Val McDermid - A Place of Execution

‘So there isn’t anybody she fancies? Maybe somebody older?’

Janet shook her head. ‘We both fancy Dennis Tanner off Coronation Street , and Paul McCartney out of the Beatles. But that’s just fancying. There isn’t anybody real that she fancies. She always says boys are boring. All they want to talk about is football and going into outer space on a rocket and what kind of car they’d have if they could drive.’

‘And Derek? Where does he fit in?’

Janet looked puzzled. ‘Derek’s just…Derek. Anyway, he’s got spots. You couldn’t fancy Derek.’

‘What about Charlie, then? Your big cousin? I hear they spent a lot of time together round at his gran’s.’

Janet shook her head, one finger straying to a tiny yellow-headed spot beside her mouth. ‘Ali only goes round to listen to Ma Lomas’s tales. Charlie lives there, that’s all. Anyway, I don’t understand why you’re going on about who Ali fancies. You should be out looking for whoever kidnapped her. I bet they think Uncle Phil’s got loads of money, just because he lives in a big house and owns all the village land. I bet they got the idea off Frank Sinatra’s lad being kidnapped last week. It must have been on the television and in the papers and everything. We don’t get television down here. We can’t get the reception, so we’re stuck with the radio. But even down in Scardale we heard about it, so a kidnapper could easily have known about it and got the idea. I bet they’re going to ask for a huge ransom for Ali.’ Her lips glistened with butter as the tip of her tongue darted along them in her excitement.

‘How does Alison get along with her stepfather?’

Janet shrugged, as if the question couldn’t have interested her less. ‘All right, I suppose. She likes living in the manor, I’ll tell you that for nothing.’ A sparkle of malice lit up Janet’s eyes. ‘Whenever anybody asks her where she lives, she always says, right out, “Scardale Manor”, like it’s something really special. When we were little, we used to make up stories about the manor. Ghost stories and murder stories, and it’s like Ali thinks she’s really the bee’s knees now she’s living there.’

‘And her stepfather? What did she say about him?’

‘Nothing much. When he was courting her mum, she said she thought he was a bit of a creep because he was always round their cottage, bringing Auntie Ruth little presents. You know, flowers, chocolates, nylons, stuff like that.’ She fidgeted in her seat and popped a spot between fingernail and thumb, unconsciously trying to mask the action behind her hand.

‘I think she was just jealous because she was so used to being the apple of Auntie Ruth’s eye. She couldn’t stand the competition. But once they got married and all that courting stuff stopped, I think Ali got on all right with him. He sort of left her alone, I think. He doesn’t act like he’s very interested in anybody except himself. And taking pictures. He’s always doing that.’ Janet turned back to her toast dismissively.

‘Pictures of what?’ George said, more to keep the conversation going than because he was interested.

‘Scenery. He spies on people working, too. He says you’ve got to get them looking natural, so he takes their pictures when he thinks they’re not looking. Only, he’s an incomer. He doesn’t know Scardale like we do. So mostly when he’s creeping about trying to stay out of sight, half the village knows what he’s doing.’ She giggled, then, remembering why George was there, covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes wide.

‘So as far as you know, there was no reason why Alison should run away?’

Janet put down her toast and pursed her lips. ‘I told you. She never ran away. Ali wouldn’t run away without me. And I’m still here. So somebody must have took her. And you’re supposed to find them.’ Her eyes flicked to one side and George half turned to see Maureen Carter in the kitchen doorway.

‘You tell him, Mum,’ Janet said, desperation in her voice. ‘I keep telling him, but he won’t listen. Tell him Ali wouldn’t run away. Tell him.’

Maureen nodded. ‘She’s right. When Alison’s in trouble, she takes it head on. If she had something on her mind, we’d all know what it was. Whatever’s happened, it’s not from Alison’s choice.’ She stepped forward and swept Janet’s teacup away from her. ‘Time you and the little ’uns were over to Derek’s. Kathy’ll run you up to the lane end for the bus.’

‘I could do that,’ George volunteered.

Maureen looked him up and down, clearly finding him wanting. ‘That’s kind of you, but there’s been enough upset this morning without mucking up their routine any further. Go on, Janet, get your coat on.’

George held his hand up. ‘Before you go, Janet, just one more question. Was there any special place you and Alison used to go in the dale? A den, a gang hut, that sort of thing?’

The girl gave her mother a quick, desperate look. ‘No,’ she said, her voice revealing the opposite of her word. Janet crammed the last of her toast into her mouth and hurried out, waving her fingers at George.

Maureen picked up the dirty plate and cocked her head. ‘If Alison was going to run away, she wouldn’t do it like this. She loves her mum. They were right close. It comes of being on their own for so long. Alison would never put Ruth through this.’

Thursday, 12 thDecember 1963. 9.50 a.m.

The Methodist Hall had undergone a transformation. Eight trestle tables had been unfolded and each was the centre of some particular activity. At one, a constable with a field telephone was liaising with force headquarters. At three others, maps were spread out, thick red lines drawn on them to separate search areas. At a fifth table, a sergeant was surrounded by filing cards, statement forms and filing boxes, collating information as it came to him. At the remaining tables, officers pounded typewriters. Back in Buxton, CID officers were interviewing Alison Carter’s classmates, while the dale that surrounded Scardale village and shared its name was being combed by thirty police officers and the same number of local volunteers.

At the end of the hall nearest the door, a semi-circle of chairs faced a proper oak table. Behind it there were two chairs. In front of it, George was finishing his briefing of Superintendent Jack Martin. In the three months since he’d arrived in Buxton, he’d never had personal dealings with the uniformed officer in overall charge of the division. His reports had crossed Martin’s desk, he knew, but they’d never communicated directly about a case. All he knew about the man had been filtered through the consciousness of others.

Martin had served as a lieutenant in an infantry regiment in the war, apparently without either distinction or shame. Nevertheless, his years in the army had given him a taste for the minutiae of military life. He insisted on the observance of rank, reprimanding officers who addressed their equals or juniors by name rather than rank. A Christian name overheard in the squad room could raise his blood pressure by several points, according to DS Clough. Martin conducted regular inspections of his uniformed officers, frequently bawling out individuals whose boots failed to reflect their faces or whose tunic buttons were less than gleaming. He had the profile of a hawk, and the eyes to match. He marched everywhere at the double, and was said to loathe what he saw as the sloppy appearances of the CID officers under his nominal charge.

Beneath the martinet, however, George had suspected there was a shrewd and effective police officer. Now he was about to find out. Martin had listened carefully to George’s outline of events to date, his salt-and-pepper eyebrows meeting in a frown of concentration. With finger and thumb of his right hand, he rubbed his carefully manicured moustache against the grain then smoothed it back again. ‘Smoke?’ he said at last, offering George a packet of Capstan Full Strength. George shook his head, preferring his milder Gold Leaf tipped. But he took the overture as permission and immediately lit up himself. ‘I don’t like the sound of this one,’ Martin said. ‘It was carefully planned, wasn’t it?’