A Place of Execution (1999)

by Val McDermid

  ‘I went straight out to see what was what. It was the Sunday Sentinel, the Nottingham Forest match.

  As soon as I saw the photo, I could see why he’d rung. Admittedly, it was a tiny photograph, but it did look a lot like Alison. So I got in touch with the newspaper, and they got their lads to blow up the original. They sent it up on the train and it got here Monday teatime.’ He didn’t need to continue; his face told the rest of the story. Closer examination had proved the girl in the football crowd was someone quite different.

  George took a deep breath and closed his eyes momentarily. ‘Thank you, God,’ he said softly. He looked at Clough and smiled. ‘Do we happen to know whether Philip Hawkin takes the Manchester Evening News7’

  ‘Funnily enough, I do know. Kathy Lomas mentioned it when she was running through the kids’ routine. Because the daily paper doesn’t get to Scardale till lunchtime and Hawkin likes a paper with his breakfast, the newsagent at Longnor leaves an Evening News in the mailbox at the end of the lane every morning and whoever does the school run drops it off at the manor afterwards.’

  George’s smile grew wider. ‘I thought as much.’ He jumped to his feet and yanked open the drawer of his filing cabinet. He scrabbled among the files, then came up with a large manila envelope. He waved it at Clough and said triumphantly, ‘This is what I call leverage.’ Clough caught the file as it sailed through the air towards him. The front of the envelope read, ‘Pauline Catherine Reade’. He opened the envelope and a thin bundle of newspaper cuttings spilled across the desk. He frowned as he saw the dates noted in red biro on the edge of the clippings. ‘You’ve been following this from the beginning, back last July. That’s four months before Alison went missing,’ he said, his voice indicating precisely how strange he found such behaviour. George pushed his blond hair back from his forehead. ‘I always take an interest in stories that might turn up on our patch,’ was all he said.

  ‘What am I looking for?’ Clough asked, flicking through the cuttings. ‘You’ll know when you see it.’ George leaned against the filing cabinet, arms folded, a cool smile on his lips.

  Suddenly, Clough froze. His index finger prodded a single clipping as if it could be provoked into biting. ‘Bugger me,’ he said softly.

  Manchester Evening News, Monday, 2nd November 1963, p.3

  Picture dashes mothers hopes

  For a few brief hours, hopes of a reunion with her missing 16-year-old daughter were raised for Mrs Joan Reade by a crowd picture in the Manchester Evening News & Chronicle Football Pink. But they were dashed when Mrs Reade was shown a specially enlarged copy of the photograph. Sadly she said at her home in Wilesstreet, Gorton, today, ‘That is not Pauline after all.’

  Pauline has been missing from home since July 12, when she went to a dance and did not return. Mrs Reade’s 15-year-old son Paul spotted a picture in last Saturday’s Football Pink of a section of the crowd at the Lancashire Rugby League Cup Final at Swinton, and thought it was Pauline.

  Clough looked up. ‘He thinks we’re thick.’

  ‘You’re sure it was Hawkin and not his wife who spotted the likeness?’

  ‘It was him that rang up and him that took all the credit. When I asked Mrs Hawkin what she thought of the likeness, she said she’d been more convinced when she’d first seen it, but looking at it again, she wasn’t at all sure. He sounded a bit brassed off with her, like she was supposed to back him up all the way and she wasn’t performing as a dutiful little wife should.’

  George reached for his cigarettes and paced while he talked. ‘So we’ve got him trying to make himself look good. Why has he done it now?’ Clough waited, knowing he was supposed to let the boss answer his own question. ‘Why? Because he expected that we’d have given up on Alison long ago and moved on to the next thing. He’s disconcerted because you and I are still out there in Scardale two or three times a week, talking to folk, going over the ground, not leaving it alone.

  He’s not stupid; he must realize we fancy him for whatever has happened to his stepdaughter. Not to mention the fact that Ma Lomas thinks he’s done it, and I can’t imagine her being any more reticent to his face than she is behind his back.’

  ‘Except that everybody in that village owes Hawkin the roof over their head and the bread in their mouths,’ Clough reminded him. ‘Even Ma Lomas might think twice about telling him to his face she thinks he raped and murdered Alison Carter.’

  George acknowledged the point with a dip of his head. ‘OK, I’ll grant you that. But he must be aware that the villagers suspect him of doing something terrible to Alison, if only because he’s the outsider. So when it becomes clear that this is not just going to go away, Hawkin decides it’s about time he makes himself look good. And he remembers the story he read in the Manchester Evening News about Pauline Reade.’ He stopped pacing and leaned on the desk. ‘What do you think, Tommy? Is it enough to pull him in for questioning?’

  Clough pushed his lips together, in and out like a goldfish. ‘I don’t know. What are we going to ask him?’

  ‘If he reads the Evening News. What his relationship with Alison was like. The usual stuff. All the pressure points. Did she resent him taking her father’s place? Did he think she was attractive? Christ, Tommy, we can ask him what his favourite colour is. I just want him in here, under pressure, so we can see what happens. We’ve given him an easy ride so far because we didn’t have a big enough lever to justify not treating him like a worried parent. Well, I think we have now.’

  Clough scratched his head. ‘You know what I think?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think they don’t pay us enough to carry the can on a decision like this. I think that’s why the DCI and the Martinet get their money. If I was you, I’d go and lay all this out before them and see what they say.’ George dropped into his chair like a sack of coal, his face dispirited.

  ‘Oh, Tommy, don’t tell me you think I’m talking bollocks?’

  ‘No, I think you’re right. I think Hawkin’s the man who knows what happened to Alison. But I don’t know if this is the right time to put the pressure on, and I don’t want to lose him because we’ve been too hungry. George, we’re too close to this case. We’ve breathed, slept and dreamed it for nigh on seven weeks. We can’t see the wood for the trees. Go and talk to the Martinet. Then if the wheels do come off, they can’t use it as a stick to beat us with.’

  George’s laugh was bitter. ‘You really think so? Tommy, if the wheels come off this, we’ll be back directing traffic in Derby for the rest of our careers.’

  Clough shrugged. ‘Better make sure we get it right, then.’

  24

  The long Haul 2

  Clough walked Hawkin into the interview room where George was already waiting. He was sitting at the table, intently reading the contents of a file folder. When Hawkin walked in, George didn’t even look up. He simply carried on, a frown of concentration on his face. It was the first move in a carefully orchestrated process. Silently, Clough indicated to Hawkin that he should sit opposite George. Hawkin, lips compressed, eyes unreadable, did as he was bid. Clough grabbed a chair and swung it round so it stood between Hawkin and the door. His solid legs straddled it, his notebook propped on its back. Hawkin breathed out heavily through his nose but said nothing.

  Eventually, George closed the file, placed it precisely on the table in front of him and looked evenly at Hawkin. He took in the expensive overcoat draped over his arm, the tailored tweed sports jacket over the fine-wool polo-neck sweater and the crossed legs in their palecream twill. He’d have bet a month’s salary that Hawkin had spent a chunk of his inheritance buying his country squire look as a job lot in Austin Reed. It seemed entirely wrong on a man who looked as if he belonged in a bank clerk’s cheap navy suit. ‘Good of you to come in, Mr Hawkin,’ George said, his voice devoid of welcoming inflection.

  ‘I was planning to come into Buxton today anyway, so it was no great hardship,’ Hawkin drawled.

  He looked entirely at ea
se, his small triangular mouth composed, apparently on the edge of a smile.

  ‘Nevertheless, we’re always glad when members of the public recognize their duty to support the police,’ George said sanctimoniously. He took out his cigarettes. ‘You’re a smoker, aren’t you?’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector, but I’ll stick to my own,’ Hawkin said, spuming the offered packet of Gold Leaf with a slight sneer. ‘Is this going to take long?’

  ‘That depends on you,’ Clough ground out from behind Hawkin’s right shoulder.

  ‘I don’t think I like your sergeant’s tone,’ Hawkin said, his voice petulant.

  George stared at Hawkin, saying nothing at all. When the older man shifted slightly in his chair, George spoke formally. ‘I need to ask you some questions relating to the disappearance of your stepdaughter, Alison Carter, on the eleventh of December last year.’

  ‘Of course. Why else would I be here? I’m hardly likely to be involved in anything criminal, am I?’ Hawkin’s smirk was self-satisfied, as if he alone held a secret that the others could never guess at. ‘While I was away last week, you contacted us because you thought you saw Alison in a Spot the Ball competition photograph.’ Hawkin nodded. ‘Sadly, I was mistaken. I could have sworn it was her.’

  ‘And of course you have a photographer’s eye for these things. You wouldn’t expect to be mistaken,’ George continued. ‘You’re quite right, Inspector.’ Hawkin flashed him a patronizing little smile and reached for his cigarettes. He was relaxing now, as George had expected.

  ‘So it was you and not your wife who spotted the likeness?’

  By now Hawkin was preening himself. ‘My wife has many fine qualities, Inspector, but in our house, I’m the one who notices things.’ Then, as if he’d suddenly remembered what the reason for the interview was, he composed his face into an expression of solemnity. ‘Besides, Inspector, you must realize that since Alison went out of our lives, my wife has lost the habit of paying attention to the outside world. It’s all she can do to maintain some semblance of normality in our domestic life. I insist on that, of course. It’s the best thing for her, to keep her mind on routine matters like cooking and keeping house.’

  ‘Very considerate of you,’ George said. ‘This photograph was in the Sunday Sentinel, is that right?’

  ‘Correct, Inspector.’

  George frowned slightly. ‘What newspapers do you take on a regular basis?’

  ‘We’ve always had the Express and the Evening News. And the Sentinel on Sundays. Of course, with all the press coverage ofAlison’s disappearance, I made sure we got all the papers while you were still conducting your daily press conferences.

  Well, somebody’s got to check that they’ve not got everything wrong, haven’t they? I didn’t want them writing things about us that weren’t true. Plus I wanted to be forewarned. I didn’t want Ruth upset by some tactless person telling her what the papers were saying without any advance warning. So I made sure I knew what was what.’ He flicked the ash off his cigarette and smiled.

  ‘Dreadful people, those reporters. I don’t know how you can bring yourself to deal with them.’

  ‘We have to deal with all sorts in our job,’ Clough said insolently.

  Hawkin pursed his lips but said nothing. George leaned forward slightly.

  ‘So you do read the Evening News7.’

  ‘I told you,’ Hawkin said impatiently. ‘Of course, we get it the morning after it’s published, but it’s the only newspaper they can deliver in time for breakfast, so I have to make do with its parochial view of the world.’ George opened his folder and took out a clear plastic envelope. Inside it was a newspaper clipping. He pushed it across the table. ‘You’ll remember this story, then.’

  Hawkin did not reach for the clipping. All that moved was his eyes, flickering across the lines of type. The ash on his disregarded cigarette grew, its own weight curving it gently downward. At last, he raised his eyes to George and said slowly and deliberately, ‘I have never seen this story before today.’

  ‘It’s a strange coincidence, don’t you think?’ George said. ‘A missing girl, a family member spots a likeness in a photograph of a sporting crowd, but their hopes are dashed when it turns out to be a tragic error. And this story appears in a paper that’s delivered six days a week to your home.’

  ‘I told you, I have never seen this story before today.’

  ‘It’s hard to miss. It was on page three of the paper.’

  ‘Nobody reads the Evening News from cover to cover. I must have missed the story. What interest could it possibly have held for me?’

  ‘You are the stepfather of a teenage girl,’ George said mildly. ‘I’d have thought stories about what happens to teenage girls would have been very interesting for you. After all, this was a relatively new experience for you. You must have felt you had a lot to learn.’

  Hawkin crushed out his cigarette. ‘Alison was Ruth’s business. It’s a mother’s place, to deal with children.’

  ‘But you were obviously very fond of the girl. I’ve seen her bedroom, don’t forget. Beautiful furniture, new carpet. You’ve not stinted her, have you?’ George persisted.

  Hawkin frowned in irritation before he replied. ‘The girl had been without a father for years. She’d not had most of the things other girls take for granted. I was good to her for her mother’s sake.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s all it was?’ Clough chipped in. ‘You bought her a record player. Every week, you bought her new records. Whatever was in the top ten, you got it for her. Whatever Charlie Lomas told her to ask you for, you got her. If you ask me, that goes above and beyond being good to her for her mother’s sake.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ George broke in repressively. ‘Mr Hawkin, how close were you and Alison?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ He reached for another cigarette. It took him several tries before his lighter caught. He inhaled the smoke gratefully and repeated the question that had earned him no response.

  ‘What do you mean? How close were we? I’ve told you, I left Alison to her mother to deal with.’

  ‘Did you like her?’ George asked.

  Hawkin’s dark eyes narrowed. ‘What kind of trick question is that? If I say no, you’ll say I wanted rid of her. If I say yes, you’ll imply there was something unnatural about my feelings for her. You want the truth? I was largely indifferent to the girl. Look…’ He leaned forward and essayed a man–to–man smile. ‘I married her mother for three reasons. First, I found her moderately attractive.

  Second, I needed someone to look after me and the house and I knew no half-decent housekeeper would want to live in a godforsaken place like Scardale. And third, I wanted the villagers to stop treating me like an alien from outer space. I did not marry her because I had designs on her daughter. That’s sick, frankly.’ He leaned back in his chair after this outburst, as if defying George to say anything further. George looked at him with clinical curiosity. ‘I never suggested you did, sir. I find it interesting that your mind moves in that direction of its own accord, however. I also find it interesting that when you talk about Alison, you always use the past tense.’

  His words hung in the air as palpably as the cigarette smoke. A dark flush coloured Hawkin’s cheeks but he managed to keep silent. It was clearly an effort.

  ‘As if you were talking about somebody who was no longer alive,’ George continued inexorably.

  ‘Why do you think that might be, sir?’

  ‘It’s just a habit of speech,’ Hawkin snapped. ‘She’s been gone so long.

  It means nothing. Everybody talks about Alison like that now.’

  ‘Actually, sir, they don’t. It’s something I’ve noticed in my visits to 182 Scardale. They still talk about Alison in the present tense. As if she’s stepped out for a while, but she’ll be back soon. It’s not just your wife that talks like that. It’s everybody. Everybody except you, that is.’ George lit a cigarette, trying to display a relaxed confidence he did not feel. Wh
en he and Clough had rehearsed the interview, they hadn’t been at all certain how Hawkin would react. It was satisfying to see him rattled, but they were still a long way from any useful admissions. ‘I think you must be mistaken,’ Hawkin said abruptly.

  ‘Now, if you have no further questions?’ He pushed his chair back. ‘I’ve hardly begun, sir,’

  George said, his stern expression accentuating his resemblance to James Stewart. ‘I’d like to go back to the afternoon when Alison disappeared. I know we’ve interviewed you about this already, but I want to go over it again for the record.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ Hawkin exploded.

  Whatever he was about to say was cut off by a knock at the door. It opened to reveal DC Cragg’s sleepy-eyed face in apologetic mode. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I know you said not to interrupt, but I’ve got an urgent call for you.’

  George tried not to show the anger and disappointment that flooded through him. The rhythm of the interview had been flowing in his direction and now the mood was shattered. ‘Can’t it wait, Cragg?’ he snapped.

  ‘I don’t think so, sir, no. I think you’ll want to take the call.’

  ‘Who is it?’ George demanded.

  Cragg flashed a worried look at Hawkin. ‘I…uh…I can’t really say, sir.’

  George jumped to his feet, his chair clattering on the floor. ‘Sergeant, stay here with Mr Hawkin.

  I’ll be back as soon as I can.’ He strode out of the room, exercising his last ounce of self-restraint in not slamming the door behind him.

  ‘What the bloody hell is going on?’ he hissed at Cragg as he stalked down the corridor towards his office. ‘I specifically said no interruptions. Don’t you understand plain bloody English, Cragg?’

  The young detective constable scuttled along behind him, waiting for a gap in the tirade. ‘It’s Mrs Hawkin, sir,’ he finally managed to get out.