Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast #58 - Jacqueline Birri: The Hooker, The Poker and The Stranger15/5/2019
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018 and iTunes Top 50. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platform
Welcome to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within one square mile of the West End.
EPISODE FIFTY-EIGHT
On Thursday 2nd November 1961, on the first floor of 3 Peter Street, a Soho sex-worker called Jacqueline Birri was bludgeoned to death… by a complete stranger. But why?
THE LOCATION
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Ep58 – Jacqueline Birri - the Hooker, the Poker and the Stranger
SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within London’s West End. Today’s episode is about the murder of Soho prostitute Jacqueline Birri; it seemed like a simple open-and-shut case, there was a body, a culprit and several eye-witnesses, in a case neatly wrapped up with a confession, a sentence and a conviction. Justice was served… but something didn’t sit right. Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatisation of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 58: Jacqueline Birri - the Hooker, the Poker and the Stranger. Today I’m standing on Peter Street in Soho, W1; one street north of the deaf/mute murderer George Pickering, one street north-east of the Soho Strangler’s last victim Dutch Leah, one street south of The Blackout Ripper’s second victim Evelyn Oatley and one road west of Great Windmill Street, where an American GI stabbed an innocent man to death and no-one knows why - coming soon to Murder Mile. Situated in the heart of old Soho’s red-light district, Peter Street is a grotty little side-street barely 100 feet long by 15 feet wide, which bookends Berwick Street market. Surrounded by clip-joints, brothels and the infamous Walker’s Court (known locally as Wanker’s Court) – as this tiny grubby alley is often chock full of men walking through with their wives, proudly pretending not to notice row after row of seedy sex-shops… when in fact they’re mentally jotting down a shopping list of a tube of sparkly lube, a wipe-clean copy of Chocolate Starfish 6, Dr Chow’s Cock Jumpstart Kit, a set of anal bum-beads in the shape of Boris Johnson’s big fat lying face, and a Union Jack dildo which plays Rule Britannia) – thus Peter Street has always been synonymous with sex. Like most buildings on Peter Street, number three was once a brothel, and - although as a slim, three-storey, sandstone-bricked building set dead-centre in a former six-house terrace, it has changed very little in the last two hundred years, but with black painted sills, bright lights and a wide window, the ground-floor is now home to a funky clothing store, modestly titled as Supreme. Here, long lines of muttering youths (who see only on screens, breathe only through vapes and talk only in grunts, farts and emoji’s) stand for hours, in a roped-off area, eager to be one of three people, ushered-in by a gruff security guard, to stare at a single pair of jeans. Ooh. Which they’ll pick-up without trying on and buy without wearing, as the second they’ve left, they flog it off for twice the price on eBay. And yet, they’re oblivious that this was also the sight of a shocking murder. As it was here, on Thursday 2nd November 1961, on the first floor of 3 Peter Street, that a Soho sex-worker called Jacqueline Birri was bludgeoned to death… by a complete stranger. (INTERSTITIAL) Barely eight hours later; having been witnessed at the crime-scene, tracked to his home, searched, examined and arrested, 22 year old David James Emery, a married factory-worker from Stevenage, admitted to the murder of Jacqueline Birri; he was charged by the Police and made a full confession. “I’ve been going to see a prostitute I know as Ruby at 3 Peter Street for five years, today I decided to see her again. I got into the flat about twenty past one and I walked in, the maid knows me well. When I got to Ruby’s bedroom, there was a girl I have never seen before. I pulled out two pounds from my pocket and gave her one. She said in broken English “that for me too” and put her fingers on the second note. I said “no, I am skint, I need that for my fare home”, she said “ah yes” and playfully took it from my hand. I asked for it back and she turned away. I grabbed hold of her arm and said “give me both of them back, I’m going”. I prized her fingers open (we were both still laughing at the time) and when I did take the money back, she started jabbering away in French or Italian and came towards me. I pushed her and she fell over into the fireplace. She jumped up with something in her hand - a brass poker or something like that - she started shouting and aimed a blow at me with the poker and hit me on the front of the head. I grabbed hold of her and we were struggling together. I managed to get the poker (or whatever it was) from her, I pushed her away again and she fell across the dressing table. A bell started ringing, I thought it was the doorbell, I thought someone was coming up, I lost my head and swung at her with the poker whilst she was across the dressing table. I hit her on the head, she fell down and rolled off the dressing table onto the floor. She then really started screaming, the bell was still ringing, and someone was banging on the door. I lunged at her with the poker, and I think I hit her twice whilst she was on the floor. I saw her trying to pull herself up off the floor. She looked very white and I saw a load of blood. I opened the front door and there was two women shouting in a foreign language. I said “she is alright” and brushed passed more women. I ran into Peter Street, up Wardour Street and through several roads. Then I realising I still had the poker in the inside pocket of my overcoat, as I turned into the next road, there weren’t many people about, and I threw the poker into what I think was a doorway. I had no intention of killing the girl, or even harming her when I first went into the flat. I would only have been too pleased to leave when she started shouting. With the bell ringing, people banging on the door and screaming, and the fact that I was in a prostitute’s flat, I lost my head”. The statement of David James Emery was taken by Detective Superintendent Tennant, written-up by Detective Inspector Bruce and was used by both the defence and prosecution, as one of many pieces of evidence, in his trail at The Old Bailey. It seemed like a simple open and shut case with a confession, a culprit, and a conviction. But was it? To try and understand Jacqueline’s murder, we need to understand her killer. David James Emery was born on 19th July 1939 to two hardworking parents - Cecil & Edith Emery – who had married one year earlier and (in keeping with their Catholic beliefs) their first child was born. Raised in the lower-middle-class enclave of New Barnet (North London) 10 weeks before the outbreak of World War Two, although times were tough with rationing, poverty and hunger rife, crime endemic and death a daily occurrence, David flourished being blessed with good moral parents. His early years were only as traumatic as any war-time boy, as fun as any adventurous lad and as idyllic as any only-child; with three solid meals, a good home and loving parents, and with no incidents of disease, injury or abuse, by all accounts (including his own) David Emery had a very normal and happy upbringing. In 1946, aged seven, his position as the baby of the family changed when another boy was born, swiftly followed by two more. So with his father out working all hours and his mother exhaustedly wrangling a house full of boys, with David no longer his parent’s sole focus, he became anxious, angry and upset. Educated at Oakleigh Infants School, although clearly intelligent, David was unruly and mischievous. Aged just ten, he was found guilty at Highgate Juvenile Court for making obscene calls; he was fined £1, and on the same day, he was charged with stealing £1. These may seem like silly boyhood pranks, but they began a career of petty thefts, which were stupid, selfish and impulsive. Aged 12, David was found guilty of burglary having broken into the flat above using a ladder from his bedroom and was placed on a two year probation order. Eight months later, having stolen cigarettes, padlocks, plaster masks and a pen-knife, the probation order was increased to three years. And on 12th May 1952, aged just 14, being convicted of his fifth offence (the theft of boots, tools and a lamp from a builder’s store), he was sentenced to two years at Kneesworth House. Kneesworth was a borstal; a tough institution where maladjusted boys (too young for prison and too wild for society) were sent to be re-educated with strict discipline, but being isolated from his family and friends during two of his most formative years, aged 15, David was once again convicted of theft. And although these were all petty impulsive crimes – so far – he had no history of violence. Upon release, he worked as a trainee taxidermist at E Gerrard & Sons in Camden Town; a slightly morbid role but it gave him a purpose, an income and easy access to Peter Street, where he would meet a sultry Soho sex-worker who he would see for the next five years… and her name was “Ruby”. After fifteen months, David left the taxidermists to find a better paid job, as (although he lived in his parent’s home) the going rate for sex was a quarter of his £4 weekly wage, but failing to hold down a job as a labourer, trainee or errand boy, and being dismissed twice, he funded his lifestyle with theft. Aged 17, seen as an adult and subject to harsher sentences, he received one month in prison for theft, three months for wounding a Police officer and a further two years’ probation for petty theft. By all accounts, he wasn’t a drunk, abusive, cruel or a sadist; he stole but he didn’t do drugs, he broke the law but he wasn’t nasty, and excluding some semi-regular dalliances with a local sex-worker on Peter Street - who said he was always decent, nice and polite – he had no violent or sexual urges. On 26th May 1961, having married Pauline Ellis, the newlyweds moved into a small but well-furnished council house at 31 Newgate in Stevenage. Being trained as a process operator for a large plastics firm called British Visqueen and earning £25 per week; with a good relationship, a nice home and no convictions for the last two years, it seemed like David Emery had finally turned over a new leaf. Six months later, he would brutally bludgeon Jacqueline Birri to death. (Interstitial) Rolande Stephenson was a French prostitute who had lived at 3 Peter Street for eight years; she was neat, polite, kind and sweet, with a softly spoken Parisian lilt, a whiff of motherly perfume and a calm and reassuring demeanour, and as Rolande wasn’t a sexy name, she went by “Ruby”. As a professional sex-worker, Ruby knew how to make her clients comfortable, as with lines of nervous boys and over-excited men queueing up to spill their seed, a swift and happy outcome was reliant on keeping them relaxed. As with many punters raised in single-sex schools, borstals and prisons, with very little (if any) experience of girls; some had problems with sexual stamina, some struggled to get an erection, and some feared being mocked about having an undersized penis. David was just sixteen when he first visited Ruby. So as an impressionable teen, with hormones raging, fresh out of borstal and (perhaps) feeling abandoned in a family home full of boys, was Ruby his first sexual experience, was she his first love, or (as an older woman) was she a much-needed mother figure? Either way, he liked her, trusted her and for the next five years he would visit her. Separating her home-life from the sex-trade, with a private flat on the second floor of 3 Peter Street, Ruby also kept a small bedroom on the first floor. Although only fifteen feet long and wide, the room was bright, warm and homely; with a pink floral double bed with a large mirror behind, matching pink floral curtains which gave privacy from the window overlooking Peter Street; a stylish white dressing table adorned with intricate porcelain figurines, jewellery boxes, perfume bottles and make-up, and to ensure the flat was warm and snug, although the old fireplace had been boarded up many moons ago, in-front was a coin-operated gas-fire. Having aided her for the last five years (like many prostitutes) Ruby had a maid. Her name was Eileen Tomlin and her duties were simple; keep the rooms tidy, the bedsheets clean and fresh flowers in the vase; with newspapers to read, an erotic magazine to peruse and a supply of cups of tea from the communal kitchen next door should a calming brew be needed to quell an unruly dicky droop. And always promptly arriving at 1pm and being dismissed only when Ruby was done, in order to keep the riff-raff out, the only access to the first-floor flat was via a black front door on Peter Street, which was always locked, and was only opened by Eileen to those she knew, liked or trusted. The morning of Thursday 2nd November 1961 was bright and sunny. As per usual, 22 year old fair-haired David Emery washed, had breakfast and being dressed in a grey suit, a fawn overcoat, a white shirt and black shoes, he kissed his wife goodbye and left their home at 31 Newgate in Stevenage. It was an ordinary day; his mood was good, his marriage was sound, his wage was decent and (with no kids, debts or impending pregnancy) he had no stress, grief or worries. In his pockets he carried his a roll of pound notes, a comb and a torch. Only, that morning, he didn’t go to work at British Visqueen… …instead, he hopped on a train to King’s Cross and headed into Soho. Eileen Tomlin arrived at 1pm sharp, and in the first floor kitchen, next door to Ruby’s room, she made a list of the essentials (tea, milk, bread and butter) and popped to the Peter Street grocery shop. She was gone no longer than seven minutes, but while unpacking, realised she had forgotten the eggs. The time was 1:20pm. As Eileen descended the stairs, the doorbell rang. Opening the door, before her stood David Emery; a regular client of Ruby’s who Eileen knew by name, face and by a few scant details, having chatted (in passing) over the last five years. He was sober, pleasant and polite. Sensing nothing out of the ordinary and with no suspicions raised, she let David in and he made his way up to Ruby’s bedroom. With no queue at the grocer’s, Eileen was gone no longer than three minutes. As David pushed open the white bedroom door, he felt the usual warmth of the gas-fire, he saw the neat array of porcelain figurines on her dressing table and smelled the familiar scent of fresh flowers, but – in Ruby’s bed, tucked between her pink floral sheets – he came face-to-face with a stranger. That morning, Ruby had left for Paris to stay for a few weeks with her family. Needing a trusted friend to look after her home, as well as her business and clients, she loaned out her flat to her pal – “Jacqui”. Born in Paris, Jacqueline Christiane Henriette Birri was a perfect choice, as having been a professional sex-worker since she was fifteen, 26 year old Jacqui had known Ruby for nine years; she worked hard, she rarely drank and as Catholic (who was never without her silver crucifix) she was moral and fair. That aside, she was also playful, well-mannered, even-tempered and undeniably pretty. As David entered the bedroom, he realised this wasn’t Ruby; a lady he liked, trusted and (maybe even) loved… but with Jacqui being a stunning French brunette with a slender figure, a sweet fresh face and long fluttering lashes, it could be easy to see how a horny young man may become smitten. With Jacqui wearing very little, except a matching black bra, suspender belt and knickers, a short grey skirt and a light quilted housecoat, forgoing his usual routine, David pulled two pounds from his pocket and (as was the going rate for sex) he handed her a single one pound note. According to his statement, having been handed the first note, Jacqui playfully took the second note and in broken English said “that for me too?”, he replied “no, I am skint, I need it for my fare home”, which (not being a native speaker) she may not have understood, so believing he was being robbed, David grabbed her by the arm and said “give me them both back, I'm going”. Whether this happened, we only have his word, but the autopsy confirmed there was some light bruising around her left wrist. Realising he was leaving and she wouldn’t be paid, “she started jabbering in French and came towards me, I pushed her and she fell over in the fireplace”. With no burns to her body or charring to her clothes, she may have missed the fire, or it may not have been on, but her autopsy confirmed she had a small graze on the front of her left shin consistent with hitting something below knee-height. “She jumped up with something in her hand, it might have been a brass poker; she was shouting and aimed a blow at my head”. Later, when examined by the Police doctor, it was confirmed that David had a small abrasion, half an inch long, across his hairline, caused by something blunt but not heavy. At this point, four independent witnesses next door at 2 Peter Street heard Jacqui screaming; they were Leona Strang, a prostitute in the front first floor flat, her maid Nella Dall’Ava, Genevieve Evans, a prostitute in the rear first floor flat and the housekeeper Brenda Caccavale; all who rushed outside to the front door of 3 Peter Street, but with Eileen still at the grocer’s, the black front door was locked. David stated, “I managed to get the poker from her, I pushed her away and she fell across the dressing table. A bell started ringing, I thought it was the doorbell, I thought someone was coming up”. Only they couldn’t; unable to get in and with Jacqui’s screams more pained and terrified, as Leona, Nella and Geraldine furiously banged on the front door, raising hell and ringing the doorbell, Brenda dashed back into her flat to find the spare set of keys to number 3 Peter Street. “I lost my head and swung at her with the poker whilst she was across the dressing table. I hit her on the head, she fell down and rolled off the dressing table onto the floor”. With a thick spatter of type AB negative blood up the wall between the dressing table and the window and a 4 ½ cm break to her right occipital bone, the pathologist confirmed that the back of Jacqui’s skull had been fractured by a heavy blunt object, and that (like tiny knives) sharp shards of bone had embedded into her brain. “She then really started screaming, the bell was still ringing and someone was banging on the door. I lunged at her with the poker, and I think I hit her twice whilst she was on the floor”. Amidst a pool of blood, forensics officers found a clump of brown hair driven one inch deep into a hole in the linoleum; and with two gaping wounds behind her left ear and temple, and her head a patchwork of fractures, as she moved, the shattered fragments of her smashed skull could be heard scraping together. And then, Jacqui fell silent… and in the panic, David fled. The Police arrived within two minutes, the ambulance within six and with Jacqui still clinging to life, she was transferred to Middlesex Hospital. But with her skull smashed, her brain swollen and her body fitting uncontrollably, with a lethally sharp shard of bone having severed her carotid artery, 26 year old Jacqueline Birri died at 5pm. She left behind a husband and a four year old boy. David Emery continued his statement: “I opened the door and there was two women shouting in a foreign language“. Having found the set of spare keys, the ladies dashed into 3 Peter Street as David hastily descended the stairs, Leona and Nella tried to block his escape, Brenda grabbed his coat and as he barged them aside, he cracked his head on the top of the door, Leona later stated “it was a heavy thud, I heard the noise of it”, and although Genevieve tried to hold the front door shut, David thumped her hard across the face screaming “what’s going on here? Everybody’s mad?” By the time Eileen Tomlin returned with the six eggs, she saw David Emery flee and it was all over. David Emery ran up Wardour Street “realising I still had the poker in the inside pocket of my overcoat, as I turned into the next road” believed to be Bateman Street “I threw the poker into what I think was a doorway”. And although the Police searched for it, the murder weapon was never found. PC Clifford Poke of West End Central was the first on the scene; six eye-witnesses gave him matching descriptions of the man, Eileen Tomlin gave a name, and eight hours later, David Emery was arrested. Being in the presence of his wife, he initially made a false confession but later corrected this. He gave a blood sample (type A), the scrapings from under his fingernails reacted positively to blood and his grey suit, fawn overcoat, white shirt and black shoes all had traces of type AB negative blood. Under interrogation, David feared for his life, asking “can I be hanged for this”, as with the UK death penalty four years from being abolished - if found guilty - he could be executed, but only if during the murder he had stolen something. And although he was a thief, there were no signs of robbery. With no illness, disability or history of insanity, he was declared mentally fit to stand trial, and on the 19th December 1961, having pleaded “not guilty” to murder, but “guilty” to manslaughter, with no other witnesses to contradict the story that Jacqui Birri hadn’t attempted to rob him of a one pound note, David James Emery was found guilty of manslaughter, and sent to prison… for six years. (END) As David stated: “I had no intention of killing the girl, or even harming her when I first went into the flat. I would only have been too pleased to leave when she started shouting. With the bell ringing, people banging on the door and screaming, and the fact that I was in a prostitute’s flat, I lost my head”. So far, most of his story tallies-up. Only… …in the bedroom, someone had tried to mop-up the blood with a jumper, later found hidden under the sink, and on the outside of the white bedroom door (a full fifteen feet from the murder scene) it was heavily smeared in blood. But then, there could be a logical reason for that? Maybe he panicked. He claimed “she jumped up with something in her hand, it might have been a brass poker; she aimed a blow at my head”. Only Leona Strang stated “he pushed me and banged his head on the top of the door, it was a heavy thud, I heard the noise of it”; an injury the Police doctor agreed was more consistent with a slight bump than blunt force trauma. But being concussed, maybe David forgot? He also confessed “I pushed her away and she fell across the dressing table… I swung at her with the poker whilst she was across the dressing table. I hit her on the head, and she rolled off onto the floor”. A miraculous feat considering that on the stylish white dressing table adorned with intricate porcelain figurines, jewellery boxes, perfume bottles and an array of make-up; not a single item was damaged, spilled or out-of-place. No blood was found on the dressing table. And the Police confirmed there were no signs of struggle in the room. In fact, it looked as if Jacqui had just got out of bed. And even more baffling is the murder weapon itself. Ignoring the fact that this brass poker was never found as “realising I still had the poker in my overcoat, I threw it into a doorway”, having pushed Jacqui so she fell over into the fireplace, David claimed she jumped up with something in her hand, “it might have been a brass poker”. Only it can’t have been, as with the old fireplace having been boarded up many moons ago, it was replaced by a coin-operated gas-fire, connected to the mains, which had no need for any coal, logs and (especially) a fire poker. Ruby confirmed “I have never had a poker. I have never kept a weapon in the flat which could hit anyone. I can’t think of anything heavy in the flat”. A statement corroborated by Eileen Tomlin, who had cleaned the bedroom the night before and confirmed “there is nothing in the flat heavy enough to hit someone with”. And having thoroughly searched, no possibly murder weapon was found. Which leaves us with several unanswered questions; was this an accident, a robbery or an assault? Where did the fire poker come from and go? Why did he have so much hatred for a total stranger? And if Jacqueline Birri wasn’t his intended target, was he really here to murder Ruby? And if so, why? OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Don’t forget, if you’re a murky miler, to stay tuned for extra goodies after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week; History Gone Bad and Release the Clowns. (PLAY PROMO) A huge thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who are L Camille Anderson and Miss E Green - with a warm thank you to everyone who has left a lovely review on iTunes or your favourite podcatcher; I read them all, they are hugely appreciated and I thank you. It only takes a few minutes to do but (for small independent podcasts like myself) it really makes the difference. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well.
Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed by various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed below:
*** LEGAL DISCLAIMER *** The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, therefore mistakes will be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken. It is not a full representation of the case, the people or the investigation in its entirety, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity and drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, therefore it will contain a certain level of bias to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tor of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
4 Comments
Biz
17/5/2019 22:47:51
Great to have you back on form (or is that me and my dilettante approach to true crime podcasts? oops). Sorry to hear you've had unfortunate dealings with nutty litigant, glad you're powering through from that experience. Hope you're Gran's doing OK and you're pretty much over the Man Flu by now. Cheers. Your whole podcast and its supporting website rock.
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Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast
24/5/2019 13:25:22
Thanks incredibly kind of you, thank you. Mx
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Jake Price
24/5/2019 13:34:21
Where do I find all the crime scene photos from all these murders?
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Murder MIle True-Crime Podcast
1/6/2019 13:45:22
Some appear in my social media channels (Twitter, Instagram, Facebook) but most of them I reserve for my Patreon account - https://www.patreon.com/murdermile
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AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. Archives
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