Nemesis E-Book

Vincent Cobb

• Herausgeber: M-Y Books ltd
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Angela Crossley Trilogy
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 583

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

Nemesis, not for the fainthearted, is the first in a series of books from author Vincent Cobb that explore childhood cruelty and psychopathic killings.Cobb explores the dark side of life in a raw uncompromising style some might find disturbing. He also concentrates on the depressive aspects of the victims factors with which he can empathies as a fellow sufferer. We all trust that childhood should be happy and contented, and free from fear and harm, but in reality, for an unfortunate minority, the early formative years are a catalogue of cruelty, terror, and abuse.

Leseprobe

AN M-Y BOOKS EBOOK

NEMESIS

© Copyright 2010 Vincent Cobb

The right of Vincent Cobb to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All Rights Reserved No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with the written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

ISBN  9781907759260

Published byM-Y Books 187 Ware Road

Dedication:

To the children of the world and to all those who are responsible for their safety – may they always be vigilant.

Acknowledgements:

Mike Richardson for his editing skills. Police Superintendent (retired) John Higgs for his tireless efforts in assisting me with the extensive research that went into this novel and for the various papers he gave me on the subject of paedophilia. Vanessa Rogers for her editing skills. Jonathan Miller for his tireless encouragement.

PROLOGUE

The man allowed the tear to trickle down his cheek as he laid out the naked body of the child before him on the dirt floor.  She was a pretty little thing, with her locks of golden hair and pale, unblemished skin.  She still looked pretty even now, in death, with her eyes closed and her thin, bloodless lips pressed tightly together.  It was so sad that such a lovely child had to die; it always had the same effect on him when they left him like this – alone once more, with only the memory of his sexual satiation to sustain him.

He sighed.  “If only it could be different,” he thought, sorrowfully, as he gently stroked the naked body for the last time.  Children, especially little girls, were his deepest love, and when he lost himself in the act of coition it was, to him, a divine moment – almost like a communion – and the cries of the child he was hearing were not screams of terror from a dying little girl, but the beautiful strains of a choir of angels.

The whole experience was so…so celestial.  And then the uninvited, unwelcome God intervened and tore the life from the little girl right at the point of his ecstasy.  He wiped the solitary tear from his cheek and said a silent prayer for the soul of his sacrifice.  Then he gathered her in his arms and rose from his position on the floor; it was time now for the ritual burial.  He had laid her clothes out carefully on the ground – an act of reverence rather than contrition.  He had washed the stains of the baptism from her body and then cleansed himself of any residual evidence.  Everything was prepared.

Carrying the body in his arms, he was making to leave the hut when suddenly he felt a jolt run through his body, like an electric current, coupled with a sense of intrusion that all but overwhelmed him.  Someone, or something, was watching him.  He could see nothing through the darkness, but he knew – from his heightened sense of intuition – that he was being observed, psychically, from afar; and it frightened him.  Whoever, or whatever, it was knew; knew about his sacrifices – not just this one, but all the others too.

He felt confused, apprehensive; threatened, even.  Who was it?  Who could be watching him?  And how?  How was it possible?

He had been so careful to remain undetected.  He had planned everything so meticulously, down to the finest minutiae, to ensure there was little chance of him ever being discovered.

And now someone knew – someone unknown but, like himself, with the metaphysical abilities to pierce the protective veil he had built around himself.

Suddenly, he was more scared than he had ever been in his life before.  Was his world – a world so carefully constructed and defended – about to end…?

CHAPTER ONE

 I was a 19-year-old newly recruited WPC at the Birmingham Central police station in Steelhouse Lane, when I first met Connie Rowden; not much older than she was, in fact.  I remember the day well. It was a Saturday in the September of 1992 and I had spent that afternoon – with the benefit of overtime pay, I might add – on duty at the home derby match between Birmingham City and Aston Villa- evidently something called the Premier League had just started and, so I was told, Birmingham City were unbelievably fortunate to have qualified for entry. I wouldn’t exactly describe myself as a football fan and even though the City won 3-0 I couldn’t get excited about it. I was more concerned that afternoon with the behaviour of the visiting supporters, hoping against hope there wouldn’t be any trouble. Thankfully there wasn’t, and the forty or so uniformed police officers on duty at the ground returned to the station in high spirits – especially those City fans amongst us. Tell the truth I was relieved when it was over, not simply because it had been trouble-free, but more because I seemed to have passed my first test as a woman in a dominantly male world.

Later, I was taking a short break with some of my colleagues in the staff canteen when the call came that the DCI wanted to see me.  I ignored the taunts from the other PCs, as I ignored the fact I was to go off duty, too worried at the time in case I had committed some serious breach of discipline that might cost me my career.  That was me, though: always full of guilt.

I recall thinking, “What on earth Could a DCI possibly want from a naive young policewoman?” I mean, I was very lucky to have been assigned to Birmingham Central; the West Midlands Police Force has over seven thousand officers and covers hundreds of square miles over a very wide area, stretching as far as Wolverhampton in the North, my hometown, and Coventry in the South. So really, they could have posted me anywhere, and I couldn’t believe it when Birmingham Central, my first choice station, came up positive. It was like winning the Pools for a newly graduated Constable, although I did learn, much later, that it was due more to my results at Police Training College than the luck of any draw.

 The very thought of having to confront Detective Chief Inspector Templar, or Simple Simon as he was unkindly referred to by the rookies, frightened the life out of me.  He was, to say the least, an extremely forbidding figure.  It wasn’t merely the size of the man, or the fact he was the detective chief inspector; it had more to do with his overpowering presence, and the sheer menace he projected, to say nothing of his abrasive manner, especially to subordinates.

But, after traipsing for what seemed like hours, along miles of corridors through the huge Victorian building, bumping into the scores of bodies in the corridors and passing various incident rooms filled with dozens of officers, either on computer terminals or manning the phones, interview rooms, the computer centre with its row upon row of terminals and processors, and senior CID officers’ units, I finally arrived at the entrance to the office suite of the DCI. On the way I had stopped at the ‘Ladies’ to check my appearance and I wasn’t too dismayed with what I saw. I was wearing little or no makeup- it was frowned upon at that time – but my face was presentable and the wind had caught my high cheekbones and added a little natural colour. I wouldn’t describe myself as beautiful exactly, but the odd boyfriend had told me that I was more than attractive, and that my auburn hair and the depth of my eyes was – what was it one of them had said? Oh yes, ‘incredibly appealing’. I think he meant fanciable! And being slim and having good legs helped a lot.

Of course I had been given the guided tour of the Steelhouse Lane Headquarters Building when I first arrived a few weeks ago, but it was so large, spreading as it did over five floors – and that excluded the basement cells area – that I felt it would take me years to find my way around. I was lucky to have remembered that the CID offices were on the third floor; what I did forget though was that three lifts serviced each floor of the building that could have saved me time and a lot of leg ache.

 Much to my relief the tormentor actually smiled at me when I finally entered his office, a mannerism I was told later, that was completely foreign to him. He invited me to take a seat alongside an attractive but obviously very anxious woman who was already seated in front of his desk.  I couldn’t help noticing her striking blue eyes, whilst her hair was the colour of golden wheat.  When I looked at her a second time I had the impression she was struggling to control some inner stress.  Her face was taut, like an over wound spring, and those blue eyes had a haunted, almost desperate expression I had missed at first glance, as if she were pleading for someone to help her.  Of course, I kept my feelings about her to myself, merely smiling ‘hello’, removing my hat, at the same time hurriedly attempting to rearrange my untidy hair, - something I had overlooked when I was in the loo - and taking a seat as commanded.  Even so, I couldn’t help noticing how she was unable to stop her hands from nervously rubbing together, as if she was wringing out a wet dishcloth.  I guessed she probably wasn’t as old as her demeanour suggested; in all, she was a woman who seemed to have had her fair share of suffering.  I was curious, to say the least.

“Mrs Rowden,” the chief inspector said; “I’d like you to meet Angela – Angela Crossley.  PC Crossley’s one of our newest recruits.  Angela, this is Mrs Rowden.”

“How do you do,” I said formally.

“Sylvia, please,” she urged, shaking my hand.

“I hope you don’t mind my asking PC Crossley to join us, Mrs Rowden.  I thought your daughter would find it easier to talk to a woman - specially one a bit nearer her own age.”

“Yes...  Yes she will… Does that mean you’re willing to take me seriously?  It’s just that I had the feeling you were quite cynical about the whole proposition.”

He frowned at the implied criticism. 

“I’m sorry if I gave you that impression.  If I hesitated it’s only because I wasn’t quite sure how to deal with the matter.”  He coughed, a little embarrassedly.  “To be perfectly honest, Mrs Rowden, I’m not much clearer now… Except that I do think we need to have a chat with… Sorry, what’s your daughter’s name again?”

“Connie.”

“Yes, quite; Connie.  Well, under the circumstances, I don’t think we’ve anything to lose by talking to her as long as we keep this strictly confidential - I really can’t emphasise that too strongly.   Is that all right with you?”  He held out a hand to stop me from interrupting. I was only thinking aloud what an old-fashioned name Connie was and wondering what its source was.

“Fine, Chief Inspector.  I don’t think either of us wants to look a fool… And we could, couldn’t we - especially if the press get to hear about it.  When do you want to meet Connie?  She’s at home at the moment and I know she’d be happy to talk to you.”

 “Sir,” I interjected determinedly – somewhat foolishly, I thought with hindsight.

“Can I leave you to sort that out with Angela here?” he said, ignoring me.  “And, if you don’t mind, you can brief her at the same time; as you can probably tell, she has no idea yet what this is all about.”

He glanced towards me and scowled – somewhat condescendingly, I thought – and then rose from his chair as if to inform us that he was now terminating the meeting.

“Thanks for coming in, Mrs Rowden.  PC Crossley will keep me informed of any developments.”

We were dismissed, summarily, and he hadn’t even had the good manners to explain what it was all about!  I managed to return his rudeness by giving him a curt nod; if he noticed at all he didn’t acknowledge it.  Mrs Rowden – Sylvia – was still wringing her hands as we left the office and made our way to one of the station’s interview rooms.

“He hasn’t told you anything, has he?” she began.

“Well, he’s a busy man, Sylvia.  I’m sure you can understand we’re all snowed under right now, trying to find the missing little girl. I don’t think he meant to be rude - it’s just a very worrying time for all of us.”

The girl in question was nine-year-old Alice Newton.  She had disappeared between her mother’s house and the newsagents, a half a mile away, three days ago.  The police and an army of volunteers were searching the whole area, but it was now feared that she had been abducted.  I couldn’t help wondering if this development with Sylvia wasn’t somehow connected.

“I admire your loyalty, Angela, but I still think he’s too embarrassed to deal with this himself.”

“Why don’t you begin by telling me what ‘this’ is exactly?” I said.  “And how your daughter fits in with it.”

Sylvia Rowden brushed the hair from the side of her face – another anxious gesture – then produced a small photograph from her handbag.

“This is Connie,” she said, handing it to me across the table.  “She’s thirteen - and she’s a very gifted child.”  She had a similar appearance to her mother: the same straw-coloured hair, the same blue eyes, and the same serious expression.

“You mean ‘gifted’ as in intelligent?”

“No.  Not that, exactly.”  She hesitated, unsure whether or not to proceed.  I stretched over and took her hand, trying to reassure her.

“How is she gifted, Sylvia?” I persisted.  “You can trust me, you know.”

“She’s psychic,” she said, simply, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “She gets it from her grandmother – on my side of the family. I named her after my mother,” she added, as though she had to explain herself.

“Psychic?” I repeated lamely, at the same time thinking: “Good God!  No wonder the DCI wanted to dump it on me.”

“Yes.  But it’s important you understand - she’s no ordinary psychic.  She isn’t one of these people you read about who have flashes of visions that they don’t understand.”  Nervously Sylvia brushed her hair away from her face again.  “Connie knows exactly what she sees.  I mean clearly, almost in perfect detail – it’s like it’s actually happening to her. And it affects her… Very badly, in fact.  Can you understand that, Angela?”

I cleared my throat, not sure how to react.  I mean, how the hell was I supposed to understand the mysteries of physic phenomena?

“Well, yes, I think so – but to be perfectly honest, I’ve had no personal experience with this kind of thing,” I managed to say eventually – not in the least convincingly, I must add.  “But what I don’t understand is how this concerns the police.  I mean, I take it she hasn’t committed any crime?”

Sylvia then treated me to a patronising sigh of frustration.  “You’re very young, aren’t you?  Not much older than my daughter, I should imagine.  Look, Angela, I came here because I believe my daughter can help the police to find that missing girl.  But I think I should be dealing with someone more senior; someone with more experience.  No offence, dear, but the fact they’ve dumped it on you says to me that your bosses aren’t taking me seriously.  Don’t you agree?”

“On the face of it, yes,” I acknowledged.  “But the DCI hasn’t actually passed it on to me, Sylvia.  All he said, if you remember, is that we should certainly have a talk with Connie, and that I was probably the best person to do that because I’m nearer her age.  When we’ve done that I’ll report back to him so he can consider the matter further.  It’s fairly standard procedure,” I lied, “and it doesn’t in any way mean you’re not being taken seriously.”  I could hardly admit to the DCI dumping her and her daughter on to me.  Could I?

“Not being taken seriously in this place usually means you get nothing more than a polite ‘good morning’.  Now,” I went on before she could deride me further, “why don’t you tell me how you think Connie can help us find the little girl, and we can take it from there.”

“Well, you’ll have to talk to her yourself, of course - but she says she knows where the child is.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to that.  I mean, the way she just came out with it like that, it sounded so…what?  Convincing?  But, of course, it was quite ridiculous.  The woman was obviously a nutcase and our beloved DCI must have already assumed that.  The problem I was now faced with, though, was: how on earth did I deal with it?  Or, more to the point, how did I get out of it?

“Not convinced, are you?” she said, after an interminable silence from me.

“I…I…I…” was all I could manage to stammer.

“Look, why don’t you come and meet Connie?  Have a talk with her.  Listen to what she’s got to say - and then you can make your own mind up whether or not we’re a bunch of time-wasting nutters.  Will you do that?”  She looked at me with a kind of beguiling innocence.  “You’ll never know for sure otherwise.  Will you?”

Of course I agreed.  What else could I do anyway?  The DCI had already instructed me, in effect, to meet and talk with her daughter.  So I could hardly refuse, could I?  

CHAPTER TWO

The sky was filled with dark, angry clouds, and a steady drizzle began falling as we left the police pound and set off in Sylvia’s car, heading towards her home in Ladywood, on the outskirts of Birmingham. An officer from social services accompanied me as I wasn’t allowed to interview anyone until I had graduated; he didn’t say anything, I believe he was there simply as an observer. He introduced himself to me as Brian Horton, a quiet, well dressed man, who hardly spoke. It seemed to me a perfect day to be meeting up with a spook!

A half-hour later we arrived at the house in one of the many suburbs in the south of the city.  Very little was said in the car during the journey, and I had to admit I was not looking forward to the meeting.

Connie, I soon discovered, was a quiet, rather shy teenager, who seemed to project wisdom far beyond her years. She was also on the frail side – almost skinny I would have said, as though she was undernourished and needed feeding up. In fact she made my own slender frame appear almost obese.  But I also noticed – rather disturbingly, as it happened – that she had the same haunted look in her almond eyes as her mother, as if they shared some dark, unspoken secret.

They lived in a small terraced house, in Bromsgrove Street, a long narrow street of almost identical houses, the kind of neighbourhood you either spent your life trying to escape from or you retreated into when things were going badly wrong financially. Sylvia was quick to point out to me that the house was rented rather than owned.

Brian Horton still hadn’t said anything and when I asked him did he want to take over he said he was just there to see how I handled the matter. It wasn’t until we were seated in the equally small but comfortable lounge that I remembered to ask about the father.  Until then no mention of him had been made, which struck me as rather odd.

“What about Mr Rowden?  Does he know we’re having this meeting?” I asked.

Sylvia looked decidedly uneasy at the question, and started wringing her hands again.  All she said in reply was: “There is no Mr Rowden.”

“You’re divorced, then?” I asked, stating the obvious.

“No. He’s dead.  Actually, we were never married.  I worked for him as his housekeeper – his live-in housekeeper.  Connie was…”

“...An accident,” Connie cut in.  “It’s okay, mum, you can tell her the story; it doesn’t bother me any more.”

“I’m sorry,’ I murmured. This obviously explained their impoverished surroundings.

“It’s okay,’ she said. “My relationship with him was…. Well, one of those weak moments.  He’d had too much to drink and I was lonely…”  She shrugged philosophically.

“How did he die?” I asked Sylvia.

“It was an accident – car crash. He died intestate and as I was only a housekeeper…” She rolled her eyes, in distress I thought, “we were left without a penny.”

It might have been a strange remark from a housekeeper except it was even more curious that her father hadn’t left Connie anything for her upbringing. Still, it was none of my business except I thought she could have made a claim on his estate.

“ I think Connie was about eight when we moved to this house.  She barely remembers him…”  Her voice tailed off again.

“Is there something wrong, Sylvia?  I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Me and my big mouth, I thought.

“No.  It’s alright, really,” she insisted – too strongly, I thought.  Her face paled and her lips noticeably narrowed; she was also wringing her hands once more.  “ As Connie told you, that night together was a mistake although I’ve never once regretted having her.  Now it’s something we don’t like to talk about – Connie and I, that is.  Do we, Connie?” she said, turning to her daughter.

The girl merely nodded her agreement, although it occurred to me that the subject seemed to be as correspondingly distasteful to the daughter as it was to her mother.

I couldn’t say very much because it wasn’t dissimilar to my own background.  My father had walked out on us only a few months after I was born; I had neither seen nor heard from him to this day.  Essentially, my mother – a single parent – brought me up, though I can remember having a succession of ‘uncles’.  Thinking of my mother invariably caused me to smile; she was the bright diamond in my life, and had she not decided to move in with her latest ‘boyfriend’ I’m sure I would still be living at home instead of having to rent my own flat.  I did make a point though of meeting up with my mother at least once a month for a coffee, or sometimes a meal, and a chat about the latest gossip.  As far as I could tell she seemed to be happy, and I was glad for her.

“So,” I said, breaking the ensuing silence, “shall we move on?  Connie, your mum’s been telling me about your special gift. And that you might be able to help us find young Alice.  Are you up to talking about that?”

“No!” she said flatly.  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh!” was all I could think of to say, although Connie’s response seemed to confirm my opinion about the family being nutters.  “I’m sorry; I must have misunderstood.  I thought your mother was sure you knew where Alice could be found, and you were going to help us.  Have I got it wrong?”

Noticeably, Sylvia never said a word during this exchange, which reinforced my view.  I was already rehearsing my exit when Connie said: “No. I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you.  I will tell you where she is, but I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh!  Right.  Where is she, Connie?  Is she with some friends of yours?”

“She’s dead!” she stated in a flat voice, lacking in emotion.  “Buried!  I know the place – well, I’m pretty certain I do – but don’t ask me to take you there because I won’t.  It’s too scary.”

I remember falling back in my chair at this revelation, too shocked to say anything.  “Dear God,” I thought.  “She’s serious; deadly serious.”

How in heaven’s name was I going to deal with this?  I imagined myself ringing the station and informing the DCI not to expect me back for a while as I was on my way to locating the body of the missing child.  I shuddered at the thought.  Bang would go my career! And Brian Horton wouldn’t help either – he was just there to take notes.

“You’re obviously shell-shocked,” I heard Sylvia saying from what appeared to be a long way away.  “Would you like a glass of water – or something stronger?  Connie, bring the constable a glass of water, would you, and a wet flannel.”

“No!  Thanks but I’m all right – really.  I’m just… As you said, a bit shocked.”

“Connie,” Sylvia continued, “could you draw us map or give us some directions to where the little girl is buried?”

“Well, sort of.  She’s buried in a forest, the one near the old quarry.  There’s a kind of glade, with a disused workman’s cottage.  She’s in a pit behind  it.  But it’s very dark there, and, like I said, it’s scary.  I think there might be other bodies there as well.  Alice isn’t the first one he’s murdered.”

I looked at the teenager intently, trying to recover some composure.  “Connie, this is a very serious matter; you do understand that, don’t you?”

“Of course,” she said, indignantly tossing her head.  “Don’t you think I know that already?  I’m the one who has the nightmares.”

“Is that what they are – nightmares?  Bad dreams?”

“You’ll be telling me next I imagined all this,” she snorted angrily.  She spread her arms as if to illustrate the point, then turned to her mother.  “See, I told you they wouldn’t believe me.  I said it was a waste of time you going to the police.”

Sylvia sighed then rested her chin in the cup of her hand.  Turning to me, she said: “I did tell you this was difficult for her, didn’t I?  But I do know, better than anyone, that these... visions aren’t dreams; they’re very real, and Connie suffers terrible traumas afterwards.  The last time she had one of these ‘episodes’ it affected her so badly she had to have treatment afterwards for months from a psychiatrist.  That’s why she won’t, or can’t, take you to the actual place.  You have no idea of the damage it would do to her psychologically.”

“Look, Connie,” I said, as gently as I could.  “As I told your mum, I’ve experience with this type of phenomenon; and I can’t just go back and tell my bosses what you’ve said and expect them to accept it just like that.  They’re bound to ask me where the proof is.  They’re policeman - that’s what they do: look for evidence.  Surely, you must see that?”

“Yeah; I guess.  But I don’t like people suggesting I’m some kind of nut, because I’m not.  Like Mum say, my visions are real – and they’re totally scary.”  She shook her head again and frowned.  “Okay,” she went on, “I’ll draw you the map.  I don’t know the exact name of the place but you should find it okay.  It’s about three or four miles from here.  But, like I said, the glade where Alice is buried won’t be so easy to find.  It’s dark and creepy in there, and when you do find it you’re not going to like it.”

“But can you give me something more solid, Connie?” I almost whispered. “Anything that might convince my superiors?  You know – something unique?”

She shot me a look that had ‘dummy’ written all over it.  “Yeah.  Tell them Alice has a scar where I think she had her appendix out.  It kinda looks like that anyway.  Oh,” she continued thoughtfully, “one other thing.  She’s got a mole on her stomach – looks like a half-moon – but light brown.  Is that the kinda thing?”

“God!” I thought.  “What if this is for real, and she’s not making it up or hallucinating?”

“Thank you, Connie,” I said.  “That’s great.  Now, if you can draw me the map I’ll have something solid to take back to the station.  But don’t be surprised, will you, if my superiors want to talk to you?”

“That’s okay.  I don’t mind talking to them.  Just as long as they don’t expect me to lead them to that horrible place.”

CHAPTER THREE

Less than an hour later, Brian Horton having persuaded the police car pool to collect us from Sylvia’s in a passing patrol car for the journey back to Steelhouse Lane, I was again knocking at the DCI’s door, this time feeling a little less apprehensive than beforehand.  He nodded at me, and then pointed to a chair as he replaced his telephone.

“So how was your little excursion?” he said curtly, “Seen the Second Coming yet, have you?”

He was his usual sarcastic self, but, undeterred, I cleared my throat and said: “Sir, I know you’re going to take the piss – but she was really convincing. Honest.”

“Yeah, to you maybe – no surprise there. You’re not s’posed to be taking these nutters seriously – you’re just meant to get ‘em off my back.  Don’t tell me you reckon these ‘psychic visions’ are for real! Jesus wept, if you’re that fucking gullible you want a change of career girl.  This is a police station, not a bleedin’ spiritualist church!”

I felt my face reddening at the barb.  It was unkind and unnecessary, I thought.  “I realise that, Chief Inspector… And – no – I wasn’t ‘taken in’ by either of them.  I did what I’ve been trained to do - listen, objectively, without prejudging the issues, and then report the findings to my superiors.  That is precisely what I’m trying to do – if you’ll give me a chance… Sir.”

“All right, go on then,” he said gruffly.  “You’ve got my attention.”

By the time I got to the part about the map his face was suffused with anger.  Obviously he’d had enough, and, in fact, he was on the point of exploding.  I didn’t give him the chance.  When I submitted the evidential information he frowned, trying to appear cynical, but without doubt he was suitably impressed.

“Hmm.  All right – maybe that is interesting.  I don’t suppose you’ve checked it out have you?”

“Yes, sir; I have.  I asked DS Robbins to talk to Alice’s mother.  And she’s confirmed that Alice has had her appendix removed, and she does have a half-moon mole on her stomach.”

“Jesus!  What the hell are we dealing with here?”

“A genuine psychic, maybe?” I suggested.

“Not so quick, constable.  She could’ve found out about that in any number of ways.  For instance, this Connie might have a little chum who knows Alice… Knows her well enough to have seen her without her kit on passed on and passed on those little nuggets.  On the other hand, it might be some mental game these nutters like playing.  A fucking stupid one, yeah, but still a game – not fucking evidence.”

“There is one way to find out, sir.”

“Yeah.  Do tell?” he replied witheringly

“We could organise a small search team and follow the directions on the map.  It shouldn’t take that long, and at least we’d know one way or the other.”

He pondered this suggestion for quite a while, occasionally referring to the map, as if he was seeking inspiration.  “You say this girl – Connie – won’t take us to this place on the map?”

“Yes, sir.  She says it’s too ‘scary’ – her words, not mine.  Her mother says these visions are very traumatic for the child, so she’ll do all she can to protect her.”

“I think that might be the answer,” he said thoughtfully.  “If she is for real – and I’m not saying she is, mind you – you’ll have to talk her into leading the search.  That’ll call her bluff.”

“Sir, I don’t that’ll work,” I protested.  “Connie was adamant that nothing on earth would persuade her to visit that place.  She says it frightens the life out of her – and I believe her.”

“Constable,” he said testily, “you are a policewoman, aren’t you – not a wet-nurse?  So use your training.  Make the silly cow join the search.”

I was really stuck now.  If I asked him for suggestions he would think I was an idiot; if I didn’t I would still be an idiot because I had no idea how to go about persuading the girl.  “Stuff it!” I thought.  “All I’ve got to lose is my job! Oh yeah, and my career… And my self-respect and…”

“Sorry sir, but it’s not like I’ve got the experience you have.  Can you give me any hints how I might persuade her, or her mother?”

He glowered at me for a moment, and then softened. 

“You’ve just answered your own question, Angela.”

“Sir?”

“The mother.  That’s how you get through to the daughter.  You tell Mrs Rowden that if her daughter won’t cooperate you’ll have to arrest her – the mother, not the daughter – for wasting police time.  That should focus her fucking mind a bit, don’t you think?”

“Are you serious?” I gasped.  “You’d actually arrest her?”

“Too bloody right I would!  Since that little girl disappeared we’ve had more than 500 calls from punters, most of them genuine, and all of them out of concern… None of them any fucking use, mind you.  But this one – this one – has the gall to actually turn up here, waste my time listening to her crazy story, and then gets me to send you off to talk to the kid, only to be told that the most she’s prepared to do to prove her story is to draw us a pretty picture.  If that ain’t wasting police time then I don’t know what is.  You gonna tell me I’m wrong, eh? What about you, Constable Horton?”

Brian Horton had been sitting there like a deaf mute, saying nothing. “You’ve got a point, sir.”

“And how did she handle herself?” he was asked.

“Well, she handled herself quite well, sir. But as you said, I was only an observer.”

I butted in. “Since you put it like that – yes, sir, I do agree with you.  Shall I go back on my own or take Constable Horton with me?”

“No.  You don’t take Horton with you, Angela; you take DS Robbins.  I want them to realise we mean business.  I’ll set it up for you – but you make sure this Connie’s going to be at home.  She’s the one we’re putting the pressure on.  Okay?”

“Thank you, sir.  I’ll sort it.”

* * * * * * * * * *

It took the team the better part of two hours to find the road into Longwood, the site Connie had pinpointed on her map; it was some four or five miles from the city centre.  In reality it was nothing more than a dirt track, barely visible from the side road leading in to it.  Frankly, if Connie had not been with us, I doubt if we would have found it at all.  As it was, we were able to proceed only so far with the vehicles before the undergrowth closed in on us, and we were forced to continue on foot.  Even though there were eight of us in all, I still found myself sharing the teenager’s description that this was a very scary place.  I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to visit this place with anything other than evil intent.  The foliage seemed to wrap itself around us the more deeply we penetrated the forest.  Once or twice I stumbled, catching my trousers, making me glad I wasn’t wearing a skirt, and having to be helped back to my feet by a very disgruntled Detective Sergeant Robbins, who regarded the whole excursion as a bizarre pantomime.  From time to time he swore aloud at the continuing discomfort, particularly when the heavens opened and the rain dripped onto us incessantly from the overhanging branches.  Also, it was becoming increasingly difficult to see as the rain blurred the light from our torches. And I was becoming incredibly weary – my shift had finished hours ago and I wasn’t even sure I now qualified for overtime.

From time to time we stopped while Connie rechecked her bearings.  The whole time, since leaving her house, she had not spoken, even though I tried my best to apologise to her for the threats to her mother, which had forced her to accompany us.  I had tried to be as gentle as circumstances would allow, but it made little impact on the girl.  Unfortunately, our dear Sergeant Robbins, on the other hand, was about as tough as they come.  He had positively intimidated poor Sylvia to the point where I thought she was going to pass out.  He was still relatively young for a detective sergeant; much more to the point, he was extremely good-looking.  He was a little over six foot, with a mop of sandy hair and the sharpest blue eyes I had ever seen.  It would be an understatement if I were to admit to fancying him, even in these ludicrous surroundings.

In the event, his tactics certainly did the trick.  When Connie saw the state her mother was in she readily agreed to join the search.

Eventually I gave up the attempt at conversation; it was fairly obvious the girl blamed me for her distressing situation, making it clear by her silence that she was here only under extreme duress.  I had to admit, secretly, that I had a great deal of sympathy for her, and in a way I was half hoping that the whole episode would turn out to be, as the DCI suspected, some kind of irrational game.

* * * * * * * * * *

We must have been travelling for almost an hour, fighting our way through the foliage, before we came across the glade Connie had earlier referred to.  Very little light was visible, but what there was was sufficient for us identify the woodman’s cottage she had also mentioned.  I felt a shiver run up my spine when I spotted it.  Either Connie’s visions were indeed real, or else she had visited this place a number of times in the past.  She couldn’t possibly have known about it otherwise.

At the sight of the single-storey building Connie began to shiver, just slightly at first, them almost uncontrollably.  When I put my arm around her shoulder she didn’t resist, convincing me she was genuinely frightened.  She refused to enter the derelict cottage, so I stayed outside with her while Sergeant Robbins and two of the others went in.  It seemed to be an age before they came out, the sergeant looking particularly grim.

“What?” I asked.  “Found something?”

He nodded but didn’t explain.  Instead he dialled a number on his mobile, and I heard him asking for a police helicopter and forensic assistance.  He gave instructions as to our location, and then instructed us to form a ring with our flashlights pointing upwards.

Standing in the open we were all soaked by the time the helicopter touched down.  The DCI and a couple of civilians emerged with various equipment and went into the hut. I was later informed they were SOCO – Scene of Crime Officers.

Connie, holding my hand, said: “They’ve found the kids’ clothes.”  She started to weep softly.  “The bodies are in the pit at the back of the building.”

I took her with me inside, and was met with the traditional glower from the DCI.  “What you doing in here?” he demanded.

“Connie says the children’s bodies are in a pit at the back of this hut.”

He rubbed his face wearily with his hand, glancing round at the neatly arranged piles of clothing in a corner of the room, many of the individual items clearly showing bloodstains.  “Can you show us, young lady?”

Connie didn’t speak; she simply turned, led me by the hand, and took me round to the back of the hut.

“Where?” the DCI said gruffly.  “What fucking pit?  I can’t see anything.”  He pointed to the area around us; there didn’t appear to be anything there.

Connie ignored his abuse, walked a few yards towards a bush, pulled back the foliage and revealed a rusty metallic ring attached to what looked like an iron trapdoor.

It took two of the constables to open the cover.  An overpowering, foul stench hit us immediately, causing one of the officers to vomit.  Covering his face with a handkerchief Jim Robbins approached the cavity and shone his torch into the black hole.  It was obviously an old septic tank that hadn’t been emptied for years.

“Oh, sweet Jesus!  No!”  He stepped away from the pit and visibly buckled at the knees, at the same time pressing the handkerchief hard against his mouth.  Beyond him I could make out, from the reflection of his torch, the decaying hand from a child’s body, encircled, almost like a halo, with hair, her decomposed face protruding above the surface of the revolting sewage tank.  A little further away I was sure I could see the skeletal features of a small girl.  I felt my own knees give way at this ghoulish sight.  But it was Connie who actually pulled me down with the tightness of her grip as she fell to the ground in a faint.  Her whole body was convulsing with an epileptic type of seizure.  She was frothing at the mouth and her eyes were open but glazed, as if she had escaped into a different world.  Frightened for her I leant down beside her, unsure what to do, but wiping her mouth and covering her with my jacket.  Then she began to moan, softly at first, and then louder and louder, like a dog grieving at the feet of its master; more feral than human.

“No!” she then screamed.  “Don’t hurt me!  Please don’t hurt me again!”

All I could do was hold her to me tightly, tears coursing down my own cheeks.  “Poor girl,” I kept thinking, over and over.  “What have we done to you?”

“Get that kid out of here!”  DCI Templar shouted angrily.  “This is a crime scene, not a fucking nursery.  Robbins, tape off the area and get another helicopter here; we need more equipment.  You – Crossley!” he snapped at me.  “Take that child back on the ‘copter. Get a doctor to meet you at the hospital.  And for Christ’s sake shut her up, can’t you?”

Fuming, I half carried, half dragged Connie away from the scene and towards the helicopter.  I remember distinctly hearing Sergeant Robbins telling the DCI to piss off as he dropped what he was doing and came over to help me.  “Ignore him, Ange,” he seethed.  “The guy’s an insensitive arsehole.”

Together we lifted poor Connie, still sobbing hysterically, onto the helicopter, and Sergeant Robbins gave the pilot instructions.

“Take her to St Thomas’s, Andrew, will you?  If you radio ahead they’ll let you land on the roof.  Ange, why don’t you go with her?  I’d go myself, but I’m going to be tied up here for quite a while - obviously.”

I felt sick and dizzy myself at the horrors I had witnessed, and, frankly, I was relieved to be leaving the nightmarish scene.  During the journey I hugged Connie, trying my best to soothe her, but without success.  Fifteen minutes later we landed at the hospital and I transferred the weeping and trembling young girl into the care of a doctor and a nurse.  All I could think was: “Dear God, what have I done to you?” as I half-collapsed against a wall of the hospital roof.

Hindsight was a wonderful thing; if only we’d believed her story at the beginning all this could have been avoided.  I felt terrible: consumed with guilt, and for the first time regretting ever joining the police force.  I stayed on the roof for a while, ignoring the heavy rain, unconcerned that I had lost my jacket and torn my trousers, not even worrying whether I should go back to the scene or just go home.  In the end I decided to wait at the hospital to see what the diagnosis was on Connie.  She was my responsibility and there was no way I could abandon her, although I did drift off to sleep in the waiting room.  An hour or so later a nursing sister awakened me to tell me that Connie was heavily sedated.  She also said her mother was on the way, so it seemed sensible for me to return to the station for an update.

CHAPTER FOUR

It actually took the best part of three days to complete the picture from the crime scene.  Seven bodies were recovered in total: all of them children; all of them girls.  Two were still awaiting identification and could have been in that hellish pit for more than three years.  The children who were identified, apart from Alice (who was local), were all from different areas of the country and had been missing for varying periods of time.  One was from the Stoke-on-Trent area, whilst another was from as far afield as Leeds.  Until now, because of the wide geographical spread of the victims and the lack of liaison between the various forces, plus the lack of any hard evidence, it had not been concluded by the authorities that a serial child murderer – a dangerous paedophile – was at large.  Consequently, the National Crime Squad was never informed; but even if it had been notified it was still in its infancy and so disparate that the chances of its pulling together a unified strategy were extremely slim.

The results from the forensic examination of the bodies were also disappointing: the decomposition of the victims had removed any DNA evidence that might have been there.  Conversely, the blood samples on the clothing offered no clues; it wasn’t even possible to determine, other than in the case of Alice, who the blood originated from.  Some faint DNA traces were discovered on the body of Alice, however, but again – unfortunately – there was no match in the National Computer Bank.  It would, however, remain on file for future reference.  The very thought of the terror those poor children must have endured – vicariously passed on to Connie – caused me to have recurring nightmares for months afterwards.  I doubted I would ever erase the picture of the crime scene from my mind.

A further sad by-line to these tragedies was informing the parents of the dead children, especially when they wanted to know how their child had died, and we were unable to tell them.  It was a task I became involved in as, at my rather impudent request, I had now been transferred to CID, on a temporary basis, and given my own desk and terminal.  Thrilled as I was at this mini-promotion, it was still particularly hard for me, because I was taking on board part of the responsibility for their deaths.  Common sense told me, of course, that this was quite ridiculous, but then in the question of murder, particularly where children were involved, common sense always seemed to disappear.  What hit me the hardest was seeing the haunted look in the parents’ eyes as the news of what had happened to their daughter was imparted to them.  And it went without saying that life ‘would go on’, except that – in their case – they would remain forever-tortured spectators as the tide of life swept past them.  For them, life was virtually over.

* * * * * * * * * *

I went back to the hospital a number of times, but Mrs Rowden had left specific instructions that no one was to see Connie.  It was only through a combination of luck and perseverance that I finally made contact with Sylvia.  I bumped into her, unexpectedly, one afternoon at the hospital; she knew it was me but she avoided looking at me, averting her eyes as if in the hope that I might disappear.  Ever the persistent one, I caught her by the arm, bringing her to a halt.

“Sylvia, please!  Why won’t you let me see Connie?  I’ve been here nearly every day now for over a week.  How is she?  No one will tell me anything.”

“Leave us alone!” she snapped.  “Haven’t you done enough damage?”

“Please.  I know you must be angry with us.  Angry with me, if you like.  But I promise you, no one meant to hurt her.  We were just trying to find a missing girl - a girl we now know was viciously attacked and murdered… The DCI had to check out Connie’s story – and he had to do it the only way he knew...”  I maintained a hold on her arm.  “I’m really sorry, Sylvia.  But I’ve got to know how Connie is.  I’ve been so worried about her.”  At the same time I was thinking to myself: “Come on; answer me, woman.  I’m not some kind of monster.”

“She’s being transferred, if you must know.”

Puzzled, I repeated her statement.  “Transferred?  What do you mean?”

“Come on, constable; you’re not a complete idiot.  Transferred as in children’s psychiatric hospital.  She’s had a complete mental collapse, and the doctors doubt she’ll ever fully recover.”

She pointed a finger at me angrily.  “I hope you lot are proud of yourselves, especially after I warned you what’d happen.  Now, piss off and leave me alone!  I’ve got nothing more to say to you.  You got that?”  She turned to leave, then paused and added: “Oh – one more thing.  Before Connie became totally catatonic she told me she’d had a clearer vision of the murderer.  She might even have been able to identify him, given more time.  Now you’ll never know, will you?  At least, not from my daughter.”

I was speechless.  All I could do was to stand there, rendered numb and horrified, as I watched Sylvia walk away.

It was a situation that would haunt me for years to come, and I don’t believe the guilt ever did completely leave me.  What I was left with was a feeling of immense sadness for those poor children.

And my only companion for many years was the haunting shadow of remorse at the part I had played in the whole episode.

CHAPTER FIVE

Of course, matters didn’t just end there.  Next came the autopsies on the bodies, all of which – other than the earlier victims, whose cause of death would never be determined – shared the same MO: death by strangulation, following sexual assault including rape.  The CID spent many months investigating the murders of the children, involving a great deal of man-hours, interviewing known – or even suspected – paedophiles and investing a tremendous amount of resources.  I myself spent hour upon hour, either in the incident room checking lists of known offenders, or out on the streets with many of the other CID officers, interviewing potential witnesses.  It was frustrating work, and the pressure was immense and unrelenting.

Despite nationwide involvement, national exposure in all the media, and even appeals for public help on the Crime Watch programme, it seemed as though the trail ended at the crime scene itself.  There were simply no clues, other than the possible DNA sample, which might – or might not – have come from the killer; there was no other evidence.  Even the clothes found in the woodsman’s cottage revealed nothing.  Either our man had been extremely lucky or he was very cunning and had some knowledge of forensics.  In the event time went by and the killer was never found, although the investigation remained open as an ‘unsolved’ case, and it would stay on the files indefinitely.  Then, increasingly, other crimes took up our time and resources, and the ‘paedophile killer’ case slipped from the headlines and into the background.

One benefit that did arise from the tragedy was the creation of a computerised National Paedophile List, comprising convicted – and also known, or even suspected – paedophiles.  This was followed shortly afterwards by a National Sex Register.  Now, any felon with convictions for sex crimes against children – or, later, even adults – went onto a register and was legally required to check in with the police to confirm his whereabouts.

And, from now on, if any child went missing the computer could be searched for possible suspects and cross-matched with the MO for linkage.  It was highly unlikely – unless our man was a complete unknown – that there would ever again be a repeat of the terrible crimes that I had been involved in, and which had had such a traumatic effect on Connie.

As I had promised myself, I travelled, almost religiously, the 30 miles or so to Forest Hills, down the A45 to the outskirts of Coventry, to the psychiatric hospital specialising in children’s disorders.  The hospital was discreetly situated in extensive grounds some way from the main Birmingham to Coventry road.  Whilst it was a typically late Victorian building, money had, nevertheless, obviously been allocated for an extensive refurbishing programme to make the institution appear more up to date and less like an old-style mental hospital from the nineteenth century.

Over time my visits to Connie developed into a bi-monthly vigil.  I would sit with her for an hour, sometimes two, talking to a young girl who was in reality a completely blank page, and my conversations with her were, in effect, merely writing new chapters.

Connie had slipped back into a world of defensive make-believe, where her mind had totally blocked out the horrors of that night in the woods.  She knew her mother, of course, but she had no recollection of who I was.  Initially, I’m sure she thought I was in some way connected with the hospital.  At first it was a kind of penance, if you like, for my sins, but gradually, for reasons that I didn’t fully understand, I drew closer to her.  I found myself actually chatting to her as I would a friend, telling her about all my gossip, laughing whenever I thought something I said might seem funny.  I shared my excitement with Connie when I received a police sponsorship to attend Warwick University to study for a degree in criminology, assuring her at the same time that I would still be able to visit.

Sometimes it tore at my heart to see this teenage girl, almost unknowingly, transforming over time into a beautiful young woman.  And all the time she remained in a world of retreat.  For Connie, reality was the here and now.  The past no longer had any meaning; perhaps it never would again.  She had escaped the horror of her experiences and found sanctuary in the dark recesses of her mind.

I remember on one occasion, after visiting Connie, being invited by Dr Simmons, her psychiatrist, into his office for a discussion.  He was a giant of a man, standing well over six feet, but still managing to remain slim.  He was in his mid-fifties, with grey silvery hair and a ruddy, cheerful complexion.  His eyes seemed to hold a permanent twinkle, as if he had seen everything and was still able to smile at life.  I thought he was a lovely man, and so easy to talk to.

“Come in, Angie,” he said, warmly, and pointed to the couch for me to take a seat.  “So,” he went on, after we were seated, “how’s our young patient today?”

“She seems well enough in herself, Doctor,” I said.  “Physically, I mean; but psychologically I can’t see any difference.  But then, you’d know more about that me…  Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”

“No,” he admitted, smiling; “I was just opening the conversation.  What I really wanted to say was that I’m a bit worried about you.”

“I don’t understand.”

He rubbed the side of his face for a moment, as if seeking the right words.  Then he said, “I suppose what I should really be asking you is: ‘Why do you keep blaming yourself for Connie’s condition?’”

I sat there for a few moments, mouth wide open in dumb silence.  Then I said, “Well, I don’t know about blame… But I do feel some sort of responsibility… I mean, her collapse might be down to us.  But isn’t that pretty normal in the circumstances?”

“Really? You think you’re responsible?”

“Yes, really.  Have you heard the story, doctor?”

“Not your version of it, no.  I know from the newspapers and Connie’s mother about the murdered children, of course, and what the whole thing’s done to her daughter.  And I’ve had a briefing of sorts from your superintendent – he and I go back quite a way.  But your personal role in it hardly came up. So why don’t you talk me through it now?”

So I proceeded to do so: about how Connie was a psychic, how she had experienced visions from time to time, and the traumatic effect they had on her – leaving out, of course, any reference in our conversion that her gifts could be the real thing.  And then I spoke about her mother visiting us at the police station to tell us her daughter might know where the missing child, Alice, could be found.  And finally I talked about the part I had played in coercing her – by threatening her mother – into allowing the child to accompany us on the search through the forest.  Then, of course, there was the ghoulish nightmare of the dead children in the pit, Connie’s subsequent mental collapse and the guilt I had suffered ever since.

“Tell me, were you brought up in a religious family?”

I felt myself frowning at the question.  What had that to do with anything?

“As a matter of fact, yes,” I replied eventually.  “My mother’s a devout Catholic – or so she reckons; not that you’d think so looking at her lifestyle. Not exactly up for a sainthood.  But, yeah, I went to a convent. The Sisters of Mercy educated me.  Why?  What’s your point.”

“Do you still see your mother?” he asked, ignoring my question.

“Yes.  From time to time,” I answered.  “She remarried a few years back and moved away so I don’t get to see her as much as I’d like.”

“How about your father.  Was he religious?”

“I have no idea.  I never met him – apparently he did a runner just after I was born, so I doubt it.  Why all the questions, Doctor?”

“Have you never wondered where this disproportionate sense of guilt comes from?” he asked, again ignoring my question.

“Not really, no.  But then, I’m not convinced it’s out of proportion.  You’ve heard the story now; surely you must agree I was at fault?”