That said, there remained the question mark over the sightings of the yellow van; and, of course, Greenwell himself, although absolved of any part in the death of Lesley Molseed, remained a crucial witness in the case. This was not merely because of his discovery of the body, but because he had spent many hours at and around the area in which the police were interested, including hours when the child’s body could have been dumped. He was interrogated further, in the hope of gleaning from him any strand of evidence which could later be woven into the rope with which the killer would be caught. The clothes he was wearing at the time of the discovery of the body and his small yellow van were also taken for forensic examination to eliminate any particles or traces which he might have left at the scene or, of equal importance, to obtain anything which he might inadvertently have removed from that terrible place.
Then, and only then, could the habitually nervous shopfitter go from the police station, free to resume his normal everyday life the best he could after what he had seen.
On the Turf Hill Estate enquiries were being made by officers anxious to achieve a result, but their questioning also revealed the effect which Lesley’s disappearance had had on the local community and, in particular, the anguish being suffered by the parents. The community’s desire to have the killer apprehended was based only in part on feelings of sympathy towards the Molseed family. It was also founded on the fear that an outsider had intruded into the communal safety of the estate, putting each of their own children at risk.
Turf Hill was once a rural farming area adjoining the mill town of Rochdale, but as the town became swollen with the increasing population which accompanied industrial expansion, the growing need for accommodation sent tentacles of urbanisation into the readily available and easily accessible land which lay, untouched, nearby.
It was a typical council housing estate, with brothers in every town and city of substance in Great Britain. Rows of (then) modern three-bedroomed terraced houses with small front and rear gardens were joined by a series of connecting roads and the intersecting walkways known as snickets. Two main roads, Broad Lane and Turf Hill Road, serviced the estate, giving access to a major arterial road in and out of Rochdale. The remaining farmland that surrounded the estate stretched towards the neighbouring town of Oldham, running along the edge of the M62, between junctions 20 and 21 of that great cross-country motorway, which served as the boundary line between the two towns.
The community of Turf Hill, not atypically, was self-contained and close-knit. Most of the children knew each other, as did their parents. The local availability of schools, shops and a youth club brought parents and children into regular contact with each other. Many socialised together, making use of the various pubs, clubs and sporting facilities available in the area.
A feature of such a community was that news, whether bad or good, travelled with great speed. Rumour and gossip mingle with fact and hard news, and exaggeration and distortion are inevitable features in the retelling. In the Molseed enquiry this feature was repeatedly to cause problems for the police, who were constantly required to sort fact from fiction, evidence from rumour, credible witnesses from gossip mongers. Conversely, out of the community spirit came the positive feature of the residents’ willingness to help each other and the police (who were not the natural friends of many in that community) to find Lesley and, later, to find and catch the child’s murderer.
Within hours of the discovery of the child, the grim mechanism of murder was grinding into action, starting with the knock on the door of 11 Delamere Road that the occupants had hoped would never come. As gently as possible, the parents were notified of the finding of a body, and before that shock had penetrated minds and hearts, they were taken on a journey, by police car, to a mortuary at Halifax Royal Infirmary, to identify the child, hoping against hope that it would not be Lesley, that a mistake had been made.
It was a duty for a mother to perform alone. Although she had steeled herself for the task ahead, April’s nerves were strained by a delay in proceedings, and she and Danny waited together in a small room. But she became claustrophobic and left the room to pace up and down the corridor, leaving Danny alone with his thoughts.
At last, a policeman’s footsteps on the hard, Victorian hospital floor, followed by ‘They’re ready for you now, Mrs Moleseed,’ and she is escorted, one officer beside her and two behind. Inside the room are more policemen, in plain clothes. But while the uniformed officers had seemed considerate and caring, these men seemed to be avoiding her, or certainly avoiding her eyes. And then it became clear for her. There was no need to look. They had found Lesley, and these men knew it.
The mother has to be the one to speak: it is her duty. Words are hard to find and April struggles to make a sound, until she whispers, ‘I’d like to hold her,’ But as April steps forward to embrace the tiny frame, she is stopped from doing so. ‘Don’t touch her!’ The command is barked, breaking the solemnity of the room, but instilling immediately the importance of not disturbing the child.
Lesley was no longer April’s daughter, but police evidence, which must not be touched.
‘Is this your daughter, Mrs Molseed?’ speaks an unknown voice, and she does not look to find the speaker, but replies ‘It is, but she doesn’t belong to me any more.’ And then and only then the resolve of the woman is gone, the strength she had shown or tried to show throughout the three-day ordeal, disappears. At last she weeps, and her eyes blur with tears. She turns away.
April rejoined Danny. He did not have to ask her and she did not have to tell. He had ‘inherited’ Lesley as a 1-year-old, and she was the favourite of his four foster children. He had lost his own daughter, he felt, and his tears flowed down his face, its expression as desolate as that of his wife.
In terms of the investigation of homicides, there are only two primary types. The first is where the killer is immediately identified or identifiable, and apprehended at or shortly after the event, and where the legal issues at any subsequent trial narrow down to those concerning state of mind at the time of the killing. The second is where the killer is completely unknown. In such a case, of course, the first task on the lengthy path to securing a conviction is ascertaining who is responsible for the killing. Obviously the investigation of the latter type is far more onerous than that of the first, because the police start, in effect, with a completely blank sheet of paper.
In any homicide it is necessary to establish a number of facts:
identity of the victim;
manner and cause of death (for example, asphyxiation by strangulation);
time and place of death;
weapon used, if any;
identity of killer;
motive;
state of mind of killer.
These facts must be determined in order that the investigation of the case be complete. Even if some of the facts (such as motive) do not, as a matter of law, require proof for a successful prosecution, it is obvious that they are each of great importance in the quest to establish how the victim died and at whose hand.
Once it is established that the police are concerned with a suspicious death and, more particularly, once the suspicion becomes that of an unlawful killing, the investigative process begins. Of the seven factors listed above, the identity of the killer becomes the most pressing. All other matters will be investigated as the enquiry proceeds, but the search for the killer must begin immediately, and before the trail begins to cool.
Whilst the public face of a murder investigation is the television news reports, showing police officers