Black cab to the Financial Times offices. Security surprisingly intrusive and our warrant cards inspected and queried.
On the second floor we were met by Mr Graham, a dour, brittle-looking man with a perpetually runny nose, and by the senior Home News editor, Jason Phipps. Phipps dismissed Graham and said that he would take it from here. He led us to a rather charming office with a view of St Paul’s.
Phipps was a tall, balding, impressive individual with a voice so soft it was difficult to hear him. He was dressed in a three-piece suit that would have seemed dated several decades earlier. An actual bowler hat was resting on a hat stand in one corner. In 1987, with computers and Murdoch and Thatcher and Space Shuttles and cut-throat competition you would have thought that Phipps’s type would be extinct, but apparently not.
His secretary brought us tea and biscuits.
‘We’ve read that you’ve already made an arrest in Lily’s case,’ Phipps said.
‘Where did you read that?’
‘The AP wire. The case has been referred to the DPP. You’ve arrested a Mr Clarke Underhill?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Some sort of sexual motive?’
‘Why would you say that?’
‘Lily was very, uhm, attractive and this Underhill was an older man who lived alone in some sort of castle?’
‘We’re not at liberty to discuss the details of our investigation, or our case against Mr Underhill. And we’re not completely ruling out suicide,’ I explained.
‘Well, as you can imagine when we first heard that this was a suicide, all of us were a little sceptical, I must say. She seemed a fairly confident, happy girl,’ he explained.
‘What about the boyfriend trouble?’
‘Well, yes, I heard a little bit about that later. Employees are not encouraged to discuss their personal issues in the office.’
‘Did you know she was on various medications, including Valium?
‘No, I didn’t know that.’
‘Did you know she was taking Nembutal?’
‘No, what is that?’
‘A sleep aid. What about her work? How was that going?’ I asked.
‘Her work was fine. She came straight to us from Girton, so naturally she was a little bit raw, but she was shaping up rather nicely.’
‘Girton?’
‘Cambridge. A first in economics.’
‘And what did she do for you?’
‘Piece work. Reshaping AP stories, co-writing longer articles, a little subediting, things like that.’
‘Any lead stories, front-page scoops, anything along those lines?’
‘Heavens, no! You need about four or five years on the inside pages before we would let you near the front pages at the Financial Times. A story on our front pages can shake the very foundations of the market. Other papers can print what they like, but we have to be extremely circumspect in what we say.’
‘Tell me what you found on Lily’s computer.’
‘I’ll take you to her desk. We’ve sent her personal effects to her father, but her computer …well that’s another story. It’s a very valuable piece of equipment and it would have been entirely within our rights to have had the memory “wiped”, I believe the term is. Counsel, however, has advised that it is too late to do it now that it has become a police matter.’
He led us out of the office to Lily’s desk in a corner of the newsroom. It had been cleared and the only thing left was the Mac.
‘All her work was on this?’ I said.
‘Everything she wrote for the paper. Yes. The incriminating document apparently came from Lily’s work on the tip line.’
‘Tip line?’
‘One day a week we have our junior reporters man the tip line. It’s a phone number where ordinary members of the public can call us with news and potential leads.’
‘You get a lot of stories like that?’
‘We get a lot of tips, yes, but very, very few stories. As I have explained, Inspector, everything that goes into our paper has to be thoroughly researched first. Researched and vetted. It’s not an exaggeration to say that the future course of world capitalism is dependent upon accurate information coming from within these walls.’
‘So why have a tip line in the first place?’
‘It’s a useful experience for the reporters, sorting the wheat from the chaff, and very occasionally it does throw up a useful story or two.’
‘What sort of story?’
‘Mostly financial irregularities. That’s why someone would call the FT rather than the Sun or the News of the World. Often, however, they call us just to blow off steam about bad management practices within their organisation.’
‘And what was this tip that Lily found that has got you all worked up?’
‘Ah, yes, Lily’s tip … As soon as you see what she wrote, you’ll appreciate why I wouldn’t let Mr Graham discuss this over the telephone or why Mr Carter-Ruck wouldn’t let us print it out in this building. Let me get it for you …’
He turned on the computer, sat down at the desk and used the mouse to click through the files. The system was exactly the same as we used in Carrick, and in a second he had found the file he was after.
‘Here we go. Please do not press print. Read it and take it away with you. We will get you to sign a receipt and an indemnification document, if you don’t mind. Counsel requires it. We have no idea who gave her the tip over the tip line, or what they said. She certainly did not come to us with this. A few days after this file was made, she asked if she could cover the visit of the Finns to Northern Ireland. Mr Graham consented. It was a good business story and he thought she could get her feet wet in the field, so to speak. I assure you that we had no idea that Miss Bigelow apparently had a hidden agenda.’
As he kept talking I read what Lily had written in a file marked: Tip 30/1/87
From the tipline: 30/1/87
Man. Twenties(?) Irish accent.
Kinkaid(?) Young Offenders’ Institution – Belfast
Unknown Children’s Home – Richmond
Prostitution/Boys
Cyril Smith MP, Sir Anthony Blunt, Unknown Sinn Fein MP, Unknown Conservative Minister, Sir Peter Hayman, Unknown Official Unionist MP
Dossier from Geoffrey Dickens MP to Leon Brittan MP when latter Home Secretary (1984). Dickens condemned by House of Commons but claims substantially accurate? MI5? Govt?
Patron of Kinkaid YOI Jimmy Savile OBE. Savile on board of governors. Savile aware of claims? Savile many visits to N. Ireland/Rep. Ireland.
Savile will deny/sue. Smith will deny/sue. Paramilitaries.
Celebrities. Finnish business delegation visit Belfast in February. Setting up phone factory. Peter Laakso?
I stared in astonishment at the document for a moment before flipping open my notebook and copying it down word for word.
‘As you can see …’ Phipps said.
‘This is incredible stuff,’ I said.
‘Paranoid, crazy stuff,’ Phipps countered.
‘Did you follow up on any of this?’
‘Of course. We are a newsroom, after all. And lurking in the back of my mind was the electric possibility that Lily was killed because of this. But, naturally, it was all bunk. Innuendo, rumour, gossip, stories even Private Eye wouldn’t publish.’
‘I seem to remember that Geoffrey Dickens thing,’ Crabbie said.
‘Dickens made quite the fool of himself in the House of Commons. You can look it all up on Hansard. He claimed that there was a paedophile ring operating at the highest levels of British government. He had no proof whatsoever. He handed a so-called dossier to the Home Secretary and of course no action was ever taken. It was an attempt to smear various homosexual MPs. The sort of thing they did in the early sixties.’
‘Jimmy fucking Savile,’ I said, whistling.
‘The wife doesn’t like him,’ McCrabban said.
‘Oh come on. He dines with the Prince of Wales. He’s a kind of godparent to Willi
am and Harry. Mrs Thatcher has him round for tea every Christmas. Don’t you think someone like that would have been seriously vetted before now? If there was a hint of anything untoward he’d be out on his ear,’ Phipps said.
‘So you think Lily asked to go to Northern Ireland to follow up on this tip?’ I asked Phipps.
‘It seems obvious now, doesn’t it?’
‘A conspiracy,’ Lawson muttered.
‘This elderly gent in the castle doesn’t seem like the sort of chap MI5 would hire to do its dirty work,’ Phipps said.
‘Well, he is ex-navy, like Commander Bond,’ Lawson said.
‘Bond is MI6,’ Phipps muttered.
‘OK, Lawson, start packing this thing away. We’ll take it with us.’
Lawson had brought a big Adidas cricket bag that was the perfect size to carry the Mac away with us.
‘I’d like to talk to Lily’s friends while we’re here,’ I said to Phipps.
‘If you must.’
Standard chat with friends, colleagues. Lily was an even-tempered, eager young reporter who was well liked. One chubby, bespectacled, freckly character called David Moore seemed to be her best friend.
‘Lily ever talk to you about some big scoop she was working on?’
‘Scoop? No. Scoop around here? Lily had a scoop? I never heard about that. She was on the low-level business stuff,’ David replied, in a charming Black Country accent that wasn’t very FT.
‘How was her career going?’
‘It was OK.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘She was on the Irish and Scottish desk.’
‘Not exactly the Treasury beat?’
‘No, not exactly.’
‘She ever mention her interest in covering the Finnish visit to Northern Ireland?’
‘Not to me.’
‘She ever mention the Kinkaid Young Offenders’ Institution?’
‘No.’
‘She ever talk about Cyril Smith, or Anthony Blunt, or a Children’s Home in Richmond?’
‘No, what’s this about?’
‘She ever mention a secret dossier that had been passed to Leon Brittan?’
‘No.’
‘She ever mention the name Laakso?’
‘No.’
‘She ever mention Jimmy Savile?’
Moore frowned. ‘That’s weird. Yeah, she did she talk to me about Jimmy Savile.’
‘Recently?’
‘Yeah a week and a bit ago. Just before she went away.’
‘What did she want to know?’
‘She asked how we could get an interview with him.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘I said I’d no idea. I said you’d probably have to go through the BBC.’
‘And that was that?’
‘Uhm, not quite. Later that day, she said that she found out that Jimmy Savile was living in a caravan at Broadmoor Mental Hospital.’
‘What?’
‘She said that he was living in a caravan at Broadmoor Mental Hospital.’
‘Why was he doing that?’
‘I have no idea. She obviously wanted me to ask her more about it but, uhm, well, I’m not particularly interested in Jimmy Savile, to tell the truth. Never liked that programme.’
‘Jim’ll Fix It?’
‘No, nor Top of the Pops.’
‘She told you that Jimmy Savile was living at Broadmoor in a caravan and you said nothing?’
‘I just said, “Oh,” and left it at that. I wanted to stay friends with Lily but I didn’t really want to spend too much time talking to her. I’ve started seeing Sarah, Mr Doyle’s secretary, and she’s a bit, well, you know …’
‘Yeah, I know. Lily ever mention Savile again?’
‘No. In fact, that was the last time I ever talked to her.’
‘Did you know Lily had prescriptions for Valium and Nembutal?’
‘I did, actually. I saw her take a Valium once, down the pub. I asked her if it was OK to take it with gin and tonic.’
‘And what did she say?’
‘She said it was OK.’
‘You ask why she was taking Valium?’
‘I didn’t, but she offered an explanation. She said that she was slightly claustrophobic. She had the occasional panic attack on the Tube. Doc prescribed Valium. It really helped her.’
‘Where did she live?’
‘Vincent Terrace. Angel. Northern Line.’
‘You’ve been very helpful, Mr Moore.’
Out of the FT with the Mac.
Taxi across town to Vincent Terrace.
Nice little second-floor flat on the Regent’s Canal.
Key from the landlady, Mrs Singh, who lived on the ground floor. ‘Such a lovely girl. So quiet. So respectable. Very few gentlemen callers, if you know what I mean. Lovely girl. She got me flowers for my birthday.’
Lily’s stuff was in boxes. ‘Her father’s coming to take it all away on Saturday.’
At my request Chief Inspector Broadbent from Norwich Constabulary had come down here already to go through her effects and found little that was pertinent. No harm in another look. We had a careful rummage through the boxes, but there was nothing here of evidentiary value. A few writing pads, yes, but nothing relating to the case. I looked behind the mirror and under the bed and in the secret compartments of jewellery boxes. Zilch. Her book choices were good, her record choices were better.
Lily was a bright young woman, slightly anxious, with a promising career.
‘They say Lily was claustrophobic, Mrs Singh, did you see any evidence of that?’
‘Oh yes. Very claustrophobic. Lifts. She didn’t do lifts. And she had to take a pill to go on the Tube. Northern Line, too. You know what that’s like. Or perhaps you don’t. Heights, as well. Hated heights.’
I looked at McCrabban and Lawson.
She hated enclosed spaces and she hated heights. So she hid in a dungeon and jumped off the keep of Carrick Castle …
‘What are you looking for?’ Mrs Singh asked.
‘We’re looking for a notebook, home computer, anything like that?’
‘She had a computer at work.’
‘That’s what Lawson’s lugging around in that giant bag … What about a notebook?’
‘She did have a little notebook. Always took it with her. She would have taken that to Ireland … That’s what I told all the other detectives. They were very thorough. They came in twice.’
‘That is thorough.’
‘If they’d found anything they would have sent it to us,’ Crabbie said.
‘Unless they’re part of the conspiracy too,’ Lawson said, in a dark, melodramatic whisper.
‘Can I use your phone, Mrs Singh?’
Phone call to the House of Commons.
‘I’d like to speak to the office of Geoffrey Dickens … My name is Detective Inspector Sean Duffy of the Royal Ulster Constabulary.’
A pause, a transfer. A young woman came on the line.
‘Can I ask what this is about?’
I told her what it was about. At the word ‘paedophile’ I heard the woman wince. Mr Dickens was very busy today. Perhaps tomorrow? Mr Dickens is busy all week. Perhaps you should take this up with your own constituency MP …
I hung up and looked at McCrabban. ‘One down, one to go. We’ll never get another trip over the water on our budget.’
‘Why? Who are you thinking of seeing now?’ he asked.
‘What if we went to see Savile out at Broadmoor? Ask him a few questions about Kinkaid before we go up there ourselves.’
‘Are we going up there ourselves?’
‘Oh, yes. I think we are.’
‘Jimmy Savile? Seems a bit of a stretch.’
‘Lawson here has always wanted to meet Jimmy Savile. I’m fixing it for him.’
‘I never said any such thing!’ Lawson protested.
‘Oh I nearly forgot!’ Mrs Singh said. ‘Wait there!’
She went into a back room and,
after what can only be described as a loud scuffle, came back with a short-haired domestic cat.
‘Here,’ she said giving me the cat.
‘What’s this for?’
‘Lily’s cat. Her father doesn’t want it and I can’t keep it here any longer.’
‘What are we supposed to do with it?’
‘You’re the police. You’ll think of something.’
‘What her name?’
‘His name is Jet. He’s about a year old. Hasn’t been fixed yet. Full of energy.’
I attempted to give her the cat back. ‘Take him to the RSPCA.’
‘You take him to the RSPCA.’
‘I don’t want to touch him. I live in fear of toxoplasma gondii,’ I said, giving the cat to Lawson.
‘What’s Toxoplasma gondii?’ he asked, eying the cat suspiciously.
‘It’s a virus cats carry. Causes severe mental disorders and behavioural problems, especially in the young.’
‘I’ve got a travel cage for him if you want,’ Mrs Singh said.
‘Yes please,’ Lawson said.
Lawson put the not-exactly-thrilled Jet in the travel cage.
‘What now?’ Crabbie asked.
‘Mrs Singh, do you know where we can rent a car around here?’
She thought for a moment.
‘There are a few places on the Pentonville Road.’
13: JIMMY SAVILE’S CARAVAN
British road-map book. A rented Ford Sierra (no Beemers available). Lawson navigating. Crabbie in the back, minding the computer and the cat. Pentonville Road to the Westway, through Shepherds Bush to the M4. Out along the M4 past Windsor and Eton. Along the river. Through Wokingham to Crowthorne.
Rain pouring up the Thames Valley. The Sierra’s window wipers squeaking unpleasantly and not doing a very good job. The heat system and defoggers not working well.
‘See that? Never buy a British-made motor, Lawson. Always buy German or Japanese,’ I said.
‘Don’t listen to him, son, my Land Rover Defender runs great,’ Crabbie said.
Broadmoor Hospital.
Gate Lodge.
Guy with a ginger tache, ex-military, Cockney.
‘What can I do for you gentlemen?’
I showed him my warrant card. ‘We’re police.’
‘Oh, is this about the bloke who went over the wall?’
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