Dennis Nilsen died during Eurovision
He would have loved the irony I’m sure. If I’d had a crystal ball and he’d phoned me again, I could have asked him. But more of that later.
Jailed for life after admitting to killing at least 15 men, many homeless homosexuals, between 1978 and 1983, Nilsen was Britain’s second worst serial killer. He’d lure his victims back to his flats – he murdered at two locations in London: Melrose Avenue in Willesden Green and latterly Cranley Gardens in Muswell Hill – and then dismember the bodies. He kept some parts in a wardrobe, others in a tea chest in his lounge. Sometimes he’d boil the heads, often on one part of the stove whilst he cooked his dinner on another ring.
He’d even take food into work – he was a respectable civil servant by day – cooked in the same pans he’d used to braise his victims’ brains.
Then he’d bathe the bodies and dress them up, sitting and talking to them for hours on end. You see he liked to care for them. He wasn’t the love ‘em and leave’ em type of mass murderer. He even admitted in a television interview that he felt a “spiritual communion” with his victims.
I mean we all get lonely, right?
Oh and then he slept with them.
The ‘miracle’ of these crimes was that it was murder in reverse. When he was arrested, he told the officers he’d killed 15 men. Yet nobody knew anyone was actually missing. He could have still been murdering today were it not for the man from Dyno-Rod.
Mike Cattran was called to 23 Cranley Gardens because of an issue with blocked drains. The tenants had complained to the landlord that nothing was flushing. So Cattran was tasked with cleaning the mess. Only it wasn’t your common or garden blockage. It was human flesh. Body parts. Pieces of the victims that had stuck together in the pipes and made it impossible for anything else to get through. “When I lifted the manhole cover,” he would tell the Daily Mirror, “the smell was unbelievable.”
When Nilsen was taken into custody by arresting officer Peter Jay, he was happy to discuss his murders. In fact, Nilsen was always happy to discuss his murders. Famously with Carlton Television in 1993 but slightly less famously with me about a year later when he kept calling me to chat.
Dennis wanted to talk
You see, back then I was a junior researcher with the BBC and we were doing a programme on serial killers. So, we composed a standard questionnaire that we sent out to some of the most notorious mass murderers in British history. And yes, younger readers, there’s 0% chance this would get through editorial policy today. But it was the early ‘90’s. A different era altogether.
Anyway, letters went out to, amongst others, Rosemary West, Peter Sutcliffe, the surviving Kray twin, Michael Sams and Ian Brady. And Dennis Nilsen.
Sams complained to the Daily Mail who wrote a full page spread about how disgraceful the BBC were on page 3. Brady sent me two very long, rambling letters. Both were sealed at the back with red candle wax and the initials ‘I’ and ‘B’ engraved within.
But Dennis?
Dennis wanted to talk.
So, he did what you did back then. He picked up the phone and called me.
At work of all places. And we all know how difficult it is to talk at work.
The first call came through on a number I didn’t recognise. And I picked up. Massive faux pas straight away because everyone knows you never answer an unrecognised number. Now I can’t remember whether Dennis was the first voice I heard or whether someone at the prison put me through to him. But regardless, there he was. And Christ was he a talker?! It’s difficult balancing the fact that you’re a junior researcher in your first job at the biggest broadcaster in the world with trying to get a mass serial killer on speaker phone and alerting your work colleagues at the same time without trying to upset said murderer. The person I was sat next to was the daughter of a very famous politician and I’m not sure she quite understood what was happening. Frankly neither could I. If he’d have phoned me last Friday, she could have live tweeted it, but this was around 1994 and I still had a Commodore 64 (look it up).
Anyway, after a couple of minutes I had to hang up. I couldn’t get a word in edge ways for one. But also, it was quite scary. I was about 20 years old and quite a shy boy. I wasn’t used to serial killers calling me unannounced for a chin wag. It was probably rude of me to put the phone down, especially given his background, but I did. I’m not above admitting it.
It’s Dennis. Dennis Nilsen. Hello?
Then he phoned back.
By this time a few people had gathered round my desk. No-one wanted a piece of it. So, we let it go to answerphone. Then we waited to see if the red button indicating a message would start to flash. Lo and behold.
Truth be told, his first message was rambling and incoherent. We’ve all been there. Selfishly though, it went on a long time. We all listened back, laughed, talked about it at lunch, then again before we went home. Then forgot about it.
But when I came in the next morning, the red answerphone light of destiny flashed again. It couldn’t? Could it?
“Hello……. Simon……it’s……hello……is anyone there, Simon? It’s Dennis. Dennis Nilsen. Hello?”
Another call. Another incoherent message. I don’t think the concept of answer phones was a thing when Dennis was free because I’m certain he wasn’t sure if he was actually talking to me or just…..talking? But he kept asking for me by name as if urging me to reply, so I think maybe he thought I was mute.
Over the next couple of days, he’d call again but eventually, when it became clear I wasn’t in the talking mood, he got bored and he stopped. I’d been weirded out that he rang, but oddly sad he’d stopped phoning. It was the 90’s after all.
I was watching Eurovision when I found out he’d died. One of my closest friends, with whom I’d shared this story many years ago, WhatsApped me to tell me. He signed off the message by saying:
“Dennis didn’t call to say goodbye, then?”
He didn’t.
Although my answerphone light is flashing.
