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Myra Hindley and David Astor: a complex relationship revealed in letters	Myra Hindley and David Astor: a complex relationship revealed in letters
2012-10-27 23:20:22 UTC	2013-04-09 02:56:37 UTC (5 months later)
She was Prisoner 965055, the tabloids' killer from hell. He was one of the most influential British newspaper editors of the late-20th century, champion of Nelson Mandela, liberal opponent of Suez and patron of the best and the brightest, from George Orwell and Arthur Koestler to Kenneth Tynan and Clive James. When Myra Hindley became the object of David Astor's philanthropic sympathy, the lives of the murderer and the journalist became strangely connected. It's a story, buried in Astor's private papers, that has never been reported.	She was Prisoner 965055, the tabloids' killer from hell. He was one of the most influential British newspaper editors of the late-20th century, champion of Nelson Mandela, liberal opponent of Suez and patron of the best and the brightest, from George Orwell and Arthur Koestler to Kenneth Tynan and Clive James. When Myra Hindley became the object of David Astor's philanthropic sympathy, the lives of the murderer and the journalist became strangely connected. It's a story, buried in Astor's private papers, that has never been reported.
The troubling relationship of a murderer, and the man who thought he could save her, began when Astor took up Hindley's cause in 1982. She had been in prison for more than 15 years. The facts of the case were still notorious. Pauline Reade, 16, disappeared from Gorton on 12 July 1963 on her way to a disco. Her throat was cut. In the same year, John Kilbride, 12, was abducted on 23 November in Ashton-under-Lyne. He was sexually assaulted, then strangled. In 1964, 12-year-old Keith Bennett vanished on 16 June, walking to his grandmother's house. He was also strangled. Next, on Boxing Day, Lesley Ann Downey, 10, was lured from a fairground, raped, tortured and strangled. Finally, on 6 October 1965, Edward Evans, 17, was beaten to death with an axe.	The troubling relationship of a murderer, and the man who thought he could save her, began when Astor took up Hindley's cause in 1982. She had been in prison for more than 15 years. The facts of the case were still notorious. Pauline Reade, 16, disappeared from Gorton on 12 July 1963 on her way to a disco. Her throat was cut. In the same year, John Kilbride, 12, was abducted on 23 November in Ashton-under-Lyne. He was sexually assaulted, then strangled. In 1964, 12-year-old Keith Bennett vanished on 16 June, walking to his grandmother's house. He was also strangled. Next, on Boxing Day, Lesley Ann Downey, 10, was lured from a fairground, raped, tortured and strangled. Finally, on 6 October 1965, Edward Evans, 17, was beaten to death with an axe.
All the bodies were buried on Saddleworth Moor, an unearthly wilderness just outside Manchester. Only Keith Bennett's remains have never been recovered. The killers, Ian Brady and Myra Hindley, escaped the gallows by a legal twist of fate. To the British tabloids, they were – and still are – the incarnation of evil.	All the bodies were buried on Saddleworth Moor, an unearthly wilderness just outside Manchester. Only Keith Bennett's remains have never been recovered. The killers, Ian Brady and Myra Hindley, escaped the gallows by a legal twist of fate. To the British tabloids, they were – and still are – the incarnation of evil.
Brady was a psychopathic autodidact. He studied the Marquis de Sade and the Nazis, and in 1959 became a stock clerk at Millwards, a chemical works, where he met the 17-year-old Myra Hindley who was working in the typing pool. In the words of a trial reporter: "She is a big girl with a striking face: fine straight nose, thinnish curved lips, rather hefty chin, blue eyes. Full face she is almost a beauty."	Brady was a psychopathic autodidact. He studied the Marquis de Sade and the Nazis, and in 1959 became a stock clerk at Millwards, a chemical works, where he met the 17-year-old Myra Hindley who was working in the typing pool. In the words of a trial reporter: "She is a big girl with a striking face: fine straight nose, thinnish curved lips, rather hefty chin, blue eyes. Full face she is almost a beauty."
In fact, from the day of her birth in 1942, Hindley's childhood in working-class Gorton was suffused in emotional distress. As a girl, Myra had suffered physical violence from her stepfather, a demobbed paratrooper. At 13, she witnessed the drowning of a boyfriend in a reservoir and found consolation in the Roman Catholic church. When Brady showed up at Millwards, it was love at first sight.	In fact, from the day of her birth in 1942, Hindley's childhood in working-class Gorton was suffused in emotional distress. As a girl, Myra had suffered physical violence from her stepfather, a demobbed paratrooper. At 13, she witnessed the drowning of a boyfriend in a reservoir and found consolation in the Roman Catholic church. When Brady showed up at Millwards, it was love at first sight.
Hindley's diary records her instant attraction. "Ian wore a black shirt and looked smashing..." she wrote. "He's a crude uncouth pig." Later, the tone softens: "I took Ian home; he was ever so gentle." As their association developed, Myra became tougher, posher and more flamboyant. She was secretive about the relationship which, mixed with sexual cruelty, was probably a mystery to her, too. There's no doubt she was besotted. In court, she said: "I loved him... I still love him." At their home on the Hattersley overspill estate, Brady and Hindley were a couple out of a horror comic. He would play records of Hitler's speeches or read aloud from Mein Kampf. She would dye her hair a brighter shade of Nordic blonde, or clean one of her revolvers (she hankered for a Luger).	Hindley's diary records her instant attraction. "Ian wore a black shirt and looked smashing..." she wrote. "He's a crude uncouth pig." Later, the tone softens: "I took Ian home; he was ever so gentle." As their association developed, Myra became tougher, posher and more flamboyant. She was secretive about the relationship which, mixed with sexual cruelty, was probably a mystery to her, too. There's no doubt she was besotted. In court, she said: "I loved him... I still love him." At their home on the Hattersley overspill estate, Brady and Hindley were a couple out of a horror comic. He would play records of Hitler's speeches or read aloud from Mein Kampf. She would dye her hair a brighter shade of Nordic blonde, or clean one of her revolvers (she hankered for a Luger).
At first, Hindley was only an accomplice to Brady's ambition to "commit the perfect murder". Eventually, the sadistic killing of kids became a macabre folie à deux, finally exposed when Hindley's brother-in-law went to the police. In the spring of 1966, when their trial opened at Chester Crown Court, the press fed off the public's horror. "Kinky" was just becoming a household word, and the Moors murders had everything: shallow graves, pornographic sex, the class struggle, sado-masochism, and Nazi fetishism.	At first, Hindley was only an accomplice to Brady's ambition to "commit the perfect murder". Eventually, the sadistic killing of kids became a macabre folie à deux, finally exposed when Hindley's brother-in-law went to the police. In the spring of 1966, when their trial opened at Chester Crown Court, the press fed off the public's horror. "Kinky" was just becoming a household word, and the Moors murders had everything: shallow graves, pornographic sex, the class struggle, sado-masochism, and Nazi fetishism.
In the box was a woman whose naturally brown hair "has been changing colour", in the words of the Observer, "from week to week. First silver lilac, then bright canary blonde. At a glance, she looks as smartly turned out as a duchess, but when you look closer you see at once that this is mass-produced supermarket chic; there is an ambience of bubble gum and candyfloss." Her voice – this was especially compelling – was low, and husky, with a flat, north Midlands accent.	In the box was a woman whose naturally brown hair "has been changing colour", in the words of the Observer, "from week to week. First silver lilac, then bright canary blonde. At a glance, she looks as smartly turned out as a duchess, but when you look closer you see at once that this is mass-produced supermarket chic; there is an ambience of bubble gum and candyfloss." Her voice – this was especially compelling – was low, and husky, with a flat, north Midlands accent.
The weekend after the 14-day trial concluded with five concurrent life sentences – the abolition of the death penalty had become law while the prosecution was being prepared – the headline on the front of the Observer Review, on 8 May 1966, asked: "What is one to make of the Moors murders?"	The weekend after the 14-day trial concluded with five concurrent life sentences – the abolition of the death penalty had become law while the prosecution was being prepared – the headline on the front of the Observer Review, on 8 May 1966, asked: "What is one to make of the Moors murders?"
It's the question that never ceased to reverberate through the final decades of the 20th century, and haunted David Astor, a man obsessed with the possibility of redemptive transformations. Hindley is dead, but Brady, now 74, lives on, force-fed in Ashworth psychiatric hospital, a skeletal monster of rage and paranoia. Keith Bennett's mother, Winnie, died in August, never knowing the whereabouts of her son's body, and clinging to the hope that he might, after all, be still alive. The media feeding frenzy surrounding the suggestion – later retracted – that Brady had written to the dying Winnie with the location of her son's grave, illustrates how, even in 2012, this case remains a force-field of evil.	It's the question that never ceased to reverberate through the final decades of the 20th century, and haunted David Astor, a man obsessed with the possibility of redemptive transformations. Hindley is dead, but Brady, now 74, lives on, force-fed in Ashworth psychiatric hospital, a skeletal monster of rage and paranoia. Keith Bennett's mother, Winnie, died in August, never knowing the whereabouts of her son's body, and clinging to the hope that he might, after all, be still alive. The media feeding frenzy surrounding the suggestion – later retracted – that Brady had written to the dying Winnie with the location of her son's grave, illustrates how, even in 2012, this case remains a force-field of evil.
One poignant testament to the ineradicable legacy of the Moors murders lies buried in the Observer's archives. Five boxes of letters and cuttings, the private papers of the editor David Astor, paint a pathetic and sometimes disturbing portrait of the prison life of Hindley, who died 10 years ago this month. Her relationship with Astor, and her doomed attempts to escape her fate as "a witch", provide a strange, dark coda to a life lived in hell.	One poignant testament to the ineradicable legacy of the Moors murders lies buried in the Observer's archives. Five boxes of letters and cuttings, the private papers of the editor David Astor, paint a pathetic and sometimes disturbing portrait of the prison life of Hindley, who died 10 years ago this month. Her relationship with Astor, and her doomed attempts to escape her fate as "a witch", provide a strange, dark coda to a life lived in hell.
From Gladstone on, liberal Britain has had a penchant for taking quixotic stands against intractable expressions of evil in the human condition, even at the risk of ridicule. David Astor, who was editor of the Observer in 1966, was sympathetic to everything represented by Hindley's fate. As a young man, he'd had analysis with Anna Freud and remained in search of existential meaning.	From Gladstone on, liberal Britain has had a penchant for taking quixotic stands against intractable expressions of evil in the human condition, even at the risk of ridicule. David Astor, who was editor of the Observer in 1966, was sympathetic to everything represented by Hindley's fate. As a young man, he'd had analysis with Anna Freud and remained in search of existential meaning.
Astor wanted the Observer to be the paper of psychological understanding. Under his editorship, the newspaper quested for "sense and reason" in a world ruled by insanity, and he was always attracted to apparently insoluble cases. He had campaigned for years to secure the release of Nelson Mandela; the reports he commissioned from Anthony Sampson from the Rivonia trial are credited by many in the ANC as saving Mandela from the gallows.	Astor wanted the Observer to be the paper of psychological understanding. Under his editorship, the newspaper quested for "sense and reason" in a world ruled by insanity, and he was always attracted to apparently insoluble cases. He had campaigned for years to secure the release of Nelson Mandela; the reports he commissioned from Anthony Sampson from the Rivonia trial are credited by many in the ANC as saving Mandela from the gallows.
Astor was a NATURAL contrarian, a born journalist and an instinctive liberal campaigner. The Hindley case braided together all his deepest interests. "What is one to make of the Moors murders?" No one will ever know if Astor wrote that headline. But it was strangely prophetic. On and off, Astor would devote the last two decades of his life to Myra Hindley's redemption. Through his friendship with Arthur Koestler, he was already interested in prison reform. Hindley exercised a unique fascination for a man like Astor.	Astor was a NATURAL contrarian, a born journalist and an instinctive liberal campaigner. The Hindley case braided together all his deepest interests. "What is one to make of the Moors murders?" No one will ever know if Astor wrote that headline. But it was strangely prophetic. On and off, Astor would devote the last two decades of his life to Myra Hindley's redemption. Through his friendship with Arthur Koestler, he was already interested in prison reform. Hindley exercised a unique fascination for a man like Astor.
At her sentencing, the judge had set no limit to her life sentence. Hindley, who would never be released, was told she would not be eligible for parole until she had spent 25 years inside, a tariff that was increased to 30 years in 1985 by the then home secretary, Leon Brittan. With the passage of time, it became clear that she was not being treated like other lifers, and had become a "political" case. Like many prominent members of the establishment, Astor believed her treatment was unfair, unjust and a violation of her human rights.	At her sentencing, the judge had set no limit to her life sentence. Hindley, who would never be released, was told she would not be eligible for parole until she had spent 25 years inside, a tariff that was increased to 30 years in 1985 by the then home secretary, Leon Brittan. With the passage of time, it became clear that she was not being treated like other lifers, and had become a "political" case. Like many prominent members of the establishment, Astor believed her treatment was unfair, unjust and a violation of her human rights.
From the best of intentions, he would test his admirers to the limit with his devotion to this cause. Astor's relationship with Hindley remains an unsettling sub-plot to the case, motivated by dreams of redemption and salvation. It was an attraction of opposites. Astor encountered Hindley across a chasm of class, inheritance and fortune. Blessed with luxury, comfort and privilege, he had been brought up at Cliveden in the shadow of his mother, Nancy Astor, a dominant, unconventional and pioneering woman.	From the best of intentions, he would test his admirers to the limit with his devotion to this cause. Astor's relationship with Hindley remains an unsettling sub-plot to the case, motivated by dreams of redemption and salvation. It was an attraction of opposites. Astor encountered Hindley across a chasm of class, inheritance and fortune. Blessed with luxury, comfort and privilege, he had been brought up at Cliveden in the shadow of his mother, Nancy Astor, a dominant, unconventional and pioneering woman.
For her part, Hindley's conviction at Chester in 1966 was simply the grim climax to a blighted life. Her role as Ian Brady's accomplice had transformed her into an object of supreme fascination, especially once it became clear that she was intelligent, and vulnerable to remorse and the idea of redemption through the renewal of her Roman Catholic faith. Hindley's capacity for enthralling her supporters remains a disturbing theme in her correspondence with Astor.	For her part, Hindley's conviction at Chester in 1966 was simply the grim climax to a blighted life. Her role as Ian Brady's accomplice had transformed her into an object of supreme fascination, especially once it became clear that she was intelligent, and vulnerable to remorse and the idea of redemption through the renewal of her Roman Catholic faith. Hindley's capacity for enthralling her supporters remains a disturbing theme in her correspondence with Astor.
The eminent QC Helena Kennedy, now a scion of the progressive establishment, was a young defence lawyer when she represented Hindley in court. She retains a vivid memory of the smartly dressed, dark-haired woman who could have been "an English literature teacher in a good secondary school. Hindley loved to read, and loved Middlemarch," Kennedy remembers. "People say she was 'manipulative', but to me she was a survivor in a grim situation. She always had a strong sense of the horror of what she had done."	The eminent QC Helena Kennedy, now a scion of the progressive establishment, was a young defence lawyer when she represented Hindley in court. She retains a vivid memory of the smartly dressed, dark-haired woman who could have been "an English literature teacher in a good secondary school. Hindley loved to read, and loved Middlemarch," Kennedy remembers. "People say she was 'manipulative', but to me she was a survivor in a grim situation. She always had a strong sense of the horror of what she had done."
For more than a decade after her conviction, Hindley's chief supporter had been Lord Longford. The other important figure was her "confessor", Peter Timms, a prison governor turned priest, who considers her prison treatment "a scar on the judicial system". If public opinion was partly to blame for this, Hindley's case was certainly not helped by Longford, who was prone to unfortunate public utterances. Hindley, said Longford, was "a delightful person", adding that "you could loathe what people did, but should not loathe what they were, because human personality was sacred, even though human behaviour was very often appalling".	For more than a decade after her conviction, Hindley's chief supporter had been Lord Longford. The other important figure was her "confessor", Peter Timms, a prison governor turned priest, who considers her prison treatment "a scar on the judicial system". If public opinion was partly to blame for this, Hindley's case was certainly not helped by Longford, who was prone to unfortunate public utterances. Hindley, said Longford, was "a delightful person", adding that "you could loathe what people did, but should not loathe what they were, because human personality was sacred, even though human behaviour was very often appalling".
Longford and Astor had known each other since Oxford. Their paths had often crossed in the beaten ways of liberal postwar Britain, and they shared an interest in prison reform. Astor was agnostic, verging on atheist, Longford a devout Roman Catholic. Both were fascinated by the idea of redemption.	Longford and Astor had known each other since Oxford. Their paths had often crossed in the beaten ways of liberal postwar Britain, and they shared an interest in prison reform. Astor was agnostic, verging on atheist, Longford a devout Roman Catholic. Both were fascinated by the idea of redemption.
Here, in Myra Hindley, was apparently a perfect case study: a fallen woman who had embarked on a personal journey of spiritual and psychological salvation. Early in the 1980s, dismayed by the adverse publicity Longford was getting, Astor stepped in. He was an intensely shy, soft-spoken, man, but capable of decisive, occasionally ruthless, action.	Here, in Myra Hindley, was apparently a perfect case study: a fallen woman who had embarked on a personal journey of spiritual and psychological salvation. Early in the 1980s, dismayed by the adverse publicity Longford was getting, Astor stepped in. He was an intensely shy, soft-spoken, man, but capable of decisive, occasionally ruthless, action.
Now, according to his widow Bridget, "David said to Frank [Longford]: 'If you shut up, I'd like to take this on.' He thought that Frank wasn't doing her any good, because he was making the campaign too public. Frank was always interested in publicity in a way that David really wasn't."	Now, according to his widow Bridget, "David said to Frank [Longford]: 'If you shut up, I'd like to take this on.' He thought that Frank wasn't doing her any good, because he was making the campaign too public. Frank was always interested in publicity in a way that David really wasn't."
Astor began to correspond with prisoner 965055. Hindley, replying to "Dear Mr Astor", seemed to open her heart. "If the road to hell is paved with good intentions," she wrote in November 1985, "I have a very long, well-paved private road." She begged her new correspondent to "please excuse the somewhat stilted and ungrammatical tone of this letter" and closed with a little dig. "Lord Longford, bless him, means well, but the media use and abuse him."	Astor began to correspond with prisoner 965055. Hindley, replying to "Dear Mr Astor", seemed to open her heart. "If the road to hell is paved with good intentions," she wrote in November 1985, "I have a very long, well-paved private road." She begged her new correspondent to "please excuse the somewhat stilted and ungrammatical tone of this letter" and closed with a little dig. "Lord Longford, bless him, means well, but the media use and abuse him."
Astor was hooked. His public journalistic and his private, philanthropic impulses became hopelessly blurred. After their first exchange, he wrote that, "Incidentally, you write very well. Have you begun writing your thoughts? I think you should, if only to exercise the gift you've got." That could have been a journalist looking for a scoop, but at the same time, in a letter to the reporter Maureen Cleave, proposing an interview with Hindley, he described her, with feeling, as "a surprise, chiefly because of her apparent normality and lack of hang-ups. But she's not ordinary: one feels she's come through some incredible experience and is the nobler for it."	Astor was hooked. His public journalistic and his private, philanthropic impulses became hopelessly blurred. After their first exchange, he wrote that, "Incidentally, you write very well. Have you begun writing your thoughts? I think you should, if only to exercise the gift you've got." That could have been a journalist looking for a scoop, but at the same time, in a letter to the reporter Maureen Cleave, proposing an interview with Hindley, he described her, with feeling, as "a surprise, chiefly because of her apparent normality and lack of hang-ups. But she's not ordinary: one feels she's come through some incredible experience and is the nobler for it."
Astor embarked on a programme of prison visits, took up the parole question and offered media advice. Unsurprisingly, he, who believed in the unconscious guilt of the community, began to evolve a theory about the extremes of public hatred towards Hindley. As he put it in one letter: "The public associates you with something they are frightened of in themselves… violence towards children is much more prevalent than people generally like to admit."	Astor embarked on a programme of prison visits, took up the parole question and offered media advice. Unsurprisingly, he, who believed in the unconscious guilt of the community, began to evolve a theory about the extremes of public hatred towards Hindley. As he put it in one letter: "The public associates you with something they are frightened of in themselves… violence towards children is much more prevalent than people generally like to admit."
Soon after this correspondence began, there was a new crisis. Towards the end of 1986, the past returned with a vengeance, as it periodically did throughout Hindley's long incarceration. She received "a heartbreaking letter" from Winnie Johnson, the mother of Keith Bennett, who wrote that "not knowing whether my son is alive or dead is literally a living hell... I am on bended knee begging you to end this torture and finally put my mind at rest." Hindley replied that she could provide no comfort, not knowing where Brady had buried the body. She consulted Astor about how to handle the press backlash.	Soon after this correspondence began, there was a new crisis. Towards the end of 1986, the past returned with a vengeance, as it periodically did throughout Hindley's long incarceration. She received "a heartbreaking letter" from Winnie Johnson, the mother of Keith Bennett, who wrote that "not knowing whether my son is alive or dead is literally a living hell... I am on bended knee begging you to end this torture and finally put my mind at rest." Hindley replied that she could provide no comfort, not knowing where Brady had buried the body. She consulted Astor about how to handle the press backlash.
Astor, to encourage her, replied that, "The way you run your life under your circumstances is an extraordinary achievement... a remarkable moral and intellectual feat. I won't say spiritual, because I don't know what that means." Again, he encouraged her to write her autobiography, a project that occupied their correspondence over two decades.	Astor, to encourage her, replied that, "The way you run your life under your circumstances is an extraordinary achievement... a remarkable moral and intellectual feat. I won't say spiritual, because I don't know what that means." Again, he encouraged her to write her autobiography, a project that occupied their correspondence over two decades.
In 1988, addressing the complexities of this project, Astor wrote, "This book should be the story of your personal pilgrimage or odyssey. In the course of writing your own testament, you should incidentally answer all the questions in the public's mind, but only incidentally, not as your main theme. That theme I feel should be your innocence, your fall and your redemption…" Various literary advisers, including Elizabeth Longford and a reluctant Diana Athill, were mobilised to help shape the manuscript.	In 1988, addressing the complexities of this project, Astor wrote, "This book should be the story of your personal pilgrimage or odyssey. In the course of writing your own testament, you should incidentally answer all the questions in the public's mind, but only incidentally, not as your main theme. That theme I feel should be your innocence, your fall and your redemption…" Various literary advisers, including Elizabeth Longford and a reluctant Diana Athill, were mobilised to help shape the manuscript.
Hindley responded by submitting hundreds of pages of childhood memories – almost a million words – but never confronting the unbearable reality of the killings. In some frustration, Astor wrote to Timms that it was "impossible for [Hindley] to write about the serious troubles in her life, beginning with her meeting with Brady. Her long account of the minutiae of a Lancashire girls's everyday life makes very wearisome reading. If it was offered as a book, it would be a disaster."	Hindley responded by submitting hundreds of pages of childhood memories – almost a million words – but never confronting the unbearable reality of the killings. In some frustration, Astor wrote to Timms that it was "impossible for [Hindley] to write about the serious troubles in her life, beginning with her meeting with Brady. Her long account of the minutiae of a Lancashire girls's everyday life makes very wearisome reading. If it was offered as a book, it would be a disaster."
This was a moment of clarity. Often Astor's promotion of Hindley's rehabilitation was fiercely rebuffed behind the scenes. When he tried to place the sale of Hindley's life story with literary agent Michael Sissons, his five-page proposal was returned with Sissons's obvious repugnance. Arnold Goodman, a political advisor and establishment fixer of the 1980s, wrote to Astor that the Hindley campaign was "one of the rare instances where I do not feel totally enthusiastic about one of your causes".	This was a moment of clarity. Often Astor's promotion of Hindley's rehabilitation was fiercely rebuffed behind the scenes. When he tried to place the sale of Hindley's life story with literary agent Michael Sissons, his five-page proposal was returned with Sissons's obvious repugnance. Arnold Goodman, a political advisor and establishment fixer of the 1980s, wrote to Astor that the Hindley campaign was "one of the rare instances where I do not feel totally enthusiastic about one of your causes".
The relationship with Hindley took on a ritualistic quality, through the cycle of Astor's prison visits. In 1990, reflecting on this routine, he wrote that, "When we come to visit you, we make a day of it, first assembling in Peter's [Timms'] house in Dulwich for coffee, then motoring down through the familiar landscape of north Kent, and finally stopping for a quick snack in a transport café. It makes a sort of break from the week in London and I think we all enjoy the ride itself. I feel we are weaving such a close web of friendship with you that our visits have gradually taken on a family atmosphere. I hope you feel the same."	The relationship with Hindley took on a ritualistic quality, through the cycle of Astor's prison visits. In 1990, reflecting on this routine, he wrote that, "When we come to visit you, we make a day of it, first assembling in Peter's [Timms'] house in Dulwich for coffee, then motoring down through the familiar landscape of north Kent, and finally stopping for a quick snack in a transport café. It makes a sort of break from the week in London and I think we all enjoy the ride itself. I feel we are weaving such a close web of friendship with you that our visits have gradually taken on a family atmosphere. I hope you feel the same."
The longer Hindley remained in prison, passing 30 years of her sentence in 1996, the more Astor's involvement in her plight blossomed into a real friendship. Hindley also met Astor's wife, Bridget. Mrs Astor has vivid memories of Hindley's life as a long-term prisoner.	The longer Hindley remained in prison, passing 30 years of her sentence in 1996, the more Astor's involvement in her plight blossomed into a real friendship. Hindley also met Astor's wife, Bridget. Mrs Astor has vivid memories of Hindley's life as a long-term prisoner.
"It was not like visiting someone in prison," she remembers. "Myra had huge dignity. She was very impressive. She also had a very good sense of humour. There was nothing creepy about Myra. She was very matter-of-fact. She knew her crimes were terrible and she didn't pretend otherwise." Peter Timms recalls an articulate, chain-smoking woman who wept freely at her predicament and was open about the struggles of her early life. Within Cookham Wood (and later Highpoint prison, near Newmarket), Hindley was an object of fascination, a response she attempted to defuse with her "normality". She remained, however, a powerful and highly intelligent character who could bend the prison's organisation to her will.	"It was not like visiting someone in prison," she remembers. "Myra had huge dignity. She was very impressive. She also had a very good sense of humour. There was nothing creepy about Myra. She was very matter-of-fact. She knew her crimes were terrible and she didn't pretend otherwise." Peter Timms recalls an articulate, chain-smoking woman who wept freely at her predicament and was open about the struggles of her early life. Within Cookham Wood (and later Highpoint prison, near Newmarket), Hindley was an object of fascination, a response she attempted to defuse with her "normality". She remained, however, a powerful and highly intelligent character who could bend the prison's organisation to her will.
She came to learn that her every move was tabloid fodder. Fleet Street was a jungle in which "the story", true or false, a cocktail of blind quotes and unsourced gossip, was everything. Innocuous-seeming correspondence invariably turned out to have been arranged by the Daily Mirror or the Sun.	She came to learn that her every move was tabloid fodder. Fleet Street was a jungle in which "the story", true or false, a cocktail of blind quotes and unsourced gossip, was everything. Innocuous-seeming correspondence invariably turned out to have been arranged by the Daily Mirror or the Sun.
In her cell, Hindley developed a routine of studied normality, circumscribed by her limited interaction with the other inmates, meetings with famous visitors, establishment liberals such as Merlyn Rees, Ludovic Kennedy and Cardinal Hume, and occasional visits from her family. She listened to Radio 4 (Book at Bedtime, Kaleidoscope), read improving books and did the crossword. It was, she wrote, "a strange kind of paralysis".	In her cell, Hindley developed a routine of studied normality, circumscribed by her limited interaction with the other inmates, meetings with famous visitors, establishment liberals such as Merlyn Rees, Ludovic Kennedy and Cardinal Hume, and occasional visits from her family. She listened to Radio 4 (Book at Bedtime, Kaleidoscope), read improving books and did the crossword. It was, she wrote, "a strange kind of paralysis".
Hindley also found consolation in a succession of prison relationships. Bridget Astor insists that Hindley was "not a lesbian", and Helena Kennedy agrees. Both women say that Hindley's relations with prison officers was a uniquely female kind of attachment, and a substitute for the love of men. In 1991, the woman Hindley called "the love of my life", Trisha Forrester, also became the object of Astor's patronage, bringing an awkward dimension to a complicated relationship. For a while Trisha and her collie Jacob occupied the top-floor flat in the Astor's London home.	Hindley also found consolation in a succession of prison relationships. Bridget Astor insists that Hindley was "not a lesbian", and Helena Kennedy agrees. Both women say that Hindley's relations with prison officers was a uniquely female kind of attachment, and a substitute for the love of men. In 1991, the woman Hindley called "the love of my life", Trisha Forrester, also became the object of Astor's patronage, bringing an awkward dimension to a complicated relationship. For a while Trisha and her collie Jacob occupied the top-floor flat in the Astor's London home.
Astor's support for Hindley had many facets. There was his interest in her education, her Open University degree, her reading and writing. Once Bridget had been introduced, the Astors sent clothes and make-up. From time to time there was speculation about Hindley getting a new identity and moving abroad, possibly to France, Australia or Vancouver. (Today, the relocation of lifers on parole and the adoption of new identities is commonplace.)	Astor's support for Hindley had many facets. There was his interest in her education, her Open University degree, her reading and writing. Once Bridget had been introduced, the Astors sent clothes and make-up. From time to time there was speculation about Hindley getting a new identity and moving abroad, possibly to France, Australia or Vancouver. (Today, the relocation of lifers on parole and the adoption of new identities is commonplace.)
The interminable discussions about the campaign to secure Hindley's freedom were always wrecked on an immovable obstacle: successive Labour and Conservative home secretaries' refusal to risk the wrath of Middle England and recommend parole. Astor himself never lost hope in her ultimate redemption. "As you know," he wrote in December 1989, "the more you show yourself to be both normal and intelligent, the more people will want to know how anyone like that could have lived on [another] level. Until you can somehow find a convincing way of describing that, people will be puzzled and confused." Sometimes, the campaigning journalist became prey to embarrassing hyperbole, at one moment going so far as to compare her spiritual development to that of Mandela's.	The interminable discussions about the campaign to secure Hindley's freedom were always wrecked on an immovable obstacle: successive Labour and Conservative home secretaries' refusal to risk the wrath of Middle England and recommend parole. Astor himself never lost hope in her ultimate redemption. "As you know," he wrote in December 1989, "the more you show yourself to be both normal and intelligent, the more people will want to know how anyone like that could have lived on [another] level. Until you can somehow find a convincing way of describing that, people will be puzzled and confused." Sometimes, the campaigning journalist became prey to embarrassing hyperbole, at one moment going so far as to compare her spiritual development to that of Mandela's.