THIS IS THE FIRST OF A SERIES OF ARTICLES ON GOW’S CASE BY Fergus Donagh. Later on the articles were published as a book, and he read them out himself on the radio; I remember it being on. His voice was very ponderous and slow, but it was an interesting series because he spoke to people who were central to the story but peripheral to the court case and tended to be ignored. He interviewed most of the victims’ families, and Lara Orr as well. Susie has most of the articles. I don’t think there’s any point in my transcribing them all. They’re pretty samey, more or less descriptions of the interviewees’ poverty-ridden circumstances interspersed with heavy hints about how melancholy Donagh feels about the murders and how grim the world looks to his sensitive yet manly and unafraid Irish soul. His writing is a bit florid for my tastes.
Box2Document 6 Article by Fergus Donagh, Guardian, 3/16/94
Karen Dempsey is one of the least important people in the Andrew Gow story. Karen was raped and mutilated, her tongue was cut out, she was dowsed in bleach and left to die by a stinking river. It is a telling indictment that in a word search of the last four weeks, the five leading British newspapers have mentioned her name 17 times. Andrew Gow’s name has been printed 203 times. Lara Orr Gow, Gow’s wife, has been named 97 times.
Karen was twenty-one years old. Last week a box of evidence relating to her death was returned to the police, unopened by the courts. There will be no trial. Gow has pleaded guilty to the charges and has been convicted. He will be sentenced next week. The box held the clothes Karen was found dead in: the thin shirt, short skirt, and flimsy silver bomber jacket, ripped at the pocket. An officer on the case told me that the sole of her high heels was worn down on one side, the result of her lopsided walk. She had a hip operation when she was a baby, and the other girls nicknamed her Hop-along. She had done a lot of walking in those shoes.
Karen worked as a prostitute in Anderston. It is a derelict area by the waterfront with many dark doorways for illicit trysts. She was last seen approaching a man in a baseball cap at the corner. The streetlights are all overhead, and the CCTV did not capture his face. She should have been home that night. She had promised to baby-sit for a friend, but a sick child occasioned a cancellation. If the baby had been well, she would have stayed in. If she had stayed in, she would still be alive today.
Unusual for the area, Karen had no children herself. Friends have told reporters that Karen began prostituting herself to support her ailing mother, but it seems more likely that she did it to get money for drink and drugs. She was well known on the club scene but had stopped going out recently after a fight with a young woman. The police were called to the fight, but Karen and the other girl had left by the time they arrived. Had they arrested her, she might still be alive today.
Fate created a plethora of chances for Karen to escape Andrew Gow, but she didn’t take them.
Approaching Karen’s home on this cold winter morning, I found the next-door tenement block burned out, sheets of gray fiberboard nailed over the windows, and the open stairwell scarred with gang graffiti. It is an unsafe area in a bleak corner of the world.
Karen grew up and lived her short life in Lambhill. This, one of the roughest council estates in Britain, has a per capita rate of burglary and muggings three times the national average. Council houses bought in the eighties are now selling for a fraction of their original valuation. It’s an all-too-familiar story, a tale of disempowered, marginalized families surviving in an economy determined to ignore them.
Veronica Dempsey, Karen’s mother, opens the front door to her dark flat. She ushers me in, anxious that the neighbors don’t see me. Shame enough, says Dempsey, to have had a daughter killed while on the game, but to be seen talking to journalists about her would be much worse.
Hers is a poor house, neither clean nor proud. The hall has no carpet, just bare hardboard streaked black with trips from room to room. In the spare kitchen, a whitish mist I mistake for net curtains turns out to be dirt on the windows.
Dempsey is a stocky woman, looking much older than her thirty-six years. Despite a heart condition, she chain-smokes Kensas Club. The fingers on her right hand are tobacco-stained. Karen was conceived when Veronica was only fourteen, but she is at pains to point out that she didn’t give birth until she was fifteen. Her parents put her out of the house and the child’s father moved away, but Veronica refused to give up her untimely daughter. She kept her child and did her best to bring the baby up decently. Veronica has never worked herself and knows few who have.
I’m the only one Dempsey has spoken to, she wants me to know that. She promises that she won’t speak to the other papers. It is only at the end of our conversation that I realize Dempsey expects to get paid. She doesn’t know that it is customary to negotiate payment in advance of giving an interview. I tell her I’m from a broadsheet and we don’t tend to pay people for stories. She doesn’t know what a broadsheet is, she says. All she knows is that Karen was all she had and now Karen is dead.
Veronica Dempsey is typical of the Riverside Ripper families. Hopeless people at the bottom of the social scale striving to make sense of a brutality that is beyond them. Their families are poor and helpless, neither able to organize nor well-resourced enough to take on the powers that be.
Now that the trial is over and Gow has been convicted, an army of questions remains unanswered. How could Gow cruise the same small group of women in an area the size of Regent’s Park, kill five, and only be caught because he confessed? Why was a multiphasic task force not set up until after the third death? Why did no one in the NCSOD claim jurisdiction over the series of crimes? Where is the companion who helped him with the first and third murders?
The DNA evidence was not foolproof: the semen samples from the bodies were badly compromised by the bleaching. Other than that, all the evidence the police had against Gow was the blood in his car and his lack of an alibi. Why didn’t his defense argue that Gow, while admittedly a rapist and possibly the driver, was not the killer? It hardly feels like justice at all.
Alice Thompson’s name has not even reached seventeen hits in the coverage. She has been mentioned only twelve times because her family refused to release a photograph to the press. Her two sons are thirteen and fourteen now. They came to the court with their father and sat next to him. Their father was drunk and shouted abuse at Lara Orr in the lobby of the court. He hadn’t lived with Alice Thomson for six years. The boys hadn’t seen her for three.
Elizabeth MacCorronah was a registered heroin addict. Her husband, also an addict, had been killed in a house fire two years before. Her three children were in care at the time of her murder. No one from her family came to the trial. Martine Pashtan’s husband moved back to Birmingham, taking with him their son, now a year old. Mary-Ann Roberts was forty-one years old and the most experienced of the women. She left no one.
This series of articles is depressing, but I think they’re meant to be. Excused as a cry for justice and a forum for pointing out the inadequacies in the police handling of the case, they’re really designed to give the middle classes a frisson of terror at the missing social safety net. I heard Donagh argue on a radio-show debate that he wasn’t cashing in by writing these articles. He was moved to pursue the case because none of the victims’ families were able to demand answers or to comment on the quality of the police investigation. He got a big round of applause, and I think he was right. These victims won’t be celebrated; they won’t be remembered as anything other than a footnote in a true-crime book. Not for them the self-named foundations doing good or ardent family campaigns advocating a cosmetic reform to some small point of law. Grief-stricken campaigning families used to mystify me, but they make perfect sense now. If I could think of anything to campaign about, I’d love to set one up for Susie. I could pour my energies into it, meet new friends through it, work really hard at wrestling order from a chaotic universe.
Donagh makes you feel sorry for Veronica Dempsey, but still, there does come a point where you have to admit it: you need to be pretty thick not to know what a broadsheet is at thirty-six.
The description of Lara Orr in his last article is genuinely touching. The poor woman isn’t very bright and doesn’t know how to present herself. She seems not likable, exactly, but certainly very innocent.
Box2Document 7 Article by Fergus Donagh, Guardian, 3/23/95
Lara Orr sips her cup of tea and looks out the steamed-up café window. The shadows under her eyes show the recent strain, and her roots need doing. It took twelve phone calls to arrange this meeting. Her friend Stevie Ray fields all phone calls and controls access to her husband. Stevie, she says, has been looking after both of them. He has given up his job at the minicab firm where he met Gow and is dedicating himself full-time to managing Gow’s career as a serial killer and celebrity. Of the £1,000 he is charging me to interview Lara Orr, she will get £750 and Stevie Ray will get £250, twenty-five percent of the final deal. Lara isn’t worldly enough to know that Stevie’s cut is far too high and Stevie isn’t smart enough to make it a proviso that I don’t mention the money in this article. It’s a case of the blind managing the blind.
Lara was born on the south side, the middle daughter in a family of five girls. Her mother was a telephone operator and her father a park keeper. They were not happy times. As she grew up, her ambition was to move out of the family home. She got her wish at sixteen. She was sent to live with an aunt in Liverpool while she studied hairdressing. It was in Liverpool that she met Andrew Gow. It was an August night in the Taboo nightclub; Lara was with some girls from her hairdressing school; Gow was alone. They got to chatting because they were both Glaswegian and one month later Lara and Andrew were engaged. After Laura had a fallout with her aunt, Andrew brought her home and they stayed with his family, sleeping on the floor of his young sister’s house until the council allocated them a flat of their own. They were married in the spring of 1991, two years before the first riverside murder.
“I didn’t know he was a monster,” says Lara, looking out the window. “He was always gentle with me. He was kind to me.”
I ask her about the story she sold to the Mirror, about Gow dressing her up as a prostitute for rough sex games. Lara looks sick, curls a tress of bleached hair around her finger, and says she was afraid of him. This means that Gow was simultaneously gentle and kind and frightening. It’s hard to know which is true. Both sentiments seem quite genuine.
She’s divorcing him, she says, at some point in the future, perhaps when the financial value of being his wife is mitigated by the passage of time. She is alone now. Having fallen out with her family and her husband, she’s sorry to say that Gow will be keeping Stevie Ray as his manager, so she will have to cope with being his ex-wife alone. I suggest that she might get a better agent.
“There is no one better,” she says. “Stevie knows how to do it all.”
Donagh never got to interview Stevie Ray and went on about it later in the radio series. Ray kept charging him money and then not turning up. Donagh titled the series after him, something about Stevie Ray-“Good-bye, Stevie Ray” or “Tell Stevie Ray Hello” or something like that.
It occurs to me that Stevie Ray might be interesting to talk to. He was in contact with Gow and Donna right up until the end. Susie has a photo up on the wall here, taken on the steps of the court on the day of Gow’s appeal. It was on the front page of the tabloids. Stevie is holding Gow’s hand up in the air like a triumphant boxer, and they are both grinning maniacally. Gow has those white children’s sunglasses on. He seemed to wear them all the time. Donna was camera shy suddenly and is lurking in the background. Stevie Ray might even know something about the phone call from Durness.
I didn’t get to know Stevie during Susie’s trial, but I don’t think I’m being presumptuous in saying that he understood what I was going through; after all, he’d watched someone he was close to go on trial for horrible crimes. We spoke only once: we were waiting to get back into the court after lunch and he was crying. As I remember the incident now, it doesn’t seem at all strange or alarming to me that he was crying, so it must have been around the time that the prosecution brought evidence about the extent of Gow’s injuries. Stevie Ray was standing next to me, crying silently. I remember little silver trails of snot on the backs of his hands catching the light in the dark corridor. I said, “Sorry, pal,” and handed him a disposable tissue out of a packet.
He took it between two fingers, nodded sadly, and, without looking up, said, “Sure, sure,” and moved away. I’m sure he’d talk to me.
I don’t know why I keep coming up here to write this rubbish down. I find myself tramping up here night after night, my eyes smarting and wanting to sleep, and still I pass the door to the bedroom and come up here. I’ve always wanted to write, but not all this rubbish about feelings; I want to write clever things about the death of empire, about big theories and themes that will win me the respect of Martin Amis and get me into Soho House. Writing this stuff down has become a sick compulsion, and the only reason I can find for it is that, like a petulant child, I want to have my say. I’m presenting a defense to an absent audience and I haven’t even done anything wrong.
It’s the diarist’s dilemma: if no one’s ever going to see it, there’s no real reason to bother writing it, spell-checking it, or taking time over the grammar and phrasing. Why not just think thoughts? If there is a secret desire to be read, does that make what I’m writing any less honest? Who are these literary pyrotechnics meant for? If I knew for sure that no one would ever see these pages, I think I would write differently. I’m going to try to be completely honest, bare.
Still, without knowing what my motive is, the function all of this writing serves is clear: while I’m writing down every small thing, I don’t need to participate fully in my life, which, at the moment, is pretty shitty.
I’ve just found this. I was opening the lowest drawer on the desk and it got stuck. I tugged and tugged and heard the rustle of something falling from the underside of the drawer into the well underneath. I had to take all of the drawers out to get my hand in there. It had been stuck to the bottom with a big lump of Blu-Tack.
It’s handwritten, but it’s definitely by Donna; the grammar’s all wrong and there are no commas.
Box? (not sure which to file this under yet) Document 1
DURNESS HOTEL
Keoldale
PROP: MR. W. PASCALE
Susie-
he is taking me to the broken little cottage above
Loch Inshore. Im scared of him.
Come please please come please
Donna
My first thought was that I should go to Fitzgerald’s house with it and wait for him to get up in the morning. Finally, this is something we can use for an appeal. But then I stopped: Susie had this letter all along and never gave it to Fitzgerald herself. Why? I can understand that she might have been confident she’d get off- I was confident she’d get off- but she could have told him about it since. She could have told me about it since. If she was worried that she’d get into trouble for withholding it, she could have told me and I’d have claimed I’d hidden it or something. I’d do six months in prison for contempt if it meant she’d get out. I would. I’d do that for her.
This letter might be what she and Fitzgerald spent all the phonecard money during the first week talking about.
I know I should take some sort of urgent action, but I don’t know what to do for the best. What if she’s been telling the truth all along?