Hungerford: One Man's Massacre Read online

  Hungerford • One Man's Massacre

  Simba Books

  Copyright © 2012 Jeremy Josephs

  The right of Jeremy Josephs to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner

  Simba Books

  Montpellier, France

  ISBN : 978-0-9571538-5-1

  Brought to you by KeVkRaY

  CONTENTS

  Preface

  Map and Chronology of the Hungerford Massacre

  1 Little Sue

  2 An English Heaven

  3 That shows the power a gun gives you'

  4 A Peaceloving Man

  5 'Something about that Michael Ryan'

  6 Tactical Decisions

  7 'A man in black has shot my mummy'

  8 'A funny sort of grin on his face'

  9 'Be still, and know that I am God'

  10 'Hungerford must be a bit of a mess'

  11 Emergency

  12 'I killed all those people'

  13 A Community in Mourning

  14 'Jesus Christ bless you, Hannah'

  15 'If only we knew why'

  16 'A basic failure of the police'?

  17 'Our Saviour will receive him fittingly'

  For Hannah and James

  PREFACE

  There is a delicate balance to be struck between the genuine desire to inform and the risk of intrusion or the needless reopening of old wounds. In writing this book I am well aware that I stand to be criticized both by those who might wish for a more sensational approach - in short, more gore - and those who feel that the whole subject of Hungerford is so horrendous that it ought not to be touched at all. Whether or not I have managed to strike the right balance is, of course, for the reader to decide.

  A journalist writing in the Sunday Times recently informed readers: 'these days, any mass murderer who manages to get into double figures can rest assured of the attentions of a biographer'. He was right, and I was all the more surprised to discover that no book had been written about Michael Ryan before. But Hungerford: One Man's Massacre is only partly biographical in nature. I would like to emphasize that I am not laying claim to something 'new' on Ryan; far less to the definitive answer to why he took it upon himself to kill on a scale that devastated not just dozens of individuals but an entire community. All I have tried to do is to chart the history of the tragedy at Hungerford, concentrating on some half a dozen individual stories. I remain convinced this is a more satisfactory as well as more practical approach than attempting to recount the experiences of every single person involved.

  Indeed these stories, conveyed to me in a series of detailed interviews, form the core of the book. For this reason I am particularly grateful to Ron Tarry, the former Mayor of Hungerford, the Reverend David Salt, the town's vicar, many of the senior police officers who were involved in the operation and a number of survivors and relatives of Ryan's victims alike. Without their cooperation this book would not exist.

  The majority of people whose cooperation I sought helped me willingly. A minority did not - and if I offended anybody by even asking for their assistance I apologize unconditionally. Nonetheless there is a long list of people to whom I would like to express my gratitude; so long in fact that it is more appropriate here to simply list their names rather than specify the precise manner in which they helped me. So it is thank you very much to Victor Baneth, Robert Bluglass, Liz Brereton, Paul Bright-well, Sue Broughton, Fiona Burtt, Larry Collins, Richard Dawes, Ted Daniels, Ethel Fisher, Laurie Fray, Bill Hamilton, Guytha Hunt, Sylvia Laker, Glyn Lambert, Sue Lane, Jonathan Margolis, Audrey Marsh, Charles Pollard, John Reeve, David Salt, Robert Smith, Tony Stacey and Ron Tarry.

  May the healing of Hungerford continue, long and painful as it is.

  JEREMY JOSEPHS

  Key to map

  Roland and Sheila Mason

  Ken Clements

  PC Roger Brereton

  Abdul Rahman Khan

  George White

  Dorothy Ryan

  Francis Butler

  Marcus 'Barney' Barnard

  Douglas Wainwright

  Eric Vardy

  Sandra Hill

  Jack and Myrtle Gibbs

  Ian Playle

  Chronology of the Hungerford

  killings

  Sue Godfrey, shot while picnicking with her children in the Savemake Forest, west of Hungerford

  1 and 2 Roland and Sheila Mason, shot at their home in South View

  3 Ken Clements, shot while walking along South View towards Hungerford Common

  4 PC Roger Brereton, shot in South View

  5 Abdul Rahman Khan, shot in his garden in Fairview Road

  6 George White, shot in South View while driving Ivor Jackson home from work

  7 Dorothy Ryan, shot not far from her home in South View as she pleaded with her son to stop the shooting

  8 Francis Butler, shot while walking his dog in the Memorial Gardens

  9 Marcus 'Barney' Barnard, shot in Bulpit Lane while driving home

  10 Douglas Wainwright, shot in Priory Avenue while driving with his wife to visit their son

  11 Eric Vardy, shot in Priory Avenue while driving his van

  12 Sandra Hill, shot while driving along Priory Road

  13 and 14 Jack and Myrtle Gibbs, shot in their home in Priory Road

  15 Ian Playle, shot in Priory Road while driving into Hungerford on a shopping trip with his wife and two children

  ONE

  Little Sue

  If it came across as patronizing, it was not meant to; it was really a term of endearment. Only one thing was beyond dispute: its accuracy. Whatever the case, the nickname 'Little Sue' was one to which Sue Godfrey had long been accustomed. For the attractive, auburn-haired, thirty-five-year-old mother of two was destined to never quite reach five feet in height.

  There were times when that elusive extra inch or two would have been very welcome. But although Little Sue eventually gave up on such dreams, Nellie Fisher could still remember some of the problems posed by her granddaughter's diminutive size: 'I'll never forget how much trouble we had finding shoes small enough to fit her on her wedding day. Or how, even when she was grown up, she was still small enough to sit on her father's knee and put her arms around his neck, to give him a hug.'

  Sue Godfrey was always giving hugs. In fact, on the morning of Wednesday 19 August 1987 she had set out with her two children to give her grandmother an especially warm embrace. For Nellie was ninety-five that day, and gathered at her bungalow in the Wiltshire village of North Newnton to celebrate the occasion were Sue's parents, Nellie's granddaughter Joan, and Claire, her great-granddaughter.

  The weather forecast was good: the sun was going to shine for Nellie on this special day. A perfect opportunity, thought Sue, to treat her children, four-year-old Hannah and two-year-old James, to a picnic in the forest on the way. With the children safely strapped in the back of her black Nissan Micra, and picnic and presents packed, she set off to greet the sunshine.

  Sue knew how to love. And she too was loved. 'I was so very lucky to get married to her,' explained her husband Brian 'because I'm the quiet plodder, whereas she was the driving force, so vibrant and full of vitality.'

  Brian Godfrey might well be a plodder, but it has not stopped him holding responsible positions as a computer technician for British Airways and later for the electronics group Racal. It was whil
e working for British Airways that Brian was first introduced to Sue, during the summer of 1975, when she was a ward sister at Battle Hospital in Reading. The attraction was immediate and mutual. One year later, with shoes found for the bride, they were wed. It was a big white wedding, with each and every tradition faithfully honoured.

  'Sue was always so involved in what I was doing at work,' recalls Brian. 'Leaving for home, if something interesting had happened, I'd think, I must tell Sue that. That's not to say that we didn't have our ups and downs. We did. But everything seemed to be working out as planned. And I remember thinking how good life was.'

  That Wednesday Brian Godfrey followed his familiar early-morning routine. He left the family's four-bedroomed bungalow in Clay Hill Road, Burghfield Common, a small village just outside Reading. He loved his home and he loved his family. An only child, Brian now basked in the warmth of family life, especially with his wife's large extended family. In fact, old Nellie Fisher boasted well over two dozen great-grandchildren, of whom Hannah and James were but two.

  'That day I gave Sue a kiss and said, "See you this evening." The kids had come outside and said, "Drive carefully, Daddy" -which was always what Sue said.'

  Little Sue had been tiny from the start. A premature baby weighing only 21b 4oz, she owed her life to the medical staff of Battle Hospital, which she later joined as a trainee nurse. She had worked there until 1984, when she left to have her second child. But in giving birth to her son she found herself engaged in a struggle for her very survival. Sue won the fight and little James Godfrey was her prize.

  Devoting the greater part of her energy to looking after Hannah and James, Sue was nonetheless able to pursue her chosen profession by working weekends at Reading's BUPA-owned Dunedin Hospital. Mother, wife and health-care professional - was there time for anything else? Most certainly. Sister Sue, as some people called her, was both extremely active and popular in her village. In fact in August 1987 she was busy taking over the running of the Toddlers' Club, held three days a week in the village hall, and was a force within the local branch of the National Women's Register. She had gone to school locally, and her parents, Ethel and Harold Fisher, still lived in the neighbouring village of Burghfield. Sue was very much a local girl, with Berkshire in her bones. An item in the village newsletter encapsulated her approach to life. Advertising the National Womens' Register, it read: 'If you are new to Burghfield, get in touch and make friends. Ring Sue.'

  Understandably, Sue had no shortage of friends. That was why she could be sure that the Tupperware party being advertised that week at the local Post Office, and which was due to be held in her home, would be well attended. On Wednesday 19 August, however, there was just one item on the agenda. Her calendar, packed with summer activities and proudly displayed on her kitchen wall, said it all: 'Keep free. Granny 95. Down Granny's.'

  Sue took pride in her personal appearance. For Granny's birthday she was wearing a pretty blue floral dress that seemed to capture the spirit of summer. The children were likewise impeccably turned out, as always, and all the more so on this important day. James sported a Thomas the Tank Engine top, while Hannah wore a pink hairband. Hannah was particularly mature for four, and her mother was in no doubt that her development had been helped enormously by her attendance three days a week at a nursery school.

  Not long after setting out, Sue stopped for petrol at an isolated filling station, the Golden Arrow at Froxfield. Mrs Kakoub Dean, the owner's wife, vividly remembers Sue's visit. Not that their exchange was any different from the sort of chat she might have had with a good many other customers. 'But I do remember her saying, "Isn't it a lovely day", and that she also gave me a nice smile,' Mrs Dean explains.

  For the picnic, Sue could hardly have chosen a more picturesque spot than the Savernake Forest. Situated near the Wiltshire town of Marlborough, it covers some 6000 acres, with trees stretching as far as the eye can see, many of them towering birches. Once kings of England hunted there, but nowadays it is better known as the haunt of survival-training enthusiasts. For all that, the forest has hardly changed, remaining beautiful, cool and silent.

  After parking in Grand Avenue, the main road running through the forest, Sue spread out a blue groundsheet and the children's treat began. As young Hannah would later recall, it was while they were picnicking that another car pulled up not far away. It was a D-registration silver-grey Vauxhall Astra GTE.

  Just before midday, the picnic over, Sue set about packing up with her usual energy and enthusiasm. It would be unforgivable to arrive late at Granny's. Just as she was clearing away the picnic debris, the man who had been sitting in the driver's seat of the Vauxhall got out of his car. It looked like he was making his way towards Little Sue.

  TWO

  An English Heaven

  'I've lived in Hungerford for almost half a century,' Ron Tarry says with pride. The chubby, grey-haired grandfather has twice been the town's mayor. 'My parents moved here shortly after the war. I was a parachute instructor in the RAF at the time, in India -just about at the time of partition - teaching

  Indians how to jump. I've always been very much involved in the town, the community and its organizations.'

  Ron's passion has always been football, so it is hardly surprising that he gravitated towards the local club. It was through his interest in the sport that he first came to be involved in public life. Owned by the Charity Commissioners, the Hungerford football club's ground was leased to it by the town council.

  'We felt then that we weren't getting a particularly good deal, at least compared to other organizations. So in the late 1960s I got myself elected to the War Memorial Recreation Ground Committee - the people who ran it. The idea was to have our say. Which we did. Then someone suggested that I might run for election to the town council. That was back in May 1972, and I've served on the town council ever since.'

  The town council of Hungerford enjoys only parish status, with many of its members being non-party-political. Fiercely independent, Ron Tarry fits into this category: 'While I do enjoy the cut and thrust of debate, my sole criterion is always quite simple: is this or that measure going to be good for Hungerford?'

  Ron explains how he became mayor: 'I was persuaded to stand as deputy mayor, knowing that I would almost automatically become the next mayor, which, in those days, you could have been for several years. But the then mayor died of a heart attack during his term of office, so I had the office thrust upon me, so to speak. But Joe Brady's widow approached me and said that the next meeting, due to be held a few days after his death, should go ahead. She said that would have been what Joe wanted. So it did go ahead. That was something of a difficult occasion for me. I was elected mayor in 1975, and then for a second year, until 1977, the year of the Silver Jubilee celebrations. I was therefore mayor for two and a half years, with no thoughts of ever being mayor again. But ten years later, in 1987, I was asked to stand again. Against my better judgement, I was talked into it. My wife, Beryl, was not at all keen. So I said to her that 1977 had been a very hectic year because of the Jubilee. I said that 1987 was bound to be something of a routine year. It wasn't a full-time job anyway. All we had, then, by way of administrative back-up, was a part-time clerk, Mrs Fowler - and even she had to come in from Newbury. Anyway, Beryl gave in and I became mayor once again.'

  Ron Tarry has something of a reputation in the town for his frenetic energy. When he was not seeing to the affairs of the football club, he would be chairing the town's planning committee, opening a fête or presenting an award. Not surprisingly, this enthusiasm and zest for life, together with his overriding concern for others, combined to make him a well-known figure in Hunger-ford. Popular and respected, he is devoid of the slightest trace of pomposity or self-importance. The town contains only a few individuals prepared to dart from one meeting to the next, like Ron. For the vast majority, life proceeds at a more leisurely pace.

  Hungerford is a picture-postcard market town. Indeed the High Street is coyly, alm
ost self-consciously English and genteel, with its abundant, well-kept deciduous trees, elegant eighteenth-century houses and numerous antique shops.

  People walk their dogs on the Common; elderly ladies clip their hedges and chat to passers-by; mothers from the choir swap details of how much money they made from last week's coffee morning. On a sunny summer's day the High Street sits wide and sleepy amid the Berkshire Downs. With cars parked nose to the kerb, the market town goes about its business quietly, the only noise coming from a group of ducks squabbling on the banks of the nearby River Kennet.

  For some the tranquillity of Hungerford is oppressive, and they move away. But the majority of the town's just over 5000 residents seem happy to remain, considering themselves more than a little fortunate to have found such an agreeable spot. For many, the trout and grayling fishing on the Kennet proves an irresistible bonus. Here one can well believe, like John O'Gaunt, in a 'Sceptered isle, this other Eden, demi-Paradise. This blessed plot, this earth, this England...’

  John O'Gaunt has long been the town's most famous resident. It was he, the fourth son of Edward III, who, as Duke of Lancaster back in the fourteenth century, had granted commoners' and fishing rights to the people of Hungerford. Since that time the name of Hungerford has been proudly associated with that of John O'Gaunt. There is the John O'Gaunt School, the John O'Gaunt Inn -in fact just about the John O'Gaunt everything. And if the Charter granted by this much-fêted man was lost or misplaced, then the traditions would still be handed down and thus preserved.

  To visit Hungerford is to step into history. The ancient borough and manor of Hungerford is governed by the 'Hocktide Jury', consisting of twenty to twenty-four persons selected by lot from among the commoners. Its chief official is the Constable. Since 1458, when John Tuckhill was appointed to that post, the position has been held by nearly 300 people. Other officials are the Portreeve - responsible for collecting the quit rents, the Bailiff, three Water Bailiffs, three Overseers of the Port Down, the Ale-testers, the Tithing men, the Town Crier and the Bellman.