A Nightmare Revisited: The Twisted Tale of Babes in the Wood

When the radio blared with news of a young girl abducted and assaulted in Brighton, the same wretched knot of dread returned to my gut, just like that night of ceaseless searching for my own daughter, Karen.

By the following day, the grisly truth stood bare: my vibrant nine-year-old Karen and her inseparable friend, Nicola Fellows, met a grim fate while playing near our woodland abode after school. The media, in their sensationalism, dubbed the tragedy the 'Babes in the Wood' murders, but that label concealed the true horror of the crime.

Now, as the radio crackled with updates, an undeniable certainty settled over me – that the man responsible for these unspeakable acts had preyed on yet another innocent child.

Three years had slipped by since Karen's funeral, marking this day. I turned to my husband Lee and whispered, 'Not again. It's him, I know it's him. I warned them.'

The Babes in the Wood killer, Russell Bishop, met his demise from brain cancer. The 55-year-old murderer breathed his last in the hospital, where he was rushed from the secure HMP Frankland in County Durham.

A sinister figure, Bishop had left a trail of darkness. A day that froze my heart – a frigid February morning in 1990 – saw him target a girl even younger than my own Karen. But fate twisted the plot, and the shop she sought was closed. Lost and new to the area, Rachael Watts sought directions from a stranger, unwittingly stepping into the grip of her tormentor, Russell Bishop.

Bishop, the same man who had cruelly robbed Karen and Nicola of their futures three years prior, eluded justice back then. Now, this very event, his insidious assault on Rachael, proved to be his unraveling.

Picture the scene – Rachael cautiously approached Bishop, engrossed in his red Cortina's boot. 'He wore a mustache like my dad's, and he was fiddling with his car, like my dad does,' Rachael, then a seven-year-old, recollected, her voice laden with innocence.

The monster's grasp seized her, sealing her in the trunk, silenced only by his threat of death. Unthinkable terror gripped her heart, yet amid darkness, Rachael clung to hope, even offering her meager £1 allowance to secure her release. The miles rolled by, her tiny hands found a hammer, and courageously, she pounded on the lid.

Eventually, the car halted, nestled in the Sussex Downs. There, Bishop's sinister script played out once again – stripping Rachael, defiling her, and choking her into unconsciousness.

In that bleak, shadowy realm between life and death, I believe Karen and Nicola's spirits stood sentinel, willing Rachael to endure. 'Survive, for us,' they seemed to murmur, and Rachael, battered but alive, awoke in gorse-covered embrace.

Bruised, naked, and alone, she emerged from the underbrush, her cries caught by a passing couple. Thus began her harrowing journey to escape the abyss that Bishop had plunged her into.

In the dark room of my memory, Karen's bedroom is a tapestry of red and white, an ode to Liverpool Football Club, a passion that ignited despite her parents' divergent loyalties to Chelsea and Tottenham. A joyous discord of rival cheers animated our weekends.

A snapshot emerges: our little brood – Lee, me, our son Darren, and our daughters Karen and Lyndsey. Karen, with her restless creativity, would sketch, sing, and dance, forever conspiring with Nicola on secret garden shows, or crafting doll's quarters from our old settee.

The day she vanished, a chill October afternoon in 1986, she hurriedly swapped her school shoes for sneakers and announced her plans to play with Nicky. A simple wish for chicken pie lingered in the air as she dashed into the world.

Her absence was a chord of unease, discordant amid the reassuring hum of everyday life. The police offered hollow assurances – "Kids wander off, lose track of time," they said, but Karen's absence was an anomaly. Her absence was a prelude to the unthinkable.

In the pitch-dark hours that followed, I scoured every inch, every nook, driven by desperation. The passage of time, each tick of the clock, carved into my consciousness – 3 AM, 11 hours gone; 3 AM, 12 hours vanished. Fatigue pushed me to the brink, every step an agony.

Wild Park beckoned, a hushed expanse of nature – perhaps a sanctuary for my daughter. A passerby's offhand remark – "Saw them by the trees" – jolted me. There, among the trees, I saw Russell Bishop, eyes fixed on me.

We stood frozen, a tableau of confrontation. He knew something. I knew he knew.

In the aftermath, Bishop's erratic behavior spawned whispers of our suspicions, the community cloaked in doubt. He had collided with our lives before – taunting me from his car, probing about Karen's clothing and seeking solace in his dog's 'training'. But all these pieces, they coalesced into a tapestry of malevolence.

Then, that accursed radio, resounding with the echo of another dark chapter. Bishop's arrest for assaulting Rachael, the whispers swirling anew, memories rippling with renewed pain.

But as the courts swung open, evidence converged, and justice, though belated, finally found its voice. Guilty – a verdict that echoed through time, transcending the years.

And in that moment, as the gavel struck, I felt a weight lift, a whisper carried by the winds – 'We got him.' Karen and Nicola, vigilant spirits, could finally rest.

Adapted from 'My Girl' by Michelle Hadaway, published by Penguin on August 31, 2023. Copyright © Michelle Hadaway 2023.