Evil Relations (3 page)

David became agitated as he explained that the sign was his creation, carved in his workshop. ‘No one should lie in an unmarked grave,’ he told us. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying . . . no child should be without a headstone when they die, the very least you can give them is that – somewhere for their family to visit. A stretch of bleak field with no one knowing they’re there . . . it isn’t right.’ He shook his head and bit his lip. ‘I think you understand. I
hope
you do.’ He gave Mary a nod and we drove slowly away.

All Brady and Hindley’s victims have been found except Keith Bennett, who disappeared on 16 June 1964. His body lies somewhere on Saddleworth Moor, despite more recent efforts by Greater Manchester Police to locate his grave. Last year, I began corresponding with Alan Bennett, Keith’s younger brother. As our friendship developed, I worried about how he might react to the book I was writing with David Smith. When I confided in him, his reaction was overwhelmingly positive and he has continued to be staunchly supportive of the book ever since. He has provided the Foreword here, and I owe him a huge debt of thanks not only for that, but also for his encouragement, courage and strength. I hope that others might share his clear-sightedness in reading this book.

*

Only a handful of people knew that this book was in progress. I must first of all thank my mother, as always, for taking care of River whenever I needed to work outside school hours. I’m grateful to my brother John and his wife Sally for their support, and to my friend Tricia, who accompanied River and me on our first visit to Ireland.

I must also thank all David and Mary’s family, but especially their sons David and Paul. David provided the initial contact and Paul, together with his partner Gwen, often looked after River while I was working in Ireland. I have to thank Gwen’s son, Mikey, too, for being such a good friend to River while we were there. And sincere thanks to Dave Lucey and his partner, Kath, for all their help; also to Ralf Beyerle, for providing the photographs of Dave and Mary by Hans-Jürgen Büsch.

Mary’s belief in this project from the very beginning has ensured its completion. It’s entirely due to her that David was able to set aside his reservations and dedicate himself to writing, talking and thinking more in depth about the past than ever before. Over the many months we’ve worked on the book I’ve come to value their friendship deeply. I want to thank them for that, and for their good humour, hospitality and many generosities. But most of all, I want to thank them for putting their trust in me.

When the door clicks shut, he has to force himself not to run, moving steadily down the path and past the window where the light burns behind drawn floral curtains. Walking away from the house is the most terrifying thing he’s ever done; the impulse to keep looking over his shoulder is almost unbearable. One foot slowly in front of the other, again and again, until he reaches the cut-through. The street lights are out, plunging the housing estate into blackness as he breaks into the fastest sprint of his life, accompanied by the eternal static hum of the pylons towering over Hattersley.

The cut-through brings him out on the road where he lives. Underwood Court is one of seven blocks of high-rise flats in the neighbourhood; tonight the thirteen floors of its starkly lit stairwell are as welcome as a lighthouse beam. Gasping from the 300-yard run, he holds his index finger on the intercom button, listening acutely for the buzzer. The snap of the door release seems deafening in the still night air.

Inside the entrance hall, his breathing begins to regulate as he glances at Flat Number 1, occupied by Mr Page, the jobsworth caretaker. He waits for a moment, half-expecting the middle-aged man to haul open the door with another threat of eviction, but silence echoes about the building.

The lift is to his right. Ignoring the stink of urine and takeaways that plagues the steel cubicle around the clock, he steps in, pressing his back to the wall, and drags trembling hands through his hair. A cold sweat begins to permeate his skin. On the third floor he gets out, glancing down the corridor. There are four flats, and the door to his, with its tarnished ‘18’ above the spyhole, is slightly ajar.

The normality of the living room, where the collie stands wagging its tail, and the homely sound of his wife filling the kettle with water in the kitchen, confuses him. The reality of what he’s witnessed and escaped from suddenly hits home. Calling, ‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ he dives into the bathroom and vomits until there is nothing left.

His wife appears at his side, kneeling in her nightdress, putting a concerned hand on his shoulders as he hunches over the toilet, spitting out long trails of bitter saliva. He hears her ask if he is all right, if he’s been drinking.

‘I haven’t had
any
drink.’

He turns his head and in the stark light of the bathroom the look in her eyes agitates him afresh; it’s as if she doesn’t recognise him. He staggers to his feet and turns on the blue-spotted tap, letting the water run ice-cold through his fingers before splashing it up into his face. His wife stands apprehensively behind him. When he paces through to the sitting room, she follows.

‘Sit down,’ he tells her and they sit, knee to knee, on the settee. He puts out a chilled hand to the dog, who hunkers down at his feet. The cold sweat that began in the lift returns, but this time it pours from him like water.

Shivering uncontrollably, he blurts out in fits and starts what he’s seen.

Afterwards, he looks at his wife and realises that she hasn’t grasped any of it as he’d intended. She only keeps asking about her sister, wanting to know if she’s all right.

‘She’s all right, but
she
’s part of it. Didn’t you hear me, girl? Myra’s
part of it
.’

But it’s clear that she still doesn’t understand. Frustrated, he gets up to splash more water on his face, then sits heavily in the chair by the electric fire. When the heating is on, the fire smells of burning wool and gives off a sound like a muted version of the pylons over Hattersley. Now it’s lifeless, the bars grey. Without its glow and drone, the flat feels barren.

His wife is crying very softly, feeling for the tissue tucked inside one of the short sleeves of her nightdress. He looks down at his T-shirt, at the dark, rust-coloured specks and smears, and his mouth thickens with bile.

Swallowing, he states quietly, ‘As soon as it’s light, we’ll call the police.’ When she doesn’t answer, he cracks his knuckles, one after the other, in a vain attempt to relieve the tension inside himself. ‘All right, girl? We’ll wait until there are other people moving about and then we’ll go to the phone box.’

‘And take Bob.’ Her reply, spoken in a small voice, is that of a girl even younger than her 19 years. The dog, hearing his name, half-opens a bleary eye.

‘Yeah, him too.’

He turns his head towards the glass door that leads to the balcony. Stiffly, he rises and crosses the carpet, then opens the door carefully so as not to make a noise. The air strikes his skin like a fist; the temperature seems to have dropped beyond reason. The sky over Hattersley is starless and unremittingly dark, but down there among the myriad houses, it’s somehow possible to make out which row is Wardle Brook Avenue.

Minutes pass with painful sluggishness. He divides his time crouching in the chair beside the lifeless fire and leaning over the balcony screen to reassure himself that there’s no one watching the flat – not from Wardle Brook Avenue nor from the car park below.

Because that’s his deepest fear, in these last hours before daybreak. He feels safe as long as he and Maureen remain in the flat, but in his mind he pictures the two of them leaving Underwood Court and a car cruising up alongside, then a soft voice asking, ‘And where do you think you’re off to?’ In the flat, he can just about cope with the knowledge of what’s gone before, but if they leave and the nightmare scenario becomes reality, he will go to pieces, without a shadow of doubt; he will absolutely go to pieces. So he keeps guard instead, and waits for the right moment to present itself.

And it does, a little after six o’clock, when a shard of light breaks over the estate. He’s left the balcony door open and hears the familiar sound of the milkman arriving on his rounds: first the trundle of the float on the road, then the faint chink of dozens of bottles. He gets up from the fireside chair to watch the white-coated figure carrying a red crate along the nearest terrace. Lights are going on as people rise for the new day; no more than a handful dotted about the estate, but enough to convince him that the time has come.

He turns to Maureen and she stares back at him, wide-eyed.

Taking a deep breath, he keeps his voice as even as he can: ‘Get dressed and fetch your coat.’

He waits until she’s walked through to the bedroom before entering the kitchen and pulling open a drawer. He tucks the bread knife prudently inside the waistband of his jeans, then pulls open another drawer filled with useless things gathering dust – small keys to unknown locks, old bus ticket stubs, a broken plastic spoon – and rummages until his fingers light on an object at the back. He takes out the heavy screwdriver and pushes it into his waistband next to the knife.

His wife stands in the sitting room, awkward in her coat and impractical shoes.

With the dog at their heels, they head for the fetid lift. The clunking mechanism shudders into life, jerking them down to the ground floor. They step out in unison, all three, and cross the hall with its prickly mat skew-whiff to the front door.

Maureen gazes at him. He opens the door slowly and takes a step outside, glancing in every direction. The roads are empty and the car park uninhabited. He looks back at his wife. Her black beehive is unkempt and her eyes, without their usual spit-slicked mascara and thick, pencilled contours, seem sunken and huge at the same time.

‘Ready?’

She nods, clutching the dog’s collar for comfort.

‘Let’s go for it, then.’

They refrain from running, but walk with adrenalin-induced speed to the long road bordering the estate. Fluorescent light spills from the newsagents’ shop, and outside the chippy crumpled paper bags flutter while discarded pop cans clatter in a gust of wind.

The public telephone stands on the corner of Hare Hill Road. All three of them squeeze inside the peeling scarlet box with its tart iron-filings smell. He lifts the receiver and dials 999, the burr and clicks of the connection reverberating in the cramped space.

His call is logged at 6.07 a.m. by Police Constable Edwards, the duty policeman at Hyde station.

*

‘I asked for a car,’ David recalls quietly, 45 years later. He’s sitting on a pine chair he made himself, in the kitchen of his home in a remote and beautiful corner of Ireland. ‘I couldn’t think of anything to say. There wasn’t a story that I could give them over the phone. How could I sum up in a couple of sentences what had taken place that night? I definitely did
not
mention that there had been a murder. I just asked for a car. The bobby on the phone said, “Well, what’s it for?” I told him, “Look, we
need
a car. It’s an emergency. You’ve got to get a car to us. I’ll explain at the station.” He promised us a car was on its way, so we ducked out of the phone box and hid behind a privet hedge. I don’t know if it was somebody’s garden, I just remember kneeling down behind this hedge. Full daylight came, but still no car. I went back to the phone box and called the police again. I think I rang them twice or more because I wanted to be sure that the car was on its way. And it arrived while I was actually on the phone. I’ve never been so glad to see a copper in my life.’

* * *

The police car driver says nothing, on the dash a knife and large screwdriver, in the back a young wife and large dog, me sitting silent next to him, looking out of the window. I notice he jumps all the red lights, the streets pass quickly and with a weird noise, woosh
-woosh-
woosh. I stare ahead, pressing my back hard against the seat, feet against the floor, breathing rapid and shallow but starting to relax, getting closer to where I want to be.

Are you all right, girl?
I ask Maureen. She answers softly that she is.

Every ten seconds I feel the driver’s eyes on me for an instant, but he says nothing and looks ancient to me, double my seventeen. I look away from him.

We approach the old Town Hall: Hyde police station and the magistrate’s court are wedged under the same roof, inside the same blank red walls. Two or three traffic lights come up in quick succession, we jump every one. Early risers on the suburban streets, heading for work, just another day in the life for them.

I’ve entered a corridor that has only one exit, I know this and it comforts me, even though I don’t know where the exit is and I don’t know or even care where the corridor will take me. I only feel, inside myself, the madness of it all: Ian sitting composed and calmly nodding my dismissal, without seeing the Fall of the King. Myra smiling, eyes warm and friendly, without seeing the Capture of the Queen.

What was it that you think you saw in me, Ian? You felt confident enough to kill in front of me, but what happened in your head? You say I passed the test – what fucking test? You don’t issue diplomas for this kind of thing. So we got drunk together and talked a load of shit together; it meant
nothing
, some bank robbers us. But to kill someone the way you did in front of me . . . Why you decided to do it only you know. Did you really believe your game, were you so fucking mad as to believe you were above everything? Didn’t you see your mistake:
I
am your mistake. But why?

I need to know
why
.