A thought occurred to him.
‘You have a younger daughter, don’t you, Mrs Fisher? Is she here, in the house?’
Sarah Fisher shook her head.
‘I sent her to school, I didn’t want her upset, her gran’s picking her up later…’
Her voice tailed off.
‘More than anything, Mrs Fisher, I promise you I will find whoever did this,’ said Vogel.
Sarah Fisher looked at him with blank eyes.
Al
They get what they deserve, these young girls in their skimpy skirts and the little shorts they call hot pants. They’re hot all right. Everything about them is hot. Burning hot.
Surely their mothers must realise they’re asking for it. And their fathers, assuming they have fathers in their lives. So many of them don’t any more. Any father would know what men are like. All men. I have always been quite sure that it really is all men.
Can there be a man who hasn’t looked longingly at the legs of a schoolgirl in a gymslip? I know they don’t usually wear gymslips any more, unfortunately. But that’s the ultimate fantasy isn’t it? A long-legged girl reaching puberty, the skirt of her gymslip only just covering her pert, little bum and her hidden, secret, as yet untouched, little fanny.
Any man, any man alive, really alive, who says he doesn’t want to touch that bum — and explore that other hidden, secret place — is a liar, I say.
However much we try to deny it, that is the truth. My truth, certainly. I have tried to get rid of the urges. God knows, I have tried. Once I even booked a series of therapy sessions. Oh yes, they do exist. But in the end, I cancelled the lot, because I reckoned the therapist was likely to be as mixed up as I was. They would have to be, if they wanted to hear — in gruesome detail — the shameful thoughts which dominated my every waking hour, and my dreams too. What sort of person would want to see into the mind of a pervert?
Then there was the fear of what might be revealed, even though such sessions are supposed to be confidential. Yes, I was afraid of being exposed. Perhaps I was even more afraid of the inevitable realisation that nothing could be done.
I’d say I am how God made me, if I believed in God. I don’t, of course. I don’t believe in anything. How could I? I don’t care for or about anybody else, either. Why should I? There’s nobody out there who cares a jot about me.
Maybe I believe, somewhere deep inside me, in the devil. Because I am surely his creature.
I tell myself that perhaps we all are. Men if not women. I respect women, truly I do. I just can’t cope with the turmoil they unleash inside me, that’s all. Particularly the young ones, the girls blossoming into puberty.
I’ve always supposed that most men, who also lust after the fruits of youth, do nothing about it. They look but don’t touch. Recent revelations seem to indicate that I’ve been wrong. Far more men than I ever realised are unable to control their innermost, secret longings and, eventually, allow the monster of their desire to take over.
It now seems, beyond all reasonable doubt, that Jimmy Savile assaulted hundreds of young girls and also a number of boys, over a 50-year period. Some were under five. Many were disabled, mentally and physically, or in hospital. And yet, for so long, he was feted and lauded to the extent where the world came to regard him as some sort of saint. They even made him a knight of the realm. Sir Jim of ‘Jim’ll Fix It’. He fixed it all right. I heard an interview with one of his victims. She said she reckoned he wore tracksuit bottoms in order to more easily remove his trousers.
I was shocked by that. Oh yes, I can be shocked.
As I am indeed shocked by what I do. I really do not mean to hurt anyone.
I remember, all too clearly, hurting someone by mistake; someone very young. Maybe a second time too, I can barely remember. It was several lifetimes ago. I have come to believe that I’d been too young to know any better, which I honestly think is true.
I’d got away with it. Scot-free. Nobody even suspected me. Indeed, I’d almost convinced myself that I did not mean to do anything wrong and hadn’t done anything wrong, as if I wasn’t guilty at all.
Funny how you can do that sometimes, isn’t it?
I look on the internet of course. There’s so much stuff out there. Child porn, they call it. I don’t. It’s not porn to me. It’s perfectly natural to me. What can be unnatural about looking at beautiful, little bodies? The youngsters appear happy enough in the pictures and videos on the sites I use. Why wouldn’t they? At that age they accept anything, as long as they’re treated kindly.
I would never be unkind to a child. Well, not deliberately, anyway. I love children.
I’ve also dabbled with those sites where you can chat to young girls and boys. Not that I’m interested in boys; I’m not that way inclined. That is unnatural to me.
Grooming, they call it. But it’s just a way of getting to know them, isn’t it? I’ve always been cautious about carrying anything through, afraid even. Setting up meetings is something to be extremely careful about. It can be so dangerous in so many different ways.
However, internet pictures don’t satisfy me. I like to look in the flesh, not at celluloid images. I may be cautious but, thankfully, there are lots of places you can go where that is possible: playgrounds, swimming pools, beaches. Look but don’t touch. Just sit back and enjoy the innocent frolicking of little girls.
Merely thinking about it gives me an erection.
I can’t help it. It’s the way I am made. It’s not my fault. None of it is my fault.
Four
Vogel thought they’d done enough for the first visit. He was about to indicate to DC Saslow that they should take their leave, when he heard the front door open and close loudly, as if it had been slammed. Within a second or two the door to the sitting room burst open.
A short, stocky, pale man, with prematurely white curly hair strode into the room. He had a thick neck, burly shoulders and an ample belly, all of which contributed significantly to making him look almost as wide as he was tall. The morning was still cool and there did not seem to be any heating on in the little sitting room, but he was red-faced and sweating profusely.
‘Sarah, I got here as soon as I could,’ he said.
Then he stopped speaking. Vogel guessed this was Jim Fisher, the husband and stepfather. He could see that Fisher had suddenly taken in the expression on his wife’s face, the presence of her tearful ex-husband and two strangers.
‘Oh my God, oh no!’ he said. ‘She isn’t? She can’t be. Tell me she’s not… is she?’
He couldn’t get the words out.
He didn’t need to. Vogel knew what he meant.
‘I am afraid we have found the body of a young woman we fear might be Melanie,’ he said.
Jim Fisher sat down next to his wife. The sofa slumped slightly under his weight.
‘Oh darlin’, I’m so sorry I wasn’t with you last night,’ he said.
‘You didn’t answer your phone, Jim,’ said Sarah Fisher accusatively. ‘You always answer your phone.’
‘Sweetheart, it was the middle of the night when you called, gone two anyway. I’ve been getting these damned junk calls at all hours. I switched my phone off so I could get some sleep. You know the kind of schedule we’re on. I was knackered. Don’t forget I was driving back today anyway, after a day’s work. As soon as I picked up your message this morning, I called you and then I just got in the car. I’m so sorry.’
Sarah Fisher nodded distractedly, Vogel didn’t think any of that mattered to her any more. It might to Vogel, though, and to his investigation.
‘Mr Fisher, at what time this morning did you speak to your wife?’ he asked.