Evil Relations (49 page)

At night, in Mary’s arms, I cry.

* * *

Less than 24 hours after the Smiths left the hospital, Myra Hindley arrived, given special permission by the Home Office to be there. She was one hour too late; at 11 a.m. on 9 July 1980, Maureen’s life-support system was switched off.

Although Hindley informed the authorities she would not be attending the funeral for fear of creating a media circus, an anonymous caller contacted John Kilbride’s father, Patrick Kilbride, and Lesley Ann Downey’s mother, Ann West, to insist otherwise. Both parents mistook Bill’s daughter for Hindley at the service, held at Blackley Crematorium. Patrick Kilbride was knocked to the ground by one of the mourners when he attempted to lunge at her and Mrs West began to scream as police reinforcements were called in to restore order. David did not attend the funeral and nor did the three boys. They had no further communication with Bill Scott and never met Sharon, Maureen’s daughter.

In Hyde, David and Mary’s efforts to establish their own business collapsed when a competitor told clients they were dealing with the Moors Murderers. ‘We had customers all over the country,’ Mary recalls, ‘and I was running myself ragged, trying to explain the truth to them. But it was hopeless. We decided to get away from things for a while and went to stay with relatives of mine in Lincoln. They had an agricultural business and I ended up working for them when David, Jody and the boys went home. Everything was closing down in Hyde then, but in Lincoln there was always ample landwork. So, in 1986, we moved to Lincoln and set up as agricultural contractors. We became “a family on the land” and had quite a lot of people working for us. We bought our own house, worked hard and partied hard, and became grandparents. Life was good for a change.’

Although there were no attacks on David and his family in Lincoln, his name was often in the press again. In 1985, Ian Brady finally hinted that he was responsible for the murders of Pauline Reade and Keith Bennett. After a period of frequent and vociferous denial, Myra Hindley eventually made her own confession. She refused to concede any part in their actual deaths but divulged how she had picked up Pauline in summer 1963 and Keith in summer 1964, driving them to the moor, where Brady had raped and killed them. The respective families pushed for a re-trial, but Brady and Hindley were never convicted of either murder; the authorities deemed the cost of bringing the cases to court too prohibitive. Nonetheless, in 1986 the police again began searching the moor in an effort to find the graves.

Detective Chief Superintendent Peter Topping was in charge of the renewed investigation; he visited Brady and Hindley on several occasions to discuss where the search should be focused. Topping managed to extract a comprehensive statement about all the murders from Hindley, although he was somewhat less successful with Brady. But the victims’ families mistrusted Topping and openly condemned his book based on the interviews he had conducted with Brady and Hindley, in which he included previously undisclosed specifics about Keith Bennett’s death. Hindley was also furious at the details of her confession being published; she worried with good reason that it would hinder her bid for freedom.

The press were openly scornful of Topping, and the search itself, but descended in droves on the moor when Brady and Hindley were taken back there – separately – as part of the effort to locate the graves. The media presence ruined their initial visits, although Topping insisted that Hindley had done her utmost to be helpful. But as the first few months of the search drew to a close due to the appalling weather, it seemed as if both graves would remain unfound.

In Lincoln, David and Mary were aware of recent developments. ‘We didn’t go looking for it,’ David explains, ‘but we had seen the news, of course, and expected trouble to start brewing in Lincoln, as it had in Hyde, although first and foremost we hoped that Pauline and Keith would be found.’

Detectives contacted David in winter 1986, asking if he would be willing to look at Ian Brady’s ‘scenic’ photographs again. ‘They offered to send two detectives to pick me up and bring me to their headquarters in Manchester,’ David recalls. ‘It was very hush-hush because they didn’t want the press to get wind of anything – that suited me. I agreed immediately and a date was set.’

Two detectives in an unmarked police car arrived at the Smiths’ home in Lincoln. ‘No idea who they were,’ David says with a shrug. ‘But they came in and Mary went off to work. I wore light clothing, cowboy boots and a jacket, expecting to be driven to Manchester to meet Topping and sit in an office all day. I climbed into the back of the car and the two detectives sat in front. They were friendly enough. The radio was on as we drove, tuned to one of the main stations. All at once the announcement came over the airwaves: “Chief prosecution witness at the Moors trial, David Smith, is on his way back to the moor to meet police . . .”’

He shakes his head. ‘I sat bolt upright and said, “What the
hell
is that all about?” The two detectives exchanged mortified glances and the one in the passenger seat switched the radio off. They wouldn’t answer my questions except to say, “You’re going to see Topping.” I began to calm down a bit, thinking that maybe the press had got it wrong. But it was soon obvious that we weren’t on the road into Manchester at all, but going way up. It was bitterly cold and overcast. Snow lay on either side of the road in great drifts.’

He shakes his head again in disbelief. ‘We approached the moor and all I could see apart from the snow was the press. They were there in vast numbers and came running forward with their microphones and cameras as we pulled up. I hadn’t a clue where we were because the moor looked identical in every direction, blanketed in snow beneath a heavy sky. The detectives climbed out and shuffled me through a great mob of journalists. It was freezing up there and I was in very bad humour, let me tell you. We had to make our way to a mobile police unit about 40 yards away, where Topping was waiting with about half a dozen detectives.’

He pauses, frowning with remembered anger. ‘I didn’t get so much as a “good morning” out of Topping. He was very, very abrupt and told me to sit down. Then he said, “We’ve brought you here to look at a few areas where we think you’ve been before.” His attitude really got my back up and I gave him an earful. He interrupted me: “Shut your mouth or you’ll be walking back to Lincoln.” That was it – I hated him. When we left the van, I was in a filthy mood, and Topping paraded me through the press with all the cameras going off in my face. We climbed into another car, but I can’t tell you whether we drove left, right or straight on because the snow made everything look the same, and besides, my temper was ready to erupt. After ten minutes, we stopped. A long convoy of press vehicles had followed us. Topping told me to get out. When we were stood on the roadside, he asked, “Do you recognise this?” I honestly didn’t – he could have turned me round twice and I wouldn’t have known which direction I was facing in because the left-hand side of the road was identical to the right, just thick, thick snow. Topping knitted his brow at me and said, “You’ve been here before and we know that you’ve been here.” I insisted, “But I don’t recognise it. So how can I tell if I’ve been here or not?” My reply really pissed him off. We went on to another spot, which looked just like the last. It was obvious to both of us by then that our meeting was a dismal failure.’

The two men returned to the vehicle along with the other detectives. They drove to the nearest pub for lunch. ‘But I couldn’t eat anything,’ David states. ‘I sat in a corner on my own while the police were by the fire, eating hot sandwiches and drinking pints. I just wanted to go home. And after a long lunch, two of the detectives drove me back to Lincoln. But the whole thing had been a complete farce. Topping should’ve been upfront about what he wanted and he should’ve treated me with a little more respect. And what in God’s name am I supposed to be pinpointing in the middle of bloody winter when everything is pure white, a lunar surface, in effect? It was an exercise in futility and mismanagement all round.’

Topping continued to visit Brady and Hindley in the hope of extracting vital information about the graves. When Hindley talked to him about her life with Brady, she wavered between persisting with her allegations against her ex-brother-in-law and admitting that she and Ian had lied about his involvement. For months, she chose the former course, implicating David more heavily than ever in Edward Evans’s death and repeating that David had brought Lesley Ann Downey to their home and departed with the child after the photographs and tape were made. Ultimately, though, Hindley conceded that such stories were fabricated, and even acknowledged the damage she had done, telling Topping that she’d like to write to David and ask his forgiveness. No sooner were the words out of her mouth, however, than she declared herself still angry with him for bringing the crimes to light.

News of Hindley’s confession broke in the press in April 1987, losing her several high-profile supporters and friends. The search of the moor resumed and on 1 July 1987, the body of Pauline Reade was unearthed from Hollin Brown Knoll, close to where Lesley Ann Downey had lain. The young girl who had disappeared on her way to a dance in Gorton during the summer of 1963 was almost perfectly preserved in the peaty ground; even the gold lettering on her then new white court shoes glittered.

In Lincoln, David heard about the discovery from the television news: ‘It came as a massive shock. For years, everyone had known that Brady and Hindley were responsible for Pauline’s death, but to hear about it as fact, and to learn that she had been found so many years later, was truly shocking. It brought everything back.’ Soon afterwards, Geoffrey Dickens, then Conservative MP for Saddleworth, announced publicly that there
was
a third party involved in the murders and an arrest was imminent. A media storm ensued, with David at its vortex. Pauline’s brother, Paul Reade, who had been a regular visitor to the Smiths’ home in Hyde, supplied Dickens with the information. His motive remained unclear and no arrest was made, although the press stepped up their pursuit of the Smiths for a long time afterwards.

Pauline Reade was laid to rest in Gorton Cemetery on 7 August 1987. Two weeks later, the police called off the search. Keith Bennett’s devastated family vowed never to give up hope and continued searching for him themselves.

*

In 1994, David and Mary left England to begin a new life in the west of Ireland. During their years in Hyde, they had holidayed in Ireland whenever they could afford to do so, occasionally working on a farm owned by Mary’s relatives. When their finances improved in Lincoln, their trips became longer and more frequent. Mary had always longed to live in Ireland, but now David found himself giving the idea serious consideration. They decided to begin with a holiday home and bought the ruined shell of a cottage on the outskirts of a small village.

‘It was Mary’s project, really,’ David recalls, ‘her vision. As it progressed, we used to hate having to leave it, and as it became a proper home that feeling intensified. When we got back to Lincoln, we’d open our suitcase and the gorgeous smell of the turf fire would drift out. We felt so homesick for Ireland that we wound up the business in Lincoln and emigrated. There was no pain in saying goodbye to England. The Irish didn’t care who we were – to them, we were just Mary and Dave. People took us as they found us. Which was all we’d ever wanted.’ Having semi-retired on the income from the business in Lincoln, they decided to set up as a B&B and attracted more guests than they could accommodate. Their renovation of the cottage, outbuildings and garden proved so successful that their home now features on calendars, postcards and fridge magnets.

Then, eight years after David and Mary moved to Ireland, Myra Hindley died of bronchial pneumonia. The case was once again in the headlines. ‘We were watching the news when it was announced that Hindley had received the last rites,’ David recalls. ‘I know it sounds a wicked thing to say, but I just felt overwhelming relief, as if a gust of the freshest air had blown in through the front door and straight out the back. It felt good.’

‘I didn’t share Dave’s relief,’ Mary states quietly. ‘I got up, went into the shower, and wept. I thought: this is going to bring it all back again. And, sure enough, it did. We were hounded. All those years living in Ireland, there was never a peep about the Moors Murders. But a reporter found out that we had moved here and ran a huge article about it in a weekly Irish newspaper, publishing a photograph of the cottage and where it was situated. So that was like an open invitation.’

David nods: ‘The reporter made it sound as if he’d tracked us down after we’d gone to ground. That article came out a while before Hindley died, but it made it simple for the rest of the pack to find us when she passed away. It was a proper stakeout – there were scores of journalists camped out in the field across the road. The villagers were really good because they knew who we were by then and warned us when any journalists came to town looking for us. I gave one interview, hoping to take the heat off, but we still had reporters ringing the house and trying to book in as holidaymakers.’

The commotion had scarcely subsided when a letter arrived from Granada Television’s head of drama, asking David if he would consider a television dramatisation of his story. ‘I think we were as shocked as the Granada team when we said yes,’ David remembers. ‘But what impressed us most was that they were adamant this was not going to be a “Moors” piece. They had a working title:
The Ballad of David Smith.
Both Mary and me thought that this was our chance to tell the truth in full at last and be seen to be telling the truth.’ He gives a rueful shrug. ‘But it didn’t turn out as we’d hoped.
The Ballad of David Smith
went on to become
See No Evil: The Story of the Moors Murders.
’

He pauses to light a cigarette, and then speaks slowly: ‘While we were working on the drama with the Granada team – when it was still
The Ballad
– they asked me if I would go back to Manchester. I hadn’t been there for so long. But I trusted them and agreed, reluctantly, to visit the places from my past. To confront a few old but far from forgotten demons.’