led up past the quarry. ‘There’s only three surnames in the place, I reckon. You’re either a Lomas, a Crowther or a Carter.’
Not, George noticed, a Hawkin. He filed the inconsistency away for later inspection. ‘Surely people must leave, to get married, to get work?’
‘Oh aye, people leave,’ Lucas said. ‘But they’re always Scardale through and through. They never lose it. And every generation, one or two people do marry out. It’s the only way to avoid wedding your cousins. But often as not, them as have married into Scardale come out a few years later looking for a divorce. Funny thing is, they always leave the kids behind them.’ He cast a quick glance at George, almost to see how he was taking it.
George inhaled his cigarette and kept his own counsel for a moment. He’d heard of places like this, he’d just never actually been in one. He couldn’t begin to imagine what it must be like to be part of a world so self-contained, so limited, where everything about your past, present and future must be information shared with an entire community. ‘It’s hard to believe a place like that could exist so close to the town. What is it? Seven miles?’
‘Eight,’ Lucas said. ‘It’s historical. Look at the pitch of these roads.’ He pointed up at the sharp left turn into the village of Earl Sterndale where the houses built by the quarry company to house their workers huddled along the hillside like a rugby scrum. ’Before we had cars with decent engines and proper tarmac roads, it could take you the best part of a day to get from Scardale to Buxton in the winter. That’s when the track wasn’t blocked with snowdrifts. Folk had to rely on their own. Some places around here, they just never got out of the habit.
‘Take this lass, Alison. Even with the school bus, it probably takes her the best part of an hour to get to and from school every day. The county have been trying to get parents to agree to sending children like her as boarders Monday to Friday, to save them the journey. But places like Scardale, they just flat refuse. They don’t see it as the county trying to help them. They think it’s the authorities trying to take their children off them. There’s no reasoning with them.’
The car swung through a series of sharp bends and began to climb a steep ridge, the engine straining as Lucas changed down through the gears. George opened the quarterlight and flicked the remains of his cigarette on to the verge. A draught of frosty air tinged with smoke from a coal fire caught at his throat and he hastily closed the window. ‘And yet Mrs Hawkin wasn’t slow to call us in.’
‘According to PC Swindells, she’d knocked every door in Scardale first, though,’ Lucas said drily. ‘Don’t take me wrong. It’s not that they’re hostile to the police. They’re just…not very forthcoming, that’s all. They’ll want Alison found. So they’ll put up with us.’
The car breasted the rise and began the long descent into the village of Longnor. The limestone buildings crouched like sleeping sheep, dirty white in the moonlight, with plumes of smoke rising from every chimney in sight. At the crossroads in the centre of the village, George could see the unmistakable outline of a uniformed officer, stamping his feet on the ground to keep them warm.
‘That’ll be Peter Grundy,’ Lucas said. ‘He could have waited indoors.’
‘Maybe he’s impatient to find out what’s happening. It is his patch, after all.’
Lucas grunted. ‘More likely his missus giving him earache about having to go out of an evening.’
He braked a little too hard and the car slewed into the kerb. PC Peter Grundy stooped to see who was in the passenger seat, then climbed into the back of the car. ‘Evening, Sarge,’ he said. ‘Sir,’ he added, inclining his head towards George. ‘I don’t like the sound of this at all.’
Wednesday, 11th December 1963. 8.26 p.m.
Before Sergeant Lucas could drive off, George Bennett held up one finger. ‘Scardale’s only two miles away, yes?’ Lucas nodded. ‘Before we get there, I want to know as much as possible about what we’re getting into. Can we give PC Grundy a couple of minutes to give us some more details?’
‘A minute or two can’t do any harm,’ Lucas said, easing the car back into neutral.
Bennett squirmed round in his seat so he could see at least the dim outline of the local man’s face. ‘So, PC Grundy, you don’t think we’re going to find Alison Hawkin sitting by the fire getting a tongue-lashing from her mother?’
‘It’s Carter, sir. Alison Carter. She’s not the squire’s daughter,’ Grundy said with the faint air of impatience of a man who sees a long night of explanations ahead of him.
‘Thank you,’ George said mildly. ‘You’ve saved me putting my foot in it over that at least. I’d appreciate it if you could give us a quick briefing on the family. Just so I have an idea what we’re dealing with.’ He held out his cigarettes to Grundy to defuse any idea the man might have that he was being condescended to.
With a quick glance at Bob Lucas, who nodded, Grundy slipped a smoke from the packet and fumbled in his overcoat pocket for a light.
‘I’ve told the inspector the set-up in Scardale,’ Lucas said as Grundy lit his cigarette. ‘About how the squire owns the village and all the land.’
‘Right,’ Grundy said through a swathe of smoke. ‘Well, until about a year ago, it was Hawkin’s uncle who owned Scardale. Old Mr Castleton. There’ve been Castletons in Scardale Manor as far back as parish records show. Any road, old William Castleton’s only son was killed in the war. Flew bombers, he did, but he got unlucky one night over Germany and the last anyone heard was he was missing believed killed in action. His parents had been a good age when young William were born, and there were no other children. So when Mr Castleton died, Scardale went to his sister’s son, this Philip Hawkin. A man that nobody in the place had cast eyes on since he was in short trousers.’
‘What do we know about him?’ Lucas asked.
‘His mother, the squire’s sister, she grew up here, but she married a wrong ’un when she wed Stan Hawkin. He were in the RAF back then, but that didn’t last long. He always claimed he’d taken the rap for one of his senior officers, but the long and short of it was they threw him out for selling tools out the back gate. Any road, the squire took it on himself to see Hawkin right, and he got him a job with an old pal of his, selling cars down south. From all accounts, he never got caught on the fiddle again, but I reckon a leopard never changes its spots, and that’s why the family stopped coming up for visits.’
‘So what about the son, Philip?’ George asked, trying to speed up the story.
Grundy shrugged, his bulk making the car rock. ‘He’s a good-looking beggar, I’ll say that for him. Plenty of charm and smarm, an’ all. The women like him. He’s always been all right wi’ me, but I still wouldn’t trust him to hold the dog while I went for a pee.’
‘And he married Alison Carter’s mother?’
‘I was just getting to that,’ Grundy said with slow dignity. ‘Ruth Carter had been a widow close on six years when Hawkin arrived from down south to take up his inheritance. According to what I’ve heard, he was right taken with Ruth from the off. She’s a fine-looking woman, it’s true, but it’s not every man who’d be willing to
