Running Wild. Adam Phillips

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СКАЧАТЬ of orange-tipped cannas beside the front door, cap still held in his right hand.

      The camera pauses over him and then enters the house, following the bloody footprints through the open door. Garfield and his wife had made numerous trips to Hong Kong, and the rooms are filled with pieces of chinoiserie – large porcelain vases stand on the blackwood furniture, and there are pairs of Ming horses and jade figurines. Surprisingly, none have been disturbed, suggesting that the murderers had approached their victims without surprise. The housekeeper, Mrs West, lies shot below the marble mantelpiece in the drawing-room, interrupted while doing her dusting. In an upstairs bathroom the camera finds Mrs Garfield, a handsome woman in her late forties, slumped against the glass door of the shower stall, her yellow toothbrush still in her hand.

      All trace of the Garfields’ sixteen-year-old son, Alexander, had vanished. His bedroom, study and bathroom were undisturbed. Only in his mother’s blood flowing across the bathroom tiles could be seen the smeared prints of Alexander’s rubber-cleated shoes, left behind as he was seized and swept away by his abductors.

      The police video continues on its grim and matter-of-fact way. The camera leaves Garfield seated in his Mercedes and gazes across the tranquil lawns at the next macabre tableau. As the two constables outside the Reade house (No. 1, The Avenue), step back from the colonnaded porch, the camera reveals the lavish interior of the property tycoon’s home, so filled with French furniture and objets d’art that it resembles one of the larger rooms at the Wallace Collection. Yet not a glass cabinet has been rifled, not a Sèvres plate shattered, not an ormolu clock toppled from its pedestal.

      Indeed, Mr and Mrs Reade sit at their breakfast table in the dining-room, lying back in their chairs at opposite ends of the lacquered oblong as if momentarily overwhelmed by the calm and richness of the life they have arranged for themselves. Both have been efficiently shot by assailants who have crept so close to them that the cutlery beside their napkins is undisturbed. Only the place settings of the Reades’ daughters, Annabel and Gail, have been scattered to the floor as these orphaned children made a desperate attempt to resist their kidnappers.

      The camera resumes its melancholy tour. By the time it reaches the third house, the Gropius-inspired home of a distinguished concert pianist, the sequence of entrances, deaths and exits begins to resemble a nightmare exhibition that will never end. House by house, the assassins had moved swiftly through the estate on that quiet June morning, killing the owners, their chauffeurs and servants, before abducting the thirteen children. Husbands and wives were shot down across their still-warm beds, stabbed in their shower stalls, electrocuted in their baths or crushed against their garage doors by their own cars. In a period generally agreed to be no more than twenty minutes some thirty-two people were savagely but efficiently done to death.

      However, as the film ended, with a visit to the perimeter guard post where the second security officer had been killed by a single bolt from a crossbow, I was struck by the way in which Pangbourne Village remained aloof from this day of death. The owners of these elegant houses had been dispatched with the least damage to the fabric of their homes, as if the façades of professional and upper-middle-class life were their most solid and lasting substance.

      Indifferent to the lives, and deaths, negotiated within its walls, Pangbourne Village would endure. Once the mystery of this mass-murder and kidnapping had been solved, a seemingly impossible task with which I had now been charged, a new cast of tenants would soon be recruited to fill these calm drawing-rooms. For some reason, as I left the viewing theatre and stepped into the traffic-filled clamour of a Whitehall evening, I gave a small shudder for those new arrivals.

       Pangbourne Village

      Having exhausted my central nervous system with the police video, I returned to my office at the Institute of Psychiatry and tried to calm myself by looking at the origins and creation of Pangbourne Village.

      The small Berkshire town of Pangbourne lies five miles to the north-west of Reading and approximately thirty miles to the west of London. Despite its title, the Pangbourne Village estate was not built near the site of any former or existing village. Like the numerous executive housing estates built in the 1980s in areas of deregulated farmland between Reading and the River Thames, Pangbourne Village has no connections, social, historical or civic, with Pangbourne itself.

      The chief attraction for Camelot Holdings Ltd, the architects and property developers, was the proximity of the M4 motorway, and the ready access it offers to Heathrow Airport and central London, an ease of access that might well have benefited the assassins and kidnappers. All the residents of Pangbourne Village worked either in central London or in the silicon valley of high-technology computer firms along the M4 corridor. Pangbourne Village is only the newest (completed 1985) and most expensive (the ten houses, all with swimming pools, projection theatres and optional stables, each sold for approx. £590,000) of a number of similar estates in Berkshire which house thousands of senior professionals – lawyers, stockbrokers, bankers – and their families.

      Secure behind their high walls and surveillance cameras, these estates in effect constitute a chain of closed communities whose lifelines run directly along the M4 to the offices and consulting rooms, restaurants and private clinics of central London. They remain completely apart from their local communities, except for a small and carefully selected under-class of chauffeurs, housekeepers and gardeners who maintain the estates in their pristine condition. Their children mix only with each other at exclusive fee-paying schools or in the lavishly equipped sports clubs sited on the estates.

      Pangbourne Village is remarkable only for having advanced these general trends towards almost total self-sufficiency. The entire estate, covering some thirty-two acres, is ringed by a steel-mesh fence fitted with electrical alarms, and until the tragic murders was regularly patrolled by guard-dogs and radio-equipped handlers. Entry to the estate was by appointment only, and the avenues and drives were swept by remote-controlled TV cameras. All police officers concerned in the investigation agree that the penetration of these defences by a large group of assassins was a remarkable and, as yet, inexplicable event.

       The Residents

      I turned to the list of victims, going through the detailed dossiers that the Special Branch had compiled, in the hope that the identities of the murdered residents might suggest some elusive clue. The sets of photographs, entries from Who’s Who, the photostats of birth and marriage certificates, share portfolios and bank statements, academic qualifications and honorary degrees passed between my hands, the records of gifted lives so brutally ended.

      1 The Avenue. Julian Reade, 43, chairman, Reade Investments. Dr Miriam Reade, 41, ear, nose and throat specialist, Wimpole Street. Shot. 2 daughters: Annabel, 16, and Gail, 15.

      2 The Avenue. Charles Ogilvy, 47, Lloyds underwriter; hon. secretary, Pangbourne Polo Club. Margaret Ogilvy, 42. Shot. 1 son: Jasper, 17.

      3 The Avenue. Roger Garfield, 52, merchant banker. Helen Garfield, 47, proprietor, Pedigree Kennels, Windsor. Shot. 1 son: Alexander, 16.

      4 The Avenue. David Miller, 49, stockbroker, Elizabeth Miller, 46. Electrocuted. 1 son: Robin, 13. 1 daughter: Marion, 8.

      5 The Avenue. Dr Harold Maxted, 54, psychiatrist, Harley Street. Dr Edwina Maxted, 48, psychiatrist, High Street, Kensington. Crushed by car. 1 son: Jeremy, 17.

      6  The Avenue. Margot Winterton, 48, concert pianist. Richard Winterton, 57, director, Winterton Arrangements Ltd. Shot. No children.

      1 The Hill. Richard Sterling, 49, chief executive, EduCable, Oxford-area TV franchise. Carole Sterling, 42, former ITN newsreader. Suffocated. 1 son: Roger, 15.

      2 The Hill. Andrew Lymington, 38, chairman, Leisure Marine Ltd. Ex-racing driver, 1982 Western СКАЧАТЬ