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resigned in the early 1950s. Pierrepoint had become the enfant terrible of the British establishment. He not only revealed the horrors of the gallows but gave evidence at the Royal Commission which helped put an end to the death penalty in Britain for good. Hoping he would eventually change his mind, I would often call in for a pint and a chat whenever I was passing on my way to or from the Daily Express in Manchester where I was a staff reporter. But, unlike Pierrepoint, Allen's lips were always sealed on that subject.
    That was also a long time ago, in another century. And I was a long way from Manchester. Now I was in Singapore, standing outside my quarry's home, praying that not only did I have the right man but also this one would be prepared to talk! Memories of Harry Allen's discreet silence did not help my confidence. And I knew that executions and the executioner had always been shrouded in mystery in Singapore, protected by an Official Secrets Act, just as they once were in Britain. I prayed a little harder. There was another jangle of keys as two locks clicked and the heavy, polished wooden door opened. A large stocky man appeared behind the ominous bars of the wrought iron security gate, the kind you would find in any decent jail. The first thing I noticed were his large shining, dark eyes and large round face. Kian Yan was holding a camera just below her waist. I'd instructed her that if he at least opened the door, confirmed who he was but refused to let us in or talk, to snatch a few shots. Then run! As we say in the newspaper business, a picture is worth a thousand words! 'Yes?', he inquired. 'Excuse me', I said. 'I'm looking for a Mr. Darshan Singh ... but I'm not sure if I've come to the right address. Is your name Darshan Singh?' 'Yes'. 'There are at least a dozen Darshan Singhs in the records'. I said, 'So I might still have come to the wrong address. The gentleman I'm looking for used to be an officer at Changi Prison'. 'That's me', he replied, 'I'm retired now'. 'But you still work there occasionally in another ... er ... capacity, don't you?' I added, affecting nervous hesitation. 'Er ...
    some ... er ... Friday mornings?' A slight smile creased his weathered face. 'Yes'. It made me feel more confident. 'It's a very special job, isn't it?' 'Yes'. And you have another very special job soon involving an Australian citizen, Nguyen Van Tuong?'
    The imminent execution of Nguyen was beginning to give fresh voice to anti-death penalty campaigners in Australia, which had long abolished capital punishment, and around the world. Given the history of the executions of Kevin Barlow and Brian Chambers in Malaysia when the Australian Labor Party was in power, I knew it could also threaten a major diplomatic rift with Singapore. A frank interview with his executioner would be sensational. As I stood on the hangman's doorstep, time was running out for Nguyen. Would he soon become another dead man walking? Getting an interview with this man at any time seemed like mission impossible. And I knew it would not please the powers that be in Singapore. 'He won't talk', advised a local friend. 'Don't waste your time. And be careful. This is Singapore!' But I was determined to get to know the man who was to hang Nguyen. It would not only make a good and timely story but also history - as the first journalist to help break a most sacred Official Secrets Act concerning the death penalty. I wanted to expose some of the ghastly secrets of the gallows - the kind of secrets Singapore's leaders are so proud of, revere, put so much faith in but don't want anyone else to know about. Capital punishment in the tiny island state had for far too long been shrouded in this kind of secrecy and discussion on the subject completely discouraged. It was time something was done about it in as dramatic a way as possible, I thought to myself. Could I be the one to expose the un-exposable? It would not be the first time I had rattled a few cages in