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.