Excerpt from the book Believe In The Sign by Mark Hodkinson
I knew something strange had happened as soon as I opened the front door. The Fletchers, Steven and Philip, for the first time ever looked like brothers. They stood very close together and appeared to have their arms around one another.
''Have you heard about Lesley?'' said Steven.
I didn't know anyone called Lesley.
''It's this little girl. They can't find her. They want people to help.''
They took turns to talk, one nodding while the other spoke.
''I'll ask my mum if I can come,'' I said.
My dinner had just been put out. I said I'd follow on later.
Lesley Molseed lived on an estate about a mile from our house. When news broke that she was missing, people stopped washing their cars and left their Sunday dinner on a low light. They gathered on street corners, formed search parties and retraced Lesley's route to the shop where she had gone on an errand for her mum. Kids combed wasteland, believing they stood a better chance of finding her because she was one of them. They knew the short cuts, the hidey-holes, the rickety wooden garages, the millponds and the mill yards, the abandoned cars, the tree-swings, the secreted piles of wood ready for bonfire night. They'd find her lost in the long grass, sunk to her knees, cradling a doll, sobbing. It was an adventure: Christopher Robin had come to town and they were preparing trestle tables and cakes for the hero's party.
Tesco abandoned Rochdale FC. The petrol vouchers, car stickers and autograph
free-for-alls came to an end.
''We have not had one telephone call about our involvement with Rochdale FC,''
grumbled the store's manager to the Rochdale Observer.
The high point of my first full season as a fan, 1975/76, was a stirring win against Tranmere Rovers who were top of the league at the time. Rochdale were 3-0 up at half-time and serving up, according to the Rochdale Observer, a 'feast of footballing skills'. The game ended 4-1. I missed it. I was poorly on the settee, shivering under a pile of blankets.
Two days later I was still wheezing and coughing and the colour of chicken soup. Rochdale had another home game; they often played on the Monday after a Saturday. The pilgrimage to Spotland was no longer a matter of choice for me and dad. We had to be there, sometimes together or separately if I went with my mates.
Dad made an appeal to mum on my behalf. I'd wrap up well. The fresh air would do me good. I was the 'other side' of my cold. He told her why it was so important: Rochdale had just won 4-1 and Northampton were next in line to get a bloody good hiding. He'd carry me there if necessary. Okay then, if you insist: he can go.
That night the biggest crowd of the season, 2,995, turned out to gorge themselves on another feast of football. We lost 2-0.
Before she went missing Lesley was known to a few people only. The day afterwards,
her picture was in the papers and on television and we got to know everything
about her. She was eleven but looked much younger because she was barely four
feet tall and weighed under four stones. She was born with a heart condition
and susceptible to coughs and colds. On that Sunday she had been sent for
a loaf and hairspray. When she was late back her mum became worried and began
looking for her, shouting across garden fences to neighbours:
''Seen our Lesley?''
On the photo they released Lesley had a halo of curly black hair and a mischievous half-smile. Her eyes were dark brown with a watery sparkle as if she was about to burst out laughing. She was wearing tartan socks because she was a fan of the Bay City Rollers. Lesley was everywhere but nowhere to be seen.
Rochdale took eight matches to win again after their rout of Tranmere Rovers. The run included a 3-0 defeat at Brentford and three tedious 1-1 home draws. It was hard not to consider this retribution for their audacity in out-playing a club heading for promotion. Since I hadn't actually witnessed the 4-1 win, this seemed doubly unfair. I had a lot to learn.
The kids on our street thought Alias Alias Face might have kidnapped Lesley.
He was this tall lad we'd seen around who had an unusually upright walk. The
first time we saw him Steven Fletcher moved alongside and began walking the
same way, looking across, smiling and showing off. Without speaking the lad
grabbed Steven tightly by the throat. He was turning red. We shouted that
he should let go. Philip ran to get their mum. Finally, he hurled Steven aside.
While he spluttered, we ran after the lad.
''Why did you do that?''
''Because I did, didn't I?''
''You've hurt him now.''
''So?''
''He's coughing and everything.''
''Deserves him right.''
''He was only having a joke.''
''He wasn't.''
''He was.''
''Well he's not laughing now, is he?''
''Where do you live?''
''Not telling.''
''What's your name?''
''Not telling.''
''Go on.''
''Tony.''
We saw him a few days later and he denied that he was called Tony. He said
his name was David. After that we called him Alias Alias Face. We were convinced
he had something to do with Lesley's disappearance.
Lesley's body was found. A joiner had parked his van in a lay-by on a moorland road over the border in Ripponden, West Yorkshire. At first he thought he had seen a pile of clothes but on drawing closer to the grassy ledge, realised it was a child's body. A blue linen bag with a crest of Tweety Pie was by her feet; her mum had given it to her to carry the shopping. She had been stabbed in the back, shoulders and head. Semen was found on her clothes.
Everything changed. We weren't allowed to play out any more. Mum walked with you to school, met you at the gates. Lesley's murderer was among us. The world became a cave, the light gone. He was beyond the fence at the bottom of the garden. He was in the back entry, flitting between the bins and boxes. He was by the railway sidings, bored, jabbing a knife into sleepers, marking time. He walked the park at night, a few steps behind the last boy or girl home, waiting.
It was hard to believe we were so close to something that had been on the news every day. If you got on your bike, cycled down the main road and through a few back streets, you'd be at Lesley's house in about ten minutes. There, you could see for yourself where she had lived with her mum, dad, brothers and sisters. We thought: Lesley dying wasn't the same as if it had happened to one of us, was it? It couldn't possibly be chance, something that had happened indiscriminately. Life wasn't like that, surely. We imagined Jesus was waiting for her in heaven with everything she'd ever wanted. She was somewhere dreamy and beautiful, riding her bike, playing with a kitten, eating ice cream in the sunshine, waiting to be reunited with her family.