Two days later we were hit with a tidal wave of publicity. As the superintendent had predicted, the press were soon in the picture, and, along with the television crews, they were camping once again on our doorstep – Steelhouse Lane was a Police Station virtually under siege. Peter had a slight altercation with one of the national press boys who persisted in trying to take his photo. It took Frank Kewell to rescue the situation. As for me, I preferred to use the back entrance to the station, but even that was soon discovered, leaving us with no clear entrances. It wasn’t long before complaints started to arrive ‘upstairs’ from the uniform boys – the main one being that they were unable to pop out of the station for a sneaky smoke.
Jim quietened things down somewhat by giving a press conference, confirming that the offender was the same man responsible for the murders of the seven girls four years ago, and saying that, although Josephine’s body had not been found, we now had every reason to believe that she was dead – murdered. Frank had already revisited the Marsdens the previous day to break the bad news about their daughter, strongly advising them not to attend a further television interview.
Mr Marsden maintained a tight grip on his emotions during Frank’s visit. Mrs Marsden wasn’t so resilient; she was overcome with grief at the news of her daughter. I felt almost as sorry for poor Frank. How do you tell a family there is no longer any hope?
So far, our enquiries into missing children were incomplete, although the police files from the districts that had responded had reported six possible victims – again, all of them girls. We were still awaiting a response from other forces throughout the country.
The time I was spending with Paul, looking into the question of whether or not the felon had ever spent time in psychiatric treatment, I undertook partly at Ashworth House and partly at Forest Hills, to enable Paul to carry out his other duties. It also allowed me to maintain a cursory eye on Connie, who was by now receiving the full-time attentions of a young probationary police constable by the name of Steve Harrison. He was only a couple of years older than Connie – quite good-looking, in fact – and, from what I could determine, even from my first introduction, he was well smitten. He was also something of a fitness fanatic, probably even a weight lifter, so his presence at the half-way house was very reassuring.
The results of our enquiries so far didn’t appear promising; this was not entirely unexpected, since Paul was pretty well convinced our man was not mentally ill. We were following a procedure of searching computer records, some of them going back over 20 years. The problem, really, was knowing where to look geographically. On a national basis it was like looking for the proverbial single needle in a field of haystacks.
So far we had identified about a dozen people who, more or less, fell into Paul’s category, but for one reason or another we had to disqualify them all. For instance, there was a patient who, at the age of 15, had sexually assaulted then murdered his sister. A possible profile, I thought; until I checked further and discovered he was still hospitalised, some 20 years later. Another had tried to rape a young girl in the school lavatories. He had managed to avoid the attentions of the police only because social workers had recommended psychiatric treatment. For a short while this one held out some real promise; but, as the timeframe would make him about 30 by now, his age ruled him out. Also, he had – unfortunately – attempted to murder a fellow patient and had been committed to Broadmoor. And so it went on, this authorised voyeurism into the minds of very sick people. It was beginning to make me feel distinctly queasy.
“Do you think we’re wasting our time?” I questioned, after we had exhausted the records from the Northwest area. “If, as you say, he isn’t mentally ill, how will these psychiatric institutions possibly have a record of him? The possible suspects I’ve singled out so far have all got specific mental illnesses.”
“Because the ‘symptoms’ he might have exhibited at the time could easily have led
psychiatrists and other mental health doctors to assume he was mentally ill. It’s a fairly common assumption, Angie, particularly when you consider how unpalatable the alternative diagnosis is: that they might be treating a potentially dangerous psychopath who’s not so much sick as truly evil.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” I agreed. “But my problem is: how will we know if it’s our man or not – if they’ve misdiagnosed him?”
He sighed and treated me to one of his patronising smiles. Actually, and I wouldn’t dream of telling him this, that bloody smile of his was beginning to get on my nerves.
“We’ll know for a number of reasons,” he said. “First off, as a youngster, he’ll either have committed some relatively minor sexual offence, or he could have been seen by his own doctor – perhaps at the insistence of his parents – after displaying sexual deviances. You see, Angie, as I tried to explain before, these people don’t suddenly become paedophiles. The compulsions develop over time, almost to a predetermined pattern. Usually they start with a sexual fantasy about children – a picture they create in their minds, over which they can masturbate. In today’s world we see a lot of it coming from the Internet, where these miscreants can buy and download pornographic pictures of children with very little effort. That might sustain them for some considerable time, but eventually it’s not enough and they are forced to find other, more fulfilling avenues. More than likely this would consist of more pornographic pictures at first, followed by actual films of children in various sexual situations. Shall I go on?” he asked, spotting the look of disgust on my face.
“I don’t want to hear it,” I admitted. “But I don’t think I have any choice if I want to learn about these creatures.”
“Okay. When this kind of depravity eventually fails to satisfy their lust, as it must, they then begin watching little girls: in playgrounds, or parks, paddling pools especially, where the children are in a state of undress – anywhere they can observe without attracting attention. It has to be private enough for them to be able to masturbate otherwise the exercise is pointless. This is possibly where they first come to the attention of the medical authorities; remember, Angie, they’re still relatively young at this stage. So they’re passed from doctor to doctor, until finally a psychiatrist, or clinical psychologist, subjects them to longer-term treatment. That’s where we’ll find him if he has followed the usual pattern.”
“How old would he be in that stage of the progression?”
“Mid- to late teens typically.”
“How does he progress after that?” I asked.
“Well, with the help of professionals, and possibly some form of longer-term medication, he’ll probably be able to keep his urges at bay for quite some time; at least, till he can no longer be treated as a juvenile. Then he’ll make a quantum leap. His depravity, fuelled by his aggression, will expand and force him to abduct his first child. I won’t describe what’s bound to happen then, Angie. I doubt either of our stomachs is strong enough. All I will say is that he enjoys the experience; it exhilarates him, beyond anything he has ever felt before; it excites him far beyond even his wildest imaginings and expectations.
“And he learns from it. He soon realises that, to continue indulging his compulsions, he must take precautions. So he learns to hide the bodies. Of course, he may keep them for a while; this type is certainly not averse to necrophilia and other post-mortem sexual mutilations. At the same time he realises he has to control those elements of his character that could expose him: his anger, his aggression and his sexual desires must also be kept private from everyone. And, the longer he goes on without detection, the cleverer he becomes in disguising his compulsions, and the more children he will violate; and the more difficult it becomes to apprehend him.”
“And you believe we will find him in here?” I asked, pointing to one of the computer terminals.
He shrugged. “I can’t know that for certain. I do think it’s worth checking out though, if only to close down another avenue.”
“Paul, we could be here for ever, at this rate. So far, we’ve spent something like ten hours searching this thing, with no luck. When do we call it a day?”
This time he gave me a wry smile. “Yeah, I know. And you’re right. Do you want to stop?”
“It might be a sensible idea. And, when we continue, why don’t we narrow down the search? We know, for instance, that he has a predilection for the West Midlands, despite your comments about his mobility and his possibly phoney accent. If you think about it, Paul, three of the girls we found in the cesspit were from this area, and the last one was from Solihull. Now, I realise that, to you, it may not in itself be very significant; sure, he could possibly visit this part of the world regularly on his business travels. But I’d say he’s drawn here for some reason; maybe he lives here now or maybe he keeps returning to where he was born and raised.” I looked at him quizzically. “So, what do you think? Am I making any sense?”
“Yes. You’re making a lot of sense, Angie. Even if you’re wrong, I still agree we should concentrate on the West Midlands as a priority, for all the reasons you’ve spelled out. After that, if nothing comes up, we can always widen our search progressively over time. Let’s get back to it, shall we?”
I groaned aloud and leant forward on the desktop, placing my head in my arms. “Jesus, Paul, don’t you ever stop? I’m whacked – I’ve got computeritis!”
He chuckled, then said, “Okay, young lady. We’ll call it a day, then. Can you allocate some time tomorrow?”
“No. Sorry, Paul. I’ve invited Connie to spend a couple of nights at my place, and I don’t want to let her down – especially since we’re only dealing in long shots here. Can we pick it up on Monday, at Ashworth House?” I suggested, still holding my prostrate position on the desk.
“If you like. But it will have to be around lunchtime. I have a conference here in the morning. Does that suit you?”
I struggled to my feet, yawning. “Great! Gives me a chance of a lie-in at least. See you Monday; I’ll be having a sandwich with Connie. Goodnight, Paul.”
Then I got the hell out of there fast, before he could think of anything else for me to do.