Exclusive Account: Two Days with a Killer Unaware
On Tuesday, August 6, 2002, the air in Soham felt heavy yet remained stubbornly filled with hope. Less than 48 hours had passed since ten-year-old best friends Holly Wells and Jessica Chapman vanished from the quiet Suffolk town, and the entire nation held its breath. As I entered Soham Village College for a hastily convened police press conference, I greeted parents, teachers, officers, and fellow reporters—all clinging to the same fragile optimism.
Fear simmered just beneath the surface, but no one wanted to yield to it. In the corridors, optimism lingered like the warm August air, with people speaking in hushed tones, chasing every rumour, and seizing upon each possible sighting. It was still a community that believed in happy endings.
The Unassuming Figure with Keys
Standing slightly apart was a man in work clothes who immediately caught my attention, largely due to the enormous bunch of keys hanging from his belt. They clinked softly as he moved—an everyday sound that seemed insignificant then but would later return with sickening clarity. He carried himself as someone eager to be useful, seen, and to matter.
When I said good morning, I remarked without thought that his accent sounded familiar. “I’m from Grimsby,” he replied. I mentioned I was from Hull—close enough to feel like kin, despite the Humber Estuary dividing us. He smiled, pleased by the connection, adding, “I used to live in Hull.” That man was Ian Huntley.
At that moment, he was merely another helpful local: the school caretaker, a reassuring presence in a town desperate for answers. He wasn’t particularly intelligent but was keen to be liked, inserting himself into conversations, listening intently, and asking questions. He seemed as invested as everyone else in finding the girls.
Chilling Proximity and Shared Geography
None of us knew—none could have imagined—that he had murdered Holly and Jessica in cold blood less than two days earlier. Because of our shared geography and that casual exchange about home, Huntley gravitated toward me over the following days. It felt natural, even familiar.
He would linger, always wanting to know what was being said, who was asking questions, and how the investigation was progressing. It didn’t seem suspicious; rather, it felt like a man desperate to be included and seen as part of the effort.
Inside the House of Horrors
For the next two weeks, I spent time with Huntley and his girlfriend, Maxine Carr. They welcomed me into their home at No. 5 College Close on the school grounds. The place felt ordinary—disarmingly so—the kind you’d never give a second thought. Huntley dominated the space, speaking over Maxine, correcting her, and guiding conversations. She was quieter, deferential, often glancing at him before answering.
At the time, it barely registered as anything more than a couple’s dynamic. Only later did it feel chillingly significant. We talked about Hull and Grimsby, old streets, familiar places, and shared reference points. We discussed work, the strain of the search, and life in general, filling silences with small talk to avoid the unthinkable.
Never once did I suspect I was in the presence of evil. Never once did I imagine that the people before me knew exactly what had happened to those two girls, knew where they were, and knew that the hope gripping the town was already dead.
Haunting Realisations and Unbearable Truths
I visited that house ten times or more, sitting on their furniture, drinking tea, leaning in doorways with notebook in hand, and even stroking Sadie the dog—the same animal later woven into their alibi. Everything felt normal, mundane, even safe.
Most chilling of all, I used their bathroom several times—the same bathroom where Huntley would later claim Holly and Jessica met their deaths. There is something uniquely horrifying about that realisation: replaying memories of turning on the tap, glancing at the mirror, and standing on those tiles, utterly unaware I was in a room where two children took their final breaths.
When the truth emerged months later, my mind didn’t rush to courtroom dramas or headlines. It returned to that house: the feel of it, the sound of those keys, Huntley’s easy smile, and his constant desire to be at the centre of things. The question that still haunts me is: how did I not know?
The girls were eventually found in a remote ditch, discovered by chance, lying side by side. By then, the hope that once filled Soham had drained away, replaced by grief, anger, and disbelief.
I was left with one unbearable truth: I had been in the presence of evil without recognising it. I had spoken to it, shared a joke with it, and sat in its home. That, perhaps, is the most terrifying lesson of all. Monsters do not always look like monsters. Sometimes, they resemble ordinary men with keys on their belts—eager to be liked, quietly controlling, smiling politely, and talking about where they’re from.
