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| Doing time: confessions of a crime reporter | |
| (1 day later) | |
| I met my first professional criminal in 1962, a charming fraudster who had studied economics at Jesus College, Cambridge – or so he said. I was part of a team of cocky schoolboys, sent into nearby Perth prison, in Scotland, to debate whether going to the moon would be a good idea. Here was a well-spoken, well-educated man who had obviously had every opportunity in life, but had ended up behind bars and seemed pretty relaxed about it. How had he got there? How did he get on in jail with the wide boys from Glasgow and Dundee, who were serving sentences for more prosaic offences such as stabbing and slashing? | I met my first professional criminal in 1962, a charming fraudster who had studied economics at Jesus College, Cambridge – or so he said. I was part of a team of cocky schoolboys, sent into nearby Perth prison, in Scotland, to debate whether going to the moon would be a good idea. Here was a well-spoken, well-educated man who had obviously had every opportunity in life, but had ended up behind bars and seemed pretty relaxed about it. How had he got there? How did he get on in jail with the wide boys from Glasgow and Dundee, who were serving sentences for more prosaic offences such as stabbing and slashing? |
| I met some of the same prisoners again when their football team played ours. I was the goalie, and one of them told me with a chuckle, “Watch out for the centre forward, pal – he’s in for manslaughter.” Whom had he killed, I wondered, and what was the difference between manslaughter and murder? I would find that out in due course, not least when I found myself reporting for the Guardian, decades later, on the murder of one of my then classmates. | I met some of the same prisoners again when their football team played ours. I was the goalie, and one of them told me with a chuckle, “Watch out for the centre forward, pal – he’s in for manslaughter.” Whom had he killed, I wondered, and what was the difference between manslaughter and murder? I would find that out in due course, not least when I found myself reporting for the Guardian, decades later, on the murder of one of my then classmates. |
| Ah, well, maybe that’s where it all started. A curiosity about crime and the people who perpetrate it, profit from it, investigate it, punish it, suffer from it – and write about it. I left school shortly afterwards and went to South Africa to work in a school where there was a much more savvy fellow teacher called Jim McClure, who was all of 23. He changed career while I was there, to become a reporter with a crime beat on the local paper in Pietermaritzburg, and he would regale me with tales of his work, much of it grim. I can still recall his description of a black prisoner being dragged through the streets, handcuffed to the back of a police car. When his coverage bothered the local police too much and they started visiting his house in the middle of the night, he had to leave the country. Jim, who died in 2006, settled in Britain and became a much-lauded crime novelist, author of the Kramer and Zondi detective books, editor of the Oxford Mail and, for me, a source of advice and inspiration. | Ah, well, maybe that’s where it all started. A curiosity about crime and the people who perpetrate it, profit from it, investigate it, punish it, suffer from it – and write about it. I left school shortly afterwards and went to South Africa to work in a school where there was a much more savvy fellow teacher called Jim McClure, who was all of 23. He changed career while I was there, to become a reporter with a crime beat on the local paper in Pietermaritzburg, and he would regale me with tales of his work, much of it grim. I can still recall his description of a black prisoner being dragged through the streets, handcuffed to the back of a police car. When his coverage bothered the local police too much and they started visiting his house in the middle of the night, he had to leave the country. Jim, who died in 2006, settled in Britain and became a much-lauded crime novelist, author of the Kramer and Zondi detective books, editor of the Oxford Mail and, for me, a source of advice and inspiration. |
| Meanwhile, I studied law at Edinburgh University in the 1960s and, in my first year, failed every subject but criminal law. When I began writing for, and then edited, the university newspaper, the Student (once edited by Robert Louis Stevenson), the attraction of working on a paper set in: deadlines at 2am! The smell of the morning’s fresh doughnuts at the baker’s round the corner! | Meanwhile, I studied law at Edinburgh University in the 1960s and, in my first year, failed every subject but criminal law. When I began writing for, and then edited, the university newspaper, the Student (once edited by Robert Louis Stevenson), the attraction of working on a paper set in: deadlines at 2am! The smell of the morning’s fresh doughnuts at the baker’s round the corner! |
| We ran features on three of the big issues of the day: abortion, homosexuality and capital punishment. Abortion was still illegal, although a drunken local doctor would carry out the procedure for £50. Homosexuality was also against the law, even though everyone knew that Paddy’s on Rose Street was a gay bar. (Of course, “gay” was not the word used in those dark days. When I interviewed a former chief constable on the subject, he cheerily informed me that in the 1930s he had rounded up the “homos” in Edinburgh and put them on the nonstop train to London.) There were other stories of greater significance at the time – the post-Profumo fall of the Tory government, the rise of Harold Wilson’s Labour party, CND, the cold war – but writing about crime seemed to have an immediacy and realism that politics lacked. The third of the big issues – hanging – was on the verge of being abolished: although we did not know it at the time, the last hanging in Scotland had just taken place. | We ran features on three of the big issues of the day: abortion, homosexuality and capital punishment. Abortion was still illegal, although a drunken local doctor would carry out the procedure for £50. Homosexuality was also against the law, even though everyone knew that Paddy’s on Rose Street was a gay bar. (Of course, “gay” was not the word used in those dark days. When I interviewed a former chief constable on the subject, he cheerily informed me that in the 1930s he had rounded up the “homos” in Edinburgh and put them on the nonstop train to London.) There were other stories of greater significance at the time – the post-Profumo fall of the Tory government, the rise of Harold Wilson’s Labour party, CND, the cold war – but writing about crime seemed to have an immediacy and realism that politics lacked. The third of the big issues – hanging – was on the verge of being abolished: although we did not know it at the time, the last hanging in Scotland had just taken place. |
| Later, the informer became a born-again Christian and admitted to me he had made up evidence to get a shorter sentence | Later, the informer became a born-again Christian and admitted to me he had made up evidence to get a shorter sentence |
| Down in London in the 1970s, the first big case I covered in any detail, for Time Out magazine, was a trial at the Old Bailey that, a decade earlier, might well have ended with a black-capped judge proclaiming, “May God have mercy on your souls.” Two men, Reg Dudley and Bob Maynard, both professional criminals, had been accused of killing two others, Micky “the Laughing Bankrobber” Cornwall and Billy Moseley. The body of the latter was cut up and dumped in the Thames, in what became known as the Torso Murder case. | Down in London in the 1970s, the first big case I covered in any detail, for Time Out magazine, was a trial at the Old Bailey that, a decade earlier, might well have ended with a black-capped judge proclaiming, “May God have mercy on your souls.” Two men, Reg Dudley and Bob Maynard, both professional criminals, had been accused of killing two others, Micky “the Laughing Bankrobber” Cornwall and Billy Moseley. The body of the latter was cut up and dumped in the Thames, in what became known as the Torso Murder case. |
| The trial took six months and it had everything: the prison grass; the detective nicknamed “the Old Grey Fox”; the accusations that the defendants had been “verballed up” (had incriminating words attributed to them by the police); the gilded barristers from the other side of the tracks; the relatives of the living and the dead; the conflicted jury; the furious protests from the dock. Hanging around the Old Bailey, gradually getting to know the participants from both sides of the fence – and the people who wrote about them – was an apprenticeship. The windowless press room in the bowels of the Bailey has barely changed over the years, although the gents next to it is now a prayer room, prompting the observation from one old crime reporter that, not for the first time, people are found in there on their knees. | The trial took six months and it had everything: the prison grass; the detective nicknamed “the Old Grey Fox”; the accusations that the defendants had been “verballed up” (had incriminating words attributed to them by the police); the gilded barristers from the other side of the tracks; the relatives of the living and the dead; the conflicted jury; the furious protests from the dock. Hanging around the Old Bailey, gradually getting to know the participants from both sides of the fence – and the people who wrote about them – was an apprenticeship. The windowless press room in the bowels of the Bailey has barely changed over the years, although the gents next to it is now a prayer room, prompting the observation from one old crime reporter that, not for the first time, people are found in there on their knees. |
| Many years later, the prison informer in that case, himself a former robber, became a born-again Christian and admitted to me in a bar in Brighton that he had made up incriminating evidence, in order to get himself a shorter sentence in a robbery trial. It was not until he was given a guarantee that he would not be prosecuted for perjury that he was able to tell his story to the court of appeal, which duly quashed the convictions. By then, Dudley and Maynard had served more than 20 years. No one has been charged for the murders since, although the case was briefly reopened some years ago. | Many years later, the prison informer in that case, himself a former robber, became a born-again Christian and admitted to me in a bar in Brighton that he had made up incriminating evidence, in order to get himself a shorter sentence in a robbery trial. It was not until he was given a guarantee that he would not be prosecuted for perjury that he was able to tell his story to the court of appeal, which duly quashed the convictions. By then, Dudley and Maynard had served more than 20 years. No one has been charged for the murders since, although the case was briefly reopened some years ago. |
| No one was ever convicted of the murder of my former schoolmate, Murray Erskine, either. Murray and I had shared a classroom for eight years. He became a bright, eccentric, opera-loving man who worked as an analyst for the Bank of England in Threadneedle Street before he disappeared in 1989, aged 44, a couple of years after I joined the Guardian. His credit card was used to hire a car and buy a sailing watch and a ticket to Holland; a few months later, his body was found in the river Cam. It was initially thought that his death might have been related to his work – perhaps he had uncovered money laundering of drug profits – but this was soon discounted. He was gay and the police believed he probably met his killer through a contact magazine. There was a suspect, a Zimbabwean man, but the trail had gone cold. These cases in which no one is ever convicted can be as hard on the relatives of victims as those in which the innocent are locked up. | No one was ever convicted of the murder of my former schoolmate, Murray Erskine, either. Murray and I had shared a classroom for eight years. He became a bright, eccentric, opera-loving man who worked as an analyst for the Bank of England in Threadneedle Street before he disappeared in 1989, aged 44, a couple of years after I joined the Guardian. His credit card was used to hire a car and buy a sailing watch and a ticket to Holland; a few months later, his body was found in the river Cam. It was initially thought that his death might have been related to his work – perhaps he had uncovered money laundering of drug profits – but this was soon discounted. He was gay and the police believed he probably met his killer through a contact magazine. There was a suspect, a Zimbabwean man, but the trail had gone cold. These cases in which no one is ever convicted can be as hard on the relatives of victims as those in which the innocent are locked up. |
| I watched another murder trial in a case where I knew, albeit very slightly, the victim, who worked nearby. I met the parents of the murdered man, a sweet-natured couple who, far from seeking vengeance, were anxious that no one innocent should be convicted. It was clear from the evidence that the defendant was guilty, but a wary jury gave him the benefit of the very slight doubt. I watched the killer as he left court, sniggering and putting a finger over his mouth to his friends as they piled into a cab to go off and celebrate. Years later, I found out that the killer was now so disturbed he wanted to confess and be punished. A justice of sorts. | I watched another murder trial in a case where I knew, albeit very slightly, the victim, who worked nearby. I met the parents of the murdered man, a sweet-natured couple who, far from seeking vengeance, were anxious that no one innocent should be convicted. It was clear from the evidence that the defendant was guilty, but a wary jury gave him the benefit of the very slight doubt. I watched the killer as he left court, sniggering and putting a finger over his mouth to his friends as they piled into a cab to go off and celebrate. Years later, I found out that the killer was now so disturbed he wanted to confess and be punished. A justice of sorts. |
| But of all the murder trials over the years, it is that of Rosemary West in Winchester in 1995 that stays with me – and with the other reporters who covered it. The chief prosecutor was a smart young cove called Brian Leveson, who would one day have an even greater role to play in the reporting of crime. The trial lasted seven weeks and, because it was not in London, it involved dozens of reporters staying in Winchester for its duration. More than 150 members of the media applied for accreditation to cover it. | But of all the murder trials over the years, it is that of Rosemary West in Winchester in 1995 that stays with me – and with the other reporters who covered it. The chief prosecutor was a smart young cove called Brian Leveson, who would one day have an even greater role to play in the reporting of crime. The trial lasted seven weeks and, because it was not in London, it involved dozens of reporters staying in Winchester for its duration. More than 150 members of the media applied for accreditation to cover it. |
| The jury were offered counselling, as were the reporters, one of whom lifted a pint and said, ‘This is my counselling’ | The jury were offered counselling, as were the reporters, one of whom lifted a pint and said, ‘This is my counselling’ |
| The Wests were not the traditional serial-killing “loners”: strange, remote characters such as Dennis Nilsen, Peter Sutcliffe, Ian Brady or Colin Ireland. They lived on a busy street, had children at local schools and, to a young woman hitchhiking in Gloucestershire, must have seemed like the perfect lift. How did they get away with it for so long? | The Wests were not the traditional serial-killing “loners”: strange, remote characters such as Dennis Nilsen, Peter Sutcliffe, Ian Brady or Colin Ireland. They lived on a busy street, had children at local schools and, to a young woman hitchhiking in Gloucestershire, must have seemed like the perfect lift. How did they get away with it for so long? |
| During the trial, the jury asked to be shown round the “House of Horrors” – for once the cliche seemed appropriate – where the Wests had carried out most of their killings. The judge, Mr Justice Mantell, said that a journalist could accompany them, and mine was the name picked out of the hat. In these situations, the deal is that you produce a “pooled report”, which you give to any other reporter who wants to use it at the end of the trial. | During the trial, the jury asked to be shown round the “House of Horrors” – for once the cliche seemed appropriate – where the Wests had carried out most of their killings. The judge, Mr Justice Mantell, said that a journalist could accompany them, and mine was the name picked out of the hat. In these situations, the deal is that you produce a “pooled report”, which you give to any other reporter who wants to use it at the end of the trial. |
| We had to don hard hats, no talking or dallying was permitted, and we were not allowed to take notes, so the visit became like a memory game: was the garish mural in the room with the bar a Hawaiian or Caribbean scene? What struck me was how small the house was, how tiny the rooms, how close everyone must have been to the violence, and how confident the Wests must have been to rape, kill and bury their victims when there were so many children and lodgers in such close proximity. When Anne Marie, Fred West’s daughter, gave her devastating account of how she had been raped by her father with her stepmother, Rose, watching and making sarcastic remarks, there was a chill in the court. Should such details have been passed on to rattle around in people’s heads? | We had to don hard hats, no talking or dallying was permitted, and we were not allowed to take notes, so the visit became like a memory game: was the garish mural in the room with the bar a Hawaiian or Caribbean scene? What struck me was how small the house was, how tiny the rooms, how close everyone must have been to the violence, and how confident the Wests must have been to rape, kill and bury their victims when there were so many children and lodgers in such close proximity. When Anne Marie, Fred West’s daughter, gave her devastating account of how she had been raped by her father with her stepmother, Rose, watching and making sarcastic remarks, there was a chill in the court. Should such details have been passed on to rattle around in people’s heads? |
| I have never reported a case about which so many people said they did not or could not read what I had written. But there was, perhaps inevitably, a strange camaraderie among those who listened each day to the grim evidence and who, having filed their copy, would meet nightly in Winchester’s bars and restaurants. Reporters covering the trial daily would joke about the arrival of the dreaded “colour writer”, dispatched from the London office with their saddlebag full of metaphors and Truman Capote quotes, who would arrive, stare at Rose West, knock out their, “I lock eyes with the face of evil” pieces and ride off again. The jury and witnesses were offered counselling at the end of the trial, as were the reporters, one of whom lifted a pint and said, “This is my counselling.” | I have never reported a case about which so many people said they did not or could not read what I had written. But there was, perhaps inevitably, a strange camaraderie among those who listened each day to the grim evidence and who, having filed their copy, would meet nightly in Winchester’s bars and restaurants. Reporters covering the trial daily would joke about the arrival of the dreaded “colour writer”, dispatched from the London office with their saddlebag full of metaphors and Truman Capote quotes, who would arrive, stare at Rose West, knock out their, “I lock eyes with the face of evil” pieces and ride off again. The jury and witnesses were offered counselling at the end of the trial, as were the reporters, one of whom lifted a pint and said, “This is my counselling.” |
| Most of the time, I think the juries get it right. I have sat on one in Wood Green crown court and was very impressed by the diligence of my fellow jurors, but grateful that we did not have to sit through what the West jury was exposed to. | Most of the time, I think the juries get it right. I have sat on one in Wood Green crown court and was very impressed by the diligence of my fellow jurors, but grateful that we did not have to sit through what the West jury was exposed to. |
| My only experience as a defendant impressed me even more when it came to the importance of juries. In the early 1990s, I reported on a corruption investigation within Stoke Newington police station in London. Eight officers were transferred to different stations, but we did not name the officers or suggest they were in any way involved in the allegations. In those days, anyone wanting to sue for libel could do so within three years of the offending article (the time limit is now one year), and so it came to pass that, some two years and 300-odd days later, writs arrived at the Guardian from the eight officers who had been moved, seeking damages for libel. | My only experience as a defendant impressed me even more when it came to the importance of juries. In the early 1990s, I reported on a corruption investigation within Stoke Newington police station in London. Eight officers were transferred to different stations, but we did not name the officers or suggest they were in any way involved in the allegations. In those days, anyone wanting to sue for libel could do so within three years of the offending article (the time limit is now one year), and so it came to pass that, some two years and 300-odd days later, writs arrived at the Guardian from the eight officers who had been moved, seeking damages for libel. |
| Alan Rusbridger, the Guardian’s then editor, had decided to fight libel cases where he believed the paper was in the right and had recently won two high-profile actions brought by the Conservative politicians Jonathan Aitken and Neil Hamilton. I was sent to see the late George Carman, the wiliest of libel lawyers, who cross-examined me for an hour and then took on the case. He asked about my background, and when I told him I had a law degree, he said it would be better not to mention that in court, because jurors did not like lawyers much. | Alan Rusbridger, the Guardian’s then editor, had decided to fight libel cases where he believed the paper was in the right and had recently won two high-profile actions brought by the Conservative politicians Jonathan Aitken and Neil Hamilton. I was sent to see the late George Carman, the wiliest of libel lawyers, who cross-examined me for an hour and then took on the case. He asked about my background, and when I told him I had a law degree, he said it would be better not to mention that in court, because jurors did not like lawyers much. |
| The judge in the trial at the Royal Courts of Justice was the late Mr Justice French, whose last case it was to be. It was clear from the start that he was on the side of the police, and that our only hope was to convince the jury of our case. Carman told me that, when I was in the witness box, I should find a friendly-looking face among the jurors and deliver all my evidence to him or her, which I duly did. | The judge in the trial at the Royal Courts of Justice was the late Mr Justice French, whose last case it was to be. It was clear from the start that he was on the side of the police, and that our only hope was to convince the jury of our case. Carman told me that, when I was in the witness box, I should find a friendly-looking face among the jurors and deliver all my evidence to him or her, which I duly did. |
| The five officers – three dropped out before the case came to court – and their relatives told the jury what a devastating effect the article had had on their lives. The judge summed up their evidence in great detail, told the jury they could award up to £125,000 per person in damages, and ignored our arguments entirely. The jury went out overnight and returned the following morning with a judgment on our behalf, leaving the Police Federation with a bill of around £600,000. It was a relief and a lesson: giving evidence, something I have watched thousands of people do, is not as simple as it looks. | The five officers – three dropped out before the case came to court – and their relatives told the jury what a devastating effect the article had had on their lives. The judge summed up their evidence in great detail, told the jury they could award up to £125,000 per person in damages, and ignored our arguments entirely. The jury went out overnight and returned the following morning with a judgment on our behalf, leaving the Police Federation with a bill of around £600,000. It was a relief and a lesson: giving evidence, something I have watched thousands of people do, is not as simple as it looks. |
| Amid all the crime and punishment, there has been no shortage of laughs; the phrase “gallows humour” did not come from nowhere. I met one chap who, having decided he was not cut out for armed robbery like many of his north London contemporaries, would do his bit for them by throwing himself into the Thames and being rescued by whoever was on trial at the time, so he could then pop up as a character witness: “This man saved my life, your honour.” | Amid all the crime and punishment, there has been no shortage of laughs; the phrase “gallows humour” did not come from nowhere. I met one chap who, having decided he was not cut out for armed robbery like many of his north London contemporaries, would do his bit for them by throwing himself into the Thames and being rescued by whoever was on trial at the time, so he could then pop up as a character witness: “This man saved my life, your honour.” |
| The ultimate end to any story is a funeral, and I have attended many, of both former criminals and police officers. There are common features: the listing of the greatest crimes, or investigations, the weary faces, the playing of My Way. One of the saddest I attended was for a senior police officer who had killed himself, possibly because his extramarital affairs were about to appear in a tabloid. His daughter sang an unaccompanied version of Somewhere from West Side Story that sent shivers down the spine. At the other end of the scale, at the 2012 funeral of Peter Scott, the cat burglar who stole Sophia Loren’s necklace in 1960, the music that accompanied his coffin on its journey into the fiery furnace was the gospel song Steal Away – which, we were sure, is what he would have wanted. | The ultimate end to any story is a funeral, and I have attended many, of both former criminals and police officers. There are common features: the listing of the greatest crimes, or investigations, the weary faces, the playing of My Way. One of the saddest I attended was for a senior police officer who had killed himself, possibly because his extramarital affairs were about to appear in a tabloid. His daughter sang an unaccompanied version of Somewhere from West Side Story that sent shivers down the spine. At the other end of the scale, at the 2012 funeral of Peter Scott, the cat burglar who stole Sophia Loren’s necklace in 1960, the music that accompanied his coffin on its journey into the fiery furnace was the gospel song Steal Away – which, we were sure, is what he would have wanted. |
| Related: One last job: the inside story of the Hatton Garden heist | Related: One last job: the inside story of the Hatton Garden heist |
| Last month I was at Woolwich crown court for the sentencing of the men convicted of the Hatton Garden burglary, those “diamond wheezers”. (One of the many inequities in life is that crime reporters get bylines while the subeditors who come up with headlines like that remain anonymous.) As he passed sentence, the judge, Christopher Kinch, addressed the issue of whether the septuagenarian conspirators were, as they were often described, “analogue criminals in a digital age”. He had his doubts. “Far from stumbling into 21st-century crime as relics of a past era, the conspirators were clearly highly aware of the dangers of leaving traces that could lead to their identification,” he said. | Last month I was at Woolwich crown court for the sentencing of the men convicted of the Hatton Garden burglary, those “diamond wheezers”. (One of the many inequities in life is that crime reporters get bylines while the subeditors who come up with headlines like that remain anonymous.) As he passed sentence, the judge, Christopher Kinch, addressed the issue of whether the septuagenarian conspirators were, as they were often described, “analogue criminals in a digital age”. He had his doubts. “Far from stumbling into 21st-century crime as relics of a past era, the conspirators were clearly highly aware of the dangers of leaving traces that could lead to their identification,” he said. |
| If he had glanced to his right, the judge would have seen another group of recidivists who often feel like relics of a past era: crime reporters, most of whom would still say it is the best job in journalism, but who feel that the old certainties are disappearing in a world of tweets, budget cuts and 24-hour news. Like most, though, I’ve still got a nose for a story. So if that Jesus College fraudster from Perth prison is reading this, do get in touch. I promise to believe most of what you tell me. | If he had glanced to his right, the judge would have seen another group of recidivists who often feel like relics of a past era: crime reporters, most of whom would still say it is the best job in journalism, but who feel that the old certainties are disappearing in a world of tweets, budget cuts and 24-hour news. Like most, though, I’ve still got a nose for a story. So if that Jesus College fraudster from Perth prison is reading this, do get in touch. I promise to believe most of what you tell me. |
| • We’ll All Be Murdered In Our Beds! The Shocking History Of Crime Reporting In Britain, by Duncan Campbell, is published next week by Elliott & Thompson at £14.99. To order a copy for £11.99, go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call 0330 333 6846. | • We’ll All Be Murdered In Our Beds! The Shocking History Of Crime Reporting In Britain, by Duncan Campbell, is published next week by Elliott & Thompson at £14.99. To order a copy for £11.99, go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call 0330 333 6846. |