It was 7.30 when I woke up, still feeling drained; it was that time of the month again, so it was just as well Jim hadn’t turned up last night. But ten minutes in the shower, with the hot water spraying my body whilst I washed my hair brought me almost back to normality.
I felt like a new woman as I set off for the station, completely reinvigorated, especially as the weather was fine, for a change; not exactly summery but not raining. Jim wasn’t in his office when I arrived, so I decided to take the initiative and open the various enquiry channels into our three candidates. Driving licences, social security records, voting registers, passport office, income tax, credit cards: a whole raft of recorded information that would pinpoint their addresses.
“What you up to, Angie?” I heard Frank ask, as I was feeding the required instructions into the computer. I smiled a ‘good morning’ but didn’t answer him until I had completed the task.
“Paul and I came up with some names from the mental health records. They’re just possibilities who might fit the evolutionary pattern of a homicidal sociopath. I’m following them up to see if we can find these characters.”
He took a seat and began checking the list. I instinctively turned my head away; Frank had always had something of a body odour problem, but it seemed to be getting stronger. “Bit of a long shot, isn’t it? These cases are ancient history.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “But that’s exactly what Paul suggested we search the records for, based on his experience that the type of paedophile we’re pursuing will have some kind of history.”
He shook his head, puzzled. “But why mental health? I thought he said our guy wasn’t mentally ill?”
“Patience!” I told myself, feeling the exasperation.
“He did, Frank. But he also reckons our killer’s activities could have been misdiagnosed as psychiatric in the early stages, when he was young. These three names fit that analysis.”
“Hmm. Interesting. It’s still a long shot, though… I don’t think we should be wasting our resources on it.”
“Frank, why don’t you get Jim to speak to Paul about this? He thought someone might say that - but he firmly believes it’s a valid line to follow. In the meantime, at least allow me to enquire superficially into these men – find out where they’re living and what they’re up to now.”
“I’ll do just that,” he responded irritably. “But let me remind you, Sergeant; we’ve had over 300 calls from the public – and they’ve all got to be followed up.” He waved a hand around the busy incident room. “Which is what these guys are doing. And, if you want to play with the computers, why don’t you ask if that list of missing children is complete; it’s taking a hell of a time.”
“I understand, Inspector,” I said caustically. “I’ll get right on to it.”
“Fuck me!” I thought, angrily. “It hasn’t taken him long to pull rank” – although, in fairness, we were all under a strain with this case, and we were virtually under permanent siege by the media, which didn’t help. I didn’t bother to correct Frank about the list of missing children; that it wasn’t something the computer could handle, and that we had a specially allocated team of four in the room looking into it.
The identity search for my three candidates, through the computers, was likely to take forever, so I joined the rest of the team in dealing with the public response, helping myself to one of the many lists on Peter Corkhill’s desk. He was still acting a bit strange towards me but there wasn’t a lot I could do about that. More than half the calls were from well-meaning people horrified at the bestiality of the previous crimes the newspapers referred to and anxious to help, but without having any positive information. A lot of the calls were from the inevitable cranks who were more intent on telling the police what we should do with ‘these bastards’ than helping us to apprehend them. And it all took up so much time; as quickly as we were dealing with the calls new ones were coming in, and it was hell just trying to keep up with them all. But no one complained; on the contrary, we needed the full support of the public on this one. All it would take would be the one telephone call: someone who had seen something, either up to the time of Josephine’s abduction or afterwards. In cases like these it very often depended on eyewitnesses for a successful conclusion, so we were particularly sensitive about discouraging the public from contacting us. Unfortunately, thus far, nothing of any substance had come through.
Later that morning one of the WPCs brought a computer printout across to me.
“I thought you might be waiting for this, Serge,” she said, placing it on my desk.
“Thanks, Sandra.” I replaced the receiver, after finishing yet another abortive call, and began to read the detail. It was the first response from my search enquires and it concerned Peter Driscoll, originally from West Bromwich. He was the playground rapist, I remembered. The report was very comprehensive, listing driving licence with current address, mortgage details, social security number, tax coding and an assembly of other meaningless information. There was no record of credit cards, so it was logical to assume he didn’t possess any. At the present time he was living in an end-terrace house in Handsworth, a suburb of West Bromwich. He was married with three children, and was employed as a bricklayer for a local building company; he drove a ten-year-old white van.
Obviously, Peter Driscoll was not our man. It appeared from his background details that he had reformed since his psychiatric treatment and had become a model citizen. “Good for him,” I thought, as I put a cross against his name. Two names to go.
The remainder of the day was spent largely on the telephone, dealing with the public response; needless to say nothing emerged, and I found it terribly frustrating. I looked over to where Sandra, the WPC was working, to check if she had had any further communications from my enquires. She shook her head to let me know nothing more had come in.
I gave Connie a ring shortly before I left the station. She was still out with PC Steve Harrison, but had called in to say they were staying out for supper. In a way I was relieved that she had found someone else in her life; it wasn’t healthy to be totally dependent on one person – as my mother had constantly told me.
So, it was back to the flat, another frozen meal in the microwave and a night in front of the telly. I was rather hoping Jim might have called, but I was disappointed. I did think of ringing him but then dismissed the idea. Still, a second early night wouldn’t do me any harm.
The next morning there was a further computer printout waiting on my desk. This one concerned Brian Ennisford, the Wolverhampton suspect who had attacked his sister, and had been diagnosed with probable schizophrenia. Evidently, after having attacked and raped another young girl four years ago, he had been committed to Broadmoor for an indefinite period. It had not come up on criminal records because it was determined, at the time, that he was unfit to plead, and he had therefore been declared criminally insane.
“Another one gone,” I thought, crossing his name off. That left only one possible remaining, and so far nothing had come through on him. I checked my list again. Arnold Brownlaw from Edgbaston, Birmingham. Three rapes against young girls, youth custodial sentence, followed by three years in psychiatric hospital. “Where are you now, Arnold?” I wondered. At the same time I realised that, if he came through blank, it would be back to the computer for Paul and me; more burning the midnight oil and searching medical records in other parts of the country. I shuddered. Most of the time, I had come to realise, detective work was just plain, bloody hard graft, with little or nothing to show for it at the end.
“Ange!” Jim shouted from the door of his office. “Got a minute?”
I was glad of the interruption, dreading having to go back on the phone to Mr and Mrs General Public; I didn’t think my nerves were up to it.
“You didn’t ring me,” I glared at him.
“What? Oh, yeah; sorry, Ange. I didn’t leave here till gone eleven.” He grinned sheepishly, putting a hand to my face. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
He glanced down at his desk, then picked up a handwritten sheet of paper. “The results are in from the remaining county forces.” I must have had a puzzled look on my face. “The missing children Paul asked us to investigate – remember?”
“Sorry. I wasn’t with you. What’s the total?”
“In all, during the last four years, 16 young girls have gone missing between the ages of seven and ten. And that’s after we drew a line north of Leeds.”
“Jesus! You mean they simply went missing without a trace? And no one has connected them?”
“There’s no evidence to connect them. Even now we don’t know for certain that they are connected. All we know for sure is that they’re listed as missing. We’re looking into the details of each child now to establish the individual circumstances and see if there’s a common denominator.” He sighed. “Ange, we can’t get carried away with this. For all we know these children could have been snatched by one or other of their parents. Right now, we don’t even know for certain if foul play’s suspected. All I can tell you is that the usual procedures were followed in each case. No signs of violence – at least visible violence – and so we have no suspects, other than estranged fathers who can’t be traced.”
He passed the list on to me with the comment: “As you can see, quite a number of the missing children were the subject of extensive searches – as you’d expect. But they were never found. So, ‘Let’s be patient,’ is what I’m saying. What I’d like you to do is to contact the relevant police force and speak to whoever was handling the case. Get as much information as you can. You’ll need some help, so I’ve assigned two constables to work with you. And, whatever you do, Angie, please don’t let whoever you speak to know we’re trying to tie all these cases together.”
“Of course not. I don’t want to be responsible for starting an even bigger national panic. I’ll get on to it.”
“Any luck with your medical suspect list?” he asked innocently, knowing damned well I would realise Frank had been talking to him.
“Piss off, Jim!” I grinned. “But there is something I need to chat to you about; I wanted to yesterday but you were conspicuous by your absence, as they say.”
He pointed towards a chair. “Sounds serious. You’d better take a seat.”
I gave him an outline of Connie’s story about the vision she had related to me after her discharge from the hospital, including her own explanation that this was an event that had yet to happen. I then added my own concerns that, although I hadn’t a clue what – if anything – we could do about it, it wasn’t something we could dismiss. Connie’s visions were never to be treated lightly.
Jim pondered the information for a while, saying nothing. I was glad that he wasn’t rejecting the story as something from the mind of a disturbed child. I must admit that had occurred to me.
“And she says she has no details of where or when this event is likely to take place?” he asked eventually. “Or even if it’s definitely going to happen?”
I shook my head.
“Well, I think you were right to mention it to me, but I’m a bit like yourself; I haven’t a clue what we do about it…” He raised a hand. “And, no, I’m not dismissing it; we know the young lady too well for that. I just don’t see what positive action we can take that we aren’t already taking, other, perhaps, than stepping up our warnings to parents to be ever vigilant, especially in or around children’s playgrounds. Do you?”
“No, of course not. I just think it would be terrible if we did nothing and it happened. Connie would never forgive us.”
It was Jim’s turn to shake his head. “I doubt the parents would, either. But if it really is some kind of portent then I don’t see we can do anything to stop it happening in any case. I doubt even Connie can change destiny – that’s if you believe in that sort of thing. Look, Ange; let’s keep a watchful eye on it, shall we? We’ve been alerted to the possibility; now we’ll just have to be ready to move fast if it happens.”
I sighed. He was right, of course. The best we could do in the circumstances was preparation.
* * * * * * * * * *
Back at my desk I checked the list he had given me. Of the 16 children, nine were from a circumference around the West Midlands, as far as north Staffordshire to Warwickshire in the south. Of the remaining seven, two were from Shropshire, three from Worcestershire; one was from Northampton and one from Nottinghamshire. Each of the last two had involved the army in massive searches on land and water, but with no sign of the children. All of them fell within the proximity of Birmingham. I sighed and tried to follow Jim’s suggestion not to get carried away. It was very difficult. It was going to be another long day, I thought, as I began listing the various police telephone numbers. I passed Worcester and Northampton on to PC Rodney Blake, a 20-year-old rookie, and WPC Sandra Fletcher, a patrol officer who was trying to make it into CID. They were both keen to be involved.
I took Stafford, which was the earliest of the cases, dating back a little over four years, and managed to speak with a DS Peterson, who had been involved in the case. There was no information of any consequence – at least nothing that could definitively link the child’s disappearance to our paedophile. The little girl, a Pamela Stretford, aged nine, had simply gone missing from her home one afternoon. Her mother had been upstairs, taking a bath. She had heard nothing, but when she came down Pamela had gone. There were no witnesses, it was broad daylight, and no one was seen loitering around the house at any time up to the incident. It was a complete mystery. The mother was convinced her estranged husband had snatched the child, however. An all points bulletin, or APB, had immediately been issued, but to no avail. The husband was never found, and it was presumed he had gone abroad with his daughter. Given the circumstances, the case was only ever designated under ‘missing persons’; foul play was not suspected. It could have been our man, but then, on the other hand, it could just as easily be a case of parental abduction. Unless we apprehended our killer and he confessed, I doubted if we would ever know.
I scribbled the appropriate notes in the file, then tried Nottingham. Three years ago Laura Sinton, aged eight, was abducted from a public swimming baths. She was a member of a supervised children’s swimming group; the session had finished and Laura, a little early in dressing, was waiting outside the main entrance for her mother to collect her. She disappeared.
This incident did bring forward a witness, however. Evidently there was a car park opposite the baths, and the attendant had observed a man acting suspiciously. He was seen entering the baths partway through the session, which the attendant thought was odd because parents never showed up that early. Unfortunately, he was mistaken; the man came forward and verified that he was, in fact, the father of one of the children. “So much for that,” I thought. Apart from that, there were no other witnesses; no clues of any description. It was as if little Laura had vanished into thin air without trace. The detective inspector I spoke to took me through the police investigation in some detail. All the usual avenues were explored, including questioning locally registered paedophiles, and the case – as expected – received a tremendous amount of publicity, none of which produced any results. Eventually, as happens, the case fell off the front pages, and although the file remained open no further information was obtained.
As I expected, the DI asked me what our interest was in this case. I decided to ignore Jim’s suggestion, and I more or less told him the truth: that we had a missing child and we had reason to suspect that other abductions might be involved. He sympathised and wished me luck; he also asked if I would keep in touch, and I promised I would.
So, once again, the case paralleled that of Josephine; but there was no firm evidence to definitively link them.
In the meantime, my two helpers were also drawing blanks, with similar stories from the areas they had contacted. If I were looking to connect the disappearances of all these children, I wondered if it was enough that the commonality was they had all disappeared without trace? As far as I was concerned that was definitely a common denominator – children vanishing into thin air without trace, when the standard pattern with missing children was for the body to eventually turn up. But I could hardly act on that assumption.
I took a break and went out for some air to clear my head. It was the case, not the atmosphere in the incident room that was suffocating me. It was so bloody frustrating, and I told myself that if I weren’t careful it would freak me out. All those missing children, presumed dead, probably murdered, and parents trying to grieve over them with no bodies, no proper funerals, no graves to lay flowers. It choked me to think about it, and in a way it strengthened my resolve to catch this evil bastard.
When I returned to my desk the final printout on our third possible suspect was awaiting me: Arnold Brownlaw, from Edgbaston. He was my hot favourite: accused of three rapes and violent attacks on children; convicted of two of the charges; youth custody sentence for an indefinite period; and then three years spent as a secure inpatient at Smethwick Psychiatric Hospital.
Curiously, the report on Brownlaw was a complete blank. I read it twice to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. This cannot be right, I told myself. No address, no driving licence, no social security, no tax details or credit cards or employment records. Absolutely nothing, and since there were no passport details either it was logical to assume he hadn’t gone to live abroad. I shook my head, puzzled; I had never come across a complete blank before. Like the children, it was as if Arnold Brownlaw had disappeared into the mist.
I took it into Jim for his advice. He too shook his head.
“This doesn’t make any sense,” he concurred. “In this technological age it’s just not possible for someone to completely vanish. There has to be some record of him somewhere. Have you checked the deceased files? Even people of this character’s age do die prematurely, you know.”
“Oh, Christ. That never occurred to me. Sorry, Jim; I’ll get on to it right away.” There were times in this job when I had the strong feeling I wasn’t going to make it. This was one of them.
“Let me know, will you, Ange? Also, why not check if he’s changed his name by deed poll? There’s also another possibility to consider: he could have ‘borrowed’ the birth certificate of someone around his own age who died some time ago, as an infant maybe.”
I shook my head impatiently. “You mean like the Day of the Jackal film?” When he nodded, I quickly went on to enlighten him. “That’s old hat now, Jim. They’ve blocked that particular avenue.”
“I know. But he could have done it – say – ten or twelve years ago, before the loophole was closed….” Then he added, cryptically and – I thought – unnecessarily: “Don’t you think?”
I felt my face colouring at my stupidity. “So, I’ll stop trying to be clever, and check if there’s any way we can find that out.”
“Don’t expect miracles,” he warned me, more kindly. “That kind of deception’s almost impossible to trace. Remember I told you I had a funny feeling about this case? Well, it hasn’t gone away.”