I’ve spent ten months covering Nurse Lucy Letby’s trial, in front of her, and I still don’t get it. I’m not sure what to expect from the UK’s most prolific child killer. But I’m pretty sure it’s not this.
Photos on social media show Letby’s old life: nights out with friends, dressed up and goofing around on camera.
Now it doesn’t look like that. Her dyed blonde hair has returned to its natural brown, and a stern expression replaces the smiles in the photos. Behind the glass partition of the prisoner’s dock, her skinny figure is outlined, flanked by prison officers while she holds a pink handkerchief in her hands.
The families of the murdered babies occupied the gallery provided for the public. Across the aisle, the seats have been empty, but the nurse’s father and mother, John and Susan, came day after day. Sometimes they were joined by one of their daughter’s friends, the only one who has gone in these 10 months of trial.
My spot, on the press bench, was no more than fifteen feet from Letby’s seat. From time to time he looked at the nurse to try to catch a glimpse of character.
As grieving parents recounted the horrors of watching their children die, she kept a neutral expression. It didn’t matter that the story and the evidence against her was emotionally strong that she still remained impassive.
On very rare occasions, he would look me in the eye, but he would quickly look away.
I tried to see into his soul. I wondered if we would ever see the real Lucy Letby.
The trial began in October 2022 and when the court dissolved for the holidays, I wondered what kind of Christmas she was having, behind bars.
Until February I didn’t see for the first time a shred of emotion in Letby.
It wasn’t because of some disturbing evidence or harrowing testimony—it was a doctor’s voice that caused the nurse to break down.
The doctor, who offered his testimony, was hidden behind some screens to protect his identity.
Letby came to admit that “she had loved him as a friend.” The prosecution painted him as his boyfriend and at trial they showed us an exchange of messages between them that suggested that, although the doctor was married, there could be something else.
letby she remained serene for months while recounting the terrible suffering of babies. but it seemed feel pangs of longing by this doctor.
And there were only a few occasions where she cried: when they showed the evidence when she was removed from the nursing service, when she read the excerpts from the interviews she had after her arrest and when it was mentioned that she had had suicidal thoughts.
When the prosecutor began to question her, her first question was one that I had asked myself.
“Is there a reason why you cry when you talk about yourself, but don’t when you talk about these dead and badly injured children?”
“I have cried talking about some of those babies,” Letby replied.
Spring came and the trial continued.
The tests and their terminology were harsh and dense. Fluid balance graphs, clinical notes, blood gas records… Journalists began to use neonatal medicine terms.
The prosecution was carefully based on data and documentation. But there was no evidence to give any clue to the character Letby’s. The case progressed, but no idea of his possible motives.
The nurse’s personality was still the elephant in the room.
Every once in a while, something would shed light.
The jury saw photos of his house. The walls had pictures with the typical cliché phrases like “A dream is a desire of the heart” or “Shine like a diamond”.
She had teddy bears on her bed, fake flowers and a fluffy pink robe hanging on the door, two board games, a “Mrs. Doubtfire ”(“ Dad forever ”in Latin America) and two books on her little table: the memoirs of a doctor who was seriously ill after a miscarriage and a novel about a young woman who had an affair with a married man.
At the start of the trial, the prosecution presented as evidence a green note sheet that the police had discovered shortly after Letby’s arrest.
It was full of desperate scribbles and included phrases like:
“I AM BAD, I DID IT. I killed them on purpose because I’m not good enough, I don’t deserve to live, I’m a horrible person.”
The prosecution presented it as a confession. The defense argued that it was a “cry of despair and plea for help” written by the one who had been unfairly accused.
Either way, it was the most significant information we had about Letby’s state of mind. I wrote to the judge to ask permission to make it public. He accepted.
Months later it was learned in the trial that it was not the only writing that the police found. Letby had written much more with her ramblings, tight lines of handwriting that exposed her way of thinking when she had been taken off duty as a nurse.
“Please help me, I can’t do this anymore, I hate my life, I want someone to help me, but they can’t”
All scribbled alongside names of friends, colleagues, and the married doctor’s name adorned with a heart
His cats’ names, Tigger and Smudge, also appear frequently.
Many entries are in a diary from 2016, the cover of which is a teddy bear and the phrase: “Have a lovely year!”
In one week, she wrote down a reminder to pay a tax, a dinner at a Mexican restaurant, and a salsa class. In that same week he murdered two brothers, two boys who were triplets.
I thought about that double life.
Nor was it easy to get an idea of Letby’s personality from the messages he exchanged with friends and colleagues and displayed in court.
Very often she wrote to other nurses to tell them about her relationship with babies who had collapsed. She seemed like she was looking for sympathy.
But, still immersed in the trial, Letby’s apparent normality did not square with the magnitude of the charges he was facing.
Then I met Dawn.
Dawn didn’t appear at the trial, but her relationship with Letby goes back a long way. They grew up together and still keep in touch.
Dawn was warm and friendly with me. We walked around and she showed me the park where they both used to hang out or her favorite restaurants.
Although most of the friends did not have firm career plans, Letby was clear on his path.
“Her dream was always to be a nurse and help babies,” Dawn told me.
She told me that she was the result of a very difficult birth, that it was wrong. I think that affected her for a good part of her life. She felt that this was what she was meant to do: help children who were born into similar circumstances,” she added.
Unwavering in her loyalty and believing that her friend was incapable of murder, was it possible that Letby had deceived him?
Dawn let out a long breath before answering.
“The only way I’d believe she’s guilty is if she tells me.”
Professor David Wilson, a criminologist with an interest in serial killers in the healthcare sector, told me that Letby faced a “crucial decision” about whether or not to present his own testimony during the trial.
“I’ve seen people do it and they fall apart in the first five minutes. They can be smart, hold their own, but their attitude can hurt what the jury thinks about them.”
Ultimately, Letby took the stand in early May.
When she did, she seemed tense. She had her hands under the counter of the dais. She was asked to stand up, gave her name, and swore to tell the truth.
I was expectant.
The defense attorney asked her simple questions about her childhood. She spoke in a calm, reflective and cooperative manner.
I was hanging on every word. After 7 months it was intriguing to hear her talk.
I detected repeated phrases. They seemed rehearsed.
Like when they asked him about the Facebook searches he did for the parents of the babies or when he took documents from the infirmary home and stored them. “That was a normal pattern of behavior for me,” she would reply.
After five days of questioning by his lawyer, it was the prosecutor’s turn.
At first he coped well and held up to the questioner. Then he was arrogant and said he did not agree with the guidelines of the nurses, senior doctors or experts. There was even a time when he tried to outwit the prosecutor.
The prosecution found gaps in his testimony, contradictions.
“You’re lying, aren’t you, Lucy Letby? You enjoyed what was going on, didn’t you, Lucy Letby?” the prosecutor said.
“No,” she answered meekly.
His voice began to be a whisper and from responding arrogantly, he became monosyllabic.
For the first time, Letby told her to stop. And she did when the prosecutor began to number each baby one by one. The prosecutor only came to name 4 of the 17 in total.
The trial was stopped. The prosecution left jubilant. They had her on the ropes.
In all, Letby spent 14 days testifying and faced nearly 60 hours of cross-examination. Even then I couldn’t get close to the real me of him.
In July it was the turn of the jury’s deliberation. They had nine months of evidence and 22 charges against them to analyze.
Was Letby the personification of evil, or was she herself a victim?
What they thought could determine the rest of his life.
Finally, the answer came.
The smiling nurse with the sonorous name who used to go to salsa classes is now the UK’s most prolific child murderer. Can anyone understand it? I don’t.
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