Evil Relations

by David Smith

  A vicious rough-and-tumble around the flat ensues until Bob the dog springs into action, barking frantically and circling us all. Our visitors freeze in fear at the large collie snapping his teeth, and Dad and I seize our chance, managing to shove, punch and kick the three of them into the narrow corridor. We end up in a heap in the middle, still fighting. It takes a while, but somehow we reach the door and heave our guests into the hallway.

  Tumbling arse-over-heels like a troupe of wayward circus performers, we reach the lift. I find myself sprawled over the thick-set bloke, who struggles to free one of his hands in order to punch me full in the face. Out of the corner of my eye, I spy the milk bottles left out by our neighbours and grab one, holding it in the air, ready to bring it down. For a horrible moment, I’m tempted to let him have it, but then I come to my senses and drop the bottle. It rolls noisily into a corner and I let my companion scramble to his feet.

  With Dad’s help, I push our three visitors into the lift and hit the button for the ground floor, drawing back swiftly as the door closes. Screams reach us from the lift shaft: ‘Bastards! You’re no different to those two! Fucking bastards! You should be hung, the lot of you!’

  Dad and I droop with our exertions and head back to the flat. Maureen weeps inconsolably on the floor, a thin rag doll with wild black hair. Bob the dog sits pressed to her side, whining as if in sympathy. I sink to my knees and cradle Maureen in my arms. Her sobs only grow louder.

  The police visit us a few days later. I don’t know who called them but suspect it was a neighbour. The copper in charge tells me quietly that this won’t go any further, provided nothing like it ever happens again. I assure him it won’t.

  When the police have gone, I sit by the electric fire, looking across at Maureen; in the time it took for me to show the coppers to the door, she’s fallen fast asleep. I rack my brain, trying to think what could have sparked the fight off, but can’t think of anything. In the end, I begin to wonder if Mrs Downey saw Myra every time she looked at Maureen that night and this makes enough skewed sense for me to put the matter aside. I just hope that Maureen won’t come to the same conclusion.

  Today, David reflects: ‘I know Ann West – Mrs Downey, as she was then – told a very different story of that night in her book. I heard that she said I’d turned up at her house, told some favourite joke of Ian Brady’s and then passed a remark about the resemblance between Lesley Ann and one of her brothers. But I never went to Ann West’s house – I didn’t even know where she lived. Why in God’s name would I have put myself, or her, in that position? At that time I was trying to ward people off, not goad them into thumping me. I would never have said anything along the lines of Lesley looking like her brother because I didn’t know them. As for that sick joke I’m supposed to have told her was Brady’s favourite . . . no way. No way. I’m sorry, but no. Not true, it didn’t happen. I’ve no idea why she told it as she did, but it wasn’t like that. Not at all.’ There is one line in Ann West’s account which tallies with David’s memories of that night, however; she writes: ‘I beat Maureen Smith’s head against the wall and screamed incoherently at her. I tore at her and for a moment it was as if I had her foul sister in my hands . . .’

  Shortly after the confrontation, the News of the World offered to send David and Maureen on an all-expenses-paid trip to France. The couple leapt at the chance to get away for a while; neither of them had ever been abroad and they set off in excitement on what felt like the holiday of a lifetime. With a grin, David remembers: ‘We travelled by ferry, but as soon as we set foot in France, we didn’t know what to do with ourselves. The hotel in Paris was nice enough, but it was just a place to lay our heads. We weren’t ones for sightseeing, so doing the old tourist trail didn’t appeal either. Menus stumped us because we couldn’t speak the lingo, though we were both very taken by the little cafe bars – they seemed sophisticated in just the right way. But after a couple of days we were proper fed up. We didn’t know what to do, so we went to a cinema. Mary Poppins, which neither of us had seen, was showing. We settled ourselves happily in our red plush seats for the matinee and waited for the film to start.’

  He laughs, shaking his head. ‘It was Mary Poppins all right, but dubbed into French. There weren’t even any subtitles. I could have lived with that, I suppose, but hearing Dick van Dyke speak French . . . well. He still managed to sound more cockney than he did in the English version, mind you. But it was bloody terrible. We came out of the film feeling even worse, two right fishes out of water. Then we had another idea: around the time of the committal, a French company had filmed the two of us in Belle Vue, just walking round, as part of their footage of the case. It was shot for French television, though we weren’t even interviewed, just filmed wandering around the zoo. They gave us some cash, bought us dinner and drinks, and that was that. A bit weird, but we weren’t going to say no. And in return for their generosity, we went and had a little chat with the elephants for French telly. Afterwards, the film crew said that if we were ever in France we should look them up. Of course, they were just being polite and never expected us to show our faces again. But because we were at such a loose end, that’s exactly what we did. Maureen remembered that their offices were on the rue Saint Augustin. We found it and knocked on their door. They were very welcoming, as it happens, and even asked if we wanted to see how they’d edited our little film.’

  He laughs again. ‘We sat in Paris and watched ourselves wandering around Belle Vue. So much for excitement, eh? Later on, it was made public that we had “been abroad” at the expense of the News of the World and people were outraged by the idea of us gadding about Paris with gay abandon. If only they’d known the truth: the highlights of our holiday in France were a badly dubbed Mary Poppins and a visit to an editing suite. Bloody marvellous.’

  David and Maureen returned home to Underwood Court in early spring. A few days before Maureen was due to give birth, the Trial of the Century began.

  Chapter 16

  ‘Certainly David Smith is no angel but do you think he comes near the standards of criminality which have been disclosed in respect of Brady? Who was the devil of the piece? Who was the disciple?’

  – The Attorney General, Moors trial at Chester Assizes, May 1966

  Chester Castle Courtroom had been transformed to meet the unique needs of the most notorious trial ever held within its walls. Amid the ancient oak panelling, velvet drapes and red leather seating, thick carpet was fitted to reduce noise, microphones were placed in the witness box, and telephones were installed in large rooms set aside for the sole use of the press. Reinforced glass surrounded the dock on both sides and at the back, while 300 policemen were drafted in as extra security. Every hotel in Chester was fully booked with international journalists and television crews, although the BBC decided the substance of the trial was too shocking to air, and ITV limited their reports to clipped segments within the evening news bulletin.

  Throughout the trial, queues began to form outside the court from first light; 60 seats were available in the public gallery, but hundreds of people turned up in the hope of gaining admission. The majority were women, some of them elderly, who appeared each day, whatever the weather – and it was inclement in the extreme, veering from torrential rain and gales on the first day to a freak heat wave on another.

  Few of the victims’ families attended. John Kilbride’s aunt and uncle, Elsie and Frank Doran, were an exception; they had spent months organising a petition to reinstate the death penalty for child killers. Also present were several writers, including Whistle Down the Wind author Mary Hayley Bell, and Emlyn Williams, who had already begun writing an In Cold Blood-style treatment of the case.

  Presiding over the legal process itself was Mr Justice Fenton Atkinson, a steady and meticulous presence in court. The Attorney General, Sir Frederick Elwyn Jones, led the prosecution team and added extra gravitas but was occasionally called away to London; William Mars-Jones, QC, took over in his absence. Ian Brady’s de
fence was Hugh Emlyn Hoosen, QC, with Godfrey Heilpern, QC, representing Myra Hindley (she was then facing the additional charge of murdering John Kilbride). Heilpern was unable to be present initially, having learned of a death in the family; his junior, Philip Curtis, stepped in until his return.

  The Attorney General opened proceedings on behalf of the Crown. Outlining the crimes and the background of the perpetrators, he then described how, following David’s marriage to Maureen, ‘Brady and Hindley appeared to have gone out of their way to cultivate [the couple]. Although Hindley was related by marriage to David Smith, the interest which Brady displayed in Smith went far beyond the friendship one would expect in these circumstances. In my submission the story of the close association which developed between them is the story of a steady and cunning corruption of a youth of 16 by a mature man, Brady, who was then aged 26. Brady appeared to have interested Smith in the subject of murder and made him a student of that subject.’

  David sat in court, listening to the description of himself and his relationship with Brady. He recalls: ‘I felt powerless. Obviously I wasn’t in a position to challenge anything that was said in the speeches. I was petrified and so was Maureen – neither of us had any idea what to expect. We were both overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the trial and the authority carried by those in court, especially the Attorney General. It was such a colossal thing to be part of – deeply intimidating. The News of the World paid for our transport and hotel, which was a pub in Chester. I stayed there with Maureen and Dad, and we hated it because journalists had booked out all the other rooms. The bar was always heaving with them, so we couldn’t have a pint without being swamped by reporters. We were forbidden from talking about the case and ended up spending all our time closeted upstairs. When it came to the trial itself, Maureen was one of the first to take the stand. Just getting in and out of the building was a nightmare: a car had been laid on for us, but the driver always slowed down deliberately to let the snappers do their job. I kept my sunglasses on until I had to go into court, removed them at the door, then put them on again as soon as I stepped down from the witness box. Maureen did the same.’

  Called out of sequence due to the advanced stage of her pregnancy (an ambulance was on standby to rush her to hospital, if necessary), Maureen gave evidence under the watchful eye of her sister Myra, who sat alongside Ian, making notes and sucking mints. She had a heavy nosebleed during her time in the witness box and court was adjourned until she had composed herself. Returning to the stand, Maureen described the relationship between her sister and Ian, declared that Myra had been in the habit of shopping at Ashton Market, and spoke about the late night visit to the moor on 24 April 1965, when Ian had invited David to look at the moon shining on the reservoir. Regarding the murder of Lesley Ann Downey, she stated firmly that she had been at David’s side throughout Boxing Day 1964. Her evidence continued into the next day, when she described the evening before the murder of Edward Evans. She admitted that David had been in the pay of a national newspaper since November the previous year and agreed that their financial situation before October had been precarious. Finally, asked to be precise about where she and David had gone with Myra and Ian, Maureen replied wanly, ‘It is all the same to me, the moors.’

  The court then adjourned for lunch. David was due to give evidence immediately afterwards; Brady’s solicitor was assured that he and Maureen would have no contact during the hiatus. David recalls: ‘Those last few minutes before going into the witness box were nerve-racking in the extreme – all the attention and not knowing what to expect. The committal wasn’t any sort of preparation and no one spoke to me beforehand to explain the process and how to handle it. As soon as I got up there . . . well, when the prosecution were questioning me, I was fine. But the minute the defence stood up, I felt my hackles rise. It’s true to say that I had an attitude problem, but I felt under attack. The jury can’t have thought much of me, and I don’t blame them. I remember fiddling with the microphone constantly. Nerves again. I came across as arrogant, which is ironic because I felt anything but arrogant.’

  One observer described David as ‘a handsome young man with dark brown hair that seemed to fall all over his neck, his ears, his forehead and his eyes. It seemed he had tried to control it with oil, not altogether successfully. While he was giving his evidence he seemed to be under a deep and genuine emotion. His heavy breathing was echoed round the court on the microphone like the protesting background music of a blues record. He wore jeans, which fitted him tightly, and a blue shirt. Perhaps the sedate formality of the court had an effect on him because, after the luncheon adjournment on the first day he gave evidence, he had put on a tie to match his shirt. He seemed to find the tie very uncomfortable, for he ran his forefinger around inside the collar attempting to stretch it, as if it was strangling him. He happened to make this gesture when he was giving evidence on the last moments of Edward Evans and it added to the dramatic sentence “a gurgling noise like when you brush your teeth”. . . . David Smith had a gift of phrase and a quickness of mind that came across, illuminating the sombre court. One did not like him, but for a man so young he was quite a formidable personality . . . The intelligence of David Smith was a real factor in the Moors murder case . . . The total effect of David Smith in the witness box was that here was a young man who had been in all kinds of trouble, but who had been genuinely terrified after witnessing the killing of Edward Evans. The case for the defence rested on the assumption that there was little to choose between Brady and Smith, but this assumption crumbled, partly because the two men were so astonishingly unalike . . .’

  Overall, despite his nerves, David remained calm and even a little cocky, responding to a question about his finances with: ‘I love having money, I think it’s gorgeous stuff, but I don’t think it’s worth worrying about. You grow old that way.’

  The judge murmured dryly, ‘You grow old anyway.’

  Similarly, when Brady’s defence asked him the barbed question: ‘You don’t like work, do you?’ he responded, ‘No. I don’t think anybody likes work.’

  Occasionally his candour was to his advantage. When Hoosen challenged him about the murder of Edward Evans – ‘You are a man in the habit of holding a stick in your hand all the time, are you not?’ – David regarded him for a moment before quietly countering, ‘Yes, sir, but I am not in the habit of witnessing murder.’

  He was on less certain ground with a few inappropriate examples of journalese, describing Brady’s attack on Edward Evans as ‘very calm indeed, I have seen butchers working in the shops show as much emotion as he did when they are cutting up a sheep’s head . . . My first thought was that Ian had hold of a life-size rag doll and was just waving it about . . .’ He admits now that such expressions were one of the unhappy side effects of the newspaper deal: ‘Those flowery phrases were due to the fact that I’d gone over the story so many times with the News of the World. I ended up talking like a hack, picking up their way of speech, and it wasn’t good.’

  Nonetheless one commentator pointed out: ‘It was a simple matter to discredit Smith as a person, but as a witness he was virtually incontrovertible.’

  David began giving evidence on Thursday, 21 April with a description of the trip to the Lakes in August 1964. Mars-Jones then led him on to the subject of guns and their potential use in the abandoned bank robbery. After explaining Brady’s murderous boasts, he answered several questions about the books Brady had recommended. The Life and Ideals of the Marquis de Sade was produced in court; Mars-Jones read aloud the same extract Brady had recited to David three weeks prior to the murder of Edward Evans: ‘Should murder be punished by murder? Undoubtedly not . . .’ Mars-Jones then moved on to the night of the killing, before concluding with a few brief questions about Lesley Ann Downey and John Kilbride; David told the court he had never heard of either child until the discovery of their bodies became headline news.

  His cross-examination by Brady’s defence, Hugh Emlyn Hoosen, began the fo
llowing day. Together with Hindley’s lawyer, Hoosen concentrated on trying to discredit David completely, treating him as an accomplice in Edward Evans’s murder and suggesting that he was responsible for the deaths of Lesley Ann Downey and John Kilbride. He launched into his attempt to undermine David’s character by asking immediately, ‘Smith, have you received an undertaking by the prosecution that you will not be prosecuted in respect of any offence disclosed by you in your statements?’

  David replied that he had.

  Hoosen then asked, ‘Is it right that you have entered into an arrangement with a newspaper whereby you will have a very large sum in certain eventualities?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And do the certain eventualities include the conviction of Brady and Hindley?’

  ‘I should imagine that would be the—’

  ‘So you have a vested financial interest, have you not, have had since November, in their conviction?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you mind telling us the name of the newspaper with whom you have entered into this arrangement?’

  David shook his head. ‘No, sir.’

  Hoosen’s eyebrows rose. ‘Well, I am asking you to tell us.’

  David remained silent. The judge intervened, prompting him, ‘Come on. You know the name. Tell it to us.’

  ‘I don’t know if the newspaper would wish me to do that,’ David replied quietly.

  Fenton Atkinson frowned. ‘They may have some questions to answer about this. Who are they?’

  David shook his head again. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I can’t answer that.’

  ‘Who told you that you could not answer that?’ Hoosen asked sharply.