One of Your Own (24 page)

Seven skyscrapers reared above the red-brick council houses. At night their stairwells were lit, creating ‘tall pencils of light’.
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The static sizzle of the electricity pylons crackled over the neighbourhood, whose streets bore old-fashioned names: Sundial Close, Pudding Lane, Fields Farm Walk. Among the new houses stood Sundial Cottage, a low stone building with tiny windows and a lintel engraved ‘1697’, inhabited by two elderly sisters who kept chickens and goats, and sold eggs and milk to their new neighbours. The roads through the estate were unfinished when the first residents arrived, so workmen had to lay down planks of wood so that mothers could wheel prams safely across the churned-up ground. Since there were no facilities, at different times during the week grocery vans and mobile chippies trundled about the estate, stopping with a ‘pip-pip’ to let residents know they were there, and housewives would appear, clutching their purses. The milkman delivered medicines together with the milk for those who couldn’t reach the surgery in Hyde, and offered lifts to people on the back of his float. Buses were crowded with people whose jobs were in the city centre; Hattersley Road West was known by the drivers as ‘Debtors’ Retreat’.

Many residents were happy with the move from Gorton: fresh air, gardens and inside bathrooms were a welcome novelty, and the houses felt palatial in comparison to the poky terraces they had left behind. Inside 16 Wardle Brook Avenue was a small entrance hall with stairs to the left, and a kitchen and sitting room. There were windows at either end of the sitting room and a modern fireplace, and a serving hatch through to the kitchen with its smooth Formica worktops. Upstairs were a double bedroom and a single bedroom, and a bathroom with plumbed-in bath, basin and toilet.

Myra was eager to furnish the house with new belongings. Together with her friend May Hill, whose family were living directly behind them at 2 Wardle Brook Walk, she visited Ashton-under-Lyne for a pair of fireside chairs, curtains and rugs. Ian fitted lino under the rugs in the sitting room and slept most nights on the red bed-settee there. Myra placed a vase of plastic chrysanthemums on the sideboard under the back window, a magazine rack under the telly, a mirror above the fireplace and horse-and-foal figurines on the mantelpiece. She hung a couple of lithographs of dogs on the distempered cream walls, added a pair of coffee tables to complete the furnishings, and stood Gran’s budgie Joey’s cage next to the front window. In the hallway, she and Ian installed a cigarette-vending machine. Every Sunday a man would pop round to empty the half-crowns from the machine and refill it to its 20-packet capacity. Myra smoked 40 Embassy Tipped a day, while Ian favoured Disque Bleu or, when he was feeling flush, good-quality cigars. Throughout the rest of the house, boldly patterned curtains hung at the windows and the floors were fitted with lino. Myra’s bedroom was spartan because she shared the sofa bed with Ian almost every night. He eventually fitted a lock on the door to her room, where she kept more than just her clothes in the wardrobe. The ‘souvenirs’ of their crimes were hidden there, along with the guns.

Each weekday morning at twenty past eight, Myra would set off in the car for work. She left it outside a house near Millwards, but the elderly resident asked if she would mind parking elsewhere; the woman explained that she was virtually housebound due to arthritis and liked to sit in the window to look at the view. Myra released a tirade of abuse, telling her that she was nothing but ‘an interfering old busybody’, and refused to move the car.
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Shortly afterwards, a policeman appeared at Millwards, asking for Miss Myra Hindley. When he explained that he had come to see her on behalf of the elderly lady and would be obliged if she could find somewhere else to park her car, Myra relented immediately, doubtlessly thankful that the car was the only matter he wished to discuss.

Together, she and Ian earned approximately £24 a week and from that, they paid rent, fuel bills, ran the car and motorbike, and paid for various items on the never-never. Myra ran into arrears on her purchases from a catalogue and was stretched to her financial limit, but she and Ian somehow managed to find money for trips away and funded a drinking habit that was more expensive than most: wine, gin and whisky. Myra often ran out of cigarettes, despite the vending machine at home, and would cross to the New Inn for supplies, where one of the bar staff recalls: ‘She was very ladylike and never drank. She would just say “Twenty Embassy Tipped, please” in a posh voice. She didn’t sound like she came from Manchester.’
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Most of the neighbours in Hattersley were former Gorton residents like Myra, but she was selective about the people to whom she spoke, and both she and Ian were known as a quiet couple. Kitty Roden, whose husband Tom was distantly related to Myra through marriage, lived on Wardle Brook Walk behind Gran’s house but rarely got a word out of Myra. The Rodens’ neighbours, May Hill and her family, were friendly with both Myra and Gran. Mrs Hill, who had always liked the singalongs and a bitter lemon at the Bessemer pub in Gorton, was blind; Gran often had a cup of tea with the family and she placed a bet for Mrs Hill every day at the New Inn. Neither Gran nor Myra liked Mr and Mrs Fryer, their neighbours at the end of the terrace. Gran would refer to Mrs Fryer as ‘the queer one’ and Myra never spoke to the couple.
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Their immediate neighbours at number 14 were well-to-do, gracious, friendly and – to Ian and Myra’s dismay – black. Phoenix Braithwaite had been a painter in Jamaica; in Manchester, he found work at an engineering firm. He was married to Tessa and they had three affable children under the age of five: Donna, Carol and Barry. Phoenix recalled that Myra and Ian ‘didn’t try to get on or make friends’.
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He and his family would occasionally elicit a nod from the surly pair, but Myra dismissed the whole family as ‘filth’.
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The Mastertons at 12 Wardle Brook Avenue fared better with the couple. Chatty forty-three-year-old Elsie from Gorton was on her third marriage and had six children, ranging in age from eighteen-year-old James to three-year-old Peter. It was Elsie’s 11-year-old daughter Patty (who had her father’s surname, Hodges) who made the initial approach a few weeks after moving in, when she called at number 16 to ask if her mother happened to be there.
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Patty responded delightedly to Puppet and Lassie frolicking about her ankles, and Myra invited her in, though Elsie was elsewhere. She asked Patty if she’d like a ride in the car because she was due to collect Ian from his mother’s house in Longsight. Patty readily agreed: ‘I went with her in a little minivan. We both stayed in the car after it had stopped, and eventually Ian joined us. Myra said she didn’t go into his house because his mother kept her talking.’
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Unaware of Myra’s white lie, Ian was as pleasant to Patty as Myra had been and the three of them struck up a friendship. The Mastertons didn’t have a television set, and Patty was thrilled to be allowed to watch whatever she liked with Gran, Myra and Ian, who were the only people to call her ‘Pat’.

The two households often visited each other. Patty’s brother James owned a motorbike and quizzed Ian about his Tiger Cub. Elsie told her husband that Ian and Myra were married, knowing that he would have ‘put his foot down’ about socialising with them otherwise; she speculated to herself that Ian might be already married and waiting for his divorce. She was flummoxed when Myra refused to try on a dress her daughter Edwina had made for her in front of Ian, and invited her to number 12 instead, where the dress – tightly fitted to Myra’s statistics of bust 38, waist 26, hips 42 – proved a hit with its wearer, who had a husky, low-pitched laugh: ‘She never laughed in a happy sort of way,’ Elsie recalled.
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In return for Myra encouraging Patty to show an interest in reading at the Central Library (where Patty took out books for Myra on her ticket), Elsie kept an eye on Gran while she was at work and regularly picked up her prescription for Nembutal. Gran was an outpatient at Ashton Hospital, where she had check-ups for insomnia and heart murmurs, and was given regular iron injections.

‘I thought [Myra] was a smashing girl,’ Elsie later told a BBC interviewer. ‘A bit hard, but any promises she made she always kept. She was a very accurate sort of person . . . I knew her pretty well from last September because I used to see quite a lot of her at night, owing to my daughter being very friendly with her, and she was very good to the other children . . . She was the type I could have imagined forging anything or something but never to do any harm to children because I thought a person who loved animals as much as she did would be incapable of that. And she made such a fuss of children.’
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Patty wasn’t the only child Myra and Ian befriended upon their move to Hattersley: they took two of Elsie’s younger children out for rides in the car and went shopping with them, and were friendly with ten-year-old Carol Waterhouse and her brother David, who lived nearby. Carol called on Myra at her mother’s request to ask to borrow an onion and, like Patty, she got talking to her. Together with her brother David, she would clean Myra’s car in return for a little money, and when Ian suggested a trip to Saddleworth, Carol and David leapt at the opportunity. Ian kept his sunglasses on as they walked across the moor to a stream, crossing it on stepping stones down to a small waterfall, where he took photographs of the two children.

Although they took Carol and David to the moor a couple of times, their most frequent companion by far was Patty, who initially accompanied them on Myra’s invitation. In her statement at the trial, Patty recalled: ‘When we got there on the first occasion, we just sat in the van; it was light and we just sat there talking. We went up on the moors about once or twice a week. They took wine with them nearly every time. We went to the same spot except for a couple of times when we went further down the road. There were occasions when they brought soil back from the moors. They put the soil on the back garden. This happened ten times, sometimes in the day and sometimes at night. I had some of the wine. It was given to me sometimes by Myra and sometimes by Brady . . . I would have about four glasses of wine on a visit to the house. On two occasions I went for walks on the moors with Ian and Myra. Both times we started off from the same place . . .’
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The place was Hollin Brown Knoll, where they would sometimes picnic, and during one of their walks across the heather on a sunny day, Ian encouraged Patty: ‘If you’re thirsty, have a drink from that brook – nice pure water.’
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The girl did as he suggested, not knowing that the brook flowed next to John Kilbride’s grave.

After their arrest, Ian and Myra never spoke of the incomprehensible dichotomy between the murders and their behaviour towards their neighbours’ children and Ian’s foster nephews – of whom he was very fond, often hiding money in their bedrooms as a treat for them. In his book, Ian writes in a preposterously self-inclusive passage that ‘most normal adults find the company of the young a refreshing change from the far too serious adult world. It invigorates and reminds one of happier golden days. We draw raw energy, spiritual stimulation and delight from the relative innocence and spontaneity of the young.’
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But the neighbourhood children were probably taken to the moor for the particular purpose of having them unknowingly tread on the graves.

Following the move to Hattersley, Myra retained her close relationship with Maureen, and often went shopping or to the pub with her mother Nellie. Once a fortnight, she took Gran to spend the day with Jim, Gran’s son, at his home on Combermere Street in Dukinfield. Gran, however, was increasingly unhappy in the house on Wardle Brook Avenue; at the end of September, she told Elsie that Myra hadn’t said a civil word to her in months and that she would rather be in an old people’s home than living with her granddaughter. She confided that Myra had told her not to expect rent when she was on holiday for a week that month. Elsie told her to stand up to Myra, reminding her that she was the tenant and her granddaughter and boyfriend were the lodgers, to which Gran replied, ‘Don’t tell Myra!’
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In October, Maureen gave birth to a girl, whom she and Dave named Angela Dawn. They were both ecstatic at becoming parents, and Dave was a devoted father, happy to feed and change his daughter, play with her and take her out in her pram through Gorton’s semi-demolished streets. Jim was pleasantly surprised by the display of his niece’s husband’s softer side and told everyone in the family that Dave was ‘wonderful’ with the baby.
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That same month, at Manchester Juvenile Court, Dave was bound over to be of good behaviour for twelve months after being convicted of two cases of common assault, for which he was fined £3 each. Myra and Ian seemed less interested in the baby than in the litter of puppies Dave’s dog Peggy had in October. Myra gave one, a six-week old pup named Duke II in honour of her childhood pet, to Patty.

John Kilbride had been missing for one year on 23 November 1964. Newspapers and television appeals requested that anyone with information of his whereabouts should come forward. Leading the renewed investigation was Ashton-under-Lyne’s new CID chief, Detective Chief Inspector Joseph Mounsey.

Mounsey was one of two policemen who altered the course of the Moors case by refusing to budge when other senior detectives wanted to scale down the inquiry. He had followed his father into the police force after he was demobbed in 1947, spending a few years as a uniformed bobby on the beat in Morecambe, where he idled away his time ‘admiring myself in Burton’s window’.
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A year after his marriage in Cyprus to former policewoman Margaret Barrett, the couple left the island – where he had been involved in the hunt for terrorists – and returned to Lancashire. He was promoted to Detective Chief Inspector in 1964, settling at Ashton-under-Lyne, where he described himself as ‘a typical copper with size ten boots’.
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