The Boy in the River: A Shocking True Story of Ritual Murder and Sacrifice in the Heart of London

by Richard Hoskins

  I looked at my watch. ‘It’s nearly 4 p.m.! Are you serious?’

  She was. A bundle of emailed documents would be awaiting my return to the house.

  At eight fifty the following morning I pressed the Send button on my report and crawled upstairs for a few hours’ sleep.

  Just before New Year’s Day, I climbed the steps of the Royal Courts of Justice and walked along the deserted marble hallway. I was the sole witness in Court 39 of the Family Division and I didn’t have to wait long. I took the card with the oath in my hand and promised to tell the truth. Religious beliefs were what seemed to have pushed Bikubi and Bamu over the edge; I wasn’t in the mood to rekindle mine, so had chosen to affirm rather than swear on the Bible.

  I was cross-examined by barristers for the next half hour, during which I stated my case. Despite the Council’s concerns there was also a public interest issue at stake. I suggested that the court shouldn’t lose sight of the fact that there was more than one child involved in this case, and that we owed Kristy a trial that was conducted in the full light of day rather than one that was clandestine and quickly forgotten. Thinking back to the Child B case in 2005, I added a heartfelt plea. I told the court that I did not want us to be back again in five years’ time with another child abuse or murder trial, knowing that we had missed an opportunity to place this issue under public scrutiny because the media had been stifled.

  We awaited the verdict with some trepidation. The Judge found in favour of the public interest and the injunction was overturned. The media could report the case, name the accused and show photos. I knew this might open the floodgates to some lurid coverage, but the matters that needed to be aired drove to the heart of ‘multicultural’ Britain. It was also vital for Kristy’s memory that we knew what he looked like and what he had endured, rather than allow him to be shunted aside as London’s pristine Olympic image was presented to the outside world.

  47

  London, January–February 2012

  There are eighteen courtrooms in the Old Bailey, and Court 5 is located up two flights of stone stairs. The room was hushed as Brian Altman QC rose to open the prosecution case. He made a point of not sparing us any of the details; we needed to understand the terrible savagery that had been meted out to the deceased. Two porter’s trolleys were stacked high with bags containing weapons recovered from the flat. The boy had suffered 131 separate injuries. The final week of his life had been one of almost unparalleled suffering.

  Altman drove home the fact that kindoki was central to the case, and told the court they would hear from me on the subject in due course. The two defendants were, he said, obsessed with the notion that the siblings were possessed, eventually fixing on Kristy as the source and conduit for the witchcraft.

  The days following were dominated by the testimonies of the surviving children, except for the eldest, Yves, who was very autistic, and another who was too young to give evidence.

  Kelly Bamu was twenty at the time of her brother’s death. Over two days she described in graphic detail, through racking sobs, how again and again they had begged for mercy; how Eric and Magalie began to focus on Kristy, taking it in turns to rain blows upon him. She looked at the jury: ‘Magalie deserves to die for what they have done. I have no pity for her. She had no pity for us.’ Later, after she was given time to compose herself, Kelly said she thought the two accused still believed the siblings were witches to this day. ‘She didn’t give a damn and said we deserved it.’

  The court watched the evidence from the other brother and sister by video link because they were not yet eighteen and their names could not be reported. They backed up everything Kelly had said.

  Kristy’s parents Jacqueline and Pierre were the final members of the family to take the stand. They claimed they had been unable to intervene from Paris, even after Kristy had telephoned on Christmas Eve to tell them he was going to be killed. Jacqueline broke down as she described the loss of her son.

  After the family’s evidence came the reports from the paramedics, police, pathologist and coroner. Those attending the scene of the crime described it in graphic detail. Forensics showed Kristy’s blood spattered all over Eric and Magalie’s clothing.

  I met Brian Altman the day before I was due to take the stand. He talked me through the report I had written and told me which elements of it he would refer to. The jury needed to understand the belief systems that lay behind the killing. Eric was attempting to plead insanity, whilst Magalie believed that people can be possessed by kindoki. For her, it was the norm. Clearly they couldn’t both be right. Altman wanted to draw a distinction between what was ‘normal’ to the Congolese, and the terrible actions of the accused. He wanted me to take those present deep into the world I had inhabited for the past quarter of a century, but which would be alien to most of them.

  The following morning was overcast and drizzly. I walked eastwards along the viaduct, approaching the Old Bailey from the north side to avoid the media scrum. I looked up at the dome and saw the gilded figure of Justice, the sword in her right hand pointing heavenwards, the scales balancing in her left. The inscription carved into the stone beneath her reads: Defend the children of the poor and punish the wrongdoer.

  Barristers, jury members, witnesses and journalists mingled in the corridor outside Court 5. DS Dave Boxall ushered me away from the advancing reporters. Cedar panels lined the walls, and a large flat screen monitor for video evidence was mounted opposite me. A perspex box led to a closed, padded door, through which the defendants were brought from their cells.

  Ushers and recorders scurried around tables at the centre of the room, preparing files, making calls and checking on those present. Journalists clutching notepads and mobile phones began to settle like locusts in the green leather seats around me. The case was being tweeted live. The public gallery above my head sounded as if it was filling fast. Barristers in wigs and gowns strutted into position. Dave whispered in my ear, ‘Eight of them.’ He grinned. ‘Imagine that lot cross-examining you.’

  I couldn’t smile back. I was beginning to feel nauseous at the prospect. Dawn, the court usher, came over to see if I was all right.

  The jury took their seats and the recorder called, ‘All rise.’

  Mr Justice David Paget was presiding over his final case before retirement. In his gown, wig and spectacles he looked as formidable as the occasion demanded. After some brief discussion, Brian Altman announced the next prosecution witness: ‘Dr Hoskins.’

  The witness stand faced the jury. The judge sat slightly to my left, the court officials below me, as if in an orchestra pit. Further to the right the defendants were ensconced behind the perspex screen. It was the first time I’d seen them. Eric’s hair was ruffled and he looked unkempt. He was flanked by three staff, who I guessed were from Broadmoor, the secure hospital where he was awaiting further psychiatric assessment. Magalie, looking altogether more demure, had just one guard by her side.

  The preliminaries over, I began to outline the significance of kindoki to the case, and how the fact that the accused thought Kristy was possessed ran through every witness statement. I was hitting my stride when Magalie’s lead defence barrister leaned across and whispered to Brian Altman. He nodded and rose to his feet.

  ‘I don’t normally agree with the defence, Dr Hoskins, but your evidence is very important, so I’m going to stop you right there. You’re going too fast. I want you to slow right down. The court needs to go back. Back to when you started, twenty-five years ago. I want you to tell us about the traditions and beliefs that you know about. I want this court to understand where this all comes from, and how normal it is for people who believe in it. So please don’t rush. Why don’t we start with the African spirits that you mention in your report? Tell us about the living dead, would you? Take us back.’

  Take them back?

  The air was heavy with anticipation.

  In another life, the breeze stirred the palm fronds and I saw Tata Mpia’s face.

>   ‘The living dead are those whom we once knew on this earth, but who have passed on to the shadowlands beyond the grave.’

  Tata Mpia’s words echoed down the years, filling the courtroom.

  ‘The living dead control this world and everything in it. They have a hundred times more power than you or me. They are all powerful. They can build up or destroy. They bring life, and they take it away . . .’

  ‘And so, traditionally, where did kindoki fit into that, Dr Hoskins?’

  ‘Any of the living dead can be evil, but it’s the long dead, the distant ghosts who are no longer remembered, who were associated with kindoki – witchcraft, as we call it.’

  ‘And that’s different from how it is today?’

  ‘Totally different. Back then, back when I first went to Africa, kindoki was just an external force. It was bad, for sure, but it was nebulous, diffuse, out there. It was just like an evil eye, something to ward off.’

  ‘And how did they deal with it then? How did the traditional healers – the ngangas, as I think you call them in your report – control it?’

  ‘The ngangas have three methods for dealing with these things,’ I said. ‘First are protective amulets—’

  ‘A bit like a St Christopher medallion?’ the judge queried.

  ‘Yes, my lord, that’s exactly right. The traditional belief in kindoki isn’t so very different from what people the world over think: that there are good and bad forces. And a great many people in all cultures take steps to keep good luck, whether it’s wearing a cross, reading their horoscopes, or making sure they don’t walk under a ladder.’

  Mr Justice Paget nodded and signalled for me to continue.

  ‘Next there is scapegoating, where the nganga will lay his hands on an animal and banish it, along with the evil, to the wilderness – usually the desert or savannah.’

  ‘And the third?’Altman asked.

  ‘The third’, I said, ‘is sacrifice. It’s the most powerful of all. It’s the spilling of blood, the transference of power. And they believe it works.’

  ‘You need to see the nganga,’ Tata Mpia said. ‘It’s the only way. You must perform a sacrifice.’

  For the sake of one small sacrifice – a chicken, perhaps, or a goat . . . Abigail was the apple of my eye. So why hadn’t I?

  I glanced at Eric and Magalie.

  I knew why I hadn’t. I think I’d always known.

  ‘And so tell us about kindoki today, in the hands of the churches. What happens now?’

  I cleared my throat, regaining some equilibrium. I took the court through the way fundamentalist Christianity had blended with those traditional beliefs to create a monstrous new mix. In the minds of these pastors and their believers, kindokiwas no longer an outside force that could be controlled by the ngangas, as they had, untroubled, for thousands of years. Now kindoki was a power that possessed people, particularly children, and they could only be delivered through exorcism.

  I described services of exorcism in the Congo, and the abusive methods often employed there. But I then told the court that the violence meted out to Kristy by Eric Bikubi and Magalie Bamu was on another level altogether. Cut loose from normal social restraints, this pair had been able to commit acts of atrocity without anyone apparently noticing or stepping in to help.

  It took all afternoon to complete my evidence, with the judge putting questions as well as counsel. Mr Justice Paget suggested that exorcism was not an alien concept in this country. I agreed, though I added that in northern Europe it is more usual for a place to be exorcized than a person. I also pointed out that it was a literal interpretation of the Bible that prompted some pastors to starve the apparently afflicted children; fasting for deliverance had its roots in the new Testament.

  Only Eric Bikubi’s barrister cross-examined me. He wanted to demonstrate that Eric was deranged both in action and belief. I told the court that whilst the Congolese Government had made it illegal even to call a child a witch, the beliefs that lay behind the notion, however repugnant they might seem, were well founded in their culture. I told the court that the actions of the two accused should not be confused with the belief system in which they sought shelter.

  Brian Altman approached me as I left the court.

  ‘The trial’s back on track,’ he said. ‘Back to where we should be. It’s not the What? now, but the Why? You did that. The jury were taking reams of notes. I think we’ve lanced the Bikubi defence.’

  ‘What about Magalie?’ I asked.

  ‘I reckon she’s going to try and blame Bikubi for the whole thing. I reckon that’s why her team didn’t cross-examine you. Doesn’t stack up, though, with the evidence.’

  I felt completely wrung out. I’d kept my emotions in check – even when I heard Tata Mpia’s voice in my ear – but only just. Dodging the cameras, I returned to Clapham.

  At four in the morning I woke and sat bolt upright in bed, tears streaming down my cheeks. I wasn’t only thinking of Kristy; I was remembering Abigail.

  48

  London, March 2012

  After I’d given my evidence, four eminent psychiatrists spent a week trying to persuade the jury that Eric Bikubi was insane and that I was wrong to attempt to place his beliefs within the context of an established cultural paradigm. Eric didn’t take the stand.

  Magalie Bamu’s defence focused on her inability to say no to Eric. She described a lifetime of servitude – under the thumb of another relative and his wife – since arriving in Britain at the age of thirteen.

  Brian Altman’s opening question set the tone of his response: ‘Now you’re not telling the court the truth, are you?’

  He began to systematically undermine her testimony. He argued that she had only recently hatched the ‘blame Eric’ defence. I scrutinized her face as she stood in the dock, looking for hints of the darkness within. How could she have turned so violently against her own brother?

  Suddenly aware that I was watching her, she stared back at me. I felt myself recoil. The challenge in her eye seemed more appropriate to a nightclub than the dock of an Old Bailey courtroom. Her defiance bubbled to the surface with increasing frequency over the next two days as she gave her testimony. She became steelier and more impatient under questioning. Perhaps most remarkably of all, she showed no sign of remorse.

  ‘Do you admit striking your brother Kristy Bamu with a curtain pole?’ Mr Altman asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Around the head?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He nodded towards one of the trolleys. Detective sergeant Dave Boxall handed him a package. The barrister held it horizontal, for the benefit of the jury.

  ‘This it?’

  ‘Yes,’

  ‘There’s a dent in it, do you see?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s a dent in the shape of his skull, isn’t it? It’s bent completely out of shape like that because you struck him so hard on the head.’

  He flourished photographs of the front door, showing that it had not been locked with a key, as she had claimed. She could have run for help – even removed her brother Kristy from further harm – at any point. Any lingering sympathy for her evaporated.

  ‘And then, when Kristy staggered across the room, blood pouring’– Altman paused, betraying his own distress for the first time – ‘all you could say to your own fifteen-year-old brother, who was dying in front of you, was, “Don’t sit on the sofa, or you might spoil it . . .”.’

  ‘All parties in Bikubi and Bamu to Court 5.’

  Reporters swarmed through the entrance, clutching their mobile phones. The verdicts would be tweeted around the world before anyone had left the courtroom. Mr Altman ushered me across to the prosecution benches.

  The twelve members of the jury had chosen a woman to speak for them.

  ‘To the first count of murder against the defendant Eric Bikubi, how do you find?’

  ‘Guilty.’

  ‘To the first count of murder against the defendant Magali
e Bamu, how do you find?’

  ‘Guilty.’

  Some journalists dashed for the door, others began typing furiously into mobile devices. But in the central well of the court we all sat quietly, pausing to reflect on the enormity of what we had witnessed.

  Judge Paget thanked the jury. Owing to the harrowing nature of the evidence, he exempted them from further service for the rest of their lives. Then Brian Altman read a searingly dignified statement from Pierre Bamu on behalf of the family.

  ‘The pain is unimaginable,’ Pierre said. ‘This was done by people we loved and trusted. To know that Kristy’s own sister, Magalie, did nothing to save Kristy, makes the pain that much worse. We are still unaware of the full extent of the brutality. We cannot bring ourselves to hear it.’

  A few days later Judge Paget sentenced the two to life imprisonment. The severity of the torture meted out to Kristy in the name of kindoki exorcism was reflected in the minimum tariffs before which they could even be considered for parole: thirty years for Eric Bikubi and twenty-five for Magalie Bamu.

  Epilogue

  Scotland Yard, London

  I am waiting in the foyer of New Scotland Yard, near St James’s Park. The iconic triangular box revolves outside the glass frontage of the Metropolitan Police HQ. A tall, wiry figure appears and ushers me upstairs.

  I have received a rather unusual invitation from Chief Superintendent Chris Bourlet.

  The Yard’s Crime Museum is located on the first floor, in Room 101. Unless you’re seeking it out, you might not know of its existence. Chris tells me he has served here for years without being invited inside.

  We walk along a shadowy corridor until a white door emerges out of the gloom. Chris knocks twice. We pass through and it clicks shut behind us. I hear a key turn.