Uploaded February 2026 | Updated September 2026, 11 hours ago
All of the names and locations have been changed to comply with a court order to protect Nicholls's new identity and whereabouts. His voice has also been altered.
In the Autumn of 2009, I received several e-mails from a female calling herself Catherine, (name changed) who claimed to know the whereabouts of Darren Nicholls. I didn't reply;
I have received countless telephone calls, letters, and e-mails over the years from oddballs claiming to be friends of the dead men, fantasists who claim to know who murdered them and complete nutcases who claim they know who is going to murder me. I tend to ignore them. I did, however, inform John Whomes about Catherine's e-mail, but his response was short and to the point. `She’s talking shit, we know that he is living in Wales`, he said. (John unsurprisingly was wrong)
Although I had not replied to Catherine, she continued to e-mail me. So, I eventually sent her a rather terse response stating that nobody was interested in Nicholl's whereabouts. `Not even if he is breaking the terms of his protected witness status by cultivating cannabis, dealing in drugs, and committing other crimes?` Catherine asked.
I sent Catherine my number and asked her to get in touch. For reasons I still can’t explain, I was genuinely surprised when she actually did. She spoke with a cut-glass accent, the kind of polished, precise Queen’s English you usually only hear in period dramas or courtrooms. Catherine was old money through and through: privately educated, well-connected, and the owner of a sprawling equestrian centre and farm tucked away in some corner of rural England. A world away from mine. Nicholls had been a friend, but he had ripped her off, and she wanted everyone to know the type of person he was.
All of the names and locations have been changed to comply with a court order to protect Nicholls's new identity and whereabouts. His voice has also been altered.
In the Autumn of 2009, I received several e-mails from a female calling herself Catherine, (name changed) who claimed to know the whereabouts of Darren Nicholls. I didn't reply;
I have received countless telephone calls, letters, and e-mails over the years from oddballs claiming to be friends of the dead men, fantasists who claim to know who murdered them and complete nutcases who claim they know who is going to murder me. I tend to ignore them. I did, however, inform John Whomes about Catherine's e-mail, but his response was short and to the point. `She’s talking shit, we know that he is living in Wales`, he said. (John unsurprisingly was wrong)
Although I had not replied to Catherine, she continued to e-mail me. So, I eventually sent her a rather terse response stating that nobody was interested in Nicholl's whereabouts. `Not even if he is breaking the terms of his protected witness status by cultivating cannabis, dealing in drugs, and committing other crimes?` Catherine asked.
I sent Catherine my number and asked her to get in touch. For reasons I still can’t explain, I was genuinely surprised when she actually did. She spoke with a cut-glass accent, the kind of polished, precise Queen’s English you usually only hear in period dramas or courtrooms. Catherine was old money through and through: privately educated, well-connected, and the owner of a sprawling equestrian centre and farm tucked away in some corner of rural England. A world away from mine. Nicholls had been a friend, but he had ripped her off, and she wanted everyone to know the type of person he was.
