head and roared his pent-up frustration to the scudding clouds and the indifferent sheep.
He turned to face the dark crouch of Kinder Scout, its intractable moorland blocking any vista north. He swung through ninety degrees and looked along the ridge past Hollins Cross, Lose Hill Pike and the distant pimple of Win Hill, with Stanage Edge and Sheffield invisible beyond. Then another ninety-degree turn to gaze at the white scar of Winnats Pass and the dips and rises of the limestone dales beyond. Finally, he faced east, scanning the roll of Rush up Edge and the gentle descent to Chapel-en-le-Frith. Somewhere out there, Alison Carter was lying, her body prey to nature, her life snuffed out.
He’d done what he could. Now it was up to others. He had to learn to let go.
Later, he found Clough nursing the remains of a pint at a quiet table in the corner of the Baker’s Arms. The locals knew enough to leave them in peace, and the landlord had already refused service to three reporters, including Don Smart. He had threatened to complain to the next session of the licensing magistrates. The landlord had chuckled and said, ‘They’d give me a medal. You’re here and gone – we’ve all got to live here.’
George walked over with a fresh pint for Clough and one for himself. ‘I needed some air,’ he said as he sat down. ‘If I’d stuck around, you’d have me in the cells on a charge of murdering a QC.’
‘What a shit,’ Clough said, pretending to spit on the floor.
‘I suppose he’d say he’s only doing his job.’ George took a deep draught of his beer. ‘Ah, that’s better. I’ve been up Mam Tor, blowing the cobwebs away. Well, at least now we can see where the defence is coming from. It’s a conspiracy by me to frame Philip Hawkin to ensure my future promotions.’
‘The magistrates won’t fall for that.’
‘A jury might,’ George said bitterly.
‘Why would they? You come over as Mr Nice Guy. You’ve only got to look at Hawkin and the alarm bells start ringing. He’s got that look that women can’t resist and men hate on sight. Unless Highsmith can swing an all-female jury, there’s no chance of that defence running.’
‘I hope you’re right. Anyway, cheer me up. Tell me what I missed.’
Clough grinned. ‘You missed Charlie Lomas. He cleans up well, I’ll say that for him. He managed to wear a suit without looking like he was in a straitjacket. Nervous as a cat in a kennel, but the lad stuck to his guns, I’ll give him that. Stanley did a good catch-up on Highsmith’s smear job. He got Charlie to talk about the lead mine and how it would have been out of the question for an outsider like you to have made your way there, even with the book. He also got Charlie to explain how, although Hawkin is a relative newcomer to the dale, he’s done a lot of exploring for his picture-postcard photographs.’
George gave a sigh of relief. ‘How did he get on with Highsmith?’
‘He just stuck to his guns. Wouldn’t be shifted. Yes, he was sure it was Wednesday he saw Hawkin walking the fields. No, it wasn’t Tuesday. Nor Monday neither. He was solid as a rock, was Charlie. He made a good impression on the mags, you could tell.’
‘Thank God somebody did.’
‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself, George. You did fine. Highsmith tried to make you look bent, but he didn’t succeed. Considering how little solid evidence we’ve got, I’d say we’re doing all right in there. Now, do you want the good news?’
George’s head came up as if it was on a string. ‘There’s good news?’ he demanded.
Clough grinned. ‘Oh aye, I think you could say that.’ He took his time getting his cigarettes out and lighting up. ‘I had another word with the sergeant down in St Albans.’
‘Wells has turned up?’ George could hardly contain himself.
‘Not yet, no.’
George slumped back in his seat, sighing. ‘That’s the news I’m holding my breath for,’ he admitted.
‘Well, this isn’t half bad. Turns out our sergeant knows Hawkin. He didn’t want to say anything till he’d spoken to one or two other folk and got the nod from them that it was all right to talk to me.’ Clough drained his pint. ‘Same again?’
George nodded in amused frustration. ‘Oh, go on, I know you’re enjoying dragging it out. You might as well pay for your pleasure.’
By the time Clough returned, George had smoked half a cigarette with the nervous concentration of a man about to enter a no-smoking train compartment on a long journey. ‘Come on then,’ he urged, leaning forward and sliding his pint towards him. ‘Let’s hear it.’
‘Sergeant Stillman’s wife is a Tawny Owl at one of the local Brownie packs. Hawkin turned up offering to be their official photographer. He’d do pictures at parades, camps, that sort of thing, and sell the pictures back to the Brownies and their families at a knockdown price. In exchange, he said he wanted to take portrait photographs of the girls for his own portfolio. It all seemed above board. It wasn’t as if Hawkin was a stranger. Him and his mum were both members of the church the Brownie pack was attached to. And he was always perfectly happy for the girls’ mothers to come along when he was taking their pictures.’ Clough paused, eyebrows raised.
‘So what went wrong?’ George asked on cue.
‘Time went by. Hawkin got friendly with some of the older girls and started setting up sessions without their mothers. There were a couple of…incidents. First time, he denied everything, said the girl was telling lies to get attention. Second time, same thing, only this time he said that the girl was getting her own back because Hawkin wasn’t interested in photographing her any more. He said she knew the fuss there had been about the first girl’s accusation and threatened to say the same things if he wouldn’t give her money for sweets and carry on taking her photograph. Well, nobody wanted any trouble, and there wasn’t any real evidence, so Sergeant Stillman had a quiet word with Hawkin. Suggested he should stay away from young girls to avoid any possibility of misunderstanding.’
George let out a low whistle. ‘Well, well, well. I thought there must be something somewhere. Child molesters don’t suddenly startup at Hawkin’s age. Well done, Tommy. At least we know we’ve not been letting ourselves get carried away with some daft notion. Hawkin is exactly what we think he is.’
Clough nodded. ‘The only trouble is, we can’t use any of it in court. What Stillman has to say is secondhand hearsay.’
‘What about the girls?’
Clough snorted. ‘Stillman won’t even tell me their names. The main reason it never came to formal charges before was that the mothers were adamant that their little girls weren’t going to be put through the ordeal of going to court. If they wouldn’t hear of it on an indecency, there’s no chance of them being persuaded on a murder that’s in the headlines like this one.’
George nodded sad agreement. He couldn’t argue with people who wanted to protect their kids, even when the damage was already done. Now he was himself about to become a father, however, he felt for the first time in his life the tug of vigilantism. He couldn’t understand why Hawkin was still at large. As a policeman, Stillman had plenty of resources to hand to damage the man, physically and socially. But he hadn’t. He’d even been reluctant to tell Clough. ‘They obviously do things differently down there,’ he said wearily. ‘If I knew,
