The flashing lights of the police vehicles, even in semi-daylight, could be seen at least a half a mile away from the discovery scene; four squad cars and a couple of unmarked vehicles were parked around the site. Some of the other police officers were in a field, at the side of the road, which I saw could be entered via a five-barred gate. The ubiquitous yellow police tape was already spread around the site, passing through the entrance and marking off an area inside the field itself. A lone tractor stood some little distance away, and a man I took to be the farmer was smoking a cigarette and talking to one of the constables.
It was an eerie scene, silent and virtually without air, almost as if it were a sanctuary. One thing I noticed immediately was the absence of birds chirping their early morning chorus. It was probably too bloody early, even for them, I thought, still rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I followed Frank Kewell and Jim into the field, feeling nauseous at the prospect of what awaited us. The child’s clothes, far from being scattered in disarray, had been folded neatly in a small pile, just as a mother would do before putting her daughter to bed. The red shoes were set aside from the rest of the clothes; they were patent leather with a buckle-over clasp, and I noticed a single speck of dirt on one of the toes. I was tempted to lean over and wipe it clean, as if it were hallowed ground. I pulled up when Jim grasped my arm, and instead choked back a tear, struggling for control. From the description we already had it was fairly clear that these were Josephine’s belongings.
We all stood back and let the SOCOS and the forensic people do their job: photographing and then labelling each item of clothing, then bagging it for further examination. I stood there, sharing the silence, whilst Jim went across to speak with the farmer.
Those clothes, those tiny items, were the only pitiful legacy of a child’s life. Strangely, I didn’t feel as I had done at the murder scene all those years ago, when I had wondered whether or not I was cut out for the police force. This time I felt only a slow, burning anger, and a determination to do everything in my power to catch this bastard – this sick, bestial monster that could do that to a little girl – because, looking at the evidence, it was fairly obvious that we would never find Josephine alive. But right at that moment I don’t think I had ever felt so diminished, so frustratingly helpless.
Jim came over after talking to the farmer.
“The clothes were left here sometime between nine last night and five this morning. The farmer always checks the gate, more or less at those times, so he’s pretty confident. Whoever left them had to have come here by car; it’s too isolated to get here on foot. But why here, in this particular field? And why did he lay the clothes out so tidily? I can’t get my head round that; does it make any sense to you?”
“Because he knew they’d be found quickly. And that’s what he wanted. I think he was trying to leave us a message.”
“Okay. But why? And, if you’re right, what kind of message?”
“Remember what Connie said: that he was laughing at the police. This seems to bear that out. Maybe it’s a challenge. You know: a ‘catch me if you can’ message? Also,” I added as an afterthought, “he might be trying to confuse us – you know, make us believe that he lives in this neck of the woods.”
“Yeah, well, maybe we’ll get lucky. Hopefully he’ll have made a mistake and left some evidence. Won’t hold my breath though.”
“What about the Marsdens, Jim? Are we going to tell them anything?”
“No. Not just yet. We’ll check the forensics first; once that’s complete we’ll ask the Marsdens to come to the station to see if they can identify the clothing – or the shoes.”
He rubbed his hand across his eyes, a gesture more of futility than anything. It was as if the pleasures we had shared a few hours ago were now something in the distant past, subordinated by the awful reality of paedophiliac murder. “I’ll organise a search of the surrounding area; see if he’s left us anything there. Otherwise, there’s not much more we can do here. Come on, Angie; let’s get back to the station. I think we need some specialist help on this one.”
“What kind of help?” I enquired.
“Profiling help.” (Great minds thinking alike!) “We need to involve a criminal psychologist; someone who might be able to give us an insight into this character. If you’re right, and I believe you are, then, whatever message the scene contains, it’s much too subtle for us to interpret.”
“You mean we’re out of our depth?”
He shrugged. “Precisely. And I make no apology for that. In fact, it would be arrogant not to admit it.”
I touched his arm before getting into the car.
“I agree with you, Jim. About the profiling. I did quite a bit on it at university, so I do know something about it. Doesn’t make me an expert – but I know just the man we need.”
He nodded his assent.
“You’re thinking of Dr Simmons – right?”
“Yeah. As well as being a psychiatrist, he told me once he’d worked on offender profiling. Apparently, he’s done some work in the past with the superintendent. And, as far as I know, he’s kept pretty well up to date with scientific developments in that area. So, unless you’ve got anyone else in mind, I’d say Dr Simmons is as good as anyone in that field.”
“Okay. Get hold of him soon as we get back. If he thinks he can crack this and he’s up for it, bring him in and I’ll brief him.”