The making of a murderer
Killer Kevin Ashdown
Monday 3rd September 2007
Brought up. Dragged up. Spoilt rotten. No matter what our childhoods are like, they stick with us forever. And I wouldn't have swapped mine for the world.
My mum, Maureen, now 70, my dad, Ronnie, 72, my brothers Paul, 47, and Michael, 42, and I were all crammed into a three-bedroom house on the Branksome estate in Darlington. Dad was a steel worker and Mum worked in a shop. Money was tight, but there was lots of love and they encouraged us to work hard and build ourselves a future.
Thanks to them, I'd done just that. I lived in a four-bedroom house in Crouch End, North London. But I still loved my trips to my childhood home every few months. The in January last year, Mum dropped a bombshell.
'Have you heard about Kev?' she asked.
She was talking about Robert Kevin Ashdown, or Kev as we all called him. My childhood mate, and Paul's best friend at school. Over the years, I'd heard he'd gone off the rails. He'd started drinking and went to prison for attacking someone.
'Nasty business,' Mum tutted.
'He's been charged with murdering a woman.'
I knew about the drinking and fighting. But murder?
Mum didn't know many details but, on the train back to London the next day, all the childhood memories of Kev flooded back. I was 12 and at Branksome Comprehensive school. Sitting in the classroom, the chanting rang in my ears.
'Look at the chewing gum on her bum,' one lad had jeered, as a crowd gathered to laugh. I'd frantically blinked back tears. Then, another boy's voice had shouted over them all.
'Oi, get out of it!' the voice had bellowed. 'Leave her alone.'
As the bullies ran away, I'd turned to see Kev.
'Thanks,' I'd smiled gratefully at him.
'No problem,' he'd grinned back.
He was two years older than me, and Paul's best mate. It was nice to know he was looking out for me.
After that, he was always round at ours, polishing off a plate of food or playing on his bike with Paul. Michael even went out with Kev's younger sister, Michele, when they were teenagers. Kev was like part of the furniture.
So now, sitting in the train on the way home, I just couldn't get my head around it. We went to the same school. Ate at the same table. How had he ended up a killer? Back home, I switched on my computer and typed his name into an internet search engine.
Kev's victim, Sharon McShane, had sustained a horrific attack… she'd had her hair hacked out… she'd been stripped naked… How could someone who'd gone out of their way to keep me from harm inflict such terrible pain on someone else?
I phoned Paul.
'I'm going to court to see Kev,' I told him.
'Why bother?' he asked.
Good question, and one I didn't have the answer to yet. Seven months later, in July 2006, I went to Teesside Crown Court, Middlesbrough. It had been 28 years since I'd last seen Kev. But I was determined to try to understand why he'd turned into a cold-blooded killer.
Suddenly, Kev was led into the dock, handcuffed. His face, weathered by years of heavy drinking, was rough and bloodshot. But I could still see that schoolboy. He did a double-take when he saw me. I nodded my head, and he gave a small nod back.
For the next few hours, I listened in horror. Kevin had jumped on Sharon until her liver split, then he threw cooking oil over her body. At the end of the four-day trial, the jury returned a guilty verdict. The judge ordered Kev serve at least 19 years. As he was led away, he shouted one word: 'Wicked!'
And suddenly, I realised, this wasn't the Kev I knew. This Kev had to be mentally ill. A mixture of emotions raged through me. As the courtroom emptied, I made a promise to myself. I had to talk to him.
That evening, I wrote a letter. I want to visit you. Days later, a card with a smiley face
on it arrived. You're welcome to come, Kev had scrawled. So, three weeks later, I got a prison pass to visit Kev.
Before I went, I met Kev's sister Michele in her house in Darlington. I hadn't seen her for 28 years but, as soon as she saw me, she broke down.
'He's ruined his life,' she sobbed.
'But why did he do it?' I asked.
Michelle took a deep breath.
'Our stepdad used to beat us, and Kev took the brunt of it,' she said. 'Kev was taken into care for a while. After that, he was troubled. He could only express himself through anger.'
Three weeks later, I was trembling with nerves as Michele drove me to Holme House prison in Stockton-on-Tees. It was a bleak, concrete building. Guards frisked me at the door, taking my shoes off to search for drugs. The smell of trainers and disinfectant hung in the air. By now, my nerves were in tatters.
Then I saw Kev, wearing a grey jogging suit, sitting quietly at a table. Should you smile at a murderer? As he reached out his hand, I shook it. Suddenly, those fond childhood feelings came flooding back.
'Hello pet,' Kev said warmly. 'What have you been up to all this time?'
I briefly told him about my life.
'I didn't mean to kill her,' he suddenly blurted.
'But Sharon's liver was ruptured,' I said. 'It would have meant you'd jumped on her.'
Kev winced, then changed the subject.
'It's OK in here,' he said. 'I'll keep myself busy doing courses.'
I bought Kev a cup of a tea and a Twix, and we talked about life in prison.
'See him?' he said, pointing to another prisoner. 'He's a child rapist. Scum of the earth.'
Revulsion and fascination swept over me. Kev was a murderer, couldn't he see other people would say the same of him?
After two hours, it was time to go.
'Will you come and see me again pet?' he said.
I looked him in the eye and saw a strange mixture of despair, sadness and fear.
'Maybe,' I said.
Then I left. On the way home, I thought back to the boy who'd helped me at school and I felt guilty. Could I have helped him? Would he have murdered Sharon if he hadn't been beaten
all those years ago?
The biggest question though was, could I be friends with a killer? A question I'm still pondering. But I do know Kev is part of my childhood. I can't just forget him.
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