From report to court, part four – Not alone anymore

DC Ross came back into the interview room with a handful of paperwork. I still hadn’t had it confirmed that the person I was talking about and the article I’d found were the same person. All the jigsaw pieces fit, but there was a tiny chance I’d just reported Tim, and it wasn’t him. My subconscious clung to this last hope, and I asked the question.

“I need you to sign this,” Ross said, sliding a form across the coffee table between us.

The form was a declaration and signing it would mean I’d made an official statement and was part of an investigation. I needed an answer, so signed the form. Ross spoke, and my last hope flopped like a part-deflated balloon.

I didn’t have time for shock. I don’t think I was shocked. Mostly I felt guilt. Twenty-plus years I’d kept this to myself, how many boys could Tim have abused in that time? All because of my silence. I started babbling about Tim’s current online presence: His position as a parish councillor. His online posts about the community and them bumping down his convictions so people couldn’t see. Him portraying himself as an amateur archaeologist, giving the impression of him being a normal person. The skill and time he’d put into his online appearance to make him look like someone trustworthy and safe. Ross kept trying to interrupt me, but my words were now freer than they’d been while I was being interviewed.

“We know!” he said, bringing me to an abrupt halt. “We’re watching him. We want him.”

I sat back and watched Ross complete the last of the paperwork. “I have to ask. Why are you now in charge of this, not Greg?”

He didn’t look up, or stop writing, he just said, “I’m better.”

I liked that response. It wasn’t a humble brag, or any sort of justification or even some monologue about the police taking things seriously and the best person for the job. I was starting to see I’d misjudged Ross. I’d seen a large powerful man, in a position of authority, and disliked him instantly. But his forthrightness, his directness, it was honesty. He was who he was, and that was enough.

He walked me back through the building and to the carpark. “Are you alright? That was a lot,” he said, as I lit my cigarette.

He clearly cared about his work, but I was starting to have the feeling that he cared about me too. Was I mistaking empathy for care?

We said our goodbyes, and I walked to my car. So now they knew everything I did, hopefully more. And that was it, I’d given everything I could, now I’d be filed in a dusty cupboard and maybe brought out in the future when someone came forward with emails, or photos, or any sort of evidence that I didn’t have because it had been so long ago.

I didn’t expect to hear from Ross again, until he’d call to tell me they weren’t taking the case any further, but texts became emails, punctuated by calls. New forms arrived in the post to give him access to my medical history and other aspects of my personal life. I filled everything out and dropped it back at the police station, and answered any further questions he had with as much detail as possible, and sent my own emails to him with things I didn’t remember if I’d said under interview.

I felt supported by him, I felt like he cared, both for the outcome and for me, which was odd and I instinctively pulled back from it. ‘Of course he’s being nice to me, he want’s something from me’. ‘He doesn’t actually care, he’s paid to pretend, to get as much out of me as possible’. I was looking for the hook. This authority figure that was caring for me while directing me had my head spinning and my mind screaming that the patterns of behaviour were ones I’d experienced before. I wanted to lean into the man that seemed like he was fighting for me, wanting to protect me, and wanting to fight for my justice, but my hind-brain was screaming that I was being lulled into a false sense of security.

One day he called, unexpectedly. He started talking about a question he’d asked me, ‘What areas of the country did I know Tim had lived in, other than Swindon.’

“There’s another case,” he said. “That’s why I asked.”

I couldn’t speak. It wasn’t a theory anymore. My silence meant someone else had met Tim, trusted him, had faith in him, and been underneath him. If there was one, there was more. And the blood of their pain was on my hands.

“I’m going to speak to the investigating officer,” Ross said, “see if we can get in contact with the guy.”

“Wait. His case didn’t go to trial?”

“He pulled out. There’s lots I can’t speak about, but maybe he’ll come forward again now it’s not just him.”

It was never just him. I was always in the background he just couldn’t see me. But he felt alone, I knew what that was like, but I had Alfie. This new boy, had he had anyone? I guess not if he pulled out.

Ross broke my silence, “I’ll call you later to check on you, yeah?”

I felt wretched. And there was nothing I could do. I wanted to know who this new boy was. I wanted to hug him and let him cry. Tell him it wasn’t his fault. Say to him all the things I couldn’t believe for myself, but say the words and hope he’d hear me.

I called Alfie and we arranged to meet for a coffee, or in his case a diet coke. I told him everything, from my experience with the police, to this new boy. “I can be with you if you want, in the interview and everything. You won’t be alone if you want to come forward.”

Alfie didn’t know if he could, and I had to respect that. I didn’t want to, I wanted to say things like, ‘If you don’t, he’ll keep doing it to others’. I wanted to say anything to make him do it, but the pressure stayed in my head, and I supported his desire to think and not act. The only control I had was research, somewhere out there was information on Tim that would help the case, make it strong enough that it could go to court, so I googled and clicked, and followed leads, and asked people that knew more about the internet than me to tell me what to do.

I filled Ross’s inbox with leads and titbits of information in the hope that one thing could be the missing piece of the puzzle. And it was months after my interview when I finally had the guts to ask, “There isn’t enough, is there. This won’t go to court.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think so. You on your own just isn’t enough. It’s not that I don’t know what you’re saying is true, it’s just the CPS won’t think it’s enough for a trial.”

What was I supposed to do with that. I couldn’t just accept it and move on, and the message between the lines was ‘we need Alfie’.

I sat on my hands for almost two weeks. There was no way to tell this to Alfie without putting pressure on him, and I had to respect his choices. Eventually, one night as I stumbled home at 3 a.m. I pulled out my phone and started recording a video. I didn’t need to send it, I just needed to get the thoughts out my mind and trap them in my camera.

I love you, I always will, but I can’t not tell you this and I can’t keep it to myself. My telling you doesn’t mean anything, it just means I’m telling you and you can do with it what you want. We started this together, and we’ll end it together, whatever that ending may be.

I rambled on for about six minutes. And then I stumbled through silent neighbourhoods playing it back listening to my own words. I could delete it, or send it, so I lit a cigarette, double tapped the video, hovered over the bin icon, and sent it to Alfie.

Just as I got home, my phone beeped. It was Alfie.

I love you too. I’ll call Ross in the morning.