Val McDermid - A Place of Execution

‘I think so, sir,’ George said, impressed that Martin had also picked up on the key detail of the elastoplast. Nobody went for a casual walk with a whole roll of sticking plaster, not even the most safety-conscious Boy Scout leader. The treatment of the dog had screamed premeditation to George, though none of his fellow officers had appeared to give it as much weight. ‘I think whoever took the girl was familiar with her habits. I think he might have watched her over a period of time, waiting for the right opportunity.’

‘So you think it’s a local?’ Martin said.

George ran a hand over his fair hair. ‘It looks that way,’ he said hesitantly.

‘I think you’re right not to commit yourself. It’s a popular hike, up Denderdale to the source of the Scarlaston. There must be dozens of ramblers who do that walk in the summer. Any one of them could have seen the girl, either alone or with her friends, and resolved to come back and take her.’ Martin nodded, agreeing with himself, flicking a morsel of cigarette ash off the cuff of his perfectly pressed tunic.

‘That’s possible,’ George conceded, though he couldn’t imagine anybody forming that sort of instant obsession and hanging on to it for months until the right opportunity presented itself. However, the principal reason for his uncertainty was quite different. ‘I suppose what I’m saying is that I can’t picture any member of this community doing something so damaging. They’re incredibly tight-knit, sir. They’ve got accustomed to supporting each other over generations. For someone from Scardale to have harmed one of their own children would be against everything they’ve grown up believing in. Besides, it’s hard to imagine how an insider could get away with stealing a child without everybody else in Scardale knowing about it. Even so, on the face of it, it’s much likelier to be an insider.’ George sighed, baffled by his own arguments.

‘Unless everybody’s wrong about the direction the girl went in,’ Martin observed. ‘She may have broken with her usual habits and walked up the fields towards the main road. And yesterday was Leek Cattle Market. There would have been more traffic than usual on the Longnor road. She could easily have been lured into a car on the pretext of giving directions.’

‘You’re forgetting about the dog, sir,’ George pointed out.

Martin waved his cigarette impatiently. ‘The kidnapper could have sneaked round the edge of the dale and left the dog in the woodland.’

‘It’s a big risk, and he’d have had to know the ground.’

Martin sighed. ‘I suppose so. Like you, I’m reluctant to see the villain of the piece as a local. One has this romantic view of these rural communities, but sadly we’re usually misguided.’ He glanced at the hall clock then stubbed out his cigarette, shot his cuffs and straightened up. ‘So. Let us face the gentlemen of the press.’

He turned towards the trestle tables. ‘Parkinson – go and tell Morris to let the journalists in.’

The uniformed bobby jumped to his feet with a mumbled, ‘Yessir.’

‘Cap, Parkinson,’ Martin barked. Parkinson stopped in his tracks and hurried back to his seat. He crammed his cap on and almost ran to the door. He slipped outside as Martin added, ‘Haircut, Parkinson.’ The superintendent’s mouth twitched in what might have been a smile as he led the way to the chairs behind the table.

The door opened and half a dozen men spilled into the hall, a haze of mist seeming to form around them as their cold shapes hit the airless warmth of the hall. The clump separated into individuals and they settled noisily into their folding chairs. Their ages ranged from mid-twenties to mid-fifties, George reckoned, though it wasn’t easy to tell with hat brims and caps pulled low over faces, coat collars turned up against the chill wind and scarves swathed around throats. He recognized Colin Loftus from the High Peak Courant , but the others were strangers. He wondered who they were working for.

‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ Martin began. ‘I am Superintendent Jack Martin of Buxton Police and this is my colleague, Detective Inspector George Bennett. As you are no doubt already aware, a young girl has gone missing from Scardale. Alison Carter, aged thirteen, was last seen at approximately four twenty p.m. yesterday afternoon. She left the family home, Scardale Manor, to take her dog for a walk. When she failed to return, her mother, Mrs Ruth Hawkin, and stepfather, Mr Philip Hawkin, contacted police at Buxton. We responded to the call and began a search of the immediate environs of Scardale Manor, using police tracker dogs. Alison’s dog was found in woodland near her home, but of the girl herself, we have found no trace.’

He cleared his throat. ‘We will have copies of a recent photograph of Alison available at Buxton Police Station by noon.’ As Martin gave a detailed description of the girl’s appearance and clothing, George studied the journalists. Their heads were bent, their pencils flying over the pages of their notebooks. At least they were all interested enough to take a detailed note. He wondered how much that had to do with the Manchester disappearances. He couldn’t imagine that they would normally have turned out in such numbers for a girl missing for sixteen hours from a tiny Derbyshire hamlet.

Martin was winding up. ‘If we do not find Alison today, the search will be intensified. We just don’t know what has happened to her, and we’re very concerned, not least because of the extremely bitter weather we’re experiencing at the moment. Now, if you gentlemen have any questions, either myself or Detective Inspector Bennett will be happy to answer.’

A head came up. ‘Brian Bond, Manchester Evening Chronicle . Do you suspect foul play?’

Martin took a deep breath. ‘At this point, we rule nothing out and nothing in. We can find no reason for Alison being missing. She was not in trouble at home or at school. But we have found nothing to suggest foul play at this stage.’

Colin Loftus lifted his hand, one finger raised. ‘Is there any indication that Alison might have met with an accident?’

‘Not so far,’ George said. ‘As Superintendent Martin told you, we’ve got teams of searchers combing the dale now. We’ve also asked all the local farmers to check their land very carefully, just in case Alison has been injured in a fall and has been unable to make her way home.’

The man on the far end of the row leaned back in his chair and blew a perfect smoke ring. ‘There seem to be some common features between Alison Carter’s disappearance and the two missing children in the Manchester area – Pauline Reade from Gorton and John Kilbride from Ashton. Are you speaking to detectives from the Manchester and Lancashire forces about a possible connection to their cases?’

‘And you are?’ Martin demanded stiffly.

‘Don Smart, Daily News . Northern Bureau.’ He flashed a smile that reminded George of the predatory snarl of the fox. Smart even had the same colouring: reddish hair sticking out from under a tweed cap, ruddy face and hazel eyes that squinted against the smoke from his panatella.

‘It’s far too early to make assumptions like that,’ George cut in, wanting for himself this question that echoed his own doubts. ‘I am of course familiar with the cases you mention, but as yet we have found no reason to communicate with our colleagues in other forces over anything other than search arrangements. Staffordshire Police have already indicated that they will give us every assistance should there be any need to widen our search area.’

But Smart was not to be put off so easily. ‘If I was Alison Carter’s mum, I don’t think I’d be impressed to hear that the police were ignoring such strong links to other child disappearances.’