Evil Relations (24 page)

David couldn’t face returning to Underwood Court. Instead, he and Maureen and Bob the dog pitched up on the doorstep of 39 Aked Street, where elderly John Smith was dumbfounded by his grandson’s halting explanation for their visit. David slept fitfully that night, agonisingly aware that his sister-in-law and her boyfriend were bent on framing him for the murder he had witnessed – and potentially more besides.

Today David reflects: ‘I think the two of them discussed turning it
all
on me. I’m sure they didn’t expect me to go to the police, but they’d have had a back-up plan for that eventuality because that’s how they operated. Their line of thinking would have been: “Cover all bases, and if he’s in with us, we’ll go further and do another couple before killing
him
and going on as we were before.” If we’d buried Edward Evans that night . . . I’m not convinced I’d have got off the moor alive. Having said that, I’m not even satisfied that they’d banked on disposing of him on the
moor
. He was chosen at random and, as far as anyone knows, they hadn’t been up there to dig a grave beforehand. No spade was found in Myra’s car either, and the vehicle hadn’t been prepared to receive a body as was their “custom”.’

He shakes his head. ‘I’ve always believed that if we’d buried the lad somewhere and I’d returned to Hattersley with the two of them . . . well, I wouldn’t have lived to tell the tale much longer, put it like that. Because there would have been three musketeers on the loose then, and I know for a fact that one of them wasn’t a happy musketeer. The whole thing would have got bigger, dirtier and more complex. It would never have worked – not for Myra, nor for me. My “career” in their little gang had no prospects because, let’s face it, I was always going to be their next victim.’

* * *

The police want to take me back to Wardle Brook Avenue. A few days have passed since I made the telephone call and in that time I’ve got into a routine: down to Hyde station for nine o’clock, remaining there for the rest of the day in front of an endless succession of coppers before being allowed to go home, wrung out like a dirty sheet.

But on this particular day their questions focus on the house. My head spins. They keep going on about the axe:
Have you ever seen it about the house?
No, I haven’t.
So that would be unusual then, would it, for Brady to have it in the sitting room?
Yes, very unusual.
You’re sure you never saw it next to the fireplace?
No, never.
Outside?
No.
In the car?
Definitely not.
Right then, we’re going to take you back.
Back where?
To the house. We want you to walk us round from Underwood Court, show us the route you took, that kind of thing.
But I’ve already told you.
We know, but it’s not the same. We need a proper reconstruction for our records. You OK with that?

I want to tell them to fuck off, no way am I doing that again, but I tell them OK.

The police car pulls up directly below our flat in Underwood Court. I’ve left Grandad’s and am living back here with Maureen and Dad, who moved in with us after I rang him at work in London to tell him everything. But being in the flat with Maureen and Dad is one thing; retracing my steps and setting foot in the murder house is another.

Here we go, though: me, Talbot – who I can’t stand the sight of, and I know he feels the same about me – and two other detectives in suits and trilbies climb out of the car. They follow me down Pudding Lane on a dismally grey day, below the crackling pylons, into Sundial Close and left onto Wardle Brook Avenue. The house is 50 yards away at the end of the terrace. No one else is about, most people are either at work or school, only a spoon-faced housewife coming out into her back garden to tut at the likely rain, thinking that the washing will have to be hung up indoors instead of on the line.

I notice with surprise that Talbot and his men have gone ahead of me and are waiting outside number 16. I shake my head: ‘We didn’t do that. Me and her – Myra – came down by this wall. Then I waited while she checked to see if it was all right for me to go in.’ They dutifully troop over to the tall wall of the New Inn and look up at the house, as if expecting the sky to darken and the landing lights to flicker. I feel my knees start to weaken, but the suits are already crossing the road again.

Talbot asks, ‘What happened after the lights flashed?’

I stutter slightly, like I always do when I’m on edge. I hope he won’t try to finish my sentences for me because I hate that. But I get it out: ‘I knew it was all right. So I went up.’

‘Here?’ asks Talbot, jerking his head at the slope.

‘Yeah.’ I bite my lip.

‘Was that normal? Or different that night?’

‘Normal. We never used to walk down past the houses because she – Myra – always parked the car here. We’d go up the embankment and climb over the fence. And vice versa.’

‘Right, let’s do that, then.’

I lead three smartly dressed detectives on a swift scramble up the slope. We vault the fence in unison. I’m glad no one is about, but I feel the twitch of every net curtain on the estate.

We stand at the door in a small huddle.

Talbot asks, ‘What happened next?’

‘Well, then the door opened and—’

I almost pass out with fright as the front door is whipped open. Detective Chief Superintendent Benfield fills the gap into the hallway, startled to see us, too. My knees turn to jelly; I want to crouch down and give in to the fear but tell myself to get a grip, it’s just silly old Benfield in his trilby and tweed. He always wears the same jacket, with leather elbows – a right country cop.

Talbot frowns and hurries me into the house. There’s no room for us all in the narrow hall, with the staircase to our left, living room to our right and kitchen in front. The others go straight through to the kitchen, shoulder to shoulder in the cramped space. I’m in danger of falling apart – I can’t get my head around how everything looks the same,
exactly
the same. If forensics have examined the house, then I can’t tell – it’s no different to how it was when I left it. Nothing has been tidied up, or put away. But then I realise there’s a positive side to this: the miniature wine bottles are still there, lined up on top of the cabinet in the kitchen.

Relief courses through my veins: no one seems to believe me when I explain why I went into the house that night.
Miniature wine bottles? Pull the other one, son, it’s got bells on.
But there they are and I’m absolutely delighted to see them, lined up neatly like toy soldiers.

Talbot turns to me. ‘So then, after seeing these bottles, you walked into the living room, did you?’

‘That’s right.’

‘In you go, then.’

I don’t want to do this. I really,
really
don’t want to do this. I’m almost as desperate to get out of the house now as I was that night, but Talbot gives me a sharp nudge and in we go.

This is terrifying. I clench and unclench my fists and hold my arms rigid at my sides. Every detail of that room is scored on my memory, the ridges and furrows of a warped battlefield I’ll never leave: the mare and foal ornament on the mantelpiece, the binoculars on top of the telly, the magazine rack, the picture of the Alsatian dog on the wall, the settee where the lad fell screaming to the floor, the table where he tried to wriggle desperately away from Brady’s unstoppable axe . . .

Jesus Christ, fucking get me out.

One of the detectives walks over to the settee and drops down on it. The other stands behind the settee. Both of them look back at me, expectantly.

Talbot nods at the men and swivels his gaze round to meet mine. ‘Right, we’ve got to get a full picture of what you’ve told us, so we’re going to go through it step by step. All right?’

A minute ago my limbs were as stiff as the wall of the New Inn. Now I feel the need to clutch something solid to stop me from sinking to the floor. I know this has to be done, I understand the need for it, but, fucking hell, I wish it wasn’t me who has to be here with them.

I take a deep breath and stutter out a few instructions. The two detectives on the settee move according to what I say.

So Brady was in what position? Was he holding the axe like this? Grabbing the lad like that? More to the side there?

I watch as the detective who sat down first is picked up roughly by his colleague and trips forward a little, unsteady on his feet. Talbot’s voice is in my ear again:
Was Evans more on the settee, was he pushed back on it, had he started to slide off it at this point, where was Hindley?

The detective acting out Brady’s role raises his arm suddenly and brings it down close to his colleague’s head, again and again and again.
Was that how he did it?
asks Talbot, his breath on my ear,
like that, blade down, or more cutting sideways like that? How did he stand over Evans? Did he bring the axe straight down while the lad was facing upwards from the floor or . . .

We get through it. I don’t know how, but somehow we press on through the re-enactment until Talbot flicks his thumb for me to go back into the hallway.

I want to lean against the wall and feel something cool on my forehead, but the thought of touching anything repulses me. When my breathing slows, Talbot tells me to go upstairs and into the room where we left the body.

The four of us stand in Myra’s bedroom. I point to a spot directly below the window: ‘We put him over there.’

Talbot nods and grimaces. ‘What about the books?’

‘Books?’

‘Yes, the books that were placed on top of the lad. Why was that done? Was there any significance in it? Or the titles?’

I shake my head, bemused. ‘I don’t know. I just don’t know why Brady did that.’ And I don’t. Putting the books there made no sense to me. None of it did.

Talbot asks me to describe how we dragged the bundle into the room and exactly where we positioned it. I stumble over my words again. Then it’s back downstairs and into the foul living room once more. I’m starting to switch off, only half aware of what’s being said, concentrating instead on holding in a scream:
let me out.
I hear Talbot asking something about the signal with the lights again, and mumble that there was nothing unusual in that – it wasn’t
new
– Brady had done that in Gorton, too.

‘Why?’

I lift my shoulders and let them fall heavily. ‘For . . . when he was recording stuff or . . . developing photos. It was just one of his quirks . . .’

‘
Recording
stuff?’ Talbot’s blue eyes pierce my skull.

‘Yeah, he had a tape recorder, an eight-track or something. It was usually in here . . .’

Benfield has come into the room, and a look passes between the two men that I don’t understand.

‘Tell us more about the tape recorder,’ Benfield prompts.

I stutter again, ‘I-I don’t know what else to s-say. It was always’ – my eyes scan the floor quickly, but there’s no sign of the machine – ‘in here.’

Benfield and Talbot nod slowly, silently. I don’t know why they should be so interested in a tape recorder. Then Talbot speaks the words I’m desperate to hear.

‘Right, I think we’re done here, lads.’

And for the last time in my life I get out of that house, gulping in the morning air as if it were pure crystal.

* * *

The first public reference to the case appeared in the
Manchester Evening News
on 7 October 1965. Under the headline ‘Body Found in House – Murder?’ was a brief description of the discovery made by police in the rear bedroom of 16 Wardle Brook Avenue, where ‘Mrs Ellen Maybury, aged 76 . . . has lived for 12 months with her granddaughter Myra Hindley, aged 23.’ Talbot gave the standard quote: ‘A man is helping us with our inquiries.’ Brady remained unnamed, and no mention was made of David having witnessed the killing, nor of his informing the authorities.

The following day another column appeared in the
Manchester Evening News
, reporting on the morning’s events at Hyde Magistrates’ Court: ‘At a three-minute hearing at 10 a.m., a man was charged with the murder of Edward Evans. As he left the dock, he nodded at a blonde woman friend.’ For the next few days, there was a steady trickle of information in the local papers, including the news that Myra Hindley had been charged as an accessory to the murder.

Then, on Tuesday, 12 October, the
Manchester Evening News
splashed an exclusive across its front page: ‘Police in Mystery Dig on Moors’. National press interest in the case erupted, as the public clamoured for details. Denied access to the two central figures, journalists converged instead outside Underwood Court, and within hours of Tuesday’s headline the entry phone to Flat 18 was permanently jammed, as David and Maureen found themselves in the frenzied eye of a very public storm.

Initially, David was largely able to avoid the press, since his days were spent closeted in an interview room, often for ten hours or more. ‘I’d be told to be down at Hyde station for nine,’ he recalls. ‘Maureen and Dad would come with me. They’d wait in the canteen and only left when I did. I ate in the interview room – someone would bring in a burger or chips for me and I’d be given half an hour to get that down before we were off again with the questions. I was always put in the same room at Hyde, but occasionally a bobby would appear and say, “Right, there’s going to be a couple of Manchester lads coming to speak to you today.” I was a bit bewildered the first time but soon got used to it. They’d take me down to Manchester regularly, where their coppers would ask me identical things from a slightly different angle. I hated that station. It was old and gloomy, and I was always interviewed by the same pair of “heavies”: Mattin and Tyrrell. Their boss, Nimmo, conducted the first interview I had there, but that was just a superficial thing before he handed me over to them. Nimmo stayed in the background after that.’