Val McDermid 3-Book Crime Collection: A Place of Execution, The Distant Echo, The Grave Tattoo. Val McDermid

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      George exchanged a look with Clough. His incredulity met Clough’s rage. ‘You were asked if you’d seen anybody in the fields or the woods on Wednesday,’ Clough ground out.

      ‘I wasn’t,’ Charlie said defensively.

      ‘I asked you myself,’ Clough said, his lips stretched tight over his teeth, the sibilants hissing.

      ‘No, you never,’ Charlie insisted. ‘You asked if we’d seen any strangers. You asked if we’d seen anything out of the ordinary. And I didn’t. I just saw the same thing I’ve seen a thousand times before – the squire walking his own land. Anyway, it can’t have had anything to do with Alison going missing. Because it was still light enough to see clearly who it was, and according to what you said, Alison didn’t go out till it was nigh on dark. So there’s no call to take that tone with me,’ he added, straightening his shoulders and attempting a maturity he hadn’t earned. ‘Besides, you were too busy trying to make out I had something to do with it to listen to anything I might have to say.’

      George turned away in disgust, his eyes closing momentarily. ‘We’ll need a statement about this,’ he said, his excitement at the possibilities this information opened up overcoming his frustration at the time wasted because the literal minds of Scardale could see no further than the question as asked. ‘Get yourself up to the Methodist Hall and tell one of the officers there I sent you. And give him every detail. The time, the direction Mr Hawkin was walking in, whether he was carrying anything, what he was wearing. Do it now, please, Mr Lomas, before I give in to the temptation to arrest you for obstructing a police inquiry.’

      He glanced over his shoulder in time to see Charlie’s eyes widen in panic. ‘I never did,’ he said, sounding half his age. ‘He never asked me about the squire.’

      ‘I never asked you about the Duke of Edinburgh neither, but if he was walking the fields, I’d expect you to tell me,’ Clough snarled. ‘Now, don’t waste any more time. Get your arse up the road before I decide to let my boot help you.’

      Charlie pushed past them and broke into a run, heading across the green to one of the muddy Land Rovers parked opposite. ‘Can you believe these people?’ George demanded. ‘Jesus, I’m beginning to wonder if they want Alison Carter found.’ He sighed heavily. ‘We’ll need to talk to Hawkin about this. He’s lied to us, and I want to know the reason why.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘But I want to find out about Peter Crowther too.’

      ‘Depending on what the squire’s got to say for himself, Peter Crowther could be irrelevant,’ Clough pointed out.

      George frowned. ‘You don’t seriously think…Hawkin?’

      Clough shrugged. ‘Do I think he’s capable of it? I’ve no idea, I’ve hardly spoken to the man. On the other hand, he has lied to us.’ He enumerated the possibilities on short, strong fingers. ‘Either he’s got something to hide, or he’s covering for somebody else he saw, or else he’s criminally absent-minded.’

      Before George could respond, the issue was settled by the appearance of Ma Lomas, bundled in a winter coat and headscarf. She cocked her head and said, ‘You’re blocking my path.’

      The two men stepped aside. She carried on towards her door without acknowledgement. ‘We need to speak to you,’ George said.

      ‘I don’t need to speak to you,’ she retorted, struggling to fumble a large iron key into the door lock. ‘Never had to lock our doors before Ruth Carter brought strangers into the dale.’ The lock turned with a jarring screech of metal on metal.

      ‘Don’t you care what happens to your own flesh and blood?’ George said.

      She turned to face him, eyes narrowed. ‘You know nowt, you.’ Then she opened the door.

      ‘We’ll be going to talk to the squire after we’ve spoken to you,’ Clough chipped in as she was about to disappear inside. She stopped on the threshold, still as a mouse below a hovering hawk. ‘We know about him walking the field where you’ve just been. Mrs Lomas, we need to eliminate Peter Crowther from our inquiries if he’s an innocent man.’

      For a moment she stood thinking, letting the seemingly unconnected sentences settle. Then she nodded, cocking her head and fixing Clough with a calculating stare. ‘You’d better come in then,’ she said at last. ‘Mind you wipe your feet. And no smoking in here. It’s bad for my chest.’

      They followed her into a parlour no more than nine feet square. A dim room with only one small window, it smelled faintly of camphor and eucalyptus. The stone floor was scattered with faded rag rugs. An armchair sat on either side of a grate flanked by two black iron ovens, each the size of a crate of beer. A kettle sat on one of the ovens, a curl of steam disappearing up the chimney from its spout. A sideboard stood on the opposite side of the room, its surface cluttered with carved wooden animals and roughly polished chunks of limestone containing fossils. In the tiny bay window, three tall ladder-back chairs in black oak loomed above a small dining table, as if threatening it with a beating.

      The only decorations were dozens of garish picture postcards of everything from Spanish beaches to Scandinavian baroque town halls. Seeing George’s bemused stare, Ma Lomas said, ‘They’re Charlie’s. It’s like pen pals, only postcards. He’s a dreamer. Thing that makes me laugh is that there’s hundreds of people all over the world looking at Squire Hawkin’s postcard of Scardale and thinking Derbyshire village life is milk-white sheep in a field full of sunshine.’ She hobbled across to the chair facing the door and settled herself down, squirming her shoulders until she was comfortable.

      ‘Can I sit down?’ George asked.

      ‘You won’t like the armchair,’ she told him. With her head, she gestured towards the hard chairs. ‘Better for your back, anyway.’

      They turned a couple of chairs to face her. They waited while she leaned forward, poking the glowing coals ablaze. ‘Peter Crowther’s in custody in Buxton,’ George said when she’d made herself cosy.

      ‘Aye, I’d heard.’

      ‘Should he be, do you think?’

      ‘You’re the copper, not me. I’m just an old woman who’s never lived outside a Derbyshire dale.’

      ‘We could waste a lot of time trying to connect Peter Crowther to Alison,’ George continued, refusing to be diverted. ‘Time that would be better spent trying to find her.’

      ‘I told you before, the trouble with you and your detectives is that you understand nothing about this place,’ she said, her voice irritated.

      ‘I’m trying to understand. But people in Scardale seem more interested in hindering than helping me. I’ve just had the experience of discovering your grandson had omitted to mention something that could be a vital piece of evidence.’

      ‘That’s hardly surprising, considering the way you treated the lad. How come none of you had the sense to ask if he could have had owt to do with Alison going missing? Because he couldn’t have. When she disappeared, he was here in the house with me. That’s what you call an alibi, isn’t it?’ she demanded scornfully.

      ‘Are you sure about that?’ George asked dubiously.

      ‘I might be old, but I’ve got all me chairs at home. Charlie came in just before half past four and started peeling potatoes. СКАЧАТЬ