Although it seems a world away, not to mention several centuries, it’s only a shade over eleven years since I met her. I remember trekking to Liverpool Street Station that cold January day, and how we sought out a caff where we could have a quiet cuppa, exchange pleasantries, and where I could flog her a few more of my publications. Actually, I must admit I had other aspirations, but these were only momentary. She was far too classy for me, or so I thought. True, I would eventually pull an even classier if somewhat older bird quite by chance, but that turned out to be a total fucking disaster; when I made it clear for the Nth time that there was no way I nor anyone else could murder her ex-husband, she dropped me like a hot brick, but more of that anon.
Returning to the lady in question, I had to admit I was still a bit suspicious of her. I won’t give her real name, not for the moment, so I’ll call her the redhead.
It all started after that last fit up by the Metropolitan Filth. I remembered how that bent cunt DC Wright had lied through her teeth about that “menacing phone call” that she knew I hadn’t made, couldn’t have made. I remembered the appeal, how I’d caught her lying bare-faced in the witness box, and how even the judge had been embarrassed by her obvious venality. I wasn’t about to trust another such woman in a hurry, even if she was only the daughter of a retired police officer rather than Filth herself.
When I’d been on remand in Brixton I’d found Ludovic Kennedy’s book 10 Rillington Place in the prison library, and I have to say I was singularly unimpressed with it because I knew quite a bit about the cases of Evans and Christie, and had read two books giving diametrically opposed views many years before. The most recent of these had been the excellent study by John Eddowes, the sane son of the insane man who had really started the “Evans was innocent” nonsense. In 1998 I was still writing a bit of poetry, not a great deal but the odd gem, so I penned The Ballad Of John Reginald Halliday Christie (1898-1953), published it, and advertised it in The Bookseller.
This wasn’t my least successful publication ever, but as usual I didn’t sell many. In due course I received an order from a French poet. I think it was an order, he sent me something he’d written anyway, and I reciprocated. I had one or two other orders. And I had one from her. I remembered this because she sent me a cheque drawn on a man’s bank account; I can’t remember the name except I think it began with S. On November 28, 1998, I sent off the pamphlet enclosing my then current full publications list, and thought no more of it until I received a phone call from her the following week.
A very thoughtful poem, she said. Flattery will get you everywhere, I replied. She said she’d like to read some more of my material, perhaps some non-fiction. We had a long conversation about some of my more controversial subject matters – the Searchlight Organisation, the Jewish Question, Holocaust Revisionism – and I did my best to deter her, but still she said she wanted to read more Baron publications. And to meet me. Heck, why not? I don’t celebrate Christmas, I said, but I’m sure you have family commitments. Yes, she replied. I told her to mull over things for Christmas and the New Year, and if she still wanted to purchase more of my ravings, or even worse to meet up, give me a call. She agreed readily, we said our goodbyes, and I put down the phone thinking that was that.
I was more than a little surprised when the phone rang early in the New Year and I heard the sound of a familiar female voice. Remember me, she asked? I sure do, and a belated Happy New Year. “Likewise”, she laughed.
She said she hoped I didn’t mind but she’d been reading some of my posts and posts about me on Usenet. It’s a public forum, I replied. Is that all true? What, about the fit ups? Yeah. I don’t want to cause offence, present company accepted, but the way I’ve suffered at the hands of the police over the past few years has really lowered my opinion of them. In fact I don’t think it could be any lower. She said something about her father being a pen pusher; he’d been a beat officer when he was younger and had made a few arrests, but he’d never been a detective, and had certainly never engaged in anything like that. S’okay I said, sins of the fathers and all that.
There was an awkward silence, then she said that she still wanted to buy some of my publications. And to meet up, she added. Yeah, why not, I said. What do you think is the solution, she asked? Solution? To police corruption, and to corruption generally. That’s easy, I replied. I told her then about The Wizard Of Oz Syndrome, the theory I had developed relating to personal accountability. I’m working on a pamphlet about it, I added, although I don’t know if I’ll ever finish it. Actually this was a slight exaggeration. At that stage I’d made a few notes but didn’t expect anything to come of it, although later in the year I got down to writing it properly, and published it in December. But the lady was interested in what I’d written already, and what the lady wants...
Before we hung up she aroused my curiosity with an enticing snippet: the title of your poem should really be The Ballad Of John Reginald Halliday Christie (1899-1953), she said. Why is that? Because he was born in 1899? No, seriously, I mean surely Kennedy didn’t get his date of birth wrong, I asked. No, she said, the police did. I didn’t know what to make of this, but she was obviously intent on telling me face to face. In retrospect she was just as obviously playing me. I suppose I should have realised that at the time, but she was extremely plausible.
Anyway, we met up at Liverpool Street, and I was pleasantly surprised. She wasn’t stunningly attractive, but she was certainly a looker. We shook hands and a few minutes later we were sitting in this coffee bar talking about John Reginald Halliday Christie. So what’s your interest in Christie, she asked? No great interest, I said, it’s just one of those cases that fascinates the public, did he or didn’t he?
And did he? She asked. I don’t think he killed Mrs Evans, no, and I have strong reservations about the baby too. You don’t think the police verballed him up, Evans? Not at all, I said. He wasn’t someone they picked up on a trawl; he went to them, gave them a cock and bull story, then he changed that, then when he was confronted with the evidence he confessed. So why did he retract, she asked? Because on sober reflection he realised he’d put his head in the noose, and decided he wanted out.
She badgered me a bit trying to convince me that Evans really had been framed; I didn’t realise then but this was all part of her act. Put the police down, make me think she had some kind of grudge against them. You’re saying the police got it wrong, I asked. Basically, yeah. Like they got his date of birth wrong? Oh I know that for a fact, she said. I’m listening, I replied.
Then she told me this plausible tale which may be true as far as I know. As well as a police officer, her father was a true crime buff; he had a large collection of detective magazines, books and so forth, and had developed quite an interest in this case. He’d also known a somewhat older officer who’d had a tenuous connection with it, and had discussed it with him on at least one occasion. Their consensus – not unnaturally – was that the police had behaved in an exemplary manner throughout, and that all subsequent criticism of them had been at best totally unjustified and at worse had been motivated by other considerations. Much as it now ever pains me to admit it, everything I have seen of this case since leads me to the same broad conclusion. Where was I? Oh yes, the police had got Christie’s date of birth wrong. How had they done this? Apparently Christie had been slightly younger than his wife – the long suffering and ultimately murdered Ethel – and for some reason this had embarrassed him, so he’d lied about his age. This lie had found its way into official documents, including his CRO.
Christie was born at Blackboy House, Halifax on April 8, 1899, she said. Small world, I was engaged to a girl from Halifax. She was a nurse.
“Snap!” the redhead replied.
“Sorry?”
“I’m a nurse.”
And there was me thinking you were an undercover police officer, I didn’t say, but come to think of it, she did have a faintly antiseptic smell about her, in a nice way. I could imagine her in a nurse’s uniform. Heck, I did imagine her in a nurse’s uniform!
This was all very interesting, I thought, but then she turned her attention to other matters. Me. I like your theory, she said, The Wizard Of Oz Syndrome. I take it this was inspired by bitter personal experience? Very bitter, I said. You see, there is no personal culpability in government or any of its ancilliary organisations. Like the police, she added? Like the police. Rule one, deny any wrongdoing. Rule two, deny any liability. Rule three, fight it all the way, and settle at the court door with no admission. That’s as far as bringing any sort of civil case against them.
We had a long discussion about various related matters, then she said “There’s something I ’d like you to see”, and taking a brown A4 envelope from her bag, she handed it to me. “For your eyes, only”, she said.
I opened the envelope, took out the papers, and scrutinised them carefully. I couldn’t quite believe what I was reading, but unless she’d faked the seals and everything else, everything I knew, or thought I knew, about the way the British government and the world was run needed a serious rethink.
“Where did you get these?” I asked.
“My Dad”, she said.
“And where did he get them?”
She held out her hand and I passed them back to her. “He sort of stumbled across them.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “I don’t suppose he or you had considered leaking them to the media?”
She smiled. What good would that do, she asked? I suggested too that nowadays there was the Internet, but she dismissed that too. And she was right. And at this point I would like to cite one of my favourite quotes, from Professor Quigley’s magnum opus, the massive tome
Tragedy And Hope.
“All past history shows that espionage has been generally successful and intelligence has been generally a failure...no country had much success in keeping secrets in the twentieth as in all earlier centuries, but neither has any other country had much success in evaluating or in interpreting the secrets obtained. The so-called surprises of history have emerged not because other countries did not have the information but because they refused to believe it.”
Quigley was talking about such things as D-Day and Pearl Harbor, but it can be applied in principle to anything. In this context it means it would have been be no use passing the documents the redhead had shown me to the media or even posting them direct to the Web because nobody would take any notice of them. Nobody who mattered.
We talked a bit more, and somehow I found myself agreeing with her that what was needed was what is sometimes alluded to as a grand gesture. Ironically it was me who suggested Dando; she wanted to whack Dando’s co-presenter Nick Ross, but I had actually met Dando back in ’91, and thought she would probably remember me, and this would allow me to get close. And I was right.
I still can’t quite believe how fast all this happened, but I agreed in principle then and there; I thought there was still a slight chance this was all some sort of bizarre set up, but I wasn’t going to do anything without some sort of guarantee. When we parted at the station she opened her bag again and gave me another, smaller, envelope. What’s that for, I asked? I didn’t tell you I won the lottery last year, did I? Er, no. Not bundles, but enough to finance something like this. With that she kissed me on the cheek, and before I could utter another word, she was lost in the crowd.
She phoned me three days later and arranged our second meeting. As a sign good faith I want to give you a present, she said. I’m all ears. Choose one name from that list, and it will be done. Then she hung up.
Oh yes, I didn’t tell you about the list, did I? Basically, when those scum and filth fitted me up in ’96 I was looking at ten years. I have no doubt whatsoever that cunt of a judge would have given me that and not a day less. I would have lost everything, not that I had much, not that I have now, but I would have lost my flat, what little money I had, everything, and when I came out I’d have been lucky to end up in a dossers’ hostel. And for what?
I really expected the jury to convict, and as I sat in my cell in Brixton Prison the night before the verdict, I drew up a list. I realised I probably wouldn’t be able to kill them all, but I vowed the day I was released from prison I would go after them, hunt down as many of them as I could, and kill them slowly and painfully for what they’d done to me. This would have been the first direct application of the Wizard Of Oz Syndrome – and probably the last!
The first on my list was that prosecutrix, Louise Kamill. I knew what she’d say, the same as that worthless cunt Broadway had said, “I was only doing my job.”
Sure you were, bitch. Now die! Only doing my job. Like when you tried to dupe the jury into believing I’d found out where the cunt lived? I planned on strangling her; I would have taken great pleasure in that.
Next on the list was the judge. What a total fucking bastard. This must surely have been the most biased and bigoted summing up in English criminal history. I would have taken great relish in stabbing that old cunt to death. Third and fourth on the list were that worthless cunt Broadway and her fellow snoop. Mangan her name was, and what a mean looking bitch she was too. Although Broadway had done all the talking, Mangan was if anything more evil. Her face was screwed up in anger and bitterness, like a woman who was angry with the world and would like nothing better than to immolate it. I’d seen that look once before, on that little monster from Reading. Josephine her name was; I still wince even thinking about her, much less going out with her.
Then there was that cunt of a lawyer, Ruth McEwen her name was; after my acquittal at Southwark I’d written to Broadway’s boss, another spineless little cunt, and to Broadway’s doctor. The purpose of the first letter was to let her know what I thought of her underling, and the purpose of the second was to warn the doctor about the activities of a certain bent copper. Five months later the fucking cunts had contrived as part of their scheme of revenge to drag me into court under the Malicious Communications Act; then more harassment followed. That’s what had led to the cunts framing me for making a non-existent menacing phone call – that’s what I’d thought at the time – but I was later informed by an anonymous letter that a call had been made, to set me up, but a proper investigation had been blocked by this other venal cunt at the CPS. This is the sort of thing I was up against. Mention this in court and it becomes, “So it’s all a conspiracy, is it Mr Baron?” Yes it fucking well was, and yes it is.
Surprisingly low down the list was that bent copper who was responsible for this grotesque fit up. All the fucking lies that cunt had come out with: stalking women in the local park with a bottle of sulphuric acid in my pocket, posing as a court official to gain access to a building that was open to the public, stalking that little whore, and all the other fucking bullshit.
Finally, there was that little shit of a barrister who had successfully opposed my Judicial Review to restore my benefit. I’d gladly have slit his worthless throat, another apparatchik who was “only doing my job”.
I calculated fairly early on in this sick affair that they’d squandered a million pounds of public money trying to destroy me just because they could. And I hadn’t done the slightest harm to any of them, indeed the publications I’d put out were – I believed sincerely, and still do – a public service. Take Poison On The Rates for example, can it really be in the public interest to provide local government (ratepayers’) money to organisations that subsidise not only queer porn but that gloat over the murders of police officers or even incite the murders of named individuals?
They’d squandered all this public money in order to destroy me in some sick, twisted, petty vendetta, and I had done them not the slightest harm, none of them, indeed I had been performing a public service: fifty years from now, people will realise that.
Much to my surprise, Gable was not on the list at all, not that I didn’t hate him, but I understood why he did what he did. It’s in his nature, so he had no real choice. All the others had chosen to destroy someone who had never done them the slightest harm, but he couldn’t help his parasitic behaviour, it was a bit like that story about the frog and the scorpion from Mr Arkadin, but enough of this foolery, as Goodman would say.
That was the list I’d drawn up in Brixton Prison, but there was another name I was later to add to it, who hadn’t been involved in this case, in this frame up, but I felt this bitch deserved to die just for the hell of it. Her name was Lucy Humberston (see mugshot below), she was a lawyer working for the Metropolitan Filth, and she was a complete, total and utter cunt. It will take a little while, but please allow me to explain.
Above: the smug looking bitch I should have killed instead of Jill Dando. This cunt wasted tens of thousands of pounds of public money to stop me getting what was rightfully mine.
In March 1993, I suffered the first of what was to be five raids and three computer seizures involving four machines. The so-called detective who led this raid, a scumbag called Chainey, realised within hours that he’d made a mistake, or rather that he’d been misled, but did he return my computer? Did he fuck. The cunts held onto it for six months, and when I got it back, it was fucked up beyond repair. At the time I put this down to heavy-handedness rather than malice, but now I’m not so sure. During the raid he also found some documents relating to a certain David Irving, and when I told him the truth about them, and Irving, he cringed. This may have had something to do with it, whatever, my computer was fucked, and I was advised that in the event of no charges being brought, and their having retained the machine for so long, that I had a cause of action for trespass of goods, for which I received Legal Aid.
Counsel advised me to go for five grand, which we did, and at some point they paid a thousand pounds into court. I was advised this was derisory, so refused to settle. Later, they paid in another thousand; Counsel said I shouldn’t take it but two grand is two grand, and it would save costs for the defence, so being basically a reasonable man – whatever you may have heard about me! – I accepted the payment, and the case was over. Or so I thought.
There would obviously be a bit of haggling over costs, but this would not affect me – or so I thought – and I was prepared to wait to get my money.
So I waited, and I waited and I waited. For two and a half years. The shenanigans that went on here were both outrageous and unbelievable. They
made objection after objection after objection. After receiving what Goodman and I hoped would be the final bill
of costs, the fucking cunts made – get this – one hundred and ninety-three objections to it: 1-9-3.
So he was forced to send it to a costs draftsman, who I recall charged something like fourteen hundred quid
for his services, and still the fucking cunts weren’t satisfied. See the tiny extract below; it went on for pages and pages,
and I reckon they must have spent about forty hours on this. Ring up a Central London solicitor – one of the big firms – and ask for a quote for forty hours work,
and you’ll see how much this comes to.
Above: An extract from the Filth’s objection to the bill of costs produced by that mendacious cunt Humberston; this is the way these parasites operate.
I dread to think how much money – public money – was wasted on this one case, but why should they care? The purpose of the exercise was clearly to punish my legal team for having the temerity to act for me, and hopefully to ensure that at the end of the day I didn’t receive my two grand, that I didn’t receive a penny in fact.
A while later I learned of a case where this had actually happened. I won’t go into details because I saw this person’s legal papers by accident, but basically an inmate – a remand prisoner I think – was the victim of a serious assault. It involved scalding water. She brought an action against the Prison Governor, and was awarded not a great sum, but by the time the bill had been sorted out, her award had been “subsumed” (I believe that was the word used) by legal costs, and the poor woman – who may have been acquitted of whatever she was charged with for all I know – received nothing.
I don’t think her situation was quite comparable with mine, but I have no doubt she was denied any and all compensation for her appalling injuries on a whim.
This though was no whim, it was malice aforethought. Eventually there was a hearing at Central London County Court, and the fucking bitch – to whom Goodman referred, charitably, as a “dykish lady” – turned up with her clerk, or costs draftsman, or whatever. At one point, District Judge Hasan said “I think I’m going to have to hear evidence” – implying that the hearing would have to be adjourned. Counsel – John Orme – and Goodman sat there staring in disbelief. At this point I launched into a tirade about the hundred and ninety-three objections to the bill of costs, and both the clerk and the cunt herself in particular smirked. She didn’t just smirk, she was openly laughing. I found myself wishing I’d bought a Stanley knife on the way here, I would then have pounced on her, seized her by her worthless throat, and slashed at her smirking face. “You wanna laugh now, you fucking cunt? You wanna laugh at me now?”
What a pity I hadn’t. Or maybe not, fortunately the judge was a no-nonsense sort of person, and although I can’t remember the details, she sorted it out then and there. I got my two grand, just, but my legal team had gone through absolute hell.
I remember later when I was being grilled by that fucking cunt Broadway. She’d wanted me to account for every penny in my account, every penny, even the two grand I’d received in criminal injuries compensation for the hammer attack I’d suffered in November 1993 from Gable’s hired thugs, and a donation of £250.00 I’d made to a certain unnamed Jewish charity (like the wicked anti-Semite I am). “You’re supposed to be living in grinding poverty!” she’d actually shouted, although of course the little harridan had denied it at trial. You wouldn’t believe the transformation, the act she’d put on for this.
At her office she’d been a loud-mouthed, chain-smoking, sardonic, grinning, sadistic bully; she turned up at court looking like a frightened schoolgirl, holding hands with her paramour, literally shaking.
And her witness statement, what a fucking load of bollocks. She claimed to have spent six months off work suffering from nervous anxiety, depression and the like, all because that bent copper Nemeth had told her I was coming after her knife in hand to slit her worthless throat. What a mendacious cunt. Fortunately for me, the jury saw through this little girl lost act.
Her behaviour prior to the trial reminded me of the way anyone who was unemployed or unsuitable for work was portrayed as a parasite on society. Yet look at these fucking parasites. Recently a series of government advertisements boasted that they were employing three thousand benefit fraud investigators. Three thousand for fuck sake. For that sort of money they could scrap the entire benefit system and pay everyone a non-means tested Basic Income à la Major Douglas way back in the 1920s. And who in his right mind would employ a sadistic, semi-literate little cunt like her anyway?
And of top of that, this fucking blonde cunt, Humberston, was being paid thousands, literally thousands, to prevent me, and presumably countless others like me, from getting money to which we were rightly entitled. And she was being paid out of the public purse. It was for that reason I decided she had to die.
When my partner-in-crime phoned me again, I told her in no uncertain terms that I wanted that fucking cunt Lucy Humberston dead. “Fine,” she replied, “as soon as you’ve taken care of Dando, she’s history”.
The execution of Jill Dando was surprisingly easy. We worked out the fine details by E-Mail. I set up a temporary hotmail account, which I was always careful never to access either from my home computer or from one of the local caffs. She did likewise. Any suspicions I’d had about her soon vanished when she outlined the security precautions. She arranged for the gun to be dropped off in West London, and sent me two hundred quid to buy a new outfit. It’s very important you wear these clothes once and then dispose of them she said. I made doubly sure of that.
The day before the hit I went to a London swimming baths wearing an old boiler suit I’d picked up in a charity shop and walked out wearing the gear for the hit. Then I met up with Harvey. I didn’t tell you about Harvey, did I? He was driving the getaway van. I’ve known him for years, and although obviously he hadn’t done anything like this before, he had been involved in some quite dodgy business through his taxi firm. And the ten grand she paid him, five of it up front, made it the most lucrative contract he’d ever had. I say contract; it was a contract for him, but for me it was a labour of love.
Early on the morning of April 26, 1999, Harvey picked me up outside the hotel. “You sure you can do this, Al?” he said.
It was a short drive to Fulham, I was expecting her to be at home; if the lady’s information was correct, she would leave her Gowan Avenue address around 12.30pm, but to my surprise, as I walked towards her house I recognised her coming towards me. I had to think fast.
“Miss Dando,” I said.
A minute of her life, I hadn’t told her of course it would be the last minute; as she put down her bag and struggled to take out her keys she had a nasty shock. I whipped out the gun, grabbed the back of her hair with my right hand and pressed the muzzle to her temple.
“Down!” I commanded, “down on your knees, bitch”.
Obviously paralysed with fear, she obeyed, “Bang!” And that was it. I left her lying there, and walked briskly out of the gate and back up the road to my rendezvous with Harvey. Easy as pie.
“Any problems?” he asked, as I jumped into the van beside him.
He drove me back to the hotel, and by the end of the day I’d disposed of the clothes I’d worn for the hit, returned the gun, and after another session at the swimming baths I was on the way back to SE26 by train. The story broke within hours, and of course it dominated the news for days, weeks, months.
In the meantime, I waited for the news that a certain blonde bitch had been found battered to death, or with her worthless throat slit. I waited in vain. Then I received a phone call from the redhead. She apologised, said there were problems with the contract, but that she would go ahead with it. In the meantime, she said she was looking into dealing with some of the other filth who’d made my life such a misery over the past few years. She mentioned the name of that bent CPS lawyer, but I said although I hated the fucking bitch, I didn’t hate her enough to want her dead. Not yet anyway. The next thing I knew, Barry George was arrested for the Dando murder. I expected him to be released and was surprised when he was charged, and even more surprised when he was convicted.
Although he was an oddball, a pest though not apparently a real menace to women. and obviously no great loss to society,
I still didn’t like the idea of him serving a life sentence, not on my account. At one point I
wrote to him in Whitemoor Prison and received a phone call to the effect that
he wanted to add me to his approved visitors’ list. I also received a letter
from the prison; I wrote and said I didn’t want to visit him but did like the idea of setting
up a website. Then suddenly I had a reality check. While the authorities believed he was the killer,
they wouldn’t be looking for anyone else, including me.
Christ, what was I thinking of? The identikit photo they’d issued of the sweating man bore a striking resemblance to me – for the obvious reason that it was me! – although I wasn’t sweating, and wasn’t quite clean shaven as the public were led to believe.
Doubters should compare the photographs of Yours Truly taken in the Summer of 1992 with the sketch issued by The Filth. Not a bad resemblance, eh? If you look closely you can even see the marks around his eyes where he’s been wearing glasses. In view of all this, I thought I really should let it go, and allow barmy Barry to take the rap, so when sometime later I received a letter and application form from the prison repeating the visitation request, I wrote back to the governor saying I wasn’t interested in the case anymore because on reflection I thought the police had got the right man. By this time also I was beginning to take a big interest in the Michael Stone case, later, I set up a website for him.
Then the cunts arrested me again, this time on the pretext of sending some sort of bizarre letter to this other cunt, the bent CPS lawyer who had refused to fully investigate the anonymous letter I’d received that claimed the phone call that had been made to that worthless cunt Broadway’s office had in fact been made by her lover in order to frame me. Heck, I didn’t mention that did I? Fuck it, I can’t tell you the whole story, there are people to whom I owe obligations. Now where was I? Oh yes, this letter had apparently been sent to this cunt’s home address. The Metropolitan Filth were so concerned for her safety that they waited three months to arrest me, and when they did, they sent five detectives and two computer technicians.
At Islington Police Station I demanded to see the letter this cunt had claimed to have received; when the arresting officer DC Taylor showed it to me, with great reluctance it should be added, it was patently obvious it been sent by the redhead,
and I was 99% certain it had been sent to hinder rather than help me. Hinder? Perhaps I should find a stronger word. I was bailed to return, but before I could, I had some shocking news.
A few months previously I’d been suffering from a delicate medical problem, and my GP, Dr Morant, had sent me to Kings College Hospital for some tests. One Monday morning I received a phone call from the doc’ asking if I could come in at once. The bottom line was that I had prostate cancer. Is it bad, I asked. Morant is a very good GP, but his bedside manner is not his strongest point. The consultant says you have eighteen months, perhaps two years to live, he replied. At times like this it’s standard to say something like you could have knocked me down with a feather, but the truth is I was neither shocked nor suddenly filled with dread. It was as if he’d just rattled off a fourth division football result between two obscure teams in the Calcutta League.
“I see”, was all I could say. I spent a good half hour in the surgery, and he booked another appointment for me. I walked home in sombre, reflective mood, and did some heavy thinking over the next few days.
I was still waiting for the blonde bitch to be found with her worthless throat slit, but now I realised it wasn’t going to happen. This and other things which I won’t go into here led me to the grim realisation that the redhead had betrayed me. No, she had simply used me. Suddenly, I didn’t care anymore, so when I returned to Islington Police Station I showed the police one of the E-Mails she’d sent me inciting me to murder that other CPS bitch. I actually gave DC Taylor a copy of her E-Mail in front of four other officers, all of them detectives. He told me he would look into it, but later he would deny any knowledge of this under oath in open court. Unreal.
I told him too there was something odd about this E-Mail, that the person who had sent it must have had or had access to, knowledge of computing at a very high level, because the E-Mail address she used started with a digit, and I was informed by Micro$oft that hotmail addresses can’t start with a number.
“Watch me!”
“Yes, I’m sorry but I can’t stop,” she smiled.
“Do you remember me, Alexander Baron?”
“I can’t say...”
“The Osman campaign, 1991,” I said.
“Oh yes”.
“I was going to put this through your door,” I said, whipping out a white envelope I just happened to have in my jacket pocket. “But can you spare a minute of your life?”
“Yes, of course,” she smiled, “Al if you must, but never Alex”.
She did remember me! I’d felt at the time there was a mutual attraction, nothing sexual you understand, but sometimes these things happen.
She let out a strangled cry, as I repeated, “Down!”
“None”, I said, “let’s get out of here”.
Above: the E-Mail the redhead sent me inciting me to murder a bitch who wasn’t quite worth it; I gave a copy of
this to DC Taylor at Islington Police Station in front of four witnesses. He denied any knowledge of it in open court.
The handwritten “Who is this cunt?” was written at 3am; I spent days mulling over this before I realised this woman had played me for a total mug. She’d duped me into murdering an innocent woman by promising to take out a blonde bitch who, unlike Jill Dando, really deserved to die.
As my condition worsened, I decided to set the record straight. I phoned the solicitor I’d used when the Filth had last arrested me and after booking an appointment went up to see him at his North London office. I want to confess to a crime, I said, a serious crime. When I told him point blank “I shot Jill Dando”, he as good as laughed. All the same he made an appointment for me to speak to Hamish Campbell, the English arsehole with the Scottish name who had fitted up Barry George.
On the day, I left home very early, went to the tunnel where I’d buried the gun, then waited around outside his office until I saw Campbell and a fellow detective enter. If Campbell was unimpressed with me I was even less impressed with him. After he’d cautioned me he did his best to ridicule me asking all manner of stupid questions and making all manner of even more stupid insinuations which I knew to be untrue. Apparently he hadn’t even bothered to CRO me, so didn’t know about my armed robbery conviction. And this from a man who had boasted on TV to have run a thorough investigation, checking out every lead minutely, every nook and cranny, no stone unturned – whatever cliché you like – and now he had a man confessing freely and voluntarily to the crime, he couldn’t give a fuck. How many times had he asked George point blank, did you kill Jill Dando? And how many times had George denied it? Obviously every time he said no was further proof both of his guilt and of his being in denial, while my free and voluntary admission was proof only that I was a fantasist. Campbell didn’t ask me if I had another motivation for my confession, like was I dying of cancer and wanted to set the record straight before I departed this Earth, or had I just become a born again Christian and decided that confessing my sins would set me free.
I told him two things which should have made him at least wary that he was not dealing with a crank. One, the guy who shot Dando was left-handed, like me. And two, she knew me by sight because I’d run into her by chance in London many years before and button holed her about a legal campaign I was running, even flashing my NUJ card at her for added credibility.
As I said, Campbell wasn’t interested in any of this, he had his man, and although just about the only people who believed George was the shooter were those who needed to believe it, he was not letting this go. Talk about cognitive dissonance.
Actually, cognitive dissonance has little or nothing to do with it, it’s something far more sinister than that, and wilful. This is a theory I’ve been developing
which along with The Wizard Of Oz Syndrome explains the sorry state of the world today. I call it the theory of blanket dismissal. Actually, it’s not so much a theory as a practice – okay, the theory and practise of blanket dismissal. Basically, these cunts will dismiss in total any evidence they don’t like, and accept the evidence they do. In the political field this amounts to accepting uncritically the evidence of certain people or certain types of people while dismissing in total the evidence of other people or other types.
A classic political example is the Satpal Ram case; after I set up my dedicated anti-Ram website and broadcast it to the world, I had a number of spats with
left wing loonies. Almost to a man (and woman) they would respond Baron is a racist, Baron is a Nazi, Baron is a nutter, etc and ad nauseam; none of them was interested in examining the evidence of Ram’s guilt much less listening to the arguments. I would respond something like: Was the pathologist a Nazi? Check out the post mortem report. And my pleas would fall on deaf ears.
The Filth are past masters of this; when that bent copper fitted me up in 1996-7 claiming he was genuinely concerned I might actually slit that little whore’s throat – look, it’s here writing – he (and at trial the Crown) – took one phrase out of a twelve or fifteen page document, of which he said – and I quote “This is a right load of old bollocks, isn’t it, Alex?” (He denied that in court – as was to be expected – but those were his exact words).
In other words, all the allegations I’d made against this little monster – none of which he even bothered to check, and which would have been confirmed in part from her mobile phone records – they were all invention. But the one phrase that he chose to believe, an albeit unfortunate (for me) off the cuff remark, was to be regarded as Gospel. The cunts tried to destroy me for that, and they nearly succeeded.
Returning to Campbell, he had obviously made up his mind that I was delusional; I was about to ask him if he knew that as recently as 1997 a bent copper had described me in open court as – and I quote – “an unstable, dangerous individual” and another bent copper – DC Elizabeth Wright – had referred to me both as dangerous and a “woman hater” – both lies of course, although I freely admit I hate odious bitches like her – like I said, I was about to ask him this, then I had a better idea. I’d ask him if he had recovered the gun, and if not, would he like to see it, then I would whip it out of my bag. But just as I was about to do this I realised why he was treating me with such contempt, it was because I had implicated one of his own kind in this dastardly murder, not just the redhead but her father, who as far as I knew was a serving rather than a retired police officer. If I gave him the gun here and now I would certainly be charged with and convicted of the murder – after George had been cleared by the Court Of Appeal – but there was no way the redhead would join me in the dock. Nor her Dad. Then I had another thought, maybe this was a big operation, I mean like an enormous black operation, and that I was just a very small cog in the wheel.
At this point I said it was obvious he didn’t believe me, and rather than take the gun out of the bag I asked is that all. Yes, he said. Can I go then? You’re free to leave at any time, he said. So I said goodbye to my solicitor and left, taking a short detour on the way home, removing the gun still in the triple wrapped plastic bag, and replacing it in the hole in the tunnel.
For the next couple of years I spent my time surfing the web, doing a bit of writing, though nowhere near as much as I could have and should have, and just generally keeping a low profile. The main reason for this was that I hadn’t expected to be around this long, but there was a strange development with my prostate cancer. It disappeared. When the consultant told me I shrugged my shoulders and said so what, rather than jump for joy. He told me he couldn’t explain it; when I suggested the hospital had got its samples mixed up he pooh poohed the idea saying that was definitely not the case. It’s a miracle, then, I suggested.
He laughed and said, no, these things happen from time to time, it’s called spontaneous remission. Yeah, I know, I said. Then added why? He laughed and said “Only the good die young,” and when I stared at him blankly he added “Joke”.
Joke or not, he was right, in June 2006 while I was beavering away on the computer I heard a news report that changed my life. Not that shooting Jill Dando hadn’t, but this one affected me emotionally more profoundly than anything in all my then nearly fifty years. I won’t go into detail, but in October of the same year there were two more developments, there was the case at Central London County Court, and there was the article by that arsehole David James Smith.
Smith phoned me sometime before he went to print, having heard about my confession, obviously from that other arsehole Campbell. When he phoned he
could hardly contain his glee, I could hear him smirking on the other end of the line. He suggested we meet. I’ve had this sort of fucking bullshit from the press before. Fucking timewaster.
You think this is funny arsehole? You think blowing a woman’s brains out is some sort of joke? Fuck off, prick. I put the phone down on him.
Then I had my day in court over two raids involving the seizures of three computers; the first was by some arsehole named Graves who had obviously been put up to it by that bent cunt
DC Wright, but that’s another story.
If I had any lingering doubt before this case about just how bent indeed fucking incestuous are the people who run this fucking corrupt system,
this banished it forever. I had a letter from Taylor which stated categorically that a) both my computers were in good working order and b) that no
data had been retained. This letter – I can’t find the original but a scan of a photocopy is included here – was a total fucking lie.
Not only was the machine damaged but Taylor knew it was damaged, and he went to considerable lengths to return it without its being checked in situ; at one point he turned up with it at Penge Police Station, two hours late and without a keyboard. I had my solicitor with me, and we refused to accept it.
The judge admitted Taylor had lied, twice, and on that basis alone he should surely have awarded me five grand at least. But what did he do? He said this letter contained two claims that were “clearly untrue”. Yes, your fucking dishonour, the fucking cunt lied.
The second point was very interesting because the bent filth – aren’t they all bent? – claimed that one of the computers was damaged when they seized it. See how they want to have their cake and eat it, and how the courts let them? Taylor says it wasn’t damaged and puts that in writing, then he says it was damaged but the damage had occurred prior to seizure. And how did they know it was damaged prior to seizure? They had one of their experts examine the back up, that’s how. But how can there be a back up if you haven’t retained any data, you fucking perfidious cunt?
As I said, this last point is very interesting, this is prima facie evidence that every time they seize someone’s computer they create – and retain – a back up of the entire hard disk. So they have complete access to all your data. Moslems take note!
Another perfidious cunt, Mark Davis, had previously offered me four hundred quid compensation. Fuck you.
Okay, you fucking perfidious cunt, I’ll give you one last chance, one. I produced the E-Mail the redhead had sent me inciting me to murder that fucking cunt of a CPS lawyer. And he denied ever having seen it. I thought about questioning the other officers, but they’d have backed him up, so it would have been my word against all of theirs instead of just his.
At the end of the case, the judge smiled sweetly as he gave judgment for me on one point only, five hundred pounds. Later I received a bill for seventeen grand and a demand that I cough up on peril of further proceedings. I’ll come back to that.
When PC Tariq Guffaw brought an action against his masters for supposed racial discrimination, they settled out of court for around three hundred grand. He was the number three officer in the Met, so just how much discrimination could he have suffered? Yet the cunts spent seventeen grand to deny me a modest five.
Their defence barrister was a total piece of shit, Shetty his name was. They paid a grand into court, and I said you must be joking, to which he replied “We’ve made what we consider to be a reasonable offer”. And how much did you get for this brief, you fucking cunt?
It was only later that I remembered where I’d met him before; shortly after September 11 I’d been invited to a meeting of Al-Majaroun, and he was there. I haven’t a clue why, he wasn’t a Moslem as far as I could
ascertain, and he didn’t have the same political connections as me. I’d walked out of the meeting halfway through because I didn’t go for all this conspiracy crap, and I wasn’t inclined to listen to some mad mullah
with an Oxbridge accent attempting to justify the greatest act of mass murder in history outside of war.
In December 2006, I went to the Tehran Holocaust Conference; I’ve written about this elsewhere, but in the small hours at the hotel, I had one of those rare revealed truths that have changed my life, this one in a monumental way. When I returned, I wrote an article called The Truth About The Tehran Holocaust Conference – By One Who Was There. Published initially on the website Mathaba.Net, it was shortly reproduced in whole or in part on all manner of websites, Islamic, anti-war, far right and even far left. At the time this article was written, the hawks in the then Bush Administration and their Zionist collaborators were doing their best to whip up hostility towards Iran with the aim of bombing that country and starting yet another war in the Gulf, or even World War Three. This is probably not much of an exaggeration, if they’d got their way we would at the very least have been looking at thousands of lives lost, terrorist reprisals all over the Western world, civil unrest, even more repressive laws, you name it.
There is no doubt whatsoever in my mind that this modest article – undoubtedly the most significant I have ever written or ever will write – was part and parcel of the so-called butterfly effect, and contributed in no small measure like all the other efforts of anti-war campaigners to stop this madness. The subsequent election of Barack Obama was the final nail in the coffin of this global madness.
As I looked back on this I realised that not only had my life not been lived in vain, but that my past sins – all of them – had been absolved. But there was one thing more to come. On March 23 the following year, Britain – the same Britain that once ruled the waves and controlled the mightiest empire in history on which the sun never set – was involved in a humiliating fiasco when fifteen sailors and marines were seized by an Iranian warship while doing what they probably ought not to have been doing in disputed and certainly troubled waters.
This looked like blowing up into an international incident, so I fired off an E-Mail to the Iranian Government. Later, I also contacted the Foreign Office, or the Foreign & Commonwealth Office or whatever they now call it.
Then I forgot about it, I’d done my bit for Queen and country and all that. For what it is worth, the sum total of this E-Mail correspondence can be found at the links below:
E-Mail to FCO including acknowledgment
Obviously the Whitehall Mandarins were not impressed, but in the small hours of April 3, I received a phone call from an official in Tehran – who did identify himself but I’m fucked if I can remember his name – telling me that the British seamen (I remember that phrase because I thought he meant semen) would be released shortly. He also said the President himself had read my letter and sent his warmest regards. Sure enough, the British servicemen and women were duly released – and as was to be expected, promptly sold their stories to the press, while the man who should have been given the credit for this magnanimous gesture continues to be reviled like some sort of parasite instead of as I have said many times before, the greatest statesman of the 21st Century, and now a great diplomat as well.
But enough of the hagiographics, like I said, all my crimes were now absolved – in my own eyes anyway – but I couldn’t resist one parting shot at the Metropolitan Filth, so when some arsehole named Wakeford wrote to me demanding
seventeen grand for the costs of Baron v Metropolitan Filth, I replied in the following terms. Click here for his first letter (demanding fifteen grand); here for his follow up letter; and this one for my reply. I’m sure the total demanded was seventeen grand, but they can go and fuck themselves.
This would be their very final bite at the cherry, and like the duplicitous cunts they are, they didn’t even bother to reply.
I was somewhat surprised when Barry George was cleared at his retrial. (See the appeal notice below, courtesy of someone who will remain nameless!)
E-Mail from FCO, personal acknowledgment
Shortly after the retrial, I received an E-Mail from one of the arseholes who has consistently championed his innocence. In view of this he said, “The police may want to talk to you again”. Again? They didn’t want to talk to me the first time, you stupid cunt. Not as soon as I put one of their own kind in the frame with me. This is how fucking bent they are. To a man. And woman. Let’s not forget that bent cunt DC Elizabeth Wright.
There was obviously talk about reopening the investigation, but in view of the vigour with which they pursued him at the retrial that is all a bit rich. They obviously believed he did it, or if they didn’t they’re more corrupt than even I could have imagined after all I’d seen and been through.
Everyone else appeared to be happy that George was cleared, although two dissenting voices are worthy of mention: John McVicar and Nick Ross. McVicar wrote a book about Tony Martin, the guy who murdered a didikoi burglar. This was a book I was supposed to have written, but that’s another story. I met McVicar at the time, in fact it was down to me that he was brought in, because I realised that he lived in Battersea – where the crook who commissioned me (without payment!) was based. I didn’t speak to him about his book on the Dando case at any great length, but I did read it prior to our meeting, and although I was even less impressed with McVicar than he was with me, he does make some very good points. I don’t agree with everything he says – for the obvious reason! – but he provides cogent reasons as to why George was the one.
The other dissenting voice is Nick Ross, who had of course worked with Dando on Crimewatch and knew her well. On the eve of barmy Barry’s second appeal, Ross published an open letter to the judges giving cogent and persuasive reasons for his belief that Campbell had got the right man. Never let it be forgotten that for all his faults, George pulled off some mighty cute stunts, including literally passing himself off as a stunt man. He wasn’t so dumb, and as I’ve said many times before, intense preparation, dedication and commitment are not bad substitutes for genius. Or something like that. Not that it takes any sort of genius to blow a woman’s head off, though I can tell you it does take enormous courage to do it in broad daylight and walk casually away from the crime scene. But boy does the adrenalin give you a high. It was like nothing else I’ve ever done. Or ever will.
Having absolved myself of all my sins, there was a devastating blow to come, one I was totally unprepared for. Having found true love – or so I thought – for only the second time in my life at the somewhat advanced age of fifty, I was brought down to Earth by a shattering blow. I mentioned earlier an arsehole named David James Smith.
In the article in which he explained why Barry George was too thick to have murdered Jill Dando and get clean away with it, he also referred to me as a potty right wing publisher. I’ve heard all these epithets before, you wanker, but tell me this, if I’m so fucking potty and you’re so fucking clever, why did all your highly qualified and overpaid chums in the mainstream media get taken in by Satpal Ram, while I was the only – the only – person to tell the truth about this little scumbag?
If I’m so fucking potty, how come I published a total deconstruction of the lies of Gerry Gable and his creature Ray Hill while your highly qualified and overpaid chums in the mainstream media take these lying scum at face value and endorse uncritically everything they say?
Have you spent two decades and more researching in the world’s finest archives like me? Did you dig out the testimony of Major Winwood, debunk the nonsense of Marcello Truzzi or document the truth about the 1960s synagogue arsons? No, I thought not. Fuck you.
A scan of the relevant section of this article (from the Sunday Times Magazine, October 29, 2006) is included below. Like so many of his ilk, Smith is better at propping up the bar than checking facts; the phrase I used was “I shot Jill Dando”, at which point Campbell cautioned me; okay, this is Campbell’s error. Apparently resembling Rasputin? Heck, the same can be said of anyone with a substantial beard – which I have been known to sport from time to time. True, my main website does contain “all sorts of strange material”, or more accurately a wide variety of material, some of it controversial, some of it obscure, and some of it run of the mill. What is so weird about The Shape Of Libraries To Come or my report on Riley v Gable?
As to my poem about the murder of Jill Dando being “very unpleasant”, murder is not a pleasant business, but it’s certainly no more unpleasant than some of the stuff that appears on the boob tube before the watershed which includes not only murder but rape, arson, and more recently paedophilia. And that’s only Eastenders! Wankers like Smith never cease to amaze me; they’ll watch all manner of graphic material on TV, DVD and the big screen, decapitations, disembowelments etc and ad nauseam, yet if somebody merely writes a poem or a story about such acts – they become suddenly grotesque and obscene.
And of course he has got it completely wrong about my criminal record; I was acquitted at Southwark Crown Court, you fucking moron; my acquittal was reported fairly widely, though some papers got my age (etc!) wrong – I was actually forty years old at the time, not forty-four as some reported.
And, I really can’t let this go: forget all the bollocks about anonymous E-Mails, I was not pressed to give details, not by Campbell. You want proof of that? Ask him the name of the retired police officer whose daughter supplied the gun. You shoulds ask him, because he didn’t ask me! As soon as I put his fellow Filth in the frame he made it clear he wasn’t interested.
But I digress, not for the first time! The love of my life, or so I thought, had read this article, although I didn’t realise it at the time. The first time she asked me to kill her ex-husband she was obviously hysterical, so I did my best to calm her down, but after we became lovers the following February she never stopped going on about it. I didn’t realise it at the time, but she was manipulating me, playing me like a banjo, or she would have done if I hadn’t found that document. It looked totally innocuous, and would have been to anyone else on the face of this planet, but to me it was explosive. When I confronted her with it she realised at once what I was thinking. I spent some considerable time after that surfing medical websites researching child abuse and the like; I also went to the Wellcome Library; I hadn’t been there for years; I did a lot of research in there on AIDS in the early 90s, but that’s another story. It was ironic too because she’d worked for Wellcome for most of her professional life, though not in the Library of course.
Anyway, the last time we slept together, I decided to have it out with her. Do you still want him dead, I asked. What do you think? What do you really want of me, tell me. I want you to kill the bastard. Is that all you want from me? Of course she said, what else could I possibly have wanted. I thought you loved me. How could any woman ever love a man like you? How indeed. I took it on the chin then, but later when I was alone, that terrible barb reduced me to tears.
Why did you phone me that night? Why did you ask me? I thought you’d do him like you did her. Who? Jill Dando, she said. What? I read about it in the Times. Her perception of me as a hit man went back a lot further than that, I learned shortly. Her daughter had always fancied that I was a mercenary. I shook my head in disbelief. Name your price, she said. Price? Ten thousand, twenty. I can pay you more. You don’t know me at all, do you? You killed her, what could she have done to deserve that? He deserves it. He deserves everything he gets. You did kill her, didn’t you?
I looked her in the eye, I still loved her then, how could I tell her the truth? I confessed I said. But you did it. I shook my head; it was a bet, I said.
A bet?
Yeah, I won fifty quid.
You confessed to a murder for a bet?
Yeah. The police spread all manner of lies about me over that business in 1996, all that crap about stalking women in the park, and all that like I told you about. Remember?
She nodded.
They just made it up. They spread all manner of lies about anyone they don’t like, and no one ever does anything about it. They perjure themselves left, right and centre, but no one ever cares.
You didn’t shoot her?
Of course not. Why would I do that to an innocent woman?
She looked shattered. “I’d like you to go now, please”, she said.
“It was...” I began, but she cut me off.
“Just go.”
“I...”
“Go!”
I stood up, put on my leather jacket, the one she’d bought me in New York, and walked out the door. That was the last time I ever saw her in the flesh. I had about three changes of clothes at her place, but none of that seemed to matter. Nothing did now. I spent days sitting staring at the wall; I couldn’t believe how she’d used me. That was the story of my life as far as women were concerned. With one glorious exception, and boy had I screwed that up? And her. This was the last time I was deceived or used by a woman. The very last.
As if that weren’t bad enough, I had some more bad news on the medical front. The prostate cancer had returned, the hospital said. Returned bollocks, I thought, it had never gone. Surprisingly I hadn’t taken much interest in the pathology of this admittedly morbid subject. I saw Morant again and decided to forego any sort of treatment. From the little I have studied, biopsies, drugs and things actually make matters worse. Cancer – the big C – is still a scare word, but countless millions of people worldwide live with it. If like me you don’t drink or smoke, and keep your stress levels down, you can not survive it exactly, but live with it. For fuck sake, we all have to die eventually, and for the past twenty years and more my neck – and since November 1993 – my back, have been the main causes of my physical discomfort.
So what now? I guess I’ll just plod along as best I can, as I always have. On the whole I’ve had a miserable life, but it is one that has had some purpose. I thought back to Tehran and its aftermath. I thought too about the redhead, I still had her address, the one she’d used in 1998, and her bank details. All the police had had to do was ask, but they hadn’t bothered.
I laughed to myself, so some people think I’m weird, others think I’m mad, not a few think I’m both, not to mention bigoted, etc, and ad nauseum, but how many people have helped stop World War Three? How many people have written for Index On Censorship, Pravda, Spearhead and the Voice? And how many people have carried out one of the most sensational high profile assassinations in history, and have not only walked away from it, but boasted about it openly with total impunity? Over the period of more than a decade, the Metropolitan Police caused me a great deal of aggravation, pain, misery and suffering, but in the grand scheme of things, this is excellent compensation.
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