Casey Watson - The Little Princess - The shocking true story of a little girl imprisoned in her own home

John always appeared at some point in the run-up to Christmas. It was one of his traditions to ‘do the rounds’ at this time of year, bestowing all his foster families with a poinsettia. ‘All the way from sunny San Diego!’ he’d always remind us as he handed it over, San Diego apparently being the poinsettia capital of the world.

There was sun for us too that particular Sunday. Sun, and the sort of frosty air that promised ice tonight, if not snow. But as I watched John walk up the path, there was no pot plant in his hand, just his usual battered briefcase. And, worryingly, no seasonal smile on his face, either. Just a deeply etched frown. I could see it clearly, even in the gathering December dusk.

I dried my hands and went out into the hallway. No poinsettia for me today, I thought, glancing down at the place I usually reserved for it – at the back of the hall table where it was generally safe from little hands.

‘Can you keep an eye on the veg for me? We’ve got a visitor,’ I called to Riley. She was still playing lion tamer in the living room with Mike, Kieron and Lauren, till Tyler returned from an outing with his half-brother, Grant, when he would assume his role as chief entertainer of the little ones till we ate.

I opened the door just as John was reaching for the knocker. Nope, it was a definite. There was no pretty red plant behind his back. ‘Come in, come in,’ I said, gesturing with my hand. ‘You look half-frozen.’

He put his case down just inside the door and rubbed his hands together. ‘Brrr,’ he said. ‘Too right. It’s really cold out there today.’

I agreed, and hurried to help him off with his coat. But I could already see he was somewhat distracted. ‘What’s up, John?’ I asked him as I threw it on top of the pile over the newel post.

He sighed. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, glancing towards the living room. ‘This is not the best time is it? I did call, but …’ He gestured towards the cacophony. ‘But thought I’d try popping over, since I was out and about anyway. I was hoping you and Mike could help us out.’

By ‘us’, I immediately knew he meant the fostering team. Christmas was always a stressful time of year for them, for all the usual, depressing reasons. Family flare-ups, often compounded by the stresses of the festive season. And compounded too by the fact that – for the same festive reasons – foster carers were temporarily thin on the ground. Sad though it was, it was part and parcel of the job. He must need us to take a child in. That much was immediately evident. Not a poinsettia, but a child – most likely one in distress. And it must be urgent for him to turn up after only trying to call once. He knew what I was like, and how often I mislaid my mobile.

‘If we can, you know we will,’ I immediately reassured him. ‘But hang on – let me grab Mike and get the little ones out of the way, so we can have somewhere quiet to talk.’

Which was easier said than done, obviously, given the size of the house and the number of people currently in it. But in the end I set Riley and Lauren to work in the kitchen, minding the dinner, while Mike, Kieron and David minded the children in the living room, leaving us the conservatory – the only room in the house not yet festooned with fairy lights, which, given John’s grim expression, seemed the most appropriate.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said again as we went in.

I have seen and heard an awful lot in my fostering career, some of it the sort of thing I wished I hadn’t had to. The sort of thing that, once seen and heard, you couldn’t un-see or un-hear; testament to the reality that the world could be a cruel, ugly place. And you get a sixth sense, when you’ve worked with someone as long as Mike and I had with John. Seeing his expression as he sat down in one of the two wicker armchairs, I realised this might just be one such occasion.

‘We are desperate,’ John began, ‘or I wouldn’t have come to you. I know how much Christmas means to you, and particularly this Christmas. But the truth is that I don’t have anywhere else to turn.’

Nowhere else to turn . The kind of statement that’s almost a cliché. Not to mention one I’d heard before, as it’s a bit of a theme in fostering. And sadly, when a link worker or social worker says it, it’s usually the literal truth.

Riley popped her head round the door. ‘I’ve made some coffees. You both want one?’

We both nodded and she smiled John a hello. She knew the potential score. She and David fostered too these days, though, sensibly, with three little ones on their hands, they only did it intermittently, to provide respite for full-time foster carers.

I pulled the table across in readiness, while she went to get our drinks for us. I could still hear Arnie and co jingling their merry way in the living room.

John was anything but merry, and I wondered quite what he was about to tell me.

‘So,’ I said, ‘you want us to take a child in.’ He nodded. ‘Just for over Christmas? Or are we looking at a more permanent thing?’

John rubbed his hands together again. They were pinkish, and mottled from the cold. ‘I don’t know yet. It’s a big mess. Police involved. Shocking. All very sudden, so there’s no care plan in place yet, obviously. Shocking,’ he said again. John wasn’t easily shocked. ‘It’s a little girl,’ he went on, grimacing. ‘Literally just been brought in to us. And you’ll need to prepare yourselves. Ah, Mike,’ he said, looking up. ‘Good.’

Mike came in with the coffees, having presumably left Riley and the others to deal with what needed dealing with – which, it occurred to me, could usefully involve turning the TV off.

‘Go on, then,’ I urged John, once Mike had pulled up another chair. ‘Exactly how shocking? How bad is it?’

Pretty bad, as it turned out, even to our experienced ears.

‘Her name is Darby,’ John began. ‘Six years old. Lives with both parents.’

I knew this could mean everything and nothing. Many foster kids – most of the type we tended to foster – came to us having already been involved with social services, from dysfunctional families, fractured ones, the kids of addicts of various kinds – and a fair few who’d already been in the care system for a while. That this girl came from a home with a mother and father could mean lots of things, good or bad, so I couldn’t pre-judge. What I knew it wouldn’t be was some sort of tragedy, such as both parents having been killed in a road accident. Police, he’d said. A big mess. That was telling.

‘She’s come to our attention,’ John continued, ‘via a known paedophile. And, as I said, you’ll want to brace yourselves …’

The word was galvanising. We did. In fact, I don’t think I’d sat so stiffly to attention since I’d last been to a lecture on fostering protocols. Though this time it wasn’t so I didn’t drift off to sleep. On the contrary, I’d rarely been so riveted.

The little girl, Darby Sykes, had indeed come to them via a known paedophile – one who’d been browsing through his usual diet of hardcore child pornography when he thought he recognised a child that he knew. That the images would have been disturbing wasn’t in question – physical abuse of small children was the kind of material he mostly went for, but in this case, realising he knew the child lit some flame of disquiet in him. Identifying the actual victim meant he couldn’t switch off the part of his brain that was required to pipe down in order for him to enjoy what he was doing.

And what he’d been doing, John explained, in a quiet, measured voice, was watching little six-year-old Darby, on film, on his laptop, initially dressed up, and made up, but soon almost fully naked, and acting out various scenarios with a variety of sex toys. Above each moving picture was apparently a banner. It read ‘Our Little Princess’.