Evil Relations (28 page)

Public interest in the case intensified following the discovery of Lesley Ann Downey’s body, threatening to hinder the search for further victims. On 20 October 1965, the
Manchester Evening News
reported: ‘Hundreds Flock to Watch Moor Hunt . . . in small family cars and executive limousines . . . sensation-seekers have rolled up in their hundreds . . . Some stayed for only a few minutes. Others parked their cars by the roadside and settled down with vacuum flasks and sandwiches.’ A disgruntled police spokesman called it ‘morbid curiosity at its worst. All we needed was a hot-dog vendor.’

Two hundred foreign journalists descended on Manchester, shuttling between Saddleworth, Hyde and Hattersley. ‘The press were always there,’ David recalls, ‘but all at once the place seemed to be teeming with them. Even then, until the committal it was still possible, more or less, for Maureen and me to avoid them. I was in turmoil, trying to come to terms with the full story, as it began to unravel. I thought nothing could have been worse than the murder of Edward Evans, but as the days rolled on that night became just one element of something so vast and terrifying that my part in it dwindled into insignificance. The whole thing snowballed, horror upon horror. I felt like a tiny speck of a person in the shadow of an avalanche that just kept coming.’

On Thursday, 21 October 1965, the body of a second child was found on the moor. A photograph of Myra Hindley crouching on a dark patch of ground with Puppet, then only weeks old and tucked inside her coat, led to the discovery. Mounsey was convinced that the snapshot – in which Myra wore an eerie half-smile and stared down at the peat and stones beneath her feet – was grimly significant. Scene of Crime Officer Mike Massheder worked on the photograph, burning-in the background, which then revealed the rocks of Hollin Brown Knoll, seen from the other side of the A635.

With habitual patience, Mounsey traipsed the moor until he was certain he’d found the spot on which Myra was shown crouching. Inspector John Chaddock, present that morning, later told the court: ‘I pushed my stick a short distance into the ground . . . Upon withdrawing my stick, there was a strong smell of putrefaction on the end of it. We removed the topsoil to a depth of about nine inches and uncovered a boy’s left black shoe. Underneath the shoe I saw some socks and what appeared to be part of a heel . . .’ Mounsey had found his ‘lad’, 12-year-old John Kilbride; the young boy’s grave was where David had stood with Ian Brady to look at the moonlit reservoir. Buried face down, feet towards the road, John’s body was fully clothed except for his trousers and underpants, which had been pulled down and knotted, indicating the sexual torture he, like Lesley, had suffered prior to death. Decomposition was so far advanced that his mother could only identify him by his clothes and a few strands of hair.

Police continued to search the moor until the second week in November, when the weather closed in. There were still two missing children, Pauline Reade and Keith Bennett, whom detectives strongly suspected had been murdered by Ian Brady and Myra Hindley. One photograph of Myra on Hollin Brown Knoll bore striking similarities to the shot of her posing on John Kilbride’s grave; it was taken on the site of the trans-Pennine gas pipeline. Benfield enquired about digging in that area and was told that the gas supply would have to be diverted first – at a prohibitive cost of £10 million. The search was called off.

As police prepared to wrap up the inquiry, a concentrated effort was made to ‘break’ the two accused and to assess whether David had been involved in their crimes. ‘I was brought before Mattin and Tyrrell in Manchester,’ he remembers. ‘They were waiting for me in the interview room with their jackets off, shirtsleeves rolled up and ties loosened. There was no mistaking what they wanted. I was told, “If you walk out of this room today, boy, you’ll either walk out into fresh air or you’ll find yourself banged up in a cell with the other two.”’

He pauses. ‘It was tough going. I was there from first thing in the morning until last thing at night with
nothing
to eat or drink. Every question was accompanied by controlled aggression – fists thumped down on desks and against doors, shouting, chairs kicked over, that sort of thing. At one point Mattin grabbed my shoulders and squeezed so hard I thought my collarbone would snap. Then he shook me like a rat and bellowed, “Come on, lad, come on! Let’s have it, what have you done, eh? Get it out, you’ll feel better for it. You can’t live with what you’ve been part of, can you? Help the families now and you’ll feel as if that weight you’ve been carrying around has been lifted.” I shouted back that I hadn’t done anything, and he shoved me off my chair. I wasn’t having that, so I told him, “That’s it, I’m off,” but he grabbed me and bounced me back down in my seat with another bellow: “You’re not fucking going anywhere until we’ve had the truth, you lying little piece of shit!”’

David shakes his head. ‘This went on for hours, endless hours. It was awful, but I’ve got a great deal of respect for Mattin because he did his utmost to break me within the rules of conduct, though he sailed pretty close to the wind sometimes. He put the fear of God into me that day. If I’d been guilty of anything, he’d have got it out of me, no question. Right up until the last hour, I think both Mattin
and
Tyrrell were convinced I knew more than I was letting on. They were determined to get to the truth, whatever that turned out to be. The two of them were up to their old tricks again as well – during their breaks they’d go straight to the canteen where Dad and Maureen were waiting and wind them up. Then I’d get five minutes with Dad and he’d be frantic: “What the hell have you told them, Dave? What the fuck is going on in there?” They were telling Dad that I’d said all sorts and I’d panic: “I didn’t say that, Dad, I didn’t say it.” I was a wreck.’

He shakes his head again. ‘Mattin and Tyrrell were tough old-school coppers. Between them, they pressed every button I had and pushed me to the limits of what I could take. Both of them screamed at me repeatedly that I was a lying little cunt and a no-good bastard. By the end of the day, we were all exhausted and emotionally drained. Mattin, a great big lump of a lad, fell into a chair and sat with his arms behind his head, fingers locked together, staring up at the ceiling with his eyes watering. I felt a real sense of relief, though, because that was the end of it – they knew I had nothing left to give, no secrets to tell. When they said “All right, lad, you can go,” it was obvious that their view of me had changed for good. And that was true of all the police. I was no longer a suspect. From then on, I was a witness for the prosecution.’

Public feeling, however, was running high. Thousands lined the routes for the funeral processions of Lesley Ann Downey and John Kilbride. The fear that it could have been anyone’s child snatched from streets once regarded as safe was very much in evidence. The passing of Sydney Silverman’s Murder (Abolition of the Death Penalty) Act on 8 November 1965 only served to inflame matters; that the two accused would now be spared the hangman’s rope was seen by many as an affront to justice. Brady and Hindley’s remand hearings in Hyde became opportunities to give vent to that outrage, with hundreds queuing outside the courthouse doors at first light, regardless of the weather. When David and Maureen were spotted leaving on foot through the market, a large group of seething people – mostly women – pursued them.

‘Two storms broke,’ David agrees. ‘The case itself and the press and public interest in it. After Lesley Ann Downey and John Kilbride were found, everything went haywire. Reporters kept pushing their cards through our letterbox, wrapped up in fivers, with scribbled invitations: “If you fancy a drink and a chat, give us a ring.” By evening, there would be a small pile of cards on the hallway floor. The car park at Underwood Court
swarmed
with reporters and photographers. Lenses were trained on our balcony and the main door downstairs.’

He grins suddenly. ‘I found a way of dealing with the scrutiny, though. Because of the difficulty in getting Bob past old Mr Page’s door, we often let the dog do his business on the balcony. When the press came, I’d let the muck pile up on purpose, fetch the big sweeping brush, throw some water down to make it all good and sloppy, then sweep the stinking mess off with gusto, straight onto the cars below. None of us residents could afford to drive, so I knew that any cars down there had to belong to reporters. It used to cheer me up no end, that little task. Apart from that, I didn’t have anything to do with the press for a while.’ He pauses and rubs his jaw thoughtfully. ‘The problem was that by ignoring them, I didn’t see the bigger picture. I had no idea what was coming – the attention set to engulf us. I lived within a bubble of Underwood Court and various police stations. To some extent, it was a self-imposed bubble – I needed to protect myself and Maureen, who was almost three months pregnant.’

The bubble burst on Monday, 6 December 1965. On that date, committal proceedings against Ian Brady and Myra Hindley opened at Hyde Magistrates’ Court. The purpose of a committal is to establish whether there is a case for trial; in 1965, that meant presenting the full prosecution case before magistrates, with the press allowed to report on events unless instructed otherwise (both Brady’s defence lawyer, David Lloyd-Jones, and Hindley’s defence lawyer, Philip Curtis, failed in their plea to have the evidence heard in camera). Eighty witnesses were called to read their statements, a long and expensive process lasting eleven days.

David was the lynchpin of the prosecution’s case. ‘It wasn’t something I looked forward to doing,’ he admits. ‘I dreaded having to face Ian and Myra again. I hadn’t seen either of them since the day after Edward Evans was killed. There had been no contact between Maureen and her family either. Two camps sprang up straight away: “us” – me and Maureen and Dad – and “them” – the Hindleys. They’d made it clear Maureen was out of the fold. We were still in our bubble at that point, right up to the day when we had to give evidence. But in the run-up to the committal, I couldn’t sleep or think straight at all. Knowing I’d have to take the stand while Ian and Myra sat only a few feet away brought me out in a cold sweat. And the press, too, became unbearable.’

Shortly before the committal opened, reporters set up unofficial ‘headquarters’ at the Queen’s Hotel in Hyde, 500 yards from the courtroom. The ensuing publicity made minor celebrities of the magistrates themselves: former Mayoress Mrs Dorothy Adamson, a JP since 1938 (fond of wearing quirky little hats in court), Harry Taylor, retired secretary of Hyde Weavers’ Association, and Sam Redfern, a retired master baker.

The prosecution outlined their case on Tuesday, 7 December 1965. David was due to step into the witness box the very next day.

* * *

Condensation fogs the glass of the balcony doors; it’s a bitterly cold morning in Hattersley. Maureen has switched on two bars of the electric fire, but I can’t feel any warmth as I prowl about the flat. I haven’t slept, and the cigarettes I’ve spent the night ingesting, one after the other, have left me with a banging headache and a throat you could use to grate cheese. I’ve thrown so much cold water over my face that I’m starting to worry I might sprout fins in place of ears. Vomit rises and then sinks again in my gut, my nerves feel as if they’re wired up to the pylons over the estate, and on top of everything I’m so exhausted that my eyes burn; I keep having to squeeze them tightly shut to try and stop them smarting.

Two policemen stand in the living room, heads politely bowed, waiting for me to organise myself. They haven’t spoken since Maureen let them into the flat and their silence agitates me. I head through to the bathroom, closing the door loudly, and hold on to the sink. It’s icy cold under my fingers. A tremor passes through my knees and I grip the porcelain until my knuckles are white and protruding. My reflection doesn’t look like me at all.

‘Come on, lad, get yourself together – it’s time to go.’ The copper’s voice on the other side of the door is stern but not unkind. It panics me nonetheless and I shout, ‘Fuck off, leave me alone for a fucking minute!’ I stare wildly at the mirror, wanting nothing more than to smash my skull into it with a scream.

Minutes pass. There is a gentle knock at the door and Maureen pleads softly, ‘Come on, love, come out. Everybody’s waiting.’

I grab a towel. The bobbly blue material darkens with the sweat from my face and armpits. I let it fall to the floor and unlock the door. Maureen stands there, eyes huge with concern, flanked by the policemen. She places a gentle kiss on my cheek. Then suddenly we’re leaving the flat, the two of us tightly holding hands, heading towards the lift with the policemen following. One of their colleagues stands inside the narrow, stinky cubicle, holding the door open with a security key. We step inside and descend the three floors in silence.

Downstairs in the lobby, another policeman stands just inside the glass entrance door, while a second waits outside, his broad back obscuring our view of the car park and road beyond. The copper indoors moves towards us as we step out of the lift: ‘There’s a load of press outside and a fair-sized crowd. Go careful.’

Maureen’s fingers tighten over mine. I squint at the glass and recognise a couple of faces at the front of the crowd as our neighbours from upstairs. They’re only waiting to be allowed into their flat, but the police take no chances and hold them back with the rest. I reach into my pocket for two pairs of black sunglasses and hand one set to Maureen. With those pitiful pieces of protection in place, I give the police a nod.

As the door opens, a monumental wall of abuse, as ferocious as it is deafening, hits us. At the side of the kerb is a police car; we’re herded towards it at a run. The crowd’s screams reach fever pitch and the sound of their feet scuffling as the coppers push them away from us is startling music in itself. I know from experience that most of them are women, and many will have brought their kids along. They start spitting, and an animal-like howl of emotion goes up from their struggling number. Then it’s the turn of the reporters, running alongside us and shouting ludicrous questions that make me want to break through the police cordon and start landing punches. I hear one yell: ‘How are you today, Maureen? Any news from your sister?’ I explode and start fighting my way through to the culprit: ‘Shut your fucking mouth, you stupid fucking—’