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.’
Don Smart’s eyebrows rose. ‘I’ll look forward to that,’ he said, gathering the folds of his heavy overcoat around his narrow frame and drawing himself up to his full five and a half feet. The other journalists were already straggling towards the door, comparing notes and deciding how they would lead off their stories.
‘Cheeky,’ Martin pronounced as the door closed behind them.
‘I suppose he’s only doing his job,’ George sighed. He could do without someone as stroppy as Don Smart on his back, but there wasn’t much he could do about it except to avoid letting the man needle him too much.
Martin snorted. ‘Troublemaker. The others managed to do their job without insinuating that we don’t know how to do ours. You’ll have to keep an eye on that one, Bennett.’
George nodded. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask, sir. Do you want me to carry on in operational charge here?’
Martin frowned. ‘Inspector Thomas will be responsible for the uniformed men, but I think you should take overall command. Detective Chief Inspector Carver won’t be going anywhere with his ankle still in plaster. He’s volunteered to take care of the CID office in Buxton, but I need a man here on the ground. Can I rely on you, Inspector?’
‘I’ll do my best, sir,’ George said. ‘I’m determined that we’re going to find this girl.’
Manchester Evening Chronicle, Thursday, 12th December 1963, p.1.
POLICE COMB ISOLATED DALE Dogs in manhunt for missing girl By a Staff Reporter
Police with tracker dogs were today hunting for a 13-year-old girl missing from her home in the isolated Derbyshire hamlet of Scardale since yesterday teatime.
The girl, Alison Carter, vanished from Scar-dale Manor where she lives with her mother and stepfather after saying she was going to take her collie Shep for a walk.
Alison set off to walk across the fields to nearby woods in the limestone dale where she lives. She has not been seen since.
After her mother alerted police, a search was carried out. The dog was discovered unharmed, but no trace of Alison was found.
Questioning her neighbours and friends at Peak Girls’ High School has provided no reason why the pretty schoolgirl should have run away.
Today her mother, Mrs Ruth Hawkin, aged 34, waited anxiously for news as the comb-out of the dale continued. Her husband, Mr Philip Hawkin, aged 37, joined neighbours and local farmers who helped police search the lonely dale.
A senior police official said: ‘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.’
The search will continue tomorrow if Alison is not found by nightfall.
Don Smart threw aside the early edition of the Chronicle. At least they hadn’t stolen his line of questioning. That was always the danger of trying something a bit different at a press conference. From now on, he’d try to break away from the pack and dig for his own stories. He had a feeling in his water that George Bennett was going to be great copy, and he was determined that he’d be the one to squeeze the best stories out of the handsome young detective.
He could tell that the man was a bulldog. There was no way George Bennett was going to give up on Alison Carter. Smart knew from past experience that for most of the cops, the disappearance of Alison Carter would be just another job. Sure, they felt sorry for the family. And he’d have bet that the ones who were fathers themselves went home and gave their daughters an extra-tight hug every night they were out on those moors searching for Alison.
But he sensed a difference with George. With him, it was a mission. The rest of the world might have given up on Alison Carter, but George couldn’t have been more passionate in her cause if she’d been his own daughter. Smart could sense how intolerable failure would be to him.
For him, it was a godsend. His job in the northern bureau of the Daily News was his first on a national newspaper, and he’d been on the lookout for the story that would take him to Fleet Street. He’d already done some of the News’s coverage of the Pauline Reade and John Kilbride disappearances, and he was determined to persuade George Bennett or one of his team to link them to Alison Carter. It would be a terrific page lead.
Whatever happened, Scardale was a great backdrop for a dramatic, mysterious story. In a closed community like that, everybody’s life would be put under the microscope. Suddenly all sorts of secrets would be forced into the open. It was guaranteed not to be a pretty sight. And Don Smart was determined to witness it all.
Back at the Methodist Hall, George Bennett also threw aside the evening paper. He had no doubt that the morning would bring a less palatable story in the pages of the more sensational Daily News. Martin would have apoplexy if there was any suggestion of police incompetence. He stalked out of the Methodist Hall and crossed the road to his car.
Driving down to Scardale in daylight was scarcely less intimidating than approaching at night or in the early-morning darkness. At least blackness obscured the worst of the rock overhangs that George could all too easily imagine splitting off and crushing his car like a tin can beneath a steamroller. Today, though, there was one crucial difference: the gate across the road stood wide open, allowing free passage to vehicles. A uniformed constable stood by it, peering into George’s car, then snapping a salute as he recognized the occupant. Poor beggar, George thought. His own days standing around in the cold had been thankfully short-lived. He wondered how the bobbies who weren’t on the fast track could bear the prospect of week after week of pounding pavements, guarding crime scenes and, like today, tramping fruitlessly through inhospitable countryside.
The village was no more enhanced by daylight than the road. There was nothing charming about the dour little cottages of Scardale. The grey stone buildings seemed to crouch low to the ground, more like cowed hounds than poised animals ready to spring. One or two had sagging rooflines and most of the wood could have done with a lick of paint. Hens wandered at will, and every car that drove into the village provoked a cacophony of barking from an assortment of sheep and cow dogs tied up to gateposts. What had not changed was the eyes that watched the arrival of every newcomer. As he drove in, George was aware of the watchers. He knew more about them than he had the night before. For one thing, he knew they were all female. Every able-bodied man from Scardale was out with the searchers, adding both determination and local knowledge to the hunt.
George found a space for his car on the far side of the village green, tucked down the side of the wall of Scardale Manor. Time for another chat with Mrs Hawkin, he’d decided. On his way to the house, he paused by the caravan that had arrived that morning from force headquarters. They were using it as a liaison point for searchers rather than an incident room, and a pair of WPCs were occupied with the continuous task of brewing tea and coffee. George pushed the door open and silently congratulated himself on winning his private bet that Inspector Alan Thomas would be settled comfortably in the warmest corner of the caravan, pot of tea to one side of his broad hands, ashtray containing his briar pipe to the other.
