suggestion. It’s true that the alleged victim of this alleged assault is presently missing from home but for the police to suggest that she is dead is calculated only to generate calumny against my client. I must urge that you rule that nothing may be reported in the press except the fact a man has been charged with the crime of rape.’
The magistrates went into a huddle with the court clerk. George drummed his fingers impatiently on his knee. To be honest, he didn’t much care whether the press named Hawkin or not. All he wanted was to crack on with his investigation.
At last, the chairman cleared his throat. ‘We are agreed that for the purposes of a remand hearing, the press is barred from naming the accused. However, this decision need not be binding upon the examining justices at any subsequent committal hearing.’
Naden bowed his acknowledgement. ‘I am much obliged,’ he said.
When the committal hearing was set for four weeks ahead, Naden bounced to his feet again. ‘Your Worships, I would ask you to consider the question of bail. My client is an upstanding member of his local community with no previous convictions nor stain on his character. He runs a large estate and there is no question but that his absence will impose hardship on his tenants.’
‘Rubbish!’ a voice bellowed from the back of the room. George recognized Brian Carter, his face scarlet with emotion. ‘We’re better off without him.’
The chairman of the bench looked astonished. ‘Remove that man at once,’ he said, outraged at such an exhibition of disrespect.
‘I’m going anyway,’ Brian shouted, jumping to his feet before anyone could reach him. He stormed out, slamming the door behind him. He left a stunned silence.
The chairman took a deep breath. ‘If there are any further outbursts, I will clear this court,’ he said stiffly. ‘Please continue, Mr Naden.’
‘Thank you. As I was saying, Mr Hawkin’s presence is vital to the smooth running of the Scardale estate. As you have already heard, his stepdaughter is missing from home and he feels his place is at the side of his wife, to offer her comfort and succour. He is no feckless criminal who drifts from place to place. He has no intention of leaving the jurisdiction. I urge you to grant bail in these exceptional circumstances.’
The inspector slowly stood up. ‘Your Worships, the police oppose bail on the grounds that the accused has sufficient funds at his disposal to be a flight risk. He has no deep roots in this area, having only moved here on the death of his uncle a little over a year ago. We are also concerned about possible interference with witnesses. Many potential prosecution witnesses are not only his tenants but also his employees and there is a very real risk of intimidation. Also, the police view this as an extremely serious offence and it is likely that further serious charges will be brought against the accused in the near future.’
George was relieved to see the woman magistrate nodding firmly at every point the inspector made. If the others were undecided, he thought her conviction would be enough to sway them. As they retired to discuss their decision, a buzz of conversation started again on the press bench. The Scardale contingent sat stolid and silent, their eyes boring holes in the back of Philip Hawkin’s neck. Hawkin himself was deep in conversation with his lawyer.
George wished he could smoke.
Within a couple of minutes, the magistrates trooped back to their dais. ‘Bail is refused,’ the chairman said decisively. ‘Take the prisoner down.’
As he passed George, Hawkin gave him a look of utter loathing. George stared right through him. He’d always believed in keeping his powder dry.
Daily News, Thursday, 6th February 1964, p.2
Man appears in court
A man charged with rape was remanded in custody by High Peak magistrates sitting at Buxton yesterday. The man, who cannot be named for legal reasons, lives in the Derbyshire village of Scardale.
It was strange, George thought, that all public offices were so similar. Somehow, he’d expected the offices of the Director of Public Prosecutions to be as grand as the title. Although the Regency building in Queen Anne’s Gate couldn’t have been less like the four-square modern brick hutch that housed the Buxton sub-division, the interior was standard government issue. The barrister he and Tommy Clough had arranged to meet four days after the remand hearing inhabited a space that was so similar to his own office it was almost disorientating. Files were stacked on top of filing cabinets, a handful of legal textbooks occupied the windowsill, and the ashtray needed emptying. The floor was covered in the identical linoleum, the walls painted the same off-white shade.
Jonathan Pritchard ran equally counter to his expectations. In his mid-thirties, Pritchard had the sort of carrot-red hair that is impossible to tame. It stuck out in tufts and angles all over his head, actually rising straight up in a kind of crest at one corner of his forehead. His features were equally unruly. His eyes, the blue-grey of wet Welsh slate, were round and widely spaced with long golden lashes. His long bony nose took a sudden swerve to the left at the end, and his mouth sloped at a wry angle. The only orderly thing about him was his immaculate dark-grey pinstripe suit, his dazzling white shirt and a perfectly knotted Guards tie.
‘So,’ the lawyer had greeted them, jumping to his feet. ‘You’re the chaps with no body. Come in, sit down. I hope you’re fuelled up in advance because there is absolutely no chance of a decent cup of coffee in these parts.’ He stood politely until George and Clough were settled, then subsided into his own battered wooden swivel chair. He opened a drawer, took out another ashtray and pushed it towards them. ‘The extent of our hospitality,’ he said ruefully. ‘Now, who’s who?’
They introduced themselves. Pritchard made a note on the pad in front of him. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘But isn’t it rather unusual for a case of this magnitude to be run by a detective inspector? Particularly a detective inspector who’s only been in post for five months?’
George stifled a sigh and shrugged. ‘The DCI had his ankle in plaster when the girl went missing, so I was in operational control, reporting to Superintendent Martin. He’s the senior officer in the Buxton subdivision. Anyway, as the case went on, HQ wanted to staff it with one of their more experienced CID officers, but the super resisted. He said he wanted it handled by his own men.’
‘Very commendable, but perhaps not something your HQ officers were terribly pleased about?’ Pritchard said.
‘I don’t know about that, sir.’
Clough leaned forward. ‘The super served in the army with the Deputy Chief Constable, sir. So the brass know they can trust his judgement.’
Pritchard nodded. ‘I was an army lawyer myself. I know the form.’ He took a box of Black Sobranie cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. George could only imagine the impression that would make in the lawyers’ room at Buxton if Pritchard ended up presenting the case for the prosecution at the committal. Thank God the justices wouldn’t be in there too. ‘I’ve read the case papers,’ Pritchard said. ‘And examined the photographs.’ He gave an involuntary shudder. ‘They are truly some of the most repugnant I have ever seen. I’ve no doubt that we’ll get a conviction on the rape charge on the basis of those photographs alone. What we need to discuss now is whether we have enough evidence to proceed with a charge of murder. The principal
