Violent crime committed by women is extremely rare (more than 90% of homicides are carried out by men), and sexually-motivated murders involving female perpetrators are even more unusual. So much so, in fact, that the names of the few women who have been convicted of such offences take on an almost mythical status in the collective consciousness.
One such killer is Myra Hindley. Even after her death, the public fascination with her continues. There is a Trevor McDonald documentary on ITV that claims that Myra Hindley and Rosemary West had a love affair while both imprisoned at Durham. It seems that there is always another angle, something new to say. But really it is just the same mugshot displayed over and over again on a outraged, horrified loop.
I think most people know her story and have seen her photograph, so I'm choosing not to include either here. As much as I find crime in general interesting, I am growing increasingly uncomfortable with the way true crime literature and media is created and consumed; it is all starting to make me feel a bit ick. One editorial decision that is sometimes made by broadcasters and newspapers is to focus instead on the victims. I have chosen to do that here, but I am still not quite convinced that this is much better. Their widely-circulated photographs render them perpetual victims. Defined by their horrific deaths, they remain suspended in time, consumed over and over again for what is, ultimately, if we are honest with ourselves, simply entertainment. So should we just not talk about it instead? Why do we keep wanting to talk about it?
Edward Evans (17, an apprentice engineer); Keith Bennett (12, whose mother, Winnie, died in 2012 after a five-decade search for her son's body); Pauline Read (16, who was murdered in 1963 and whose body was finally found in 1987); John Killbride (12, who worked at a local market for pocket money); Lesley Ann Downey (10, who was abducted from a fairground she was visiting with her grandmother).
What do we mean when we talk about remembrance? So often, victims are remembered in the media as just that - victims. I have done exactly the same above. We are trying to disguise our fascination with these crimes as some sort of act of commemoration. It isn't. It is entertainment. The same could be said of some historians of crime. On Channel Five (yes, I know), there are approximately 48 million "documentaries" exploring the crimes of Jack the Ripper; in some, the butchered faces of those victims are flashed across the screen every ten minutes or so. Of course, there are more ethical ways of indulging in the fascination and Hallie Rubenhold's book The Five is an incredible work, the brilliance of which lies largely in Rubenhold's refusal to describe her victim's final moments. Instead, she forces the reader to acknowledge the richness of the five women's experiences, and the very basic reality of their humanity. The reactions Rubenhold got when it was published say a lot about the ways in which the living try to claim ownership over the stories of the dead. Even when those stories are inaccurate.
A few years ago I was at the National Archives researching the history of violent crime in South East London. Opening an envelope, three photographs fell out onto the desk. The first showed an untidy and rather sparse 1940s bedroom with hardly any furniture save a bed and a washstand. On one side of the bed was a huge stain which, despite the photograph being black and white, was clearly blood. The other two photos in the envelope were from the post-mortem. The victim, a young woman named Christina who had been murdered by her boyfriend, was laid out on the mortuary slab, naked. One of the images gave an almost-full-length view of her body, while the other was a close-up of some of her wounds. She was almost completely covered with stab wounds. So much so that she looked like a bruised apple.
I replaced the photographs and tried to work out why I felt so guilty. I didn't think I had any right to view her body. It certainly added nothing to my work and even if it had would that justify it? I think about those photographs of Christina often. I still haven't worked out what I really think.
Aberdeen Evening Post, 5th November 1998
The media, meanwhile, continues recycling the trauma for sales, and virtually every month Hindley's name is mentioned, even though she died in 2002. Part of the reason for the obsession is that the punishment is never quite enough, even when that punishment is a whole life term. These sentences have been somewhat controversial, with critics claiming that imprisonment with no possibility of release amount to cruel punishment. In 2017, the European Court of Human Rights ruled that such sentences are legal, that they are in some cases necessary. In 1998, Myra Hindley launched an appeal against her own whole life tariff, which was unanimously rejected. One of the judges at the appeal told the court that 'this is a case which is so bad it would not be appropriate to fix a tariff'. With no viable alternative to endless imprisonment, that is what we are left with. Such sentences are relatively rare - there are less than 100 inmates currently serving time in prison with no minimum term. When Dr Harold Shipman was convicted of fifteen murders and given a whole life tariff on 31st January 2000, he became Britain's most prolific convicted serial killer of the modern age. His suicide a little under four years later did nothing to abate the media obsession with "Dr Death". But very few people can name even one of his victims. Next week I am going to explore why.
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