The man on the doorstep had a friendly face and a rich, West Country accent. ‘I’m Fred West,’ he said, as he led me and my sister, Deirdre, into the living room at 25 Cromwell Street. ‘This is my wife, Rosemary’. Rose glanced up from her armchair, but didn’t smile.
‘And this,’ said Fred, with a little half-turn towards a teenage girl, ‘is my lover, Shirley.’
I expected a laugh, but no one reacted. Shirley was small and slight and around the same age as me, 17. She was also pregnant.
There was no way this middle-aged man could be her lover, especially not when he had a wife right here. I’d never heard anything like it.
I gazed awkwardly at my shoes until Fred said, ‘Come on, girlies, I’ll show you to your room.’ As he brushed against me, I caught a whiff of baked-in sweat and something rotten, like farmyard muck.
Deirdre, my older sister, had heard the Wests had rooms to rent. We were from a family of ten children and the house was overcrowded even before Deidre got pregnant at 17. A few weeks after her baby boy was born, in November 1977, my mum told us the noise of the baby was too much for our dad.
Deirdre would have to leave and I was to go with her, so we could look after each other.
Everyone in our part of Gloucester knew the Wests, who lived in a big, lively, house next door to a church. They took in lodgers, so there was a constant stream of young people around. Fred was a jovial handyman, always making silly jokes and limping on one leg or the other.
Now, Deirdre and I hurried after him to the first floor, where we were given a bedroom at the back, overlooking the garden. There was a double bed, a sink and a table with a kettle on it.
As Fred went in search of a cot, I spotted six black circles in the wall adjoining the landing. ‘Dee,’ I whispered, peering more closely. ‘Are they holes? Spyholes?’
Kathleen Richards pictured around the time she lived at 25 Cromwell Street with Fred and Rose West, her sister Deirdre and Fred’s lover, Shirley
Fred and Rose West would later be jointly convicted of ten murders – and Fred of a further two
We had to straighten quickly and smile as Fred returned. The moment he left, we looked again at the holes.
Downstairs, we noticed an eerie red light glowing above the door of a room at the end of the hall. ‘Maybe they’re planning a disco,’ I joked. We were too naive to appreciate the significance of the red light – Rose West was working as a prostitute. But her profession would turn out to be the least unsavoury aspect of our new home.
In our room, the holes in the wall made me uncomfortable. I spotted some yellowing sheets of newspaper on the floor. ‘There,’ I said, scrunching the paper into balls and blocking the holes. ‘He won’t see a thing now, whoever he is.’
In the morning, there were six small balls of newspaper on the floor, having been forced through the wall. We hoped it might be one of the children pushing them through the holes as a prank. How wrong we were.
The next day I had an early shift at the Walls ice cream factory, where I packed choc ices into boxes. On my way home, I bumped into Shirley, carrying shopping.
‘Here, let me help you,’ I said, taking some bags.
‘I didn’t believe Fred West’s joke about you being his lover,’ I added. ‘He shouldn’t have said that. I know he’s not your boyfriend.’
I was trying to reassure her, but she replied: ‘Course he is. I’m pregnant, too, due next summer.’
I searched her face for a flicker of humour but there was nothing. She seemed, if anything, a little sad. I offered to carry her bags to her room, but she told me to leave them in the hall. She wasn’t unfriendly exactly. But I got the feeling she was hiding something.
That afternoon, Deirdre was just settling the baby when we heard the whine of a drill. Fred was in the garden, engrossed in some sort of DIY project. He was digging a hole, his spade stuck in the earth while he drilled into a plank of wood on the ground.
‘Maybe he’s digging a swimming pool,’ said Deirdre. ‘We might need our bikinis when the weather warms up.’ As we giggled, Fred suddenly looked up at our window and gave a comically exaggerated wave.
‘He thinks he’s so funny,’ I said. He lifted his arm for another wave and I couldn’t help laughing. There was definitely something odd about Fred, but he seemed harmless enough, like a real-life clown. A couple of days later, I bumped into Shirley, sitting on the wall outside with an ice lolly in her hand. We walked to the supermarket, chatting idly. I told her I loved the Bay City Rollers and her eyes widened with envy when she heard I worked at Walls.
‘I’ve had such a craving for red ice lollies since I got pregnant,’ she said. ‘Working there would be my perfect job!’
Fred didn’t have regular work, but he was always on the go, drilling or hammering in the cellar or digging in the back garden, writes Kathleen Richards
No 25 Cromwell Street would later become known as the Wests’ ‘House of Horrors’
When we came out of the supermarket, she handed me a paper bag with a pasty inside. ‘My treat,’ she said. She’d bought a sausage roll for herself and, back at the house, I followed her into the kitchen. Shirley switched on the electric grill and slid the pasty and sausage roll underneath.
As we waited for them to warm, Rose appeared at the kitchen door. She didn’t speak but, walking past Shirley, made sure to nudge her firmly with her shoulder. After Rose’s back was turned, Shirley raised an eyebrow at me. I was starting to understand that Rose was not a woman to be messed with. If Fred was afflicted with too much humour, then Rose had none at all. Despite the noise and peepholes, we settled in well in those first weeks.
All my life, I’d been jostling for position with my siblings, squabbling over a corner of blanket or a spot by the fire. Here, I could do almost exactly as I liked.
We found inventive ways to block the holes in our bedroom; we collected twigs in the park, but next morning, they were scattered across the floor like broken fingers. Then we tried pebbles, but they ended up on the floor too.
It was a battle of wills. ‘Tonight, I’m going to stay awake!’ I would say. Try as I might, I fell asleep. Deirdre and I both laughed. We had almost started to accept the peepholes as part of everyday life. We were light-hearted and happy-go-lucky, in the way teenagers are.
Fred didn’t have regular work, but he was always on the go, drilling or hammering in the cellar or digging in the back garden. The cellar door was kept permanently locked.
Deirdre had a boyfriend in Derby, who she would often visit. When she wasn’t around, I’d spend my time with Shirley.
I bought Jackie magazine and taped posters of the Bay City Rollers and Showaddywaddy on to the bedroom walls.
Shirley seemed to have bypassed teenage culture and showed little interest in music, fashion or make-up. She wore shapeless dresses with floral designs, which accommodated her pregnancy but would have suited someone three times her age. I never saw her with a ponytail or even a hair slide.
We had been at Cromwell Street for around six weeks when I bumped into Fred in the hallway one morning. He was carrying his usual assortment of tools, including a garden spade. I stood to the side as he approached.
‘This is tight, isn’t it, girlie?’ said Fred with a wink, even though there was plenty of space. As he passed, he squeezed right up against me, his foul breath wafting directly into my face. Shrinking back from the smell, I suddenly tensed as he reached around with his free hand and squeezed my bottom.
‘Lovely arse, girlie,’ he smirked, and then he was gone.
My heart sank. As a child, in a poverty-stricken and neglectful household, I had been sexually abused by a caretaker and then my own grandfather.
It seemed my lot in life to be a target for men who sensed I was vulnerable. At 17, I already felt ancient and world-weary at times, but I would just have to put up with what came my way – I had nowhere else to go. The very next day, Fred cornered me again, this time outside my bedroom.
I was starting to understand that Rose was not a woman to be messed with. If Fred was afflicted with too much humour, then Rose had none at all, writes Kathleen Richards
Fred seemed to take every chance he could to seek me out and grope me. He appeared as if by magic in the hallway every time I went out, Kathleen says
‘Give us a kiss,’ he leered, thrusting his face close to mine. He had a wide, doughy face. His eyes, black as coal, were alight with mischief.
‘Play the game,’ he wheedled. ‘Come on. I’ll show you a surprise.’ He patted his crotch, leaving me with no doubt as to what his surprise was.
Small and agile, I managed to duck under his arm and run down the stairs. I heard him laughing manically as I dashed out of the front door.
From then on, Fred seemed to take every chance he could to seek me out and grope me. He appeared as if by magic in the hallway every time I went out, slapping me on the behind or pushing himself up against me.
I was wary of annoying Fred – he was our landlord, after all. Yet he saw the funny side of everything. Each time he tried to grope me, I managed to wriggle away. He didn’t try to stop me or even complain. He usually burst into laughter.
‘I’ll get you next time, girlie!’ he’d shout, as though it was all a hilarious game.
One day, when I was alone in the bedroom, he tapped on the open door. I had no chance to react as he walked in, pushed me backwards, on to the bed, and shouted, ‘You know you want it!’ ‘No!’ I protested. ‘No! Please leave me alone.’
He rolled me around on the bed, giggling as though it was an innocent wrestling match. Yet his hands were all over me.
I began to panic. Over the hammering of my heart against my ribs, I heard a voice shout, ‘Leave her alone, Fred!’
It was enough to startle him, and I took my chance to roll out from under him. Shirley stood at the door, her face impassive.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked calmly.
She seemed neither shocked nor angry, nor even mildly surprised.
‘I was only playing with you,’ Fred said reproachfully, as though I’d made a fuss over nothing. ‘It’s a game, girlie.’
I felt a little guilty. If Fred thought I’d overreacted, perhaps he was right? He was the adult, after all. And everyone liked him. So maybe I was the problem.
I didn’t believe he meant me any real harm.
One morning, Shirley and I went shopping and I insisted on carrying all the bags. By now it was April 1978, and she was heavily pregnant, maybe seven months, though she was characteristically vague about her due date. Back at the house, Shirley pushed open the Wests’ living room door and beckoned me over. Walking through the doorway, still carrying the bags, I stopped dead in my tracks.
The room was dimly lit with a standard lamp in the corner. It was empty except for Rose, who was reclining on the sofa, her legs wide apart, her eyes typically blank. Her face was plastered with garish make-up: blood-red lipstick, bright eyeshadow and heavy foundation. She had no shoes on and was wearing a short, completely see-through nightdress and nothing else.
An embarrassed blush crawled up my neck and across my face. It took me a few more moments to process the squelching, groaning noise coming from the television. Rose was watching porn.
I ran outside for air, then realised I still had Shirley’s shopping.
I left it on the landing and spotted her and Rose going into the Wests’ bedroom downstairs. With instant and painful clarity, the penny dropped. I realised why I had never seen Shirley going into her own bedroom: she didn’t have one. She shared with Fred. And, seemingly, with Rose.
I felt sick. I realised then that Rose had been trying to seduce me, competing, quite incredibly, with her own husband. Shirley must have been coerced into this, too. I think she’d been forced to set me up by leading me into the room. Then Rose hoped I’d agree to whatever she had in mind.
One night the lights went out in my room. Fred came up to fix the electrics and when he had done so, lunged at me with both hands around my waist. He slid his hands on to my bottom and squeezed so hard that I screamed out in pain.
‘Stop!’ I begged. ‘It hurts!’
Using my bottom as leverage, he lifted me off the ground until my shoulders were level with his. He laughed. ‘Play the game, girlie.’
Suddenly, I was dropped to the floor. I managed to shut the door before I crawled, sobbing, into bed. I was so badly bruised I could not sit down or lie on my back for days. Yet, whenever I saw Fred he was as jovial as ever.
My bruises were only just healed when he jumped on me as I walked through the front door. There was a moment of silence, loaded with intent, and a shiver ran right down my spine and the backs of my legs.
In the next instant, he’s shoved me hard into the wall, banging my head against the plaster. He held me there, in the hallway, his whole body pressed against me. I felt as though, in every sense, he was squeezing the life from me.
‘You know you want me,’ he rasped. ‘You can’t fool me, girlie. Rose isn’t home. Why not come to my bedroom and see what I’ve got for you.’
When I didn’t reply, he shoved into me that little bit harder and I cried out in pain.
‘Get off me!’ I screamed. ‘Please just leave me alone!’
The Wests’ living room door opened and Shirley emerged. By now, Fred had his elbow in my throat and I was gasping and choking. Yet he continued to smile. He either couldn’t, or wouldn’t, understand how frightened I was. Or perhaps that was all part of the thrill.
‘Fred!’ said Shirley sharply. ‘Let her go!’ It was like a magic command. He stepped away and I slumped down the wall, sobbing.
Shirley was walking towards me, asking if I was all right, but I was already on my way outside.
I ran down the street, all the way through the park. I thought about going to the police station, but who was I trying to kid? Fred and Rose were a lovely couple, well-liked. The police would never believe me against them. It was late when I got back, but Shirley was waiting for me.
She rushed out of the living room. ‘I was worried about you,’ she said. ‘Are you OK? You mustn’t take any notice of him.’
I hadn’t known what to think of Shirley since that grotesque incident with Rose. I hadn’t even been sure whether she was still my friend. So, I felt such gratitude at her kindness.
‘I’m OK,’ I mumbled. ‘How are you?’ I nodded at her belly, which looked comically huge.
The rest of Shirley was so skinny, it almost looked as though she had a balloon down her dress. If Rose was a vulture, Shirley was like a tiny sparrow.
She made us a cup of tea and suggested we take it upstairs to my room. I got the feeling Shirley was increasingly uncomfortable being downstairs where the Wests lived. But I knew by now there was no point in pushing her for information. In the bedroom, she perched on the wooden chair and I sat on the floor. ‘Look,’ I said, pointing to a carrier bag in the corner.
‘Deirdre’s saving baby clothes for you, all the small ones she no longer needs. You don’t need to worry about buying a thing, especially if it’s a boy.’
Shirley managed a half-smile, but her eyes looked sad.
In that moment, I was overwhelmed by a tidal wave of fear that prickled across my skin like electricity. Deep down, I felt something was terribly, tragically, wrong.
Adapted from Under Their Roof by Kathleen Richards & Ann Cusack (Sphere, £22), to be published August 28. © Kathleen Richards 2025. To order a copy for £19.80 (offer valid to September 6; UK P&P free on orders over £25) go to mailshop.co.uk/books or call 020 3176 2937.
