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?