her parents.
"She was aware that there was a killer about," her father said. "Dawn was years ahead of herself and never queried important rules. She was well acquainted with the Lynda Mann case."
Two of the village girls saw Dawn that afternoon, walking past Brockington bowls and tennis courts, heading toward Ten Pound Lane. There'd been a Midlands summer shower that afternoon, the kind where one minute there's brilliant sun and the clatter of birds, and next there's rain slamming on the roof, followed almost immediately by silver storm light.
A teenage boy also saw Dawn that afternoon as she neared the verdant footpath. He said that Dawn was a cute and bubbly girl, but he hesitated to speak because he didn't know her well enough. "Her hair was sticking up on top as if she had gel on it," he later said.
Dawn reached the fork and had a choice. She could walk left on the path over the motorway and then parallel with the motorway to King Edward Avenue--or to the right, toward Ten Pound Lane. Since the Lynda Mann murder her father had repeatedly told her always to walk over the motorway. But it was broad daylight and she was growing up, and, in her mother's words, "blossoming and changing, day to day." She chose the shortcut and walked down Ten Pound Lane, which was sodden from the shower and smelled of rotting leaves.
Dawn emerged from Ten Pound Lane, crossed King Edward Avenue and cut through the hedge to Carlton Avenue. She called at the house of Sharon Clarke, knocked and was met by Sharon's mother.
"Is Sharon there?" she asked.
"No, she's just gone with Sue," Mrs. Clarke said. "Perhaps you'd like to try Sue's house."
"I will," Dawn said. "Bye!"
A few minutes later she knocked at the door of Sue Allsop's house. When the door opened Dawn said, "Hi. Are Sue and Sharon there?" "No, I'm sorry, dear, they're not here," Mrs. Allsop said. "Probabl y g one to the village. Why don't you go look for them?"
Dawn Ashworth decided not to look for her friends in Narborough village. A neighbor of the Ailsops standing in her kitchen saw Dawn heading back toward the motorway.
A passing motorist later said he sighted Dawn Ashworth at 4:40 P . M . crossing King Edward Avenue, walking toward the farm gate, about to enter Ten Pound Lane.
I was riding the motorbike when I saw her cross the road. She walked through the gate there to the lower footpath. I parked the motorbike a short way from the main road and I put me hat on the handleclip. When I walked through that gate a gut feeling was saying, No no no no nol But the other side of me was saying, Just flash her. You've got a footpath. You've got all the time in the world. Even if she runs off screaming no one will ever see you. No one will ever know! Who's going to know?
Ten Pound Lane was perhaps the loveliest of the village footpaths. By the lower road, it was entered through a wooden farm gate. At that point, the path had been covered partway with black tarmac about two feet wide, but soon it ran out and you walked on a grassy dirt track.
On the motorway side were fields of hay dotted with poppies, sprinkled with a bit of heather. And on the other side was a mini-golf course, and then farmland bordering the Carlton Hayes Hospital, protected by a five-foot fence. A profusion of nettles and brambles, along with birch, elm, and tangled hawthorn bushes, on both sides of the path created a veritable tunnel of green where the path got narrow, where it snaked toward the psychiatric hospital and away from it.
Villagers were sometimes solicited in newspaper ads to buy pyracantha and berberis. The Royal Society for the Protection of Birds wished to provide "life-saving berries for your hungry garden visitors." There were pyracantha and berberis both, tangled in the impassable wall of blackthorn that bordered Ten Pound Lane.
It was an ideal place to walk a dog. The whole path from King Edward Avenue to Brockington School took only fifteen or twenty minutes to cover, walking briskly. And
"She was aware that there was a killer about," her father said. "Dawn was years ahead of herself and never queried important rules. She was well acquainted with the Lynda Mann case."
Two of the village girls saw Dawn that afternoon, walking past Brockington bowls and tennis courts, heading toward Ten Pound Lane. There'd been a Midlands summer shower that afternoon, the kind where one minute there's brilliant sun and the clatter of birds, and next there's rain slamming on the roof, followed almost immediately by silver storm light.
A teenage boy also saw Dawn that afternoon as she neared the verdant footpath. He said that Dawn was a cute and bubbly girl, but he hesitated to speak because he didn't know her well enough. "Her hair was sticking up on top as if she had gel on it," he later said.
Dawn reached the fork and had a choice. She could walk left on the path over the motorway and then parallel with the motorway to King Edward Avenue--or to the right, toward Ten Pound Lane. Since the Lynda Mann murder her father had repeatedly told her always to walk over the motorway. But it was broad daylight and she was growing up, and, in her mother's words, "blossoming and changing, day to day." She chose the shortcut and walked down Ten Pound Lane, which was sodden from the shower and smelled of rotting leaves.
Dawn emerged from Ten Pound Lane, crossed King Edward Avenue and cut through the hedge to Carlton Avenue. She called at the house of Sharon Clarke, knocked and was met by Sharon's mother.
"Is Sharon there?" she asked.
"No, she's just gone with Sue," Mrs. Clarke said. "Perhaps you'd like to try Sue's house."
"I will," Dawn said. "Bye!"
A few minutes later she knocked at the door of Sue Allsop's house. When the door opened Dawn said, "Hi. Are Sue and Sharon there?" "No, I'm sorry, dear, they're not here," Mrs. Allsop said. "Probabl y g one to the village. Why don't you go look for them?"
Dawn Ashworth decided not to look for her friends in Narborough village. A neighbor of the Ailsops standing in her kitchen saw Dawn heading back toward the motorway.
A passing motorist later said he sighted Dawn Ashworth at 4:40 P . M . crossing King Edward Avenue, walking toward the farm gate, about to enter Ten Pound Lane.
I was riding the motorbike when I saw her cross the road. She walked through the gate there to the lower footpath. I parked the motorbike a short way from the main road and I put me hat on the handleclip. When I walked through that gate a gut feeling was saying, No no no no nol But the other side of me was saying, Just flash her. You've got a footpath. You've got all the time in the world. Even if she runs off screaming no one will ever see you. No one will ever know! Who's going to know?
Ten Pound Lane was perhaps the loveliest of the village footpaths. By the lower road, it was entered through a wooden farm gate. At that point, the path had been covered partway with black tarmac about two feet wide, but soon it ran out and you walked on a grassy dirt track.
On the motorway side were fields of hay dotted with poppies, sprinkled with a bit of heather. And on the other side was a mini-golf course, and then farmland bordering the Carlton Hayes Hospital, protected by a five-foot fence. A profusion of nettles and brambles, along with birch, elm, and tangled hawthorn bushes, on both sides of the path created a veritable tunnel of green where the path got narrow, where it snaked toward the psychiatric hospital and away from it.
Villagers were sometimes solicited in newspaper ads to buy pyracantha and berberis. The Royal Society for the Protection of Birds wished to provide "life-saving berries for your hungry garden visitors." There were pyracantha and berberis both, tangled in the impassable wall of blackthorn that bordered Ten Pound Lane.
It was an ideal place to walk a dog. The whole path from King Edward Avenue to Brockington School took only fifteen or twenty minutes to cover, walking briskly. And
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