We were on site for a total of three days and three nights, the weather continuing to work against us. By now there was a total of approximately 70 police officers and emergency personnel actively involved in the operation. Huge arc lights were strung out all across the site, and there was almost as much equipment and lines of cabling as there were people. Overhead, we were constantly bombarded with the incessant noise of helicopters, landing and taking off as they ferried the bodies of the murdered children to the temporary morgue the superintendent had set up in a portioned-off area of the NEC building close to Birmingham Airport.
Extracting the victims was a slow and painful operation, and, in some instances, positively dangerous. During one retrieval the seat on the winch flipped up, tipping its occupant, together with his cargo, partway back down the shaft. In turn that created a further difficulty; the rescue worker concerned, unfortunately, had broken his back in the fall, and the paramedics, together with a stretcher, had to be lowered all that way down the shaft in order to rescue him. That incident added hours to the recovery process.
And in all that time the rain never relented. It was as if the dark, heavy clouds had gathered at the scene of death and were pouring out their contents from the sky in an effort to obliterate the obscenity of the little girls’ bodies. It was a distressing, even sickening experience, and more than a few of the duty officers from the emergency services had to be relieved due to the stress. The site by now was a quagmire and it was more like trudging through a swamp than the dustbowl it was when we first arrived.
To compound the difficulties, we were under permanent siege from a vast army of reporters and television cameras from the world’s media. Some of their helicopters had attempted to land on the site, and it wasn’t until Jim threatened to arrest them that they retreated to the nearby field. Eventually, even he had to give way to the barrage of questions hurled at us from the edge of the waste ground, through electronic speakers, by agreeing to be interviewed.
His statement was short but succinct: “My name is Detective Chief Inspector Robbins and I am the officer in charge of this operation. So far, all I am able to tell you is that a number of bodies of children – young girls - have been recovered from the bottom of the lift shaft. As to the final count, I am unable to give you that, as the work is still ongoing.
“We have evidence to suggest the children were murdered, and we are connecting them to the recent disappearance of two other children in the West Midlands area. But, so far, none of the victims has been identified.
“I will talk to you again just as soon as we have any further information, but, in the meantime, can I ask you please not to obstruct the police or emergency services in the performance of their duties. I have no further comment for now. Thank you.”
“Chief Inspector,” a reporter with one of the TV stations shouted. “Are you able to tell us how you knew where to look for the bodies?”
“I have no further comments to make at this stage,” Jim repeated.
This appeared to quieten them for a little while, but, as the rain persisted and the work carried on in atrocious conditions throughout the night, the press became more and more hungry for information, and the noise began to erupt once more. The TV Company from which the interviewer had asked Jim the question regarding our information about the burial site was the most persistent, practically demanding that he divulge his source. He continued to dodge the question by refusing any further comment.
Finally, by dawn on the third day, the rescue team was able to confirm that all of the bodies had been recovered. The scale of the numbers left us all dumbstruck and in a state of severe shock. There were 11 in total. It was mass murder on an almost genocidal scale, which I had never before witnessed – nor ever wanted to again as long as I lived. The horrors of the children in the woods four years ago almost paled into insignificance by comparison.
Jim prepared a further statement for the media, whilst I, together with one or two of the forensic team, retreated in an exhausted and traumatised state to the crime unit vehicle. At least my head was clearer – I think I was far too stunned to worry about the state of my health. We had just spent three of the most awful days imaginable at that site; I hadn’t even managed a change of underwear! True, we had portable toilet facilities, but there was literally nowhere to wash, and I hadn’t brushed my teeth for three days.
Whilst we had been all that time on-site Jim had been in constant communication with the superintendent at the National Exhibition Centre. One piece of news that did encourage us was that the vehicle set on fire in the airport car park was confirmed as that belonging to the offender from the child’s playground; the offside front tyre, still undamaged, was a match to the tread taken from the vehicle tracks in the park. Furthermore, various samples of fibres had been recovered from the areas left untouched by the fire, and forensics were optimistic they would reveal more confirmatory evidence.
As Jim had said: “We are tightening the noose.” Now the killer was without suitable transport, other than his own upmarket vehicle, and he had also just been deprived of his burial ground. My only concern was that, with the almost intolerable pressure of international press and television exposure, he would go to ground without a trace. That didn’t seem to worry Jim too much, as he quite rightly had commented: “Remember what I said, Ange: It will be solid police work that will catch him in the end. He certainly isn’t going to walk into the police station and give himself up. But, trust me, he will make another serious mistake.”
And so we carried on with standard police procedures. After finishing at the mine, the group of us, smelling as though we’d just come off a pig farm, flew back to Birmingham Airport, where Jim immediately went into discussion with the superintendent and the pathologists who had been drafted in to the temporary morgue.
I scrounged a lift in one of the squad cars and returned to Ashworth House. One of the only good things to have come out of that nightmarish experience was that my concussion seemed to have gone, although I was desperately in need of sleep after three days of catnapping. I let myself into an empty house. Connie had gone off to college, accompanied by her escort, whilst Sheila, no doubt, was out shopping; but she had forgotten to turn on the alarm system, and, since the other boarders had all been transferred following my altercation with the intruder, I was alone. So I made myself a cup of coffee and took it into my room, telling myself that after a long sleep – followed by a long-overdue bath – I would arrange to move back into my flat. I felt I needed my own space again, to say nothing of a man’s warm body next to me in my bed. I was asleep long before I thought of drinking my coffee.
* * * * * * * * * *
I was awakened from a deep drug-like sleep by the persistent ringing of the telephone. For what seemed an age I tried to ignore it, hoping either that it would cease, or that perhaps someone else would answer it. The problem for me was that it was the phone in the hall, almost immediately outside my bedroom. I groaned and stuck my head under the pillow, urging it to stop. It didn’t oblige, and in the end the incessant noise forced me to look at my watch; it was still only two o’clock – I had been asleep for only an hour. Cursing aloud, I dragged myself from the bed, put on my dressing gown and went to answer it.
“Yes?” I snapped.
“Did I wake you, bitch?” I heard a voice say – a man’s voice with a slight Midlands accent.
“Who is this?” I demanded angrily. “What do you want?”
By now I had resurfaced into something like normality. But, after the nightmare of the last few days, this was one shock I was really in no condition to handle. I heard myself saying, virtually on automatic pilot, “Is that who I think it is?”
He sniggered – contemptuously, I felt. “I just wanted to let you know, you and that other little bitch, that I’m coming for you next. I’m going to make you both suffer for your interference.
“And, in case you think you’re protected in that place, why not have a look round; you’ll soon see how easy it is for me to get at you both.”
That arrogant claim triggered off in me a pent-up rage that I’d forced myself to control for a long time now. I totally freaked out, not really aware of what I was saying to him. All I could think was, how dare that monster ring here and threaten Connie and me!
“Is that so? You sick bastard!” I retorted. “Well, you just remember this, psycho; we’re no more than a day away from arresting you! You’ve lost your transport, and you’ll know now we’ve uncovered your vile burial ground. You’ve got nowhere left to go, so you’re not gonna get the chance to touch me or Connie you... Scum!
“I’ve got a better idea for you, pervert. Why not call it a day and give yourself up. Because I’m coming for you, Arnold Brownlaw; and you have no place left to hide!”
He didn’t respond. Not a word. All I could hear was heavy breathing down the phone, as if he were gasping for air. I really believe my revelation had left him dumbstruck; I don’t think he was capable of speaking. He simply cut the call, leaving me to curse my indiscretions.
“You stupid, stupid bitch!” I reprimanded myself. How could I have been so moronic? I had completely lost it, in a moment of intense rage, when, as an experienced police officer, I should have been prepared for this kind of eventuality.
I tried to calm myself by getting dressed and going into the kitchen to make a coffee. I sat at the kitchen table, trying to collect my thoughts and wondering if there was anything I could to rescue the situation. I couldn’t think straight. Connie and I had just been threatened with our lives, and, instead of being shocked, or even frightened, I was still shaking with anger at his outrageous violation.
Deciding I was quite incapable at present of behaving like a professional, I did the only thing that came to me: I rang Jim on his mobile. He had to know of the damage I had caused, regardless of the personal consequences.
“Ange? I thought you said you were going to sleep until tomorrow? What’s up?”
I was hesitant, unsure of how to phrase my confession of stupidity.
“Ange...? What is it?”
“Jim. I don’t know how to tell you this but I’ve just had our psychopath on the phone.”
“What! At Ashworth House?”
“Yes. He woke me.”
“Christ! What the hell did he want?”
“He threatened me; Connie and me. He said he was coming after us - coming to kill us.”
“I don’t suppose you thought to trace the call, did you?”
“It’s the public phone in the hall. I don’t think it’s traceable. But, Jim – that isn’t really why I’m ringing you. I’m afraid I’ve fucked up, big time. I called him by his original name: Arnold Brownlaw. Jesus! I’m sorry, really sorry. He’d woken me up, I was feeling groggy and he was coming out with all sorts of vile threats about what he would do to us both – and I just went ape shit.”
“Well, you can stop blaming yourself for a start. Clearly, you were wrong to do what you did, Ange; but after what we’ve just been through I doubt either of us could have kept a cool head. So, knock it off, will you, and let’s think how we might turn this to our advantage.”
Good old Jim, I thought. I’d never known anyone who could impart reassurance so easily and so genuinely.
“Listen. Let me have the number of your public phone, will you? I reckon his call might still be traceable.”
“Okay. Give me a sec.” I went into the hall with my mobile in my hand, checked the number and passed it on to him.
“Fine. Let me get something moving on this – hang on...” I heard him giving instructions, and then he said, “Ange, is Connie there with you?”
“No. She’s at college. Don’t worry, Jim; Steve Harrison is with her.”
“Right; what I want you to do, if you’re feeling okay, is go and check out her bedroom. See if she’s had an intruder; I’m puzzled as to where he got that telephone number. Can you do that?”
“I’m alright, honestly. A bit shaken, and still knackered, but other than that I think I can cope. I’ll get back to you shortly.”
* * * * * * * * * *
I climbed the stairs to Connie’s room with some trepidation. The thought that that monster might have gained entry into the house disturbed me considerably. But when I looked at it logically I realised it would not have proved that difficult. I remembered that when I arrived back from the airport the burglar alarm was off; I was too tired then to give it much attention, but I do recall now reminding myself to have a word with Sheila about it. And, to make sure I wasn’t completely off the wall, I checked to ensure I had turned it on when I closed the front door. I was relieved to note that in fact I had – so part of the policewoman in me was still functioning.
Connie’s door was unlocked: something I also found worrying – except that, when I went in, everything appeared to be in order. Her bed was made up neatly, and there were no unwashed clothes visible. Her bathroom, at least from the door, seemed to be orderly and tidy – most unlike a teenager, I thought. But when I went inside I saw a message scrawled on the bathroom mirror, probably written with a lipstick the colour of blood. The message, threateningly, spelt out a warning to Connie:
‘YOU’RE NEXT, BITCH’
“Oh, shit!” I said to myself. Jim was right. The bastard had gained entry. I rang him back from the bedroom and quickly put him in the picture.
“Where’s Sheila?” he said, quickly.
“I...I don’t know, Jim. I thought she’d gone shopping. When I came back I more or less went straight to bed.”
“Were the alarms switched on?”
“Well, no; as a matter of fact they weren’t. Do you think something might have happened to her?”
“Oh, fuck!” he yelled. “Ange, listen to me: I want you out of the house. Understand? Don’t touch anything. Just leave. Now. I’m on my way.”
The connection broke and I found myself instinctively following his instructions. I ran down the stairs and out into the street. I didn’t even stop to close the door. All I could think was: “No, please; don’t let anything have happened to Sheila.” And then I wondered if Jim thought the psychopath might still be in the house. He could easily have used a mobile from one of the other rooms to ring the hall phone. I shuddered at the prospect.
A whole train of thoughts raced through my head. How had he got in? Why was the alarm system turned off? And where was Sheila? Then it suddenly hit me. He hadn’t broken into the house. He had simply rung the doorbell and Sheila had let him in. But why? She was under the strictest instruction not to open the door to anyone she didn’t know personally.
And where was she now?
“Oh, my God!” I said out loud as I realised the truth. Sheila was still in the house. She was dead! That, and the message he had left for Connie, was what he was telling me on the phone. I was still reeling from the shock as I heard the police sirens. A few moments later Jim arrived, accompanied by Frank Kewell and Peter Conway. A second squad car pulled in shortly afterwards, followed by an ambulance. The four officers exiting from the second vehicle were, I noticed, from the armed response unit. Their automatics were already at the ready.
“Have you touched anything, Ange?” Jim asked.
I shook my head in a daze. “No. I got out when you said to. I think he’s killed Sheila. That’s what he was trying to tell me on the phone, wasn’t it?”
Jim nodded and then turned to the paramedics. “Take care of her, will you. She’s had a hell of a shock.”
“No, Jim,” I insisted forcefully. “Stop treating me like an invalid. Sheila’s my friend; I’m going back in with you.”
“Okay. If you’re sure that’s what you want.” He then signalled to the officers from the ARU vehicle. “Go ahead of us,” Jim ordered. “Let us know when it’s clear.”
The officers didn’t speak. They nodded a silent communication to each other, then, in military fashion, they softly opened the front door and moved in. Some minutes elapsed before they emerged. One of them, presumably the senior officer, said to Jim, “Clear to enter, sir. No intruders. One body; female; first floor rear bedroom. Badly mutilated.”
“Thank you, officer. You can stand down.” He turned to me. “Are you sure about this, Ange? You heard what the officer said. This is going to be pretty sickening.”
“I want to see her,” I said. “I want to witness first-hand what this monster’s capable of. And she looked after me when I needed her; the least I can do, now she’s dead, is to look after her. I’m coming in with you, Jim.”
“Okay, guys. Tread carefully; I don’t want anything disturbed before forensics get here. Ange;” (he gripped my arm tightly) “you stay at the back.”
* * * * * * * * * *
It took only a glance at the scene in the bedroom for me almost to lose my grip. It was one of the most appalling sights I believe I had ever witnessed – worse even than the bodies in the mine shaft - Sheila’s body was spread eagled across the bed, naked and covered in blood from slash wounds. The bedspread, part of the floor, and even one of the walls were all spattered with blotches of her blood. Her legs had been deliberately left wide open, bent at the knees at an obscene angle, too clearly visible, and a knife wound extended from her genital area up to her abdomen. Her eyes were wide open, an expression of terror still evident, and a secondary stain covered the blankets where she had urinated. Sheila had died a violent and agonising death at the hands of the most depraved of psychopaths. I couldn’t stop my thoughts from straying back to the children he had also done this to, and for a moment I actually felt the fear and the madness inside this room; it was so tangible I could virtually touch it.
I shook my head, more in sadness than revulsion. To do this to any human being, to deprive her of even a modest degree of dignity in death, to strip her of all traces of humanity, and – above all – to do this to my friend defied any attempt at description. I took in the scene once more, allowing the tears to run freely down my face. I was quite unable to speak, but, despite this, one thought, which I felt growing deep inside me, was a resolve to catch the rabid animal capable of such monstrosity.
Peter was busily taking photos of the scene, from just inside the doorway. Around the bed itself, up to a radius of some three feet, Frank Kewell had laid out a yellow crime scene tape for forensics. I wasn’t allowed into the room, as I was the only one not wearing protective gloves. We were at the scene for no more than a few minutes, but during that time no one spoke. We were each of us too shaken for conversation. We left the room to give the SOCOS (who by now had arrived) access to the crime scene. Emma, who normally spent her time in the laboratory, glanced at me in sympathy. Her presence confirmed that recent events had caused acute staff pressures in her department. Jim and the others went up to Connie’s room to view the message on the bathroom mirror, whilst I gladly retreated from the scene.