I sat down at one by the far wall, where a tiny, high-set window slanted a distracting streak of sunlight across the desk. Printed directions told me how to load the film, and I followed them carefully. A page of ancient newspaper snapped into sudden light. Turning the dial to move on from it, I watched the July of 1969 speed across the screen in front of me; births, deaths and marriages, politics, celebrities, crimes.
The projected paper was the colour of old ivory, and something about the print looked archaic to a point where I had to double-check the date—it looked as if it might have come from the 1920s, but was from 1969 just the same. For some reason, the ads particularly caught my attention, ads that would be ultra-ironic today. Buy tinned peaches, I read, above the blurred photo of a brand-named can, they’re delicious! The whole journalistic tone had been different then, too. For the first time, I realised how life had changed since Rebecca Fisher first leapt into the horrified public eye. Back then the world had been a very different place.
East Lancashire Morning Star, 19 July 1969
LOCAL GIRL VANISHES
‘She went to get her skipping rope’ say friends
A nine-year-old Teasford schoolgirl was yesterday reported missing by her mother. Eleanor Corbett, a pupil at St Anthony’s Primary School, was on her summer holidays and had gone out in the morning with a group of friends. She left them at roughly ten thirty a.m., saying that she was going to fetch her skipping rope and would return soon. Since then, Eleanor has not been seen.
As a widespread search begins across the area, her distraught mother is appealing for information.
‘When she didn’t come home for dinner, I thought she must be at a friend’s house,’ Mrs Eileen Corbett said. ‘I went to ask some of them if they knew where she was. They said they thought she’d been at home all day, and that they hadn’t seen her since the morning.’
Fighting to hold back tears, she went on to beg witnesses to come forward.
‘Someone must have seen where Eleanor went to,’ Mrs Corbett said. ‘She wasn’t the kind of girl who’d wander off on her own, and everyone knows her around here. If you saw her walking along with someone that morning, please let us know, so we can find her. Her sisters are all worried sick, and so am I.’
Eleanor Corbett is described as noticeably small and slight for her age, with curly brown hair, freckles and hazel eyes. At the time of her disappearance, she was wearing a flower-patterned knee-length skirt, a short-sleeved pale blue shirt and white sandals.
‘We are doing everything in our power to look for Eleanor,’ Detective Inspector William Harris told us. ‘Many local residents have kindly volunteered to help us in our search. We are currently conducting a thorough door-to-door investigation.
‘All of us pray that she will be found soon, and that there will be a simple explanation for her disappearance after all.’
The Times, 21 July 1969
CONCERNS GROW OVER MISSING CHILD
An East Lancashire schoolgirl reported missing three days ago has still not been found. Eleanor Corbett, aged 9, was last sighted on the morning of 18 July, walking alone in the direction of her residence.
As local residents become increasingly concerned, the police have stated that they are taking every possible measure to find her, and are currently following several leads.
The search continues.
The Sun, 22 July 1969
SCHOOLGIRL FOUND IN HORROR DISCOVERY
The mutilated body of missing Lancashire schoolgirl Eleanor Corbett was discovered late last night, in a derelict house on the outskirts of her hometown.
Police were dispatched to the location after an unexpected witness came forward with information. The young woman, who cannot be named, had been with an illicit boyfriend when they had seen Eleanor entering the building on the day of her disappearance. Unable to explain her presence in that area to her parents, the witness had been afraid to volunteer her information at an earlier stage.
Officers present at the scene described their discovery as ‘horrific’. The nine-year-old had been stabbed more than thirty times in an attack ‘of savage ferocity’.
‘In the room where we found Eleanor’s body, there were clear signs of previous habitation,’ one officer told us. ‘From the evidence, it would appear that Eleanor had been there several times before, almost certainly with other children. We are currently in the process of questioning her friends, in the hope that they might be able to cast new light on this tragedy.’
Her distraught mother, Mrs Eileen Corbett, said she was ‘shocked and devastated’.
‘None of us can believe this has really happened,’ she said. ‘Eleanor was the sweetest little girl you could hope to meet, and she didn’t have an enemy in the world. We can’t imagine what kind of monster could possibly have done this to her.’
The Daily Mail, 8 January 1982
REBECCA’S FORGOTTEN VICTIMS
BY ALICE YOUNG
Upon meeting Mrs Eileen Corbett, you have the instant impression of warmth, practicality and strength. In her early sixties and widowed for almost twenty years, she is the picture of a kindly Northern matriarch who has endured many hardships without complaining, and protected her family throughout.
But there is a tragedy in Eileen’s past that few could possibly guess at. Twelve years ago, her beloved youngest child was brutally murdered by angel-faced psychopath Rebecca Fisher. On the eve of the monster’s rumoured release into society, Eileen has bravely decided to break her silence and speak of a bitterness she is unable to deny.
‘When I first heard about her being released with a whole new identity, I honestly couldn’t believe what I was hearing,’ Eileen tells me, her face hardening. ‘When I think of her coming to live in an ordinary street and nobody even knowing her real name, it chills my blood. Almost as much as it does to think that I had her in my house, and thought of her as Eleanor’s friend.’
Eleanor Corbett met Rebecca Fisher when they were both pupils at St Anthony’s, which then as now was the Lancashire town of Teasford’s only primary school. Although Rebecca was a year older and from a far more privileged background—by an eerie coincidence, her adoptive father owned the textiles factory where Eileen worked six days a week—the two schoolgirls rapidly became friends.
‘She seemed such a sweet little girl,’ Eileen remembers wistfully. ‘She was very polite and well-behaved—so pretty, too, with long blonde hair and bright blue eyes. I honestly never had the slightest doubts about her, at first. In fact, I was glad Eleanor had found such a nice best friend.’
As the friendship progressed, however, events took a new and sinister turn. None of the five Corbett daughters received pocket money, but Eleanor would return from school with toys, sweets and other new belongings. ‘Of course, I knew she’d never have stolen them—I’d brought all my girls up to know right from wrong,’ Eileen says. ‘When I asked her where they’d come from, she told me Rebecca gave them to her. At first I was quite offended, because it sounded like charity, but the more Eleanor talked about it, the more I realised that it wasn’t charity at all. It looked as if Rebecca was trying to buy Eleanor’s friendship.
‘I remember about a month before Eleanor went missing, my eldest daughter Agnes was doing some cleaning upstairs when she came rushing down with this bracelet in her hand. She said that she’d found it under Eleanor’s bed. Well, I was shocked. I don’t know a great deal about jewellery, but even I could tell it was very expensive. When Eleanor came home and I had it out with her, she said Rebecca had given it to her as a present. Even though I believed her, I was still angry. I said no child would be allowed to give away a valuable piece of jewellery without their parents minding, no matter how rich they were, and that she should have known better than to accept it. Then I made her put her coat on, and we walked all the way to the Fishers’ house to give it back.’
It was in no way surprising that the ten-year-old Rebecca had access to such an expensive item. Although she had been adopted, she was
almost freakishly privileged by the standards of the time and place in which she lived. As well as being the wife of the wealthiest businessman in the area, her adoptive mother Rita had been a minor heiress in her own right, and the otherwise childless couple had showered gifts as well as affection on the daughter they’d always longed for. In an area of deprivation, where the majority of children wore hand-me-down clothes, Rebecca had a wardrobe to rival her elegant mother’s. She owned more than twenty pairs of shoes and several pieces of jewellery that, like the bracelet Eileen had found, were both genuine and specifically designed for children.
On the surface, she appeared to be the perfect little girl—Eileen’s favourable impression of her was echoed by every other adult in Teasford, including teachers at the school where she excelled academically. Nonetheless, there was a chilling side to her nature that these people never saw, a vicious temper combined with an obsessive desire to possess those she cared for. At Rebecca’s trial, Eleanor’s grieving schoolfriends described her unhealthy attachment to the younger girl. ‘Rebecca just didn’t seem to want anyone else,’ a classmate of Eleanor’s told the court. ‘She clung to Eleanor all the time. I think she’d have liked it if they’d been the only two people in the world.’
As time passed, it became apparent that Rebecca demanded that same kind of obsessive, exclusive friendship from Eleanor herself. After going to increasingly desperate lengths in an attempt to buy this friendship, Rebecca finally stabbed Eleanor to death in a terrifying jealous fury, enraged that, despite her entreaties, Eleanor was continuing to see her other friends.
As Eileen describes her tragic daughter, I can see her fighting to hold back the tears. ‘Eleanor was such a sweet, vivacious child. She made friends so easily, and loved meeting new people. There’s not a day goes past that I don’t think about her.’
Now, Eileen believes that her daughter’s appalling fate should serve as a stark warning for prison services and the government alike.
‘They’re making a terrible mistake to let Rebecca out like this,’ she says flatly. ‘Children don’t change when they grow up, not really. Soon, nobody’s going to know who she is—she could be their colleague or their neighbour or even their wife. But one of these days, she’s going to show her true colours all over again. And the people who make these decisions are finally going to realise how wrong they were.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
IARRIVED AT Waterloo three-quarters of an hour before the train that would take me back to Wareham. I got a latte in one of the concourse coffee shops and sat by the window, lighting a cigarette and watching the steady ebb and flow of milling strangers. It was quarter to five in the evening, and rich gold light flooded in through the station’s glass ceiling, bathing the prosaic scene in an almost unearthly radiance. On the counter behind me, an ancient tape deck was playing Suzanne Vega, ‘Marlene on the Wall’. It felt like a soundtrack, somehow, that sweet childish voice haunting the cappuccino-smelling shadows with something bittersweet and enigmatic; evocative of long journeys to unknown places, and contemplation.
My thoughts turned to the pages I’d photocopied in the microfilm room, first regarding them en masse, then focusing sharply on the Daily Mail interview with Eleanor’s mother. Remembering its description of Rebecca’s possessiveness made me feel much as I had done reading it for the first time—like a hard, unexpected pinch in a sensitive place. I think she’d have liked it if they’d been the only two people in the world. It was ridiculous, I knew, that it should disturb me to see a distinct element of my own mind reflected there; this was exactly what I’d been struggling to discover, a sense of empathy, a hidden alley into a ten-year-old killer’s thoughts and feelings and self. But I’d anticipated slipping on her skin like a costume before stepping out onto the writing stage, knowing her well enough to accurately impersonate, aware that I could take her off as soon as I put down the pen. It had never occurred to me that I might not have to act all the time, that some aspects of her character were intrinsic to my own.
And the reality of what she’d done all that time ago seemed to move a little closer; horror wasn’t impersonal any more, it had begun to acquire a kind of face. A child who’d been small for her age, who’d had curly brown hair, who’d been loved and mourned and missed. Who’d put on white sandals and a flower-patterned knee-length skirt one morning, before leaving her house to play…
With a considerable effort, I forced myself back to the straightforward mundanities of research, mystical and enigmatic as Carl’s monthly regional sales targets. St Anthony’s Primary School might still be open for business, I told myself. Tomorrow morning I’d call directory enquiries and find out if it was listed. If so, I’d grit my teeth, dial the number and launch into an introductory spiel: Anna Jeffreys, one book published, WLTM anyone who’d known Rebecca or Eleanor, or who knew someone who’d ever known such. There had to be someone, I told myself.
After that, there was nothing prosaic left to think about—suddenly, the evening light seemed far too evocative. Even here, in this vast, impersonal, unlovely place that echoed with voices like the world’s biggest swimming pool, its power couldn’t quite be denied. There wouldn’t be any greyness as that light faded, just rosy gold slowly darkening to black. The sight and feel of it reminded me of a home I hadn’t been back to for over five years.
The kind of childhood memory that stays in your mind, inexplicably preserved while hundreds of others fade into nothing. An evening much like this one through the window in front of my desk, the tired-looking apple tree in the front garden edged with gold. An eleven-year-old self in shorts and T-shirt, intent on her first short story as her cat drowsed on her bed. And behind it all, the muted hint of voices from downstairs, voices I’d picked up the pen to block out. They’d be in the kitchen, as the evening came down. They’d be laughing together.
The following morning, Socks arrived shortly after Carl had left for work—as soon as I’d come downstairs I heard him mewing outside the back door and gave him his usual saucer of milk. By now, I was perfectly comfortable leaving him on his own in the kitchen, aware that his tastes ran far more to sunbathing than vandalism. Going into the living room, I phoned directory enquiries and got the number of St Anthony’s Primary School, Teasford, East Lancashire.
I thought about waiting a while before ringing, but realised there was no point. I’d been thinking about this phone call all the way back from Waterloo and, if I was honest with myself, most of last night. It was ten past nine in the morning, the school would be open, and I was full of an overwhelming impatience for discovery.
While I was well aware that modern Teasford was much like anywhere else, part of me couldn’t help envisioning a school straight out of D.H. Lawrence—neatly written alphabets on blackboards, smells of chalk and cabbage and disinfectant. But the voice that answered brought me back to the world I knew with a mixture of relief and disappointment: the chilly, harassed tones of school secretaries around the country. I explained who I was and what I wanted, trying to sound as confident and professional as I possibly could, sensing confusion and vague suspicion down the line before she spoke again.
‘I’ll put you through to the headmistress. She might be able to help.’
I didn’t have a chance to thank her before I was plunged into dead silence, then a new voice spoke in my ear. ‘Judith Davies.’ I had the immediate impression of a blunt, no-nonsense fiftysomething, a woman in sensible brogues who didn’t suffer fools gladly.
‘Oh, good morning,’ I said, with no idea how much she’d been told about me. ‘My name’s Anna Jeffreys, and I’m researching a novel about—’
‘Rebecca Fisher. The school secretary told me.’ She didn’t seem in the least embarrassed about interrupting. ‘Our most famous old girl, more’s the pity. I must say, I thought all the interest in her died down decades ago.’
‘Well, in a way, that’s what gave me the idea. A lot of people don’t know that much about it, and I thought it would make a great premise for
a thriller.’ A brief pause, into which I could read absolutely nothing. ‘Do you think you might be able to help?’
A short, dry laugh. ‘I can’t promise anything scandalous. But yes, there are some things I could tell you.’ If this had been a face-to-face interview, I guessed I would have seen her check her watch. ‘I’m afraid I’m quite busy. I should have more time to discuss Rebecca at…shall we say one o’clock?’
‘I’ll phone you back then,’ I said. ‘Thanks a lot for your help.’
Off the phone, long hours extended ahead of me like dull scenery. Since going to the newspaper library, my notes had been entirely drained of interest—reality made my invented details look flat and unsatisfying. I tried to distract myself by doing some housework and putting a wash on, and was pegging it out on the line when I heard Liz’s back door opening. ‘Socks,’ she called through it. ‘Socks!’
‘Sorry, Liz,’ I called back, ‘he’s round here. Want to come and get him?’
‘Certainly, dear. I’ll be right over.’
She was, in about five minutes, bustling cheerfully through the back door. ‘I was quite worried about the little thing,’ she said. ‘I came home just now, and couldn’t find him anywhere. I’ve been at Muriel’s house all morning—Helen was there, too. They both send their love, said they enjoyed meeting you very much.’
‘It was good to meet them, as well,’ I said quickly. ‘They seemed nice.’
Liz smiled, a diplomatic, slightly conspiratorial smile that said she knew I wasn’t telling the whole truth. ‘Well, I know Helen can seem a bit funny sometimes, but she’s very nice when you get to know her. And it’s only to be expected, really…she’s had a hard life, poor thing.’
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