Evil Relations

by David Smith

  My reply is cautiously phrased but unequivocal: ‘Well, I’ve no wish to upset Winnie or anyone else, but David Smith is the man who put an end to the Moors Murders. Not only that, but he also enabled those children who were missing to be found – apart from Keith – and his actions prevented more children from becoming victims of Brady and Hindley.’

  There is an intense silence in the room. I realise that the majority of the audience are appalled at my response, including Winnie Johnson. Two people start to mutter angrily, until the young man from the back row asks in a loud voice, ‘What do you think, Winnie?’

  Instantly, the room falls silent again. We all look at Winnie, who after a moment of contemplation declares: ‘I think David Smith is as rotten and guilty as them two swines. He did what he did to save his own neck. And I know that I’m not the only one to think that. Ask anyone and they’ll tell you the same thing.’

  ‘He did go to the police, though,’ a smartly dressed man on the end of one row ventures.

  ‘Yes, to save his own neck,’ Mrs Johnson repeats. She looks out at the audience: ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

  The crowd nod in almost perfect unison; and David Smith’s reputation remains unchanged from 45 years earlier, when his position as chief prosecution witness at the Moors trial brought him nothing but hatred and public vilification.

  Months before the Waterstone’s event, I’d written to David Smith asking if he would be willing to be interviewed for the book I was working on about Myra Hindley. I knew that he had never spoken in depth about the past and although my primary aim for contacting him was to discuss Hindley (and, to a lesser extent, Brady), I was also very interested in his life before, during and after his marriage to Myra Hindley’s sister, Maureen.

  His reaction was swift but disappointing, and clearly meant to dissuade me. But I wrote again, this time ending with a quote from one of his two great heroes, Bob Dylan (the other is John Lennon). His second email arrived a few days later, slightly less abrasive, but still intended as a rebuff. I doubted then that he would respond to further communication.

  To my surprise, however, I got a call from his second wife, Mary, to whom he has been married for 35 years. We talked at length, both on that occasion and during other phone calls. She told me of her hope that one day her husband would finally have the chance to tell his story in full. ‘Not to try and alter anyone’s perceptions of him necessarily,’ she explained. ‘But I think it’s time to tell the truth in as much detail as possible. For our grandchildren, if nothing else.’

  Although I was only really familiar with those aspects of David’s life that were relevant to a study of Myra Hindley, I understood why Mary was so firm in her belief that his story was worthy of a book of its own. The idea hovered between us as we made arrangements for me to visit them in Ireland, ostensibly for an informal exchange about David’s memories of Hindley and Brady, although he made it clear that he did not want to be directly quoted in the book I was writing. ‘It always ends up as the same old garbage,’ he said bluntly on the telephone. ‘No matter how honest your intentions might be, you’ll turn out like the rest of them. That’s just how it goes.’

  My first visit to them lasted three days. I went with my son, River, who was then nine years old. Mary was welcoming from the start; David was belligerent, guarded and, at times, rude. Within a few hours of our arrival, we were in his local pub, where he had called on his ‘mafia’ (his sons, their families, and friends) as support against what he thought would be another intrusive and pointless encounter with a journalist. I told him I wasn’t a journalist and never had been; he gave a snort of derision. ‘Well, no. You don’t even look old enough to hold a pen, to me.’ I didn’t let him put me off for several reasons: I trusted Mary; I knew that his attitude was a test to find out whether I would give in and leave, perhaps following up my visit with an unpleasant article in the press; I wanted to hear what he would say, once his guard was down; and because he was so good with River, as he is with his own grandchildren.

  By the afternoon of the following day, everything was different. David was calm, relaxed and ready to talk. Together with Mary, we spoke at length about his memories of that particular time in the ’60s. It was more obvious than it had ever been that his story deserved to be told on its own merits, rather than as an adjunct to a book about the Moors case. When I left Ireland, the three of us knew that we had work to do.

  While I was writing One of Your Own, I met Ian Fairley, who attended the arrest of Ian Brady on the morning after the last murder. He was very keen to talk about David Smith: ‘He was a bit of a rum customer, but if it hadn’t been for Smith, more children would have been killed. People were so vicious about that poor lad after it all came out, but he saved lives and he enabled us to bring home those children who had already been murdered so that their parents could give them proper funerals. Without him, we would never have known where to start. Smith was the one man more than anyone who brought the whole thing to justice. Albeit unknowingly in parts, but he did it and it wasn’t an easy thing to do. Because if he hadn’t come to us, Evans [Brady and Hindley’s last victim, 17-year-old Edward Evans] would have ended up on the moor and we would never have been any the wiser. The men who mattered on that inquiry – Jock Carr and Joe Mounsey – they believed in David Smith completely. Unfortunately, mud sticks and he ended up an outcast. But it’s about time people started realising he’s a hero, not a villain.’

  Ian Fairley’s view, and that of Joe Mounsey and Jock Carr, quickly became lost in the media furore that surrounded the Moors case. It’s a curious and unhappy fact that despite their hatred of Brady and Hindley, a large section of the public chose to believe the two killers’ insinuations against David Smith. The stories that abounded during the original investigation and trial had their source in the statements Brady and Hindley made about him, though it is also true that the revelations about David’s juvenile convictions and his 1966 deal with the News of the World did him no favours. By the mid-1980s, when Hindley finally exonerated him of any part in their crimes, it was already too late. The old untruths are still doing the rounds, supplemented by new and often bizarre fictions. Evil Relations tells the facts. It is not, as someone has already claimed, an ‘apology’ for David Smith, or even an attempt to ‘rehabilitate’ him in the eyes of the public. It is simply his story.

  In 2003, Granada Television approached David with a view to producing a dramatisation of his life during his marriage to Maureen Hindley. When David and Mary agreed to the idea on the understanding that it wouldn’t focus on Brady and Hindley, work began on The Ballad of David Smith. Following a meeting with Granada bosses, the script was shelved in favour of a dramatisation of the Moors case, which aired in May 2006 as See No Evil: The Story of the Moors Murders. During the many months of work on The Ballad, David had begun to write down his memories in lengthy but isolated fragments; these became the foundation stone of the present book. He started writing again after our initial meeting, and these reminiscences, together with our interviews and my research, form what is hopefully a coherent narrative of his life.

  On that very first day in Ireland, Mary drove us through the village where she and David have lived for the past 15 years. He asked her to make a slight detour; although wary, he was determined that I should visit a particular place with him.

  We drove past a modern housing estate to an overgrown field surrounded by rough limestone walls. At one end were the ruins of a long, low building with a collapsed orange roof. Near the wall was a wooden notice, beautifully rendered and inscribed. It told the history of the place: the ruin was all that remained of the local workhouse built in 1852 to accommodate 600 inmates and razed to the ground in the 1920s. The field in front of us, with its long grass and wild flowers, was the site of the graveyard, where many workhouse children had been buried anonymously, without coffins.

  David became agitated as he explained that the sign was his creation, carved in his workshop. ‘No one should lie i
n 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.

  Prologue

  ‘If anyone were making a journey from Underwood Court to Wardle Brook Avenue after 11.30 p.m., the road on which they would travel would, generally speaking, be in darkness.’

  – Leslie Wright, assistant street lighting superintendent for Hyde Corporation, evidence read at the Moors trial, April 1966

  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, w
ithout 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.