Kirkby was a new town on the edge of Liverpool, built mainly in the 1960s and early 1970s to rehouse people from the city’s slums. For its inhabitants, though, the move to Kirkby brought only a brief respite. Within ten years of being built, hundreds of the jerry-built houses and flats were themselves slums and many stood empty, ready for demolition. Unemployment in Kirkby was massive and permanent. Thousands of youngsters there had never worked — and were never likely to. About one-third of all families lived on the dole and it was little wonder that a lot of them supplemented their income in the only way possible — by crime. Kirkby police station was the setting for a popular television series, Z-Cars.
In the healthiest part of Kirkby was a cluster of better, privately-owned houses — among them the home of Dave Tempest, OBE, Labour leader on the council and the town’s boss. Apart from one year of Liberal rule, Tempest had dominated Kirkby since its birth. In the absence of any serious opposition, he did what he liked and shrugged off the town’s problems by blaming the media for “giving Kirkby a bad name”.
Tempest also sought to keep the town's lawbreakers in check by serving as an unpaid magistrate, so anyone passing his home shortly after dawn one summer morning in 1977 would have been struck by an ironic sight: police were arresting him in connection with a conspiracy which had systematically cheated the people of the town. The bad name of Kirkby was going back to where it belonged.
Tempest's arrest and subsequent conviction might never had happened but for the work of Liverpool Free Press — and one disastrous construction project. nder a reorganisation of local government in 1974, Kirkby was due to merge into a larger unit called Knowsley and any of the council’s money left unspent at the time of the merger would automatically go to Knowsley. Tempest didn't want Knowsley to get the money and he to have a final fling by spending it in Kirkby. The problem, though, was that the money had to be spent there was no time for a bricks-and-mortar building project. someone then someone had the idea of constructing an artificial ski slope. In theory, this would be both quick and simple. All it needed was a gigantic heap of earth, topped off with a special surface for skiing on.
Considering that one of the principal forms of recreation among Kirkby's young was vandalism and that parents repatedly complained about a lack of places for kids to kick a ball, skiing facilities were a strikingly incongruous proposition. We first heard about the ski slope when a Free Press contributor from Kirkby told us that the council, in their haste to finish it while the money was still available, had used volunteer children to lay the ski surface during school hours. When the council couldn’t get enough volunteers, they paid children 25p an hour to work at the weekend.
It also emerged that the ski slope had been built without planning permission, on top of the pipe carrying the town’s water supply, and on land which Kirkby council did not own (they later had to buy it from Liverpool council). There were safety issues too, though that was an academic point because the council’s insurance company was refusing to let anyone ski on it.
Responsibility for the project — and the mistakes — lay with the council architect’s department, headed by Eric Spencer Stevenson. The decision to go ahead with it was taken by council leader Tempest using his delegated powers and had never been approved by the full council. Furthermore, the main contract for the work was awarded to local builder George Leatherbarrow without inviting formal, competitive tenders.
Shortly after our first story on the ski slope appeared, we were joined by Steve Scott, a reporter who had moved to Liverpool after working at the Cambridge Evening News. He had become interested in the Free Press while studying journalism at Cardiff university.
Talking with Steve about things he might cover for the Free Press, we suggested he should keep a close eye on Kirkby. He didn't like the idea at first, saying Kirkby was too far away, but the arrival of an anonymous letter in response to our story about the ski slope quickly changed his mind.
The letter, which was unsigned, purported to come from someone working in Kirkby council architect’s department. It alleged that builder Leatherbarrow, while charging the council for the earth used to construct the ski slope, had not paid for it himself. He had advertised the site in the Liverpool Echo as a “free tip” for builders. More significantly, the letter gave us the first inkling of the relationship between builder Leatherbarrow, architect Stevenson and council leader Tempest. It said they were on very friendly terms and named a pub where they often had lunch together.
Steve began his inquiries by approaching councillors. He talked to several opposition Liberal councillors and one or two on the Labour side who had the reputation of being honest, but they knew nothing and suspected nothing. He spent the next two weeks in Kirkby library, going through old council minutes. From his notes, we compiled a list of contractors who had worked for Kirkby council and we ran company checks. Two things in particular stood out. One was that most of the building contracts — about £10 million-worth — had gone to George Leatherbarrow, while the big national firms that usually won contracts from neighbouring councils scarcely got a look in. The other thing of note was that whenever anything odd happened, the council’s architect, Eric Spencer Stevenson, was in the thick of it.
Names of officials who had left the council's employment were recorded in the minutes of its Personnel Committee. Steve set about tracking them down in the hope they might be more willing to talk than current employees. One was cooperative, though he actually knew very little about Leatherbarrow and warned that he would never get another job in local government if it became known that he had talked. He did, however, suggest several lines of inquiry and, more importantly, confirmed our suspicions that something, was seriously amiss in Kirkby.
One allegation was that Leatherbarrow had done building work for several prominent people connected with Kirkby council. Through a tenants’ organisation we found someone who had been a trade union official at Leatherbarrow’s firm. He gave us the names of other workers, and they told us there had been something called the Star Gang — a group of privileged workers who went round doing “special” jobs.
We got their names and Steve and Chris went to see them. By that time Leatherbarrow knew we were asking questions and the Star Gang were reluctant to talk. Steve recalled multiple visits to one of them: “We must have been there five times. We just kept turning up on his doorstep and each time he kept adding a bit more. He was the driver who had delivered some of the materials and he kept denying it.”
Eventually the Star Gang revealed that Leatherbarrow had built a kitchen extension for Stevenson and a larger extension to Tempest’s house. Materials for both these jobs had been taken from a site in Kirkby where Leatherbarrow was building council houses.
Meanwhile, Chris had traced a former manager of Kirkby Stadium, the council-run sports centre, who had been jailed for obtaining £2,000 by deception. In court he had explained that high living while he worked for Kirkby council had led him to crime. He had told the court of lavish entertainment and trips to Europe paid for by contractors. The former manager gave us details of these trips and mentioned one to London which included Tempest and Stevenson — and had been paid for by George Leatherbarrow.
The former manager then dropped a bombshell, saying Stevenson drove an expensive car that people referred to as “Leatherbarrow’s car”. More details came from Leatherbarrow’s ex-wife (he had been divorced and re-married). She told us the car was a maroon Alfa Romeo, and gave the rough date when Leatherbarrow had bought it. A further indication of the close friendship between Leatherbarrow and Stevenson came when she said Stevenson had been best man at Leatherbarrow’s second wedding. At this news, Chris and Steve rushed to Birkenhead Register Office and bought a copy of Leatherbarrow’s marriage certificate. And there, on the certificate, were the signatures of the two witnesses — Eric Spencer Stevenson and Elizabeth M Stevenson.
By that stage we had the basic outline of the Leatherbarrow story but there were several loose ends still to be tied up. One was how to prove that Leatherbarrow had paid for the trip to London. First we tried the hotel where they were supposed to have stayed, without any luck. Then we got the name of the travel agent where Leatherbarrow had booked the train tickets. Chris decided to try subterfuge. He phoned the travel agent, posing as Leatherbarrow’s accountant. He said he needed to know the cost of the tickets and would hang on while they checked. Certainly, they said. They would have a look. There was a long, tense pause. Then the answer came: £114.90 — and the bill had been sent to Mr Leatherbarrow, marked “Personal”. Fortunately, the party had travelled in style, by Pullman train, and Pullman tickets carried the names of passengers — which included Leatherbarrow, Tempest and Stevenson.
Another unresolved question concerned the building work done for Stevenson and Tempest. Was it legitimate work which had been paid for, or not? The work at Stevenson’s was especially suspect because he lived in Heswall, some 20 miles from Kirkby and on the other side of the Mersey. If he had been paying for the work himself it would have made more sense to call in a firm closer to his home.
Tempest’s extension, meanwhile, was suspect because he appeared to have shown no concern about the cost while it was being built. He had made several changes of plan after work had been done — which would have made the job very expensive. In any case, Leatherbarrow was no jobbing builder; he specialised in big contracts. At this Steve decided to confront Tempest about the house extension and the trip to London — and we recorded the phone call ...
Q: Hello. Mr Tempest? My name is Stephen Scott from the Liverpool Free Press …
A: How’ve you got my number?
Q: Well, I got it from somebody. I’ve got a couple of questions I’d ltke to ask you about your work in Kirkby if I could, if you have a minute. One of them is about a trip to London in July 1972 which was to see the White City, the sports stadium down there. Did you authorise that trip?
A: Did I authorise it?
Q: Yes.
A: What do you mean, did I authorise it?
Q: Well, did you say it could happen?
A: I don’t know anything about a trip to White City.
Q: Well, perhaps it was the Crystal Palace.
A: I, I’ve never been on a trip anywhere.
Q: You’ve never made a trip anywhere?
A: On a trip, no.
Q: Not a two-day trip to London to see …
A: I’ve never been on a trip anywhere.
Q: Yes, well, the trip was on July 18, 1972.
A: Was it? You see, it all depends on what you mean by a trip.
Q: Well I mean it was a trip to London staying overnight in a hotel, the fares being paid by George Leatherbarrow.
A: I don’t know anything about that.
Q: You were on it.
A: Nobody’s paid my fare or anything else other than official … er … meetings l’ve gone on by the council.
Q: So you absolutely deny that you were on that trip?
A: I don’t deny anything. I’m saying nobody’s paid my expenses anywhere other than when I’ve gone officially by the council or I’ve paid for myself.
Q: So if George Leatherbarrow bought, say, the tickets — first class Pullman tickets to London for £114 — then you would have paid him for your ticket?
A: He certainly wouldn’t have bought mine.
Q: He wouldn’t have bought yours?
A; No.
Q: But you … you did go on that trip to London.
A: I don’t know what you mean by a trip to London, you see. I … I made arrangements myself to go, to go to the White City, er Crystal Palace rather, and I paid my own expenses. What George Leatherbarrow did, I
wouldn’t know…Q: OK. I’d like to ask you, on a slightly different note, about the extension on your house.
A: Yes.
Q: Can you tell me who built it?
A: Why?
Q: Well, because I’m interested.
A: Well, what’s it got to do with you?
Q: Er, it may or may not have anything to do with me. I mean I’m just asking you the question.
A: If you say … I had … I had my extension built … with a, er, a further mortgage from my building society and it’s my business and it’s not your business.
Q: Did …?
A: I pay my building society every month on my house.
Q: Yes, er, was it George Leatherbarrow who built your extension?
A: Are you asking me or telling me?
Q: Well I’m asking you. Was it George Leatherbarrow?
A: Well then, I’m saying whoever built my extension it’s none of your business ... I don’t see why you should be able to pry into my private affairs like this.
Q: Well, that depends on whose private affairs they are.
A: Yes, it, it depends on what you want to do really, doesn’t it?
Q: Well, well it does. I mean Eric Spencer Stevenson could say the same thing to me: why do I want to pry into his private affairs? Well, there’s a very good reason why.
A: Well, I don’t know. But there’s no reason why you should pry into my private affairs and if you want to take any steps then it’s a matter for yourself …
Q: Sure, OK.
A: But, er, I don’t see in these particular circumstances and that the sort of rag you represent that I should talk to you like this.
Q: Well, that’s up to you. I’m simply asking you the questions. If you say it’s none of my business that’s fair enough.
A: Well, it isn’t any of your business.
Q: Well, let me just say on the extension, this might be of concern to you …
A: Yes?
Q: The materials, or some of the materials for that extension. If I said to you they came from the Tower Hill site where George Leatherbarrow was working, what would your reaction be to that?
A: l would say that, er, that somebody’s trying to put ideas into your mind probably with a view to trying to get me into some sort of trouble.
Q: Well, if I say to you that I’ve checked this out and I’m convinced that some of the materials, not all of them …
A: Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that.
Q: Would it be a matter of concern to you, say, if they had come from the Tower Hill site, because of course the council …
A: All I can say is this. That I’ve paid for my extension quite legitimately and above board. Now if somebody builds an extension for me I don’t go following them round where they get their materials from.
Q: It was in fact a very expensive job, wasn’t it, because …
A: No, well it doesn’t matter what sort of an expensive job it was. All I’m saying is that I’ve paid for my job to be done and I got a further mortgage from my building society to do it.
Tempest was clearly lying about his trip to London and, we suspected, about the “further mortgage” . (Later, during the police investigation, he denied the mortgage story and offered a different account of how he paid for the extension.) At the time, though, despite our suspicions, there was no way we could prove Leatherbarrow had done the work on Tempest's house for nothing. So we changed tack and looked at the source of the materials used to build the extension. We knew they had come from a site where Leatherbarrow was working on a council contract, so were they actually the council's property?
At first this seemed equally difficult to prove. We thought we would need evidence that the council had paid for specific items such as bricks and doors which had ended up in the extension. But then we had a stroke of luck. A surveyor with a firm in Liverpool told us we had all the evidence we needed. Councils advanced money to contractors to buy materials — which meant that once the materials had been checked onto the building site they belonged, at least in part, to Kirkby council. And even if Stevenson and Tempest had paid Leatherbarrow for the materials in their extensions, Leatherbarrow had no right to sell them.
The last major problem was the Alfa Romeo car. At the time of our investigation Stevenson was driving a cream-coloured Alfa but the one Leatherbarrow had bought for him was described as maroon. We established that Stevenson had acquired the cream Alfa some time after the date when he got the maroon car from Leatherbarrow. We didn't know its registration number but we checked with local dealers in the hope might have records of Stevenson trading-in the Leatherbarrow car ... and drew a blank.
The question of the car was finally resolved with help from a BBC journalist. We had occasionally worked on stories for Nationwide, a current affairs programme broadcast in the early evenings on BBC1. We asked them if they would be interested in taking up the Kirkby story once it had appeared in the Liverpool Free Press and they sent a producer, David Geen, to look at the evidence we had gathered.
Geen shared Stevenson’s taste for fast cars — and knew something we had overlooked: that very few garages service Alfa cars. He checked these and found one where the maroon Alfa had been repaired. The garage gave him the registration number. It was then a simple matter of finding the present owner and asking to look at the log book. The log book gave the name of the garage which had sold the car, ostensibly to Stevenson. But the man at the garage told a different story. He remembered that George Leatherbarrow had paid for the car, that he had brought a man answering Stevenson's description to look at it, and had given the impression he was buying it for this man.
The picture was then complete. We published the story and the BBC’s film was broadcast a few days later. Tempest had lost his council seat in the elections the previous month and Stevenson was immediately suspended from work. The police began a long investigation, with the result that Tempest, Leatherbarrow and Stevenson were all arrested on conspiracy charges and later jailed.
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The BBC paid us £250 for the story and got a bargain. Our return on that worked out at a few pence per working hour. The Post & Echo had got wind of our story shortly before it appeared in the Free Press and assigned a reporter to look into it — with the proviso that his investigation must be completed in less than a week.
The BBC and the Post & Echo were able to do this at low cost because their task was relatively simple. We had already done the groundwork, so they knew what to look for and could be reasonably confident that the story would check out.
But there’s a lot more to investigative journalism than the parts the public eventually see. Besides establishing what happened and gathering the supporting evidence a lot of our time — probably most of it — was spent following up leads that ultimately could not be substantiated. At the start we were unsure what the story was, though there was clearly something fishy involving the council and construction contracts. Rumours were rife and anything that seemed important had to be checked. For example, Stevenson was not the only person said to have got a car from Leatherbarrow. And Tempest was rumoured to own a hotel. Checking these two rumours alone took a great deal of time and led us up blind alleys. More time was taken trying to find a picture of Stevenson at Leatherbarrow’s wedding, and we even spent an afternoon at Chester races looking for Leatherbarrow and Stevenson who were thought to be there.
Time (which also means money) is the main reason why such stories are rare in the media. The BBC were able to take it up because we handed it to them on a plate. We had already done the ground-work and by then they knew the story would check out. Employing a reporter from a cold start would have been a very different matter. The cost would have run into thousands — a powerful deterrent.
This is not to suggest that investigations like the one at Kirkby are beyond the pocket of the national media: it's basically a question of what they choose to spend their money on. National media happily splash out on stories about celebrities that are of little consequence but view exposés of local corruption as having limited interest for a national audience.