Talking with Psychopaths; a journey into the evil mind, by Christopher Berry-Dee, John Blake Publishing, 2023. I seem to breaking my own tule of not doing hatchet jobs on other people’s books rather too often but here goes (if I can save one person the expense of buying this rubbish it will be worth it). The only good thing about this book is the slew of entertaining one-star reviews on Amazon. One reviewer describes it as the worst book he has ever read, another as “possibly the most poorly written book I have ever had the misfortune to purchase” and it is hard to disagree. Like mine, purchases often seem to have been on impulse at an airport shop. The author is touted on the cover as “The No.1 Bestselling True-crime Author”, which is very, very hard to believe. I confess I did quite enjoy a short rant early on in the book about corrupt and psychopathic politicians, businessmen, religious leaders and bankers, but subsequently came to doubt that much thought had gone into it. I do subscribe to the view though that many of those people do have psychopathic traits, which enabled them to get to where they are in the first place.
This is a revised edition of the book which originally appeared under a different title, which makes it all the more inexcusable. Clearly there has been no editing or proof-reading whatsoever. Christopher Berry-Dee is clearly a narcissist himself, a fraud, an impostor. He seems to have, since he does not mention any, no criminological qualifications whatsoever.
He claims to have interviewed some thirty killers but actually all he has done with many of them is corresponded, which is not the same thing at all. The book is riddled with typos, misprints and errors (ECT, he says, stand for “electro-compulsive therapy” for example). Whole paragraphs are repeated in different places – how did no one notice this, or did no one care? The author appears to despise all psychiatrists on the basis that they don’t always agree with one another. He does not seem to understand, either, that the courtroom is supposed to be a place of debate and disagreement, that is kind of the point.
When he is not bragging about his acumen and his other books, he whines about being constrained to a certain word-count by his publisher. But he wastes words writing about that and the book is full of meaningless filler and waffle. He is fond of cheap jibes and wholly inappropriate throwaway humour. His less than scientific, much-repeated definition of madness is the deeply peculiar concept of believing that “elephants fly, lead balls bounce and fairies reign supreme” which of course tells us absolutely nothing at all. There is zero insight, zero analysis, nothing new in this book. It is as though the author wants you to loathe him for his arrogance and lack of self-awareness.
I got nowhere near finishing the book and as soon as I have completed this it will be going straight into the bin, but there is a very strange and rather disturbing “tailpiece” about British paedophiles, for reasons best-known to the author, or perhaps not. He lists Jimmy Saville, Stuart Hall, Max Clifford, and Rolf Harris. In each case he repetitively asks whether anyone suspected that these people were monsters. “No!” and “Absolutely not!”” he answers. It has long concerned me that these people and their defenders have tended to be extremely close to the royal family as though that were a go-to refuge for them. Our king, then prince Charles’ friendship with and defence of the notorious bishop Peter Ball (not mentioned in this book), a convicted multiple abuser of young boys, remains an absolute disgrace. There certainly seems to have been an establishment cover-up in that instance as is so often the case. Support for Ball was widespread and came from the upper echelons of society. Ball resigned from the bishopric of Gloucester in 1993 after admitting an act of “gross indecency” with a 19-year-old man but was accommodated by Charles after that on the Duchy of Cornwall estate and was allowed by the the disgraced Archbishop of Canterbury, George Carey, to continue to officiate as a priest.
I was not a victim myself, but at both my primary and secondary (private) schools, Keble Preparatory and Highgate, and as we have now learnt at so many others, sexual abuse of the young pupils (all boys, both were single-sex establishments) was commonplace, almost the norm. It was known about by other teachers, colleagues, heads of both schools and parents. As was the way in those days, it was indulged and swept under the carpet. Of course paedophiles would seek jobs in education and the church (and scouting for that matter) where they could be close to their victims and act with impunity. So I am especially outraged by Berry-Dee’s suggestion that it was not suspected, no one knew that Saville was a paedophile (and necrophile). Everybody knew. I knew. My brother, who works in television, knew. Hospital staff and management knew. Showbiz colleagues knew. But nobody did anything. Whilst he confirms that accusers were ignored or disbelieved, Berry-Dee does a grave injustice to the victims by largely ignoring this appalling aspect of the case.
Into the bin the book has now gone.
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