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I Married an International Con Man

An excerpt from 'The Charming Predator: The True Story of How I Fell in Love With and Married a Sociopathic Fraud.'

The following is an excerpt from Lee Mackenzie's 'The Charming Predator' in which the former CBC journalist reveals her marriage to Welshman Kenner Jones, who has committed crimes across in the world under a series of different names. He headed a medical hospital in Kenya with no medical background, ran an evangelical program in the UK catering to convicts and has been convicted of more than 60 crimes. He is still on the run and was last spotted in Portugal. The following takes place shortly after Mackenzie married Jones. 

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Soon it was summer then autumn, and the trees in our little Buckinghamshire village were turning to golds and browns. All along Fagnall Lane the air was filled with a soft, leafy smell. The nights were closing in. We had established a rhythm to our days of work, long walks and weekends.

I learned many things about my new husband. For example, he told me one day that he was a member of the Royal Naval Reserve. Kenner appeared to be quite proud of his commitment and patriotism. He explained that he had been serving in the RNR as much as possible in between various travels and contracts. Since our lives now had a pattern and predictability, he felt he could pick up his training and service again, and so he did.

Kenner would disappear every Wednesday evening for a few hours. He told me he was off to meet, train, learn, whatever was on the agenda that night in his reserve group. When he came home, he always had some information to share about what had gone on that night. It was very interesting and a part of life I knew nothing about. I didn't question; I just supported him. He didn't have a uniform at home. When I asked about that, he explained that the uni- forms were kept in lockers at the barracks and only brought out for ceremonial purposes. I realize now that it didn't make sense. At the time I experienced zings of fear and doubt, but I didn't challenge him. Besides, I thought, I have no experience with anyone doing any sort of military service, so maybe what he's telling me is right. But a nagging feeling wouldn't vanish. It kept tapping me on the shoulder. It lodged in my gut and tried to make me pay attention. I found myself wondering if he was up to something. Was this explanation of military commitment just a cover for something else?

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I couldn't prove that he was telling me the truth—and I couldn't prove that he was lying.

There was nothing in the house, in his personal possessions that linked him to time with the Royal Naval Reserve. There were no pictures, mementoes, schedules. Yet surely he wasn't lying to me. I would watch him when he came home, but he would easily describe the events of the evening. I stifled the doubts.

Just before Remembrance Sunday that year, Kenner arrived home from an evening with the reserve carrying a uniform. He told me he was required to wear it for the ceremony at the local war memorial. We planned to go to the parish church early on Sunday and then on to the memo- rial service in the nearby town of Beaconsfield.

The day before the service Kenner suddenly reported that he had sprained an ankle. He said didn't really know how this had happened, but he claimed that his ankle was very sore and that he couldn't put any weight on his foot.

I offered to wrap his ankle for him, but he didn't want that because he wouldn't be able to put his shoe on. Instead he opted to use a cane. I didn't remember us having such an item in the house, but he produced one out of a closet. He practised hobbling about and decided he would be able to navigate his way around adequately.

Sunday morning, we arrived at church. Kenner looked smart in his Royal Naval Reserve uniform. People noticed that he was struggling to walk, but he put on a brave face. After the service a number of parishioners came up to him to offer sympathy about the sprained ankle and to admire him in his dress blues. Then off we went to the war memorial.

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For everyone there the Falklands War was still top of mind. It had begun in the South Atlantic in April when Argentina invaded and occupied the Falklands, a British territory. Britain wasn't sitting still for that and the conflict was under way. By the time it was over, 649 Argentine and 255 British military personnel had died, along with three Falkland Islanders. So it was no surprise that when Kenner arrived at the war memorial, he drew attention.

I tried to feel proud but instead was incredibly uncomfortable. Again and again I would cringe as people walked up to him to shake his hand and commiserate with him about his limp and his cane. They thanked him for his patriotic contribution. They assumed he had been injured in the Falklands conflict. He did nothing to set them straight.

Courtesy Penguin Random House Canada

As we drove home, I wanted to speak up. I wanted to challenge him. Why had he let everyone believe he was a war veteran? Why did he offer a smile of quiet courage to those who expressed concern? Why was his ankle suddenly much better when we got home? This was a perfect opportunity for me to confront myself, too. Why was I refusing to face what was right in front of me? The only answer I can give to myself now, so many years later, is that deep down I knew the answer. Somewhere in my heart and in my mind a part of me did recognize the imposter. I simply didn't have the skills or confidence to face it. And I was too afraid.

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Kenner continued working at the Institution of Electrical Engineers in Savoy Place in London. I had now been hired by CBC Radio, based in Little Titchfield Street near Oxford Street, and was enjoying everything about my new job, including the commute. Each morning I would board the train at Beaconsfield, which was the nearest station to Winchmore Hill, and only a few kilometres away. It was always source of amusement to me how everyone just politely took a seat with barely a "Good morning" to the person sitting right beside. Then out would come the news- papers. Kenner taught me how to fold them into a tall format that allowed you to turn each page in such a way that you didn't bump elbows with the person next to you. All the way to London the train was full of silent people holding up these narrow newspapers. It was so precise, so dignified and, to me, so British.

Once I left the train at Marylebone Station I had a twenty-minute walk to Oxford Street. My route took me down Baker Street and I always looked for the sign for 221B, the fictional address of Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes.

On the days I was not working at CBC I would bustle around the house in Winchmore Hill, cleaning, cooking, enjoying domestic life. Winchmore Hill was really just a hamlet, but it was as sweet as its name. The village square was actually a triangular green, with a combination general store, butcher shop and post office. Just around the corner from the square was the village pub, The Plough.

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Was he just a harmless eccentric or a fraud? I had no answers.

Kenner was his usual attentive, loving self. We would go for walks in the evening, church and a special lunch out on Sundays. But I could still feel my rising doubts about what he was really up to. The conflicting thoughts continued creating a quiet argument in the back of my brain, and I lived with an undercurrent of internal tension.

Was he really the person he seemed to be? What about his unwillingness to discuss or share responsibility for our family finances, and that strange display of participation in military service? I had eventually challenged him on that, somewhat gently, and his only response was to give up attending Naval Reserve meetings, claiming they were requiring too much time away from me. Was he just a harmless eccentric or a fraud? I had no answers. I couldn't prove that he was telling me the truth—and I couldn't prove that he was lying.

Early in the new year the phone rang in the evening and Kenner answered it. I could hear him engaged in a lengthy and apparently amiable conversation. When it ended, he explained that James, his friend from Ashwell prison, was coming to visit next weekend with his wife, Anne. James, he reminded me, had been his one true friend during that time—a gregarious Yorkshireman who had mishandled funds while managing a bank.

When they arrived, I watched in awe as two very large people extracted themselves from a compact car.

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"James!" Kenner looked like a child as they greeted each other. His hand disappeared in the grasp of his gigantic friend.

The visit was a huge amount of fun. James and Anne were wonderful company. They were friendly, entertaining and thoughtful houseguests. I can't remember ever laugh- ing as much as I did that weekend. As the time came to leave, they squeezed themselves into the car. James turned the key in the ignition, but instead of a healthy rumble of readiness, the result was an unsatisfactory whining sort of effort from the engine.

With a look of chagrin and a half-smile, James glanced at us and then turned his attention back to the dashboard and the key. Again and again he tried—to no avail. Then suddenly his geniality disappeared, replaced by rage. I instinctively took a step back, frightened by what I saw.

He was now screaming at the car. He doubled up his massive fist and smashed it through the dashboard. The act was shocking, scary and lightning fast. Eventually the car did start and he and Anne drove off. But my lasting memory of James wasn't of his friendliness and fun but, rather, of a huge, powerful man who was easily provoked into anger and violence. I would soon have reason to remember this.

On the first of March the Welsh celebrate St. David's Day. The patron saint of Wales died on that day in AD589. Dewi Sant, as he is known in Welsh, was educated in Cardiganshire, and founded religious houses across Wales and in England. He went on pilgrimages as far as Jerusalem, where he was made an archbishop. Many miracles are attributed to St. David. It is said when he was preaching, he caused the ground to rise beneath him so that everyone could see and hear him.

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One of the national symbols of Wales is the daffodil. It got to be that in a roundabout way. The leek, a long, green, onion-like vegetable, became the Welsh symbol when soldiers going into a major battle were told by their leader to wear leeks in their caps so they could tell friend from foe. The Welsh word for leek is similar to the word for daffodil, so there was a bit of confusion. Eventually the daffodil became a national symbol, too.

Going home from work on St. David's Day, I arrived at Marylebone Station with time to spare. Each day I'd see this lovely old lady sitting on the platform, surrounded by buckets of flowers. We were watching our pennies, I believed, so I didn't often splurge. But today was an exception. I bought five bunches of daffodils before boarding the train for home.

During the journey I practised my Welsh and thought about my life. We still hadn't begun to search for a house. Kenner explained that the City of Liverpool bonds he had purchased for us with the money I'd sent from Canada were being held longer than expected. I didn't really know what that meant and I had decided not to push it. He had insisted at the beginning of our marriage that he would handle all the banking and the household accounts. He became grumpy if I questioned things. There always seemed to be enough for food and rent, and that seemed reasonable, as both of us were working.

I pushed any concerns aside because I had something more important on my mind: I was sure I was pregnant.

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Part of my dream when marrying Kenner was to have a family. I had five children lined up in my imagination. I could see their shoes by the front door. I had a house filled with laughter, music, love. I desperately wanted a baby and now I was certain one was on the way because I could feel the presence. There was something about the energy, the warm sense of life and excitement.

We had decided that if ever we had a boy, we would name him Risiart, the Welsh version of Richard and a name that Kenner loved. But I knew this was a girl. I was going to name her Robin. For now, though, I would have to be patient. I didn't want to bring Kenner the news until a doctor confirmed it. I had an appointment coming up.

When I got into the station, Kenner was waiting. As I stepped down, laden with yellow blooms, he began walking toward me.

"Dydd gwyl Dewi Sant hapus, cariad! Happy St. David's Day, sweetheart," I said, smiling and holding out the arm—load of daffodils.

I had been concentrating so hard on my surprise gift of flowers and getting the Welsh right that I hadn't really noticed that Kenner was staggering a bit. He looked flushed. He had never met me like this before. In fact, I'd never seen him drunk.

"What's going on?" I asked when he came close. "You smell of whiskey."

He gave me a half-hearted smile as he saw the daffodils. "Oh, very good. For St. David's Day."

The fun of the moment had vanished. I was worried. "What's happening, Kenner? Listen, give me the car keys.

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"You're not driving like this." I handed him the armload of flowers and took the keys from him. "You're going to have to explain what's going on." We walked to the car.

"I'll explain later," he said. "It's Friday night. Let's just have a good weekend and I'll tell you all about it on Monday." As I drove us home, my heart was aching. "Come on, what's going on?"

"Let's just have a lovely few days and I'll tell you all about it later."

"No. Tell me now. I'm not waiting until Monday. There's something wrong and you have let me know what it is. What is it?"

"I've written it all in a letter for you and I'll give you the letter on Monday."

"A letter? I don't need a letter. I need you to tell me right now."

I couldn't get another word out of him. When we arrived home, he required my help getting out of the car, into the house and onto the bed. There he passed out. I pulled off his shoes, covered him with a blanket and began to search.

A letter, a letter. Where would he put a letter? Nothing in the bedroom. I checked all the drawers and cupboards. A sideboard stood in the entry. We kept various things there, including what small stock of liquor we had. The whiskey bottle that had only just been purchased and had been full the day before was nearly empty. I rummaged through the drawers and came across an envelope addressed to me. I sat down on the chair by the hall table and opened it. There was the familiar handwriting, the bold turquoise ink:

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This is going to be a long and rambling note. It is not going to be easy to write. Please do not stop until you have read it all through.

M y life has not been the same since you came into it. I did not think it possible that I could find the kind of love I share with you.

Let me go back a bit. For over 12 years my life was dedicated to politics. I was uniquely successful. I walked the corridors of power and was tempted many times to stray over the ill-defined line which separates bending the rules and breaking the law. I never did stray over. After all these years I had to make a fundamental choice. I could go ahead, probably enter Parliament or work as a senior official at the EEC, the UN or some such body, or I could quit the political scene.

I could not stay as I was. Pressures were being put on me by senior and influential people— Gis card d'Estaing, Soares, Genscher, etc.—to move out of the back stage and move into the public lime- light. My fellow agents were jealous of my contacts. I had to go up or drop out. I decided to drop out.

Why? you ask. Well, the cost of fame is all too often paid with one's self-esteem, one's independence, even one's soul. I have seen too many good men turn when the public's glare shone on them. Fame and high regard among one's peers is one thing, but public adoration is another. I thank God that I had the courage to say no to the adulation of 'power'. I wanted to be who I was—not what the backroom boys made of me. I had spoiled too many good men by moulding them into a saleable package to want it done to me.

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I was wealthy then—politics can be a lucrative business. I lavished money on friends—most of whom never repaid their loans—and a mother who was given everything she asked for. In 1976 I had over 100,000 pounds in my bank. By 1979 I was left with under 1,000 pounds. Oh, I had creditors totalling over 40,000 pounds but I never saw more than a couple of thousands of it. My conscience is a lot clearer than that of a number of my relatives and so-called friends of that time.

Then I met you. I knew the moment I saw you that we were to be wed. No one deserves you, me less than many. Your eyes glow with kindness. You overflow with care, love, simplicity. It shows in your smile how good, truly good, a person you are.

Never , never, never will I leave you in soul, even i f we may be parted in body. When we are both at God's right hand, I will leave you only to thank our Father for showing you to me.

You were not yet touched with the feelings which were in my heart, and I was afraid to tell you of them. If I had lost you, then I could not have faced the future. A feeling within me told me to bide my time.

I started work with British Leyland. Again, my unlearning stupidity let me down. I lent money to friends, acting as a middleman between them and a holiday company. They ran off with the money, leaving me with a fraud charge. My world seemed all darkness. From a leading international politician to a convict in under a year! Only the sure knowledge that you were there kept me going.

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Prison— I'm not going to talk about that. I'll say just this. I'll never go back. You kept me going then, Don. Your letters, your care, your love and the certain knowledge that you were to be mine.

When I came out, I decided that I must pull myself up by my laces. No feeling sorry for myself— the wronged innocent bit. I would still succeed in life. Sure, I lied about my past, covered up my time in prison, but I did get a job. It didn't pay highly, but it got me by.

Now I felt confident to pop the question. You said yes, of course. I'll tell you this now, Don, what- ever happens in our lives, insofar as I have a choice, I'll always go the way which I feel will hurt or harm you least. Nothing will ever come between us, but also nothing will be allowed to put you through the agonies I experienced three years ago.

No w comes the crunch. I am finished now, my dear Don. I cannot go through all this again. You have your family to support you and I am ever thankful to God for that. I must somehow get you away. I never really deserved you and it is time that my year of bliss ended. You must return to Canada.

Why this now, you ask. I have been black-mailed regarding my past. The man involved has nothing to lose. He has lost his job and now lives on me—or did. He will not threaten me again. I had some rough friends who owed me favours. I called them last week and my blackmailing friend has a rearranged face, two broken hands and a fear which will make me forever safe. But too late.

B y last week James—yes James—had milked me of 25,000 pounds. Up to that sum I thought it worth trying to keep him satisfied to safeguard my job and future references. When he asked me for more I called a stop and called in my indebted friend.

How did I pay James? Believe it or not, American Express. I issued a fraudulent cheque— something I learned at Ashwell. Within a few days AmEx will know and the police will call.

I cannot ask you to face this. Indeed, I cannot face it myself. I am going to send you back to Canada after this weekend, a last weekend together. Then I shall face the situation without dragging you through the mire.

I love you, darling Donna. I didn't want this for you. Please forgive me. I should not have forced myself into your life. Go now, please, and make a better life for yourself. My only regret is that now there'll never be a Risiart.

Your devoted, Kenner

Excerpted from The Charming Predator: The True Story of How I Fell in Love with and Married a Sociopathic Fraud. Copyright © 2016 by Lee Mackenzie. Published by Doubleday Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited. Reproduced by arrangement with the Publisher. All rights reserved.