whether there appear to be any significant connections between their cases and ours.’
George’s heart sank. Wasting his time being diplomatic with other forces wasn’t going to help him to find what had happened to Alison Carter. Manchester City Police had had over five months to try and find Pauline Reade and Cheshire had been searching for John Kilbride for a good three weeks without any result. The detectives on those cases were simply clutching at straws. They were more concerned with appearing to be pursuing some sort of action on their own dead-ended cases than they were with helping his inquiry. If he’d been a betting man, he’d have put money on the meeting already being the subject of a press release from the other two forces. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if DCI Carver handled the meeting?’ he asked desperately.
Martin eyed his cigarette with a look of distaste. ‘Your knowledge of the details of the case is altogether superior,’ he said shortly. He turned away and started walking towards the door. ‘Eleven o’clock, at divisional HQ,’ he said, without turning back or raising his voice.
George stood staring at the door for long moments after Martin’s straight-backed exit. He felt a mixture of anger and despair. Already other people were writing off Alison’s disappearance as insoluble. Whether it could be connected to the other cases or not, it was clear that his superiors no longer expected him to find her at all, never mind to find her alive. Clenching his jaw, he yanked a chair towards the file boxes and began the task of reading the remaining witness statements. It was probably pointless, he knew. But there was a slim chance it might not be. And slim chances felt like the only ones he had left.
Sunday, 15th December 1963. 10.30 a.m.
For once, one of the papers had got it right. Every copy of the Sunday Standard contained a 12″ by 19″ poster. Extra copies had been distributed to every newsagent in the country, and every one that George had passed on his way to the police station was displaying it prominently. Under the thick black headline:
HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL?
the paper had reproduced one of Philip Hawkin’s excellent portraits of Alison. The text beneath read:
Alison Carter has been missing from her home in Scardale village, Derbyshire, since half past four on Wednesday 11th December.
Description: 13 years old, 5ft, slim build, blonde hair, blue eyes, pale complexion, with slanting scar running across right eyebrow; wearing navy duffel coat over school uniform of black blazer, maroon cardigan, maroon skirt, white blouse, black and maroon tie, black woollen tights and black sheepskin boots.
Any information to Derbyshire County Police office at Buxton or any police officer.
That was how journalists could help the police, George thought. He hoped Don Smart had choked over his breakfast when the poster had slid out of his copy of the Sunday Standard. He also wondered how many homes in the area would be displaying the poster by nightfall. He reckoned there would be more pictures of Alison Carter visible in High Peak windows than there were Christmas trees.
It was a good start to the day, he thought cheerfully. It had already started well. Since he hadn’t had to rush out of the door before first light, he and Anne had had the chance to wake naturally and lie chatting comfortably. He’d brought a pot of tea upstairs and they’d had a rare companionable hour that had set the seal on the evening they’d spent together. If he’d been asked in advance, George would have vehemently denied that he could have put Alison Carter from his mind for more than a minute or two. But somehow, Anne’s unfussy company had allowed him to switch off from the frustrations of his investigation. They’d had a candlelit supper, then listened to the radio cuddled up on the sofa together, giving tentative shape to their dreams for their unborn child. It had been too short a respite, but it had left him refreshed, his confidence restored in spite of a restless sleep.
George fixed the poster to the CID notice board with drawing pins borrowed from some of the official notices. It would be a striking reminder to the visiting detectives that his case was very much alive. ‘That looks well.’ Tommy Clough’s voice echoed across the room as the door swung shut behind him. He shrugged out of his overcoat and slung it over the coatstand.
‘I’d no idea they were planning this,’ George said, tapping the poster with his fingernail.
‘It was all fixed up yesterday morning,’ Clough said carelessly, fastening the top button of his shirt and tightening his tie as he crossed the room.
George shook his head. ‘I wish I was plugged into your grapevine, Tommy. Nothing happens here that gets past you.’
Clough grinned. ‘By the time you’ve been here as long as I have, you’ll have forgotten more than I’ll ever know. I only found out about the posters because I was walking through the front office when the messenger came to pick up the photo. I meant to tell you, but it slipped my mind. Sorry, sir.’
George turned and offered his cigarettes. ‘With us working so closely together on this, you might as well make it George when we’re on our own.’
Clough took a cigarette and cocked his head to one side. ‘Right you are, George.’
Before they could say more, the door swung open again and Superintendent Martin marched in. He was followed by two men dressed almost identically in navy suits, trilby hats and trench coats. In spite of their similar outfits, there was no prospect of confusing them. One had broad shoulders and a thick torso carried on legs that were almost comically short, barely allowing him to make the height requirement of five feet eight inches. The other topped six feet but looked as if he’d disappear if he stood behind a telegraph pole. Martin introduced them. The burly man was Detective Chief Inspector Gordon Parrott from Manchester City Police; the other, Detective Chief Inspector Terry Quirke from the Cheshire County force.
Martin left them to it, promising to have tea sent up from the canteen. At first, the four men were wary as strange dogs on their best behaviour in an unfamiliar parlour. Gradually, however, as they offered details of their own operations without anyone finding fault, they began to relax. A couple of hours later, all four were agreed that there was almost as much reason to suppose the three missing children had been snatched by one individual as there was to suppose there were three separate perpetrators. ‘Which is to say, we haven’t got grounds to say anything one way or the other,’ Parrott said glumly.
‘Except that you don’t often get cases where there’s nothing at all to show what’s happened,’ George said. ‘Which is what you two have got. At least I’ve got the dog tied up in one piece of woodland and the signs of a struggle in another. That’s the crucial element that separates Alison Carter’s disappearance from Pauline Reade and John Kilbride.’
There was a grumble of agreement round the table. ‘I tell you something,’ Clough added, ‘I’d put money on Pauline and John being lifted by somebody in a car. Maybe even two somebodies. One to drive and one to subdue the victim. If the abductor had been on foot, there would have had to have been witnesses. To get into a car, that’s a matter of seconds. But in spite of that old couple in Longnor who saw the Land Rover parked up by the chapel, I don’t see how that can have happened to Alison. A kidnapper couldn’t carry her all the way from Scardale woods to the Methodist Chapel, not unless he was built like Tarzan. And there were no strange vehicles seen in the village that afternoon.’
‘And they would have been seen,’ George confirmed. ‘If a mouse sneezed in Scardale, it’d have half a dozen home-made cold remedies to choose from before it could blow its nose.’
Parrott
