MURDER MYSTERY IN SE13

PetroneIla Wyatt goes in search of a suspected Rwandan mass murderer in south London

I AM standing on a street in Lewisham, south London. A dull greyness, tempered by the winter sun, covers the largish semis, many of which have been converted into shops. Beneath one of these, a blue door rattles a little in the wind. It looks like any other door. But behind it lives a member of one of Britain's fastest growing ethnic groups: suspected war criminals.

Behind the door is Tharcisse Muvunyi, a former soldier from Rwanda who is accused of massacring more than 100,000 people in 1994. He is wanted by the Rwandan govern- ment and has been so for a few years. Yet nothing has been done to remove this par- ticularly unsavoury Hutu extremist from his comfortable existence in a south London neighbourhood. Funny that.

The Prime Minister said last April that 'there is no hiding place' for war criminals

in this country. But it seems that there are war criminals and then there are war crimi- nals. Poor General Pinochet. If only he had come from a former European colony. At the moment the British taxpayer harbours not only Muvunyi but also Captain Valen- tine Strasser, the unscrupulous former pres- ident of Sierra Leone and his deputy.

Muvunyi was in charge of the soldiers who slaughtered Tutsis in 1994. No one is sure how he got into Britain, though it may have been a case of a simple misspelling of his name. His wife Esther Murekate came here six months earlier with their three children who are now teenagers.

Muvunyi, in case Mr Blair wants to know, manages to hide very successfully. I had tried to contact him through his solici- tors, Christian Fisher, based in Blooms- bury. It was not a success. I spoke to a

'Santa's been.'

female employee and said I would like to interview one of their clients, Tharcisse Muvunyi.

'You mean you want to come here for an interview?'

'No, I want to conduct one.'

'Why, if you want a job here working with Mr Muvunyi?'

'I don't.'

Finally I was put through to another woman. I left five messages for her but she never returned my calls. I decided to write Mr Muvunyi a polite letter requesting that he answer some questions. I never received a response to that either. There was noth- ing for it but to go to Lewisham and doorstep the man.

I elected to make the trip early in the morning in order to catch him before he went out — if he ever did. I had never doorstepped a suspected war criminal before so, slightly apprehensive, I took a female colleague with me for protection. Vanessa arrived with a can of something in her bag. 'What's that? Mace?"No, deodor- ant. I hear it works just as well.'

We got out of the cab and stared at the windows of Muvunyi's top-floor flat. The curtains were still drawn. I rang the bell. Nothing. Then there was a noise like a large mouse. I rang again. No one answered.

Next door was a shop called Abacom Services. A stout man with dandruff like icing sugar sat behind a desk picking his nose.

'Does Mr Muvunyi still live next door?' I interrupted. 'Who? Oh, the foreign mur- derer. Yes.'

Did it bother people, having Muvunyi in the neighbourhood? I mean, what did war criminals do for house prices? 'I try not to think about that. By the way, if you're try- ing to see him you won't have any luck. He never answers the door.'

It was imperative to establish some sort of daily pattern for our quarry. An employ- ee of Benwood Electrical Company was more forthcoming. 'Yeah, I get the bloody man's mail by mistake.' He leant forward confidingly. 'He's buying an Astra.'

An Astra? My, Mr Blair was looking after him well. 'Not a brand-new one, mind, but still, money's money. He shouldn't be here at all.'

Muvunyi is a tall, thin man in his middle forties. He denies most of the charges against him. He has spoken once to the press, when he was asked what happened at Benebikina Convent in Butare. Soldiers took a search-warrant signed by him and killed 22 women and children. Muvunyi said, 'I am not aware of having given orders to search the convent.' Few believe him.

In the post office they informed me that he came in occasionally for stamps but it would be better to inquire at the butcher's, Ian Rees. Mr Rees confirmed that Mr Muvunyi was a customer. He visited the shop, from time to time, to buy pork. He appeared to subsist mainly on pork. Con- traty to the others, Rees did not think he looked much like a war criminal. 'He's soft- spoken, polite, and has a sense of humour.' Rees paused and scratched his cheek. 'But then Crippen liked his mother.'

Still, Muvunyi's movements remained somewhat elusive. The butcher said that when he did leave the house he was usual- ly back by evening. It seemed that Muvun- yi did not have much of a social life. There was no reminiscing over a pint at the George and Dragon.

There was nothing for it but to go back that night. Vanessa was unable to accom- pany me as she was having drinks with her stepmother (an engagement she regarded as somewhat safer). So I took a cab.

Lewisham is creepy after dark. The dull grey becomes a menacing, opaque black. The friendly lights of the shops were slowly being dimmed. Summoning up my courage, I asked the taxi driver to pull up in front of the blue door.

'Would you mind standing on the street with me?' I ventured. 'Why, whose house is this?' It belongs to a war criminal.' He shook his head. 'I'm not exposing myself to AO criminal.'

What sort of stuff was the British cabbie made of? 'You mean you'd leave me unprotected?"Yeah, sorry luv.' He shut himself in his cab.

He needn't have bothered. Once again there was no answer from the doorbell. A few moments later a tall, thin man came loping down the road. I squinted into the darkness. 'Mr Muvunyi?' Steel-grey eyes stared into mine. 'What?' What do you say to the charges against you?' What charges? Petrol charges?' I had the wrong man. His name was Sid and he worked in a garage.

'Yeah, I know all about him, though,' he remarked, gesturing upwards. 'He's proba- bly boiling bones up there. I don't like to work late now.' With that he was off. It was growing darker and the cab driver was restless. On the point of abandoning the chase I saw a man wearing dark clothes approach the blue door. He had a nondescript face and appeared to be wear- ing dark-grey jeans. He was definitely heading for the Muvunyi residence. 'Excuse me,' I yelled. 'Mr Muvunyi.'

The effect these words had were electri- fying. He swung the door open with a glare and slammed it behind him. Mr Muvunyi was evidently speaking to no one. I leant on the bell but to no avail.

To my consternation the people at the Home Office were equally silent. When I asked a spokesman if it was true that Muvunyi had received asylum until an indefinite date, he refused to answer. 'We won't discuss the case. Ask the FO.'

Britain has no extradition treaty with Rwanda but that does not preclude an investigation here. A Rwandan suspected of war crimes who was found on Swiss soil was tried in that country. But the Foreign Office seems reluctant to do anything about Muvunyi. 'We have no precedent for genocide here,' I was told. 'We are waiting for the International Criminal Tribunal on Rwanda to complete an investigation.' 'But that could take years'. 'It might, but there is nothing else to do.' Would some- one care to comment on the Astra car Muvunyi was buying with his benefit money?"No. Ask the Home Office.'

Muvunyi is not the only suspected war criminal being subsidised. Valentine Strasser was enrolled by the 'ethical' Labour government on a law course at Warwick University. Since then he has skipped. The university has no idea where he is now. His deputy, meanwhile, was sent to Cardiff to read social studies. He, too, is missing.

As time goes by, the widows and orphans and widowers created by Muvunyi and peo- ple like him are still waiting for some sort of redress. Maybe it is because these atroci- ties took place outside Europe that the government feels there are no votes in pur- suing these suspects. These countries aren't Kosovo. They are only uncivilised former colonial outposts. Heaven forbid that any- one should accuse New Labour of racism, but sometimes one wonders.