silence. ‘Now, we must consider the corpus delicti – not, as most people think, the body of the victim, but rather the body of the crime. Which is to say, the essential elements of a crime and the circumstances in which it has been committed. In the case of murder, it is necessary for the prosecution to establish that a death has occurred, that the dead person is the person alleged to have been killed, and that their death was the result of unlawful violence. The easiest way to demonstrate this is by the presence of a corpse, wouldn’t you say?’
‘There are precedents for murder convictions in the absence of a body, though,’ George said. ‘Haigh, the acid-bath murderer, and James Camb. And Michael Onufrejczyk, the pig farmer. That’s the case where the Lord Chief Justice said that the fact of death could be proved by circumstantial evidence. Surely we’ve got enough of that for it to be worth bringing a prosecution?’
Pritchard smiled. ‘I see you’ve studied the leading precedents. I must say, Inspector Bennett, I’m mightily intrigued by the circumstances of this case. There’s no denying that it presents some seemingly intractable problems. However, as you rightly point out, there is a remarkable amount of circumstantial evidence. Now, if we could just review that evidence?’
For two hours, they went through every detail that pointed to Philip Hawkin having murdered his stepdaughter. Pritchard questioned them closely and intelligently, probing to try to expose weaknesses in the chain of logic. The barrister gave little away of his personal response to their explanations, but he was clearly fascinated.
‘There’s something more, something that wasn’t in your papers,’ Clough concluded. ‘We only got the report late yesterday afternoon. The blood on the shirt is the same group as Alison’s, and it comes from a female, same as the other blood. But there’s also some scorching and powder on the shirt, as there would be if a gun had been fired very close to it. And there’s no question that it’s Hawkin’s shirt.’
‘All grist to your mill, Sergeant. Even without this latest piece of evidence, there’s little doubt in my mind that Hawkin has killed the girl. But the question remains whether we can put together a case that will satisfy a jury.’ Pritchard ran a hand through his hair, rendering it even more chaotic. George could see why he’d chosen to become a barrister; under a horsehair wig, he’d look almost normal. And although there was no denying his upper-class origins, his voice wasn’t so pukka that it would alienate a jury.
‘Wherever the body is, he’s done a good job of hiding it. We’re not going to find it unless someone stumbles over it by accident. I don’t think we’re going to get much more than we’ve already got,’ George said, trying not to sound as despondent as he always felt when Anne’s unsettled sleeping woke him to brood in the small hours.
Pritchard swivelled from left to right in his chair. ‘Still, it’s a fascinating challenge, isn’t it? I can’t remember the last time I read a set of case papers that got the old juices flowing like this. What a battle of wits in the courtroom! I can’t help thinking it would be enormous fun to get this one off the ground.’
‘Would you do the prosecuting, then?’ Clough asked.
‘Because it’s clearly going to be controversial, we’d use a QC, both for the committal hearing and the actual trial. But I would certainly be his junior, and I’d be largely responsible for preparing the case. I’m bound to say, I’m in favour of pressing forward with this.’ Again he raised an admonitory finger. ‘But that doesn’t mean you can go ahead and charge. I will have to take this to the Director himself and convince him that we will not be exposing ourselves to ridicule if we pursue this case. I’m sure you know how our betters loathe being laughed at,’ he added with an ironic smile.
‘So when will we hear?’ George asked.
‘By the end of the week,’ Pritchard said decisively. ‘He’ll want to sit on it for weeks, but time is of the essence here, I feel. I’ll call you on Friday at the latest.’ Pritchard got to his feet and held out his hand. ‘Inspector, Sergeant.’ He shook their hands. ‘It’s been a pleasure. Fingers crossed, eh?’
Daily News, Monday, 17th February 1964, p.1
Missing girl: Murder charge By a Staff Reporter
In a sensational new development, police last night charged 37-year-old Philip Hawkin with the murder of his stepdaughter, missing schoolgirl Alison Carter.
The unusual aspect of the charge is that Alison’s body has not been discovered. The pretty blonde 13-year-old has not been seen since she left her home in the tiny Derbyshire hamlet of Scardale to walk her dog after school on 11th December last year.
Hawkin will appear before Buxton magistrates tomorrow to be remanded for committal.
Not unique
This is not the first time murder charges have been brought where no body has been found. In the case of John George Haigh, the notorious acid-bath murderer, all that was found of his victim was a gallstone, a few bones and her false teeth.
But this residue was enough to demonstrate that a body had been disposed of and Haigh was hanged for murder.
James Camb, a steward on a luxury liner plying between South Africa and England, was accused of murdering a passenger, the actress Gay Gibson.
He claimed she had died from a fit while he had been alone with her in her cabin. He had panicked, thinking he would be accused of killing her, and pushed her body through a porthole.
His story was not believed and he was found guilty.
A further case occurred on a remote farm in Wales where a Polish war hero was convicted of murdering his business partner and feeding his body to the pigs on the farm they jointly owned.
George woke at six on Monday, 24th February. He slipped out of bed, trying not to disturb Anne, and quietly padded downstairs in dressing gown and slippers. He made a pot of tea and carried it through to the living room. Pulling back the curtains to watch the dark give way to dawn, he was astonished to see Tommy Clough’s car parked outside. The glowing coal of a cigarette revealed his sergeant was as wide awake as he was.
Minutes later, Clough was sitting opposite George, a steaming china cup nestled in one of his large hands. ‘I thought you’d be up bright and early an’ all. I hope Hawkin’s losing as much sleep as we are,’ he said bitterly.
‘Between Anne’s restlessness and worrying about this committal, I can’t remember the last time I had eight hours’ sleep,’ George agreed.
‘How’s she doing?’
George shrugged. ‘She gets tired easily. We went to see The Great Escape at the Opera House on Friday night, and she fell asleep halfway through. And she frets.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t suppose it helps that she never knows when I’m going to be home.’
‘Things’ll ease up a bit after the trial,’ Clough consoled him.
‘I suppose so. I can’t help worrying that he’s going to get away with it. I mean, we’ve got to show our hand at the committal to get the justices to agree to send him for trial at the assizes. Then he’ll have at least a couple of months to construct
