submitted 4 days ago by digginforthetruth
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You shd try working in victim services. People just bury an experience like that. It happens all the time. Believe me.
submitted 4 days ago by MakeanewplanStan44
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And she was really young wasn’t she. And completely under the parents’ thumb as far as I can tell
submitted 3 days ago by SusieClarke1818
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Camilla Rowan is a pathological liar. I don’t think Nigel Ward had anything to do with it. Or her father. Just because the baby hasn’t been found doesn’t mean she wasn’t responsible. It just means she’s clever. Very very clever.
submitted 3 days ago by AllieCatz76
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Re Dick Rowan, no, as far as I can find out no-one ever said anything about him. Certainly not the police. Maybe they missed a trick? Has anyone ever bothered asking what time HE got to that Xmas party?
submitted 3 days ago by ProofofLife
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Well South Mercia ballsed up the rest of the investigation so why not that? Bloody idiots cdnt find their arses with both hands and a map
submitted 3 days ago by LongJohnSilver
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* * *
Adam Fawley
25 October
16.15
I was half expecting a scrum of hacks at the gate, but she’s moved since 2016 and they probably haven’t been able to trace her. Yet.
She’s expecting me, though, to judge by the look on her face when she opens the door. Or if not me, someone like me – someone with a warrant card.
‘What do you want?’
‘DI Adam Fawley, Thames Valley, Mrs Ward. Could I come in for a few minutes?’
Her face hardens. ‘He’s dead –’
‘I know, and I’m very sorry –’
‘He had a heart attack – it was the stress – the newspapers. It killed him. She killed him. And now it’s all starting up all over again –’
‘That’s what I’d like to talk to you about.’
She hesitates, her hand gripping the door.
‘I know what the press put you through, Mrs Ward. I’m trying to avoid that happening again, not make it worse. You have my word on that.’
She sighs heavily, then stands back and waves me in.
It’s not the sitting room I remember from Netflix, though the furniture and knick-knacks are no doubt the same. The garden visible from the back window is different too. Thirty feet of tired autumn grass ending in a wooden fence topped with trellis, not the sweep down to trees and a stream they had before. I know, I’ve seen the pictures. But not on Netflix; in the South Mercia Police file.
* * *
Daily Telegraph, 14 August 2016
* * *
She fiddles with a cushion on the armchair then sits down, gesturing me to do the same. The TV is on, muted, but she doesn’t turn it off. A shopping channel. A woman with too much smile demonstrating a food mixer that looks like it could run the National Grid.
Ward folds her hands. ‘I gather you found him. Her child.’
I sit down opposite her. ‘Yes, we believe we have.’
‘So what’s this about?’
‘My superintendent thinks there’s something to be gained by getting the facts out there, insofar as we know them. He’s proposing an exclusive interview with one journalist.’ I take a breath, wondering if she’s got there already. ‘John Penrose.’
A sneer passes across her face and doesn’t go away. ‘That ghastly man? I am never speaking to him again and that’s final –’
‘No, no, Mrs Ward, he wouldn’t be talking to you. That’s not what I meant. The interview would be with us. The police.’
She makes a contemptuous pffting noise.
‘My superintendent thinks it’s a good idea, and I agree with him –’
‘No, you don’t,’ she says quickly. ‘It’s written all over your face.’
‘Either way, Mrs Ward, the interview’s going to happen.’
‘So you came all this way just to tell me that?’
‘In part. Obviously we wanted to warn you in advance, as a courtesy. But it’s not just that. Before the interview happens there are things we need to do. Things we need to be able to say. To put this story to bed once and for all.’
Another scornful snort. ‘Good luck with that.’
‘I understand where you’re coming from, but it’s different now. There are things we can do we couldn’t do before. Like a DNA test. If your husband was not the father of the child, we’re now in a position to prove that. Categorically. And then we can say so.’
Her eyes widen. ‘And how precisely are you proposing to –’ She stops, takes a breath. ‘You mean take something from his body? You want to dig him up? After all they did to us?’
* * *
Guardian, Metro, Daily Express, 21, 25, 27 August 2016
* * *
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Ward. I know how painful this must be. And, believe me, an exhumation would be absolutely the last resort. We all hope it won’t have to come to that –’
‘It won’t come to that because I’m not going to let you – you hear me?’ Her fury is coming at me like a hail of needles. ‘Not after everything we’ve been through. Do you know why we moved here? Because they made our lives a living hell, that’s why. All those busybodies who said there’s no smoke without fire –’
‘I know there was some vandalism –’
‘Vandalism? Vandalism? You call having “child molester” painted on your garage door vandalism? You call having a brick through your window in the middle of the night vandalism? We loved that house – Nigel put twenty years into that garden and you people, you just trashed it – it was like the bloody Somme – you dug up our dog –’
‘I’m sorry, that must have been –’
‘We were hounded out of our own home. And it wasn’t just the abuse – we got letters, phone calls, week after week for months on end. People saying Nigel had been seen burying the baby and we had to pay up or they’d go to the police. The same thing happened to Dick and Peggy after the trial – people claiming to know where the baby was and asking for money – trying to cash in on other people’s misery. It was all too much for Peggy in the end. No wonder she ended up in hospital. And all of it – all of it – was down to that little bitch Camilla and her vicious lies. She doesn’t care how much damage she does – how many lives she wrecks –’
‘Mrs Ward –’
She’s spitting now, a line of drool hanging from one side of her mouth. ‘She didn’t even have the courage to say those vile things herself – she got that nasty little cow with the tattoos to do it for her –’
‘Like I said –’
But she won’t stop – can’t stop – all these years of simmering in silence suddenly unleashed. She leans forward, pointing, drilling her anger home. ‘And that night – the night of the party – do you know where Nigel was? I’ll tell you where he was – he was visiting his mother – just like he did every Tuesday. She had a funny turn and that’s why he was late back – he was looking after his eighty-four-year-old mother, not murdering a baby –’