solicitor seemed mesmerized by the record of defilement piling up before him. When the final photograph sat in front of him, he cleared his throat.
‘They’ve faked them,’ Hawkin said. ‘Anybody knows you can fake up photographs. My stepdaughter went missing and they’ve not been able to find her and now they’re framing me to make themselves look good.’
‘We’ve got the negatives as well,’ George said flatly.
‘You can fake negatives too,’ Hawkin said superciliously. ‘First you fake the photograph, then you photograph it. Bingo, you’ve got a negative that you can print from.’
‘Are you denying that you raped Alison Carter?’ George asked incredulously.
‘Yes,’ Hawkin said firmly.
‘We have also taken possession of a bloodstained shirt which is identical in every particular to the shirts you have made to measure at a London tailor. This was hidden in your darkroom too.’
Hawkin finally looked startled. ‘What?’
‘The shirt was very heavily stained with blood on the front, the lower sleeves and the cuffs. I expect that when it is tested, it will match the blood previously found on Alison’s underwear.’
‘What shirt? There was no shirt in my darkroom,’ Hawkin exclaimed, leaning forward and jabbing the air with his cigarette to make his point.
‘That’s where it was found. Along with the gun.’
Hawkin’s eyes widened. ‘What gun?’
‘A Webley .38 revolver. Identical to the one your mother’s neighbour Mr Wells had stolen a couple of years ago.’
‘I haven’t got a gun,’ Hawkin gabbled. ‘You’re making a big mistake here, Bennett. You might think you can get away with framing me for this, but you’re not as smart as you think you are!’
George’s smile was as icy as the wind that whistled outside. ‘You should know that it is my intention to present this information to the Director of Public Prosecutions in the firm belief that he will allow us to charge you with murder,’ he continued inexorably.
‘This is an outrage!’ Hawkin exploded. He shifted in his seat and turned his aggression on his solicitor. ‘Tell them they can’t do this. All they’ve got are some poxy faked pictures. Tell them!’
Naden looked as if he wished he’d stayed at home. ‘I must advise you to say nothing further, Mr Hawkin.’ Hawkin opened his mouth to protest. ‘Nothing further, Mr Hawkin,’ Naden repeated, a hard edge in his voice that entirely contradicted his benign appearance. ‘Mr Bennett, my client will not be making any further statement at this time. Nor will he be answering any of your questions. Now, I require a meeting in private with my client. Other than that, we will see you before the justices tomorrow morning.’
George sat staring at the typewriter. He had to prepare a brief on the rape charge for the uniformed inspector who dealt with the magistrates’ court. It was a straightforward request for a remand in custody, but with Alfie Naden defending the squire of Scardale before a bench of the local great and good, George wanted to take no chances. It didn’t help that his head pulsed with a pain so powerful that he had to resist the impulse to close one eye to relieve it.
He sighed and lit another cigarette. ‘Reasons to oppose bail,’ he muttered.
There was a peremptory knock at his door. At this time of night, it was probably one of the night shift taking pity on him and bringing tea. ‘Come in,’ he called.
Superintendent Martin pushed the door open, dressed in an immaculate dinner jacket instead of uniform. ‘Not disturbing you, am I?’ he asked.
‘You’re a very welcome interruption, sir,’ George said, meaning it.
Martin settled himself in the chair opposite George and slipped a silver hip flask from his back pocket. ‘Anything to drink out of?’ he asked.
George shook his head. ‘Not even a dirty cup. Sorry.’
‘No matter. We’ll just adopt battlefield manners,’ Martin said, taking a swig from the flask before wiping the top and handing it to George. ‘Go on. I bet you need it.’
Gratefully, George took a mouthful of brandy. He closed his eyes and savoured the burn as it coursed down his throat and warmed his chest. ‘I didn’t realize you had medical qualifications, sir. That was just what the doctor ordered.’
‘I was at a Masonic dinner. So was DCI Carver. He told me what you’ve been up to.’ Martin gave George a level stare. ‘I’d rather have heard it from you.’
‘Things…moved at a bit of a lick today. I was very uneasy about that business of the newspaper photograph last week. I thought it needed further investigation. But I wasn’t planning on anything more than questioning Hawkin to see if I could unsettle him and perhaps make him slip up. Then when his wife phoned…I did think about coming to you before we searched the manor, but if I had, I would have missed the JPs at court, and you know how difficult some of them can be about signing warrants in what they see as their own time. So…I just forged ahead.’
‘So where exactly are we up to?’
‘I’ve charged him with rape. He’ll be up before the justices in the morning for a remand in custody. I’m just doing the paperwork now. I should tell you that he’s got Alfie Naden defending him and he’s already preparing the defence that we faked the photographs to make it look as if we hadn’t completely failed in the Alison Carter case.’
Martin snorted. ‘That’ll never fly. I doubt we’ve got either a photographer or the equipment to concoct something so elaborate. Still, it’ll stir up a lot of mud and he might just slide through it and out the other side. You can never tell with juries, and he’s a good-looking beggar.’ He fished a cigar case out of his inside jacket pocket. He loosened his bow tie and undid the top collar stud in his dress shirt. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Cigar?’
‘I’ll stick with my cigarettes, thanks.’ Both men lit up.
Martin exhaled a plume of blue smoke. ‘What have we got for murder? Take me through it.’
George leaned back in his seat. ‘One, we now know he was interfering with his stepdaughter and taking pornographic photographs of her. Two, on the afternoon she disappeared, he claims he was alone in his darkroom. But we have two witnesses who saw him crossing the field between the wood where Alison’s dog was found and the copse where there were signs of a struggle involving her.’
‘Suggestive,’ Martin commented.
‘Three, the dog lived in his household. If anyone could have taped its muzzle shut without being bitten, it was someone that familiar with the dog. We’ll have to do a trawl of the local chemists to see if anyone remembers selling him a roll of elastoplast. Four, nobody in the village apart from Ma Lomas admits to ever having heard of the disused lead mine workings. But a book detailing the exact location of the entrance to the mine was found on the shelf in Hawkin’s study.’
‘Suggestive but circumstantial.’
George nodded. ‘It’s all circumstantial. But then, how often do we get a corroborated witness account of a murder?’
