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

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      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 pale-cream 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 ease, 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, spurning 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 of Alison’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 News?’

      ‘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