After consulting the ops room, Minors drove the Rolls, not to Bethnal Green, but to Theydon Bois – the stop before Epping – with the intention of boarding a train there, with Joyce Armitage. He drove slowly thither so that the police forces could again be repositioned. when he and Joyce Armitage reached Theydon Bois underground station, DS Bland, who had been in the boot for over four hours, got out. with Minors carrying the suitcases, all three boarded a train bound for Epping, as did assorted policemen in various civilian disguises. Nothing happened on the short journey. all the policemen left the train and disappeared, except for Minors and Armitage, who waited beside the suitcases in the hall.
Meanwhile, at about 7.15 pm, Arthur Hosein turned up on his own in a pub, the Raven, in Berden, Essex, a few miles from Rooks Farm.
It was 7.34 pm when the next and final telephone call was answered by the police waiting at Epping station. the call is believed to have been made by Nizamodeen Hosein from a pay phone in a house converted into flats in Bishop’s Stortford.
Minors and Armitage were told to go by taxi to Bishop’s Stortford, 13 miles to the north on the A11 and 8 miles east of Stocking Pelham. They were to leave the two suitcases beside a mini-van – registration UMH 587F – parked in the forecourt of Gates Garage. ‘We deal with high-powered telescopic rifles,’ said M3. ‘Anyone trying to interfere with the cases, we will let them have it.’
A mini-cab driver, Robert Kelly, was sent by his office to pick up a ‘Mr McKay’ at Epping station after that gentleman had telephoned for a cab. Kelly found that ‘Mr McKay’ was accompanied by a young woman and that they had two white suitcases with them. He put the cases in the boot. they set off, and had hardly gone two hundred yards when ‘Mr McKay’ told him to stop the car, whereupon a man (DS Bland) dashed out of the darkness, plunged into the back of the car and curled up on the floor at the female passenger’s feet. Kelly, enquiring about this strange behaviour, was told: ‘We’re playing a joke on a friend.’ He was also advised to ask no more questions and drive on.
At Bishop’s Stortford, Kelly was told to drive past Gates Garage, do a U-turn and stop beside a hedge. Here the woman got out and the man in the back crawled out and disappeared into the hedge. The suitcases were then removed from the boot and deposited by a beige mini-van outside the garage. Minors and Armitage then returned in the mini-cab to Epping station, where they waited for a call that never came. Kelly also waited, as curious as he was apprehensive, and eventually drove the couple back to Theydon Bois, to the Rolls. He was paid £5 for his five-hour mystery tour. He revealed later: ‘There were times when I thought of leaving the car and running for it … I didn’t sleep properly for about three days puzzling over it, and I don’t mind admitting I was frightened.’
Meanwhile, DS Bland, concealed by the hedge across the road from the garage, observed the slow approach of a dirty dark-blue Volvo, registration XG0 994G. Its driver seemed to take an interest in the cases. Other cars passed. Thirty minutes later, the Volvo returned, went past the garage, did a U-turn, passed the cases again, and then – the driver having apparently been alarmed by people pouring out of a bingo hall – drove on back into Bishop’s Stortford.
Arthur, meanwhile, had been enjoying himself in the Raven, remaining there until 10 pm, chatting with an actor – Griffith Davies – who lived locally, and two girls. He boasted about the fact that he would soon be a millionaire. He was joined at the Raven by Nizam and after an earnest private conversation they both left.
The Volvo reappeared again outside the garage at 10.47 pm. this time there were two men inside. Again, it slowed noticeably as it passed the cases. DS Bland and other policemen hidden about the garage cocked their guns. They were waiting for the kidnappers to pick up the cases and take them back to their hide-out, where Mrs McKay might be or might have been. But the Volvo once more moved away.
Then, at 11 pm, the trap was sprung. By the wrong mice.
A public-spirited couple, the Abbots, seeing the cases lying unattended in the garage forecourt, became concerned. Mrs Abbott kept watch on the cases while her husband reported their find to the local police, who in due course visited the garage and removed the cases, taking them to the local police station where the duty officer was astounded to see what was in them – half a million pounds.
The operation was abandoned at 11.40 pm.
Back in Wimbledon, Minors and Armitage, sitting with the McKays in case M3 telephoned, were as depressed as the family. they had failed again. But about 3 am, DCS Smith came to the house – and he was smiling. Bland’s sightings of the Volvo had tallied with other entries in the crime index. ‘We think we may be on to them,’ said Smith.
At 8 am on Saturday morning the police visited Rooks Farm in force. they saw that a dark-blue Volvo was parked outside.
Else Hosein answered the door. DCS Smith said he was investigating the disappearance of some jewellery (Mrs McKay’s). Arthur Hosein appeared and cheerfully invited the police inside, despite the flooded kitchen and living room – the washing machine had just burst. with Arthur’s consent, the house was searched. ‘You can look where you like,’ he said. ‘I know nothing. I earn over £150 a week. I do not deal in stolen property.’
The police found some paper flowers made by Liley for the Hoseins’ children. they found an exercise book whose pages had been used for Mrs McKay’s letters, as well as a billhook, a sawn-off shotgun, a tin of Elastoplast and a packet of Piccadilly cigarettes. There was a paper flower on the floor of the Volvo. DS Bland identified Nizam as the man who had driven the Volvo the previous night.
The brothers were taken to London for further questioning. Arthur Hosein’s fingerprints turned out to be the same as those that had been found on the ransom demands, the envelopes and the cigarette packet.
He and Nizam were charged on Tuesday, 10 February. Handwriting experts agreed that Arthur had probably written two ransom notes, and voice experts concluded that Nizam had made most of the phone calls. But neither brother said anything incriminating. Arthur seemed to exult in all the attention and hardly ever stopped talking. Nizam, on the other hand, tried to kill himself twice, and seemed constantly afraid and on the point of tears. He hardly spoke at all. There was little doubt that he was, and always had been, dominated by his older brother. ‘Arthur always gets me into trouble!’ he wailed at one point.
They were remanded in custody – appearing seventeen times in Wimbledon magistrate’s court – for seven months. For weeks, hundreds of policemen scoured Rooks Farm and the neighbourhood. But no pathologist was ever consulted, and not a trace of Mrs McKay was found.
The trial of Arthur and Nizamodeen Hosein, charged with murder, kidnapping and blackmail, among other indictments, began at the Old Bailey on Monday, 14 September 1970. The judge was Mr Justice Sebag Shaw; the Attorney-General, Sir Peter Rawlinson, led for the Crown;Arthur was defended by Barry Hudson, QC, and Nizam by Douglas Draycott, QC. the trial ended on 6 October.
On the last day, all the McKays were present, as was Else Hosein and the brothers’ father from Trinidad. Arthur wore a natty dark-blue suit, made specially for the occasion. Both Hoseins were found guilty, the jury adding a recommendation for leniency in Nizam’s case. asked if he had anything to say, Arthur shouted: ‘Injustice has not only been done, it has also been seen and heard by the gallery to have been done! They have seen the provocation of your lordship and they have seen your immense partiality!’
Both brothers were sentenced to life imprisonment on the murder charge. Arthur was also given twenty-five years on the other charges and Nizam fifteen years. their appeals were dismissed.
St Mary House and Rooks Farm were both sold, the house for £30,000 and the farm for £18,500. Mrs Hosein obtained a divorce. The Sun’s circulation rapidly increased, passing the two million mark in February 1971. A special tie was made for those policemen who had worked on the case: dark blue, its crest was a black red-eyed rook and two crossed billhooks.
Alick McKay remarried in 1973, his second
wife being Beverley Hylton, the widow of the impresario, Jack Hylton. In 1976, he became managing director of News International, the company owning The Sun, the News of the World, The Times and The Sunday Times. He was knighted in 1977 and died of a heart attack, aged seventy-three, in January 1983.
What happened to Mrs McKay? The police believe she was murdered and disposed of at Rooks Farm. Some believe her dismembered body was fed to the pigs at the farm – seven Wessex Saddlebacks. when the police eventually raided the farm, the boar and four of the sows had been sold and slaughtered, although this did not happen until 19 January. two sows and their litters remained. But not one of the animals, sold by Mrs Hosein on 26 February, was killed or examined for any traces of the drug cortisone, which Mrs McKay had been taking.
It would have been difficult to conceal her at the farm after Else Hosein, the children and Miss Hosein returned to Rooks Farm from Germany on 3 January. The police theory is that Mrs McKay was drugged, shot and dismembered before the other Hoseins arrived.
There are two other possibilities: that Mrs McKay died of natural causes, of shock perhaps or hypothermia; and that she was never at Rooks Farm, being held captive and killed somewhere else. a few of the police officers who worked on the case were of the opinion that a third man was involved, someone who was the brains behind the kidnapping and then dropped out when Mrs McKay died.
Nonetheless, the obvious suppositions remain the most likely explanations of what happened. there were reports of a gun being fired at the farm on or about New Year’s Day and of a burning smell coming from the farm after 6 January, also of unidentified men and cars being seen near the farm. But only the Hoseins know what really happened to Mrs McKay.
Nizamodeen Hosein was released and deported to Trinidad in 1990. Arthur Hosein was not granted a release from prison by the Parole Board until 2003 and has subsequently died.
APPENDIX A
Extract from My Experiences as an Executioner, by James Berry, concerning his first execution, which was in Edinburgh.
On Thursday, March 27th, 1884 … I arrived at Waverley Station 4-20pm, and I hired a cab to drive me to the gaol. On arrival at the prison I was met at the doors by a good-looking warder, dressed in ordinary prison garb, and very courteous; and on entering the large portal gate, was asked my name, and after entering it down in the prison book, time, etc … he pulled a string, which rang the Governor’s bell, and in a few moments I was confronted with the Governor, a very nice gentleman, of military appearance, and very good-looking. After passing the usual conversation of the day, and the weather, and what kind of journey I had up from Bradford, he said after such a long journey I should require a good, substantial tea: and as soon as I had washed, and combed my hair, the tea was there, everything that could be desired. I sat down, and quite enjoyed my first Scotch meal in Bonnie Scotland …
I spent the Thursday night smoking and reading. At 10.0 o’clock pm I was escorted to my bedroom, a round house at the back part of the gaol, a snug little place, and was informed that the last man who slept inside that room was William Marwood, five years previous to my visit … The chief warder, whom I spoke to, seemed to touch upon the subject with great reluctance, and said that he felt quite upset concerning the two culprits (Robert Vickers and William Innes), and that he hoped they would get a reprieve. I sat me down on my bed after he had gone, locked my door, and could hear the trains depart from the station under the prison wall … I then knelt down and asked the Almighty to help me in my most painful task, which I had undertaken to carry out …
At 8.0 am on the morning of the 28th, Friday, my breakfast was brought into my room, consisting of toast, ham and eggs, and coffee … At 10.0 am I was introduced to the Magistrates and those responsible to see the execution carried out. I exposed my ropes and straps for their inspection, and, after a long and careful investigation of all points, they retired, quite satisfied with their visit. After that we paid another visit to the scaffold; the builders, not having finished the contract, were making a final touch to the new-erected shed to keep the execution private, and so that nobody outside could see. After testing it with bags of cement, same weight as the prisoners, and calculating the length of drop and its consequences, and other details, the committee departed. After, I filled my time walking about the prison grounds, and thinking of the poor men who were nearing their end, full of life, and knowing the fatal hour, which made me quite ill to think about. My meals did not seem to do me good, my appetite began to fall off … and I felt as I wished I had never undertaken such an awful calling. I regretted for a while, and then I thought the public would only think I had not the pluck, and I would not allow my feelings to overthrow me, so I never gave way to such thoughts again.
At 1.0 pm my dinner had arrived. I went up to my room, and sat down to pudding, beef, and vegetables, Scotch broth, and Cochrane & Cantrell’s ginger ale. At that time I was a total abstainer; and I think it is the safest side, since what I have seen brought on by its sad consequences of taking too much alcoholic liquor … After tea, I had a chat with the warders coming off duty for the day.
Saturday morning, 29th … After breakfast, had another interview with the Magistrates, and made the final arrangements. I tested the scaffold in their presence, with the ropes I was going to use on the Monday morning, with bags of cement, each bag being placed in the same places as was marked for the criminals … I tested the ropes by letting off the traps, and down went the bags, and I got my calculations from that point … The rope was of Italian silk hemp, made specially for the work, 5/8 inch in thickness, and very pliable, running through a brass thimble, which causes dislocation and a painless death if rightly adjusted … After dining, I had the honour of having a drive in an open carriage, provided by the Governor, for a couple of hours … I retired to bed as usual at 10.0 pm, after reciting my prayers, and thinking only another night and I shall be back with my wife and children. Saturday night I was very restless, and I did not feel so much refreshed for my night’s sleep, as I was thinking of the poor creatures who was slumbering their hours away, in the prison cell, just beyond where I was laid. Two men, in full bloom, had to come to such an untimely end, leaving wives and large families. One poor woman, I was informed, her mind was so affected that she was removed to the asylum, she took it so to heart.
(Sunday) I retired to my day-room at the front entrance, where I only partook very sparingly of the nice and tempting ham and poached eggs put before me. I spent most of the forenoon looking round inside the prison, while the prisoners was at chapel, until dinner time. My dinner did not arrive until 4 o’clock, which is called late dinner, consisting of rice pudding, black currants, chicken, vegetables, potatoes, bread, and the usual teetotal beverages. I tried to make the best of it, but all that I could do was to look at it, as my appetite was gone; but I managed to eat a little before going to roost for the last night … I retired at 10.0 pm on Sunday, but only had cat naps all night, one eye shut and the other open, thinking and fancying things that never will be.
(Monday, 31 March 1884) I was dressed and up at 5.0 am; and felt more dead than alive as I had such a responsible part to play in the programme for the day. I fancied the ropes breaking; I fancied I was trembling, and could not do it. I was nearly frantic in my mind, but I never let them know. 6.0 am arrived. I heard the sound of the keys, clattering of doors, sliding of bolts. Breakfast had to be served earlier than usual. No prisoner allowed out of his cell until all was over. The public had begun to assemble on Calton Hill in groups. 7.0 am arrived. I made my way to the scaffold, made my arrangements secure, and cleared the scaffold shed …
At 7.45 the living group wended their way to the prison, and into the doctor’s room, ready for the last scene of the drama. The prisoners were brought face to face for the first time since their conviction. They kissed each other; and the scene was a very painful one, to see mates going to meet their end on the gallows.
They were conducted to the room adjoining the doctor’s room, and were
in prayer with the two ministers in attendance after 8.05. I was called to do my duty. I was handed the warrant, which was made out by the judge who condemned them to die. I then proceeded to pinion the prisoners, previously shaking hands, bidding good-bye to this world. Both men seemed to feel the position very much.
The procession was formed, headed by the High Bailiff, the Chaplain reading the litany for the dead. Both the prisoners walked without assistance to the place of execution; they was at once placed under the beam on the drop, where everything was done as quick as lightning, and both culprits paid the highest penalty of the law.
Elsewhere in his book, Berry adds:
Vickers was buoyed up with hope throughout and continually asked if ‘the reprieve’ had come. Hope rendered him almost cheerful. Even when we were on the scaffold he was convinced that he was not to die … It was not until the noose touched his neck that he realised that his execution was to be an actual solemn fact, and when the dread reality burst upon him, he fainted. His companion in crime and death stood unmoved upon the scaffold, resigned and calm, without either hope or fear. The white cap was over his face when Vickers fainted, and no sound gave him any hint that Vickers was overcome. The fainting man was supported for a moment, then a touch on the lever, and it was necessary to support him no longer.
APPENDIX B
Two accounts of the execution of Abel Atherton, aged thirty, are given here. He was a miner condemned to death for the murder by shooting of his former landlady, Mrs Patrick, at Chopwell near Durham. He claimed it was an accident. The accounts were written by Harry Pierrepoint, the chief executioner, and a local newspaper reporter, his account being one of the last of its kind. Pierrepoint’s assistant was William Wallis. Atherton was hanged in Durham Jail on Wednesday, 8 December 1909.
Murder of the Black Museum 1875-1975: The Dark Secrets Behind a Hundred Years of the Most Notorious Crimes in England Page 58