by Dan Davies
As he neared 50, and the end of his latest test of physical endurance – a 12-day run from Land’s End to London in January 1976 – Savile offered up his own explanation of why he pushed himself so hard, and so publicly. ‘It’s about discipline,’ he said. ‘It takes discipline to run 30 miles a day, and when I get back to London I will apply that same discipline to my work.’1
The 291-mile slog was undertaken to raise £1,000 for disabled people, although it certainly generated plenty more than that for Savile, thanks again to the work of Bob Brooksby. Following behind him all the way was a motor caravan emblazoned with ‘You’re Tea-rific’, the slogan of the British Tea Council. His running gear carried the same branding. ‘Uncle Bob doesn’t work for me but he organises a lot of things for me,’ explained the man who had become an expert at making charity pay. ‘So he gets a lot of the spin-offs.’2
The Tea Council promotion covered Jimmy Savile’s expenses and more in return for the exposure he guaranteed. The arrangement eventually stretched to providing a specially adapted Range Rover with a bed in the back – in effect a smaller version of the Savile’s Travels caravan that had been the scene of so many assaults.
Brooksby, who admitted that he worked on deals for Savile on everything from cars and furniture to clothes and food, offered his own brief clarification of how the relationship worked: ‘A lot of my business involves publicity deals [Savile] helps with. We both make out of it. And I lose all his incidental expenses among my accounts.’ Brooksby had even furnished Savile’s London flat close to Regent’s Park.
Fix It Promotions, the company they established in May 1977, would made money hand over fist, cashing in on the bankability of Jim’ll Fix It and the feel-good factor Roger Ordish spoke of. Savile went on to appear in advertising campaigns for children’s shoes, tyre companies and insurance brokers, the latter being a neat fit given what he told one newspaper about his financial problems.
‘The trouble is, you cannot have more than £15,000 in any one society,’ he bragged, ignoring the fact that millions were unemployed at the time. ‘We brusque and dour North Countrymen don’t like stocks and shares. We prefer to put our money into building societies. I also buy whopping great insurance policies.’3
Sometimes, he didn’t have to do anything at all. On one occasion, Brooksby claimed to have been sent a box containing £3,000 in notes, accompanied by a note from an unnamed woman saying she wanted to buy Jimmy Savile a watch for Christmas. Brooksby spent the money on an 18-carat gold Rolex encrusted with 80 diamonds. In return, the star offered up his old watch as a raffle prize and appealed for the woman to contact his business manager so that he could ‘take her for a trip round London in a charity ambulance and give her a cup of tea’.4
But the discipline Savile spoke of in relation to his latest, heavily endorsed sponsored run was not only required for the extraction of revenue from any given situation. It is now evident Savile needed to apply it in keeping a tighter rein on his sexual appetites. Jim’ll Fix It had pulled in more than 15 million viewers a week in its first season, and in doing so had made its host an icon for daydreaming children everywhere. Allied to the growing fanfare for his charity work, he now had a lot more to lose from bad publicity or, worse, exposure.
‘I’m wondering … [if he] suddenly saw, particularly with Jim’ll Fix It, that there was this immense respectability coming to him, this saintliness,’ reflected Roger Ordish. ‘Maybe he thought, “One day, I’ll get a knighthood so maybe I should mend my ways or at least be a damn sight more careful about how I do these things.”’
As always, managing this vast deceit remained a high-wire act, albeit one that Jimmy Savile appeared to be enjoying. When Lord Justice Lawton sat on an Appeals Court hearing for a 17-year-old part-time disc jockey who had been given a detention order, he offered the opinion that such work could result in ‘indulging in occasions for sin’. An enterprising reporter contacted well-known radio DJs such as David Hamilton, Tony Prince and Nicky Horne, who all took the opportunity to hit back. But not Jimmy Savile. ‘The geezer’s 100 per cent right,’ he said. ‘If you get into clubs and places like that you are coming up against all sorts of temptations – drugs and under-aged birds and things. This is the 1976 temptation. Some of us go down and some of us don’t – it’s the responsibility of the person involved.’5
This was classic Savile, rebuffing allegations with a nod to what he was up to away from prying eyes – smoking cannabis with police officers, coercing underage girls into sex, lulling parents and hospital workers into a trance of compliance – while reinforcing his newly earned credentials as a pillar of society.
That same month, at a Scarborough conference for Young Conservatives, he took another step closer to the inner circles of power after being introduced, in her hotel suite, to Margaret Thatcher, who had recently been installed as leader of the opposition. Savile took his opportunity to make an impression by gallantly clearing the suite when it became clear Thatcher wanted to go to bed. It was a gesture that sowed the seeds for a long and close relationship, the next stage of which was to see her grant him an exclusive one-hour interview for Speakeasy, followed by an item for Jim’ll Fix It in which two girls got to ask her questions in her office at the Houses of Parliament.
In March, the Listener, the BBC-produced magazine designed to provide ‘a medium for intelligent reception of broadcast programmes’, ran a profile piece that further endorsed Jimmy Savile’s new stature. On the one hand it celebrated the ‘amazing ability of the BBC to absorb, contain and afford expression to the most eccentric and wayward of talents, while remaining true to itself, particularly in the case of Jimmy Savile, OBE’. On the other it pinpointed the ‘curious form of media-inspired solipsism that allows [Savile] to disappear so effectively as a private citizen’.
The most revealing words come in the profile’s concluding paragraph: ‘[Jimmy Savile] has graduated from disc-jockey to “personality”, and now, he just has to be. He serves on advisory hospital boards and rubs shoulders with royalty – a member of the establishment, in fact.’6
His halo was being buffed and polished: a second series of Jim’ll Fix It; a gold medal from the Grand Order of the Knights of Malta, a Catholic charitable organisation; and the announcement that he would once again be marching for peace in Belfast, this time alongside Betty Williams and Mairead Corrigan, the women who had sparked a spontaneous movement in Ulster after Corrigan’s sister lost three children in a confrontation between two IRA operatives and members of the British army. The march, in November 1976, would see Jimmy Savile lead more than 10,000 teenagers from both sides of the sectarian divide from Ormeau Embankment in east Belfast to Crawfordsburn Country Park in County Down.
Entranced by his own omnipotence, Savile took it upon himself to berate the Labour government for its 90 per cent tax bracket on the highest earners in society, shortly before revealing some of the deals that allowed him to play the Inland Revenue like a fiddle. But in the course of his now habitual grandstanding about the size of his personal wealth, he made an uncharacteristically sloppy mistake by reminding Salford Council he was still paying just £10 a week in rent on the flat at Ascot Court on Bury New Road, and using it on only a handful of occasions each year.
‘No, I don’t feel guilty about having a council flat while others are homeless,’ he barked, having just boasted about owning a nightclub complex in Bournemouth, the Maison Royale, that had been valued at over £1 million. ‘I do a fair bit for charity.’7
Days later, as he prepared to celebrate his 50th birthday, Savile opened the papers to discover that his throwaway comment about the council flat had blown up in his face. ‘Morally, he shouldn’t think twice about remaining in the property,’ said a spokesman for Shelter, the homeless charity. His Ascot Court neighbours were equally dismissive. At a time when there were more than 6,000 people on Salford’s housing list, the council’s housing committee chairman described the situation as ‘deplorable’.8
Dave Eager told
me that Savile was incandescent. ‘[He] rang me up and said, “Go to the caretaker, get the keys and take all my personal possessions out of the flat.” He told Salford Council they could have the flat back with all the furniture. The idea that a Labour councillor should try to get a story on his back when he’d done nothing wrong, and not even have the courtesy of speaking to him first, well, he found it objectionable. He said he didn’t want anything more to do with Salford.’
If there was one thing Jimmy Savile hated more than being parted from his money, it was being publicly embarrassed. His response was to attempt to spin the story back onto a more favourable trajectory by insisting he would leave his furniture and television, as long as the flat went to a needy couple. It didn’t work. He only had himself to blame.
Soon after moving his belongings out of the 10th-floor apartment in Salford, Jimmy Savile also sold the old family house on Consort Terrace in Leeds.
As Colin Semper said, Jimmy Savile’s natural intelligence (a Mensa test, completed at Broadmoor Hospital under the supervision of a consultant psychiatrist, awarded him an IQ of 150, putting him in the top one per cent in the country) was occasionally hostage to the darker forces at work in his nature. But in the baking hot summer of the Silver Jubilee year, and the 12 months that followed, such considerable mental power was not sufficient to prevent him from making a series of atypical, and potentially costly slip-ups.
The first came in July. Soon after being interviewed by a newspaper while surrounded by teenage girls in his dressing room at Top of the Pops, Jimmy Savile went to stay at Henlow Grange health farm in Bedfordshire. He said it was in preparation for a world record bid on the number of Channel crossings in a day, a stunt that would earn £10,000 for Action Research for the Crippled Child, and doubtless more in advertising kickbacks from the Hovercraft company.
At Henlow Grange, Savile met a 16-year-old trainee beautician named Julie Ball. She said he charmed her and drove her home where he signed autographs for local children and sat up late talking with her family. The very next night, he took the teenage girl to see a play in Letchworth. She said they had to leave early because of the commotion he caused.
On the drive home, Julie Ball reported they cruised around country lanes until Jimmy Savile found a quiet lay-by. ‘He put soft romantic music on the stereo,’ she said. ‘We sat and talked. Then he climbed into the passenger seat beside me … We kissed and cuddled for half an hour and he kept on saying, “This is special.” He was very passionate.’
The 16-year-old told the News of the World that she thought she was in love with the star of Jim’ll Fix It and Top of the Pops, but admitted that ‘it’s too early to talk of plans of any kind’.9
When the newspaper put Julie’s claims to Jimmy Savile, he didn’t flinch. ‘Yes, I took her for a spin in my car. It was, I thought, a treat for her after the kindness her family had shown me. But no way did we stop for a kiss and a cuddle.’ He insisted Julie’s mother had contacted him to explain that a freelance journalist had offered her daughter £50 for the story, and he’d advised her to take it: ‘Julie is a very pretty girl and this is her moment of glory. When I found out what was being said I didn’t want to leap about and say, “That’s not true.” It wasn’t hurting me and I suppose it was doing something for the girl.’
Daphne Ball believed her daughter’s account of her evening with Jimmy Savile, although she didn’t seem particularly worried about what had happened. ‘After meeting Jimmy I trusted him and liked him,’ she said.
Julie, though, was distraught to learn what the man she had fallen in love with had to say about their tryst. ‘He must be trying to preserve his image,’ she said.
It is another textbook example of Jimmy Savile’s approach: the subtle grooming of the parents, the ride in the Rolls-Royce, the sweet nothings and then the decisive move to claim what he’d wanted from the outset. Then, as he had done in numerous other situations, he rode it out. He even managed to twist the first and only kiss and tell story to appear about him by making the nation feel complicit through sharing what he had been up to with a girl barely above the age of consent.
No more was said about Julie Ball in the days, weeks and months that followed. But it turns out she was not the only object of Jimmy Savile’s lust during his week at the health farm.
Claire (not her real name) was an 18-year-old chambermaid at Henlow Grange. She told a newspaper that Savile asked her to serve him breakfast in his room. Lewd comments about her breasts quickly escalated into groping her until one day she opened his door to find him lying naked on the bed with an erection. ‘I felt disgusted and humiliated,’ said Claire. ‘I tried everything not to be sent back to his room again.’
Two weeks after the Julie Ball story, Savile let his guard slip once again. After breaking his ankle in a charity walk for Belford Hospital in the Scottish Highlands, he was on crutches as he hobbled onto the Mallaig to Glasgow train. At Queen Street station he was met by an 18-year-old model who he described as having become ‘a very close friend’10 over the course of the previous three years.
‘She is probably the most beautiful of the people who are around to meet me when I travel to their part of the world,’ Savile said of the girl. ‘If I was contemplating marriage, I would hope it would be to a girl like her.’ There was no comment about the fact that his ‘friendship’ had started when the girl was just 15.
There was no comment either about the fact Jimmy Savile was appearing in a series of newspaper advertisements for Start-rite shoes at the time. The campaign consisted of a full-page photo of the wide-eyed pillar of the establishment holding up an infant’s sandal. The slogan above the picture read: ‘“They’re No. 1 for school, gals!” Jimmy Savile OBE.’
*
In 1977, Janie Jones was released from prison. Three years earlier she had been found guilty on seven charges of controlling prostitutes and four charges of attempting to pervert the course of justice at London’s Old Bailey. She had also faced charges of blackmail but been cleared. The madam and former pop singer had spent 200 days on remand and been refused bail on 13 occasions. She was sentenced to seven years imprisonment.
At her first Old Bailey trial, Jones had been found not guilty of offering sexual favours to disc jockeys as an inducement to play records. Her part in organising sex parties for President Records in her Kensington flat had nevertheless provided some of the most salacious detail in the payola scandal, the sordid affair exposed by the News of the World that had eventually forced Jimmy Savile into defending his own reputation and that of the BBC.
Jones served three years in Holloway where she became friendly with the Moors murderer Myra Hindley, who convinced her the killings of five children were the sole responsibility of her lover, Ian Brady. On her release, Jones became an outspoken supporter of Hindley, arguing she was a reformed woman and should be granted an early release.
It was around this time that she claims to have received a strange summons from Jimmy Savile who had been the DJ at the New Elizabethan Ballroom, one of Brady and Hindley’s favourite Manchester haunts before their arrest. ‘He was bragging that he had met Ian Brady,’ said Jones. ‘He said it was disgraceful that I was siding with Hindley against [him].’11
Savile could have conceivably met Brady in Manchester or during one of his occasional visits to various maximum-security prisons, although it’s understood the psychopath spent much of his time in solitary confinement. But on what possible grounds could he defend the sadistic Moors murderer?
Perhaps his experiences at Broadmoor had turned Jimmy Savile into a more understanding individual but it’s more likely, in my opinion, that he recognised something of himself in a man who had manipulated and dominated others, and who possessed the same blend of charm, narcissism and utter lack of empathy and remorse for what he had done.
But sticking up for Ian Brady wasn’t all that was on Jimmy Savile’s mind in that meeting, as Janie Jones recalled. He was particularly fascinated by the parties she held at which
women dressed as schoolgirls. ‘[Savile] just kept saying that he could not understand why people went on about 13-year-old girls because they were “gagging” for it,’ she said. ‘I told him that anybody who wants to go with a 13-year-old is a paedophile.’
44. YOUR PORTER HURT ME
In 1977, a 12-year-old girl went into Stoke Mandeville Hospital to have her tonsils removed. Now in her late forties, she recalls that rather than being in a bed alongside other children, she was put on a geriatric ward.
The woman first reported her experiences to officers working on Operation Yewtree, and this is the subsequent statement she made to a former police child protection officer employed by Slater & Gordon, the firm representing scores of Jimmy Savile’s other victims. Liz Dux, a specialist child abuse lawyer with the firm, employed the services of the child protection expert because, in her words, ‘She was able to say straight away whether she believed they [those making allegations] were telling the truth, because she knows the sort of things that victims remember.’
I feel it is appropriate, with her permission, to let this woman’s account speak for itself.
‘I remember being bored and asking one of the nurses if I could go into the day room to watch television. I imagine she was glad to agree because I had been making a nuisance of myself on the ward. The nurse directed me to a day room which was a short walk down the corridor. I was wearing a flimsy homemade nightdress that came down to my knees, with a dressing gown over the top. I was a very slight build and my hair was in two pigtails.
‘As I went through the ward door on my way to the day room I saw a skinny man wearing a long coat. He was also wearing brown tracksuit-style trousers. By this I mean the trousers that he was wearing had no buttons or a zip. He had white to blond shoulder-length hair and was wearing heavy rings and a gold chain around his neck. He was smoking a cigar. I didn’t recognise the man at the time.
