At about 4 p.m., Kevin Rowland, an eighteen-year-old hospital porter, and his friend Matthew Marchant joined the search. Being locals, they knew their way around the park and its hidden undergrowth. While they battled their way through the dense copse behind the pavilion, Kevin found an old kitchen knife, which he hung on to. They crossed the path near the top of Jacob’s Ladder and saw Bishop standing at the bottom.
‘Any luck yet?’ Bishop called up.
‘No,’ they replied before heading back into the woodland.
They trudged through the cobweb of brambles for a while before Kevin spotted a clearing guarded by broken branches, as if someone had crawled through.
‘Let’s go up there,’ he said to Matthew. As they inched through, Kevin leading the way, the clearing came into sharper focus. Although overhanging branches prevented an uninterrupted view, a flash of pink stood out against the murky greens and browns. Kevin readjusted his position and the glimpse of what was unmistakably the side of a face on the ground, about fifteen feet away, made him recoil.
‘Shit, I think we’ve found them,’ he shouted to Matthew.
Matthew scurried up and edged a few paces further and, peering to his left, confirmed what his friend had seen. A body. Neither dared move any closer.
‘Go and get the police,’ Kevin ordered Matthew.
PC Paul Smith, or ‘Smudge’, did not fit in police cars. Six foot eight and as broad and strong as a barge, he occasionally travelled in vans but his huge presence was best deployed as a one-man deterrent, walking the town centre.
He was a gifted musician, a talent I once saw him put to an unorthodox use. We were off duty in a pub when a group of lads at the bar were becoming raucous. I could see Smudge, who had just come from a band rehearsal, become irritated. He was not going to put up with much more.
‘Hold my pint,’ he told the chap standing next to him.
We winced.
To everyone’s surprise, instead of striding over to fling the unsuspecting troublemakers bodily from the pub, he reached down and took out his trombone.
The bar silenced to ‘The Last Post’ piercing the air. We all looked on incredulously as the mellow tones boomed out, pitch-perfect. As the last bars drifted away, Smudge fixed his granite stare on the would-be combatants and bellowed, ‘That means it’s time for bed, children.’ They scurried off as Smudge put the instrument away before reclaiming his beer as if nothing had happened.
While Kevin and Matthew were searching for the girls in the woods, Smudge was into his seventh hour knocking on doors in Barcombe Road. The gravity of the task weighed heavily and he was keen for a distraction. As if on cue, a call crackled over the radio, asking for anyone free to investigate a sound, possibly of a child in pain, coming from some trees close to the front of Wild Park.
Smudge snapped his transmit button. ‘Charlie Bravo 152, I’ll take that,’ he snapped so no one else dare stake a claim on the job.
He crossed Lewes Road, searched the copse in question and, having found nothing, took the opportunity to stay under the cover of the trees for a quick puff on his pipe. As the first clouds billowed from his briar, a gruff voice made him start.
‘Oi, what are you doing?’
Smudge spun round, expecting to see a senior officer glaring, but instead it was Russell Bishop, smirking at having wound him up.
‘What you doing, Russ?’ asked Smudge, having regained his composure.
‘I’m searching. I’ve got my dog,’ he said, nodding to Misty at his side.
‘It doesn’t look much like a tracker to me,’ quipped Smudge as they made their way together out of the trees into the open parkland.
‘Do you think the kids are around here?’ Bishop asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘I reckon they’ve either gone north or if they’re here they’re finished,’ Bishop replied.
‘Well, Brighton has some strange people in it,’ agreed Smudge, slightly taken aback at Bishop’s prognosis.
‘Oh, well, I’m giving up soon,’ said Bishop.
‘No, you can’t do that,’ replied Smudge, surprised at Bishop’s indolence. ‘We’ve got to keep going. We’ve got to find them and rush them to hospital so they can then go home to their parents.’
‘No, if I found them and they were dead I’d get nicked.’
Smudge stopped in his tracks. That was odd.
‘No you won’t,’ he replied. ‘You’ll have to make a statement but why would you get nicked?’
‘Cos I’ve got a criminal record,’ mumbled Bishop.
Smudge was about to argue when a cry stopped him.
‘We’ve found them, we’ve found them.’ A young man, looking terrified, was running towards them, having burst out of the trees about twenty yards away.
Bishop took off in his direction, followed by the much larger and slower Smudge.
‘If you get there before me, keep them away from the girls,’ Smudge called to Bishop.
Bishop reached Kevin first and followed him into the wood. They joined Matthew who was sitting close to the clearing. Bishop made to step over him as if to get nearer to the bodies, but Kevin blocked him, telling him to stay away.
As Smudge caught up he panted, ‘How are they, how are the girls?’
‘They’re fucking dead,’ replied Bishop, despite not having been into the clearing.
Kevin pointed, wordlessly indicating where the girls lay. Smudge stepped across to see more clearly. It was incredibly difficult to see through, but he could just make out a figure, wearing pink, lying in the clearing.
Despite his size, Smudge belly-crawled through the bracken to be sure of what he had seen and to check if both girls were there and if they could be saved. As he broke through the bushes, he saw a sight that would give him nightmares to this day.
Nicola was on her back with her legs up. The bruise to her face and frothy blood on her nostrils told him that she had died a violent death.
Karen was lying at a right angle to Nicola, with her head facing down on her friend’s lap, lying on her left arm. The girls’ hands were practically touching and both appeared to be sleeping. Smudge shuffled forward and felt each girls’ neck for a pulse. There was none and, feeling how cold they were, he knew they were dead.
A coded message had already been agreed should any officer find the girls. These are commonly benign requests or updates that carry great meaning to those in the know but pass almost unheard by those out of the loop. Like the press.
‘Charlie Bravo 152, can I have an RV with Superintendent Tomlinson in the woods by the pavilion,’ Smudge transmitted, knowing the state of alert that short message would have sparked.
He stayed put but gave his helmet to Matthew, telling him to rush down to the field and wave it like mad to show the approaching cavalry where he was. Hearing the message, officers dashed towards Smudge. Little did any of them know that being driven around that very area was Michelle Hadaway. She told the driver to stop then watched in horror at the explosion of activity, which could mean only one of two things. She became distraught but thankfully a nearby policeman dashed over to her and arranged for her to be taken straight home.
Having ordered the immediate vicinity to be sealed off and for the families to be prewarned, Dave Tomlinson made a beeline for the pavilion and, seeing the waving helmet, made his way up towards the trees.
He scrambled up the path until he came across Smudge, Kevin, and Bishop. Matthew followed on.
Tomlinson did not know any of them but was struck by how two of the young men seemed utterly devastated yet the third showed no reaction at all. He would later discover the impassive one to be Russell Bishop. Smudge pointed to where the bodies lay but, like him, Tomlinson could not see clearly. He dropped down the track, following its path in a semicircle before he could fully view the horrific scene. Both junior and senior officer hid their distress and arranged for the crime scene to be properly sealed and guarded, while they ushered away Bishop, Kevin and Matthew from the immediate area back to the park.
Barrie Fellows was walking down Newick Road towards the police box with his brother Kevin when he noticed the activity. His heart in his mouth, he stopped a passer-by.
‘Have they found them?’ he enquired desperately.
‘Yes,’ said the man, looking relieved.
‘Are they OK?’
‘Yes, they are cold and wet but OK.’
Barrie and Kevin picked up their pace to hopefully savour a reunion with Nicola at the police box. The inquisition could wait. As he stepped through the door, the hush hit him. Awkward looks. No sign of relief.
‘Mr Fellows, would you like to come through here?’ urged an officer, taking his arm to guide him into a small back office.
He did not need telling. The faces of the officers, struggling to find the words, told him all he had to know. A primal rage erupted in him and in sheer grief and despair he roared, his arms flailing at no one and everyone.
Kevin tried to grab him, restraining and comforting his brother in a loving bear hug, but Barrie was too strong, flinging him away and breaking his arm.
After the outburst of emotion, he calmed down, at least on the outside. His world had crashed around him and he still knew none of the details.
‘Whatever you do,’ he cried, ‘don’t tell Sue. I need to tell her. Promise me you won’t.’
The officer nodded a promise, leaving Barrie and Kevin to stagger back home. As he was just yards from his front door, he heard the shriek come from inside. He knew, in that moment, the police could not even do that one thing for him. He dashed inside and took the shattered Sue in his arms, vowing never to forgive the police for breaking their word.
Back at the police station, a double murder enquiry was under way.