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?”
“Actually, no I don’t.” He ran a hand through his hair, again as if he were trying to find the right words. “It’s not uncommon, you know, for people who were raised in the Catholic faith to carry forward the stain of ‘original sin’ into their daily lives. This is something the Church encourages in the family; it’s their way of controlling people all the way through the generations.”
“And what d’you suggest we do about it – apart from ensuring that the next generation is protected from this religious ‘disease’?”
This brought a smile to his face. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea. But I’m being serious, Angie. I believe that if it’s passed on through generations there is a danger of it becoming endemic. Worse still, it has been known to cause the more sensitive to become partly dysfunctional.
“In the case of Connie, you were just doing your job. Not a nice job, either, at the best of times. And you were trying to find a missing child; and then you found out the kid had been violated and brutally murdered. Which is fair enough – surely. And you seem to forget that the order to coerce the mother came not from you but from your superiors. And, from what you tell me, it’s not as if you did that all on your own! Your detective sergeant was with you – and he’s the senior officer after all.
“So, I don’t agree with you Angie. You weren’t at fault, any more than your Sergeant was. Responsible? All right, yes, partly. To blame? Absolutely not. As I said, you were doing your job. What you’ve got to ask yourself, though – and please don’t take this the wrong way – is whether you can really handle the more, um, unsavoury aspects of your job; whether you’re psychologically tough enough for a police career.” He paused once more, as if he was carefully selecting his words. At least it gave me some time to absorb the import of his little “lecture”.
“That nightmarish incident in the forest you told me about,” he continued. “It’s not going to be the last. There’ll be others just as nasty – probably in a different way, but just as vile. I’m sure you must have thought about that, Angie. And you know you’ll be expected to absorb the effect it’ll have on you – just as you are now. Look, I’m just an observer but all that disaster and human suffering… They come with the territory unless you can find a way to cut yourself off from it. Otherwise every nightmare situation you’re involved in is going to make you feel like this. You’ll just end up beating yourself up with the victim’s pain and distress – and it’ll get worse every time. Do you see I’m trying to say, Angie?”
“Christ!” I was thinking. “What’s he trying to do to me? I only came in for a friendly chat!” It was all I could do to nod my agreement.
“You certainly wouldn’t be the first officer to realise a future in the police is not for them.” He held out a hand, apologetically. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right. It’s really none of my damned business, because you’re not my patient, and you’ve every right to say so. I really am trying to act in your best interests though.”
Best interests? It sounded to me as though he was recommending that I should resign!
“I’m talking to you as a friend here, Angie – not as a shrink. I’ve watched you for a while now, and you’re trying to somehow take on Connie’s pain because of this overdeveloped sense of contrition. And I’m not about to apologise for worrying that you’re clothing yourself in some shroud of guilt.
“Jesus! You don’t pull your punches, do you?” I said, my mouth agape with astonishment.
“I did say ‘forgive me’ to start with,” he said, smiling. “The question is, though, whether I’ve struck any chords with you?”
I shook my head, trying to conjure up a balanced response to the good doctor’s analysis of my guilt complex. Eventually I replied, “I can’t really say whether you’re on the nail or not - as you know, Doctor, I’m hardly qualified to give a professional opinion.” All the while I was thinking: “What the hell has this got to do with you anyway?”
“Okay, I accept that I’ve a habit of going over the top,” I continued, “but surely that’s understandable if you think what we put poor Connie through. She was terrified of going into that woodland – and basically we blackmailed her poor mother into letting her daughter go with us, and sod the little girl’s fears. So I’m not too clear what you’re saying. Okay, you might have a point. Maybe my guilt feelings a bit much; the question is: how am I supposed to deal with them?”
I think I was actually having two conversations at the same time here. On the one hand I was talking rationally with the doctor, and on the other I was getting really bloody angry because he was treating me like a child.
He looked at me thoughtfully for a moment before continuing. “Well, the first step, Angie, is to recognise that there really is a problem. I’m not altogether sure I’ve even convinced you of that.”
“Bloody right you haven’t,” I thought.
“All I can suggest for now is that you keep in mind what I’ve said, and if you ever feel a need to talk I’m here for you. In the meantime, I hope I haven’t put you off seeing Connie; I know how much she looks forward to your visits and stopping them will do neither of you any good. Will you do that for me?”
“Of course. And there’s no way you could discourage me from visiting my friend –that’s what we’ve become, you know: close friends, even though she hardly knows who I am. And I do appreciate you’re only trying to help me.
“Mind if I ask you something, Dr Simmons?”
“No. Go ahead.”
“You’re not suggesting by any chance, are you, that I might have a psychiatric problem – you know, a potential mental illness?”
He shook his head vigorously as if to make his point. “No! No! No! Not at all, Angie. You misunderstand me. What I’m saying is that a trauma like the one you’ve just been through is bound to have a fundamental effect on your conscious mind – and maybe even your judgement. In your particular case, given your strong Catholic upbringing, it’s perfectly understandable that you’d associate personally with blame – it’s a kind of ‘sackcloth and ashes’ thing. And all I had in mind to help you, Angie, was for us to meet now and then and give you a chance to express yourself; to talk about whatever it is that’s bothering you. If you’d be up for that, I really believe it’ll help you tremendously to develop a sense of self-awareness.”
He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Well, I’ve said my piece; I’m just glad I apologised in advance! But seriously, I really do think you should recognise there’s a specific type of behavioural problem arising from deep traumatic shock that’s getting more and more common with personnel who’re in the line of fire, so to speak. Your profession’s probably at the top of our list of sufferers - and there’s a growing consensus in the psychiatric and psychology professions that this phenomenon should be accepted as a very real issue and dealt with accordingly. Especially in your case because – and I do hope you won’t mind me saying this – you’re still very young and therefore a lot more vulnerable than your older colleagues.”
I had to admit he had a point there.
“I don’t want to go on about it…”
“But you’re going to,” I interjected with a wry grin. He nodded sheepishly.
“Um, yes… As I said, having watched you with Connie over a period of time I’ve concluded that you’re not equipped to deal with this on your own. Would you at least grant me that?”
“Well, I can see the sense in what you’re saying. And if memory serves, the police service does have some kind of counselling facility… if you really think I need it.”
His face took on a cynical expression. “And how many of your fellow officers do you know who’ve used it?”
“Yeah, right. Point taken. We’d be as embarrassed as hell if we thought anyone knew we were seeing counsellors.” The thought came to me that he did talk some sense occasionally!
This brought a smile to his face – a welcome relief from the heavy stuff we had just dealt with.
“So,” he said, “shall we leave it open? If you ever feel the need to talk to a professional I’m here for you as a sounding board - and since you nearly always let us know in advance of your visits to Connie, I can usually fit you in if you feel like a chat. And if you don’t…well, that’s fine too.”
“Would you mind if I gave this some thought, Dr Simmons? Frankly, it’s all a bit of a shock. I think I need to come to terms with that first. Is that okay?” I was hoping that would be enough to get me off the hook!
He treated me once more to that warm smile of his, and then nodded his agreement. “It’s no big deal, Angie, believe me. Whatever you decide’s fine with me. Before you go, though, mind if I ask you one or two questions about Connie’s background?”
“No, course not. But I don’t know that much. I only got to talk with her mother a couple of times.”
“Did Connie or her mother ever mention Mr Rowden?”
“There never was a Mr Rowden. Sylvia told me she and Connie’s father were never married; apparently she was his housekeeper at the time and Connie was an accident – a one-night stand. She did mention that they left when Connie was about eight and moved into their present house. Other than that there’s not much I can tell you, except she did say that she and Connie didn’t like to talk about him.”
“Did she say why?”
“No. That’s all that was said, although they did exchange what I’d describe as a conspiratorial glance. Not that I could read anything into it. Why do you ask, doctor?”
“Because he’s become something of a mystery. In all the time his daughter’s been a patient here Connie’s father’s made no attempt to visit her - or even make any kind of contact. I’d have thought the least he could do was phone. But not a word. Must admit I find it a little worrying; it’s certainly unnatural in my experience.”
“Well, I got the impression that was never a real dad to her; as Sylvia said, she was just an accident - and it certainly isn’t as if she was the product of a meaningful relationship.”
He got up from his chair and ran his hand through his hair. “Perhaps you’re right… But, from what you tell me, she was a part of his world for eight years. Poor kid!” Sadly he shook his head. “She’s never known a real family and now she’s got this to contend with. I’m glad she’s got you as a friend – she certainly needs someone other than doctors and nurses,” he said, walking me to the door. “You will let me know what you decide, won’t you? And, please,” (he flashed me one of his lovely smiles again) “I don’t want you worrying about it. Okay?”
It wasn’t that easy, though. He had just put me through the wringer, psychologically speaking, and, to put it mildly, I felt exhausted and drained. I suppose I was also suffering from mild shock; it had never occurred to me before speaking with Dr Simmons that my feelings of guilt over Connie’s breakdown were not normal, and in fact should be dealt with professionally. I left the hospital feeling decidedly uneasy, for a number of reasons. Aside from the ‘counselling’ I had received, and its effect on my self-confidence, I was also – for some strange reason – remembering the question I had asked, rhetorically, that night in the woods. Had Connie visited the burial site before? Either that – for some obscure reason – was true, or else her psychic visions were absolutely genuine.
I made a mental note to make some further enquiries.