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for his stepdaughter’s fate. That Alison might be in real danger seemed finally to have penetrated his self-absorption.
    Ruth Hawkin was at the sink, her hands among the suds in the washing-up bowl. But she wasn’t doing the dishes. She was motionless, staring intently into the unbroken dark of the night. The moonlight barely penetrated the area behind the house; this far down the valley, the tall limestone reefs were close enough to cut off most of it. There was nothing beyond the window but a faint, dark outline against the grey-white of the cliffs. An outbuilding of some sort, George guessed. He wondered if it had been searched yet. He cleared his throat. ‘Mrs Hawkin…’
    Slowly, she turned. Even in the brief time they’d been in Scardale, she seemed to have aged, the skin tightening across her cheekbones and her eyes sinking back into her head. ‘Yes?’
    ‘We need some of Alison’s clothes. To help the tracker dog.’
    She nodded. ‘I’ll fetch something.’
    ‘The dog handler suggested some shoes, and something she’s worn a few times. A jumper or a coat, I suppose.’
    Ruth walked out of the room with the automatic step of the sleepwalker.
    ‘I wonder if I could use your phone again,’ George asked.
    ‘Be my guest,’ Hawkin said, waving his hand towards the hallway. George followed Ruth through the door and made for the table where the old–fashioned black Bakelite phone squatted on a piecrust table next to a wedding photograph of a radiant Ruth with her new husband. If Hawkin hadn’t been so handsomely unmistakable, George doubted he would have identified the bride.
    As soon as he closed the door behind him, he felt icy coldness grip him. If the girl was used to living in temperatures like this, she’d stand a better chance outside, he thought. He could see Ruth Hawkin disappear round the turn in the stairs as he lifted the receiver and began to dial. Four rings, then it was picked up. ‘Buxton four-two-two,’ the familiar voice said, instantly soothing his anxieties.
    ‘Anne, it’s me. I’ve had to go out to Scardale on a case. A missing girl.’
    ‘The poor parents,’ Anne said instantly. ‘And poor you, having that to deal with on a night like this.’
    ‘It’s the girl I’m worried about. Obviously, I’m going to be late. In fact, depending on what happens, I might not be back at all tonight.’
    ‘You push yourself too hard, George. It’s bad for you, you know. If you’re not back by bedtime, I’ll make up some sandwiches and leave them in the fridge so there’s something for you to eat. They’d better be gone by the time I get up,’ she added, her scolding only half teasing. If Ruth Hawkin hadn’t reappeared on the stairs, he’d have told Anne how much he loved the way she cared about him. Instead, he simply said, ‘Thanks. I’ll be in touch when I can,’ and replaced the receiver. He moved to the foot of the stairs to meet Ruth who was clutching a small bundle to her chest. ‘We’re doing all we can,’ he said, knowing it was inadequate.
    ‘I know,’ she said. She opened her arms to reveal a pair of slippers and a crumpled flannelette pyjama jacket. ‘Will you give these to the dog man?’
    George took the clothes, noting with a stab of nameless emotion how pathetic the circumstances had rendered the blue velveteen slippers and the pink sprigged jacket. Holding them gingerly, to avoid contamination with his scent, George walked back through the kitchen and out into the night air. Wordlessly, he handed the items to Miller and watched while the dog handler spoke soft words of command to Prince, offering the garments to its long nose.
    The dog raised its head delicately, as if scenting some culinary delight on the wind. Then it started nosing the ground by the front door, its head swinging to and fro in long arcs, inches above the ground. Every few feet, it gave a snorting snuffle then looked up, thrusting its nostrils towards Alison’s clothes and her scent, as