Thirty-three-year-old Gerard George Lowe arrived at Singapore’s Changi airport

on the morning of 8 March 1995. Dressed casually, in khaki Bermuda shorts and

an orange T-shirt, he was indistinguishable from all the other international

travellers as they stumbled wearily off the plane and on to the moving walkway.

He was just another tourist, and that was the point. Travelling alone in a strange

country, Lowe was looking for a friendly face. And, as people do in airports,

when they are trying to establish their bearings, he found himself talking to a

complete stranger. The tall, soft-spoken Englishman, in his thirties, politely

introduced himself as Simon Davis. As they chatted, Lowe explained that he was

a South African brewery design engineer who was on a shopping trip to

Singapore to take advantage of the low cost of video recorders and cameras.

When Scripps caught sight of Lowe’s gold credit card, he knew he had found

another victim.

It was apparent to Scripps that his new acquaintance was thrifty, so he

suggested they share an hotel room. The River View Hotel was suggested by

Scripps. This is a middle-class businessman’s stopover, with a greying marble

reception area and a tacky boutique selling plastic orchids and ‘Hong Kong Girl’

perfume. The hotel was full and the two men had to wait several hours before

they were given a room. ‘They seemed very normal,’ as Roberto Pregarz, the

hotel’s manager, later testified at Scripps’ trial. ‘They were smiling and laughing

together. There was nothing strange.’

Within minutes of booking in, the two men made their way to room 1511.

After unpacking their cases, Lowe settled down at a small, round table, from

which he could admire the panoramic view of Singapore and, picking up a pen,

started to compile his shopping list.

Scripps chose this moment to steal up behind Lowe and brought down a 3lb

camping hammer on his victim’s head in a single, crushing blow. After his

capture and subsequent detainment in Changi Prison, Scripps said of the murder,

‘I think he [Lowe] was a bit surprised when I hit him. At first he thought I was

mucking about. That made me mad with him because I thought that he was a

homosexual. I threw him against the wall and he started to fall down. He was

shaking and then he pissed himself. I knocked him about a bit, and got him to

tell me his bank card PIN number. When he was in the bathroom, he was

conscious. There was water dribbling from his mouth. He gurgled, or something

like that.’

Without a trace of emotion, Scripps added, ‘Well, I cut his throat an’ left him

to bleed to death like a pig.’

The following exchange between John Scripps and myself took place when he

was in prison and under sentence of death:

CBD: ‘So, let’s get this right, John. You smash this innocent man against the

wall of the room, then beat him half-senseless, or something like that.

Then you drag him into the bathroom, lift him into the bath, forcing his

head down to his knees. You turn on the taps, and cut through the back

of his neck to paralyse him. Then, you stab him in the neck, or whatever,

and let him bleed to death. Did he know what was going on, John?’

JS: ‘Do you want the fucking truth?’

CBD: ‘Yes.’

JS: ‘Yes.’

CBD: ‘Yes, what?’

JS: ‘Do you want blood out of a fuckin’ stone?’

CBD: ‘Did Mr. Lowe know what was going on?’

JS: ‘Yes! He pissed and shit himself. It made a stink. He was shitting

himself. Yeah. Right. Oh, fuck it. Yeah. Really, I can’t say about it. It

wasn’t good and I spewed up. He really shit himself, but he couldn’t do

much about it, could he?’

CBD: ‘I suppose not, John. What did you do after you’d killed him?’

JS: ‘I cut him into parts so’s I could dump the body.’

CBD: Is it true that you used the little saw that went with your Swiss Army

knife?’

JS: ‘That’s bollocks. I have a knife like that for camping. But, anyone will

tell you can’t use a little saw like that for cutting carcasses.’

CBD: ‘Okay. What did you use?’

JS: ‘A six-inch boning knife. I was taught how to look after knives, you

know.’

CBD: ‘Now, I know you’re telling the truth. Go on.’

JS: ‘Well, after the blood had been washed away, I took his head off. Just

like a pig. It’s almost the same. You cut through the throat and twist the

knife through the back of the neck. There ain’t much mess if you do it

properly … I cut off his arms at the elbows. Then, I cut off his upper

arms at the shoulders. You just cut through the ball and socket joints.

You don’t saw anything.’

CBD: ‘And?’

JS: ‘Well, the legs. Um, on a pig you have the legs, and you have to use a

saw to make … I think it’s called a “square cut”. But, honest … I just

stuck the knife in and twisted and cut until the legs came away at the hip

joint, I suppose. When I got to the knees, I just cut through and they

snapped back so’s I could fold them up. Fuckin’ heavy stuff, right?’

After packaging the body parts in the black bin-liners Gerald Lowe had brought

with him to wrap up his duty-free purchases, Scripps deposited the bundles in

the room’s only wardrobe. He liberally sprayed Lynx deodorant around the room

in an attempt to mask the smell of his own vomit: It proved inadequate, for a

couple who stayed in room 1511, in the days that followed, reported a strange

fishy odour lingering around the room. Finally, Scripps washed his hands and

cleaned up the bathroom. Again, he was not absolutely thorough and missed a

few tiny spots on the shower curtain, door and toilet bowl. These traces were to

provide crucial evidence when he was eventually brought to court to answer the

charge of murder.

Murder, committed in this meticulous fashion, can rarely be a crime of

passion. It is an eminently practical business, carried out with the studied

objectivity of a professional. It requires thought, planning and an ability to attend

to every detail with cold-blooded efficiency. Scripps may have left traces of his

butchery in the bathroom, but he demonstrated a clinical, unhurried persistence

after the event. He started by practising the forging of his victim’s signature on

tracing paper.

His next move was to visit a computer shop, where he told the sales assistant

he was Gerald Lowe and he wanted to buy some lap-top computers. By 9.00pm,

he was back in the hotel’s River Garden Restaurant, sitting down to a plate of

fillet steak and a bottle of white wine. It was a balmy evening. The string of multi-coloured lights around the patio reflected in the waters of the nearby

Singapore River. John Scripps was at peace with the world.

The next morning, Scripps informed the hotel receptionist that his companion

had checked out and that he would settle the bill when he left. He then went on a

spending spree in Singapore’s glittering shopping malls. He threaded his way

from one air-conditioned shop to another, using Lowe’s Gold card again and

again. His first purchase was a pair of Aiwa speakers, and then came a pair of

Nike shoes and socks, as well as a video recorder, which he arranged to be sent

to his sister in England.

On the morning of 9 March, Scripps used the credit card for another shopping

bonanza. He also drew S$8,400 in cash from a local bank and made a telegraphic

transfer of US$11,000, to one of his accounts in San Francisco, in the name of

John Martin. He used the Gold card to buy a S$30 ticket to attend the Singapore

Symphony Orchestra, where he heard a programme of Brahms and Tchaikovsky.

Finally, in an extraordinary whimsical but callous bid to maximise his gains, he

bought five Big Sweep lottery tickets.

Later that night, he packed the dismembered body parts into a suitcase and

caught a taxi to Singapore Harbour where, under the cover of darkness, he

dumped the gruesome contents into the waters swirling around Clifford Pier. The

next day, flush with cash, he flew to Bangkok.