He was wrong. In the event, nothing did break. I carried out the inspector’s instructions regarding the renewal of house-to-house interviews, around the area of the school. No luck there. Solihull was a small suburban town, on the outskirts of Birmingham. Very chic, and very upmarket, with fashionable shops displaying all the latest designer clothes. The kind of place I personally would like to live in if ever I could afford it. But I did gain the impression from talking to people that its inhabitants were somewhat insular, to say nothing of superior.
After spending some time with colleagues, including Sergeant Corkhill, on the re-interviews, I then visited the school and spoke with the headmistress to seek permission to show the photofit picture to some of the children. She didn’t disagree; she just thought it might be a better idea if I showed it to the parents, who would have been waiting for their children shortly before the incident occurred. It was a good suggestion. I waited outside the school for a while, until the parents started arriving to collect their youngsters, and then spoke with a number of them and showed them the photofit. I struck lucky. One of the ladies waiting for a child to exit the school clearly remembered a man bearing that – or a similar – description asking her, a few days earlier, if she was the mother of the little girl with the blonde hair. He said he was looking for her, so she pointed her out to him, thinking nothing more of it.
She looked at the picture again, then said: “There’s something wrong with the eyes. “There’s no life in these eyes; the man I remember had staring eyes – grey, staring eyes – like he could see right through you.”
“Weren’t you suspicious?” I asked.
“Well, no. He was nice enough. I never thought he was after a child. I mean, why should I?”
“And you didn’t think to mention this to the police?”
“They never asked me.”
“Jesus!” I thought. A child goes missing from the same school as her daughter, a strange man approached her a couple of days earlier – and she didn’t think it important enough to inform the police? “Do you think you might recognise him, if you saw him again?” I asked her, patiently.
“Oh. I’m not sure about that. I mean, I’m fairly certain from the picture it was the same man - especially if you get the eyes right. But if you’re talking about an identity parade – well, that’s a different matter, isn’t it?”
“What about his accent? Would you say he was from the Midlands area?”
“Oh, yes. I’m positive about that. He had a very pronounced accent.”
Sometimes I despaired! But it had given me an idea, though. After I had taken her details I set off to visit Josephine’s mother, hoping to get to her before Jim was scheduled to talk with them about the television interview. The Marsdens lived approximately two miles from the school, in a largish detached house, set back some distance from a tree-shaded road.
Mrs Marsden was far too distressed to get much sense out of; she was virtually on the point of hysteria, continually berating herself for being late at the school that day. It was Mr Marsden who was the calmer of the two. He sat his wife down on the lounge sofa and put his arm around her.
“I’m afraid you’re not going to get much sense out of either of us at the moment. But I’ll do my best. How can we help you, Sergeant?”
He was a kindly man, rather dull, really, as you’d expect from an accountant – especially one with his own practice. He was showing all the understandable lines of stress on his face. He couldn’t have been much older than 30, but today he looked closer to 40. Worry lines were etched down his cheeks and his eyes had a haunted look about them.
“I want to ask your wife about her car,” I began by saying.
“Her car? Why? What’s that got to do with anything?” His eyes opened wide in an expression of amazement. “Our daughter’s missing and you want to talk about Susan’s car? I don’t believe this.”
I gave a helpless shrug. I had very little experience in dealing with the victims of tragedy. “I’m sorry, Mr Marsden. I know it seems a bit weird, but if you’ll bear with me it will become clearer. What I want to know, if she can remember, is: did your wife have any trouble with her car before the day in question?”
“Will you please stop talking about me as though I’m not here,” his wife said in irritation, her voice shaking. “And the answer is no I didn’t. I can tell you that for certain because it’s only six months old and it’s never given us any problems. Before that day, that is. Why?”
I ignored the question and continued with my interrogation. “And who takes Josephine to school in the mornings?”
“I do,” Mr Marsden confirmed.
I looked towards his wife. “And did you have the car checked out later? To find out why it wouldn’t start?”
“Yes. I did.” Mr Marsden said. “I rang the AA that same afternoon. I came home early, saw the car was still parked in the garage and no sign of Susan. I tried to start it, but nothing. So I assumed my wife had gone with one of the other mothers to pick Josephine up. I just didn’t think.”
“Did they say what the problem was?”
He pondered the question for a moment before replying. “Funny, now I think of it. They said some wire or other had come loose – don’t ask me which one. But I do remember now the mechanic asked me if I thought the car had been vandalised. Which, of course, was silly. We keep it in the garage - and it’s got central locking, so I doubt anyone could have tampered with it. It was just one of those things, I suppose. There doesn’t have to be an explanation.”
“Could anyone have got into the garage?” I asked. “During the night, I mean?”
“Well, I imagine so. It’s hardly Fort Knox.” He gazed at me, the picture of bewilderment. “But why would anyone want to break in and then steal nothing?”
“To disable your car?” I proffered. “To make certain Mrs Marsden would be late for school that afternoon? To enable whoever it was to persuade your daughter he was a friend of the family – or a taxi service, even – who had come to take her home because Mummy’s car had broken down? It’s possible isn’t it?”
“Jesus! You’re saying whoever did this planned the whole thing? It wasn’t a chance abduction?”
“No. I’m not saying that, Mr Marsden. I’m just exploring theories; and I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have brought them up in front of you and your wife. You’ve got enough to worry about, without me adding to it. But what I do think is wrong, Mrs Marsden – and, believe me, I know what I’m talking about – is that you’re still blaming yourself for the car not starting that day. Believe me, it was no fault of yours.”
“Thank you,” she sobbed. “Thank you for that. You will let us know as soon as you’ve any news about Josephine, won’t you?”
I breathed a sigh of relief as I left the house. That had been incredibly stupid of me, and I almost blew it. As it was I didn’t feel I had done too much damage; or, at least, I’d been able to limit it. I gave the garage a cursory inspection, but it revealed nothing. But then, if our man were as clever as I thought he was, he would hardly leave any trace of entry.
But now, at least, I had a connection. And once again it confirmed – to me, at least – that Connie’s vision was authentic. Evidently, just as she had intimated, this appeared to be our man. It went further than that. It also proved that, whoever he was, he wasn’t your average impulse paedophile. This man planned things, almost down to the last detail; which in turn prompted the thought that he must have also planned the endgame. I felt myself shudder; the prospect of the Marsdens never seeing their daughter alive again suddenly crossed my mind.