the Scardale villagers also had in common was their complete mystification at Alison’s disappearance. As Clough had predicted, few were willing to volunteer even the little that Brian Carter had given. Most of the conversations were an uphill struggle. George would introduce himself and deliver his little speech. The villagers would look thoughtful, then shake their heads. No, nothing unusual had happened. No, they hadn’t seen any strangers. No, they didn’t think anybody from the village would touch a hair on Alison’s head. And by the way, Charlie Lomas was as good-natured a lad as ever walked, and he didn’t deserve being treated like a criminal.
The only point of interest was that not a finger pointed at the squire. Not a word of complaint was uttered about him, not a voice raised against him. True, no one sang his praises, but by the end of the morning, it would have been tempting to think that Brian Carter was the only person in Scardale who thought there was anything about Philip Hawkin worth criticizing.
Finally, George and Clough retired empty-handed to the caravan, uninhabited except for a WPC who jumped to her feet and brewed up as soon as they walked in. ‘You were wrong,’ George sighed.
‘Sir?’ Clough opened his cigarette packet and tipped one out for George without bothering to ask.
‘You said we’d be hearing a lot of complaints about Hawkin. But we’ve not had a cheep out of anybody except that young hothead Brian Carter.’
Clough considered for a moment, a frown wrinkling his broad forehead like the skin on a caramel custard. ‘Maybe that’s why. He’s young enough to think it matters in a case like this that Hawkin’s not one of them. The others, they’re wise enough to understand that there’s a hell of a difference between not liking somebody because he tells you how to farm your land and suspecting him of abducting a child.’
George took a cautious sip of his tea. Not so hot it would scald. He drank down half the cup to ease his dry throat; whatever else the people of Scardale were, they weren’t generous with their hot drinks. They’d actually been in Diane Lomas’s kitchen while the woman had sat with a pot of tea in front of her that she’d never once offered them. ‘Maybe. But I don’t want to lose sight of the fact that this is a close-knit community. Just the kind of place where they think lynch law’s the best way of dealing with their difficulties. It could be that they think Hawkin’s behind this and we’re too stupid to nail him. Happen they figure the best way to deal with him is to wait for us to give up on Alison and go away. Then a nasty farm accident, and it’s goodbye, Squire Hawkin. That gives me two problems. One, there’s no reason except prejudice to suspect Philip Hawkin had anything to do with Alison’s disappearance. And two, I don’t want his blood on my hands, whether he is involved or not.’
Clough looked politely sceptical. ‘If you weren’t my boss, I’d say you’d been watching too much telly,’ he said. ‘But seeing as how you are, I’d say, it’s an interesting idea, sir.’
George gave Clough a hard stare. ‘It’s one we’ll bear in mind, Sergeant,’ was all he said. He held out his mug to the WPC. ‘Any more in the pot?’
Before she could give him the refill, the door opened on Peter Grundy. The Longnor bobby gave a satisfied nod. ‘Thought I might find you here. Message from Detective Chief Inspector Carver, sir. Will you phone him at Buxton a.s.a.p.?’
George got to his feet, reaching for the tea. He swilled most of it back in moments then signalled Clough to follow. ‘We might as well go up to the incident room,’ he said, making for his car. Suddenly the door of a Ford Anglia swung open in his path and Don Smart’s gingery head popped up.
‘Morning, Inspector,’ he said cheerily. ‘Any luck yet? Anything to report? I was expecting to see you at the ten o’clock press conference, like you said yesterday, but you obviously had better things to be getting on with.’
‘That’s right,’ George said, side-stepping the car door. ‘The officers who dealt with you in Buxton this morning were fully briefed on the situation.’
‘Did you see our story?’
‘I’m in the middle of a major inquiry, Mr Smart. If you want any comment from Derbyshire Police, you’ll have to go through the appropriate channels. Now, if you’ll excuse me…’
Smart’s predatory smile appeared. ‘If you won’t take seriously my suggestion about links to other cases…have you considered a clairvoyant?’
George frowned. ‘A clairvoyant?’
‘It could point you in the right direction. Focus your attention instead of spreading the search so wide.’
George shook his head in wonderment. ‘I deal in facts, Mr Smart, not headlines.’ He took half a dozen brisk steps away from the journalist, then wheeled round. ‘If you really want to do something for Alison Carter rather than your own career, why not print a photograph of her?’
‘I take it that means there hasn’t been a breakthrough?’ Smart said to Clough as George stalked off to his car.
‘Why don’t you bugger off back to Manchester?’ Clough said, his voice low but firm, his face open and smiling. Without waiting to see the effect of his words, he followed George.
‘Smart by name thinks he’s smart by nature,’ George said bitterly as the car toiled up the dale. ‘It makes me sick. This isn’t a career opportunity, it’s a girl’s life that’s at risk here.’
‘He can’t afford to think like that. If he did, he’d never be able to write the story,’ Clough pointed out.
‘That might be better for everyone,’ George said. He was still stiff with annoyance when he strode into the Methodist Hall and made straight for the nearest table with a phone. He stood over the constable who was using it, tapping the end of an unlit Gold Leaf against the packet. The PC flashed a glance at him, the whites of his eyes betraying his nervousness.
‘That’ll be all then, madam, thank you very much,’ he gabbled, his hand reaching for the receiver rest to cut off the call even before he’d finished speaking. ‘There you go, sir,’ he added, thrusting the phone apprehensively at George.
‘This is DI Bennett for DCI Carver,’ George snapped.
There was a pause, then he heard the nasal Midlands voice of his CID boss. ‘Bennett? Is that you?’
‘Yes, sir. I got a message that you wanted to speak to me.’
‘Took their time delivering it,’ Carver grumbled. George had already discovered that after almost thirty years as a police officer, Carver had elevated complaint to an art form. George had spent his first month at Buxton apologizing, his second appeasing. Then he’d noticed how everyone else dealt with Carver’s complaints and he too had learned to ignore.
‘Have there been some developments, sir?’
‘You left instructions for the day shift with Sergeant Lucas,’ Carver accused.
‘I did, sir.’
‘Round up the usual suspects, generally a waste of time for all concerned.’
George waited, saying nothing. The anger from his encounter with Smart was dammed up behind a wall of professional imperturbability, but thanks to Carver’s complaints, the weight of his fury was reaching critical mass. The last thing his career needed was for his rage to burst over Carver’s head, so
