Bible John's Secret Daughter

by David Leslie

  Meanwhile, if Hannah was embroiled in her own very private sexual scandal, elsewhere in the world the outcome of another must have left her wondering how some seemed to escape folly while common folks like her had to suffer indignity and strain. That month on Chappaquiddick Island, off Martha’s Vineyard, Senator Edward Kennedy’s car plunged off a bridge, drowning his young passenger, Mary Jo Kopechne. He survived and was given a legal slap over the wrist in the form of a two-month suspended sentence for leaving the scene of an accident after causing injury. Hannah, meanwhile, was facing a lifetime of punishment.

  Mary Jo’s tragedy was quickly overtaken by an occurrence of such magnitude that all else paled to nothing. Three days later, Apollo 11 achieved the seemingly impossible by flying three men to the moon. The first steps by Neil Armstrong, Edwin Aldrin and Michael Collins were beamed through television into front rooms all over the world. It was a momentous achievement, but even had the man in the moon handed over a cheese sandwich to his visitors and made a televised speech of welcome, it would still not have taken first place in Hannah’s thoughts.

  SIX

  KEEPING MUM

  On Sunday, 10 August 1969, the actress Sharon Tate and six others were butchered by members of Charles Manson’s cult, known as The Family. It was an omen that would point to a month washed in blood. On the Thursday of that week, British troops, many of them from Glasgow, were sent into Northern Ireland to keep the warring factions apart, and the coffin makers prepared to work overtime. Saturday came and as the afternoon passed crowds began streaming homeward from football matches. The Old Firm had done well, Rangers winning 3–0 at Airdrie, while at Celtic Park, the Hoops had trounced Raith 5–0. Local fans ought to have been in a good mood later in the evening when the Barrowland began filling up: both had lots to celebrate.

  In Bellshill, nine miles away, Hannah, by now four months with child, was preparing to catch a bus for a night’s dancing, although she was conscious of moving more slowly these days. Ten miles further south, John McInnes was also looking forward to finishing work and having a night out. In Main Street, Bridgeton, customers were eagerly arranging meetings with prostitutes, who were already doing a thriving trade with supporters heading into the city, buoyed up from watching Celtic and deciding to assuage some of their own energies, even at the cost of a few pounds, before hitting the bars and then the dance halls.

  Around the corner in McKeith Street, the slight-framed Jemima McDonald, with naturally blonde hair that she dyed brown, was putting on her make-up and pulling on a frilly white blouse under a black dress before setting off to walk to the Barrowland. Unmarried Jemima, or ‘Mima’ to close friends and relatives, had known Patricia Docker through bumping into her at the dancing and had quietly grieved for the murdered woman. Jemima’s three children were being looked after for the night by her married sister, Margaret O’Brien.

  Elsewhere, a tall man was surely patiently glancing through pages of the Holy Bible as he buttoned his shirt and slipped on the jacket of his neatly pressed single-breasted suit. Like the others, he was looking forward to an entertaining night.

  At the Barrowland, the band went through a tried-and-tested repertoire while the hall filled up. At the doors, as the sun slipped away and darkness drew in, there were the customary disputes, as drunks demanded entry only to be turned away, rudely jostling other customers, arguing with wives and girlfriends and even becoming involved in the occasional scuffle along the Gallowgate. Inside, Hannah was finding it hard to concentrate, her mind on that night, months earlier, as she scanned the crowded floor, wondering if she might glimpse a face that she would recognise as the one that had shared with her the back seat of a car.

  There were no such worries for Jemima McDonald, who knew how to enjoy herself. She drifted away from friends, who saw her dancing and chatting earnestly with a man over six feet tall. It was difficult to be sure under the spotlights sweeping over the dancers just what was the colour of his short hair but most who remembered would later say it had had a light-reddish tint.

  Hannah left alone that night but, remembering her dad’s advice to be careful, waited until she spotted a couple she knew from Landressy Street heading in the direction of their home and arrived safely at her aunt’s house. The next morning, she walked to a bus stop to head back to Bellshill.

  As she walked, head down and deep in thought, around the corner in McKeith Street Margaret O’Brien was at first not overly concerned when Jemima failed to reappear. Sometimes her sister would spend the night at the home of a friend, occasionally not returning home even until late afternoon. But as the day wore on, she began to worry; her concerns increased when no word came to say Jemima would be delayed but was all right.

  By Monday, there was still no trace. The children were wailing and asking where their mother had gone and Margaret had no alternative but to have the police called in while she went looking herself. It was she, alerted by children playing in a derelict tenement only a few feet from Jemima’s close, who found her sister’s body. A doctor told detectives she had been strangled with her own stockings and battered. Despite an intensive search of the tenement and the surrounding area, her black handbag could not be found. Was it coincidence that the murder had similarities to that of Patricia Docker? Both had been to the Barrowland and had been strangled, raped and battered, then left near their homes. Each girl’s handbag had been stolen and at the time both had been having their period.

  The killing had a special significance for Hannah because, like the dead woman, she had been headed for a near-identical destination at the time of her first attack. When Hannah read what had happened, it sent a chill down her spine. She wondered how close she had come to suffering the same fate, and whether after killing Jemima the murderer had returned to the streets around the Barras to collect a car.

  Those who had been neighbours to 32-year-old Jemima were outraged, not just because three children had been left orphans, or a deranged killer had been so close to their own homes, but because their fears about the consequences of allowing a brothel to operate in the neighbourhood, encouraging frustrated males to call in the midst of a largely residential area, had been realised. If there were some who felt there were similarities between their situation and that of the sister towns of Sodom and Gomorrah, destroyed by God in a hail of fire and brimstone because the men were sinners, then they kept their thoughts to themselves. That would prove to be a wise decision in light of future events. Shouting biblical lessons at the police in an area where a mother of three had just been murdered would not have been the done thing; however, as the detectives carried out door-to-door inquiries, both the brothel and its owner carried on.

  The presence of so many police officers did deter most of the regular clients from visiting, but local people knew that once the hubbub died down and policemen in their confidence-inspiring uniforms disappeared, the situation would unfortunately revert back to normal.

  The prostitutes were questioned about their customers and pressured into giving names and descriptions, divulging how often Mr X or Mr Y visited and what their normal calling hours were. The answers, of course, meant that customers themselves received a visit. Most hurried to get to the police stations first, as in the case of the Patricia Docker investigation. The last thing they needed was to return home from work to a cold look from a wife wanting to know why her husband was wanted by the police. Thinking up an excuse on the spur of the moment could prove tricky.

  Eventually, public pressure forced the closure of the Dennistoun brothel and, such was the angry outcry, the pimp himself was forced to shut up shop and move on. It was as near as it could be, in the Wild West that could sometimes be the east end of Glasgow, to the good women of Tombstone demanding their sheriff curtail the activities of unscrupulous saloon keepers. But there were many who, even to this day, are convinced the pimp and his set-up were responsible for introducing a callous killer into the area.

  None knew of the assault on Hannah, but it raises the possibil
ity of a scenario in which, having been rebuffed at the Barrowland and wanting to take out his humiliation on any woman, her attacker lured her into walking through the dark, near-deserted streets with him. He may have been in the Bridgeton area not because he lived there or passed through it on his way to home elsewhere in the city, but to satiate his lust for violence. It is impossible to ignore this possible motive for his coming close to killing a friendly, innocent young woman.

  The members of the murder team were, of course, ignorant of what had happened to Hannah and no one would ever know how crucial her story could have proved in their inquiries. Once more convinced they were frustrated by a wife or mother shielding their quarry, they would be defeated, although it was not for lack of effort. Hannah watched the detectives mingle with the other dancers at the Barrowland and wondered whether she ought to tell them about her own encounter but decided that in doing so she would open a can of worms the lid of which, from her perspective, was best kept firmly shut. Questions, too, would then be asked as to why she had not come forward sooner. And her family would surely be dragged into it. The last thing she needed at this stage was extra trouble.

  But should she have come forward? An officer who worked on the hunt for the Barrowland murderer is in no doubt that she could have helped the investigation. ‘Two innocent women had died in a very brutal fashion and everyone must have been aware the police were desperate for any assistance. She must have realised from her own experiences what these victims had gone through. There’s absolutely no doubt that both the attack from behind and the sordid business in the car would have been of very keen interest to officers in charge of these inquiries because there was every likelihood that the man responsible had his own transport. It appears very possible that both these men fitted the pattern of the killer or if, as some believe, there was more than one murderer, one of the killers.

  ‘At the same time, the attack from behind may well have been the forerunner to a ligature being thrown about her neck. That would be the modus of the murderer and she was in an area of the city where he preyed on women. Perhaps her age and fitness saved her, maybe the blow was not as effective as he intended. Who knows? But the car incident had characteristics that bore comparison with the killings.

  ‘Clearly, this was a man taking advantage of women who had their defences down – in the case of the incident in the car with Hannah, through drink. He was intent on having sexual intercourse at any cost, even to taking a girl’s virginity, and then seeking more. Patricia and Jemima had been menstruating and this may have induced in him a sense of disgust in the same way that in some primitive societies they would be looked upon as unclean. Hannah being sick over him and his motor was possibly so unexpected as to take him by surprise and create such a sense of revulsion that he could no longer bear to touch her.

  ‘It is impossible to guess what goes through the mind of such very disturbed individuals. But there’s no question of what was the right thing for her to do. Had she explained to the police the delicacy of her situation every sympathy would have been shown and every step taken to ensure her privacy was protected. She must have been especially aware, through having family who lived so near, of the suffering of the McDonalds. It’s easy to make decisions more than 30 years on and here was a teenage girl finding herself very pregnant with no mother to fall back on for support and dreading the shame that illegitimacy undoubtedly brought in that era. But, at the end of the day, these were murder investigations and the families of the dead women were entitled to feel that everyone who could help in bringing the murderer or murderers to justice was doing so.’

  But the carnage was not yet over.

  On Thursday, 30 October, pretty Helen Puttock, aged twenty-nine and a mother of two, went off to the Barrowland with her married sister, Jeannie. Both were aware of the police warnings that a predator was about but felt there was safety in numbers. Like Jemima McDonald, Helen had decided to wear a black dress. Tragically, it would turn out to be an apt choice. Her husband George, aged 28, was a corporal in the Royal Corps of Signals and was based in England. He would next see his wife in a mortuary.

  It was remarkable that in the light of the blanket publicity that had followed the two previous deaths, once inside the dance hall Helen had an unexpected and not wholly unwelcome meeting with a man assumed to be a stranger. She had gone to buy cigarettes from a dispensing machine but while it gobbled up her cash no packs emerged. The stranger appeared as if from nowhere, offered his help, then a drink, then suggested a dance: propositions to which Helen agreed.

  When the time came to leave for Helen’s home on Earl Street in Scotstoun, a five-mile taxi ride, the sisters announced they would be leaving together. Helen’s partner for the evening, oozing charm and courtliness, offered to accompany them and they had no reason to turn him down. He had introduced himself as ‘John’ and, by coincidence, a second man giving the same name joined the trio in the taxi when they hailed it at Glasgow Cross, although he soon left, saying he was catching a bus to his home in Castlemilk.

  The taxi headed to Knightswood, close by Scotstoun, to drop Jeannie off. As it sped through empty streets, the women became fascinated by their fellow passenger as he began telling them about himself. He said he had been forced to suffer a strict religious upbringing by a father whose view of dance halls was that they were ‘dens of iniquity’. As a boy, he had been made to study the Holy Bible; to prove the lessons had not been lost, he began quoting from scripture, including what would in hindsight seem a sinister reference to the fate of women committing adultery. ‘They get stoned to death,’ said John.

  On a happier note, he repeated from Exodus the story of Moses being set adrift to avoid an edict that all Israelite children should be butchered, only to be discovered in bulrushes by the daughter of the Pharaoh and raised as her own. When they got onto the subject of Hogmanay and the women asked if he would be seeing in the bells, he told them, ‘I don’t drink at Hogmanay. I pray.’

  Religion, especially in the fickle west of Scotland, was an odd choice of subject at any time and particularly during a taxi ride from a dance hall of all places, but Helen and Jeannie felt safe with John. Jeannie had no cause for concern as she waved her sister farewell when the taxi left Knightswood, doubling back towards the city to make for Earl Street. It was the last time they would be able to smile at one another.

  Early next morning, a distraught dog walker found Helen’s body in a backyard in the same street as she lived. She had put up a fierce fight for her life, it was reported, kicking, scratching and marking her killer, but she had been strangled, battered and raped. She was menstruating at the time. And her handbag was also missing. Word soon leaked out about the religious nut who had been with her and the tag ‘Bible John’ was coined. It has stuck to this day.

  There was never any doubt from the outset that Helen’s slaying would be linked to those of Patricia and Jemima, although some police officers doubted that all three crimes were the work of the same man. Regardless of that view, all have, in popular opinion, been laid at the door of Bible John.

  So many were affected by Helen’s killing and none more than a heartbroken Corporal Puttock, who announced he was asking to be discharged from the army after eleven years’ service to look after his children, David, then five, and Michael, just twelve months old. ‘This man has ruined the lives of my two boys and myself,’ he said. ‘For the sake of my two little sons, who loved their mother, I’d ask anyone with information to contact the police.’

  Within days, approval had been given for the issue of what the media described as ‘the fullest and most detailed description to be released of a man police wish to interview in connection with a murder in Scotland’. The culprit was, according to a police statement, ‘between 25 and 30, 5 ft 10 in. to 6 ft tall, of medium build, with light auburn-reddish hair styled short and brushed right’. He had ‘blue-grey eyes, nice straight teeth, with one tooth on the right upper jaw overlapping the next tooth, fine features’ and was �
�generally of smart, modern appearance’. The statement continued:

  He is known to have been dressed in a brownish, flecked single-breasted suit, the jacket of which has three or four buttons and high lapels. There are no turn-ups on the trousers and the suit is modern style. He was also wearing a knee-length brownish coat of tweed or gabardine, a light-blue shirt and dark tie with red diagonal stripes. He was wearing a wristwatch with a broad leather strap of military style. He may smoke Embassy tipped cigarettes. He is known to go to Barrowland on occasions and is thought to go alone. The man is thought to be called by the Christian name of John. He may speak of being one of a family of two, his sister and himself, and of having had a strict upbringing with a severe parental attitude towards drink. He may also speak of a strict religious upbringing and make references to the Bible. He is quite well spoken, probably with a Glasgow accent, and does not appear to be engaged in heavy manual work. The man could have recently made marks on his face.

  Unusual for those times was the issue of an artist’s impression of Bible John. This was soon followed by a painting of the suspect by Lennox Paterson of the Glasgow School of Art. When it was unveiled, Detective Superintendent James Binnie, deputy head of Glasgow CID, announced, ‘We would like everyone in Scotland to see this painting. Coupled with the description already given, this man must be known. He could be the man next door. He could be the man you danced with some night. He could be the man sitting next to you in church. He could be anyone and we would ask everyone who knows or thinks he knows him to come forward and our inquiries will be treated with the strictest confidence.’ Detective Superintendent Joseph ‘Joe’ Beattie of the Marine and Maryhill Division CID, whose name would become synonymous with the hunt for Bible John, commented, ‘We think it’s a very good painting of the man.’