Michael Litchfield - The Secret Life Of Freddie Mills: National Hero. Boxing Champion. Serial Killer
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- Book:The Secret Life Of Freddie Mills: National Hero. Boxing Champion. Serial Killer
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The Secret Life Of Freddie Mills: National Hero. Boxing Champion. Serial Killer: summary, description and annotation
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All the victims were prostitutes. All were dumped naked after having been stored by their killer as sex toys. Some of them were mothers. Each was someones daughter. And for more than fifty years the author has lived with the haunting secret that he was once suspected by Scotland Yard of being a serial killer more depraved and dangerous than Jack the Ripper.
In the killing-spree that lasted more than a year, the author had a mole deep inside Scotland Yards Murder Squad, similar to Deep Throat of Watergate scandal, who was drip-feeding him the step-by-step ploys to snare the monster who brought terror to the streets of West London.
Hundreds of police women, posing as prostitutes, flooded the red-light districts, hoping to be selected by the killer - more hopeful, though, that the back-up would swoop to the rescue in time. At one point, Scotland Yard feared that a prostitute, missing for more than a fortnight, had become the eighth victim and appealed to the public for help. It took the author just eleven hours to track her down and hand her alive and well to the Murder Squad.
When the killings stopped, the most senior member of the Murder Squad claimed that the serial killer had committed suicide and an innocent man was named in a deceitful cover-up. The author fingers therealserial killer, a celebrity and national treasure who died in circumstances arguably even more bizarre than the manner in which he murdered his victims.
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F irst and foremost I must thank Bob Berry, who was a detective sergeant with Scotland Yards Murder Squad during the 1960s, for his friendship and invaluable assistance. Without his input and guidance during those heady, crazy days of the Swinging Sixties, this book would have been impossible.
More recently, I was given immense help by staff of the British Museum in London. Their kindness, diligence and willingness to help at all times with good humour were much appreciated.
Finally, but of course not least, I owe a debt of great gratitude to my editor at John Blake Publishing, the incomparable Toby Buchan. His patience, understanding and calming influence, as always, have made it a joy to write for him.
AUTHORS NOTE
R eaders might reasonably ask how I can remember conversations of so long ago that werent recorded electronically or with contemporaneous notes. The answer to that is with the reverse question: How could I possibly forget? With a subject of this enormity, a rollercoaster saga of such staggering magnitude inexorably building to a climax that defies the laws of imagination and plausibility, it is inevitable that the zeitgeist of those times have crystallised in my memory, rather than dimming and withering. Of course I have been helped by police records and media microfilm, but the most illuminating elements of this narrative come from my own personal involvement and the dialogue in which I was a participant. Of course, some words and phrases will be inaccurately juxtaposed, but to paraphrase would squander the quality of characterisation; speech, for example, the argot of gangland London was very personified.
One mystery that remains is what happened to the tape-recording of a confession to John du Rose (shortly before he became Deputy Assistant Commissioner at Scotland Yard) by the serial killer, who was never charged, for reasons that will become clear. The reflex is to find his cover-up implausible. Surely the natural reaction would be for him to have revealed his historic coup in his autobiography and bathe in the kudos? Not so. The problem for devious du Rose was that the tape was a double-edged sword. He had a confession and had the man cornered literally, in a Masonic bar, but instead of arresting him there and then, he struck a deal, with a special, trusting handshake. To have exposed the existence of that tape and to admit that he had allowed the serial killer to walk away, would have damned du Rose for ever, making him The Idiot of the Yard, rather than bathing him in glory. And he knew it, more than anybody. So I guess the recording was destroyed. In his favour, he would have been acutely aware, from an earlier disaster, that a confession on its own would not have been enough.
Nevertheless, instead of the real plural killer being named, blamed and shamed, du Rose fingered an innocent. A disposable man, someone unable to fight back because carbon monoxide fumes from his car in a locked garage had silenced him, to du Roses cynical and sickening advantage.
MICHAEL LITCHFIELD
F or more than half a century, since his mysterious death, the memory of Freddie Mills has been preserved and polished like a national treasure.
Freddie was a winner. A national hero. A world champion. He fought his way to the top from humble beginnings. He was proud of his heritage. He was proud of his family. He was proud that he conquered the world in the name of his country. And his country was proud of him.
In life, his image of a lovable rogue was carefully crafted. His tousled black hair, craggy features and cheeky grin endeared him to millions, even those with no interest in pugilism, or who even hated it for its raw violence. He transcended all class and cultural frontiers. Lion-hearted to the last, the epitome of true grit or so it seemed. So goes the legend, unfortunately a mirage, a myth of gigantic proportions.
Since the twilight days of his sporting career, he was dogged by dark rumours which followed him like a menacing stalker. Some worse than others, one of them unspeakable, though never established publicly. Until now.
Time is not always a healer. Even after so long, skeletons in cupboards can start to rattle, refusing to lie down and finding new life. And so it is the case with Mills.
Although to the unsuspecting reader it may seem that Mills does not appear on stage in this saga until relatively late, let me assure you that his footprint is on every page, so too his darkling shadow.
From the beginning to the end, this is the narrative of a Freddie Mills that a cabal of influential people tried to keep secret; sadly, a shamed hero.
Hence the title of this book, The Secret Life of Freddie Mills.
Tragically, in many respects, no longer a secret.
T he two detectives were waiting for me in the living room of my home in Kempston, a first-time-buyers suburb of Bedford. My first impression was that the strangers were a pair of cold-call salesmen, probably flogging life insurance or double-glazing. They were too smart to be Jehovahs Witnesses. Not smart enough to be clean-cut Mormon cheerleaders.
I was annoyed that my wife, Pearl, had allowed them over the threshold. When hustlers came calling, she was normally quick at hoisting the drawbridge: Not today, thank you; Im afraid one of my husbands hungry pet pythons has just got loose.
Pearl was in the room, head lowered disconsolately, standing uncomfortably in front of an armchair by the fireplace, her back to the small fence-enclosed garden, where our toddler daughter, Joanne, was playing on her tricycle. Pearl seemed to be deliberately eschewing eye contact with me, which signalled a faint alarm.
The men had stood up in unison from the settee as I entered the room. It was just after lunchtime on a Saturday and Id been into town to place a wager on a horse, having had a strong tip from racehorse trainer John Bartholomew, who was based in Kent. Wed become close friends since Id started an investigation on his behalf to establish that a charlatan solicitor had defrauded him of a sizeable inheritance from his late fathers estate. Bartholomew Snr had been the mentor of Fred Winter, who rode and later trained horses for the Queen Mother, with several Grand National winners to his name.
Were detectives from Bedford police station, but were acting on behalf of Scotland Yard, on a very serious matter, said the obvious senior of the two men. You are Mr Michael Litchfield?
If Scotland Yard hadnt been mentioned, I might have replied facetiously, Well, Im not the milkman. He only calls after Ive gone to work. Instead, I just said, Yes, simultaneously throwing my wife daggers that pleaded, What the hells going on here? But still she had her eyes focused on her slippers.
And you do live at this address?
Again a flippant reply was invited, No, Im just the burglar, but wisely I refrained. I was picking up bad vibes. Two detectives in my house on a mission for Scotland Yard; this was no trivial matter like a motoring offence or an unpaid parking fine. This had to be heavy-duty stuff, something endorsed by Pearls edginess.
I do, I said simply, answering the second question, as if repeating my wedding vows.
Im afraid its necessary for you to come with us to the police station in order to clarify the situation, said the spokesman, stiffly. What situation? No subject had been mentioned. Whats this all about? I asked. Did my wife know? If she did, she wasnt saying. All telepathic communications between us had been broken. I dont know if its possible to feel oneself going pale, but if it is thats exactly how I felt. Bloodless.
I think the subject is one youd rather not have aired in front of your wife, sir. Its essential you come with us to the police station in order to clarify things. The transparent code within this mischievously
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