Newbury station is a short train ride from Winchester, and as the taxi nears the entrance towards the studios, I’m reminded of the last time I was here, after Freddie had called to tell me what he’d done. He hadn’t sounded ashamed at the time; if anything, he was victorious in finding the studios where he’d been so badly mistreated for so many years, and for bringing an end to its torturous past. I can’t bear to think about how many other children suffered in the same way as Freddie.
Since Freddie’s sentencing, I’ve tried to do some of my own research into the studios in an effort to shed any light on how it became such a portent of horror. Formerly a fallow piece of farmland, the site was bought by the newly formed Pendark Corporation in 1958 and developed into what became three large sound stages in 1961, set to rival the likes of Ealing Film Studios in West London, as well as Pinewood in Iver, Buckinghamshire. With the backdrop of the high turrets of Highclere Castle, the studio had some early success with a couple of well-known medieval-set pictures. However, whilst British cinema grew in the 60s and 70s, Pendark’s isolated location in Berkshire proved less appealing than London, and the Pendark Corporation flirted with administration for several years until it was bought by a Dutch entrepreneur called Arend Visser. From that point the studios’ output was limited to a few B-movie horror pictures which failed to set the world alight. From the fact that the Pendark Studios didn’t officially close until 2017, it doesn’t take a genius to work out that the business was being funded by some other means.
Arend Visser passed away in 2010, but despite owning the Corporation, he remained resident in his native Eindhoven until his death. Whether he was aware of the atrocities being carried out on his property is unclear. I did email all this information to Jack, in case it would prove beneficial to the NCA’s investigation, but he emailed back thanking me and reminding me that I am no longer part of the investigation.
What was the studios is now surrounded by high wooden boarding, branded with the name of a property developer. According to the large graphical display at the entrance, the plan is to turn the site into a luxury hotel, cinema, and casino leisure park, presumably to attract those visiting nearby Newbury racecourse. Just what the world needs: another place to go and waste precious resources. Why somewhere with so much blood spilled can’t be turned into something that can bring benefit is beyond me: a new hospital; a school; affordable housing.
The taxi pulls to a halt at the wire fence, and I pay the driver, before stepping out into drizzle. Pulling the hood up over my head, I move to the gate and peer through, catching Jack’s attention a few metres away. He’s wearing navy jeans, brown hiking boots, and a cagoule to shelter him from the rain. He never was one for high fashion, but I must admit it’s odd seeing him in anything but his usual black and white uniform.
He approaches the gate and I now see there is an officer in a high-visibility vest just inside the gate. Jack speaks to him, identifying me, and the officer then proceeds to unlock the gate and beckon me in. There is no sign of any blue and white police tape as far as I can see, and the fact that they’re not following standard crime scene procedures gives me a modicum of relief. Maybe I was allowing my imagination to get the better of me, and my appearance here has nothing to do with Freddie.
Time will tell.
Jack appears at my side, shielding his eyes from the dripping of his hood as the rainfall worsens. ‘Thanks for coming,’ he says, nodding for me to follow him. ‘We’ve got a hut we can wait in until the rain eases.’
I’m tempted to hug him, but as I move towards him, he turns and strides back through the mud. I hurry after him, trying to avoid the puddles strewn left and right. It’s difficult to picture what the studios looked like before. Little of them now remains. The stanchions that had survived the blaze are black with soot, with great steel struts bent and twisted from severe heat exposure. It resembles a giant gothic sculpture and there is little left of the corrugated plastic roofs that would once have helped produce magnificent scores. Even now – some eight months since the last of the fire was extinguished – the pungent smoke and ash still cling to the air, reminding anyone who passes of what occurred here.
One of the sound stages looks to be in the middle of demolition. Large yellow diggers wait idly to be put to work again. A tall orange crane has been erected in the middle of the site too, but glancing up I can see that the cockpit is empty. Work here has been indefinitely stopped and that doesn’t bode well for the development, nor for me, as we arrive at the small wooden hut which is akin to the sort of portable bathrooms quickly erected at music festivals.
Jack stamps his feet on the mat as he takes the large step up in a single bound. I follow suit, though it is clear from the muddy footprints already scattered across the floor that the doormat is having little effect in these conditions. There is a large table in the middle of the cabin upon which lies a paper map of what is presumably the architect’s site plan. Two men in yellow hard hats are studying and occasionally pointing at the map as they continue their hushed conversation.
One of them finally looks up as he catches Jack in his periphery.
‘Sir, may I introduce Emma Hunter, the writer I was telling you about?’ Jack says, addressing him. ‘Emma, this is Detective Chief Inspector Harry Dainton.’
The man is at
