Life sentence with Hindley
My life is linked to one of Britain’s worst killers
Stepping into Risley Prison in Warrington, nerves shot through me. The stench of urine, faeces and tobacco made me retch, while the noise of the female inmates shouting and screaming was deafening. It was 1968, I was 25, and it was my first day at HMP Risley. Or ‘grisly Risley’ as the inmates called it. Only, I wasn’t a prisoner, but a prisoner officer. I’d spent a few years as a police officer in Doncaster – one of only four female officers at the time. But nothing could’ve prepared me for this. I worked in a female-only part of the prison. The inmates wore uniforms and lived in tiny cells with a chamber pot.
And they were allowed one bath a week.
Family and friends had been shocked when I told them I was going into the prison service.
‘You’ll be working with the worst criminals,’ I was warned.
But there were perks, too.
Such as free accommodation and paid overtime.
‘I’ll do it for two years to buy myself a house,’ I shrugged.
I’d grown up in poverty, escaped a violent relationship. This was nothing! After eight weeks at Risley, I was moved to a women’s prison, HMP Holloway in London, home to some of the most notorious females.
Including Moors Murderer Myra Hindley.
I’d read about Hindley in the newspapers – who hadn’t?
She and Ian Brady had been jailed for life for murdering five children and burying them on Saddleworth Moor on the very day I’d become a police officer.
Her notorious mugshot glared out from all the newspapers.
But, when I first came face to face with Hindley, I didn’t even recognise her.
‘Do you know who that was?’ an officer said. Hindley’s hair wasn’t that signature, bottle-blonde any more.
After that, other prisoners would regularly point her out to me, like she was some minor celebrity.
And during those early days, Hindley revelled in her infamy.
Still, she was locked in an isolated cell, rarely came out for dinner.
And I had no doubt the woman was utterly evil.
At Holloway, there was an entire file devoted to the letters Hindley exchanged.
The authorities hoped they might find some indication where she and Brady had buried Keith Bennett, whose body had never been found. Sadly, there never was. After 12 weeks, I moved to another prison.
But, as I rose up the ranks, Hindley caused controversy behind bars.
In 1971, she struck up
I had no doubt the woman was utterly evil
an affair with a Holloway prison officer named Patricia Cairns.
Hindley abandoned writing to Brady, instead penning love letters to Cairns.
The pair fell madly in love, and hatched an elaborate escape plot.
But, in November 1973, they were rumbled when the police found a parcel containing soap and plaster impressions of three prison door keys.
Cairns was arrested, confessed and was jailed for six years.
Stories of the plot flew round the prison service. It shook everyone. Over the years, my career went from strength to strength.
By 38, I was a Governor of Styal Prison, responsible for 1,000 female inmates.
I bought myself a bungalow – but I never considered leaving the prison service. I loved caring for inmates. Helping to educate them, to teach skills such as cooking and using a computer. It was a joy to watch some turn their lives around after years of being locked up.
They weren’t all success stories, though.
In the 1980s, I had an inmate in for drugs offences.
We helped her detox and gave her counselling. Just two hours after getting out, she overdosed and died. I was devastated. But working in a harsh environment meant I’d developed a thick skin.
Working as the Governor in Leeds Prison in the 90s, I had to visit Charles Bronson every day in the segregation unit.
He was known as the most violent prisoner in Britain, and I’d heard terrible stories of his outbursts. But, to me, he was a gentleman. He was polite, never swore, was never aggressive.
And he was the fittest man I’d ever met – he spent hours every day working out.
Still, I knew better than to ever let my guard down.
Throughout the decades, the prison service became unrecognisable from that first day, when I’d walked into grisly Risley.
Female inmates had toilets and sinks in their cells, as well as TVS.
They could make phone calls, were provided with education, counselling, anger management.
Changes Hindley no doubt saw, too.
By November 2002, it was time for me to retire.
When my desk was all packed up, we got a phone call at New Hall Prison.
Myra Hindley had died in West Suffolk Hospital of respiratory failure aged 60.
She’d spent 36 years locked up.
It dawned on me that she’d entered the prison system at the same time as me.
Only through a different door.
And, while I’d risen up the ranks, she’d been rotting away.
You’ve done the same life sentence as Hindley, someone wrote in one of my retirement cards. But they couldn’t be more different!
But was it really that different, I wondered. Our lives were linked.
Consumed by my career, I’d not had time for hobbies, a social life – let alone a partner or family.
Hindley had fallen in love, served her time under the media spotlight and even got a Humanities degree.
But, while she died with regrets, I won’t. I’m proud of everything I achieved.
And I did it as a free woman.
Stories of the plot flew round the prison service