Читать книгу STILL STANDING - M.G. Crisci - Страница 12

“I can’t always be Lois Lane. I want to be superman too.”

― Stephanie Meyer

2002…

For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be a high-profile news reporter, pounding the streets chasing bizarre, unexpected stories.

My first role model was Superman’s aspirational squeeze, the reporter Lois Lane. Why not? Lois was intelligent, glamorous, loved by everyone, and owned an array of killer heels, like me.

I was now older, and a bit more mature, having graduated with honours in journalism. My role model became Jill Dando, the popular British reporter, who started her newspaper career in my hometown before achieving national stardom. But Jill, the golden girl of British TV, was fatally shot in the head on her Fulham doorstop on 26 April 1999.

The hunt for her killer became the biggest murder inquiry conducted by the Metropolitan Police and the largest criminal investigation since the hunt for the Yorkshire Ripper. A local man, Barry George, was convicted and sentenced to life imprisonment. He was acquitted after a retrial, and Jill’s death remains unsolved to this day.

Despite Jill’s tragic demise, I still wanted to be the next Jill from Weston. Fate stepped in. After a series of interviews, I was appointed a cub reporter on the Weston & Worle News, the main rival to Jill Dando’s Weston Mercury.

As a newbie, I had a burning desire to be the best, but working in a bustling newsroom was terrifying at the outset. Little did I know I had entered a bitchy, cutthroat business; everyone vied for the best scoop at the expense of all else. It was my first real-world encounter with the mantra “kill or be killed.”

~

As I learned my craft, I became fascinated by the broken criminal minds that took violent liberties with other human beings.

Like magic, along came Adidas Man, my shot at instant Dando level stardom. Not quite a serial killer, Adidas Man was a vicious serial sex attacker who had darkened our tranquil shore, attacking lone women. For nearly two weeks in September 2002, quaint Weston became a town gripped by fear. Women were too scared to walk the streets. The attacker went on a rampage, struck six women in 13 days. It became one of the biggest manhunts in the history of our seaside town.

What started as a single attack on one 17-year-old girl became an intensive national police search for a mass sex attacker. I was proud to be at the center of the investigation, reporting and keeping everyone updated on the violent activities and the police’s intense pursuit of Adidas Man in a series of frontpage stories and self-styled bulletins:

1 Sunday, September 14, 12.30 am. 17-year-old woman subjected to serious sexual assault on Summerlands Road, in the Earlham Grove area, a mile from the seafront.

1 Monday 15, 10.40 pm. 42-year-old woman sexually assaulted by a man on a mountain bike on a path in the Bournville estate, a mile south of the first attack.

1 Wednesday 17, 1 pm. 22-year-old approached on the same path by a man on a bike who punches her in the face.

1 Thursday 18, 9.30 pm. 18-year-old indecently assaulted on Bournville estate. The description matches two previous attacks on the estate.

1 Sunday 21, 3.30 am. 17-year-old attacked near the scene of the first incident.

1 Friday 26, 10.30 pm. 42-year-old woman indecently assaulted on a cycle path in Milton Road area, near Earlham Grove. She activates personal alarm, and attacker flees.

The man’s modus operandi appeared to be to approach his victim from behind, spin her around, and sexually assault and beat her. Police took the unprecedented step of handing out more than 20,000 rape alarms and warned women not to walk alone. A photofit was issued. The attacker was dubbed ‘Adidas Man’ due to the Adidas cap and T-shirt he wore during the attacks. He was about 20, six feet tall, with short blond or bleached hair, a long ponytail, and a pierced eyebrow.

~

Things like Adidas Man didn’t happen in Weston; the town was gripped in fear. It was scary being embroiled in my first major criminal investigation, but it also gave me a vicarious thrill. Identifying Adidas Man was my chance to shine. I didn’t care if I put myself in danger. I’d pound the streets alone with my pen and pad to get the headlines and by-line. National news and TV crews descended upon our sleepy Somerset town like locusts.

I became bloodthirsty. I was now in competition against the top dogs of Fleet Street. I needed to get the latest scoop and was willing to go to any lengths. Fear was not an option. It was all about being the next Jill. I put on my best suit and heels and began my search for clues at the site of the first attack, the now notorious Bournville estate.

John worried about me and my job. “Be careful out on the estate, don’t venture around there alone,” he warned. Brazenly, I responded, “I’ll be fine. I’m a big girl.” He remained silent and supportive; he knew I adored my career.

Numerous press conferences were held, everyone desperate to know if the police were any closer to catching the attacker. They weren’t, despite their catchphrase, “We’ve left no stone unturned.”

Officers followed up 1,600 lines of inquiry, checked 450 names, made seven arrests, and held three formal identification parades. But the culprit was never caught. I retraced several of Adidas Man’s steps, naively thinking I might find a missing detail. I didn’t. Suddenly, the attacks stopped. Adidas Man vanished without a trace. Like the Fanko (prominent Brazilian politician) assignation, the case has remained unsolved to this day.

Detectives suggested the culprit may have been a holidaymaker who moved on. But his knowledge of paths and cycleways indicated firm local links. All kinds of theories roamed my mind. One thing I did know; Adidas Man embedded in me, a passion for crime. Not committing it, of course, but writing about it!