One For Sorrow
By
Sarah A. Denzil
Also By Sarah A. Denzil
SAVING APRIL
THE BROKEN ONES
SILENT CHILD
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ONE FOR SORROW
Sarah A. Denzil
EBOOK EDITION
Copyright © 2018 Sarah A. Denzil
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this work, in whole or in part, in any form.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, organizations and products depicted herein are either a product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.
By Sarah A. Denzil
True Crime Junkie
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
True Crime Junkie
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
True Crime Junkie
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
True Crime Junkie
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Part Two
Chapter Twenty
True Crime Junkie
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
True Crime Junkie
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
About the Author
True Crime Junkie
The Crime that Rocked Rotherham
By James Gorden
Not long after the water ripples disturbed the usually calm water of the family pond did the details of the crime unfurl. I remember the exact moment I saw the news. It remains completely clear in my mind, as all enormous moments do, like the moment I heard about 9/11 or Princess Diana’s death. I remember the blue t-shirt I was wearing and the exact position in which I was sitting on the sofa, magazines on the coffee table alongside my Tardis mug.
The details from the police were still hazy at that point, but what I heard was enough to make me hug my niece and nephew a little more tightly the next time I saw them.
I like to think that the undulations circling over the surface of the duck pond are continuing to form a path, and that the distressing murder left behind a beautiful pattern. There are not many instances of goodness coming from badness, but I have hope that my town can be the exception, that we will breed strength, and that goodness will flow through the community.
I still have hope.
It was a bright summer’s day on the twelfth of August, 2010. On the grounds of the Fielding property, the laughter of children filtered up the long lawns from the duck pond by the edge of Scholes Woods. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the grown-ups were sipping mojitos on the patio of their expansive property. David and Anna Fielding were entertaining guests. Riya and Jason Earnshaw had brought their six-year-old daughter Maisie for a business/play date. The Fieldings’ eldest daughter, Isabel, fourteen, was watching the two younger children—including her brother Owen, eleven—while the adults discussed an investment into Jason Earnshaw’s construction company.
The Fieldings and the Earnshaws were, and still are, respected members of the community. Anna was well-known at the local church, ran raffles to help the needy, and routinely helped at the food bank. David invested in many local businesses, aiding the economy of the town. Riya and Jason Earnshaw were known as good employers who created jobs in the area.
The day was perfect until the sound of children’s laughter stopped. Jason Earnshaw would later tell the police that after a particularly animated conversation with the Fieldings, where David told the group a joke, they noticed that the children had gone very quiet.
Riya stood up on the patio and called Maisie’s name. When there wasn’t an answer, Riya and Anna hurried down the long lawn, which sloped downhill to the pond.
Isabel was the first to be found. She was walking up the lawn with her hands outstretched. Anna ran to her, asking her if she was hurt. Isabel shook her head, but she was soaked to the waist, and there was blood covering her hands and lips. Barely a second later, Jason Earnshaw recalled hearing the piercing scream of his wife. He sprinted down the hill to see his wife wading into the pond, her expensive sun dress ruined by the murky water. He hurried to her, splashing through the shallow water.
As the Earnshaws were wading through dirty water, David Fielding saw his son wander towards him from the trees. Owen Fielding walked with his head bent low, tears dripping from his nose. There was blood splattered on his trousers, but he was not wet, and he was not as covered in as much blood as his older sister. David rushed to Owen to check that the child was not hurt.
And in the centre of it all, at the very centre of the pond, a little girl lay face down. She was stripped to the waist—the police would find her daisy-print t-shirt caught on a bush in the forest a few hours later—with her hair fanning all around her. Her loose, dark curls were as soaked as her jeans.
Maisie Earnshaw was dead.
Murdered.
We know since the trial that Maisie was taken into the woods, hit with a rock, and mutilated with a knife. Her small body was then dragged out of the woods and displayed in the centre of the pond.
We know that Isabel Fielding was covered in Maisie’s blood, and that she was soaked from the waist down.
We know that Isabel Fielding was convicted of Maisie Earnshaw’s murder at the age of fourteen. She was taken to a juvenile detention centre where she was deemed to be suffering with a mental disorder.
After lengthy questioning, it was decided that Owen Fielding did not assist with the death of Maisie Earnshaw.
Rotherham continues to mourn the loss of an innocent. We have stood together to help heal the grief that has opened up within the community. Many of us feel a fraction of the intense pain that the Earnshaws must be feeling. We are all in it together, and we will continue on with the pain in our hearts, but we will be stronger and more unified because of it.
Chapter One
I was unaccustomed to the icy bite of the northern wind. Even in early March, I’d woken to frost on the windscreen that morning and layered up my clothing. Wearing my fingerless gloves as I drove, intermittently breathing into my hands to warm them, I wondered if there was indeed some truth in the stereotype of hardy northerners and southern wimps. I cursed the broken heater in my old Punto and pressed on the accelerator, wishing to be somewhere warm.
In three hundred yards make a right turn.
Glancing from the sat-nav on my phone—adhered to the dashboard with a cheap rubber mat I bought online—to the long stretch of road before me, I wondered where exactly this right turn was. I’d been driving on the same straight road for ten minutes, heading from barren stretches of moorland to bountiful, green woodland. Trees surrounded either side of the narrow road, blocking out much of the early morning sun. I craned my neck to the right, searching for this mysterious turning. Before long I saw
the tall gates—a shock of industrialisation in this untouched, rural environment—and made the sharp right turn towards the steel bars, coming to a halt next to the guard tower.
“What’s your business at Crowmont Hospital today?” the guard asked in a voice too cheerful for eight in the morning. The man was stout, with hair greying at the temples and throughout his beard. Fine lines appeared around his eyes when he smiled, which conveyed the same genuine warmth I’d noticed amongst the people of Yorkshire. Northerners were far too friendly for this half-frozen wimpy southerner in need of a strong cup of tea, or better yet, an extra two hours in bed.
“I start work today,” I said. “My name’s Leah Smith. I’m the new nurse on Morton Ward.”
Though I had travelled up for an interview, it had taken place at York Hospital rather than Crowmont. The usual wing used for interviews had been closed for refurbishments and the interviewers decided to find a more neutral location. The fact that I hadn’t actually seen my new workplace added to the first-day nerves that tickled my abdomen.
The security guard mentioned my name into a walkie-talkie while I continued to breathe onto my gloves to warm my stiff fingers.
“Cold morning, eh?” he said, moving away from his guard station and towards the car.
I nodded. “I hope it’s warmer inside than it is out.”
“Aye, well. Not much warmer.” He looked up and nodded towards the road leading through the trees. A tall metal fence ran alongside it, giving the impression of being inside some sort of steel labyrinth. “Follow the road till you get out of the trees. You’ll see the hospital then. You want to take your first right and keep going till you see the carpark. There’s another gate before the carpark, but Brian’ll let you in. That’s where Morton Ward is.”
“Right. Thanks for your help.”
“No worries. I’m Ian, by the way. I work here at the gate most mornings. I’ll be seeing you later on.” He tapped the roof of my Punto and stepped back as I pulled away.
While making my way through the strange, gated maze, I realised my fingers were trembling, and it wasn’t solely from the cold. First-day nerves were getting the best of me, or perhaps the gravity of the place rattled me—not that it should. This wasn’t my first time at a high-security psychiatric facility.
Just like Ian said, the road emerged from the trees, and I saw Crowmont Hospital for the first time. On the edge of the woods another set of gates parted to let me through, which Ian must’ve been able to operate from his tower. Then the road continued towards the hospital itself, set back away from the steel labyrinth of fences. It was almost like its own community, with outbuildings and carparks leading up to the main hospital wing, sprawling old Victorian mansion of a building, four storeys high with rows of narrow windows. Steep gables pointed up like filed teeth above the thin windows. Two sturdy pillars stood proudly on either side of the grand, wide doorway. I could not take my eyes from the dark limestone walls, and almost missed the turning Ian had told me about. It was only when I noticed the sign for the hospital that I remembered where I was and why I was here. The white and blue NHS sign grounded me back to reality. I was about to start a new job, to go with my new life in a new place. North Yorkshire Healthcare was printed along the white portion of the sign, with Crowmont Hospital underneath in the blue section.
I turned my steering wheel and followed the road towards the carpark, which was also gated, as Ian had forewarned. The security guard at this gate stepped towards the car with his walkie-talkie in hand.
“Brian?” I asked.
This man was fair-haired, with ruddy cheeks and burst blood vessels around his nostrils. I noticed faded tattoos along his knuckles, but I couldn’t work out what they said.
“Aye. And you’re the new nurse.”
“Leah Smith.” He most likely already knew my name but I blurted it out by way of greeting.
Brian’s walkie-talkie burst to life, with the person on the other end asking for an update. Brian informed the person of my arrival and waited for the go-ahead to open the gate.
“Now I know you’ll have been warned about the security measures already, but I’ll go over it quickly,” he said, obviously well-rehearsed from explaining the unusual system to visitors. “You’ll get a pass at reception. They’ll take your photograph an’ all. Security inside will tell you the rest, but you’ll have to be searched before you go on the ward. There’s a list of restricted items that you can’t take into the ward, and they’ll assign you a locker to keep your belongings in.”
“Thanks,” I replied, appreciative of the heads-up. I knew security would be tight, but when it’s your first day, it’s nice to know exactly what to expect.
A new job in a new place, away from home. Adrenaline began to kick in, chasing away the cold. Blood pumping around my body replaced the cold stiffness in my muscles. Now my heart thudded against my ribs, so urgent that I felt the vibration of my pulse in my fingertips. The mechanics of the gate made me start as they came to life—metal scraping against tarmac, jingling as it retracted to clear my way. I snatched the gloves from my hands and took a deep breath.
As I guided my car into a parking spot—moving at a crawl, not trusting my hands on the steering wheel—I tried to convince myself the nerves had hit me suddenly because I hadn’t been at work for a few weeks, and because I’d moved somewhere new, and because the building had spooked me, nothing else. I was new to the area, new to the countryside, and felt like a fish out of water. Four weeks ago I’d still been living in an apartment in Hackney.
Almost another lifetime ago. Another life.
I turned the key in the ignition and pulled down the visor to check my hair in the mirror. Nurses don’t do make-up or complicated hairstyles. They tie their hair away and wear nothing but moisturiser. Nevertheless, I didn’t want to walk into my new job with hair poking out at all angles and cereal in my teeth. I had neither, thankfully, so I got out of the car and retrieved my sandwiches from the backseat. When I shut the door it seemed too loud in this quiet spot. I glanced at my watch: eight fifteen. I was a little early, but I knew it would take time for the staff to create my pass.
I locked the car and shoved the keys in my trouser pocket before making my way to the entrance of the ward. It wasn’t the door with the pillars, but a smaller glass door with a pass scanner on the left side. I had pressed the buzzer and was waiting for someone to let me in when my attention was caught by a dark shape out of the corner of my eye. Then I heard a squawk from above, and I lifted my chin to see where it had come from. A large magpie stared down at me from the guttering on the roof, a thin twig hanging out of its beak.
“Good morning,” I whispered, glancing behind me to check that no one had seen. It had slipped from my lips like a reflex. Good morning, Mr. Magpie. It was my father who’d always said it. Then he used to wave.
One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy.
I tried not to think about the rhyme. I tried not to think about my father and his superstitions, passed on to him from his superstitious mother, passed down from her own, even more superstitious mother.
A crackling voice said hello, breaking me free of the painful memories. I cleared my throat and explained for the third time that I was the new nurse on Morton Ward and that my name was Leah Smith. The door buzzed, and I pushed it open into the small reception area.
Ian was right—it was only a little warmer inside. Not that I minded. The nerves made my once-freezing blood run warm. I clenched and unclenched my fingers as I made my way to the reception, a long white desk at the back of the white room with green carpets and faded green sofas. The woman on the front desk wore her glasses down low on her nose, and while she talked me through my security pass, she never stopped moving. She rustled her way through two piles of documents as she took my photograph, with me standing awkwardly with a tense smile on my face. No one ever looks good on a webcam, do they? No doubt a pasty face and a frozen smile would be my best choice. A temporary v
isitor’s pass was given to me in a plastic sleeve with a clip to attach it to my waistband.
“I’ll try and get your proper pass done by the end of the day,” she told me. “Then you can swipe in tomorrow morning.”
“Thanks,” I said, clipping the pass to the waistband of my trousers.
“I’m Sue,” she said. “I work Mondays and Wednesdays, eight till six. Yousef works the other days. There’s a lot of part-timers coming and going.” When she smiled there was a faint residue of pink lipstick on her teeth. “Not to mention the turnover.” She rolled her eyes. “I guess Crowmont isn’t for everyone. Have you worked in a high-security hospital before?”
“Yeah, a couple of years in Whitmore.”
“Oh.” She leaned in slightly. “That’s where he is, isn’t it? The strangler.” She mimed strangulation on herself, and I feigned a smile.
“Roger Cowell,” I answered. Roger Cowell was a serial killer who hit infamy after murdering fifteen women in the seventies. I was used to the constant questions after working at Whitmore for a while. I’d learnt to recognise the little glint in the eyes of the more brazen and curious. Revealing where I worked was a good way of getting to know someone. The shy, polite types would nod, smile, open their mouths to speak, but then think better of it and move the conversation onto a different topic. The loud, brash ones would immediately start asking me about Roger Cowell.
Is he evil? Can you tell, when you look at him? I’ve heard he’s lost weight and sits in his room all day staring at the walls. Does he sleep at night? Does he have nightmares? Did he tell you where the sixteenth body is?
“I didn’t work on his ward,” I replied. “So I never came into contact with him.”
Sue smiled. She was obviously aware of what it was like to work in a notorious high-security hospital. Her smile turned into a knowing nod. “There are a few like that here. The questions get annoying after a while, don’t they?”
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