arrest and interviews. David Baker invited me to a Mess Dinner for the Leicestershire Constabulary, a sort of night out with the top brass that is held several times a year.
Pitchfork’s confession was described as ‘cold’ with no sign of remorse. On 21 November, 1983, he’d dropped his wife at college and gone cruising, looking for girls to flash. His baby son was in a carrycot on the back seat as he drove from Leicester to Narborough and turned up Forest Road beside Carlton Hayes.
He passed Lynda walking towards Enderby and then parked his car in the driveway leading to the Woodlands Day Hospital. Then he waited beneath a street lamp as Lynda approached. When he exposed himself, he expected her to run towards Enderby but instead Lynda ran back towards the Black Pad and into the darkness.
Pitchfork confessed, ‘This is the thing I don’t understand about flashing. One per cent of the time you get someone who goes mad and screams and you have to disappear quick. But all the others walk by you. Just walk by you and ignore you. But she turned and ran into a dark footpath. She backed herself into a corner … her two big mistakes were running into the footpath and saying, “What about your wife?” She’d seen my wedding ring.’
Lynda, he said, had tried to talk him out of raping her. She partly undressed herself, too terrified to scream or fight. Pitchfork claimed to have fully penetrated her and became angry at suggestions that he’d ejaculated prematurely. He also said that he began strangling her while still inside - something not supported by the facts but probably a crucial part of his fantasy.
Pitchfork had seen Dawn Ashworth while out riding his motorcycle on an errand to pick up ingredients for a cake. She had just walked across King Edward Avenue and entered Ten Pound Lane. He parked his bike and followed.
‘Nobody ever saw me. They saw lots of other people, I guess, but not me. There I was in broad daylight, wearing jeans and a jumper and a bottle-green nylon parka jacket.’
He followed her along the path, jogging to catch up. Turning, he forced Dawn towards the farm gate, putting his hand over her mouth and pushing her into the field. The gate was off its catch.
Pitchfork ignored her pleas not to rape her. Afterwards she had sat up and said, ‘Have you finished? Can I go now?
I won’t tell anybody. Please. Honest. Just go and leave me alone. Please.’
Then he strangled her from behind with his forearm across her throat.
Throughout the interviews, no matter how the questions were framed, Pitchfork denied having sodomized Dawn. He explained the attacks in vivid detail but insisted that he didn’t touch her after death and had made little effort to conceal her body. Both of these answers didn’t tally with how Dawn had been found and the injuries she sustained. Baker remained puzzled by the inconsistencies and question marks still remain, but he happily raised a glass to celebrate having caught the man he’d referred to as ‘Chummy’ throughout the investigation.
If I had wanted an apprenticeship or an overview into how police investigations were carried out, Baker had given me one and done it brilliantly. I don’t think anyone could have made it more transparent and explained it so lucidly. He did, however, have an apology to make.
‘It was some advice you gave us that I didn’t appreciate enough,’ he said. ‘You told me that the killer would have minor sexual offences in his past. I didn’t listen to that. You were right.’
Chapter 5
In August 1988 a typewritten letter arrived at the head office of Pedigree Pet Foods Ltd in Melton Mowbray, Leicestershire, addressed to Mr John Simmens, the managing director. It was attached to a tin of dog food which outwardly looked no different to the millions of others sold every year or, indeed, to those stacked in my own pantry.
This is a demand to Pedigree Pet Foods to pay Ł100,000 per year in order to prevent their products being
Pitchfork’s confession was described as ‘cold’ with no sign of remorse. On 21 November, 1983, he’d dropped his wife at college and gone cruising, looking for girls to flash. His baby son was in a carrycot on the back seat as he drove from Leicester to Narborough and turned up Forest Road beside Carlton Hayes.
He passed Lynda walking towards Enderby and then parked his car in the driveway leading to the Woodlands Day Hospital. Then he waited beneath a street lamp as Lynda approached. When he exposed himself, he expected her to run towards Enderby but instead Lynda ran back towards the Black Pad and into the darkness.
Pitchfork confessed, ‘This is the thing I don’t understand about flashing. One per cent of the time you get someone who goes mad and screams and you have to disappear quick. But all the others walk by you. Just walk by you and ignore you. But she turned and ran into a dark footpath. She backed herself into a corner … her two big mistakes were running into the footpath and saying, “What about your wife?” She’d seen my wedding ring.’
Lynda, he said, had tried to talk him out of raping her. She partly undressed herself, too terrified to scream or fight. Pitchfork claimed to have fully penetrated her and became angry at suggestions that he’d ejaculated prematurely. He also said that he began strangling her while still inside - something not supported by the facts but probably a crucial part of his fantasy.
Pitchfork had seen Dawn Ashworth while out riding his motorcycle on an errand to pick up ingredients for a cake. She had just walked across King Edward Avenue and entered Ten Pound Lane. He parked his bike and followed.
‘Nobody ever saw me. They saw lots of other people, I guess, but not me. There I was in broad daylight, wearing jeans and a jumper and a bottle-green nylon parka jacket.’
He followed her along the path, jogging to catch up. Turning, he forced Dawn towards the farm gate, putting his hand over her mouth and pushing her into the field. The gate was off its catch.
Pitchfork ignored her pleas not to rape her. Afterwards she had sat up and said, ‘Have you finished? Can I go now?
I won’t tell anybody. Please. Honest. Just go and leave me alone. Please.’
Then he strangled her from behind with his forearm across her throat.
Throughout the interviews, no matter how the questions were framed, Pitchfork denied having sodomized Dawn. He explained the attacks in vivid detail but insisted that he didn’t touch her after death and had made little effort to conceal her body. Both of these answers didn’t tally with how Dawn had been found and the injuries she sustained. Baker remained puzzled by the inconsistencies and question marks still remain, but he happily raised a glass to celebrate having caught the man he’d referred to as ‘Chummy’ throughout the investigation.
If I had wanted an apprenticeship or an overview into how police investigations were carried out, Baker had given me one and done it brilliantly. I don’t think anyone could have made it more transparent and explained it so lucidly. He did, however, have an apology to make.
‘It was some advice you gave us that I didn’t appreciate enough,’ he said. ‘You told me that the killer would have minor sexual offences in his past. I didn’t listen to that. You were right.’
Chapter 5
In August 1988 a typewritten letter arrived at the head office of Pedigree Pet Foods Ltd in Melton Mowbray, Leicestershire, addressed to Mr John Simmens, the managing director. It was attached to a tin of dog food which outwardly looked no different to the millions of others sold every year or, indeed, to those stacked in my own pantry.
This is a demand to Pedigree Pet Foods to pay Ł100,000 per year in order to prevent their products being
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