Preface ‘Suicide Girl Kills Twins and Parents’ bellowed the Daily Express headline on 8 August 1985. Beside a hauntingly beautiful photograph of the young woman and her two smiling children the article began: ‘A farming family affectionately dubbed “the Archers” was slaughtered in a bloodbath yesterday. Brandishing a gun taken from her father’s collection, deranged divorcee Sheila Bamber, 28, first shot her twin six-year-old sons. She gunned down her father as he tried to phone for help. Then she murdered her mother before turning the automatic .22 rifle on herself.’ Twenty-four-year-old Jeremy Bamber had raised the alarm shortly before 3.30am on Wednesday, 7 August 1985. He told police that he had just received a phone call from his father to the effect that Sheila had ‘gone berserk’ with a gun. Officers met him at the family home, White House Farm in Tolleshunt D’Arcy, Essex; Jeremy worked there but lived alone three miles away. Firearms units arrived but it wasn’t deemed safe to enter the house until 7.45am. They found sixty-one-year-old Nevill Bamber in the kitchen, beaten and shot eight times; his wife June, also sixty-one, lay in the doorway of the master bedroom, shot seven times; Sheila’s six-year-old twin sons, Nicholas and Daniel, had been repeatedly shot in their beds, while Sheila herself lay a few feet from her mother, the rifle on her body, its muzzle pointing at her chin and a Bible at her side. The two bullet wounds in her throat caused some consternation, but the knowledge that she suffered from schizophrenia, coupled with Nevill’s call to his son and the apparent security of the house, convinced police that it was a murder-suicide. For weeks to come, the tabloids gorged themselves on salacious stories about ‘Hell Raiser Bambi’, the ‘girl with mad eyes’, whom they claimed had been expelled from two schools before becoming a ‘top model’ with a wild social life that resulted in a £40,000 drug debt linking her to a string of country house burglaries. June Bamber, too, was condemned as a religious fanatic with little else to her character. When journalist Yvonne Roberts visited Tolleshunt D’Arcy that September for a more restrained article in London’s Evening Standard, one local told her: ‘What upsets us is that the whole family’s life has been reduced to a series of newspaper headlines. And none of them has got it right.’ Jeremy Bamber’s surviving relations believed the police hadn’t got it right either. They informed officers that Sheila had lived for her children and had no knowledge of firearms, while the medication she took to control her illness left her physically weak and uncoordinated. The rifle’s magazine was stiff to load and the killer had done so at least twice in order to disgorge twenty-five shots, all of which had found their mark. The killer had also overpowered Nevill Bamber, who was six feet, four inches tall and physically very fit. Furthermore, the dissenting relatives told how they had located the rifle’s silencer (technically known as a sound moderator) in a cupboard at the farm on the Saturday after the murders. It bore red paint which forensic experts linked to scratches on the mantelpiece above the Aga where Nevill had been found, and blood inside the baffles was identified as belonging to Sheila’s blood group. Since the first wound to her throat was incapacitating and the second immediately fatal, it followed that she could not have gone downstairs after shooting herself to put away the silencer; nor did she have the reach to pull the trigger when the silencer was attached to the weapon. The Bambers were a wealthy family. Soon after the murders, Jeremy began selling antiques from the farmhouse and his sister’s flat in London, ostensibly to raise funds for the death duties he would be required to pay on his inheritance. But a few weeks later his ex-girlfriend Julie Mugford came forward with an extraordinary story: fuelled by jealousy and greed, Jeremy had been plotting to kill his family for at least eighteen months and had hired an assassin to carry out the murders for £2,000. Detectives quickly established that the alleged hit man (a local plumber) had a solid alibi and concluded that Jeremy had committed the murders himself; he had already admitted to stealing almost £1,000 from the family caravan site six months earlier ‘to prove a point’. In her testimony, Julie stated that Jeremy had ended their relationship when she became too upset at having to conceal the truth about the shootings. He dismissed her claims as the bitter fulminations of a jilted woman – she was enraged that he had left her for someone else. But seven weeks after the murders, he was charged with killing his family. ‘It comes down to this: do you believe Julie Mugford or do you believe Jeremy Bamber?’ declared the judge at Chelmsford Crown Court in October 1986. The jury deliberated the question overnight and by a 10–2 majority found Jeremy guilty. Told that he would serve a minimum of twenty-five years in prison, in 1988 his tariff was increased to whole life. ‘Too forgettable,’ was Madame Tussauds’ verdict one month after the trial, when asked by a Today reporter if they would be installing a wax mannequin of Jeremy Bamber in the Chamber of Horrors. But largely through his own efforts, Jeremy has remained in the public eye, steadfastly maintaining his innocence. Either he is truthful and the British justice system has meted out an appalling miscarriage of justice against a man already suffering an incalculable loss, or he is a callous, calculating killer whose attempts to gain freedom are another example of his psychopathy. Since the failure of his first appeal in 1989, Jeremy has fastidiously worked his way through the case papers, putting forwards various scenarios absolving him of guilt. Although any of these have yet to result in an acquittal, he has seized the chance to distribute sections of the material to the media and other interested parties. As a consequence, virtually every news story about the murders originates from him via his legal team and campaigners. One commentary on the case describes this ‘repeated overlaying of detail through the production of new evidence’ as having the effect of ‘dilating rather than clarifying the story and making the violence at its core even harder to grasp’. A detailed examination of all the issues raised by Jeremy Bamber and his successive lawyers in their attempts to overturn his conviction falls outside the scope of this book; indeed, it would fill a book of its own. The list of sources includes those websites where more information can be found, but every issue put forward since the trial has been considered by various administrations, including the Police Complaints Authority, the City of London Police, the Criminal Cases Review Commission (CCRC) and the Appeal Court itself. None have been upheld. Likewise, reports commissioned from experts by Jeremy’s lawyers since his case last reached the Appeal Court in 2002 have failed to convince the CCRC that there is any new evidence or legal argument capable of raising a real possibility of quashing his conviction. Nonetheless, there are puzzling aspects to the case, such as how a guilty Jeremy managed to overcome three adults and why they met their deaths at the particular spots in which they were found. A possible ‘solution’ is presented here, in Appendix I, based on the known evidence and following consultation with experts who worked on the case originally. Jeremy’s own solution is simple: he did not do it. The difficulties with that scenario are the reasons he remains in prison. Opinions of Jeremy Bamber are profoundly contradictory. Those who believe in his innocence are voluble about his courage, strength and compassion, while those certain of his guilt detest him with equal vehemence, describing a man who never accepts responsibility for any wrongdoing and is swift to dispense with friendships that no longer serve a purpose to his campaign. The disparities make his personality difficult to pin down with authority. ‘I will give you access to the truth,’ Jeremy pledged in an early letter to me, after I wrote to him via his then lawyer Simon McKay. Naturally, he is willing to cooperate with anyone whom he believes will at the very least give him a fair hearing, which I have tried to do. His first letter, dated 24 May 2012, began: ‘I have read your book Roses from the Earth as part of my research as a guide with the Anne Frank exhibition, it was put on at this prison a couple of years ago and for two weeks I showed people around . . . I was also lucky enough to attend a talk by two local Ausvich (spelling, sorry) survivors, being able to share coffee and a one on one conversation with them during this Anne Frank fortnight. I have since read at least 30 different books about the horrors of these hideous places – how did anyone endure such awfulness, is it clinging to hope no matter what? My experience in no way compares and I feel shame for trying to even understand the motivation – but I think hope is what makes the difference in me between life and death. Not for freedom, but for the truth to be acknowledged by the courts.’ From then on, I wrote to him with my questions and he would reply promptly in his trademark capitals. His letters varied in length from a couple of pages to fifteen or more sides of A4 paper. Very often he would highlight areas of his case which he felt deserved closer scrutiny, especially when he was working on submissions to the CCRC, enclosing various documents with his letters. As a prisoner claiming a miscarriage of justice, he is allowed access to the voluminous material on his case, including crime scene photographs. Some documentation is kept in files inside his cell but much of it is housed elsewhere in the prison and he has to put in a request for those items he wishes to view. In July 2012, he wrote that he was sifting through the papers on his case again – some three-and-a-half-million pages ‘fitted together like a jigsaw’ – that had been placed on a database and ‘without getting too excited, we now have the key to the gate . . . If we can find verifiable proof of life in the house when I’m outside with the coppers then the case has to collapse immediately – it has to be confirmed proof of life to be a slam dunk point – well I have found that evidence – it was edited from the original case papers on the orders of the Dep. Director of Public Prosecutions in 1985 . . .’ This related to an alleged sighting of a figure at a window just hours before the murders were discovered. At the same time, he was examining the official logs of the police operation at White House Farm, declaring that what he had found moved his case into ‘a new and exciting area . . . my guess is that this will unravel very, very quickly.’ On 27 September 2012 he asserted: ‘The DPP should be invited to step in and grant me immediate bail as the crown cannot sustain my conviction.’ Three days later he wrote again, aggrieved that his arguments were not being dealt with quickly enough. His letter reflected his low, angry mood as he turned to the subject of his murdered family: I have no desire to see my name in print, I don’t even care that you might actually write a book that’s 100% championing my innocence – you’re not going to tell me something I don’t already know – so this is about my deceased family and setting the record straight for them, highlighting the difficulties society has with mental illness and sympathetically dealing with the issues around women who kill . . . Sheila doesn’t have a voice to explain why or what she was experiencing, or whether she even knew what she was doing. I won’t let anyone just prosecute her as some sort of evil lunatic – I’m all she has to rely on to speak for her . . . It’s also important that mum and dad are portrayed properly . . . no one has stood up for them, put them in a proper light, again it’s my duty to tell it as it was . . . As for the boys, the only person who should decide on how they are written about is their dad Colin . . . they are the ultimate innocents and the greatest tragedy of all this . . . I owe it to my family to speak for them . . . my relatives are keeping silent as they are scared they’d let the truth out and then have to give back all the money they have gorged on over the years that was never rightfully theirs. He apologized in his next letter ‘for having a bit of a rant . . . If I have an excuse it’s that I get myself pretty frustrated at everything.’ Usually he tended not to write until his depression had passed, explaining in November 2012 that his lawyer had advised him to hold back on the ‘logs issue’ until a decision had been made about his Judicial Review: ‘I’ve just had a period of despondency and it’s all to do with having found the evidence which will set me free at last. I know if it was the other way round arrests would be made – but the state doesn’t want to fall on its sword.’ Often he wrote of his fury at the police officers who had helped convict him (‘He is going to hell in a handcart – well, Belmarsh first . . . he is corrupt to the very rotten core’) and was disappointed when his lawyer told him that ‘police corruption’ was ‘never going to be accepted’ in his case and that new forensic evidence would give him a better chance of winning an appeal. Mostly he remained upbeat and open, writing occasionally about other matters, such as the revelations about Jimmy Savile’s prolific sex abuse: ‘The whole thing is just so vile it makes my skin crawl. But I suppose that when they do a proper enquiry into my case and the actions of Essex Police that other people will feel the same way about what has been done to secure my conviction.’ He wrote in March 2013 to say that he had read virtually all 340,000 pages of PII [Public Interest Immunity] material, ‘placing them in context with the 3 million plus pages of disclosed documents – then editing it all down to manageable files on each key issue. I completed the work at 2am this morning. In the last 18 months I’ve been to sleep before 2am on maybe ten occasions, most night I work until 2.30 to 3am. I was only allowed my laptop [an access to justice computer he was temporarily permitted to use] from lock up at 6.40pm, and 5pm Friday to Sunday.’ In October 2013 he was pursuing ‘a new legal angle’ and the following month he mentioned ‘doing some of the most amazing research which is producing a long series of new strands of evidence – shocking.’ Significant reforms were brought into force in prisons on 1 November 2013. Since then, reasonable behaviour is not enough to earn inmates their privileges; they are expected to work actively towards their own rehabilitation and some privileges have been permanently withdrawn. When Jeremy wrote again it was following the temporary loss of his enhanced privilege status: ‘I’ve had a really tough time over the past 6 weeks – I’m not allowed to discuss it or this letter will be stopped.’ His research, however, had taken a new turn and ‘the reason I’ve just spent Christmas 29 in jail is because the truth of what happened at the farmhouse is so unbelievable that no one is going to accept this as the truth unless they see all the evidence.’ His letters tailed off. HMP Full Sutton is situated a little over three miles across farmland from my home, but a planned visit failed to materialize, with Jeremy stating that the stricter regulations meant that ‘you won’t get permission to see me while I’m in jail, not in a million years.’ In April 2014 he wrote to say that he was still working on his appeal submission: ‘Discoveries are numerous and I don’t expect to be in prison too much longer.’ Three months later he sent word that he would ‘continue contact once my conviction is overturned’ and in December he wrote for a final time to explain briefly that he could no longer write ‘meaningful’ letters about his case. Not having met Jeremy has its advantages and disadvantages. It makes it easier to be objective and largely negates accusations of having been taken in by him, but obviously it is difficult to form a solid opinion of someone without meeting them. In his letters, he is – or can affect that he is – charming, always personable, solicitous, witty, and has a magpie mind for the minutiae of his case. But at the same time he seems arrogant and curiously shallow, fixated on revenge, and is undoubtedly manipulative, as most high-profile prisoners are. Jeremy offered to ‘fact check’ this book ‘either chapter by chapter or once you’ve written it – I would not change anything or urge you to do so, but simply correct any facts you’ve got wrong and provide verification on anything I suggest is wrong and should be changed . . . It’ll annoy me if you get things wrong, not the evidence stuff – as you don’t have an excuse for getting that wrong, but all the other info that makes the case have position and context.’ He agreed with my reasons for declining, adding that he hoped to be out anyway before publication, in which eventuality ‘they’ll want a book from me.’ He has not seen any part of The Murders at White House Farm in any form, nor have his friends or campaign team. Among the many interviews conducted for this book were several with leading figures from the 1985 enquiry, including a number of former police officers, pathologist Peter Vanezis, Sheila’s psychiatrist Dr Hugh Ferguson and ballistics expert Malcolm Fletcher. The sentiment of those retired officers who declined to be interviewed can be summed up in the words of one former detective inspector: ‘A long time has passed since this awful crime was committed and without documentation it can be a little dangerous for anyone to completely rely on their memory for facts. Yes, some facts will never be forgotten but there is bound to be a little variance over time in some matters. There is likely to be further litigation and I wouldn’t want to be party to any compromise of any investigation, enquiry, or judicial proceedings that may take place in the future.’ Some offered their insights but wished to remain anonymous, with one ex-officer providing a more personal explanation: ‘I have reservations about revisiting what was a terrible time for me and rocked me to the core emotionally. Even writing this short email, I can feel my heart beating faster.’ I have also drawn on several thousand pages of unpublished documentation such as witness statements, police records, court documents, personal letters, notebooks and memoirs in an effort to write a balanced, comprehensive study of the case. To those who find endnotes a distraction, I apologize; the book can be read without referring to them, but for the sake of transparency and also to reflect where memories and opinions have altered with the passage of time, some explanation of sources is necessary. Although there are no crime scene photographs in this book, readers should be aware that some of those which appear on the internet and elsewhere in print have been substantially re-touched. Likewise, several sources mention the statement of an electrician who visited White House Farm two days before the shootings, apparently fearing for his life after being confronted by Sheila shouting abuse at him. The encounter is fictitious; there is no record of anything resembling it and certainly no statement. Nor did Sheila make a hysterical visit to Tolleshunt D’Arcy monastery shortly before her death. Some sources also inaccurately recount statements; wherever possible, I have quoted directly from the originals in order to avoid any confusion. A number of themes recur throughout the case, with money and morality thornily intertwined. On a superficial level, whether we believe Jeremy Bamber to be innocent or guilty, it is hard not to view him as a product of his time – Thatcher’s Britain and the era of Loadsamoney, Yuppies, the Big Bang and Gordon Gekko’s ‘Greed, for the lack of a better word, is good’ ethic. Most of those who knew Jeremy thought of him as the brash young chancer who believed he could and should have it all: a home of his own, a smart car, gadgets, designer clothes, holidays in the sun and a lively social life. All those things, in short, which are now widely regarded as necessities in our flagrantly materialistic society. But thirty years ago, in the Bambers’ proudly rural community, such aspirations were seen as a deliberate spurning of traditional values. English culture has long been suffused with nostalgic notions of the countryside and the honest tilling of the soil; when news of the murders broke, most reports followed the Daily Express’s lead in mentioning that the Bambers were known locally as ‘the Archers of D’Arcy’, after the farming family in the popular Radio 4 drama. ‘England is the country and the country is England’, British Prime Minister Stanley Baldwin had declared in 1924. The underlying fear that metropolitan decadence would obliterate the English pastoral dream seemed somehow brutally realized with the Bamber killings. At the heart of the story are familial bonds, ceaseless but volatile, leading to a savage end. And while no one, with the possible exception of Jeremy Bamber, can know exactly what happened inside White House Farm that August night, understanding each individual and their relationships within the family unit is key to making some sort of sense of the incomprehensible.