Johnny Hague seemed such an unassuming little fellow, small and slight, neat and

polite, and being just a few weeks from 40, blessed with a boyish face, dimpled cheeks,

and an unbroken voice, as he nibbled his toast and supped his tea, the quiet little choir boy whose mummy had

dressed him in bow ties was still easy to see, but not the monster that he claimed to be.

For the last few hours, the four men sat in the stuffy cramped confines of interview room

three of Chelsea Police Station.

And as Chief Superintendent Barrett, divisional Detective Inspector Symes and Detective

Inspector Webb listened, little Johnny Haig candidly recounted his callous crimes with

the calmness of a man for whom murder was routine.

And as each delicious detail tickled him, his feeble moustache bristled, but behind the dark

dots of his marble-like eyes, there was nothing.

I have made some statements about the disappearance of Mrs. Gerand Deacon.

The truth is, we left the hotel together, and she was inveigled by me into going to Crawley.

Having taken her to the storeroom at Leopold Road, while she was examining some paper for use of fingernails,

I shot her in the back of the head and disposed

of her in a tank of acid.

Having befriended the McSwan family and the Henderson's, assume their identities, inherited

their estates and drained their assets.

All five had mysteriously vanished, and almost no one had noticed.

Any investigation would prove fruitless.

Years had passed, evidence was sold, and with no fingerprints or witnesses, basing his

murders on the legal loophole that...

...