Ian Oconnor When He Said

No lawyer I ever hired would put me in a witness box. If anyone knows about being the worst witness for one's self, it'southward me. Truly. So, I'chiliad fascinated by other people who are terrible witnesses for themselves — and Ian Bailey wins a prize in that category. Maybe he comes second to a drug-fuelled James Brownish, interviewed on CNN after his televised police auto chase across Georgia and South Carolina.

I've often wondered if Bailey'south not-exactly-man-of-the-yr persona, coupled with his colossal selfishness and immeasurable arrogance, his daily habit of telling fiddling lies and the betoken he's nasty when boozer, has made it easy for him to be painted a murderer for the past 25 years.

He denies killing Sophie Toscan du Plantier and tweets well-nigh fugitive "Froggies" while in Bantry market place. He gives an interview — clearly designed to disrespect his ex, Jules Thomas — about many "ladies with large bosoms" contacting him now he'south single.

Information technology makes me wonder: does this geezer accept an undiagnosed condition? Is he a metaphorical kamikaze of Trumpian proportions? Or, like Trump, is his behaviour simply too stupid not to be clever?

I decide I'm going to West Cork to interview him — meet if I can answer some of those questions for myself by spending time with him, just to get a sense of the homo, the man existence.

His number is on the internet, and then I call him and we arrange to see at the Perrin Inn, Glengarriff, i of the few places he says will host him. I drive down there on Monday to get prepared for our interview, which is arranged for the Wednesday.

By Tuesday night, I've been warned by someone at the inn that Bailey likes to talk a lot — and I'd better stay in control of the interview. I text him to say that if either of us goes off on tangents tomorrow, I'll keep pulling us back to focus.

I desire to meet how he reacts to my expressed intention to be in control of the chat. I hear nothing for over an hour. I sense he'due south non pleased. Usually, he's a quick texter-back.

Then he calls. Lets me know in no uncertain words, and tone, that he intends to be fully in control of the conversation and he volition silence me if and when necessary.

His intimidating intent and demeanour during this call were chilling. My impression was that he'south an good in the employ of his voice as a weapon. Peradventure he should have been a vocalizer.

But the elderly gentleman I run into at lunchtime on the terrace of the inn side by side day seems to be what teenagers might phone call "existent".

Homo. Intelligent. Empathic. Soft-voiced. Thoughtful.

His kind, dark-brown optics even fill with tears at one point while recounting in his gentlest voice the tale of a loved i who was recently the subject field of a violent attack.

In all the enquiry I've done on Bailey, I've never seen him cry over anyone's plight — not even his ain.

He drinks profusely at luncheon. Lager and Guinness. And with each drink and each question, the sweetness old gentleman vanishes some more than to exist replaced by a brooding, aroused giant whose eyes become a darker brown and are tormented.

InFocus Podcast: Sophie Toscan du Plantier'southward murder: the unanswered questions

During the meal, I tell him I don't remember he's been a great witness for himself, and I ask him: How much does he actually care that people think he murdered Sophie?

He posted a tweet terminal month saying he prays "the truth, the whole truth and null but the truth" will come out. He besides claimed he would welcome a new investigation. But nearly of the time his behaviour can brand him come beyond as if he doesn't care at all.

"No one thinks I killed her any more," he tells me, "considering of the [Jim] Sheridan documentary."

When I ask him if he thinks he could practice with some help when it comes to behaving believably, he angrily tells me he doesn't feel any demand to have his name cleared, despite his advancing years, nor to adapt his maladaptive behaviour, nor to focus on finding out who the existent killer is.

I find all this amazing, not to the lowest degree considering if he didn't do it, then Sophie's family deserve that his innocence is proven, and because there could be a real killer out there who may have been facilitated in remaining active for 25 years past Bailey'south wrist-flicking lack of involvement in proving his own innocence.

After lunch, nosotros motion to the back of the machine park at the Perrin, where at that place'south an open and empty garage set up upwardly with a table and some chairs. With his total agreement, I record the interview on my iPhone.

I ask him to draw himself, and he says he'due south "a human being with a heart full of love, but about of all I'one thousand a poet".

Q: "Were you always heterosexual or did you lot ever explore the other side?"

A: "I always liked girls and I didn't have any inclination, as some immature men do, to members of their own sexual activity. Having said that, what I did find is that I did accept advances from other men, males. I did my best to fend them off."

He laughs at this and bangs the table. And then he says he has "always plant it foreign that a human would want to impact me in the manner that I might desire a lady to impact me".

Q: "Practice you like yourself?"

A: "Do I like myself? What a question to ask anybody. No comment."

I press him, and he suggests he's beginning to similar himself more these days.

"With what's going on at the moment and the lifting of a large, big, horrible, horrible dark affair, mayhap petty past trivial. Time will tell," he says.

He has brought more than beer, and guzzles it from plastic cup after plastic loving cup until he'southward obviously sozzled. When I ask him if he has self-destructive tendencies, he laughs at the thought while filling his cup once again with the kind of liquid he says causes him to "behave desperately".

I ask if he was the ideal suspect when the gardaí needed to discover the killer, and he agrees. He suggests his misuse of booze was ane of the things that led the absorbing detectives to his door. "On a previous occasion, unfortunately under the influence of drink, I had a fight with Jules and hurt her."

When I ask him what he thinks should happen to Sophie'south killer, he becomes angry. He doesn't want to answer. I press him. He tells me that he teaches journalism and feels the need to permit me know I'one thousand not doing my chore properly.

I've been mansplained to past the very best in my fourth dimension, and he's right upward at that place. A journalist should never badger their interviewee, he tells me, so never enquire a question more than one time.

I enquire again: "What practise you think should happen to whoever did this to Sophie?" He declines to answer, considers the question ridiculous.

Finally, after I ask for a 3rd time, he says nothing should happen to the existent murderer, "considering I take forgiven them". It'due south as if he feels his forgiveness has absolved them. Cypher should be their punishment.

Equally Neil Young would say, that's very innerestin'.

Gobsmacked, I go on to ask him what he would say to the real killer if they were sitting in front end of him. Another ridiculous question, he thinks. He's not going to respond information technology. When I push button him, he repeats he has no need to say annihilation to them considering he has forgiven them. "They are absolved."

When I enquire him how information technology was he changed his story like socks on the bespeak of where he spent the night of the murder, he repeats his dearest mantra: "Practise I need an excuse?" Surely the stupidest question ever asked.

I tell him yes, Ian, you practise, because everyone thinks you killed someone. He says he doesn't care.

He keeps repeating that Sophie's murderer "is probably expressionless". When I put it to him that the killer could exist at large even so, he finds the idea ridiculous and says at that place is "no indicate" looking for whatsoever killer at present.

Looking into his eyes, I ask how he tin be then sure there'southward no signal. He rises from his seat and his large frame towers over me. Hands on hips, he announces loudly: "Y'all'd meliorate stand downward, lady." He utters the give-and-take "lady" as if it were a term of abuse.

I inform him, calmly, that I'm no lady — and keep going with my questions.

He says he wants a break, but I decide I'm going to finish my questions while he's out of his comfort zone — and so go out of Contrivance.

I'm glad I packed my automobile the night before and so I could get away quick if my questions made him lose control of his narrative. This is a man who is all about control.

Again, he's beingness the very worst witness he could maybe be for himself, and he'due south existence foolish enough to let Sinéad O'Connor picture show him. Maybe he is actually only obviously stupid? Or did he but non google me?

I ask if he would similar to make an entreatment in this interview for the existent killer to come up forrad. He throws his eyes up to heaven. He doesn't want to do it.

I tell him it could help him. He flicks his wrist over again, looks away from the camera and reluctantly makes the appeal in that "OK, fine, are you happy at present?" tone that misogynists employ when they want to shut a adult female upwards.

What would he say to Sophie, I enquire, if he could say anything?

"Zip," he answers, again cynical of the question.

Naught at all?

"Nothing."

So he looks at me and says, with sad optics: "But I exercise pray for her."

I take 1 terminal question. What knot did he use when killing one of the famous 3 turkeys — the i that scratched his hairline on the nighttime before Sophie'due south murder? He waves me abroad in acrimony. He's not talking any more.

Nosotros accept arranged to run into for dinner at viii, but I'm not sticking around, then I go far my car and bugger off dwelling.

In one case he realises I've fled, he calls The Star newspaper at 7.15pm, looking to take control of the narrative effectually our interview.

He makes the forepart page by falsely telling them he and I have only been discussing the idea of him having his poems put to music, just he has met his lucifer in terms of media prowess and that falsehood has now been corrected.

The following twenty-four hours, he tells another newspaper reporter that if anyone else had asked him the same abrasive questions he would have upped and left the interview.

Possibly he should have. But, like I said, he doesn't help himself.

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Source: https://www.independent.ie/irish-news/when-sinead-oconnor-met-ian-bailey-no-one-thinks-i-killed-her-anymore-40664209.html

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