James Stewart. It should have been a reassuring thought, but somehow it only made the evening’s events all the more unreal.
Kathy and Ruth were cousins, separated by less than a year, connected by blood on both maternal and paternal sides. They had grown into women and mothers side by side. Kathy’s son Derek had been born a mere three weeks after Alison. The families’ histories were inextricably intertwined. So when Kathy, alerted by Derek, had walked into Ruth’s kitchen to find her cousin pacing anxiously, chain-smoking and fretting, she’d felt the stab of fear as strongly as if it had been her own child who was absent.
They’d gone round the village together, at first convinced they would find Alison warming herself at someone else’s fire, oblivious to the passing of time, remorseful at causing her mother worry. But as they drew blank after blank, conviction had shrivelled to hope, then hope to despair.
Kathy stood at the darkened window of Lark Cottage’s tiny front room, watching the activity that had suddenly bloomed in the dismal December night. The plain-clothes detective who had been driving the car, the one who looked like a Hereford bull with his curly poll and his broad head, pushed his car coat up to scratch his backside, said something to his colleague, then started towards her front door, his eyes seeming to meet hers in the darkness.
Kathy moved to the door, glancing towards the kitchen where her husband was trying to concentrate on finishing a marquetry picture of fishing boats in harbour. ‘The police are here, Mike,’ she called.
‘Not before time,’ she heard him grumble.
She opened the door just as the Hereford bull lifted his hand to knock. His startled look turned into a smile as he took in Kathy’s generous curves, still obvious even beneath her wraparound apron. ‘You’ll have come about Alison,’ she said.
‘You’re right, missus,’ he said. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Clough, and this is Detective Constable Cragg. Can we come in a minute?’
Kathy stepped back and let them pass, allowing Clough to brush against her breasts without complaint. ‘The kitchen’s straight ahead. You’ll find my husband in there,’ she said coldly.
She followed them and leaned against the range, trying to warm herself against the cold fear inside, waiting for the men to introduce themselves and settle round the table. Clough turned to her. ‘Have you seen Alison since she got home from school?’
Kathy took a deep breath. ‘Aye. It was my turn to pick up the kids off the school bus. In the winter, one of us always drives up to the lane end to collect them.’
‘Was there anything different about Alison that you noticed?’ Clough asked.
Kathy thought for a moment, then shook her head. ‘Nowt.’ She shrugged. ‘She were just the same as usual. Just…Alison. She said cheerio and walked off up the path to the manor. Last I saw of her she was walking through the door, shouting hello to her mum.’
‘Did you see any strangers about? Either on the road or up at the lane end?’
‘I never noticed anybody.’
‘I believe you went round the village with Mrs Hawkin?’ Clough asked.
‘I wasn’t going to leave her on her own, was I?’ Kathy demanded belligerently.
‘How did you come to know Alison was missing?’
‘It was our Derek. He’s not been doing as well as he should have been at school, so I took it on myself to make sure he was doing his homework properly. Instead of letting him go off with Alison and their cousin Janet when they got home from school, I’ve been keeping him in.’
‘She makes him sit at the kitchen table and do all the work his teachers have set him before she’ll let him loose with the girls. Waste of bloody time, if you ask me. The lad’s only going to be a farmer like me,’ Mike Lomas interrupted, his voice a low rumble.
‘Not if I have anything to do with it,’ Kathy said grimly. ’I tell you what’s a waste of time. It’s that record player Phil Hawkin bought Alison. Derek and Janet are never away from there, listening to the latest records. Derek was desperate to get over to Alison’s tonight. She’s just got the new Beatles number one, “I Want To Hold Your Hand”. But it was after tea before I let him out. It must have been just before seven. He came back within five minutes, saying Alison had gone out with Shep and hadn’t come home. Of course, I went straight over to see what was what.
‘Ruth was up to high doh. I told her she should check with everybody in the village, just in case Alison had popped in to see somebody and lost track of the time. She’s always sitting with old Ma Lomas, her and her cousin Charlie keeping the old witch company, listening to her memories of the old days. Once Ma gets going, you could sit all night. She’s some storyteller, Ma, and our Alison loves her tales.’
She settled herself more comfortably against the range. Clough could see she was on a roll, and he decided just to let her run and see where her story took them. He nodded. ‘Go on, Mrs Lomas.’
‘Well, we were just about to set off when Phil came in. He said he’d been in his darkroom, messing about with his photographs, and he’d only just noticed the time. He was going on about where was his tea and where was Alison? I told him there were more important things to think about than his belly, but Ruth dished him up a plate of the hotpot she’d had cooking. Then we left him to it and went knocking doors.’ She came to a sudden halt.
‘So you never saw Alison again after she got out of the car coming back from school?’
‘Land Rover,’ Mike Lomas growled.
‘Sorry?’
‘It were a Land Rover, not a car. Nobody has cars down here,’ he said contemptuously.
‘No, I’ve not seen her since she walked in the kitchen door,’ Kathy said. ‘But you’re going to find her, aren’t you? I mean, that’s your job. You are going to find her?’
‘We’re doing our best.’ It was Cragg who trotted out the formulaic placebo.
Before she could utter the angry retort Tommy Clough could see coming, he spoke quickly. ‘What about your lad, Mrs Lomas? Is he where he should be?’
Her mouth dropped open in shock. ‘Derek? Why wouldn’t he be?’
‘Maybe the same reason Alison’s not where she should be.’
‘You can’t say that!’ Mike Lomas jumped to his feet, his cheeks flaming scarlet, his eyes tight with anger.
Clough smiled, spreading his hands in a conciliatory gesture. ‘Nay, don’t take me wrong. All I meant was, you should check in case something’s happened to him an’ all.’
By the time George got over the stile, the lights from the tracker team’s torches were no more than a hazy wavering in the distance. He guessed they had entered some woodland by the way the yellow beams seemed suddenly to disappear and reappear at random. Switching on the torch he’d borrowed from the police Land Rover that had brought some of the men over from Buxton, he hurried across the uneven tufts of coarse grass as quickly as he could.
The trees loomed up sooner than he’d expected. At first, all he could see was undisturbed undergrowth, but swinging the torch to and fro soon revealed a narrow path where the earth was packed hard. George plunged into the woodland, trying to balance haste against caution. The torch beam sent crazy shadows dancing off in every direction, forcing him to concentrate harder on the path than he’d had to do in the field. Frosted leaves crunched under his feet, the occasional twig whipped his face or brushed his shoulder, and everywhere the decaying mushroomy smell of the woodland assailed him. Every twenty yards or so, he snapped off his torch to check his bearings against the lights ahead. Absolute darkness swallowed him, but it was hard to resist the feeling that there were hidden eyes staring at him, following his every move. It was a relief to snap his torch on again. A few minutes into the wood, he realized the lights before him had stopped moving. Putting on a spurt that nearly sent him flying over a tree