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Myra Hindley was known as the moors murderer and child killer.
On a freezing cold October morning, just after 6.00am, 17 year old David Smith, accompanied by his girlfriend, made his way to a red, public telephone box. Smith had just witnessed one of the most cold blooded, notorious killings imaginable.
While Smith dialled 999 with trembling fingers, a hammer in the other hand for protection, his girlfriend nervously kept watch outside the phone box armed with a screwdriver. Within an hour, the mist cloaked, empty streets of a sixties Manchester housing estate would surrender their evil secrets and go down in infamy.
Unbeknown to Smith at the time, the bodies of several innocent children would also be discovered in lonely graves, on a barren, windswept moor. The moors murderers, Ian Brady and Myra Hindley were about to be unmasked, and their callous, premeditated crimes brought out in to the open.
Late the previous night, Ian Brady had gone and collected David Smith from Myra Hindley's sister's home and taken him to 16 Walder Brook Avenue. Once inside, Smith found another teenager, Edward Evans, waiting. As David Smith slumped in an armchair opposite, Brady edged his way in to position behind Evans, drew an axe, and then ruthless battered Evans to death. Brady hoped, by letting Smith witness his calculating act of homicide, he too would be brought in to the wicked world of blood lust and murder.
Although, at the time, Brady didn't bank on the honesty of Smith. Revolted by what took place in front of him, Smith knew he had to bide his time - or become another victim of Brady's psychotic, inhumane behaviour. After Smith's initial call to the police early next morning, an officer arrived on the scene at 7.30am, where upon he was directed by Smith to 16 Walder brook avenue. The officer was greeted at the front door by the unemotional Hindley. She stood without a care in the world, as the young police officer demanded entry.
After a brief search of the premisies downstairs, the constable slowly climbed the creaky wooden staircase. In front of him he found a locked bedroom door. When he demanded access to the room, Hindley bluffed. She said the room was locked, and her dogs were on the other side.
The officers diligence and persistence paid off. Ian Brady realised the officer wasn't about to leave. It was then he instructed Hindley to open the door.
Inside the small spartanly furnished bedroom, the fresh faced constable found the body of Edward Evans tired up in a white bed sheet, the blood stains apparent around the top, the lifeless corpse ready for disposal. Sickening though the find was, worse was to come. Edward Evans was only the culmination of a sadistic campaign of abduction, torture, sexual depravity and frenzied killing. As Hindley would later say of the children: "They followed like lambs to the slaughter."
The following weeks and months would reduce hardened police officers to tears, and leave a nation wondering how such wickedness could manifest among their community. This wasn't just about murder, as disgusting as that maybe, this was about the depths of human depravity and the betrayal of trust. Kids who trusted a woman to protect them, but found themselves caught in a web of deceit.
Myra Hindley had a normal childhood. She grew up on a run down housing estate in Galton Manchester, of two-up, two-down tenement buildings. Money was tight, as it was for everyone. Brady's childhood greatly differed. The illegitimate son of a Glasgow waitress and unknown father, he would mature with a passion for literature and classical music. It's well known Brady had fantasies about killing, but kept these fantasies hidden beneath the surface until he met Myra Hindley. It would be her who encouraged him to take them farther and play out his lust for murder as she fed from it by proxy.
Pauline Reade was to be their first, unsuspecting victim on Friday, the 12 of July, 1963. Little Pauline had been looking forward to going to a local dance with friends, when they cancelled at the last minute. All dressed up in her finest dress, wearing a treasured necklace from her mother, she made arrangements to go to the dance with other friends. It would be a fatal mistake, and as her proud mother walked her to the street corner, and tenderly kissed her goodbye, she would never see Pauline alive again.
Whilst Pauline Reade readied herself for the dance - Myra Hindley and Ian Brady plotted something much more sinister. Hindley borrowed a mini van and was already trawling the claustrophobic streets and tiny back alleys looking for her prey. Pauline
Reade came into sight as she sauntered down the road, her head down, her mind lost in happy teenage thoughts. While Hindley patrolled the streets in the mini van, Brady followed behind on his motorcycle. he instinctively knew a child would be less likely to get in the car with him in it. The minutiae planned to the last detail, Hindley pulls the mini van to a halt just in front of Pauline Reade.
As Pauline levels with the passenger window, Myra Hindley lurches across the seat and calls to her through the open window. Already acquainted with Myra Hindley, Pauline Reade didn't suspect anything out of the ordinary. It's then Hindley puts the plan into force whilst Brady sits astride his motorcycle a few yards behind them, the engine ticking over, the bike ready to move.
Myra Hindley, her face full of encouraging smiles tempts Pauline Reade into the mini van with the promise of some gramophone records if Pauline helps her search for a glove Hindley claims to have lost on Saddleworth moor.
Too trusting for her own good, Pauline saw no reason to be suspicious. She slumps into the passenger seat at Hindley's side, and her final journey begins.
Tagging a few hundred yards behind on his motorcycle, Brady starts to feel the adrenaline build.
By the time Myra Hindley pulls the small mini van to a halt, Brady had already decided to make their meeting look coincidental.
He drew his Triumph motorcycle to a stop, dismounted the bike and wandered casually towards Hindley and Pauline Reade, who by this time had left the vehicle. Myra Hindley briefly discusses the problem of her lost glove, and Brady joins the search. Together, he and Pauline Reade gradually distance themselves. They venture farther into the mist covered moor until they are out of sight of the road. The smiling, talkative Brady suddenly turns from trusted friend to fiendish monster.
It's unknown whether Pauline Reade was sexually abused whilst still alive, or whether Brady engaged in acts of necrophilia once Pauline breathed her final breaths. But what is known is, Brady, like any beast, killed from behind. He took a razor shape knife and ran it across Pauline's unsuspecting throat. Brady then rejoined Myra Hindley, before the pair of them walked cockily back onto the moor so Hindley could witness first hand what Brady had done. With a sense of satisfaction, Brady buried the body in a shallow grave, before the pair of them drove home. Excited by the killing, Hindley and Brady fulfil the fantasy by indulging each others sexual fantasies in the most profane manner. Pauline Reade had become a catalyst, and like all serial killers who depend of violent stimulus to derive pleasure, Hindley and Brady's crimes would become more salacious as time moved on.
John Kilbride was a happy, carefree 12 year old boy with a cheeky grin, sometimes mischievous, like all 12 year old boys, but always full of life. John had taken himself off to the cinema and was returning home through the busy Aston market place, when he got the opportunity to earn himself a little extra pocket money by helping clear away the boxes on the market stalls from a hectic day's trade. With a few extra pennies in his pocket, he set off home. A little farther down the road, Myra Hindley waited like a spider in its web. She noticed the boy approaching in the rearview mirror of her van, and seized her opportunity. She left the vehicle, and intercepted John Kilbride. Hindley knew John had helped out on the market stalls moving boxes for a few bob, and so tempted him in the same way. Hindley offered to give John a few more pennies if he helped her with some moving. Rather than going to Hindley's house, John Kilbride was taken out to the moor where Brady anxiously waited his arrival.
Like Pauline Reade, John Kilbride was led on to the moor while Myra Hindley kept watch from the empty main road, there, Brady attempted to cut Kilbride's throat. When he found his knife too blunt for the job, Brady resorted to strangling John Kilbride with his own shoelace. With three flashes of her car headlamps. Hindley gave Brady the all clear. He returned to her position, breathless, twiddling the lace round his fingers and held a sickening grin over his lips.
Hindley and Brady left the moor, returned home and once again indulged each other's sick sexual fantasies in the most degrading way.
As their confidence grew, and with capital punishment taken from the statute books the year before - both Hindley and Brady cynically knew, the most their wicked crimes would warrant, would be life imprisonment. Spurred on by this, they already hatched a devious plot to abduct more innocent children. Kieth Bennet spent the day at home playing by himself as his mother readied herself for an evening bingo: a rare treat in sixties Britain for hard working, underpaid families living near the breadline.
On the 16th June, 1964, at 29 Eston street, Kieth's mother sent her beloved son to stay with his grandmother. On his way, he ran into Hindley and Brady. Once again, he was seduced into the car and taken up to the moors where Hindley kept look out for her lover Brady, until Brady callously despatched the child and returned to her position. Frail little Kieth Bennet was left in a shallow grave, with Hindley pictured gloating over it, a puppy dog in her arms and arrogant smile on her lips. A picture of the victim's grave with Hindley positioned dominant over it, had become symbolic. A mocking trademark of their contempt for society, the law, the children, the very essence of everything decent people hold sacred .
Emboldened by their previous crimes and feeling immune from the law, Hindley and Brady travelled to a local fairground on Boxing Day, where they would inevitably meet their fourth victim, Lesley Ann Downey. Lesley Ann, was, in the words of her mother: "A good child who always did her homework, a perfect child any mother would be proud of.'
Myra Hindley stealthily approached Lesley Ann Downey from behind, as she stood watching the waltzer and dodgems, listening to the howling sixties rock music and smiling at the excited screams of carnival revellers. With only a silver sixpence in her pocket to spend, Lesley Ann's mother expected her home early.
Hindley was about to change that and cast a shadow of despair over Lesley Ann's mother that would haunt her until her dying day.
Myra stood next to the pretty little girl with the short black curly hair. Hindley clutched a bag of groceries she just purchased from a local supermarket. Myra let the bag fall to the ground by Lesley Ann's side. As the shopping spilt across the floor, Lesley Ann bent down to help Hindley collect them. Brady, in the meantime had arrived from the other direction to close the trap. With the items back in the bag, the two adults then convinced Lesley Ann Downey to help them take it back to their car. Hindley had exchanged the mini van for an enclosed mini traveller. With Lesley Ann in the vehicle, Hindley and Brady decided to take her back to the house they lived in, at 16 walder Brook Avenue.
After Lesley helped Myra carry her shopping into the house, she found Brady guarding the locked front door. In their sadism, Hindley and Brady dragged the child screaming upstairs, where a back bedroom had already been prepared.
Inside the tiny room was a bed, a frame chair, chest of drawers and single bed. Lesley Ann was forced, amongst her sobbing to remove her clothes. When she finished, she was tied, gagged and laid prone on the bed. Hindley set an old fashioned sixties spool tape recorder in motion, and together, her and Brady indulged their sick perversions with the child. When Brady and Hindley tired, a ligature was placed around Lesley Ann's neck, and she was strangled. Only when the last gasps of air left her angelic little body did Brady release his grip. Lesley Ann's bloody body, which fought for every breath of life, until it could fight no more, was then washed, bound in a white sheet and taken out to the moor for burial in a few cold inches of earth.
When David Smith telephoned the police on that mist cloaked October morning, the game for Hindley and Brady was finally up. The ensuing investigation led to a Manchester train station lost luggage room where a suitcase belonging to Brady was found. Inside was the evidence the police needed to prove Hindley and Brady committed the crimes. A copy of Adolf Hitler's Mein Kampf stood glaring out at them, as did the filthy porno mags and pictures of Myra Hindley gloating over the graves, with the puppy dog in her arms. Yet no one could have imagined what was on the spool reel of tape.
The squad room fell deathly silent as the investigating officers loaded, and played the tape. Around the room of the police station little Lesley Ann's pathetic cries echoed, turning hardened police officers with years of experience into sobbing wrecks.
Officers who thought they had seen and heard everything there was to see and hear, suddenly found a whole new depth of depravity. Hindley and Brady were arrested, charged and subsequently convicted. Throughout the interviews Hindley remained mute. She refused to co-operate or help the police find their victims. It was a carefully devised plot by her and Brady. No bodies, no convictions. It was the pictures of her above the children's graves which finally led to the police to reconstruct the scene of the killings, and allowed them to conduct a methodical search which finally yielded the evidence they needed to prosecute: the body of Lesley Ann Downey was discovered in a sodden, peat soaked bog, her delicate bones poking up through the ground. Showing no emotion when sentenced, Hindley and Brady were given life. imprisonment.
The notorious two became over the years synonymous with evil in the British psyche. Hardly a few months could pass without the media, tabloid press revealing what the pair were upto. Brady was eventually declared insane and moved to a top security mental hospital. Myra Hindley played the long game, using every trick in the book to try and secure her release from jail. A succession of liberal do-gooders, usually with more money than sense, ignored the express wishes of the people to keep her locked away. Almost as though they had some closet, sexual fantasy about Hindley, she managed to wrap them round her little finger, as indeed she did Brady when they first met him. Every ounce of her feminine charms was used to seduce them, as she did the innocent children. She worked relentlessly both day and night, letter writing, phoning, convincing them to fight her corner.
Lord Longford, a peer of the realm personally challenged her case, taking the fight for her release all the way to parliament and the house of lords. But to no avail. Hindley was considered unclean in the eyes of the public, and no home secretary, regardless of how liberal was prepared to incur the backlash of the British people by releasing her. And so, consecutive home secretaries, both labour and conservative insisted, for Myra Hindley, life should mean life. No remission.
Yet as the years rolled by, with the advent of the United Kingdom immersed into a European Union, the suddenly realisation of EU human rights law became apparent after Tony Blair signed it into law. Myra Hindley was entitled to know her release date from prison, and home secretaries were not allowed to determine sentence. That was ruled exclusively the right of judges. New Labour knew they couldn't risk seeing Hindley walk free from prison.
The backlash at the ballot box could spell disaster for the new labour project, and so I believe a plot was hatched to free Myra Hindley under a joint consensus of government, the prison and probation service and Hindley herself. The government would, in return for her silence paint an elaborate hoax and dupe the British people. But in doing, make one fundamental error which would lead to the whole plan collapsing.
With a witness protection programme already in place to protect supergrasses and terrorists who decide to turn on their own people, the government created a cynical plan. Myra Hindley would be offered plastic surgery, a new identity and relocated to pastures new: possibly overseas in another European country.
For a year or two Myra Hindley was ferried back and forth to hospital under the pretext she had heart problems, although, any sign of this condition evaporates when we examine press photos of Myra at Cookham wood prison. After her hospital visits, Myra can quite easily be seen puffing away on packs of cigarettes.
Not the image of someone with heart problems. Most people might expect Myra to have been towing an oxygen bottle, not chain smoking. Once her new identity and paperwork were complete, with new documents and a new history, national insurance number and passport, Myra's faked death took place. To this day, no doctor or nurse has come forward to discuss Myra Hindley's final hours, even though the tabloid press would offer them a blank cheque for their story. Normally, hospital administrators can't be kept away from the cameras with a big stick. But not on this occasion With Myra receiving her new face, hair style and identity, the prison service announced a short statement to the press: "Myra Hindley died peacefully in her sleep."
With her death revealed to the waiting press and wider world, all that was needed was a funeral. This was hurriedly arranged. With television reporters and tabloid journalists huddled round the gates of the crematorium, Myra's coffin was whisked in. But was she in the coffin?
The fatal flaw in the home office plan is, Myra Hindley was, is, a devout Catholic. And here lies the error: you don't cremate Catholics. To a Catholic, cremation is a cardinal sin and prohibits them from passing through the gates of heaven. Hindley would have left explicit instructions for her funeral, and these would have been followed to the letter by a politically correct prison service. Does anyone believe in this day and age, the prison service would countenance the sanctity of the church, the individual's religion. Of course not. Hindley never died. She was released by a new labour government frightened the European court of human rights would do the job for them, cost them votes at the ballot box and give the opposition parties a big stick to beat them with. That's how it works in Britain.
In the sixties, the children Hindley and Brady murdered counted for nothing. Over the years, the establishment was more concerned with the rights of Hindley than the children's families, and today, the peoples wishes count for even less. The people are considered an irrelevance, an obstacle to the politician's final goal. Hindley and the system which released her embodies everything what is wrong with Britain: its weak, liberal elite who are exploited by the most heinous people imaginable. The victims of the moors murderers Hindley and Brady slaughtered have been as much betrayed in life, as they have been in death, by an arrogant elite who know nothing of decency, and everything of selfishness. Look out for the new, loveable granny just moved in down the road, with the bag of sweets and puppy in her arms, for you never know, if I'm right, it might just be Myra.
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