She looks like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth until she opens her bloody mouth.

MARK LLOYD, WITNESS AT THE TRIAL OF DENNEHY AND STRETCH

When you pick up a book like this you might be forgiven if you expect that the person making up the subject matter possesses some evil characteristic that sets him or her apart from the rest of us. Most times, to some extent this is true, but the characteristic is not visible. It is not a physical stigma that these serial killers wear like the Mark of Cain. No, the characteristic is lodged deep within the dark souls of such individuals. These human aberrations have killed in a way by which they have demonstrated a quality of evil that transcends our comprehension through several acts of terrifyingly brutal murder. However, to several people who knew Joanne she seemed perfectly normal – at times as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

Joanne is 5ft 8 in tall, and was about a size ten before she went to prison. ‘Scrubbed up with a little “slap” [make-up], which she put on with a trowel,’ remarked one of her few existing female friends, ‘she is quite pretty, especially when she does her hair and got into her thigh-length boots with killer heels.’ There are several photos of Joanne on the Internet with her hair styled. It suits her, as I think most women might agree?

In truth, Joanne came from good stock and a healthy gene pool. Her father is a handsome, no-nonsense man; her mother is attractive and could easily pass for someone ten years her junior. And, this is the dichotomy of Joanne, one that followed her everywhere. Intelligent, musically talented, sporty, well spoken when it suits her, some may say attractive; she was undoubtedly an outrageous flirt, even dangerous – the type of personality that some men, and women, are irresistibly drawn to, like pins to a magnet.

Joanne Dennehy had a full figure. However, the notorious ‘on-the-run’ photo of her posing on a Hereford council flat balcony, dressed in blue jeans, handcuffs dangling from a wide, black leather belt, brown suede boots, a grey cap and grey knitted sweater pulled up to expose a red bra and her self-harmed stomach do her no favours at all. She has a tongue stud, a star – or is it a green reversed pentagram, the mark of evil – tattooed on her right cheek, a pleasant face, but she is a volcano waiting to explode, for sure. Now, take a long look at her police mugshot. Here, her hair is lank, unwashed, lacking any vitality at all. Those eyes are cold as the grave and if you upset her, you might have ended up in one, too.

Those who have met Joanne Dennehy in more convivial times assure me that she attracted men simply because of her outgoing, laid-back nature. ‘There was no bullshit attached to her,’ one friend said, adding, ‘Jo had been around the block. Okay, she went off the hook but she knew what time it was. She was “Miss Confidence”, who flirted with most men. But she didn’t tolerate fools lightly.’

Another person told me: ‘Joanne loved animals, especially dogs, perhaps more than people. I got the impression that she couldn’t hurt a fly.’ But the man, who does not wish his identity to be revealed in this book, added, somewhat ominously, ‘In group gatherings she often sat back and didn’t participate, like she was people-watching. Jo could smell bullshit, and their lies, a mile away. It really pissed her off cos she really does hate liars with a passion. She would sit there taking it all in, then suddenly she would flip, and I mean really flip. Then everyone’s attention would turn to her.’

I was also fortunate to have been contacted by a former ‘girlfriend’ of Joanne’s. We met in a cafand the woman in question – although much older than Dennehy is now – told me about their relationship lasting but a few weeks. She summed up the affair, saying:

‘We hit it off from the start. Jo was great fun. She was very protective of me. I sensed she was a butterfly but I did love her very much, Christopher. She would “glass” anyone who pissed her off, no question about it. She always had a knife, or a razor blade, on her. Yes, she did have a boyfriend. They had a couple of daughters. According to her he was a drip. Our sexual relationship? That is between Jo and me. Please respect that. I want to remember her as I knew her, not what is reported in the papers.’

I ended the interview by asking: ‘How did you feel when you learned that Joanne had killed three men?’ Her answer was diplomatically to the point:

‘Me? I treat people as they treat me. Jo was good to me. I sensed she lived on the edge, I knew that she could be very dangerous. She lived life on the edge, that was part of my attraction to her. I have written to her in prison, but I’ve had no reply.’

John Treanor had an on-off relationship with Joanne Dennehy spanning twelve years. The father of her two daughters, he found much to love in her. At other times he witnessed the flip side of her psychopathological coin. One moment she was sweet as chocolate pudding, moments later she became the Phal from Hell.

Then there are Joanne’s two daughters. As we will learn later, theirs is a tragic tale indeed. One day they may want to know their ‘real mum’, at once enquiring whether she is that evil after all. Blood is thicker than water, or so they say. By then, of course, Joanne Dennehy will be old and grey; hopefully a little more compassionate and mentally mature, perhaps. Somehow I doubt that day will ever come. Nevertheless, we’ll meet John Treanor later. He will tell you his own story.

Joanne’s parents, and her 29-year-old sister, Maria, have washed their hands of her. We cannot blame them. She has made their lives a misery; then again Joanne washed her hands of her parents when she was just fourteen years old. Just over a decade later, she falsely boasted to several people that she had spent a long time in prison for killing her father because he had sexually abused her as a little girl when that would have been the last thing on his mind.

Because she is a high-risk ‘Category A’ prisoner I have not met Joanne Dennehy, nor will I ever be allowed to. In the UK such visits are only granted to immediate next of kin, although I have circumvented the system in the past – notably with Michael Sams, a Category-A prisoner who, for a while, was incarcerated at HMP Full Sutton. Sams murdered Julie Dart in July 1991 and kidnapped and imprisoned estate agent Stephanie Slater for ransom in January 1992.

Approaching a red stoplight most people apply the brakes. During her ride along ‘Murder Road’ Joanne Dennehy chose not to. She drove on regardless of the consequences and therefore the purpose of this book, while pulling no punches, is not to condemn Dennehy but instead strives to understand her… and then crucify her.

And this will appeal to her sadomasochistic nature for her response will likely be: ‘I don’t give a fuckin’ shit!’

So, let’s start at the beginning.