The Boy in the River: A Shocking True Story of Ritual Murder and Sacrifice in the Heart of London

by Richard Hoskins

  No one batted an eyelid at our camera equipment. I didn’t believe in omens, or so I told myself, but if my last visit here with a camera crew had seemed doomed from the outset, this one appeared to be off to a good start.

  Our host for the first two days was Isabel del Arbol from Save the Children. She had previously worked in country with the United Nations, and was now overseeing their project for children accused of witchcraft. She and her colleagues took children off the streets and worked, where possible, towards rehabilitating them with their families. Under Isabel’s careful eye we visited the children in their housing centres and talked with some of them who’d been accused of having kindoki, and suffered beatings and torture as a consequence.

  On the third day I met Remy Mafu again. The pipes were no longer in evidence outside his offices but everything else was much as I’d last seen it. Remy greeted me like a long lost friend, and as we embraced I felt acutely conscious that in withdrawing from these cases I had also withdrawn from people who’d been very good to me. His best news was that Londres, the boy we’d tracked down on my last visit, had been returned to London by his family. Perhaps, after all, we had done some good. I promised myself to try and get in touch with him on my return.

  The rest of our day was rather more depressing. There were still thousands of children on the streets, many because they’d been accused of kindoki. New churches were continuing to spring up, peddling the same twisted message of witchcraft and childhood possession. A little girl sleeping rough in Limete district talked of a church nearby where she’d been subjected to a ceremony of deliverance. Someone left the metal compound door open and she’d escaped.

  It wasn’t difficult to find the Church of Deliverance – its name was emblazoned across a pair of large blue gates. I walked through the entrance with some trepidation as Bill and Ronke followed with the camera. A number of children sat forlornly on benches in the foyer. One girl – she couldn’t have been older than five – stared out at us like one of those glazed Somali famine pictures. I wondered for a moment if she was still breathing. I crossed the dirt floor to where she sat, but as I did so a middle-aged man moved swiftly to intercept me.

  ‘Que voulez-vous ici?’

  ‘Is this girl OK?’ I said.

  ‘I ask you what you want here?’

  I tore my eyes away from the girl. The man was around forty, with a pronounced beer belly straining against the buttons of his white shirt and the waistband of his blue trousers.

  ‘I need to speak with this girl.’ I stepped forward and crouched alongside her. In the gentlest Lingala I could muster, I asked her how she was feeling.

  Her reply was not much more than a whisper. ‘I feel . . . bad . . . hunger . . . No water . . .’ She pointed at her mouth. Her tongue was cracked and dry. I felt my compassion give way to rising anger. I turned on the man now standing over me. ‘What the hell is going on here?’

  He took a step back. ‘You must await the pastor.’

  So he wasn’t the top man. I wasn’t surprised.

  ‘I am not awaiting anyone. I asked you a simple question, which you can answer yourself. What is going on?’

  He looked at me, then at Ronke and Bill, who were filming the exchange. He licked his lips slowly. ‘She is . . . fasting.’

  ‘What kind of fasting?’

  ‘She has not had food or drink for three days. She has kindoki. We are preparing her so that she will be delivered of this evil witchcraft.’

  This was too much for Ronke. She exploded. The tirade that followed, mostly in English, was one that only an African could deliver. As Ronke harangued him for child abuse, I noticed another gentleman approaching. He was wearing a shiny light blue suit that looked as if it had been carefully tailored. His gold-framed glasses, cufflinks and watch seemed like the real deal. I glanced down at his shoes and guessed that only the choicest slivers of crocodile skin had gone into their manufacture.

  The pastor had arrived.

  His unabashed nonchalance was immediately infuriating. Right next to us, staring vacantly into the distance, was a young girl who had neither eaten nor drunk for three days, whilst the man towering over her, claiming to be a representative of Christ on earth, explained how her evil kindoki meant she needed to fast in preparation for deliverance.

  I shuddered to think what this might entail. We had to do something.

  ‘I’m seeing the Children’s Minister tomorrow,’ I lied. ‘You are, presumably, happy for me to bring the minister here so she can see your ministry at work?’

  For the first time there was hesitation.

  ‘We have all the government documents to say we can operate—’

  ‘Excellent. So there’s no problem then. What time shall we make the appointment?’

  There was silence. The pastor looked from me to Ronke, then to the girl, then nervously at the camera.

  We waited.

  ‘What do you want us to do with her?’

  ‘Give her something to drink!’ Ronke and I shouted in unison.

  ‘I would rather not,’ the pastor eventually responded.

  ‘What does that mean? Rather not?’

  ‘Jesus said that this type of demon can only come out through prayer and fasting. She needs to be deprived of food and water. It’s nearly over for her. Tomorrow we will deliver her. I would rather she didn’t eat or drink.’

  ‘Look, she desperately needs water,’ I said. ‘She’s in a bad way. This is tropical Africa. She has got to have something to drink.’

  We seemed to be at an impasse.

  Ronke was seething. In English, we quickly discussed removing the girl, but knew that could be construed as kidnap. We were powerless to do anything except carry out my original threat.

  We left the compound and clambered wearily into our ageing Land Rover. As the driver turned over the engine, I realized there was one other tack I could try. ‘Hold it. I’m going back in.’

  Ronke made to follow.

  I shook my head. ‘Just me. I want a quick word with the pastor. There’s something I want to talk to him about. Off camera, please.’ Before I slammed the door behind me, I added, ‘And if I’m not back in ten minutes you’d better follow.’ I meant it half-humorously; I didn’t really think the church team would be violent towards an adult, but one could never be sure.

  On the other side of the gate a sizeable group had gathered round the pastor. He was talking animatedly whilst the little girl still sat motionless. He stepped towards me, a face like thunder. I held up my hands. ‘Pastor, there’s no camera this time. I just want to talk with you about one thing that’s troubling me.’ I motioned to some seats. ‘May we . . .?’

  The pastor hesitated, then finally nodded.

  I waited until his companions had settled around us.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘You came in here and insulted Christ’s ministry. You’d better have a very good reason for daring to come back.’

  I ignored the undercurrent of threat. ‘Pastor, I honestly want to ask you just one question.’ I paused, trying to remember my Bible verses. ‘It’s very simple really. I just want to know what you are doing here.’

  The pastor’s faint look of astonishment gave way to laughter, which rippled through the gathering. His smile faded again as he turned to face me again. ‘That’s what you came back in here to ask me? I’m a busy man. Isn’t it obvious? I’m here to do the work of Jesus Christ on earth.’

  ‘No, sorry, that isn’t quite what I meant. Let me rephrase it.’ I paused. ‘Why aren’t you in Troas?’

  ‘Troas? Who, what or where is Troas? I don’t know it.’

  There was a further ripple of laughter. One or two of his entourage began whispering behind me. The white man had lost it. Perhaps the sun had addled his mind.

  ‘Actually, it’s not even in Africa. It’s in Asia Minor. Quite a long way from here. I just wondered why you aren’t there?’

  He was clearly beginning to get exasperated with me, but I pressed on. />
  ‘Look, it says in the Bible, “Go to Troas and search for my cloak.”’ I just wondered why you’re not following that biblical command.’

  I looked around the crowd. ‘Can one of you bring me a Bible, please?’

  It took only a few moments for a young man in a blue T-shirt to fish one out of a small rucksack.

  ‘Now read it, please. Paul’s Second Letter to Timothy, chapter four, verse thirteen.’

  There was some fumbling, and murmured debate about where in the New Testament this verse could be found. After a while, he appeared to have found the relevant passage. He cleared his throat: ‘“The cloak that I left at Troas with Carpus, bring it with you when you come . . .”’

  I waited for a few seconds, then turned again to the pastor. ‘So . . . why aren’t you in Troas, getting Paul’s cloak?’

  There was some muffled laughter behind me. They were getting the drift. I thought I caught the faintest smile on the pastor’s face.

  ‘That was written for someone a long time ago: an instruction for a specific time and place.’

  ‘Exactly. So how do you decide that? How do you decide which instructions are for a specific time and place, which you can just ignore, and which you must obey now? How do you know that instruction about fasting wasn’t also written for a specific time and place, just like the command to find and bring Paul’s cloak?’

  ‘It’s what we believe.’ The pastor sounded suddenly weary.

  I took my chance. ‘Look, as a favour to me, given that we’re not one hundred per cent certain about the meaning of that instruction today, could you just give her one glass of water?’

  The pastor looked at me, then at those gathered around me. Finally, he spoke. ‘OK, just this once, you understand – I will do this. If, and only if, you now leave us alone.’

  I agreed and he nodded to one of the ladies behind him.

  ‘Give her a cup of water.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I stood and watched as the girl’s tentative, bird-like sips turned to gulps and I knew it would see her through until the morning.

  Ronke looked at me quizzically as I got back into the Land Rover.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘I just needed to clear up a small matter of biblical interpretation.’

  I knew it was a pyrrhic victory, but it might at least have helped this one casualty.

  A few days later we flew out of N’djili Airport.

  On a purely journalistic level, the trip had been a success. My Lingala had proved useful and I’d worked my socks off. But it was a sober team that landed back at Heathrow the following day. The kindoki poison had spread throughout the Congo, but nothing we had seen there matched the ferocity of what had taken place in one London flat.

  I didn’t believe that Europe was just seeing a momentary overspill of misguided religious fundamentalism. Something much worse was beginning to flourish beneath the farcical ignorance and superficiality of the pan-European multicultural agenda. Children were being trafficked and used for benefit fraud, sold into sex slavery and subjected to physical and mental abuse. Porous national borders, splintered churches, broken family ties and a fundamental lack of understanding and communication amongst the relevant authorities had fostered a litany of depravity. Victoria Climbié Child B and now Kristy Bamu were unlikely to be the only victims.

  46

  London, October–December 2011

  A few weeks after we got back from Kinshasa I received another phone call from the police working on the Kristy Bamu case. Detective Inspector Paul Maddocks introduced himself as the senior investigating officer.

  Fresh from the successful conviction of Levi Bellfield in the Milly Dowler murder trial, Brian Altman QC was to be lead counsel for the prosecution. The interview transcripts and witness statements had shown him how fundamental belief in kindoki was to the proceedings, and he was concerned that the jury would not know how to handle the complexities. He was also prepared for the possibility that either of the two accused might try and defend themselves under the guise of religious and cultural self-justification. As a result, he wanted to instruct me to investigate the case in depth and produce a report for the court.

  I met up with Paul Maddocks in a bar near the Old Bailey early one Monday evening. The DI had described himself as ‘very tall, wiry and with a moustache: think John Cleese and you won’t fail to spot me.’ He wasn’t wrong. We shook hands and he introduced his colleague Detective Sergeant Dave Boxall, a burlier individual who seemed to be studying me in much the same way as DC Barry Costello had when I’d first encountered him and DI O’Reilly on the Adam investigation.

  ‘The coroner described it as the worst case she has dealt with.’ Paul pushed his half-finished sandwich to one side. ‘This lad was singled out because he couldn’t get into the bathroom to do a wee. He effectively signed his own death warrant.’

  ‘It’s the ambulance officer’s statement that really got me.’ Dave shook his head dolefully. ‘He couldn’t do CPR because Kristy’s teeth were stuck in his windpipe.’

  ‘He went from asking to be saved to begging that they finish him off . . .’ Paul’s voice tailed off as he looked out onto Ludgate Hill.

  The sadness of these habitually robust men was tangible. None of us spoke for a while, and when he did, Paul sounded choked. ‘One of the issues we’d like you to look at, Richard, is Eric Bikubi’s previous form in this area. It seems he attacked a girl, Naomi Ilonga, three years ago. Naomi is Kristy’s mother Jacqueline Bamu’s niece; Naomi’s mother is Jacqueline Bamu’s sister – although the family relationships are complex to say the least. Naomi says Eric accused her of having kindoki. Have a look. At the very least the allegations suggested false imprisonment. It wasn’t followed through, though.’

  I looked at them both, oblivious to the chicken burger that was being placed in front of me.

  ‘The implications of that are massive,’ I said.

  Paul nodded and proceeded to set out the terms of reference. The circumstances of the crime were so outlandish that most people would struggle to understand them. I was to examine the whole case and pick out any areas where my cultural knowledge might help the jury navigate the case. I had four weeks. Any later and I’d be serving up my report too late for the court to accept it.

  I was involved in another murder trial in the northeast, in which the defendant claimed that the victim’s drunkenness so offended his faith that he stabbed him to death, but it wasn’t due to start until February. I told them I’d get to work immediately.

  I began poring over the documentation at once. For the next two weeks I worked night and day, juggling part-time teaching, family life and very little sleep. Faith agreed that I should stay in London as much as possible; I needed the time, and it was easier for her emotionally if I kept the horrifying details of the case well away from home.

  The evidence against Magalie Bamu and Eric Bikubi appeared very strong. The testimony of the other children and the conclusive DNA evidence at the scene of crime seemed incontrovertible. The motive also seemed clear cut – the central dynamic ran through all the witness statements: they thought Kristy was possessed by kindoki.

  The families involved or connected with the case were known previously to social services in other boroughs. Magalie Bamu and Eric Bikubi had been living in the UK since 1996. Paul Maddocks had mentioned that Eric had been on Westminster Council’s radar in 2008. There were also incidents in Barking and Dagenham. Naomi Ilonga had indeed made allegations against Eric Bikubi, and Westminster had begun a core assessment of the family. Somehow – and it was difficult not to put this down to incompetence – these enquiries were not followed through. According to Newham social services, their counterparts at Westminster appeared to be gripped by inertia.

  The French authorities were no better. I could now see why both the Met and the Newham social services department were incensed. The French police had refused to pursue allegations that included child rape, enforced imprisonment, trafficking and sex slavery.
In immigrant communities throughout France, it seemed it was increasingly common for young girls of twelve or thirteen to be assigned domestic duties, usually when the mother of the family was pregnant. Known as menagière, this included various forms of sexual servitude. Astonishingly, French social services claimed that they had never heard of witchcraft and had ‘no clue’ what it was. Neither the police nor Newham could get them even to entertain the idea of looking into it. The Congolese community was, apparently, of no interest.

  After two weeks I produced my forty-four-page report, shining as bright a light as possible on the issues. I cross-referenced the witness statements and constructed a vigorous challenge to any notion of a ‘cultural’ defence. Despite the widespread prevalence of belief in kindoki I made it clear that in Congolese culture the torture and murder of a child would never be condoned, and that the majority of Congolese would be appalled by what had happened. Indeed, the Congolese Government had now made it officially illegal even to accuse a child of being infected by witchcraft, let alone perpetrate any physical damage to the ‘sufferer’.

  I tried to keep my statement as objective as possible, but my sadness for Kristy threatened to overwhelm me. For five days he had experienced a living hell. Within a stone’s throw of the new Olympic Stadium, a teenage boy had been slowly and savagely tortured to death without anyone noticing.

  I escaped back to Devon for a respite.

  Or so I thought.

  On a family walk along Widemouth Bay during the Christmas holidays my police mobile rang. The distant voice of Susannah Beasley-Murray from Newham Children’s Services did battle with the pulsating wind and the roaring Atlantic breakers. She was calling on behalf of the head of Safeguarding in Newham Borough, Gareth Flemyng. They were concerned about the way the case was going to be reported, and were attempting to get a wider court injunction gagging the media from using any of the names, including those of the two accused. Could I produce a report for the following morning, and then attend a hearing at the Royal Courts of Justice at the end of Christmas week?