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That's $50 off with code LISTEN at BlueNile.com. Welcome to the Serial Killer Podcast. The podcast dedicated to serial killers. Who they were, what they did, and how. I am your Norwegian host, Samas Vyborg Thule. This is part two in my series on Dennis Andrew Nilsen, a.k.a. The Kindly Killer.
If you haven't listened to part one, please do so now before you continue with this one. Last week, I explored Dennis Nilsen's murderous escapade in his apartment at 195 Melrose Avenue in London. Tonight, I will invite you along on the Flying Scotsman train from London, travelling north to Scotland.
I really like Scotland. I did my master's there, in Glasgow, many years ago now, but all my memories from that fine land are pleasant ones. Scottish people are, in my experience, quite remarkably wonderful and hospitable.
We Norwegians didn't treat the Scots all that great eleven hundred years ago, with our Vikings raping, pillaging, murdering, and enslaving people on our way up the Scottish coastline. But luckily the Scots have forgiven us, Norsemen, and today we get on wonderfully, especially if we get a dram of Scotch.
It is therefore with great pleasure that I get to go into a bit of detail about Scottish history in connection with Dennis Nilsen's background. So, this episode will differ a bit from other episodes in that it will be far less bloody and gruesome.
The reason for this is that I have taken a deep dive into Dennis Nilsen's childhood, and I personally think it is at least as interesting as the kindly killer's acts of murder.
This is episode 101, and the celebratory bonus feature I told you about in my episode number 100 will always be available on patreon.com slash the serial killer podcast.
The topic is torture, and the practice of this by the Japanese Empire. Usually, these episodes are only available to my $10 plus club members. But this bonus episode, and this bonus episode only...
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Imagine if you will, dear listener, the wind swept north-eastern coast of Scotland. Most probably it either rains or it is about to rain, and there are constant ice-cold winds coming in off the North Sea. The nature here is quite beautiful, but wild and rugged.
Dennis Nilsen was born of a Scottish mother and Norwegian father in the town of Fraserburg, on the northeasterly tip of Aberdeenshire, the district of Bochum, where the town of Fraserburg lies is known for its inhabitants' sturdy independence, disdain for diplomacy, contempt for privilege, a love of arguing, and a keen distrust of the church.
It's a rugged kind of people, and a good number of them have also been readily prone to mental disorder of one kind or another. Generally, Scotland's East Coast people differ from those living on the Scottish West Coast. It's identified in large part due to the differing climates. The West Coast is misty and gentle, with mostly warm and agreeable people.
On the harsh East Coast, traits such as dogmatism, unbudgeable opinions and a fatalistic outlook on life has been far more common. Most people who have studied Dennis Nilsen's personality will tell you his East Scottish side is far more dominant than his Norwegian heritage.
The district of Bochum, stretching southwards and westwards from Fraserburg, is good farming land, crossed by stone walls and dotted with low stone-built farmhouses. The horizon is wide and low, and the trees have little chance to grow lush before they are punched by the wind and subdued. To the north and east,
There swells the grey-black sea, sometimes rising mountainously, always menacing and powerful. Yet it is the sea rather than the land which has historically given the Bukhan people their livelihood, a fact which does not make it a friend, but rather a foe who must be coaxed.
Tamed, the sea can never be, and to think of facing its mighty wrath and beating it would be absurdly presumptuous. Fraserburg, known throughout the area as the Broch, was built in 1592 on the site of a small village called Faithley.
It has been the commercial and trading center of the district, but it is a novice town compared to the string of fishing villages which stretch along the coasts west and south of it, and which have been inhabited, in one way or another, since the Ice Age, some ten thousand years ago.
The boom in herring fishing, which reached its apex in the nineteenth century, made the area prosperous. But the sea has always abounded in an endless variety of stock—cod, skate, turbot, mackerel, haddock, whiting, lobster, and many more—
The difficulty was not, for the most part, depletion of supply, but the constant risk involved in sailing, an exercise which has always been fraught with danger in these rough and unpredictable seas. Every fishwife expected that half her family would be swallowed by the sea in time. There are cases on record.
which show a fishwife losing five of her menfolk, husband and sons, in five separate incidents spread over just two years. The harshness of such a life does not breed optimism. Burnt castles were, and still are, a conspicuous feature around Fraserburg as they are all over Scotland today.
The castles of Inver-Alochi, Cairnbulg, Pitsligo, once solid defenses against raiders from the sea, had been destroyed by government forces as punishment for Jacobite support in the Bochum district and left open to the sky like ghastly skulls on the landscape.
For those of my listeners not fluent in British history, I can tell you that a Jacobite was a supporter of the deposed James II and his descendants in their claim to the British throne after the revolution of 1688.
Drawing most of their support from Catholic clans of the Scottish Highlands, Jacobites made attempts to regain the throne in 1689-90, 1715, 1719 and 1745-46, finally being defeated at the Battle of Culloden.
Children, Dennis Nilsen included, have for generations played amongst the ruins of their people's past. They are never far from reminders of their history. Native Scots, history stretches back until antiquity, and a time forgotten by history, when the land today known as Scotland was by the ancient Romans called Scotia. That name was actually derogatory, and simply meant darkness.
and the Romans thought of it as a barbarian wilderness, the home of the fierce and enigmatic Celtic tribespeople called Picts. Dennis Nilsen's maternal grandmother was named Lily White, and she, as so many other women of that ancient culture, lived to be a very old woman. Lily married a local man named Andrew White, in the local dialect pronounced Fite.
"'and they would have a daughter named Betty. "'Wintheren would earn a reputation as the most beautiful girl in the entire broch. "'She would do something scandalous at a time. "'She chose to not marry a neighborhood boy, "'who would probably have been her cousin, "'but instead chose a Norwegian soldier named Olav Nilsen, "'probably by the locals pronounced something like Olaf Nilsen.'
As the nearest point across the North Sea from Nazi-occupied Norway, it was firmly expected that an invasion would be attempted on the Aberdeenshire coast.
and an influx of Polish and Norwegian forces, together with Royal Scots, Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, Lancashire Fusiliers, and a huge pioneer corps to serve them all, suddenly increased the population from 10,000 to about 40,000.
All the cafés of Fraserburg were packed nightly with soldiers and their girlfriends, bent upon enjoyment. One café in particular was especially rowdy, and its name was Hell's Kitchen. It was the scene of excessive entertainment and frequent brawls. The novice prostitutes of the town using it as their headquarters.
Of the troops scattered in billets all over town, among the most popular were the Norwegians, for in spite of their apparent cold and aloof manner, they were observed to be very kind and helpful to the local population, particularly the elderly, and not commonly involved in fights.
The Free Norwegian Forces, fighting against the occupation of their homeland by the German invader, were housed in the Dunbar Huts, the Highland Institute, Broccoli Castle, Fishfur's Mansion, St. Peter's School, the Salton Hotel, Dalrymple Hall, and the Fraserburg Academy Annex.
At this latter, the Academy Annex, lived a Norwegian officer of striking good looks, whose name was Olav Magnus Nilsen. He had a brooding figure, and many heard romantic tales of his daring escape from the Nazis. A hint of cruelty about the eyes did nothing to diminish his attraction, and nobody was surprised when he eventually took up with Betty White.
The manner of their meeting is something of a romance tale itself. One evening, as Betty was coming out of a café in town, she was accosted by a soldier who suggested he would walk her home. She declined, but the soldier was persistent. A row developed on the street. The soldier gripped her by the arm, and Betty grew alarmed.
At the very moment she thought the drunken brute was about to strike her, another man appeared from nowhere, pinned the soldier against the wall and made it clear he must leave the young lady alone. This was Olav Nilsen, and from that moment Betty fell in love with her rescuer, her knight in military fatigues. It was not long before there was talk of marriage.
Her parents, Andrew and Lily White, were not happy with the idea, but their daughter was a headstrong girl, trapped by the compelling demands of emotion. She married Olav Nilsen on the 2nd of May, 1942.
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But it's good to have some things that are non-negotiable. For some, that could be a night out with the boys, chugging beers and having a laugh. For others, it might be an eating night. For me, one non-negotiable activity is researching psychopathic serial killers and making this podcast. Even when we know what makes us happy, it's often near impossible to make time for it.
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Never skip therapy day with BetterHelp. Visit betterhelp.com slash serialkiller today to get 10% off your first month. That's BetterHelp, H-E-L-P dot com slash serialkiller. Ulov, although apparently a kind man, was not a man ready for the responsibilities of married life.
He always had a ready excuse for being absent, and the pair never established a properly coherent family unit. They did, however, have children, three of them. Their names were Oolav, Dennis, and Sylvia. Because Oolav was so much away, Betty continued to live with her parents, and thus her children grew up in their grandparents' house.
Betty and her three infant children shared one room at 47 Academy Road, a home within a home, and it was very tiny. In this room, Dennis Nilsen was born on the 23rd of November, 1945. Dennis's mother occupied one bed with Sylvia, while Olav Jr. and Dennis occupied the other.
"'Denis and his brother were never friendly, "'possibly because Ulov had at least seen his father, "'which Denis had not. "'He was closer to his sister Sylvia, "'but even that relationship had no profound source. "'In all essentials, Denis gave the impression of a misfit, "'a child whose heart remained obstinately closed, "'whose secret imaginary life nobody could fathom.'
He was quiet, withdrawn, and intensely private. Nevertheless, life at 47 Academy Road was apparently contented, and Dennis Nilsen retains vivid memories of his infancy there. Our subject of this expose has, while incarcerated, written quite a bit about his life, and has also given several interviews.
I am quite impressed with the quality of Nilsen's writings and quotations. One of his recollections is particularly vivid. I quote, I remember the big China dog, a cocker spaniel on the sideboard. Mother called it for some reason Tarzan. The wireless played workers' playtime. Have a go and music while you work.
and while mother went about her seemingly endless washing and housework, she sang along with all the popular tunes. The open coal fire burned in the grate with a folding metal guard over it, with always something drying on it, towels or nappies, etc. It was a crowded but happy room. Mum, being on her own, was a dab hand at interior decorating.
She had become self-reliant in her daily struggles to make ends meet. There was always lots of washing hanging from the pulley frame which hung from the ceiling. In the living room there was a larger open grate with little compartments, with doors at each side where kindling was kept. There was no wireless in the living room. Granny was ultra-religious. I did not think much of this invention.
She always spoke out strongly against worldly things. Cinema, drink, smoking, dances, modern music. After church, we would return to Academy Road for Sunday dinner. Granny would prepare all the food the day before, as she was loath to do anything on the Lord's Day. I still have not known anyone to make a scotch broth as good as Granny.'
i can still see her sitting in the living-room reading her christian herald i never heard any of the adults swear or mention the word sex babies just seemed to arrive late at night without any explanation in the summer all the family armed with picnic eats of sandwiches biscuits and bottles of lemonade would descend upon buckets and spades
the faith mission would set up their banner in the sand and preach their message to the assembled mostly the kids i would take a jam jar to the kesok a stream which flowed into the sea and try to catch eels
On the hill above the waste ground, off Denny Duff Road, I would lie in the sun on a carpet of buttercups and daisies, and look up to watch and listen to the shrill sweet larks rising. Or I would collect frog spawn, and watch it slowly develop through the change via tadpole to small black perfectly formed frogs.
I would release them into the tall wet grasses near a pond or stream. If there were any of life's luxuries to be scrounged, then Gran was the bountiful source." As a side note, I can mention that Worker's Playtime is the song you, dear listener, heard a snippet of in the introduction to this episode. Inevitably,
It was Lily and Andrew White who became surrogate parents, and between Andrew and his grandson Dennis, there grew a bond more precious to them both than any other relationship in the family. To this day, and especially now that he's an elderly man, Nilsen looks a lot like old Andrew White. As a child, he cherished the days when his granddad was home from sea.
Andrew White became his only companion, the only person with whom he felt at ease and happy. He looked forward to his grandfather's coming home, and his going away again left a sense of deprivation which no solace could lift. He was proud to be in his grandfather's company, and proud of himself too, as it was always Dennis to whom the seafaring man came home.
"'Denis never asked after his own father, "'never showed any curiosity about him. "'Man and boy would go for very long walks down to the harbour, "'across the wide stretch of beach, "'up to the sand dunes which rise thirty feet behind the beach, "'through the golf course and on to Inver-Alochy. "'It was peaceful and exclusive, "'the two of them against the world, "'with only the elements to witness their affection.'
Eventually, Dennis would fall asleep and be carried home in his grandfather's arms. Andrew would tell him stories of the sea and its dangers, of his own adventures, filling the boy's head with such tales as he would not divulge to anyone else for fear of contradiction or derision. Dennis, admiring and unquestioning, was his best audience.
He went with him to the Fraserburg Dole office when times were bad, and Dennis sensed his grandfather's resentment. Then, with the proceeds, was treated to a delicious ice cream concoction at Joe's Café, or taken to watch football at Bellesley Park or a local playing field. The local populace realized the pair had a bond.
But they had no idea how deep the little boy truly adored his grandfather. For the most part, it appeared a warm and cozy relationship for which one had to be grateful. Without that relationship, Dennis would have been completely withdrawn and isolated. But for Dennis, it was more than just a regular familial relationship.
It was the central core of his life, compared with which nothing else mattered. Working as a fisherman in the North Atlantic Ocean back in the early 1900s was extremely hard and dangerous work. Most working days would last well over 12 hours, with constant icy wind, rain, and the salt sea spray drenching every inch of the fisherman's body.
The boats back then were completely different than today's floating factories. They were usually almost completely open, with only a tiny wheelhouse or canvas for shelter, during very brief moments of rest. The harshness of the wild elements tended to age a man long before his time.
Today, a man in his forties can look quite young, and, as the saying goes, sixty is the new fifty. Back then it was the other way around. A working man of forty would look very middle-aged, and a man of sixty would look ancient. Dennis would watch his grandfather head down into the driving rain and go off to his small boat, its sail slowly vanishing over the horizon.
Life would be empty until he returned. In 1951, Andrew White seemed to be more tired than usual. He dropped out of the choir in which he had sung when he lost the strength to produce a single clear note and declared that he would never sing again. Even a little effort exhausted him. Still, there was a chance for work, and he could not afford to miss it.
Men in those times didn't complain, and no one had suggested he was ill. Everyone expected men to work, and if they felt under the weather, they better shut up about it and get to work anyway. He said goodbye to the family, waved to Dennis, and set sail. After he had put out the nets, he refused a cup of tea for the first time in his life.
saying that he had a bad attack of indigestion. He went to his small bunk and slept peacefully. When he failed to appear the next morning, his crewmates went to rouse him and found him dead. They could scarcely believe it. The date was the 31st of October, 1951, and Andrew White was 62 years old.
His grandson, Dennis, waiting anxiously at home in Fraserburg, was not yet six. The body was brought ashore at Yarmouth, where there took place a quayside service and an inquest, always required when death occurs beyond the three-mile limit. White was declared to have died of a heart attack. His body was then sent by train to Fraserburg and taken to lie in the house at 47 Academy Road.
There was loud grief and tears in the house that day, but no explanations. Visitors came and went. Granny wept continuously, and nobody thought to tell the children what had happened. Dennis Nilsen never excised his vivid recollection of that day. He has since told of this fateful occasion several times, in writing and interviews. Again, I quote,
I remember being in the large bed with my older brother and younger sister in the living room, and my mother saying, Do you want to see your granddad? We were carried, one by one, into the small room, lifted up in our pyjamas, and held to peer into the open coffin. Granddad was wearing glasses and expensive long johns. He was barefooted and needed a shave. He looked as if he was sleeping.
I could feel my heart beating very fast as I was carried back into the living room. End quote. The next time he was carried back into the little room on the morrow, his grandfather was gone. He was held by the window and watched a long procession of dark-suited men pass below. Someone told him to be a big man. He did not weep.
For a long time afterwards, no one so much as mentioned Andrew White's name. It was as if he had evaporated. The six-year-old boy was not told that he was dead and was left to form his own impression, that Grandpa must be very ill for some reason which would eventually emerge. He would no doubt tell him himself when he came back.
It was months before Dennis finally realized that this time there would be no homecoming, and his retrospective grief was so painful that he submerged it and refused to acknowledge its cause. According to Nilsson himself, this episode was the catalyst for the hell that he would eventually unleash on the world many years later. He wrote, and I quote,
"'My troubles started there. "'It blighted my personality permanently. "'I have spent all my emotional life searching for my grandfather, "'and in my formative years no one was there to take his place. "'It is the custom up there in Fraserburg "'that when there is a death in a household, "'they draw the blinds and curtains. "'When my grandfather died, "'it seemed that these blinds had been drawn across my life.'
Relatives would pretend that he had gone to a better place. Why, I thought, should he go to a better place and not take me with him? So death was a nice thing, I thought. Then why does it make me miserable? Father and grandfather had walked out on me, probably to a better place, leaving me behind in this not-so-good place, alone.
What storms of reasoning fury must have gone through my mind at that age, the blackness of women in mourning, and their cries of triumph at the spiritual resurrection. Grandad took the real me with him, under the ground, and I now rest with him out there, under the salt spray and the wind, in Inveralochee Cemetery. Nature makes no provision for emotional death."
From 1951, Dennis Nilsen became moodier than ever. His habit of wandering off alone grew compulsive, and when his mother remonstrated with him and attempted to keep him in, he responded defiantly that even horses were not tied up.
He would go the short distance to Broadsea village, whose shore was built of forbidding black igneous rocks, constantly lashed by the waves. There was one deep mysterious fissure in the rocks, known as the Rumbling White, which the sea entered through a narrow channel, then swirled, rising and falling as the fissure broadened.
It was said that the hole was bottomless, and that anyone who fell into it would never get out. The rumbling white was a magnet for children who liked to challenge the unknown, and has been a grave for more than a few of the intrepid. Billy Skinner, a friend of Dennis's brother, fell in, bumped his head, and disappeared.
"'Dennis would also go to Kinneard Head, "'the promontory on the very tip of Fraserburg, "'once the site of Fraserburg Castle, "'whose remaining tower had since been converted to a lighthouse. "'This, too, held a mystery, "'for everyone knew the legend of the laird's daughter "'who threw herself from a window to the rocks below "'with the body of her forbidden lover in her arms.'
But it was mostly to the rocks of Fraserburg Harbour and to the vast stretch of beach and sand dunes to the south that Dennis went on his solitary walks, a distance of some two miles from Academy Road. He spent a lot of time watching the herring boats sail past the pier or come into harbour and stood on the pier as the fishermen walked past on their way home. Long after they had gone, he would remain there.
The reason for this location was, of course, his bottomless sorrow following the loss of his granddad. In his own words, I quote, Many years ago I was a boy drowning in the sea. I am always drowning in the sea, down amongst the dead men, deep down. There is a peace in the sea, back down to our origins, when the last man has taken his last breath.
The sea will still be remaining. It washes everything clean. It holds within it forever the boy suspended in its body and the streaming hair and the open eyes. I sought the silent, lonely places where Grandad had taken me and prayed to my silent God on the horizon of the sea. It was a wonderful, bitter end quote.
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As dawn broke over the seven seas, the pirates of the Crimson Galleon set sail for adventure.
But there was one problem. Paperwork. Mountains of it. Filing, invoices, you name it. This work ain't fit for a pilot. Luckily, their captain had an idea. She used the smart buying tools on Amazon Business so they could work more efficiently and get back to doing what they do best. I know, right? Amazon Business. Your partner for smart business buying. And so ends part two in the saga of Dennis Nilsen.
Next week I will bring you episode 102 and part 3 in this ongoing expose. So, as they say in the land of radio, stay tuned. This podcast would not be possible if it had not been for my dear patrons who pledge their hard-earned money every month. There are especially a few of those patrons I would like to thank in person.
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