinted against the smoke from his panatella.
‘It’s far too early to make assumptions like that,’ George cut in, wanting for himself this question that echoed his own doubts. ‘I am of course familiar with the cases you mention, but as yet we have found no reason to communicate with our colleagues in other forces over anything other than search arrangements. Staffordshire Police have already indicated that they will give us every assistance should there be any need to widen our search area.’
But Smart was not to be put off so easily. ‘If I was Alison Carter’s mum, I don’t think I’d be impressed to hear that the police were ignoring such strong links to other child disappearances.’
Martin’s head came up sharply. He opened his mouth to rebuke the journalist, but George was there before him. ‘For every similarity, there’s a difference,’ he said bluntly. ‘Scardale is isolated countryside, not busy city streets; Pauline and John went missing on a weekend, but this is midweek; strangers would be a common sight to the other two, but a stranger in Scardale on a December teatime would put Alison straight on her guard; and, probably most importantly, Alison wasn’t alone, she had her dog with her. Besides, Scardale is a good twenty-five, thirty miles away. Anybody looking for children to kidnap would have to pass a lot by before he got to Alison Carter. Hundreds of people go missing every year. It would be stranger if there weren’t similarities.’
Don Smart stared a cool challenge at George. ‘Thank you, Detective Inspector Bennett. Would that be Bennett with two t’s?’ was all he said.
‘That’s right,’ George said. ‘Any further questions?’
‘Will you be draining the reservoirs up on the moors?’ Colin Loftus again.
‘We’ll let you know what steps we’re taking as and when,’ Martin said repressively. ‘Now, unless anyone’s got anything more to ask, I’m going to close this press conference now.’ He got to his feet.
Don Smart leaned forward, elbows on his knees. ‘When’s the next one, then?’ he asked.
George watched Martin’s neck turn as red as turkey wattles. Oddly, the colour didn’t rise into his face. ‘When we find the girl, we’ll let you know.’
‘And if you don’t find her?’
‘I’ll be here tomorrow morning, same time,’ George said. ‘And every morning until we do find Alison.’
