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

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СКАЧАТЬ come near is anybody connected to Scardale. Take my word for it, I know.’

      She sat back in her chair, her narrative over. The oral tradition would never die as long as Ma Lomas lived, George thought. She epitomized the village elder who holds the tribal history, its integrity protected only by her personal skills. He’d never expected to encounter one of those in 1963 in Derbyshire. ‘Thank you for telling us, Mrs Lomas,’ he said formally. ‘You’ve been very helpful. One more thing before we leave you in peace. Charlie said he’d seen Mr Hawkin in the field between the wood and the copse on Wednesday afternoon. He told us you were retracing his steps just now. Did you also see the squire on Wednesday, then?’

      She gave him a calculating look, her eye as bright as a parrot’s. ‘Not after Alison disappeared, no.’

      ‘But before?’

      She nodded. ‘I’d been having a cup of tea with our Diane. When I came out, Kathy were just getting into the Land Rover to go up to the lane end to pick up Alison and Janet and Derek from off the school bus. I saw David and Brian over by the milking parlour, bringing the cows in. And I saw Squire Hawkin crossing the field.’

      ‘Why didn’t you mention this?’ George asked, exasperated.

      ‘Why would I? There was nothing out of the ordinary in it. It’s his field, why wouldn’t he be walking it? He’s always out and about, snapping away with his camera when you least expect it. Besides, like I said, Alison wasn’t even home from school by then. He’d have had to be a bloody slow walker to still be in the field when she came out with Shep. And this weather, nobody walks slow in Scardale,’ she added decisively, as if settling an argument.

      George closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his nose. When he opened them again, he could have sworn a smile was twitching the corners of the old woman’s mouth. ‘I’ll have all this typed up into a statement,’ he said. ‘I expect you to sign it.’

      ‘If it’s truthful, you’ll get no argument from me. You going to let Peter go now?’

      George got up and deliberately tucked his chair back under the table. ‘We’ll be taking what you’ve told us into consideration when we make our decision.’

      ‘He’s not a violent man, Inspector,’ she said. ‘Even supposing he had seen Alison, even supposing she’d reminded him of Ruth, all she’d have had to do was push him away. He’s a cowardly man. Don’t waste your time on Peter and let a guilty man go free.’

      ‘You seem to have made your mind up that whatever’s happened to Alison, somebody made it happen,’ Clough said, standing up, but making a point of keeping his notebook open.

      Her face seemed to close in on itself, eyes narrowing, mouth pursing, nose wrinkling. ‘What I think and what you know are very different things. See if you can get them a bit closer together, Sergeant Clough. Then we’ll maybe all know what happened to our lass.’ She glanced up at the clock. ‘I thought you said you were going to talk to Squire Hawkin?’

      ‘We are,’ George said.

      ‘Better get your skates on, then. He likes his tea on the table at six sharp and I can’t see him changing his ways for you.’

      They saw themselves out. ‘What did you make of that, Tommy?’ George asked.

      ‘She’s telling us the truth as she sees it, sir.’

      ‘And the alibi for Charlie?’

      Clough shrugged. ‘She could be lying for him. She would lie for him, I don’t think there’s any doubt about that. But until we find somebody saying something different, or something more solid to tie him to Alison’s disappearance, we’ve got no reason to doubt her. And I agree with her about Crowther, for what it’s worth.’

      ‘Me too.’ George ran a hand over his face. The skin felt raw with tiredness, the very bones seeming nearer the surface. He sighed.

      ‘We should let him go, sir,’ Clough said, fishing out his cigarettes and passing one to George. ‘He’s not going to run. He’s got nowhere to run to. I could call the station from the phone box and tell them to bail him. They can give him stringent conditions – he shouldn’t go within five miles of Scardale, he’s got to stay at the hostel, he should report daily. But there’s no need to keep him in, surely.’

      ‘You don’t think we’re exposing him to lynch-mob justice?’ George asked.

      ‘The longer we keep him, the worse it looks for him. We could get the duty officer to tip the wink to the newspaper lads that Crowther was never a suspect, just a vulnerable adult relative that we brought in so we could interview him away from the pressures of the outside world. Some sort of rubbish like that. And I could mention the need to spread the same word round the pubs.’ There was a stubborn set to Clough’s jaw. He had a point, and George was too tired to argue a case he didn’t feel passionately about either way.

      ‘All right, Tommy. You call them and say it’s my orders. And make sure somebody informs the DCI. He won’t like it, but that’s his hard cheese. I’ll see you in the caravan. If I don’t get a brew inside me, I’ll be falling off my perch before I can get anything out of the squire.’

      George didn’t even wait for a response. He walked straight across the green to the police caravan. No prickle of intuition made him turn and stay Detective Sergeant Clough’s hand. After all, Clough was convinced he was doing the right thing. Not even Ma Lomas’s instincts had cried out against releasing Peter Crowther.

      It was a burden of knowledge they would all share equally.

       10

       Friday, 13^th December 1963. 5.52 p.m.

      Ruth Hawkin was wiping her hands on her apron as she opened the kitchen door of Scardale Manor. A brief hope flared in her eyes but found nothing in their faces to fan the spark into flame. Hope abandoned, fear wasted no time in taking its place. Judging from the dark circles under her eyes and the pinched look of her pale skin, anxiety had been seldom absent in the previous two days. Seeing her distress, George quickly said, ‘We’ve no fresh news, Mrs Hawkin. I’m sorry. Can we come in a minute?’

      Ruth nodded and mutely stepped aside, still rubbing her hands on the rough floral cotton of her wraparound apron. Her shoulders were slumped, her movements sluggish and abstracted. George and Clough trooped past her and stood awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen floor. The unmistakable smell of steak and kidney floated on the air, making both men salivate with hunger. George wondered fleetingly what Anne would have waiting for him if he ever got home. One thing was sure: it would be shrivelled past desirability at this rate. ‘Is your husband at home?’ he asked. ‘It was actually him we needed to have a word with.’

      ‘He’s been out searching with your lads,’ she said quickly. ‘He came in exhausted so he went for a bath. Is it something I could help you with?’

      George shook his head. ‘It’s nothing to worry about. We just need a word with him.’

      She glanced at the battered enamel alarm clock on a shelf by the cooker. ‘He’ll be down for his tea in ten minutes.’ She chewed the right-hand corner of her lower lip in an unconscious parade of anxiety. ‘It’d be better if you could СКАЧАТЬ