BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY:
Today’s episode is about the investigation into the death of Joseph Wootton. Was it an accident, or was it a murder? As although his peculiar death was resolved in a court of law and the culprit caught, the question which stumped the Police wasn’t how did he die, but why?
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The former location of the Sardinia Buildings and the back of Wild Court, where the body of Joseph Wootton was found, is marked with a lime green cross. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your knowledge of the case. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
SOURCES: The Old Bailey archive, trial of Michael Joseph Holland MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: 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 and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about the investigation into the death of Joseph Wootton. Was it an accident, or was it a murder? As although his peculiar death was resolved in a court of law and the culprit caught, the question which stumped the Police wasn’t how did he die, but why? Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization 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 130: The Falling Man. Today I’m standing in Wild Court, WC2; two roads north of the brutal baker Alexander Moir, one road south of the First Date Killer’s home, one road west of where Mary Ann Moriarty dispatched her boozy beau, and a short walk south from the strange case of Annie Poke – coming soon to Murder Mile. Squirreled away from the hectic bustle of Covent Garden market, and squeezed amidst the forgotten grey gloom of Wild Street, Kemble Street and Kingsway sits Wild Court; a thin dark alley snuck between the backs of the Freemason’s Hall and CityLit, like a cruel after-thought by the town-planners. Being barely ten feet wide and with only a crack of sky peeping through the concrete monsters above, Wild Court is so depressing that the rats can’t be arsed, the fleas have resigned, any wee-wee stains have widdled-away and even Covid is claiming sick-pay. It truly is the epitome of a dead-end. Demolished to make way for the Kingsway Tramline – the 20th century’s very own CrossRail, seen back then as a wasteful folly which lacked value, purpose and only lined the pockets of CEO’s, any MPs on-the-take and a line which was later mothballed (coughs) – it looked identical in the 1890’s. With an entrance on Little Wild Street, Wild Court was the back of the Sardinia Buildings; a gigantic lodging house, five-storeys high, half-a-block wide and crammed-full of 150 little rooms for the city’s poorest. As a dark and squalid hell-hole for only for the most desperate; fights were frequent, screams were common and (drinking to dull the pain of their pitiful lives) violent assaults were a fact-of-life. But when a half-naked man was found slumped in the alley below - with cracked ribs, a broken back, deep cuts and rough dirty scuffs to his knees, hands and feet – it was clear to the Police that he had slipped, struggled and plummeted to his death. And yet, the real question was why did he have to die? As it was here, on the night of Friday 3rd March 1899, that Joseph Wootton fell to his death. But was this an accident, a murder, a mistake, or was an odd little friendship taken too far? (Interstitial) The mystery of the falling man began with very little mystery... “Friday 3rd March 1899, at roughly 12:30am, residents of the Sardinia Building at 19 to 21 Little Wild Street, a lodging house off Covent Garden, reported the sounds of shouting in the vicinity of Wild Court. The investigation was headed up by myself, Police Inspector William Crossman of Bow Street Station”. “Constable Francis Sale (PC142) and Constable Frederick Whittle (PC208), both of E Division were first on the scene. They met Mr Andrew Hutton, deputy manager of the lodging house and were brought to the rear of the building, a small back-alley known as Wild Court; it was unlit, dirty and unoccupied”. Initially, it looked like a false-lead, as too dark to see anything but the shifting shadows without a night-light, Wild Court was desolate, there was no man to be seen nor incident to be sensed. All the PCs could hear was a cascade of opening windows and the rhubarb of idle chatter echoing above, as a long line of eager fingers pointed down into the filthy hole below. Surrounded by iron railings - too thick to bend and too tall to climb - the PC spied a flash of white slumped on a dark jagged bed of broken bricks and rubbish. Accessed only by a key, there was no way to enter this recess, except from above. “PC Sale stated “on or about 12:45am, I saw a man lying where the occupants dump their waste. There was a great deal of blood pouring from his mouth, back and legs. He was alive, but only just, and he could not speak”. In fact, in the last moments he lived, he would barely utter a single word or syllable. Mugging was ruled-out, as if he had been attacked in the alley, why would anyone waste time lugging a fifteen-stone man over ten feet of railings to hide him on top of a bin? Burglary was discounted as only an idiot would scale a few flights of brick wall to enter a building, when the stairs were nearby. It may have been an accident, but no-one knew where he had fallen from. Suicide looked unlikely. And being a stranger, he had no reason to be there. But most baffling of all was his clothing... or lack of. “All he had on about his person was his shirt, nothing else, a white shirt ripped from his left armpit to the waist, and a few feet away was a pair of black trousers, dirty and bloodied, it was the right size to be his”. Although PC Sale would later state “I cannot say if they were there when I first saw the man”.” His lack of any underwear was not seen as suspicious, as this was an era before underpants were commonplace among the masses. But still, what was he doing there given that he was basically naked? “At a little before 1am, Dr Percy Levick, Police Surgeon escorted the unidentified man to King’s College Hospital. I arrived at 3am, and although insensible, 52-year-old Joseph Wootton of 13 Little George Street in Marylebone was able to impart his details to me, but very little else. He died at 7:45am”. The autopsy would prove what the Police had suspected. With his breath reeking of drink, his liver full and scratches on his knuckles, a drunken fight had occurred before the fall. With rough cuts scraping upwards on his chest, and long slashes from the underside of his biceps to his very tips of his fingers, - in staggered sections - he had fought to retain his grip of a window-sill, but inch-by-inch, he had lost. Struggling to clamber back inside the building, his bare feet had several layers of skin grated away by the wall’s rough bricks, the red-raw flesh of his heels had been peeled back and folded upwards, two toe-nails had been ripped-out by the root and the skin of his right big toe was entirely degloved. Based on his injuries, he had fallen forty-to-fifty feet, roughly four stories. And although, a sovereign-sized wound had resulted in a skull fracture and unconsciousness, this was not the cause of his death. Having landed in a seated position, and hit the hard bricks with a dead-stop, the jagged bed of rubble had pierced his buttocks and thighs, as the bulk of his body slammed-down upon it. So, in a swift fast smack; six ribs had snapped, one of which had skewered his right lung, but even that hadn’t killed him. With all of the fall’s energy focussed on a single spot, slamming down hard, it shattered his 12th dorsal vertebra, crushed his spine, ruptured his spinal cord and exploded sharp fragments of bone out of his broken back, leaving him paralysed from the chest down and haemorrhaging internally. Even if they could have saved him – which they couldn’t - the second his body had hit the bricks, his life was over. But before the autopsy taken place, the investigation had proven to be relatively straight forward: “Upon arrival, officers questioned the neighbours. Mrs Elizabeth Bowman of Room 85, on the fourth floor, overlooking Wild Court, stated “at 11pm, we heard two men quarrelling, I heard one call the other a bastard”. Other witnesses corroborated this, and Mrs Ruth Serle of 3 Sardinia Place, said “from my kitchen, I heard the two men yelling, it was coming from Room 84, the nearest window to mine”.” Within minutes, the investigation had identified a time and a place for the moments leading up to the death of Joseph Wootton, all of which pointed to a logical conclusion – two drunken men had a fight. “Just shy of 12:30am, Miss Caroline Frood of Room 79, across the corridor from Room 84, heard what she described as “shouting from inside the room, I opened my door and I heard a man cry out ‘I am bested’, I then heard a sort of pained cry of despair”. Other neighbours confirm this. Shortly after, Annie & Thomas Rich of Room 32, three floors below, heard “shouting, then a great thud, I got my lamp, looked down, and saw a man lying in the basement, he was vomiting and covered in blood”.” With everyone pointing to Room 84 as the fight’s point of origin - a room four stories high with a window that overlooked Wild Court and the basement below - even though the falling man had no known reason to be there, behind that locked door lay either a key-witness or a potential perpetrator. But who was the occupant, what happened that night, and why did he want this man dead? Given the era, there was nothing particularly remarkable about Joseph Wootton. Joe was born in 1847 in the parish of St Giles, in or near Covent Garden. Described as a general dealer, he sold whatever sold to feed his family. He had five children with his first wife - Joseph, Helen, Maria, Henry and William – but being widowed, he remarried Emily, a woman half his age, and together they had a one-month-old son called Charles and at the time of his death, she was expecting their seventh. With money tight, all nine shared a small bed in a single room at 13 Little George Street in Marylebone, and on top of her hectic life as a full-time mum, Emily supplemented their meagre income as a cleaner. As a 52-year-old man, who was short and squat but powerfully-built, Joe’s age was against him, as he could no longer cart the goods as quick as the younger fellas. The couple had no savings, no home of their own, and what little money they had left, he squandered on drink. Wasn’t the best husband or father, but he wasn’t the worst, and he had a few minor convictions for being drunk and disorderly. In court, his widow Emily would state these three facts; “my husband is addicted to drink”, “I am aware of Michael Joseph Holland, they have been friends for fifteen years” and “I know of no reason why he should be sleeping at the Sardinia Buildings”, as his home was only a short walk away. But he was? As for Michael Joseph Holland? The two seemed like kindred spirits. Born in 1867, 32-year-old Michael was a Covent Garden porter with a wife called Ann, a 3-year-old called Thomas and a 1-year-old also called Ann. Likewise, he went where the work was, his family lived in a crowded lodging in Lambeth, he had a few convictions for drinking and fighting, and he squandered their savings. But for whatever reason - whether work or a marital split - he had rented a lodging at Room 84 of the Sardinia Buildings. The two men were old pals, similar in so many ways; who had no debts, rivalry or jealousy together. Thursday 2nd March 1899 began as an ordinary day. “The deceased’s wife, Emily Wootton stated “he left home about midday and did not return”, which was not uncommon, he finished his work in the fruit market about 7pm, therefore these timings are based on the sightings by potmen and publicans”. “Alfred Ashwell of The Grapes pub at 42 Sardinia Street, served both the prisoner (Michael Holland) and the deceased (Joseph Wootton) between 7 and 9pm. Being a hot-headed pair, they often drank to excess and engaged in fisticuffs, but such incidents were always resolved with neither man holding a grudge. At 9pm, a news-lad called Laurie Donovan saw both at The Hart on Drury Lane, stating “both were on good terms”. 10:30pm, both returned to The Grapes, had two glasses of ale and a penny worth of tobacco. They left at 10:45pm. Both were very drunk, but again, they left together as “good pals”. Just shy of 11pm, they entered the Sardinia Buildings on Little Wild Street, where (for the two weeks prior) Michael had rented a room. That was the last sighting of Joseph Wootton. 90 minutes later, his half-naked body would be found on a jagged pile of bricks with his limbs ripped and his back broken. “Witnesses corroborate that an argument began after 11pm. Mrs Bowman in Room 85, “I didn’t think much of it, it was very slight, one called the other a bastard”. Mrs Serle in the window opposite heard loud voices at 12pm but couldn’t make out the word. Miss Frood across the corridor heard a cry “I am bested” from inside Room 84, and Mr & Mrs Rich in 32 heard a thud and saw a body in the basement”. Illuminating the thin alley with his lantern, PC Whittle searched the length of Wild Court, but he found nothing; no weapons, no money and no clothes, just a smashed semi-clad man in a ripped white shirt. “My officers searched from top to bottom. I went to the roof to check if he had jumped, but the door was firmly locked, as was the basement. Immediately above the spot where the deceased was found, the prisoner's window was lighted, and corroborated by witnesses, that brought myself to Room 84”. First to approach the sturdy wooden door of Room 84 were PC’s Frederick Whittle and Francis Sale. They knocked, but got no reply. They knocked again, but again nothing. So, knocking hard, a gruff voice barked “who is it?”, Whittle replied “Police! Open up!”, at which the prisoner replied “F**k you!”. It was only when the officer threatened to force the door, that it was opened. Which begs the question, with his old pal Joseph smashed and dying four stories below, why was Michael so reluctant to help? Before the PCs stood Michael Holland; five foot seven inches tall, 32-years-old and well-built. Like Joseph, he was naked except for a white shirt, and his knuckles were scuffed with old blood and new. From the door, the PCs engaged the prisoner in the following conversation: PC “A man’s been found in the alley, without any clothes”, Holland: “I know nothing about him”, PC: “Have you seen a strange man, or any clothes lying about?”, Holland: “No! This is my trousers, if you wanna see ‘em?”, at which he jabbed his finger at a jacket, waistcoat, trousers, socks and boots piled on a chair, all black, all dirty. The prisoner was then asked “Who lives here with you?”, he replied “no-one, there’s no bastard living here, only me”. The room was small, the bed was unmade, the light was on and the window was open. With no evidence to directly link Joseph Wootton to Michael Holland or the argument in Room 84, the PCs continued a search of the building and reported their findings to inspector William Crossman. “The officers and myself accompanied Mr Hutton, the deputy of the lodging house, and examined by lantern light the water-closets and sinks. There is one on each floor and half-landing, but we found nothing in any of them”. But while the officers were occupied, Michael was engaged in skulduggery. At about the same time, James Hewitt, a portmanteau-maker who lived in Room 19, saw Michael stagger unsteadily down the stairs between the third and fourth floors. “I said "What are you doing here in only your shirt? If they’re your trousers you’ve got under your arm, why don't you put them on? You’ll have the women out on you, and then there will be a fine-to-do". But the prisoner gave no reply and staggered away, with the dirty-looking bundle looking much larger than a pair of trousers. Moments later, 14-year-old William, son of Elizabeth Bowman saw Michael return to his room, minus a large bundle. The officers were informed and a second search of the water-closets were conducted. This time, behind a third-floor sink, they found a set of threadbare socks and some scuffed black boots. On a half-landing, behind a toilet door (which earlier had opened with ease but now seemed to be stuck) they spied a waistcoat and a black jacket. And four stories below, slumped in a crumpled heap beside the bloodied and barely-breathing body of the fallen man lay a pair of black trousers. Although PC Sale would later state “I cannot say if they were there when I first saw the man”.” Only they weren’t. Which begs more questions, why hide the clothes and why deny that Joseph was there? No-one had seen either man in the room, so an alibi of an accident or self-defence could never be disproved. At 4:30am, Inspector Crossman knocked on the door to Room 84. Being sleepy but still a little worse for wear, Michael let the Police Inspector in. “I stated to the prisoner that a man named Joseph Wootton had been found on the brick rubbish below this window, and when asked to explain why, again he repeated that he knew nothing about the man or the incident”, which I knew to be untrue”. The evidence that a fight of some description had taken place was relatively clear. Across the rough hairy knuckles of Michael’s right-hand lay a series of welts and cuts from a fist-fight he claimed had occurred two weeks earlier. And although repeatedly he would lie, his body wouldn’t, so with his skin still swelling and the bruises still new, this particular fight was barely a few hours old. Likewise, a scratch on his forehead had struggled to heal, as every time his brow furrowed, the skin crinkled and ripped the slim red gash wider, sending a tiny drop of blood oozing from this fresh cut. And with stains spattering his shirt sleeve and the bed marked in a red pool which the Inspector stated was sticky, “when I made the prisoner aware that the blood on the sheet was damp”, he gave no reply”. Again, he denied a fight had been fought, that another man had slept in his bed, he shrugged off any knowledge of a second man, and he refuted any claim that the clothes were Joseph’s. Even though of the two low-crowned hats discovered in his room; one fitted his head perfectly, but the other did not. The cramped room was simple; it had a small bed, two wooden chairs, a window and a door. On inspection, the door was undamaged, but by the window, it was clear that a struggle had taken place. Beside the bed, a picture-frame lay face-down on the floor, its glass smashed. His bushel-baskets for hauling fruit to the market were tipped over. The curtain’s draw-string had snapped, as a weight had yanked the right curtain off its rail, leaving the left one trapped outside of the recently closed window. When asked why, he gave no answer. So, why did he hide the clothes, but didn’t clean up the room? Inspector Crossman examined the window: “I raised the sash; in the dust were fresh finger-marks on the woodwork, which scraped outwards and down along the stone. A stain ran along the centre of the sill, as if a heavy weight of flesh had been dragged over it. And on the outside wall, three feet below the sill were bloodied scratches in the brickwork, as if a bare-footed man had struggled to hold on”. A measurement proved that (as the pathologist had stated) Joseph would have fallen 40 to 50 feet to sustain the injuries he did. Directly below Michael’s window was the basement where he had landed, and from sill to bricks, the distance was exactly 41 feet. “I drew the prisoner’s attention towards the basement and the bloodied foot marks, but he gave no reply. In fact, he became quite sullen”. Which begs another question, what was the argument about and why didn’t Michael try to save his friend? At 6am, Joseph’s wife, Emily Wootton was brought to the Sardinia Buildings, where she identified the jacket, waistcoat, trousers, socks, boots and even the hat Michael said was his, as that of her husband. Michael Holland was taken to Bow Street Police Station, where he stated “I don’t know anything about it at all; I was drunk at the time” and charged with assault and causing injury to Joseph Wootton, but having died of his injuries at 7:45am, Michael was subsequently charged with his murder (End). An inquest into the murder of Joseph Wootton took place on the 13th March 1899 at St Clement Danes Vestry Hall, and after a committal hearing at Bow Street, he was tried at The Old Bailey on 10th April. The prosecution argued that Michael had pushed Joseph out of the window and left him dangling, but being too exhausted to hold his grip, he fell. But the defence denied this, arguing that the evidence was purely circumstantial and – more importantly – that there was no motive for the murder. Michael pleaded ‘not guilty’ but refused to provide any witnesses or evidence to prove this, which put Mr Justice Grantham in a quandary: he stated “the evidence is entirely circumstantial, but the prisoner has not assisted the jury by giving any reason for the disturbance. Instead, he has told lie after lie from the moment the police arrived, right across the investigation and until he was arrested”. But even when he was asked if he had anything further to say, Michael simply barked “no!” in a loud gruff voice. The jury retired for just thirty minutes, and having returned with a unanimous verdict of guilty, Michael Joseph Holland was sentenced to death. One hour before his execution, his sentence was reduced to life, which he served in Parkhurst Prison. But even up to that very moment, as death dangled, he remained totally silent as to what had happened between the two men, that night, in Room 84. But why? Why lie about a fight? Why hide his clothes? Why deny that his friend was there? And why, after fifteen years side-by-side, did he choose to watch Joseph die, rather than save his life? It’s a deadly secret that both men took to their graves, so the mystery of the falling men will never be solved. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. If you enjoyed that, stay tuned for tea slurping and utter waffle after the break. It’s not essential, so if you don’t like pointless rambling, switch off now. But before that, here’s a true-crime podcast which may very well be the icing on an iced bun. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, who are; Aaron French and Rae Kennedy, I thank you both, I hope you’re enjoying your new and exclusive Murder Mile goodies. And a thank you to Aimee Graham, Anne Marie Cummings, Kim Calve and Leah Hawkins who sent a very kind donations via the Murder Mile eShop, which will be spent (not on Eva’s rather lethal cocktail collection) but on cake for me, so I thank you. Plus a thank you to everyone who shared this podcast with their friends. Murder Mile was researched, written and 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. *** 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, which are freely available in the public domain, 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, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast 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 to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour 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", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
The former home of Teddy Sieff, and scene of Carlos the Jackal's first (badly bungled) assassination
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-NINE:
Today’s episode is about Carlos the Jackal; the infamous terrorist, hijacker, kidnapper, bomber and assassin, whose name was (supposedly) the stuff of legend. But were any of his atrocities so skilful that they deserved such a feared reputation, or was he really just a cack-handed twat?
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of the Teddy's Sieff's former home at 48 Queen's Grove (and where Carlos the Jackal committed his first failed assassination is marked with a light purple cross. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your knowledge of the case. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
SOURCES: To name but a few...
https://www.nytimes.com/1975/07/05/archives/basque-woman-is-linked-in-london-to-paris-mystery.html https://www.independent.co.uk/news/carlos-held-after-20year-manhunt-scotland-yard-may-question-killer-who-is-said-to-have-been-behind-series-of-terrorist-attacks-in-london-1376671.html https://www.irishtimes.com/news/world-s-least-wanted-defendant-1.127090 https://www.theguardian.com/news/2001/feb/26/guardianobituaries https://www.standard.co.uk/hp/front/house-where-carlos-the-jackal-first-struck-faces-the-bulldozer-6630867.html https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-39421429 https://www.standard.co.uk/news/house-where-carlos-the-jackal-first-struck-faces-the-bulldozer-6630867.html https://www.theguardian.com/culture/2018/jan/22/lois-sieff-obituary https://www.thejc.com/news/uk-news/lois-sieff-wife-of-british-zionist-federation-vice-president-jospeh-sieff-dies-aged-94-1.451800 https://www.stjohnswoodmemories.org.uk/content/memories/crime_drama/carlos_the_jackal https://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/europe/carlos-the-jackal-faces-new-trial-over-terrorist-attacks-in-france-6258237.html https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=Fl88AgAAQBAJ&pg=PA125&lpg=PA125&dq=Teddy+Sieff+Carlos+the+Jackal&source=bl&ots=Mg9Zr14II6&sig=ACfU3U0EfPwhg3e_4bq4ej3yvCAoiYy3IA&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjN6_vRpbXnAhVYRxUIHa5GA54Q6AEwCHoECAoQAQ#v=onepage&q=Teddy%20Sieff&f=false https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-4308544/Carlos-Jackal-blows-kisses-dock-tirade.html MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: 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 and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about Carlos the Jackal; the infamous terrorist, hijacker, kidnapper, bomber and assassin, whose name was (supposedly) the stuff of legend. But were any of his atrocities so skilful that they deserved such a feared reputation, or was he really just a cack-handed twat? Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization 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 129: Carlos the Jackal (or Jackass?) Today I’m standing on Queen’s Grove, in St John’s Wood, NW1; three streets north of the elementary murder of William Raven, two streets west of the home of the fallen police hero Jack Avery, four streets north-east of the severed torso of Hannah Brown, and a few bus-stops north from (possibly) one of the first unsolved murders by the Blackout Ripper – coming soon to Murder Mile. Situated north of Regent’s Park, Queen’s Grove is posh, very posh. With the average house priced at £3.2 million and with some selling upwards of eight. Many have nine bedrooms, five bathrooms and two kitchens - all for just two people, with not a smile between them – as well as a sitting-room, a drawing-room, a sketching room, an etching room and a doodling room, with a pantry (possibly where they keep their pants), a scullery (to store the skulls of dead servants), a winery (where they whinge about posh things), and they don’t own a telly over fifty inches, as that’s ‘unseemly’ and ‘vulgar’. As a very quiet and private street - far from anything as uncouth as a corner-shop or a vape emporium - with walled and gated homes on either side, this is not the sort of area you might see youths playing footie, unsavoury types imbibing a reefer or spot a set of Ugg boots (perish the thought). No, anyone seen chatting over the back-fence is more likely to be the hired help gossiping while the master’s out. Scandal does happen here; whether affairs with the nanny, an occasional dead butler, or a billion quid syphoned-off to Bermuda, but it doesn’t seem like the kind of place where a terrorist cuts his teeth. On the corner of St John’s Wood Road sits 48 Queen’s Grove; a two storey, thirty-roomed house, made of brown bricks, white Doric columns and secured by tall trees, thick walls and a wrought iron gate. Since the 1950’s, this was the family home of Joseph Edward Sieff. As a beloved businessman and a heartfelt humanitarian, Teddy was a good man who dedicated his life to helping others, and asked for nothing in return. Not money, not a name, nor anything as crass as celebrity or fame. And yet, having been placed on a terrorist’s kill-list, his life was spared by the incompetence of his would-be killer. As it was here, Sunday 30th December 1973, in a bid to build his reputation, that Carlos the Jackal would attempt his first murder... only to royally balls-it-up, just as he always would. (Interstitial). It’s easy to create a legend, if you gloss over the failures and mistakes of the truly inept... ‘Carlos the Jackal’ was born Ilich Ramírez Sánchez on 12th October 1949 in Michelena, an affluent rural town on the western border of Venezuela, to a loving mother but an overbearing father. Professing to be a Communist, all three sons were named after Vladimir Ilyich Lenin - founder of the Soviet Union. But in truth, as a wealthy lawyer living a privileged life, he was little more than a ‘champagne socialist’. Raised in a Marxist ideology while whole-heartedly quaffing the fragrant fruits of their Capitalist spoils, Ilich adopted these principles – being keen for his father’s attention - and therefore this duality stuck. Aged 10, when this little boy should have been climbing trees, Ilich joined the Venezuelan Communist Party. Aged 15, he organised anti-government demonstrations for the Venezuelan Communist Youth League. Aged 17, he attended the anti-imperial Tricontinental Conference in Havana, and was (allegedly) trained in guerrilla combat tactics at Camp Matanzas. And although the Cold War world crept closer to Armageddon and possible annihilation, a greater conflict was fought closer to home. In 1966, his parents divorced. Jose, his father wanted Ilich to stay in Venezuelan and remain a Marxist, but Elba, as a good mother, wanted a better life for her boys and moved to West London. Ilich had only ever read about the decadent excesses of Capitalist West, but now he was living it and loving it. His new life was affluent but stable. He lived with his mother and brothers in a flat on the prosperous Kensington High Street. As a bad Marxist, he was educated privately at Stafford House College and later at the London School of Economics, where his teachers described him as cocky, brash and rude. Being obsessed with spy thrillers, Ilich would sit transfixed at the cinema watching Dr No, From Russian With Love, Goldfinger and Thunderball, all the while dreaming of being James Bond; dressed in a sharp suit, driving a fast car, swigging Boulenger, blowing shit up and making whoopie with a lovely lady. So, looking like a tall fat Austin Powers, Ilich drank, partied and royally shagged his way across London. As the crow flies, he was only five thousand miles from homeland, but after just two years of western excesses, this arrogant little playboy was a million miles from his father’s ideal as a Marxist-Leninist. In 1969, Jose sought to rectify this by enrolling Ilich at the Patrice Lumumba University in Moscow, a radical hotbed of foreign Communists, named after the assassinated Congolese leader. But loving too much his life as a low-rent lothario who dined like a decadent dandy, one year later, Ilich was expelled. Feeling a failure, in July 1970, Ilich joined the PFLP (Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine), an anti-Zionist terror group who drew attention to the plight of their occupied lands through high-profile hijackings, bombings and assassinations. Trained in terrorism, it was here that Ilich was given the first part of his infamous nickname. Not in tribute to a fallen hero, as many of his fellow fighters found him lazy and aloof, but surrounded by Arabs, they called him Carlos to mock his South-American roots. In 1971, following the Black September uprising and the bombing of the Palestinian camps, co-leader of the PFLP, Wadi Haddad ordered Carlos back to London to set-up a European base, which he did... ...sort of. Seen as a cocktail party swinger, Carlos returned to his playboy life; boozing, schmoozing and bedding left-leaning ladies, who hid his stash of cash, false passports and illegal weapons. Along with his love of Bond films, in 1971, he read Frederick Forsythe’s ‘The Day of the Jackal’, a thriller about an infamous assassin - which many readers mistakenly believe is about him, but it isn’t, and he rarely denies it. By 1972, owing to his link to the PFLP, an MI5 surveillance unit watched his movements, but this West End wonder-lush didn’t exactly exude the angry rhetoric of a radical terrorist; he drank, shagged and looked a little edgy on a visit to St George’s hospital, where an optician prescribed a pair of dark glasses to curb his sensitivity to bright lights – a distinctive look which would later become his trademark. For his first solo mission, he delivered machine guns to the fanatical Japanese Red Army, and although he claimed he took part in the 1972 Munich Olympics massacre, he didn’t. Carlos was nothing, a driver and a bag man with a mixed-up ideology, who the PFLP had no hope for, and MI5 had misplaced. Carlos wanted to be infamous, a celebrity and a legend... ...but that’s impossible to achieve when you’ve done diddly-squat. Where-as Teddy had a well-earned reputation through excellence, hard-graft and generosity. Born on the 28th November 1905, Joseph Edward Sieff, known as Teddy was one of two sons to Effraim & Sarah, a highly respected couple from affluent Jewish families. In contrast to Israel, his much-bolder brother, Teddy was a sweet, softly-spoken and sensitive man who many described as a ‘quiet shadow’. Educated at the prestigious Manchester Grammar School, alongside his brother, he befriended Simon Marks, son of the co-founder of Marks & Spencer’s and the three went into business together. In 1933, with Israel as joint managing-director, Teddy played a key role as the store’s merchandise developer. But he never let his wealth, class or seniority dictate how he spoke to those below him, as in keeping with its founder’s motto - “if the canteen is good enough for the staff, it’s good enough for the bosses” - for that, even as he was promoted company chairman, the staff would always love and respect him. In 1929, Teddy married Maisie, the love-of-his-life and together they raised two daughters. Everything was perfect, but after more than twenty years of wedded bliss, Maisie died, leaving Teddy a widower. And although distraught, as a doting father, Teddy strived to keep some semblance of normality during such a turbulent time in his children’s lives, as well as finding love and filling a lonely hole in his heart. In 1952, he met Lois Ross; that same year they married, they had a son, and two years later, his family moved into the affluence of a well-protected home at 48 Queen’s Grove, and there they remained. By 1972, aged 67, with a mop of white hair, his voice like a polite whisper and his sweet face softened further by a set of owl-like glasses, this ‘quiet shadow’ had earned his retirement. Still mourning the death of his brother, Teddy handed the company to Israel’s son, but remained as company president. And although, with their children all grown-up and married-off, Teddy & Lois often rattled round their 30-roomed house, his twilight years gave him more time to devote to his true passion – charity. Teddy always had a big heart and deep pockets, not because he felt he had to, but because he cared. Typical of Teddy, following surgery in 1966, he donated £50,000 to aid the renovation of the hospital’s wing, he personally thanked every nurse and matron, and as an extra thank you to these NHS heroes (who weren’t paid particularly well) he gave them two week’s salary each out of his own pocket. But this was not an uncommon act of generosity for Teddy, who always thought of others before himself. Top of his philanthropic agenda was the plight of children, so using his influence, he helped to build primary schools, develop educational programmes and support humanitarian causes, especially in the volatility of the Middle East, as - when wars erupt - it’s always the young who are affected most. As a Jew, who strived to fight anti-Semitism his whole life, this ‘quiet shadow’ gave a powerful voice to the poor and helpless, as honorary vice-president of the Zionists Federation and chairman of the Joint Palestine Appeal, who in a single evening, helped raise $2.5 million for humanitarian causes. Outside of charity, he liked gardening, music and was patron of the arts. In 1971, he was named ‘Man of the Week’, and he would (rightfully) earn a reputation as a man who was successful and beloved. And although the seventies were a turbulent time for many, Teddy had no enemies... ...or so he thought. 1973 was a year of violence. With the eruption of the Arab/Israeli war, world trade slowed to a crawl by an oil embargo and – miles from the hotly-contested promised land of Israel – cities were crippled in fear as terrorist groups like the PFLP launched hijackings, bombings and assassinations. For many in the West, this overseas skirmish was more of a “their problem, not ours”, and although the tragic scenes on the news were sad, for the viewers, it was ‘out of sight, out of mind”. The PFLP knew this, so to force our dithering leaders into action, they brought terrorism to the British streets. Turning all the peaceful streets into the potential sight of a bloodbath, as armed police patrolled; every bin was searched, every bag was checked, every package was scrutinised, and even good neighbours were seen with suspicion, as the bomb factories of the politically deranged emerged next door. In October 1973, Sir John Cohen, the founder of Tesco’s empire Had warned Teddy that he was one of thirty prominent Jewish businessmen who were on a ‘death list’ by the PFLP. Scotland Yard were notified, tensions were high, and every possible target was on the lookout for suspicious packages, as that month, three booby-trapped fire-bombs had exploded outside several Marks & Spencer’s stores. Terrorism was the hot topic on everybody’s lips, and with the newspapers baying for a James Bond-style assassin who was suave, daring and brave, Carlos was eager to be seen as a ‘celebrity terrorist’... ...the problem was, he was inept. The evening of Sunday 30th December 1973 was the epitome of foreboding, as a bitter icy wind howled and whipped dead leaves down the desolate streets of St John’s Wood. Darkness bathed every brick in black and bare trees loomed large like Satan’s own shadow, as Death walked into Queen’s Grove. Just shy of 7pm, a lone man stood below the unlit street light outside of 48, his frame and his features disguised, as - with Britain in the grip of a miner’s strike - many lights were off, both inside and out. But standing six-foot-two inches tall and sturdily built, this stranger was hardly inconspicuous; as with black leather gloves that creaked with each crinkle and military boots that clomped like Frankenstein’s monster, the round little baby-face of 24-year-old Ilich Ramírez Sánchez was masked by the fur-lined hood of his green Army parka, his scarf (as red as a Communist’s flag) and the thick black rims of his trademark glasses. So, lucky for him, being a typical British winter, he didn’t look too foolish or sinister. In his pocket, he held a gun; a Russian-made Tokarev 7.62mm pistol fitted with a clip of eight rounds. As an assassin’s tool, it was fine. As a plus, it was pocket-sized, the recoil was short and the explosion was quiet, but on the downside, the aim was terrible, it lacked power and it was prone to jamming. I mean, hidden in a bag at his girlfriend’s flat was an-arsenal of arms to choose from, including a British-made Browning HP MK1, a reliable high-power semi-automatic pistol, with two-to-three times the bullet capacity. But being a ‘playboy Marxist’ with daddy issues, he opted for the Soviet Special. And, I guess it would be a little cruel to gloss over the fact that – in his hideaway – was stashed several grenades, a few pounds of explosives and a cache of spare bullets, he even had access (as we all do) to ropes, knives and a hammer. So, he could have had a back-up weapon, should anything go wrong? But he didn’t. It’s unknown whether this was confidence, cockiness or incompetence, as the murder of Teddy Sieff was meant to be the hit which he would make his name as a celebrity terrorist. And yet, he hadn’t got a getaway car and he didn’t have a plan; he was just going to walk-up, knock and shoot. What could possibly go wrong? At 7pm precisely, Carlos pulled open the black wrought-iron gate of 48 Queen’s Grove, walked the short unlit path to the Georgian mansion, and to the right of the black front door, he rang the doorbell. With a loaded pistol clutched in his fist, it would be an easy hit, as - unlike many other prominent Jews on the PFLP’s ‘death-list’ - his target had declined a Police guard, he was clearly in, and being a big-hearted philanthropist and a man-of-the-people, strangers were always welcome at his door. That was Carlos’ first mistake; Teddy Sieff was rich, and rich people never answer their own doors. Peeping round the black front door, Carlos was confronted by Manuel Perloira, the Sieff’s Portuguese butler. Thinking quick, before the hired help could slam it shut, he poked the pocket-sized pistol in the servant’s face, and in a heavily-accented voice growled “take me to Sieff”, which the Butler did. By 7:01pm, Carlos was in, but with his mission already messed-up, he had no plan of how to get out. Standing in the opulent reception of his target, for a brief second Carlos took at the artworks upon the walls (a Gainsborough, a Tiepolo and a Warhol), only he wasn’t here for a robbery, he was here to kill. So, jabbing the gun’s muzzle in the butler’s back, silently he frog-marched Manuel up the staircase, having ordered him to call to his master; “Sir? Mr Sieff? Could you come to the landing a second?” That was Carlos’ second mistake in as many minutes; as being so disliked by his fellow fighters, being forced to act as a lone assassin, he didn’t have a spare pair of hands when he needed it most. At 7:02pm, Teddy didn’t reply, instead his wife Lois did. But being in the midst of changing for dinner, she didn’t exit the bedroom where Teddy was, but her dressing-room directly opposite. So, seeing her butler being held hostage, she locked the door, telephoned the Police and the officers dispatched. At 7:03pm, perched behind his petrified prisoner, Carlos slunk into the master bedroom, but Teddy was nowhere to be seen and – hearing the distant wail of sirens - time was running out. “Call him!”, Carlos urged, forcing the butler to lure his target out into the open - “Sir? Mr Sieff? Are you there?” And he was, so as the door to the ensuite bathroom opened, the two men came face-to-face. It was no match; an armed assassin trained by the Iraqi military, and a half-dressed male in his late sixties, with thick spectacles, a bad back and a recurring heart problem. In short, Teddy was as good as dead. From less than a metre apart, the trigger was pulled, the muzzle exploded, the gun jerked back and in a short hot flash of fire, a round of burning lead hit Teddy squarely in the head. Instantly slumping down to the floor, Teddy lay unconscious and helpless, as blood poured and pooled from his pale face. As the sirens drew ever nearer, Carlos aimed the pistol at Teddy’s brain, one last shot to finish his target off, and having cemented his place in infamy, the celebrity of Carlos the Jackal would be born. But as it often did, the gun jammed... and with no back-up, no spare bullets and no time to unclog the chamber, by 7:04pm, Carlos had fled through the back door, just as the squad car arrived. It wasn’t perfect, but he was in and out in less than four minutes, his identity was hidden and his target is dead... ... or so he thought. Teddy was rushed to the Middlesex Hospital, and although he had been shot in his upper lip, the bullet was deflected by his teeth, missing his jugular vein, and lodging in his jaw. An operation successfully removed the bullet, he jokingly said he was saved by his “Milk Marketing Board teeth”, and a few days later, Teddy was released with nothing but a few small marks on his lip, which looked like a cold sore. Teddy lived a long and happy life, he died of natural causes in 1982, nine years after he was shot. The PFLP took full credit for this ineffectual shooting, and the career of Carlos the bungling terrorist had begun – with no-one knowing who would get hurt when this cack-handed twat was running amok. On 24th January 1974, he threw a bomb into Hapoalim Bank in the heart of London’s banking district; it bounced off the ceiling, smashed a bulb, no-one was killed, but it did make a small hole in the floor. On 3rd August 1974, he exploded three car-bombs in Paris, against two right wing newspapers and the offices of the Jewish Social Fund. The cars were wrecked, no-one was hurt, and their work resumed. On 15th September 1974, two grenades were thrown into a café in Paris, two people were killed, thirty were injured, and although he claimed it as his, Carlos has since denied he had anything to do with it. On the 13th January 1975, he fired two rocket-propelled grenades at an El Al airliner taking off at Orly Airport... only to miss it completely, and destroy a parked DC-9, an empty storage building and - as he tried to flee - he shattered the windscreen of his getaway car, owing to the recoil of the rocket. As an assassin, he has had some “successes”, but many of them have been through luck rather than skill. So, how did such an incompetent klutz become one of the world’s most infamous terrorists? (End) Simple, he was the right man in the right place at the right time; terrorism was hot, spy thrillers were all the rage, and the press wanted a suave dangerous playboy, who - unlike James Bond - was real. On 1st July 1975, a bag belonging to Ilich Ramírez Sánchez was found hidden in the top-floor flat of his friend, Angela Otaola. Inside, Police discovered several passports under six aliases, a consignment of C4 explosives, three guns (including the pistol used to shoot Teddy) and the ‘death-list’ of prominent Jews. For the press, this was front-page stuff, but the one detail they drooled over the most was that - inside his terrorist toolkit - he carried a copy of Frederick Forsyth’s thriller ‘The Day of the Jackal’. Three days later, the Police proclaimed Ilich as “one of the most cold-blooded and dangerous terrorist leaders in Europe...” - which is true, if you choose to ignore all of his mistakes, failures and blunders – citing him as highly regarded “because of his ruthless professionalism, like the hired killer in the novel ‘Day of the Jackal’”. After that, the press nicknamed him Carlos the Jackal and the rest is history. On 15th August 1994, Carlos was captured in Sudan and extradited to Paris. Aged 71, he’s serving a life sentence in Clairvaux prison for the murder of an informant and two counter-intelligence agents, plus an additional life term for killing eleven and injuring more than 150 people, although it is believed he may have murdered as many as eighty. As of today, this ‘celebrity terrorist’ remains as cocky, arrogant and unrepentant for his crimes as ever, and he has never charged for the shooting of Teddy Sieff. So, ask yourself this, is he really Carlos the Jackal, or Carlos the Jackass? OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. If you enjoyed that, there’s at least half an hour of tea drinking and utter waffle after the break. If you like it, stay. If you don’t, go. It’s not for everyone, hence it’s not an extra part of the podcast. But before that, here’s a true-crime podcast which may be the first mouthful of a pint of pink Angel delight. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, who are; Jay jones, Lord Ponsonby Farquhar and Freddo, I thank you all, I hope you got your new goodies, and I hope those lucky Patreon supporters are enjoying the exclusive ‘Blackout Ripper’ mugs and new blood-red key-rings I’ve made, which are only available via Patreon. For as little as $3 a month, you get lots of goodies. Plus, a thank you to an anonymous donation via the Supporter link, I thank you. And a thank you to everyone who keeps listening to the show and sharing it with their pals, it’s very much appreciated. Murder Mile was researched, written and 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. *** 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, which are freely available in the public domain, 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, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast 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 to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour 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", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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The home of Vincenzo Iale, where he invited Jason Marshall and where he would be tortured and murdered
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-EIGHT:
Today’s episode is the final part about the murder of Peter Fasoli, a lonely man who let a stranger into his life, only to be tortured, suffocated and left to die inside his burning bungalow. His killer had fled, believing he had covered his tracks, but he had left behind an eye-witness.
SOURCES:
https://www.towleroad.com/2017/09/peter-fasoli/ https://www.southwalesargus.co.uk/news/national/18000310.new-inquest-ordered-death-murder-victim-found-died-accidentally/ https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/amp/uk-england-london-41399617 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-40779337 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-40813798 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-40880239 https://www.harrowtimes.co.uk/news/15096437.man-28-charged-with-2013-murder-of-northolt-man/ https://www.mylondon.news/news/west-london-news/man-charged-police-2013-northolt-12611437 https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/crime/jason-marshall-peter-fasoli-39-years-minimum-cling-film-computer-arson-camera-a7967661.html https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2017/sep/26/fantasist-jason-marshall-jailed-murdering-man-peter-fasoli-sex-session https://www.hackneygazette.co.uk/news/crime/revealed-fantasist-murderer-absconded-from-john-howard-centre-years-before-3565108 https://attitude.co.uk/article/a-man-whose-death-was-initially-ruled-an-accident-was-victim-of-serial-killer/22367/ https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-7734349/Peter-Fasoli-killed-fake-MI5-agent-Northolt-west-London-new-inquest-rules.html https://www.pinknews.co.uk/2019/11/29/peter-fasoli-jason-marshall-gay-serial-killer-london-murder-torture-mi5-inquest/ https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/east-ham-fantasist-jason-marshall-guilty-of-sex-murder-to-classic-fm-39dbhj6n9 http://www.ealingtoday.co.uk/default.asp?section=info&page=eanortholtmarshall002.htm https://chiswickherald.co.uk/ealing-man-jailed-for-years-for-murder-p7243-95.htm https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2017/aug/03/man-accused-of-murder-during-sex-session-killed-second-victim-in-italy-court-hears https://www.rollingstone.com/culture/culture-news/former-male-escort-found-guilty-of-murder-and-arson-in-dating-app-killing-112831/ https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2017/aug/09/jason-marshall-fantasist-found-guilty-murdering-man-peter-fasoli-sex-session https://www.newhamrecorder.co.uk/news/crime/east-ham-man-guilty-of-murdering-computer-repairman-in-seven-3133350 https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/jason-marshall-serial-killer-old-bailey-murder-trial-peter-fasoli-badoo-classic-fm-clingfilm-suffocated-northolt-london-rome-italy-vincenzo-iale-umberto-gismondi-a7878401.html https://www.standard.co.uk/news/crime/olympics-cleaner-claims-he-has-no-memory-of-allegedly-smothering-his-handcuffed-victim-with-clingfilm-a3603566.html https://www.ilcorrieredellacitta.com/news/cronaca/omicidio-a-torvaianica-alta-condannato-a-16-anni-jason-peter-marshall.html&prev=search&pto=aue https://www.ilmessaggero.it/roma/cronaca/jason_peter_marshall_adesc_ograve_uomo_chat_condannato_roma-1245838.html&prev=search&pto=aue http://mysocalledgaylife.co.uk/2017/08/another-gay-murder-more-police-failings/ https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-4775550/Fantasist-28-guilty-murdering-gay-man.html MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: 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 and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is the final part about the murder of Peter Fasoli, a lonely man who let a stranger into his life, only to be tortured, suffocated and left to die inside his burning bungalow. His killer had fled, believing he had covered his tracks, but he had left behind an eye-witness. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization 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. (lighter) My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. (fire/flames) Episode 128: The Badoo Killer – Part Two. (hints of The Snowman) Peter lay slumped, hidden in a dark recess between his side of the bed and the back of his brown sofa; helpless, motionless and unable to scream, move or even breathe. With his wrists and ankles hog-tied by adhesive tape, his oxygen-starved face deformed by thick layers of tightly-wrapped clingfilm, and his last gasps of breath suffocated by a plastic carrier-bag, Peter was dying a slow and painful death. Described as a “good man who would help anyone with anything”, Peter didn’t have an ounce of hatred in his heart or a cruel thought in his head, as all ever wanted was to be loved. And yet, given that his date had arrived with a bottle of flammable liquid stashed in a rucksack, it’s clear that Peter’s death was decided before the torture, the foreplay, the chat, and even before he had opened his door. Peter was alive but unconscious as the accelerant splashed upon his bare flesh - and although dotted with red raw holes where searing cigarette tips had singed his skin - ignited by his killer as he callously walked away, the hot propellant engulfed his body as his skin, hair and bindings burned and smoked. The fire was started at 12:41am precisely, an alarm activated within seconds, and at 12:43am, seeing smoke pouring from the little bungalow, several neighbours called 999. “Emergency, which service do you require?”, “Fire. There’s flames pouring out of 2 Rubens Road”, “Is anyone inside?”, “I don’t know, possibly Peter?”. Alerted at 12:44am, three crews from Northolt Fire Station at Pett’s Hills sped the two-mile route in less than five minutes, and arrived at 12:49am, eight minutes after the fire began. Three appliances and two ambulances blocked the L-shaped kink of Rubens Road. Unable to gain entry to the white door by the little stone path, fire fighters used the jaws-of-life to pry open a double-glazed window. With the fire focussed around the bed, found alive but unresponsive, Peter’s blackened body was dragged from the burning building, but on arrival at Hillingdon hospital, he was pronounced dead. Peter was 58-years-old; he never married, he had no children and he left behind a sister and a nephew. ...but for his grieving family, they would be denied the peace or justice that they rightfully deserved. The investigation into Peter’s death should have been simple. A naked man, bound with adhesive tape and suffocated with clingfilm and a plastic bag was found inside a burning building. The windows were closed, the door was locked and the room was ransacked. So, surely a murder looked most likely? Suicide or auto-asphyxia was ruled-out, as It would have been impossible for Peter to tie his own hands and ankles behind his back, and suffocate himself. Burglary was deemed unlikely as - although drawers were emptied, shelves were up ended and almost every wire was pulled out of the back of his bank of computers - there were no signs of a break-in and nothing appeared to have been stolen. As for arson, the fire brigade concluded that “there were none of the classic signs of a deliberate fire”. There was no ignition source, as the killer had taken the lighter. No evidence of accelerant, as all of the fuel had burned-off. And owing to an excess of electrical equipment, a faulty appliance seemed more logical. As for third-party involvement? Only one bowl of cereal sat in the sink, there were no fingerprints and no-one saw a single person enter or exit the bungalow. The neighbours heard no screams, only music. Of the three security cameras watching Peter’s door, all were either broken or its recorder had been damaged in the fire, and there were no other CCTV cameras nearby. And even if it could talk, the only living entity known to have been in that room, that night was Peter’s budgie... and it was dead. An autopsy found no signs of restraint, as owing to the heat of the blaze, the adhesive tape, the plastic bag and the clingfilm had vapourised. So, with a little blackening in his lungs and a history of heart problems, the cause of death was attributed to smoke asphyxiation, suggesting he died in his sleep. An inquest was held at West London Coroner's Court on 16th August 2013. With foul-play ruled out and the fire investigators stating that the blaze had been started by “a faulty light bulb above his bed” - a bulb which hadn’t been switched on that night - a verdict was returned of “accidental death”. With the coroner concluding that the case was not suspicious, a murder investigation was not required and so the Police had no reason to check any of the following; Peter’s bank account, his phone calls, his internet history, his social media, his recent purchases, his contacts, his itinerary or his computer. The case was closed, Peter was buried, and no-one saw this as a miscarriage of justice. Over the following year, Peter’s bungalow was boarded up with metal sheets. His personal possessions were placed in storage by a family friend. And given its grisly history, nobody wanted to move in to 2 Rubens Road. So, in 2015, the building was demolished and a new-build now stands in its place, taking with it the last physical memory of Peter Fasoli and his murder was erased forever. Jason Marshall had fled, believing he had got away with murder... ...only one witness still remained, and they had seen and heard everything. Having missed the last tube home, still dressed like an MI5 agent, Jason caught a series of night buses from Northolt back to his hostel at Forest Gate and slept soundly, his mission to kill was accomplished. Waking, Jason checked but there was nothing in the news. It’s a sad indictment that ‘kinky gay killer tortures loner in burning bungalow’ is the sort of salacious headline that the trashy tabloids would die for, and yet, they wouldn’t waste a single drop of ink to report ‘lonely man dies in house-fire’. To cover his tracks, the next morning at 9:33am precisely, Jason sent Peter a message over Badoo. In short, it read “Sorry I didn’t turn up last night. Felt sick. Meet soon? Gabriel”. A few hours later, he sent a second “You there?”, followed by several more, “Don’t ignore me”, “I said I was sorry”, “oh, don’t be mean”, but receiving no reply, he wrote “fine, be like that” and their communication ceased. Jason didn’t need an alibi... but he invented one, just in case. On Tuesday 8th January, barely 30 hours after the murder, Jason purchased a return flight to the Italian capital city of Rome, using Peter’s bank card. As the card hadn’t been reported as stolen, the purchase was small and no-one was monitoring his bank account, it’s use wasn’t flagged-up as suspicious. On Friday 11th, at 6:50am, an EasyJet flight departed Gatwick Airport carrying the crazed killer. Two hours later, his flight landed at Fiumicino airport. With no sirens, armed police or roadblocks, just a cursory grunt and a glare by an immigration official, Jason was welcomed into Italy. Being half-Italian, with Latin looks and fluent in the language, he blended in among the city’s revellers of the arty district of Prati, where he lived off his victim’s money and partied like a man without a care in the world. For at least a week, his pathetic little life was good... ...but once the money was gone, the fun stopped. Like many millions, the anonymity of hiding behind a pen-name, a cherry-picked profile and a chosen photo lets them hide their inadequacies, casually chat and (like Peter) log-out when they get bored. But for one man, Badoo wasn’t just a dating website, it was a hunting ground full of sad lonely men. Jason didn’t need to prowl the streets to find the perfect victim, as with so many men vying for love, all he had to do was click. Unwittingly, they had packed their profiles full of details to make his hunt a lot simpler; their age, size, height and weight (selecting an older smaller male who wouldn’t put up a fight), their status (a quiet singleton who lived alone), their lifestyle (a man with a disposable income) and – more importantly – their sexual preferences (choosing a submissive male into S&M, bondage and role-play, who was eager to fulfil a younger man’s sadistic fantasy of interrogating a suspect. On Saturday 26th January, twenty days after Peter’s murder, 67-year-old Vincenzo Iale, a retired tour guide and divorced father-of-one welcomed a stranger into his home, who went by the alias of Gabriel. Situated on a quiet side-street in the sleepy seaside town of Torvaianica Alta, Vincenzo’s home at Mar dei Coralli uno consisted of a two-storey box-like building with white walls and brown ceramic tiles, but as a security conscious man, its sturdy gate could only be accessed by a buzzer or a key-pad. At 7pm, their date began as any interaction between two strangers would. “hi, I’m Gabriel... erm, well, Jason really, hello”, (“Ciao, sono Gabriel ... ehm, beh, Jason davvero, ciao”), “hello, I’m Vincenzo, nice to meet you... in person”, (“ciao, sono Vincenzo, piacere di conoscerti ... di persona”), “ha-ha, yes, in person... finally”, (“sì, di persona... finalmente”), possibly followed by “please come in”, (“prego entra”), “shall I take my shoes off”, (“devo togliermi le scarpe”), a “no, that’s fine” (“no, va bene”), and a few casual pleasantries about his journey, the sea, the weather and Vinzenzo’s home. With the romantic mood set by soft lighting and classical music, the two men chatted. Standing briefly, Jason removed his jacket to reveal a ill-conceived uniform of an MI5 Agent (this time, on assignment at the British Embassy); blue jeans, a woolly hat, a smutty t-shirt, a Nokia mobile, a homemade ID, and a utility belt full of childish crap; kitchen gloves, plastic handcuffs and a toy gun. Only this time, along with his hunting knife, he carried a truncheon and a can of pepper spray, all of which were real. With the sexy chit-chat having stalled, ‘Jason Marshall, MI5 Agent’ informed “Vincenzo Iale of Mar dei Coralli” he was “under arrest for being a spy” (“sei in arresto per essere una spia”). Smiling, Vincenzo willingly stripped, he was gagged and hog-tied with adhesive tape, and the two men engaged in sex. ...only this fantasy role-play was about to get very real, very quick. “I want your PIN number” ("Voglio il tuo numero PIN") Jason screamed, as the red-hot tip of a cigarette seared his victim’s flesh. “I want your PIN”, he wailed, raining down blows upon his body with an inch-thick truncheon. “Your PIN”, he spat, blinding his bound and muffled hostage with pepper-spray; until he relented, gasping for air. With that, Jason went shopping and returned a whole 400 Euros richer. To fabricate a burglary, he upended shelves and ransacked cupboards, but bafflingly he didn’t make it look like a break-in. And he stole nothing of any value; just a cash card, the electronic key to the gate, the laptop’s hard-drive (as if to erase any trace of their history) and Vincenzo’s second-hand Fiat. But now, with the role-play having ended and the date having soured, their brief friendship was over. ‘The Badoo Killer’ had no use for his only witness. Having decided that suffocation by clingfilm was too slow, and an inferno drew too much attention, Jason went old-school. Yanking an electric flex from a bedside light and wrapping it tightly around Vincenzo’s neck, Jason stretched the cord wide, his knee buried in the arched back of his hog-tied hostage, until his face turned blue and his body went limp. Lying there, alive but unconscious, Jason plunged his eight-inch hunting knife into Vincenzo’s chest, and slamming it down four times, the cold steel penetrated his ribs, lungs, back and the carpet below. And like the Angel Gabriel himself, standing over the body, he administered the last rites - “In nominee patris et filii et spiritus sancti. Ego sum resurrection et vita” – and with no fire, no smoke and no alarm to quicken his step, as a calm as when he entered, Jason left Torvaianica Alta, never to return. It wasn’t until one week later, that Vincenzo was discovered... ...but by then, Jason was flat-broke, desperate and was seeking a third victim. His name was Umberto Gismondi; a little lonely Italian man of modest means who lived alone and was a submissive into S&M, bondage and role-play. Having flirted online, they agreed to meet in person. Only this time, the Police were watching. Having found Vincenzo’s mobile beside to his body, the chat on Badoo had led to an unknown male known only as Gabriel. Tracking the withdrawals from a stolen cash card and a stolen second-hand Fiat, Jason was being tailed by a Police surveillance team. On Thursday 21st February, at 7pm, they saw as Umberto Gismondi let a stranger into his home. “Hi, I’m Gabriel... well, Jason really”, (“Ciao, sono Gabriel ... beh, Jason davvero”), “hello, I’m Umberto, nice to meet you... in person”, (“ciao, sono Vincenzo, piacere di conoscerti ... di persona”), “Prego”. The mood was awkward and stilted, but lifted by soft lighting, warm smiles and romantic music. From the dark of a blacked-out van, two surveillance officers watched the windows of the little flat in Casal Morena, a suburb in the south east of Rome, as inside, two strangers sat and made small talk. Only the night, for the watchers, was dull. Incredibly dull. Being either a little too shy to engage in sex so soon or the kind of man who liked to be loved, Umberto kept Jason at a distance; together they ate a delightful dinner, sat on the sofa watching television and occasionally kissed, but there was no sex. The surveillance had proved fruitless. So, when their agonisingly-dull shift was finally over, instead of waiting for fresh men to replace them, the officers just left, leaving Umberto alone with Jason. Inside, Jason had grown impatient. With Umberto happy to just sit and chat, rather than he hog-tied and shagged senseless, Jason’s mission was stymied by a dithering man and his fraught nerves were ready to snap. All it took was a single sound, a mocking laugh from Umberto’s lips, as he found Jason’s tale that he was an MI5 agent idiotic, and (rightfully) panned his pathetic uniform and his plastic gun. (Laughing) Furious; Umberto was beaten, kicked, pepper-sprayed, battered with a truncheon and suffocated with cushions. “I want your PIN number” ("Voglio il tuo numero PIN"). The torture lasted for hours, as Jason dragged him from room-to-room, beating him senseless, but the Police were gone. Bloodied and barely conscious, having given up his PIN, Jason was 400 Euros richer and stole an iPad. But before he could return to dispose of his only witness, having released his gag, Umberto screamed. Neighbours came, Police were alerted, the attacker’s name was given-up, and having tracked the GPS on his mobile to a bus heading south in the suburbs of Rome, at 3:30am Jason Marshall was arrested. The evidence was overwhelming; a stolen car, a key-card and bank cards in the names of Vincenzo Iale and Umberto Gismondi, as well as a knife, a truncheon, pepper-spray, adhesive tape, a fake uniform, bloodstains, DNA and – having survived the attack – Umberto proved to be a very credible witness. But two large problems emerged... Firstly, Jason claimed he had no memory of the last three months; from November 2012 - when he blacked-out in an unnamed Scottish forest - to a few days ago - when he awoke in an Italian psychiatric hospital; drugged and handcuffed to a bed, with an armed police guard at his side. Dates which – coincidentally or not – Include him maiming Umberto Gismondi, and murdering Vincenzo Iale. And secondly, sticking with his implausible story that he was an MI5 Agent on a mission to arrest spies, and that he was the Angel Gabriel on a divine prophesy, with his medical history showing a history of depression, anxiety, a diagnosis of Asperger’s and having been sectioned under the Mental Health Act, he was deemed fit to stand trial, but his heinous crimes were viewed under diminished responsibility. On 9th July 2014, at the Frosinone Court of Assizes, 25-year-old Jason Peter Marshall of Greenwich was found guilty of the murder of Vincenzo Iale and the attempted murder of Umberto Gismondi. After appeal, he was sentenced to sixteen years in prison, with at least three to be spent in psychiatric care. And with The Badoo Killer jailed, the case was closed and his name and his crimes were forgotten... ...almost, as there was still one eye-witness, yet to speak, who had seen and heard everything. On Saturday 8th November 2014, being close to two years since the fire, and fifteen months after a coroner’s inquest had ruled the death of Peter Fasoli as ‘an accident’ owing to a ‘faulty lightbulb’ - a logical outcome which neither the fire brigade, the police or his relatives had any reason not to believe – his nephew (Christopher Murgatroyd) removed Peter’s personal possessions from storage. Some were charred, many were damaged and others were beyond repair, but as part of the grieving process to mourn his beloved uncle, Christopher knew that Peter had been compiling a family tree. Keen to recover the project, he switched on his uncle’s laptop, which had survived the inferno. As a neat man, typically the files on his hard-drive were well-organised, so it didn’t pose a problem to find his research, his reference sources and a treasure trove of family photos. But one file stood out... ...it was a large file, a very large file, so large it took up most of the hard-drive. Clicking the video file open, Christopher was confronted by a familiar sight. As filmed using the laptop’s webcam by the bank of computers, this fixed shot showed the inside of the little bungalow; his uncle sat in his recliner chair, eating a bowl of cereal, and behind him lay his blue bed and his brown sofa. Initially it seemed an odd thing to film, a seven-hour recording of him sitting alone eating his dinner? Only this dull little video was far from unremarkable, as although it had no name, its date was unique. Peter had pressed record just before 7pm, on Sunday 6th January 2013 - the evening that he died. At 7pm precisely, having briefly exited the shot, the audio picked up the chat of two socially-awkward man - “Hi, I’m Gabriel... erm, well, Jason really, hello”, “hello, I’m Peter, nice to meet you... in person”, “ha-ha, yes, in person... finally”, “please, come in” – as into the bungalow walked a stranger. Rightfully concerned, Christopher spooled through the video and witnessed everything; from the role-play, to the torture, the robbery and the suffocation. With his uncle out-of-frame - his bound-body and his shrink-wrapped head slumped in an oxygen-starved heap behind the sofa – having said a prayer in Latin, the stranger ransacked the room and yanked-out cables from the bank of computers. And although the video abruptly cut-out... the audio kept recording, saving the file to the hard-drive and capturing the last moments of his Peter’s life; the splash of flammable liquid, the click of a lighter, the licking of flames and the piercing shrill of a fire alarm. Quite why Peter chose to record this is unknown, but with this silent witness finally speaking, a murderer would be brought to justice. (End) On 10th November 2014, the video was handed to the West Yorkshire Police, and received by the Met Police, a murder inquiry established and the ‘accidental death’ of Peter Fasoli was re-investigated. With the coroner’s inquest re-opened, the Police had powers to search everything; the hard-drive, the phone calls, the bank cards and the Badoo messages, all of which led to 25-year-old Jason Marshall – a nobody they had never heard of – as well as the fake alibi, the cash withdrawals, the flight to Italy, and his recent conviction for a murder and an attempted murder, two attacks identical to Peter’s. On 15th February 2017, stalled owing to a lot of red-tape and a lengthy stint in an Italian psychiatric unit, a European arrest warrant was issued, and Jason was arrested on transfer to Heathrow airport. Tried at the Old Bailey, Jason pleaded not guilty, but his defence of amnesia due to hard drinking was dismissed, as in not one single piece of footage did he look unsteady, confused or drunk. And although his mental-illness was deemed a factor, the judge made it clear that Jason was to blame for his actions. Judge Hilliard QC said: “you were motivated by a desire to cause Mr Fasoli pain. You tortured him for so long because you enjoyed it so much. You felt no remorse for what you have done, only pleasure”. The jury took just 75 minutes to reach a unanimous verdict, and being found guilty of both charges, Jason Marshall was sentenced to a minimum term of 39 years for the murder of Peter Fasoli. A fresh inquest also overruled the original verdict of ‘accidental death’ by the coroner’s court, but no blame was attached to the Police or Fire Brigade, who admitted that “minor oversights had been made”. As of today, The Badoo Killer resides at HMP Frankland, where he will remain until 2056. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. That was the final part of The Badoo Killer. And as always, after the break we have the non-compulsory part of the show for those who like info, idiotic coots and iced buns. So, if that sounds awful, switch off now. But before that, here’s a promo for a true-crime podcast which may be the lovely soft and sweet layer of frangipane which nestles in the middle of a lovely scrumptious Bakewell tart. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, who are; Kerry Roberts, Jessica Cooke, The Lady Juliet Maybank and Anthony Priddey, I thank you all for supporting the show, it’s much appreciated. Plus, a thank you to everyone who has recently left lovely reviews and kind words for Murder Mile on your favourite podcast app’, it’s very much appreciated and – even better - it acts like a stiff mid-digit to all those nasty people who have no lives, hate everything and their jollies by pissing on people chips. Murder Mile was researched, written and 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. *** 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, which are freely available in the public domain, 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, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast 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 to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour 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", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk. Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast #127: The Badoo Killer - Part One (Peter Fasoli / Jason Marshall)14/4/2021
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Two comparison shots of 2 Rubens Road in Northholt; left is the little bungalow where Pter Fasoli lived, and to the right is the new build in it's place, after it was demolished
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SEVEN:
Today’s episode is about Peter Fasoli, a lonely man who lived alone and went looking for love online. His needs were simple and his story is far from unique, but having met a young man on a dating app, the stranger he let into his home would change his life forever. This is Part One of Two.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The former location of Peter Fasoli's bungalow at 2 Rubens Road, where he first met Jason Marshall and was tortured and murdered is marked with a dark purple cross. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your knowledge of the case. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
SOURCES:
https://www.towleroad.com/2017/09/peter-fasoli/ https://www.southwalesargus.co.uk/news/national/18000310.new-inquest-ordered-death-murder-victim-found-died-accidentally/ https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/amp/uk-england-london-41399617 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-40779337 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-40813798 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-40880239 https://www.harrowtimes.co.uk/news/15096437.man-28-charged-with-2013-murder-of-northolt-man/ https://www.mylondon.news/news/west-london-news/man-charged-police-2013-northolt-12611437 https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/crime/jason-marshall-peter-fasoli-39-years-minimum-cling-film-computer-arson-camera-a7967661.html https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2017/sep/26/fantasist-jason-marshall-jailed-murdering-man-peter-fasoli-sex-session https://www.hackneygazette.co.uk/news/crime/revealed-fantasist-murderer-absconded-from-john-howard-centre-years-before-3565108 https://attitude.co.uk/article/a-man-whose-death-was-initially-ruled-an-accident-was-victim-of-serial-killer/22367/ https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-7734349/Peter-Fasoli-killed-fake-MI5-agent-Northolt-west-London-new-inquest-rules.html https://www.pinknews.co.uk/2019/11/29/peter-fasoli-jason-marshall-gay-serial-killer-london-murder-torture-mi5-inquest/ https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/east-ham-fantasist-jason-marshall-guilty-of-sex-murder-to-classic-fm-39dbhj6n9 http://www.ealingtoday.co.uk/default.asp?section=info&page=eanortholtmarshall002.htm https://chiswickherald.co.uk/ealing-man-jailed-for-years-for-murder-p7243-95.htm https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2017/aug/03/man-accused-of-murder-during-sex-session-killed-second-victim-in-italy-court-hears https://www.rollingstone.com/culture/culture-news/former-male-escort-found-guilty-of-murder-and-arson-in-dating-app-killing-112831/ https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2017/aug/09/jason-marshall-fantasist-found-guilty-murdering-man-peter-fasoli-sex-session https://www.newhamrecorder.co.uk/news/crime/east-ham-man-guilty-of-murdering-computer-repairman-in-seven-3133350 https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/jason-marshall-serial-killer-old-bailey-murder-trial-peter-fasoli-badoo-classic-fm-clingfilm-suffocated-northolt-london-rome-italy-vincenzo-iale-umberto-gismondi-a7878401.html https://www.standard.co.uk/news/crime/olympics-cleaner-claims-he-has-no-memory-of-allegedly-smothering-his-handcuffed-victim-with-clingfilm-a3603566.html https://www.ilcorrieredellacitta.com/news/cronaca/omicidio-a-torvaianica-alta-condannato-a-16-anni-jason-peter-marshall.html&prev=search&pto=aue https://www.ilmessaggero.it/roma/cronaca/jason_peter_marshall_adesc_ograve_uomo_chat_condannato_roma-1245838.html&prev=search&pto=aue http://mysocalledgaylife.co.uk/2017/08/another-gay-murder-more-police-failings/ https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-4775550/Fantasist-28-guilty-murdering-gay-man.html MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: 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 and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about Peter Fasoli, a lonely man living alone who went looking for love online. His needs were simple and therefore his story is far from unique, but having met a young man on a dating app, the stranger he let into his home wouldn’t lead to love, but death. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization 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 127: The Badoo Killer – Part One. Today I’m standing on Rubens Road in Northolt, UB5; four miles north of the discovery of Alice Gross, five mile west of the child-rapist known as The Beast, four miles south-west of the bungled drugs-trial at Northwick Park hospital, and three miles west of the picturesque sights of Horsenden Hill, a scene forever stained by the unsolved murder of schoolgirl Hannah Deterville – coming soon to Murder Mile. Situated off the busy White Hart roundabout, Rubens Road is an odd little L-shaped street, at the back of Lime Tree Park. Like many West London estates, where-as once this was a field for as far as the eye could see, it has since been spoiled by the thoughtless erections of unimaginative builders; comprising of terraces, a few trees, several box-like flats and odd lumps of rock which litter the land for no reason. As a stranger to this street, I can’t say that I felt welcome, as the second I cycled in; lights flipped on, curtains twitched, eyes peeped out, and a few doors down, a neighbour in a Hulk onesie watched but did ‘flip-all’... except to provide this running commentary to his wife - “who’s he?”, “dunno”, “why’s he here?”, “dunno”, “what’s he doing?”, “dunno, it looks like a fat bald man in an ‘I heart Eva Green’ t-shirt, dragging six tonnes of Mr Kipling’s cakes and pretending he’s not filming a murder location”. But that’s the strange thing about any residential street. We’re suspicious of any outsiders who dare to walk near our homes, but it’s the things which occur behind the twitching curtains which are often more sinister. We all have secrets and sadness, made worse as we live in an increasingly insular world where - rather than opening our doors, ears and hearts to a real person in real life - we open an app’ in the hope of finding a cheap deal, a pointless fight, a fake friendship and maybe even a date. At 2 Rubens Road now sits a new build. Demolished in 2015, originally it was a two-roomed bungalow owned by Peter Fasoli; an IT technician who sought to cure his loneliness by finding love on the gay dating app’ - Badoo. Only what Peter forgot was that behind every online avatar lurks a stranger. As it was here, on Sunday 6th January 2013, that Peter opened his door to a handsome young man he had only met online, and although they appeared well-matched... his date was pure evil. (Interstitial) For those who find the world a scary place, cyberspace can be both their sanctuary and their prison. Peter John Fasoli was a 58-year-old IT technician of Italian origin. Being a little shy, he kept to himself, he was unmarried, his closest family lived miles away in Yorkshire, and living in a small bungalow at 2 Rubens Road, although he was a resident for several years, few of his neighbours knew him by name. His home mirrored his life. As being a tiny two-roomed home, one floor high and barely 25 feet wide; it was small, neat and (some might say) adorable. Outside a window as-wide-as the-house-itself, lay a thin strip of neatly-mown lawn with a few potted plants, a bird feeder and - to the right - a little stone path leading up to a white PVC door. As the home of a middle-aged bachelor, it seemed as if someone had awkwardly tacked this bungalow onto the end of a nice terrace, to which it never truly belonged. As a little man who was rightfully conscious of his security, three cameras monitored his door, as (once inside) a whole side of his home was impressively crammed full of IT tech; whether webcams, hard-drives, monitors and digitisers. But not only was this his office where long-days were spent sat in a recliner chair, it was also his entertainment hub and his connection to a social life... of sorts. The rest was practical and basic. It was a simple home of a single man; with shelves full of technical manuals and hand-labelled VHS tapes, cabinets of toiletries and files full of papers. And yet, except for the orangey/yellow walls, there were no artistic flourishes, no family photos, and no hint of his history. In front of a bank of screens sat a two-seat brown sofa, with a budgie in a cage to keep him company, and behind lay a double mattress with a blue duvet squeezed into a boxroom barely big enough for the bed. And that was his life; he slept, ate and worked; with his world packed into a few square feet. For Peter - being little, shy and chubby - socialising was difficult; as outside of IT he hadn’t any hobbies, he found it hard to meet new friends, and having a heart problem - although an oxygen cylinder by his bed would relieve any bouts of breathlessness - it limited his activities and made him more insular. That said, he had no problem socialising in cyberspace. Like many millions, the anonymity of hiding behind a cheeky pen-name, a cherry-picked profile and a carefully chosen photo (which made him look less like a little round man with brown glasses, a receding hairline and a thin greying moustache) let him hide his inadequacies, accentuate his attributes, casually chat and log-out when he got bored. It gave him the confidence to meet like-minded men in the safety of a chatroom, and all before they agreed to meet in person. He could discuss his hopes, his dreams and his fantasies with a raw honesty; whether he desired love, sex, a one-night-stand or something a more risqué to brighten-up his day. In December 2012, using the dating app’ Badoo, Peter met a potential date who went by the alias of Gabriel. He was tall, young, handsome and dark-haired, with a penchant for older shorter Italian men on the quiet side. And in a sexual-partner, he sought a subordinate male who was into S&M, bondage and role-playing, as Gabriel had a fantasy about being an MI5 agent and interrogating his suspect. It seemed like harmless fun, and having chatted it through, the two men mutually agreed to meet for consensual sex at Peter’s home on Sunday 6th January 2013 at 7pm. If it went well, it could lead to love. If it didn’t, they could end it without hurting anyone’s feelings. And if Gabriel could find another man who was keen, there was even the possibility of a threesome. It was a win-win situation for Peter. Only, there’s a massive pitfall for those who live a sheltered life in a fake world behind an anonymous mask? You can never truly tell who someone is – what details in their self-penned profile are real, false, tweaked or glossed-over - without meeting them in person first. (Door knock) So, with another blind date arranged, into the safety of his own home, Peter Fasoli welcomed a stranger. (Interstitial) Gabriel’s real name was Jason Marshall. As a man who lived his real life in the realms of the unreal, many details are hard to verify; some may be fact, some may be false and some may be pure fantasy, but given his difficult upbringing, it’s easy to understand why he chose to escape inside his own mind. Jason Peter Marshall was born on the 11th August 1988 in Greenwich, South London, to a young couple with a cruel addiction to heroin. It was a bad start for a small baby and his life would only get worse. Court records show that, aged just ten, with both parents jailed, Jason was punished for their crimes. As an innocent boy, he was sent to a children’s home in Southend, bounced between foster homes and (seeing this as right) social services returned him to his mother, once her sentence was served. By 2000, living in Stratford, East London, 12-year-old Jason said he could hear voices and see visions, sometimes by angels and other times by aliens, believing he was the incarnation of the angel Gabriel. Entering his teenage years, Jason was diagnosed with borderline Asperger’s Syndrome, a condition on the autism spectrum. Typically, he was detail obsessed and persistent in completing tasks, but lacking many social skills, he found it difficult to make friends, so retreated inside his imagination. Many with Asperger’s rely on routine, but so chaotic was his life, that it exacerbated his anxiety and depression. On the outside, Jason looked little more than a fresh-faced boy, who was slim, calm and quiet, with chestnut eyes, brown cropped hair and flawless skin. But on the inside, his mind was in utter turmoil. Jason hated himself. In his eyes, he had no authority or purpose. He was a nobody. But in others, he could see the respect that a unform had given them. How much of this is true is uncertain, but he said he once posed as an air cadet to steal charity collections, he dressed as a ticket inspector to issue fake fines on the London Underground, he allegedly scammed his way into Southwark and Kentish Town police stations to steal their radios, and caught criminals using a homemade warrant card, pepper-sprayed his assailants, and later claimed he had been arrested for impersonating officers and officials. In 2008, aged twenty and sectioned under the Mental Health Act following a suicide attempt, he was sent to the John Howard Centre, a medium-secure psychiatric unit in Homerton, East London. While there, he absconded, served a short stint in prison for a non-violent crime, and monitored by the DSPD – the Dangerous and Severe Personality Disorder service – in 2010, he absconded again whilst being transferred to a specialist hostel. And having been returned to prison, he fell off the scheme’s radar. Released into society and discharged by the psychiatrists back under the care of his GP, in early 2012, Jason was given a bed in an East Ham hostel and worked as a street cleaner at the London Olympics. But losing his job, he plunged into a spiral of depression and heavy drinking, sinking eight cans of Stella and a half bottle of Jack Daniels a day, which – mixed with his medication – resulted in memory loss. And yet, oddly, in not a single frame of CCTV footage, does he look unsteady, confused or drunk. According to Jason, from the first day sometime in November 2012 - when he blackout in an unnamed Scottish forest - to the last day in February 2013 - when he awoke in an Italian psychiatric hospital; drugged and handcuffed to a bed, with an armed police guard at his side - he has no memory of those three months. Dates which – coincidentally or not – Include him meeting and murdering Peter Fasoli. Out of work, under the alias of Gabriel, Jason (allegedly) hired himself out for the fee of £400 an hour, as a sex-worker on the gay-dating app’s Grindr, Badoo and adultwork.com. His preferences were S&M, bondage and role-play. He liked smaller older men, preferably Italian. And he got his thrills by dressing-up like an MI5 agent (in a homemade uniform), where he would arrest ‘naughty boys’ on trumped-up charges and subject his submissive suspects to a lengthy interrogation, by stripping them naked, tying them to the bed, and inflicting a mix of pain and pleasure, until they begged him for forgiveness. And that – supposedly – is how he met Peter. On the evening of Sunday 6th January 2013 - dressed in a black woollen hat, a black waist length jacket, blue jeans and a black ruck-sack (a budget version of what he guessed all MI5 agents in Her Majesty’s Secret Service wear) - Jason caught the Central Line train from Stratford to Northolt. And after a short walk to the little bungalow at 2 Ruben Road, at 7pm precisely, Peter Fasoli welcomed a stranger. It began, as any interaction between two socially-awkward people would. “Hi, I’m Gabriel... erm, well, Jason really, hello”, “hello, I’m Peter, nice to meet you... in person”, “ha-ha, yes, in person... finally”, possibly followed by a “please, come in”, “shall I take my shoes off”, a “no, that’s fine”, and a few casual pleasantries about his journey, the flat, the weather and Peter’s impressive bank of computers. With no third person in-tow (which was unsurprising as Peter kept-to-himself and Jason didn’t have any pals) the proposed threesome was off. But this was no bad thing, as having a weak heart, although his oxygen cylinder was full, Peter had to be careful not to get too excited, or to over-exert himself. For Peter, who had met many young men this way, he seemed very at ease with his new friend, who beamed a nice smile, spoke in polite tones and – having removed his woolly hat and rucksack, as the room was toasty warm – had perched himself on the small brown sofa, as the two men got acquainted. To see their body language, you would assume they had either met before and knew each other well. Having trimmed his little grey moustache and being dressed in a black t-shirt and trousers – perhaps to appear younger and slimmer to his date who was half his age, a few stone heavier and nearly a foot taller - as they chatted, Peter sat in his recliner chair and finished a bowl of cereal for his dinner. To set the mood; a soft night-light illuminated from beside the freshly ironed bedsheets, by the sofa his little budgie gently twittered its merry little song, and out of two large speakers smoothly oozed the sounds of Classic FM; with Charlotte Hawkins’ Classics at Seven, Sir Trevor McDonald’s Headliners till ten and taking them up-to and beyond the midnight hour was Smooth Classics with Myleene Klass. This getting-to-know-you was all well-and-good, but they knew they were here for one reason - sex. Standing briefly, Jason removed his black jacket to reveal the uniform of an MI5 Agent. It wasn’t real, obviously, as MI5 agents don’t wear uniforms, otherwise they wouldn’t be secret. Only Jason didn’t know that, and besides, he didn’t care, he just liked uniforms and how powerful it made him feel. To say it looked homemade would be an understatement. His black woolly hat had been rolled up like he was secretly on a covert operation. Around his neck lay a black lanyard with a fake ID which read ‘Jason Marshall, British Secret Intelligence’. Around his hips he wore a utility belt, filled with everything a secret agent would need; a pair of white latex gloves, a set of plastic handcuffs, a toy gun in a holster, a pretend can of pepper-spray and an MI5 radio, cunningly disguised as a Nokia mobile. And to aid the act, he even connected one earpiece to his phone, like it was a real commlink to a walkie-talkie. Admittedly, Peter could see that he hadn’t tried all that hard with his uniform, as unable to find a black t-shirt, Jason had opted for a blue one. So, when he had removed his jacket, instead of his top reading something dangerous like ‘MI5 Agent’, instead it read ‘Pussy’... the official t-shirt of all secret agents. For Peter, his expression wasn’t of fear for this man of supposed authority, in fact, he seemed charmed by its childishness, and with the role-playing being part of the foreplay, soon enough they would both be naked, so... who cared? But as a nice detail, to stay in character, Jason kept on his black gloves. At a little after 7:30pm, with the chit-chat and polite pleasantries done, ‘Jason Marshall, MI5 Agent’ informed “Mr Peter John Fasoli of 2 Ruben Road, Northolt” that he was “under arrest for being a spy”, under an unnamed Espionage Act, “having hacked into a government laptop and helped a terrorist”. Being rightfully terrified as this was a very serious offence for which he deserved to be punished, Peter slowly got out of his recliner chair, smiled at the secret agent – who pointed to the double bed where his very thorough interrogation was due to take place - and having finished his dinner, Peter popped his bowl into the sink of his kitchenette, as spies hate it when the leftover cereal starts to congeal. As part of the role-play, Jason’s agent wasn’t all that aggressive, and as a spy, Peter was easily passive. They both smiled, they both nodded, they both seemed to be enjoying themselves, and if you were to see the expression of Peter’s face - as I have - you would know that the act was consensual. Whether he was into the role-play as a submissive, or he was just eager to please a handsome young man? Only Peter’s definition of consensual sex was very different to Jason’s. Towering a foot taller, Jason ordered Peter to “strip... all of it”. Eagerly, the little man did, pulling off his black t-shirt, black trousers and white underpants, but folding them in a neatly folded pile for fear of leaving creases. Seconds later, Peter’s little tubby frame was as naked as the day he was born. “Get on the bed” Jason barked in a voice too quiet to make him quake, but Peter did, as he liked to be dominated. “Face down”. Fear was part of the thrill, as lying there helpless, the unknown was exciting. From the rucksack, Peter watched as this stranger pulled a roll of adhesive tape - “I’m going to tie you up” – as the man he-had-only-just-met (but trusted implicitly) tightly bound his wrists and ankles, with his limbs hog-tied over his bare buttocks and as a strip of tape muffled his mouth. Peter was helpless and immobile, left to his interrogator’s mercy, and as his heart pounded, he grew excited and aroused. And with the lights down, the little man silenced and the eager strings of classical music blaring out of two speakers, no-one on Rubens Road knew what was going on behind the curtains of number two... ...only this fantasy role-play was about to get very real, very quick. Lying face-down on the pillow, Peter saw his gloved assailant fumble in the neat pile of clothes he had left by his bed, and retrieve his black leather wallet. “I want your PIN number” his captor demanded, holding a Lloyd’s TSB bank card. Unsure if this was part of the act or a joke, from his utility belt, Jason drew an eight-inch hunting knife, and pressing the cold steel blade against Peter’s trembling cheek, again he demanded “PIN number”. For Peter, the fun had stopped, but his pain was far from over. Unwilling to give-in to his robber’s demands, the torture of Peter Fasoli began. Delusional to the very last, Jason threatened to slice-off the tip of his tongue and to Taser his hog-tied hostage with 50,000 volts, only just like his pistol, the stun-gun was fake. “The PIN number!”. Wrapped up in his fictional world of spies and interrogation, several times a syringe was stabbed into Peter’s arm, as a “truth serum” flooded his blood. Only a tox’-screen would later confirm it was Halliperidol, an anti-psychotic drug used to treat schizophrenia, which would have had no effect on Peter. “I want the PIN”. All the while, his screams muffled by tape and classical, as his budgie panicked in its cage. It may seem silly, even delusional, but for every torture method that failed, one would work. Sparking-up a cigarette, Jason inhaled deep until the lit tip grew red-hot. A tiny ball of anger that raged and smoked to a dangerously searing 900 degrees Celsius, and as Jason (his torturer) loomed nearer, this distant dot of hell hove closer, until – stubbing it deep - the little fiery poker singed his pale skin. “The PIN!”. The torture began just before eight... and it didn’t stop until the night had passed eleven. Exhausted and breathless, with his weak heart beating chaotically, it was only after his sweat-soaked face had been repeatedly smothered and asphyxiated with a pillow, that Peter finally broke. With the PIN memorised, Jason popped out to the shops, leaving Peter alone. Naked, muffled and bound, trapped inside the walls of his own prison, Peter couldn’t scream out for help, reach for his phone, bang on the wall, or trip any one of his three alarms (for fire, smoke or theft). And as his breathing became more laboured, he couldn’t reach the life-giving air of his oxygen cylinder. Being a Sunday night in Northolt, not much was open, so with nearest Tesco shut, Jason went to the Shell garage on the Ruislip Road, withdrew £780 from Peter’s bank and made a few unusual purchases. Just after midnight, Jason returned to the little bungalow at 2 Rubens Road; unseen and unheard. Inside, Peter was still bed-bound, the budgie was squawking a racket, and on the radio Classic FM was playing the Birmingham Repertory Theatre production of Raymond Brigg’s Christmas classic - The Snowman; a story about an unlikely friendship made infamous by the song ‘Walking In The Air’. Ironically, with the role-play having ended and the date having soured, their brief friendship was over. Peter wanted Jason to leave and – with no more use for Peter - Jason knew it was time to head home. But first, the man who the papers would later dub ‘The Badoo Killer’ had to dispose of his only witness. Seeing Jason’s recent purchase, Peter pleaded for life, his muffled cries of “No! No! Please!” piercing through the thick tape across his mouth, as out of the rucksack, Jason pulled a roll of clingfilm. Yanking out a long length of this thin transparent film (usually used to seal leftover foods), in a swift motion, Jason repeatedly wrapped it around his head, the remarkably strong film sticking to his sweaty skin, as it formed a seal over Peter’s hair, face and – the last hole he could breathe through – his nose. Fighting with every last breath, although hog-tied, Peter fought to free himself, rocking his bound body back and forth, and as his would-be killer wrestled to cover his oxygen-starved head in a carrier-bag, the two men rolled off the double bed and landed behind the little brown sofa with a hard thud. The only sound audible being the quickening crinkle of plastic and Peter’s muffled cries of “I can’t breathe”. Unfazed, having no compassion for the little man who lay dying at his feet, Jason calmly stood. And as if he was the Angel Gabriel himself, speaking from high in the heavens, he administered the last rites in Latin - “In nominee patris et filii et spiritus sancti” (English – “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost”) “Ego sum resurrection et vita” (English - “I am the resurrection and the life”). (End) By that point, Peter wasn’t dead but dangerously unconscious, as carbon dioxide poisoned his lungs. He had lived alone, and he would die alone, having hoped to meet a man who would make him happy. With a possible murder to cover-up and eager to make a burglary look more believable, Jason riffled through drawers, upended shelves and ransacked cupboards, but oddly he took nothing. Not a laptop, a webcam or handy gadgets of this tech savvy man, he didn’t even steal the gold watch from his wrist. Several unidentified items were flushed down the toilet, and keen to cause as much confusion to any investigation, he yanked out as many wires as he could see from the bank of computers. Abruptly, the music stopped and as several flashing LEDs ceased, it was clear that Peter wasn’t making a sound. Lighting-up another cigarette, Jason smoked as calmly he gathered his belongings from the bungalow. His jacket, his hat and his rucksack. And at intermittent intervals, the sound of a splashing liquid could be heard, as Jason flung a flammable fluid over the bed, the walls and the sofa, but mostly over Peter. With the click of a lighter, as the flames slowly licked and the small room filled with a thick acrid cloud, a smoke alarm activated, as it’s piercing cries wailed through the walls and deep down the street. And knowing that, within a few seconds, several sets of bleary eyes would soon peep from behind the twitching curtains of Rubens Road, at 12:41am precisely, Jason left the bungalow, never to return. Peter Fasoli’s death was tragic, a cold-blooded attack on a vulnerable man for a few hundred quid, and following a badly bungled investigation, two more men would die at the hands of the Badoo Killer. But as clever as Jason Marshall thought he was, he would be caught by the simplest of mistakes. He believed he had murdered his only witness... but there was another, who saw and heard everything. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. The final part of The Badoo Killer concludes next week. As always, after the break we have the non-compulsory part of the show for those who like details, ducks and delicious cakes, so switch off now if that isn’t your bag. But before that, here’s a promo for a true-crime podcast which may be the chocky lumpy bits in your double chocky choc-o-lump lumpy muffin. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, who are; Anne Ibadulla, Vicci Lewis, Trine (like Katrina) Madsen, Kelley R Smith and Draco2008, I thank you all. I hope you’re enjoying the secret exclusive goodies. Plus a thank you to Darren De-Rosa for your very kind donation to keep me fat and Eva in shoes (via the Murder Mile eShop). Plus a thank you to all new, old and original listeners who continue to share this show with their friends. It’s very much appreciated. Murder Mile was researched, written and 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. *** 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, which are freely available in the public domain, 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, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast 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 to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour 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", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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Savoy Buildings, formerly known as Fountain Court, as it looks today. The original Coal Hole tavern was on the near left hand side, oppositre the gas light
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SIX:
Today’s episode is about Maria Poulton, a humble cook in a notorious West End tavern called The Coal Hole. Branded as ‘pure evil’, her shocking crime scandalised this infamous den of depravity, only this tragic little murder wasn’t committed through rage or hatred, but mercy and love.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The former location of The Coal Hole Tavern, where Maria Poulton was forced to hide her unwanted pregnancy and the sad truth behind the baby's death is marked with a black cross. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your knowledge of the case. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
Left to right: The Coal Hole Tavern (at 92 The Strand, not the oriignal tavern, this is the one many people mistake it for), a photo taken inside the alley today (it's the same height and width as in the 1830's) and two photos of the inscription on the pillars at the extrance to Savoy Buildings / Fountain Court.
SOURCES:
This episode is primarily based on the court records from The Old Bailey, as well as many other sources such as census records, newspapers and others.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: 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 and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about Maria Poulton, a humble cook in a notorious West End tavern called The Coal Hole. Branded as ‘pure evil’, her shocking crime scandalised this infamous den of depravity, only this tragic little murder wasn’t committed through rage or hatred, but mercy and love. Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization 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 126: The Coal Hole Concealment. Today I’m standing on the Savoy Buildings, just off The Strand, WC2; one street south of the botched robbery at the Coach & Horses pub, one road north of where baby Harry Hartley was hurled into the icy River Thames, a short walk east of the last 37 seconds of Desmond O’Beirne, and directly opposite The Strand Palace Hotel and the little-known killing of Lila Gillman – coming soon to Murder Mile. Infamous as a semi-prosperous piece on a Monopoly board, The Strand is little more than a four-laned thoroughfare from Trafalgar Square to Temple Bar, passing such thrilling sights as The Savoy Hotel, Charring Cross and the Royal Courts of Justice. It’s a useful place for those awaiting their trial, whereas everyone else simply stands here, looking baffled and asking “how do I get back to Covent Garden?” The Strand is an odd spot to shop, as her mountaineers go gaga over Gortex, preening ponces purr over cashmere pullovers, dullards go “ooh” over a pricy stamps, and – between a mucky-doos for the ne’er-do-wells and a free dose of diabetes at the all-you-can-gorge Pizza Slobatorium – are sandwich shops where throngs of office-workers enthusiastically order “a cray-fish, guava and avocado focaccia”, only to regret nibbling this fishy filth, slide it into a bin and claim “ooh, that was too filling”. One part of this street has always had a specific purpose and although a tavern called The Coal Hole now resides at 91 The Strand, it is often mistaken for its more infamous namesake, a few feet away. Hidden between numbers 103 and 104, and formerly known as Fountain Court, the Savoy Buildings is a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it alley leading from The Strand to the River Thames. With no light or life, just walls and doors, it’s little more than a foreboding crack in the city, where behind a series of cellars and corridors, the unseen filth and slog of the hospitality trade is hidden from respectable society. Long since demolished, at 15 and 16 Fountain Court once stood the original Coal Hole. An infamous drinking den, saucy theatre and cess-pit of scandal, where every kind of immoral act took place; some of which were illegal, most of which were depraved, but unfairly, only one was punishable by death. As it was here, on Friday 13th April 1832, whilst perched upon her chamber pot, that a modest cook called Maria Poulton would risk her own life to commit her first and last killing. (Interstitial) By today’s standards, the life of Maria Poulton was far from immoral... ...but back in the early 1800’s, society would regard her as the epitome of sin. Born in 1805, near the Essex hamlet of Ardleigh Heath, Maria was an ordinary working-class girl from very humble beginnings. With no land or home of their own, like so many families forced to toil in the harsh spoils of manual labour - where the privileged stayed pampered and the poor were kept in their place - the Poulton’s fought an everyday battle to be safe, dry and fed. But for Maria life was harder. Blessed with a basic literacy from Sunday school and a good moral code as a Catholic, no matter what her hopes and dreams for her own future were, she was limited to the live the life that the upper-class men of our so-called civilised society had dictated. Therefore, Maria followed her family; with her brothers becoming labourers like their father and her sisters working as domestics like their mother. Physically, Maria was often mistaken chubby, a girl prone to gluttony - with swollen ankles, wide hips and a round belly - but in truth, she was typical of any malnourished urchin who survived on a meagre diet of hard bread, thick lard, starchy potatoes and the cheapest cuts of the fattiest meat. Her face was sickly pale but flushed about the cheeks, and her walk was cautious being crippled by bad joints. As a person, Maria was unremarkable, but what made her so-beloved was her nature. Life had dealt her a dirty hand, but she didn’t let it ruin her day; she knew her place and - with that – she was okay. She was poor but was always clean. She was lonely but not unhappy. She owned little except her pride. And although disadvantaged, throughout her difficulties, she would remain sweet, meek and humble. (Twist) A few years later, she would be branded as a sinner, a harlot and a killer – she was condemned as one of the worst human beings alive - and yet, she didn’t steal, spit or fight, she didn’t even swear. Earning a wage since her earliest years, Maria worked as a maid and a cleaner in the local taverns and later as a kitchen hand. She kept-to-herself, she was rarely ill and she never complained to anyone... ever. Even if her life was bad, she dealt with it, alone. That said, her life could have been a lot worse. So, by late 1820’s, having begun work as a cook at The Coal Hole, although the hours were long; her money was steady, her meals were free, she was warm, well-fed and had a roof over her head - albeit having to sleep in a shared bed with the master’s maid. For a poorly-educated working-class girl, she had done okay; she was single, solitary but self-sufficient. Like many women in this era - with no chance of a pension, savings or a home of her own - the best she could dream of was to marry a good man and spawn several offspring to see her through to her dotage. But by 1831, with her sisters married off and being the grand old age of 26, Maria was cruelly cursed by society as a spinster, and hardly being a great beauty, her family didn’t hold out much hope. Feeling the pinch to follow-suit and (deep down) keen to be loved, in July 1831, Maria met a handsome man called Harris; a romance blossomed, their lust peaked and (just like her love) her belly began to swell... but this love-of-her-life was not-to-be, as being betrothed to another woman, he fled. Maria had been abandoned, left to fend for herself with a little baby growing inside her... ...but being so independent, as a single-mother she could easily have succeeded. Only several months later, her unfortunate circumstance would cause this lovely lady to do the unthinkable (Interstitial) The law has scandalised women, their rights and their biological blessing for centuries. Prior to the 1800’s, the women of England were free from legal or religious persecution regarding the termination of a pregnancy. It was their body and an abortion by any means was their choice. But in 1803, Lord Edward Ellenborough, 1st Baron Ellenborough and Lord Chief Justice of England and Wales sought to legally clarify the term ‘abortion’, the act itself and its punishment. Introduced in the all-male, all white and all devoutly religious House of Lords, after a few amendments (but without the need to consult a woman, or even their own wives), the bill passed the House of Commons (115 years before the first female MP sat in the British Parliament, 165 years before the first female Lord) and it came into law on the 18th May 1803. It took less than eight weeks and opened a viper’s nest of bigotry. Only, this act of parliament - which (in a swift strike) crushed a woman’s right to decide what she could do with her own body and of the life of the unborn baby inside her - wasn’t deemed important enough to establish in its own bill. It was a sub-clause in the Malicious Shooting or Stabbing Act of 1803, which criminalised the discharging of loaded firearms, as well as any stabbing, cutting, wounding, poisoning, maiming, disfiguring and disabling of His Majesty's subjects. Oh, and the termination of pregnancies. As of May 1803, the act decreed it was an offence for any person to perform or cause an abortion post the point of ‘quickening’ (where the foetus can be felt moving in the uterus, usually at 16 to 20 weeks). The punishment of which was either transportation for a minimum of fourteen years... or death. An amendment also criminalised the act of concealment, meaning that should a baby die during the physically dangerous process of child-birth and the mother fail to report it, her innocence may only be found if a medical professional deemed the death an ‘act of God’, but If it had breathed a single breath - in an era where pathology was still in its infancy - the courts could find the mother guilty of murder. Ellenborough’s law penalised all women, especially those who were poor, vulnerable and unmarried. In the 1830’s, by the time that Maria fell pregnant, women were denied the right to vote, own a home or control money. Sex was strictly forbidden outside of wedlock, so if a man chose to ‘seduce’ a woman and subsequently refused to marry her (as Harris did), it was she who would be shamed. Owing to the shame this ‘fallen women’ had brought upon her family, unmarried mothers were often banished from their homes, villages and families – just as Maria had. And with divorce still illegal for another 37 years, if a man grew bored of married life and wanted to marry his mistress, he could declare his wife insane by committing her to the local asylum, where - as ‘his property’ - it was his word against hers. Decreed by Parliament, Maria could be branded a harlot should she record the birth of her illegitimate child, be condemned alongside her baby to a life in the workhouse having been judged an unfit mother simply because she was single, or possibly, convicted as a murderer should she hide its natural death. A few streets away, at the infamous Newgate Prison, an average of 30,000 spectators would leer and jeer, as many bad men were publicly hanged for treason, rape or piracy; many ordinary bods had their necks snapped for such menial crimes as theft, forgery or misrepresenting a will. But often, a woman was subjected to ‘an interminably long strangulation’ having been found guilty of the ‘murder of a bastard child’, a term reserved for child-killers, as well as any mother who had procured an abortion. So popular was this free-entertainment, that opposite the hangman’s gallows was built London’s first drinking fountain, although many of the more ‘respectable’ spectators celebrated at The Coal Hole. Originally called The Unicorn, The Coal Hole Tavern at numbers 15 & 16 comprised of two four-storey red-brick buildings at the north-east end of Fountain Court. As a dark foreboding alley - as gloomy as ashen skin and as skinny as a fleshless bone - with any sun eclipsed by its tall walls, a foul wind whistled down this featureless hole all the way down to the Thames, like a descent into the bowels of hell. So bleak was Fountain Court, that artist William Blake lived at number 3, during his worst depression. Owned by John Rhodes, the Coal Hole was the former coal cellar for the Savoy Hospital. Hidden below ground, it earned a rightfully rude reputation as a place of drunkenness, immorality and debauchery. Only this was not a low-rent flea-pit for grubby labourers and bawdy sailors, this was a high-brow arty establishment for the more discerning ‘young gentlemen’ in their most fashionable top hat and tails. As a member’s club for ‘men-only’, a place patronised by celebrities, The Coal Hole had private rooms for masonic meetings, a lounge where coffee was not the only stimulant, a hotel called the Metropolis where guests could “depend upon well-aired beds” (which was code for ‘sex on tap’), a theatre replete with songs, jokes and a little ‘Tableaux Vivant’ - an arty excuse to ogle the jiggling jollities of a dancer’s boobs, butt and biff – and a tavern where the bawdy excesses of unabashed drunkenness were served in solid silver tankards. And with a blind-eye turned by the law, fights and orgies were not uncommon. Whatever you desired you could have – drink, drugs, sex, flesh – the only rule, you had to be a man. This was not a place for a young lady, but as the cook for its ‘supper club’, Maria saw very little of this. From dawn till dusk, she slaved away in a steamy kitchen, serving honest foods like soups, chops, steaks and pies. She fed the customers and ensured that the master’s small staff were well-fed too. As a cheerful woman with sweet smile and a quiet demeanour, she was neat but never prim-or-proper, she was well-liked and yet rarely said a word, and although senior to Elizabeth Emmerson the char-woman and Sarah Simmons – the maid she shared a bed with – she had a maternal warmth which they both loved. But not being one to freely gossip about her life or loves, they respected her privacy. To those who knew her, there was no denying that, as a quiet, loving and self-sufficient woman, even if her lover hadn’t fled, Maria would unquestionably have been a good mother to her baby... ...only the law-of-the-land would force her to make a desperate choice. For the first few months, she was blissfully oblivious to the baby inside her. But as a reddening flushed her pallid cheeks, her chronic ankles began to swell and a new roundness bulged about her midriff, as autumn turned to winter, extra layers and a thick black apron would disguise her shape, for now. Harris was gone, the scoundrel had fled north it is said, having promised her a ring but he had proposed it to someone else. When she needed them most, her family had turned, having chosen their pride over her life. So now, she had no-one. None of this was her fault, it was fate, but she would be blamed. As her body grew, her options shrank, as every day she was reminded of her dire situation. Outside of The Coal Hole sat The Strand, a busy London thoroughfare; in front, couples passed through Covent Garden, unbothered by the law as a piece of parchment and a gold ring had made them legal; to her left was the Strand workhouse, a stark warning to any unwed woman as its cemetery sprawled with the tiny graves of unwanted babes; and to her right - carried on an ill-wind - were the deathly cheers and cries as yet another ‘evil woman’, an abortionist of a bastard, was hung at the gallows of Newgate. These were the choices she was given... and none of them were good. Living in a top-floor room above The Coal Hole; she had small washing bowl, a dressing table, a thick horsehair bed, and beside this, in a seated wooden box, a porcelain chamber-pot; the precursor to the flushable toilet, where pans of pee and poop were expelled without privacy and disposed of by hand. It wasn’t much, but being warm and dry, she had more than most. And although everything was shared with Sarah, it was cosy, snug and she was good company... but for Maria, it lacked privacy. Changing clothes side-by-side and sleeping belly-to-back, it was impossible to hide such a swollen secret. In court, Sarah would state “I asked, about Christmas-time, if she was in the family way? She said no”, and respecting this modest lady, “I never mentioned it again”. But her pregnancy was very obvious. By that point, being four-to-five months gone and having felt the ‘quickening’, Maria was left with only one option. It was illegal and dangerous, but in private, she would risk her life by aborting the baby. Medically, in the 1800’s, there were very few fool-proof methods to induce an abortion. They all came with risks and they all had side-effects. Some were as mild as cramps and nausea; some were a severe as disability and death. Popular among the poorest were tansy oil, a violent purgative to flush out the bowels; pennyroyal, a herb used for colds, fatigue and as an insect repellent; ergot, an alkaloid to treat migraines, which can cause seizures, organ failure and also miscarriage; as well as cheaper methods like hot baths, turps, street-gin, vaginal plunging, a punch to the gut, or a fall down a flight of stairs. Of course, there was always the sharp tug of a wire-rod by a back-street abortionist, but although more effective than most, their brutal efforts could often be fatal to both the mother and her baby. It is unclear which method Maria chose – maybe one, maybe many – but as a sickly pale girl who was naturally unsteady on her feet, she hid her sickness well, often putting down the vomiting to a bug, or the violent stomach pains to off-food. And as always, as bad as her life got, she dealt with it, alone. Given a little privacy, Maria would perch upon the chamber-pot. Sweating and gripping, as the twinge of hot needles poked her innards, she prayed the poison didn’t kill her, but did its work. And as the debauched excesses of the so-called ‘gentlemen of civilised society’ thundered on, silently she awaited the white porcelain bowl to become flush with the gush of blood and the slop of a limp foetus. There she sat, awaiting her worry to be over... but the blood never came. The abortion had failed, so with baby to be born in secret, Maria would have to deal with the consequences... one way or another. On the night of Thursday 12th April 1832 - with the ‘supper club’ kitchen closed and the nights frivolities winding down – as per usual, Sarah & Maria snuggled-up in bed, their bodies radiated a reassuring warmth. Only that night, Maria was a lot hotter and clammier, and struggling to lie still as she writhed, her rotund frame twisted as she groaned, but when asked, she claimed it was “just a stomach ache”. By the next morning of Friday 13th, having had a fitful sleep, Maria was unusually hard to rouse. Her movement was slow, her pale face dripped with sweat, and unusually, she complained of a headache. She came down to breakfast, which Sarah had prepared, but returned to her bed, her eggs untouched. At 2pm, rightfully concerned, Sarah & Elizabeth returned to the bedroom and softly knocked, but got no reply. They knocked again, but heard nothing. So, as they entered, they saw Maria, alone, perched upon the wooden box of the chamber-pot; struggling to stay upright, her skin wet and her body weak. “Miss Poulton?”, Sarah asked, “what’s wrong?”, the porcelain pot obscured by her long nightdress, a black apron and several petticoats. But in a barely audible whisper Maria replied “nothing... go, please, go”. She didn’t, instead asking “Shall I fetch Dr Jones?”, only Maria said “no, I’m fine”, as she ushered her junior away with the waft of her trembling hand and a feeble attempt at a reassuring smile. Only they knew she was not fine; as her white petticoats were stained red, the floor was dotted with thick spots of blood, and laying about her feet were fistfuls of woollen cloth used to stem the flow. Her lips trembled, as again, sat alone, she was unable to scream in pain, for fear of exposing her secret. Fifteen minutes later, the girls returned. Maria was slumped-over, sitting on the side of the bed; her black apron was gone, her nightdress was untied and its cord was missing. Too exhausted to move, she weakly asked “Elizabeth, please remove this”, pointing to the porcelain pot perched upon the locked wooden box. Its pale white shine stained red, as wadded rags floated in a thick red sea. Elizabeth did so, taking the bloody pot to the side room. Sarah knew but spoke cautiously, “Miss Poulton? Cook? Where is the baby?”. Too tired to talk, Maria uttered “no baby, just had a small miscarriage”, and with no energy left, Maria agreed to see a doctor. The doctor’s aide, Charles Thompson arrived from the surgery at 4 Fountain Court. Bedbound, Maria claimed it was just a stomach ache, but the soiled rags and the spattered pot told a different story. If this was a miscarriage, the law stated that the doctor must observe the foetus, as only he could say whether it had lived or died, even if only for the briefest of moments. Only Maria stuck to her story. As the aide left, rightfully Sarah was worried. The law was the law; he could fetch the doctor, he could tell the master, he could summon an officer. If there was a baby, all three could be charged with aiding the concealment of a baby, so side-by-side with Elizabeth, Sarah asked “please Cook, please show us”. Reluctantly nodding, with a sharp wince, Maria bent down beside the bed. With a click, she unlocked the wooden box which recently held the porcelain pot and pried it open. Inside, all the girls spied was some rags and a black apron. But hidden from sight, as she held a set of scissors, something went snip. In Maria’s hand lay the bloodied cord of her nightdress, hanging limply like two ends of a severed loop, as its once-tight cotton noose has been freed from a vice-like grip. “Oh Cook, tell me you didn’t?”, Sarah pleaded, but Maria had, as wrapped in a black bundle lay a small but well-formed baby girl. Naked and helpless, it lay silent and still, its little face all purple, its tiny tongue protruding and its lips the same blue hue as its eyes, as for both their sakes, she had throttled it before it could utter a sound. “Oh Cook, you... you have hanged the baby", Sarah said. To which, Maria implored her "Hush! Please! You will hang me", but with an officer not far behind, it was too late, her secret was out. (End) In the bedroom, Dr Jones examined the cord and a matching mark on the baby’s neck, which Maria couldn’t account for, stating “I don't know anything about it, I have not done it". But by 7pm, with the arrival of Superintendent Sadler of the Covent Garden police, Maria admitted she was pregnant, unmarried, had hidden her pregnancy and admitted to concealing the baby, but nothing more. That night, 27-year-old Maria Poulton was arrested and charged with murder, but she wasn’t placed in custody. Clearly exhausted and hardly a risk to anyone, they left her to sleep, and each day an officer would check on her wellbeing and when she felt strong enough, she presented herself to the Police. An autopsy confirmed that the baby’s lungs had inflated with air; when it was born, it had breathed, and although much of the evidence of its death pointed to a strangulation by its mother, they could not conclusively confirm whether the baby had died by being asphyxiated by its own umbilical cord. Tried in open court at The Old Bailey on 17th May 1832, Maria was charged with the wilful murder and the concealment of a bastard child, a heinous crime (as despised as treason and rape) which – since an Act of Parliament in 1803 - had warranted a death sentence. Only, now the times had changed, and with the act widely considered an unjust law for many mothers, unwed or not, the judge was lenient. As a woman of good character, praised as mild and meek, Mr Justice Littledale took pity on Maria, dismissed the murder charge and found her guilty only of concealment, she was sent to prison for two years. Strangely, John Rhodes, the owner of The Coal Hole, didn’t sully his name by coming into court. Maria lived out her final days as a domestic servant to a nice family in Clerkenwell; she was 46 years-old, she didn’t marry and - although everyone who knew her agreed she would undeniably have made a good mother - having been forced to do the unthinkable, she never had any children. (End) OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. So, what cake do I have this week? What waffle will spurt out of my blather hole? How long can I last until I grumble out by tea being cold? If you can’t wait to know, and want to learn more about this case, find out after the break. But before that, here’s a promo for a true-crime podcast which may be the epitome of the custard bit in a custard slice. Yum. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, who are; Emma Thorpe, Kara Joseph and Sophie Amos, I thank you all, I hope you got your goodies. A thank you to two very kind donations via the supporter link, from MsSuperTech and an anonymous donator, I thank you. Plus a thank you to all new, old and original listeners who continue to share this show with their friends. It’s very much appreciated. But most importantly of all, it’s someone’s birthday. Yes, I’m talking to you Kelly Cook. Yes, that Kelly Cook. You! The great cook, hopefully of cakes. You’ll be delighted to know that a very naughty man you may know called Mattie, has splashed out every single penny he owns (meaning there’s no dosh left to buy a single treat for Snoop or Maisie) and therefore this whole episode is dedicated to you. As a big fan of history, true-crime and horror, I can see why you love Murder Mile so much. So as you’re on your next walk, no doubt doing some serious training to walk an impressive 1000 miles this year – phew, you may even beat me – myself and all the Murder Mile listeners wish you all the very best, and I hope you have a great day and a BIG cake. Obviously. Murder Mile was researched, written and 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. *** 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, which are freely available in the public domain, 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, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast 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 to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour 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", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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35 Sutton Road in Hesston where the Chohan family home once stood (this is a new build, as the bungalow which once stood on this site was demolished in 2004
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FIVE:
Today’s episode is the concluding part about the kidnapping of Amarjit Chohan, the modest millionaire who was drugged and tortured to sign-away his fortune, but having resisted for the sake of his family’s future, his kidnappers knew there was only one way to break him.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of 35 Sutton Road in Heston, where Amarjit Chohan previously lived and nancy and her children were last seen alive is marked with a mustard yellow cross. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your knowledge of the case. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
SOURCES:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/4444527.stm http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/4444567.stm http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/4586431.stm http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/4596187.stm https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/body-found-in-sea-is-millionaire-who-went-missing-with-family-102934.html https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2004/nov/09/ukcrime.taniabranigan Trouble Brewin - A True Story of Sex, Murder, Love and Betrayal by Belinda Brewin https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=sie3DwAAQBAJ&pg=PT338&lpg=PT338&dq=Chohan+%22white+transit+van%22&source=bl&ots=-by8D02kl0&sig=ACfU3U2-M8xfzDQmfEKcOcnbn2HlJyXJXw&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiPgvTgoa3uAhVyqHEKHQtbBygQ6AEwAXoECAYQAg#v=onepage&q=ditch&f=false https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2005/jul/05/ukcrime.jamessturcke https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2005/jul/01/ukcrime.markoliver https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2004/nov/11/taniabranigan https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2005/jul/02/ukcrime.rosiecowan https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2003/may/15/ukcrime.jamiewilson https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2003/sep/03/ukcrime https://www.nriinternet.com/Section2NEWS/NewsUK/Chohan/2005/1_070105_TWOarrested.htm https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/crime/fears-mount-for-missing-family-after-millionaire-is-found-dead-103160.html https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-354303/Murderer-silent-dreadful-fate-family.html https://www.gazetteandherald.co.uk/news/7262672.panicking-wife-may-have-been-calmed-by-her-husbands-killer/ https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-189363/Sea-body-Chohans-wife.html https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-354284/Gang-boss-killed-generations-family.html https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mottgj3Cio8 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-hampshire-36666080 https://www.bournemouthecho.co.uk/news/11541092.men-who-murdered-chohan-family-among-criminals-launching-challenge-over-prisoner-voting-ban/ https://www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/notorious-uk-killers-named-police-8314221 https://medium.com/the-true-crime-edition/family-brutally-murdered-over-5-million-23f7c6c66ed4 https://reuters.screenocean.com/record/949461 https://www.nriinternet.com/Section2NEWS/NewsUK/Chohan/2005/2_KenRegan.%20.htm https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2005/jul/02/ukcrime.rosiecowan1 https://www.alamy.com/stock-photo/amarjit-chohan.html https://thewire.in/books/the-corpse-that-spoke-tells-an-incomplete-tale-of-murder https://companycheck.co.uk/company/03181867/CIBA-FREIGHT-SERVICES-UK-LIMITED/companies-house-data MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: 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 and beyond the West End. (Torture sounds) Today’s episode is the concluding part about the kidnapping of Amarjit Chohan, the modest millionaire who was drugged and tortured to sign-away his fortune, but having resisted for the sake of his family’s future, his kidnappers knew there was only one way to break him. (Distort to end) Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization 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. (Voicemail) “Hello Nancy. Don’t panic. I’m okay. I’ll be back tomorrow” (Muffled) “Sign it!”. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. (Fights to breathe) Episode 125: Signed in Blood (The Deadly Dilemma of Amarjit Chohan) – Part Two. (Torn tape) Still gagged, as several hairs from his moustache were ripped-out by the roots as the brown parcel tape was torn from his nose, although Amarjit could almost breathe again, he couldn’t scream. With black eyes, purple skin and slick red streaks running down the puffy lumps of his once pleasant face, the shattered man slumped in the floral armchair; his feet bound and his mouth muffled, as the rest of the reel of tape dangled at the back of his plastic smothered head. All this pain, all this fear, he knew it could all be over in the stroke of a pen, but so would his family’s futures. Repeatedly, Amarjit had refused to sign a single blank sheet, he knew he was dead whether he signed them or not, but he also knew one other thing... without a signature, his kidnappers had nothing. It is said that a humble man is often born out of humble beginnings... ...but this was not the case with Kenneth Regen. Since he was a boy, Kenneth Roy Regan had despised his working-class life. Burdened by big dreams, little patience and a basic education, his teenage years were spent in the little village of South Newton, where he lived with his father Roy; a HGV-driver in a cramped two-roomed bungalow at 3 Forge Close. He trained as a trucker and learned how to lay drives, only loving money, he hated hard work. Kenneth wanted it all; fast living, loose women, sports cars and fancy suits. Not being a man of style, he lacked the looks and charisma to succeed and his knowledge of business was non-existent. He was a fantasist who pictured himself as a wealthy playboy and a criminal mastermind - but being prone to bragging and bullshit, and fuelled by a fiery temper - he wanted everything right here and right now. Peter Rees, his co-kidnapper later described him as a "devious, violent and manipulative liar”, a man without a single shred of empathy for anyone but himself. But he had confidence and persistence. Nicknamed Captain Cash, alongside his pal William Horncy, they netted £1.75 million in fake passports having recruited the homeless at £50-a-go. Having muscled in on a legitimate insurance firm, he used this to launder money. Flooding the streets with Class A drugs, they once smuggled 15 tonnes in a hand-built submarine. And in April 1997, Michael Schallamach, a Southampton businessman vanished without trace, but in an eerie similarity to the recorded message – “Hello Nancy...” - Michael’s wife Yvonne would receive a letter claiming her husband had ran away to Nigeria. And although Hampshire Police hadn’t enough evidence to convict him, the last person to see Michael alive was Kenneth Regen. By the mid-to-late 1990’s, Kenneth was living the crass flashy life he had dreamed of; with slick shiny suits, chunky gold chains and swigging Cristal; he drove a Mercedes, he partied in Monte Carlo, and he showered beautiful women with expensive gifts, as a way to excuse his lack of manners and looks. He had it all... and then, he lost the lot. In June 1998, as Police swooped on his lock-up in North London, Kenneth fled, ran over a policewoman and - having crashed his car - in the boot they found bundles of cash and 30 kilos of heroin. His criminal career was over, and charged with assault, laundering, fraud, forgery and drug-smuggling, the 46-year-old was sentenced to 27-years in prison, meaning – with luck – he would be out in 2027, aged 73. Only Kenneth didn’t plan on serving time, so turning Queen’s Evidence, Kenneth became a super-grass for the National Criminal Investigation Squad, a snitch who ratted-out everyone he ever knew to save himself; whether a drug dealer, a smuggler, a gangster, or even his own partner William Horncy. His information fed into four major Police investigations - Operation Bromley, Hoy, Extend and Parisienne – his evidence smashed-up a £2billion cocaine smuggling ring, fifteen wanted criminals were locked up for decades, and in return, his 27-year sentence was reduced to eight... but he served only three. In June 2002, 51-year-old Kenneth Regen, having changed his name to Kenneth Avery, left prison with nothing but the shirt on his back, the lint in his pockets and a contract on his head. He knew he was a ‘dead man walking’, so with his life being short, he needed to live his life to the full, like he used to. His problem was money, everything had been confiscated; his cars, his homes and his ill-gotten gains. The flashy Merc was swapped for a crappy old Peugeot. The tailored suits became jeans and jumpers. High-tea at Harvey Nichols was replaced with chip-butties in front of the telly-box with his elderly dad Roy (a good man who eked-out his pension as a cleaner at Salisbury train station). And now, as he did as a little kid, he was kipping in his dad’s bungalow at 3 Forge Close. It felt like he had achieved nothing. Owing to the strict conditions of his parole, as a HGV driver, he earned a modest living hauling freight for different businesses. One of which was a successful fruit and veg import firm called CIBA Freight... ...that is how, by chance, Kenneth Avery met Amarjit Chohan. The two men had many similarities, again by chance; they were almost the same age, weight and size; they both wore casual clothes, both drove tatty little runabouts and both lived in modest bungalows, and although Amarjit’s was a permanent part of his humble nature, Kenneth’s was only a temporary issue. In Kenneth’s eyes, he would be rich again, as everything Amarjit had was his for the taking. Kenneth hated hard work, he wanted to get rich quick, this wasn’t a problem having muscled his way into businesses before, and although he had the confidence, but what he lacked was respectability. In 1997, he had befriended Belinda Brewin – an elegant and successful PR exec’ with a solid reputation and some serious celebrity clout – she was everything he never was; smart, honest and trusted. Having brushed-off his advances before, she kept Kenneth at an arm’s length, but having recently been dumped by her partner and lumped with the fees to her daughter’s private school and the mortgage to a 50-acre estate in Devon, she had a very exclusive lifestyle to live, but now, no means to afford it. As a friend and (he hoped) a lover, Kenneth offered to help Belinda out with a job. It seemed legit. Only she would be unwittingly drawn into a deadly deal, posing as the ‘respectable front’ for his scams. Kenneth had scams galore. Whilst still on probation, he was scouting for farms to turn into cannabis factories, he was planning to smuggle two-and-a-half tonnes of cocaine in via the seaport of Fishguard, and in January 2003, a £3 million deal to build a McDonalds franchise in Hatton Cross had collapsed. He had planned to bail-out the second the money came in, so was furious at having potentially lost millions which he considered ‘his’... but it did give him a greater insight into Amarjit and his business. Hitting upon a new plan from an old scam, he would lure Amarjit somewhere remote; kidnap him, drug him and beat him; force him to sign-over his wealth, his life and his business by signing several sheets of blank paper, and once that was done, kill him, dump him and claim that he’d fled the country. The plan was simple and effective, as Amarjit had many secrets and the signatures would all be his. Unable to do this alone, he recruited William Horncy, his old-pal whose information to the Police had sent him to prison for three years, but now as equally broke, Bill had been lured in by the lie that £2 million was sitting in an offshore account, to be shared by the two men once their parole was lifted. As well as Peter Rees, a 38-year-old burglar with a crap moustache, a bad mullet and an okay accent when it came to posing as a Dutch buyer - even though Peter neither liked nor trusted Kenneth Regen. Within a few days, the kidnapping was arranged; a white Transit van was rented, a safe house was secured at a small bungalow (having sent his elderly dad on a short holiday), a vile of GHB was ordered and - while fitting a mezzanine floor at CIBA Freight - they swiped a few rolls of brown parcel tape, several pens, some envelopes and a stack of blank paper headed with the company logo. A few calls were made, a plausible deal was agreed, a time and a place were arranged, and having driven his blue Ford Escort to a secluded lane near Stonehenge, by the morning of Thursday 13th February 2003... ...Amarjit Chohan had vanished. (Tape/breathing/message – “Hello Nancy. Don’t panic. I’m okay...”) (Torn tape) It should have been a simple plan; kidnap, torture, murder and dump, but Amarjit’s refusal to sign the papers wasn’t the only problem. (Mobile) Missing for two days – with his phone dead and Kenneth ignoring his - Nancy knew that something seriously wrong, she just didn’t know what, but she feared the worst. Being anxious and frantic, if Nancy called the Police, Kenneth risked arrest... ...but then, maybe he had misjudged her? Maybe she wasn’t an insignificant little detail who was causing a fuss? And maybe this living liability was his best and only chance at getting Amarjit to sign? Exactly how and when it happened is unknown. Late on Saturday 15th February, a rented white Transit van pulled up at 35 Sutton Road in Heston, as with Peter guarding Amarjit, Kenneth and Bill entered the Chohan family bungalow. Their mood was calm and what was said is uncertain, but there were no screams, no shouts and no signs of a struggle. With her laundry part-finished, a door key in the lock, her holy book left behind and having not packed a single item vital to travel with a three-year-old toddler and an eight-week-old baby, to the uninitiated it looked as if Nancy, Charanjit, Ravinder and Devinder had left home of their own accord. If they were drugged, nobody saw them carried? If they walked, nobody saw them leave? And with the transit van steadily driven 76 miles from Heston to Forge Close, again, nobody heard or saw anything suspicious. Having reversed up to the side-wall, if the family had voluntarily entered the bungalow - possibly under the promise of seeing Amarjit - not one neighbour heard the sound of eight people inside its wafer-thin walls; not an angry kidnapper, a terrified hostage, two petrified women or two wailing babies? A sight which undoubtably would have made any one of them scream, cry or flee... but it didn’t. And yet, something had made Amarjit sign, as several blank sheets of CIBA Freight paper were adorned with his signature? With the stroke of a pen, everything was taken. But why? Why give up everything? Everyone has their breaking point. Maybe his loved ones were paraded before him? Maybe his family were threatened, his wife tortured, or his babies beaten? Either way, autopsies would later confirm that everyone member of the Chohan family was strangled, whether in the van, in the house, or in the sitting-room, as (being bound and gagged) Amarjit was forced to watch as, one-by-one, a remorseless sadist massacred his whole family before his eyes? In fact, the only proof we have that they were even there was a small spot of blood found on the side-wall, which belonged to eight-week-old Devinder. With his life destroyed, having served his purpose, Amarjit knew that his death was imminent... ...but before he died, in a stroke of genius, he would sign his name one more time. On Monday 17th February, Kenneth Regen entered CIBA Freight. In his hand, he held two sheets of paper; a Power of Attorney giving him full control over the business, and a typed letter from Amarjit. It read “Greed has got the better of me. I've got myself in serious trouble. People are after me. I have to escape", stating that his legal deal in the narcotic Khat had embroiled him with a deadly drugs cartel. Initially the staff were shocked, but given how chaotically he had run his business, with a new buyer mooted, the signatures a match and the papers legit, CIBA Freight carried on under new management, with Belinda Brewin installed as its Managing Director and more importantly as Kenneth’s ‘respectable front’. Only its new owner didn’t waste any time admiring his million-pound empire... ...as in his eyes, a few insignificant little details needed to be erased. It began as a casual aside when Belinda said she was having a drainage issue at Great Colefield House, her 50-acre estate in the village of Stoodleigh, 90 miles south of Stonehenge. Without her knowledge, Kenneth had begun fixing the problem, but in truth this little gift had a more sinister side. That’s the beauty of this part of the Devon countryside, there’s nothing but acres of fields and farms. It’s never a strange sight to see a JCB digging a ditch six-feet-deep, fourteen-long and four-wide in this neck of the woods. Nor three men unloading a van of five heavy lumps wrapped in plastic, a ferocious fire whose acrid smoke blots out the sky as an unwanted heap burns in the deep red soil of the trench, nor is it even odd to see - whatever the farmer has done - hidden under 48 tonnes of rubble and soil. So unfazed was Kenneth, when a friendly local got chatting to him, Kenneth quipped “Yeah, I've done a lot of driveways for Pakistanis”. Grinning, as underneath his feet, lay the bodies of the Chohan family. Within days, the safe house at Forge Close was stripped; every item of furniture was destroyed, every wall was repainted, every carpet was replaced and (in place of the armchair) was a three-piece suite. Outside in the cul-de-sac, having been backed-up to the side-wall, the vehicles were pressure-washed, inside and out, and - with the blue Ford Escort scrapped - the van was returned to the hire company. And with that, Amarjit and the Chohan family had vanished for good. Only Kenneth Regen had overlooked a small (and he thought) insignificant little detail irrelevant to his plan. The first little problem was Nancy, but next was her brother, Onkar. (Phone ringing continuously) As a close-knit family, distance meant nothing, so although Onkar Verma lived in New Zealand, without fail, he and his sister would talk every day. Six days had now passed with the phone going unanswered, Amarjit was missing and the family were silent. He knew something was seriously wrong, he just didn’t know what, so having reported them missing, he flew the eleven and a half thousand miles to London. With a spare key, Onkar entered the bungalow at 35 Sutton Road. The door was locked and the lights were out, but as a busy family home of a mum, a dad and a gran, with a three-year-old boy and an eight-week-old baby, that day, the house was unnervingly silent. For the Police, there was signs of a break-in, a theft or a struggle - this wasn’t a criminal act, this was a family who had left at short notice. But for Onkar, it was the small details which made his stomach churn with fear. In her haste, unusually Nancy hadn’t packed anything for the children; no clothes, no food, no bottles and no nappies. With the laundry in the washer and a key still in the backdoor, this hinted at a family crisis, but three items left behind stuck out as strange; Ravinder’s favourite toy (a little Thomas the Tank Engine), Charanjit’s cherished holy book and her return ticket to India, which was now overdue. Investigating further, having found their mobile phones dead and their bank accounts untouched, the Police contacted CIBA Freight and the strange disappearance of Amarjit Chohan began to unravel. It seemed a plausible story; a chaotic businessman with a company which imports a semi-legal narcotic gets on the wrong side of a drugs cartel. Signed by his own hand, a Power of Attorney and a type letter had proven it. To any outsider, Amarjit looked suspicious-as-hell and Kenneth as clean-as-a-whistle, but there was still an unanswered question... if Amarjit has fled, what had happened to his family? Undaunted, Kenneth concocted a new plan from an old scam. With Amarjit’s blue Ford Escort crushed, he hopped a ferry at Southampton, drove his crappy Peugeot 206 to the French port of Dieppe and posted a typed letter on headed paper, which was signed by Amarjit. Postmarked 20th March from this ‘gateway to Europe’, it arrived at CIBA Freight three days later, clearly stating that Amarjit had “had enough of England” and (having possibly driven by car) that he was “taking my family back to India”. Only something didn’t ring true... As with the phone message, Amarjit left voicemails for his staff in English and his wife in Punjabi, but when it came to letters, he always wrote them by hand. Kenneth didn’t know this, only those who truly knew Amarjit would, so with no money or passports, as much as the letter implied that the family were in France and heading to India, the likelihood was that they were still somewhere in England. Headed-up by DCI Dave Little of Scotland Yard’s Serious Crime Command, on the several occasions he interviewed Kenneth Regen, this convicted drug-smuggler, forger and snitch came across as arrogant, selfish and remorseless. When questioned, he had no answers as to why “if an Asian gang had extorted Amarjit, where’s the threats against you?”, “why are there no ferry tickets in the name of Chohan?”, “why haven’t my detectives found the family in the Punjab?”, “why did his blue Ford Escort crash on 21st February and who were the two male occupants who gave false names?”, and more bafflingly, “why did Amarjit leave his multi-million-pound business to you, a man he had met just months ago?” Everytime they spoke; his story would change... and then, it changed again. Kenneth claimed, “Okay, Anil hasn’t fled, his family are in South Wales. I’m meant to be giving him some fake passports on the Easter Monday, by the Bronze Pig statue at the back of Newport market”. The DCI knew this was a ploy, as the location was a deliberate choice which openly mocked the Police, so as a surveillance team watched the meet which wouldn’t happen, the investigation continued. Identifying his known accomplices – William Horncy and Peter Rees – phone masts had pin-pointed their precise movements in Southhall, South Newton and Stoodleigh at around the time that the family had vanished, receipts for purchases were found and traffic cameras identified the white Transit van. Rightly suspicious, Belinda Brewin, CIBA Freight’s newly-appointed Managing Director approached the Police and openly expressed her worries; very little made sense, but stranger still was that, on the day that Kenneth become a new boss with a £4.5 million empire to run, he was on her farm digging ditches. Belinda would be able to point the Police to the exact location of the trench... ...only Kenneth was one step ahead of her. On Saturday 19th April, Regen, Horncy and Rees returned to Belinda’s farm. Buried for eight weeks, a digger unearthed the rotting remains of the family; with so little respect that the digger’s tooth ripped deep wound in Amarjit’s head and as the killers gazed upon the bodies all trussed up in plastic sheets, it was joked that they “looked like Christmas Crackers”, before being slung in the back of the van. On Sunday 20th, having hired a speedboat, they launched from Poole and hurtling roughly 30 miles off the Dorset coast, they dumped the bodies in the English Channel and out into the Atlantic Sea beyond. So, by the Monday, as Regan and Horncy returned to the bronze pig statue and a surveillance team watched on, with the unabashed cockiness of two pathetic little kids, they scratched their heads with exaggerated expressions, performing a pantomime, as if wondering why Amarjit hadn’t shown up? With no bodies, no blood, no sightings and no hard evidence, the Police had very little to go on... ...only for Kenneth and his murderous cohorts, the tides were about to turn. In the early hours of 22nd April 2003, making use of the calm waters, David Chapman and his son Carl were canoeing off Bournemouth Pier, a popular tourist attraction with miles of sandy beaches, but as they weaved between the dark concrete piles of the cast iron pier, they spotted a body in the water. As an unidentified Asian man in his late 40’s, based on the decomposition, he had been dead for ten weeks but he hadn’t drowned, in fact he had only entered the sea a few days before. And although they were unable to obtain a fingerprint as his skin had degloved, undeniably his death was unlawful. With high levels of GHB in his system, his wrists and ankles bound, and a gag made from brown parcel tape and a red scarf still wrapped around his head, being dotted with small flecks of gravel and an odd reddish soil, the evidence suggested he had been buried on land before being dumped in the sea. One week later, with his DNA proving an exact match, their worst fears were realised; Amarjit Chohan had been murdered, and yet, the Police were no closer to finding out who had done it, and why? But again then, it’s amazing the damage that a person can do with the single stroke of a pen? (End) Having witnessed his family massacred and knowing his death was imminent, with the same pen he had used to sign his life away, Amarjit had scrawled a few clues on a scrap of paper, such as; his details, the events and the names of his killers. That should have been enough to convict all three, but Amarjit went one better. He didn’t use any old paper, or even a sheet of his own. Instead, seeing it sat on the side-table, he used a much more incriminating letter, sent from Cheltenham & Gloucester Bank, on the 12th February 2003, to 3 Forge Close and addressed to Kenneth Regan. And having signed it with his own signature, he folded it up into an unrecognisable lump and hid in in his own black sock. The evidence was overwhelming; a spot of Devinder’s blood at the safe house, burned fragments of family’s clothes in the red-soiled ditch, and although the vehicles were pressure-washed, the powerful hose had merely pushed every hint of their blood and hair into the recesses of the transit van. On 15th July, within sight of Bournemouth Pier, a fishing trawler reeled in Nancy’s decomposed body; she had been strangled and her skull was smashed-in with a hammer. But as the thick rope nets were hoisted aloft to bring her body onboard, something fell back into the sea. It was never proven, but based on what the fishermen said, it was believed to have been either one or both of her children. On 7th September, the remains of Charanjit Kaur Pan were found, washed-up on the Isle of Wight. And although searched for, three-year-old Ravinder and eight-week-old Devinder were never found. On 8th November 2004, the trial began at The Old Bailey, at which all three pleaded ‘not guilty’. Lasting eight-months and with the investigation costing £10million, a jury of eight men and four women deliberated for 61 hours before reaching a unanimous verdict. Guilty. Convicted of murder, Peter Douglas Rees was sentenced to a minimum of 23 years and both William Horncy and Kenneth Regan were later sentenced to a whole life tariff. With no prospect of parole, they will never be released. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. That was the final part of Signed in Blood. As always, if you’d like a less-stressful half hour, where my mouth flaps for a bit, words come out and cake goes in, join me after the break. But before that, here’s a brief promo for a true-crime podcast which may be the almond in your breakfast croissant. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, some of whom have received exclusive goodies, such as badges, stickers and key-rings, as well as Patron-only podcasts such as Walk With Me and Deadly Thoughts. Oooh. They are Elizabeth Biancucci (Bee-an-koochi), Michelle de Oude, Jo Whittingham and Hannah Hardwick. I thank you all. Plus a thank you to everyone who listens to Murder Mile, shares it with their friends, and leaves a lovely review online. I really do read them all. And as promised, a little hi or a g’day to Lou Farley in Australia. Murder Mile was researched, written and 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. *** 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, which are freely available in the public domain, 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, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast 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 to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour 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", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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Unit 7-8, Market Trading Estate, formerly known as CIBA Freight which was co-owned by Amarjit Chohan and was the last place he was seen alive
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FOUR:
This is part one of a two-part episode. Today’s episode is about Amarjit Chohan; a loving father, a devoted husband and a loyal businessman. Being successful both at home and at work, although he lived for business, he loved his family above all. But when a deal went bad, Amarjit would be forced into a deadly dilemma.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of CIBA Freight Services UK in Southall, the business owned by Amarjit Chohan and where he was last seen alive is marked with a lime green cross. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your knowledge of the case. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
SOURCES:
This episode is primarily based on news articles, some of which are below. http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/4444527.stm http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/4444567.stm http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/4586431.stm http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/4596187.stm https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/body-found-in-sea-is-millionaire-who-went-missing-with-family-102934.html https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2004/nov/09/ukcrime.taniabranigan Trouble Brewin - A True Story of Sex, Murder, Love and Betrayal by Belinda Brewin https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=sie3DwAAQBAJ&pg=PT338&lpg=PT338&dq=Chohan+%22white+transit+van%22&source=bl&ots=-by8D02kl0&sig=ACfU3U2-M8xfzDQmfEKcOcnbn2HlJyXJXw&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiPgvTgoa3uAhVyqHEKHQtbBygQ6AEwAXoECAYQAg#v=onepage&q=ditch&f=false https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2005/jul/05/ukcrime.jamessturcke https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2005/jul/01/ukcrime.markoliver https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2004/nov/11/taniabranigan https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2005/jul/02/ukcrime.rosiecowan https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2003/may/15/ukcrime.jamiewilson https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2003/sep/03/ukcrime https://www.nriinternet.com/Section2NEWS/NewsUK/Chohan/2005/1_070105_TWOarrested.htm https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/crime/fears-mount-for-missing-family-after-millionaire-is-found-dead-103160.html https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-354303/Murderer-silent-dreadful-fate-family.html https://www.gazetteandherald.co.uk/news/7262672.panicking-wife-may-have-been-calmed-by-her-husbands-killer/ https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-189363/Sea-body-Chohans-wife.html https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-354284/Gang-boss-killed-generations-family.html https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mottgj3Cio8 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-hampshire-36666080 https://www.bournemouthecho.co.uk/news/11541092.men-who-murdered-chohan-family-among-criminals-launching-challenge-over-prisoner-voting-ban/ https://www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/notorious-uk-killers-named-police-8314221 https://medium.com/the-true-crime-edition/family-brutally-murdered-over-5-million-23f7c6c66ed4 https://reuters.screenocean.com/record/949461 https://www.nriinternet.com/Section2NEWS/NewsUK/Chohan/2005/2_KenRegan.%20.htm https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2005/jul/02/ukcrime.rosiecowan1 https://www.alamy.com/stock-photo/amarjit-chohan.html https://thewire.in/books/the-corpse-that-spoke-tells-an-incomplete-tale-of-murder https://companycheck.co.uk/company/03181867/CIBA-FREIGHT-SERVICES-UK-LIMITED/companies-house-data MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: 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 and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about Amarjit Chohan; a loving father, a devoted husband and a very successful entrepreneur, who he lived for business but loved his family above all. But when a lucrative deal went bad, Amarjit would be forced into a deadly dilemma. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization 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 124: Signed in Blood (The Deadly Dilemma of Amarjit Chohan) – Part One Today I’m standing on the Market Trading Estate in Southall, TW5; one mile west of the suicide of child-rapist Arnis Zalkalns, three miles south of the deadly drugs trial at Northwick Park Hospital, and just two miles north-west of the family home of Amarjit Chohan – coming very soon to Murder Mile. Situated off the busy M4 motorway and under hectic Heathrow flightpath, the Market Trading Estate is an industrial complex full of cash n carry’s, car washes and warehouses. Laid in a T-shaped cul-de-sac, it’s flanked by fifteen brown-brick and grey-steel warehouses, with roller-shuttered stockrooms on the ground, office space above and outside a hive of forklifts stacking pallets of goods into trucks. The only difference between this and any other trading estate is that – being a place where many fruit-and-veg empires bloom, and the Mango Mogul, Kumquat Queen and Prince of the Quinces reigns supreme – past the mangled mopeds and dodgy Datsuns often sits a boss’s Bentley. Shiny-bright and bird-poo free, many have personalised plates like ‘K1W1’ (with 1’s instead of I’s), ‘MANG0’ (only with a zero), ‘CHERR135’ (ending 135) and - for those who deals are less fruitful, if you’ll pardon the pun – ‘BANANAS’ (which features no letters what-so-ever, just an 8, three 3’s, a 5 and some badly bent 7’s). These are business-to-business distributors, where deals in dates are done by the tonne and tamarinds are shipped by the truckload. They do sell bananas, but should you wish to buy a bunch, expect to be pitied and patted on the head, laughed-at and lampooned, or advised to “shop elsewhere” and that “you are frivolous squanderer of time” whose “father is unknown” – or some such variation there-of. Back in 2003, Units 7-8 were occupied by CIBA Freight, a specialist importer of Kenyan and Ugandan foods which was co-owned by Amarjit Singh; a man who exuded entrepreneurial spirit but remained humble, kind and polite. Through hard-work, he had built a great life for himself and his family, but when a business deal went sour, his skills in negotiation would make the difference life and death. As it was here, on Thursday 13th February 2003, that Amarjit Chohan left for a business meeting. He was never seen ever again... and yet, his last days alive would be the toughest of his life. (Interstitial) It is said that a humble man is often born out of humble beginnings. Amarjit Singh Chohan was born in the Punjab of India on the 5th March 1957. With imperialist British rule having ceased, its once-bounteous lands all raped and plundered, and India now independent but also part of the Commonwealth, once Britain was gone, the aftershocks of our tyranny would remain with the people of India and Pakistani for decades (and almost certainly centuries) to come. A nation was fractured, as religions split and pitted Hindus against Muslims against Christians against Sikhs. Amarjit was raised amid a turbulent time of terrorism, civil war and famine. And although today, India is one of the fastest growing nations, with bribery and corruption endemic (having adopted many-a-bad practices from its former Colonial masters) the economy was paralysed as disease ran rampant. But as a Sikh, even in his own homeland, Amarjit was not safe. Following the annexation of Sikhism in 1973 and the assassination of Indian Prime Minister Indira Gandhi by her own Sikh bodyguards, this escalated an already-fervent hostility against Sikhs, as well as igniting persecution, riots and slaughter. It was never said why Amarjit left India, but his safety was certainly a serious enough reason to flee. In the early 1980s, being barely thirty, Amarjit moved to the UK. Like many immigrants, there is very little evidence about his early life in England, but being educated and skilled, he survived by hard work. With a thick mop of jet-black hair on his chubby round face, accentuated by arched eyebrows and a thick broad moustache, Amarjit was the epitome of pleasant - a man who was good inside and out. And although he had an insatiable drive to thrive and a desire to never be poor, he was always humble. A bad businessman often ‘wears his wealth’ - dressed in a shiny-suits so slick when they ‘switch in the smarm’ they ooze right out of it, with wrists jangling in chunky ‘gold’ chains (cast from tin which turns green as they sweat) and with Bluetooth earpieces forever flashing from their lugholes (even though they haven’t done a hard day’s work since the dole office opened) - but this was not Amarjit. Amarjit was a down-to-earth man who dressed casually in trousers, a shirt and a jumper. His business style was easy but savvy. He was never Mr Chohan, always Anil or Neil. Everyone who worked for him, liked him. And being a Sikh, he didn’t drink, do drugs or gamble, but he did get his thrills from business. Even at his most affluent, he lived in a modest little bungalow not far from his warehouse and he drove a five-year old blue Ford Escort, an economical little runabout with enough seats for his family. His life was not totally blameless. When his first marriage failed, being unable to divorce owing to his faith and affairs frowned-upon, he would live bigamously but continued to support his wife and family. In 1996, with a reckless streak and habit for cutting corners, having been sentenced to three years in prison for tax evasion, he was released after eighteen months and swore to always do better. In August 2000 - having found his rock - 47-year-old Amarjit married 25-year-old Nancy, and although half his age, within three years, together they would build a business empire and a happy loving family. Amarjit had come from nothing, but through hard graft and raw grit, he became a success; a respected businessman, a loving husband, a doting father and very humble millionaire. His life was good... ...but by February 2003, everything would be taken from him, in the stroke of a pen. (Interstitial) On 9th August 2000, with his wife Nancy as co-director, Amarjit opened CIBA Freight Services UK at a double-wide warehouse on the Market Trading Estate. Being close to Heathrow Airport and the Asian and African communities of Hounslow, it was the perfect location to import fruits, such as bananas, passion fruit, jackfruit and mangoes, but also papaya, pawpaw, mongogo, devil’s claw and even khat – a mildly hallucinogenic narcotic, banned in Europe and the USA but legal in the UK, which predates coffee and tobacco but is a common and popular stimulant among the Somali community. With his business booming, within three years, CIBA Freight had an annual turnover of £4.5million per year. That same year, following the birth of their first son Ravinder, Amarjit & Nancy moved into a bungalow at 35 Sutton Road in Heston; a very modest single-floored, four-roomed house in a lower middle-class suburb. It was practical and simply decorated but with no extravagances. And unlike many homes in the area, there were no tacky stone tigers standing guard, no fake Doric columns beside the door, and no super-shiny over-waxed Beamer or Merc’ glistening on the drive, just a cheap blue Ford Escort. This didn’t look like the home of a millionaire with a thriving import firm, a bulging bank account and (as landlord) a portfolio of five properties worth £2.5million. But then again, that was the whole point. The family lived simply and safely; they had everything they needed but they were never without. In December 2002, being a full-time mum to a boisterous three-year-old, Nancy gave birth to a second son, a little cheeky-faced angel called Devinder. To Amarjit – whose own parents and siblings seem to have been oddly absent in his life - his new family was everything, and at the centre of it all was Nancy. As a Punjabi Sikh, even though her blood-family lived on opposite sides of the world, with her mother (Charanjit Kaur Pan) in India and her brother (Onker Verma) in New Zealand, distance meant nothing. In late January 2003 - as Nancy was unable to fly home to India, as having applied for British Citizenship her passport was held by the Home Office - Charanjit flew four-thousand miles to be by her daughter’s side, and every day without fail - sometimes two-or-three times-a-day - Nancy phoned her brother, as he and his family were due to arrive on the 18th February, to see his nephew and support his sister. Encased in a protective family bubble, although Amarjit was a slightly nervous man who kept his cards close to his chest, he knew he could rest easy knowing his family were safe. So, with extra mouths to feed and two sons who he hoped – one day - would inherit his empire, Amarjit was looking to expand. Always pushing to do better, as a savvy businessman and a shrewd negotiator, Amarjit had a keen ear for a golden opportunity and always on the look-out for a good deal, his eyes were always open. In 2002, one such deal came up, and that is how he met a businessman called Kenneth Avery. Introduced to Amarjit by Michael Parr, one of his partners who co-owned CIBA Freight, as a trained HGV driver Kenneth Avery had begun working for Amarjit and the two men had become friendly. Being four years his senior, a lot of similarities could be seen between Amarjit and Kenneth; both were roughly the same age, both were a little chubby, both came from modest working-class roots and as two men who always dreamed big, they both had a burning desire to take risks and reap the rewards. Looking less like a hard-nosed trader and more-akin to a second-hand car-dealer, Kenneth was a pale, fat and jowly man, with fair-hair on top and grey clumps along the sides, and being dressed in casual jeans and an old rugby-top, his modest look matched Amarjit’s. And hardly a spring-chicken himself, being in his early fifties, he was clearly keen to learn from his new pal, and still hungry to succeed. In January 2003, Kenneth had a money-making deal he knew that Amarjit would love. Aided by an old friend, Belinda Brewin – an elegant and successful PR exec’ with a solid reputation and some serious celebrity clout – Kenneth proposed a £3 million deal to build a McDonald’s franchise at Hatton Cross, a key-location between Heathrow Airport, Fleet Motorway Services and the Great South-West Road. Sadly, the deal collapsed, owing to planning permission. But Amarjit wasn’t unnerved. Not every deal was a success, but seeing that (like himself) Kenneth Avery was not averse to cutting a few corners – unlike so many other supposed businessmen - Amarjit could see that Kenneth wasn’t full of hot-air. Being a gruff impatient man, Kenneth was bitterly disappointed having potentially lost millions... ...but undaunted by the deal, he knew that – very soon - his pay-day would come. The morning of Thursday 13th February 2003 was as regular as any other. As devout Sikhs, the Chohan family awoke a few hours before dawn, and they bathed and prayed before sitting down to breakfast. Their bungalow was busier than usual, as Charanjit (Nancy’s mother) wasn’t due to leave for two more weeks, but – as a softly-spoken 51-year-old teacher who was never without her holy book, the Guru Granth Sahib – she was a calming influence on a modest home with a new baby and an excitable boy. At roughly 8am, dressed casually in a navy-blue jumper, black trousers, socks and shoes, Amarjit kissed his wife and kids, popped on a coat as it was cold and hopped into his blue Ford Escort. It was a dull cloudy day, and with the traffic on Heston Road being busy, it took twenty minutes to drive to Southall. At 8:30am, he parked-up in his regular spot, outside of CIBA Freight. A forklift was unloading a truck in the loading-bay, as fruit and veg needs a fast and careful turnaround to ensure its freshness. Amarjit entered the first-floor mezzanine which overlooked the warehouse; he greeted his staff, checked his post and casually told his co-partner Michael Parr “I'm off to do a deal”, but gave very few details. This was not unusual as Amarjit was often secretive, a risk-taker who (some said) ran his company chaotically, but no-one ever queried this as the business was booming and _above all - he was the boss. Always seeking new ventures, he would often disappear for hours and even days on end, but he could always be contacted on his mobile; replying in English to his staff and in Punjabi to his wife. Nothing else was said about the meeting, except that Kenneth had secured a “possible buyer for the company”, the meeting was “now” and the buyer was “Dutch”. Only that wasn’t Amarjit’s only secret, as although he was wealthy on paper, being in serious financial trouble (for whatever reason) and had syphoned off £50,000 from the business to his own account, using three company cheques. At roughly 9am, Amarjit left CIBA Freight, but from that point onwards, the details get rather vague. With a licence-plate of S840 LJH, a network of traffic cameras would later track his blue Ford Escort travelling 76 miles, at a steady pace, across the next 1 hour and 20 minutes. He exited the Hayes Road at Bull’s Bridge, travelled south along The Parkway, south-west on the M4 and M3, joined the A303 at North Waltham in Wiltshire, but being a rural area, the cameras lost him somewhere near Stonehenge. The exact time and place of Amarjit’s meeting with the Dutch buyer is unknown; as he didn’t own a diary, he didn’t tell his staff, and although he and Nancy had texted on-route, their messages (written in Punjabi) were loving but nothing special, just the standard reminders between husband and wife. As for what we do know, the details may seem odd, but either Amarjit was unfazed or desperate. It is unknown why he agreed to meet a stranger somewhere as secluded as a lane near Stonehenge - the infamous Neolithic monument of two vertical rings of 25-tonne stones – but having travelled from Holland, the ‘Dutch buyer’ may have been sightseeing? Perhaps the buyer had relatives or was staying in a hotel nearby? Or maybe this was just a recognisable place to meet before moving on? All we do know is that - wherever they met - it was isolated and remote, as no-one witnessed Amarjit or his car. At an unknown time, possibly in-or-around 10:30 or 11am, a white transit van pulled up. Again, this may seem suspicious, as why should a potential buyer of a multi-million-pound business empire arrive at a meeting in a locally-rented van with the hire company’s name and number down the side? But then again, maybe as an importer, the Dutch buyer had made a few purchases to take back to Holland? And besides, Amarjit’s modest little motor was hardly the stylish wheels of a wealthy tycoon? Stranger meetings have happened, but for every odd detail, Amarjit must have seen a logical reason... ...except the deal didn’t exist, the buyer wasn’t Dutch and this wasn’t a meeting, it was an ambush. (Fuzziness) Drugged with a rag soaked in Gamma-Hydroxybutyric, the date-rape drug known as GHB, as a devout Sikh who religion didn’t permit him to drink, do drugs or stimulants like coffee or tobacco, the effect on Amarjit was instant, as his body was rendered silent and motionless by the intoxicant. With his face, hands and feet tied with brown parcel tape, Amarjit was slung in the back of the van by two men, maybe three; with one definitely driving, another in the back and maybe one following in his Ford Escort. Maybe they were masked, or maybe they weren’t? Maybe they were armed, or maybe not? Maybe he knew them, or possibly not? He didn’t know, but he knew none of them were Dutch. Driven cautiously, the white van and blue Ford crawled 6.2 miles south along the isolated field-flanked roads from Stonehenge, down the quiet A360 to South Newton; a quaint little village surrounded by a few sparse farms, thousands of acres of crops and a single solitary pub - an odd choice for a hideout. Both vehicles then entered Forge Close, a small L-shaped cul-de-sac with two cottages on either side, allotments behind and at the end stood a small terraced bungalow made of brown bricks and white sills with a neat little lawn - the kind of place an elderly widower might retire to live out his final days. With barely enough space, the van reversed along the side wall of the bungalow to the left and parking close to the side gate, in broad daylight, the doped tied hostage was dragged inside by the three men. As a kidnapper’s safe house, 3 Forge Close looked harmless, being a small assisted living space with a bedroom, a kitchenette and a sitting-room with a telly, an armchair, slippers to one side and on a side table, a few photos, some bills and a copy of the Racing Post. Like Amarjit’s own home, it was humble, but he didn’t know its owner - Roy Regen, an elderly widower who had lived there for forty years and supplemented his pension by working as a cleaner at Salisbury train station – and he never would. ...but he did know Roy’s son. Of the three kidnappers, Amarjit didn’t recognise William Horncy known as ‘Bill’; a small sickly-looking 52-year-old with a receding hairline and a vacant stare. He thought he knew Peter Douglas Rees, a 38-year-old with a crap moustache and a bad mullet, having previously adopted a Dutch accent on the phone and laid the mezzanine floor at CIBA Freight, just a few weeks before. But the main man Amarjit definitely recognised was his friend and potential business partner – Kenneth Avery. Only Avery wasn’t Avery. His real name was Kenneth Roy Regen. He was a bad man with a bad name and a very bad temper, who had earned his fearsome reputation and ill-gotten fortune as a forger, a conman, a drug-smuggler and (as Hampshire Police believed but could never prove) a very violent and sadistic killer. But having lost the lot – over the last two years he had learned everything he needed to know about Amarjit’s life, work and finances - he wanted it all and he wouldn’t stop until he got it. Still drugged, with one of Amarjit’s wrists secured to the floral armchair, before him on a small coffee table lay a pen and a stack of blank sheets of headed paper emblazoned with the logo of CIBA Freight. Pointing, Kenneth barked “Sign them”, but with his mouth muffled by parcel tape, Amarjit refused. “No” was not a word that Kenneth liked to hear, so without warning, Amarjit was violently beaten, as a fast volley of fists pummelled his head and face. With the curtains closed, the kidnapper’s assault had some privacy, but with allotments behind and the bungalow’s walls wafer-thin, he had to be quiet. “Sign them” Kenneth growled as his hostage bled, but with his director’s signature on a stack of blank sheets of CIBA Freight paper, Amarjit knew that Kenneth could do anything to his business. Everything he had worked for would be gone, but this wasn’t about his present, it was about his family’s future. Amarjit knew how to negotiate with businessmen, but this was different, and as much as he struggled and refused - “Sign them!” - over the next few hours and into the next day, the beatings continued. Kenneth knew how to break him – with drugs, beatings and threats – only without a signature, he knew he’d have nothing. But being both a psychopath and a sociopath, Kenneth Regen had overlooked a small (and he thought) insignificant little detail which was irrelevant to his plan – Amarjit’s wife. (Phone ringing) Several times she had texted, but got no reply. Calling his mobile, it went to voicemail. And with day becoming night becoming day, hearing no news, a frantic Nancy called Michael Parr, his partner at CIBA Freight. Rightfully panicked and anxious, unable to reassure her that “he’s probably fine, you know Anil”, he called the one man he knew Amarjit had said he was with... Kenneth Regen. The plan had changed. “Say it!”. He still needed his signature but first he needed his voice. “Say it!” If this failed, the Police could be called and arrests would be made. “Say it!” So, armed with his own phone, Kenneth sped back from Wiltshire to Southall, and to the little bungalow of Nancy Chohan. In the sitting-room, as Charanjit tried to get the two screaming boys to sleep, Kenneth reassured Nancy that everything was fine; Amarjit was good, the deal with the Dutch went well, very well in fact, so he had popped over to the Holland to seal the deal, but his phone was playing up. Nancy didn’t believe a word of this, so Kenneth pulled out his phone and proved it. The message was unmistakably Amarjit - (Voicemail) “Hello Nancy. Don’t panic. I’m okay. I’ll be back tomorrow” – he sounded well and chirpy. As Nancy burst into tears, less through worry and more through exhaustion and relief, with his victim’s wife now pacified, Kenneth drove back to Wilshire... and once again, it was back to business. “Sign it!” For two days, Amarjit was beaten, drugged and starved. Weakened by exhaustion and with GHB making him euphoric, even at his most vulnerable, he continued to resist. “Sign it!” But sometimes, the simplest of torture methods can be the most brutal. With his ankles and wrists tied to the armchair and a red scarf gagging his voice, the brown parcel tape was wound tightly around the front and back of his head. Only, the thick plastic film didn’t just cover his chin, his lips and his cheeks, it covered his eyes and formed a seal right across his nose too. Unable to pull it off or inhale a single breath, this brown plastic mask rapidly bulged and dented, pulsing in sharp hot bursts as he struggled for air, as the rest of the tape’s reel dangling at the back of his head. Each time he passed-out, Kenneth awoke him, and did it again, and again, and again. As in Kenneth’s mind, this business empire wasn’t Amarjit’s, it was his... and the signature was only paperwork. (End) For Nancy, the recorded message had brought her a little comfort, as that night, she was able to sleep, even if it was just for a bit. But as she began to calm down and to rationalise the events of the day, there were a few details which only the wife of Amarjit Chohan would know didn’t make any sense. If her husband’s phone had stopped working, why didn’t he use Kenneth’s to call her? If Kenneth had an audio message from her husband, why didn’t he send it electronically, instead of driving 80 miles to hand-deliver it? He had told all the staff at CIBA Freight that Amarjit had flown to Holland to seal the deal, but Nancy knew that wasn’t possible, as he would never leave the country without telling her first, and with her application for British Citizenship still being considered, Amarjit’s passport was held by the Home Office - he couldn’t leave the country if he tried. And finally, that message - “Hello Nancy. Don’t panic. I’m okay. I’ll be back tomorrow” – although the voice was definitely Amarjit’s, the words were not, as with English not being her first language, they always communicated in Punjabi. Nancy knew that something seriously wrong, she just didn’t know what. In the sitting-room at Forge Close, exhausted from two days of beatings and torture, Amarjit remained stoic. As a shrewd businessman, even against someone as brutal and ruthless as Kenneth, he still knew how to play hardball, even when his odds looked bleak. By that point, there is no denying that Amarjit Chohan knew that he was going to die, but his death would leave him with a deadly dilemma – ‘give up his company and risk his family’s futures, or refuse to sign and risk their lives’? There was no way he would put his family in jeopardy, so the only way for Kenneth to win... was if it was signed in blood. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. The final part of Signed with Blood continues next week. As always, if you like tea, cake and waffle, as well as learning a few titbits about this case, please join me after the break. But before that, here’s a brief promo for a true-crime podcast which may be your audio equivalent of what Eva is to me. Urgh! A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, some of whom have received exclusive goodies, such as badges, stickers and key-rings, as well as Patron-only podcasts such as Walk With Me and Deadly Thoughts. Oooh. They are Kate Wakefield, Jo Wood, Laura Workinger-Harden and Cat Stewart. I thank you all. Murder Mile was researched, written and 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. *** 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, which are freely available in the public domain, 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, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast 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 to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour 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", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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The main entrance at Northwick Park Hospital
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-THREE:
Today’s episode is about a drug called TGN1412. Successfully tested on animals, eight healthy human test-subjects were selected for a routine trial, with all of the necessary safety measures in place. But within just a few hours of the drug being administered, six of the eight would be fighting for their lives.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of the private ward at Northwick Park hospital, where the clinical trial of TGN1412 took place is marked with a lime green cross. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your knowledge of the case. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
SOURCES:
https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2016/apr/22/experience-i-ran-medical-trial-that-went-wrong https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2006/apr/05/health.healthandwellbeing2 https://www.theguardian.com/society/2007/feb/17/health.lifeandhealth https://www.theguardian.com/society/2006/mar/19/health.medicineandhealth https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2964774/ https://www.sciencedirect.com/topics/pharmacology-toxicology-and-pharmaceutical-science/tgn1412 https://www.pharmaceutical-journal.com/news-and-analysis/will-volunteers-still-want-to-take-part-in-research-after-the-tgn1412-trial/10002179.article https://www.bmj.com/content/332/7543/677/rapid-responses https://www.outsourcing-pharma.com/Article/2007/01/29/Northwick-trial-tragedy-scientists-reveal-how-cytokine-storm-started https://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/entry/the-drug-trial-bbc-examines-what-went-wrong-in-the-infamous-elephant-men-case_uk_58ac3bd1e4b07028b703c926 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-35766627 https://www.lexology.com/library/detail.aspx?g=c827f92c-2bb9-4276-a160-75a415788ddc https://www.newscientist.com/article/dn9226-uk-drug-trial-disaster-the-official-report/ https://www.pharmaceutical-journal.com/news-and-analysis/tgn1412-lessons-learnt-the-hard-way/10002847.article?firstPass=false https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-4236132/Lifelong-shadow-hanging-Elephant-Man-drug-trial-men.html https://www.thesun.co.uk/news/2917810/elephant-man-drug-testing-trial-tgn1412/ https://www.nibsc.org/about_us/worldwide_impact/tgn1412.aspx The Drug Trial That Went Wrong- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a9_sX93RHOk MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: 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 and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about a drug called TGN1412. Successfully tested on animals, eight healthy human test-subjects were selected for a routine trial, with all of the necessary safety measures in place. But within just a few hours of the drug being administered, six of the eight would be fighting for their lives. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization 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 123: The Elephant Men of Northwick Park. Today I’m standing in Northwick Park, HA1, the furthest north-west we’ve been so far; as we’re three miles north of Ultra Electrics where Reg Christie met Muriel Eady, six miles north-east of Alice Gross’ memorial at Lock 97, four miles north west of the last gasp of Peter Buckingham and three miles north-east of the MI6 fantasist who used love to prey on the lonely - coming soon to Murder Mile. This is the Northwick Park hospital. Opened in 1970, Northwick & St Mark’s hospital is a foreboding glass-and-steel fronted facility, encircled by a ring-road and dotted with greenery as each box-like building is connected by a series of dark skyways. It wasn’t designed this way, as over time, it evolved. Covering half-a-square-mile, Northwick Park hospital has a department to cover almost every medical emergency, such as maternity, neurology, paediatrics, maxiofacial, haematology and virology, as well as an Accident & Emergency and (conveniently) an Intensive Care Unit, to name but a few. Since its inception fifty-years ago, it’s had an odd history. Simon LeBon, the lead singer of Duran Duran was a porter here; it was a location for the comedy series Green Wing, a scene for Fawlty Towers and a brutal part of the horror film - The Omen, Chilean dictator Augusto Pinochet was treated here whilst fighting extradition for murder and torture, and then, it became infamous for the ‘elephant men’. Like many hospitals, a key part of its research and funding involves clinical testing. 732,000 participants take part in clinic trials across the UK every year, with roughly 5000 of those trialled at Northwick Park. Every medicine you’ve taken – from herpes to HRT, acne to angina and bilious to bum-itch - was tested on healthy human volunteers in a clinical trial to ensure that it’s safe. That little piece of paper inside your pack of pills – which we all toss away without reading – lists every side-effect of the drug; many are minor, some are serious, but almost every symptom was discovered in a clinical trial on volunteers first. These trials are not without risk, so the risk is minimised... but sometimes mistakes do happen. As it was here, on Monday 13th March 2006, that TGN1412 was first tested on humans, and although the drug was designed to save lives, it left six healthy young men moments from death. (Interstitial) One of the primary goals of medical research is the elimination of cancer. In 1984, two biochemists - Cesar Milstein and George Köhler - were awarded the Nobel Prize having developed a technique for creating artificial monoclonal antibodies, also known as ‘mabs’; proteins which latch onto the surface of cells, initiate a chemical reaction and stop the cells from dividing. In 2004, German pharmaceutical firm TeGenero was trialling a new mab to treat leukaemia, multiple sclerosis, arthritis and some auto-immune diseases. Its clinical designation was TGN1412. Like many cancer drugs before it, TGN1412 would latch onto the patient’s t-cells (a key part of the immune system) and kick-start the body’s own defences into a heightened state. The sale of antibody cancer drugs by the pharmaceutical giants currently totals £13 billion a year. There are 30 mabs on the market today and many are highly effective in the fight against the disease. One positive being that mabs are less likely to be rejected by the immune system, but one negative is that it’s hard to determine how toxic the drug might be to humans... without conducting human trials. TeGenero had successfully trialled the drug on Macaques, a monkey which is 94% genetically-identical to humans - and although sources state that Bonobos were also considered as they do share 98% of our DNA - Macaques were supposedly chosen as they were cheaper, but this cannot be verified. With the animal testing complete, ‘Phase One’ of a three-phase trial would be carried out to determine the drug’s toxicity. In a normal trial of a cancer-drug, cancer patients would be the perfect volunteers, but as TGN1412 was designed to stimulate the cancer cells instead of stopping them dividing, the study (as many clinical trials do) needed healthy patients who didn’t have weakened immune systems. Roughly 25% of all drugs do not make it passed phase one in a clinical trial, so accurate testing is vital, and to ensure impartiality, the drugs companies themselves hand over the testing to an independent. Parexel is an American biopharmaceutical service providing medical testing and trials on behalf of its clients. Founded in 1982, today it has 1900 employees across 51 countries and 84 facilities, with an annual revenue of $2.3 billion a year, having developed 95% of the top selling biopharmaceuticals. To test a variety of drugs including TGN1412, Parexel had leased a private wing on the second floor of Northwick Park hospital, just above the ICU; which came complete with two wards, ten beds and a range of monitoring equipment. All they had to supply was their own medical staff and volunteers. It was no different to any other clinical trial; the drug was approved for human testing, the volunteers were vetted, it was administered in a clean and controlled environment by medical professionals, and in accordance with a clear set of instructions by a regulatory body. It was a just very routine trial. Nothing should have gone wrong... but it would. In February 2006, eight volunteers were assessed at Northwick Park. All were healthy young men (women are rarely used as experimental drugs can cause a risk to reproductive organs), all were aged between 19 and 34, they had no health conditions, they weren’t on medications and - being ethnically diverse - they included British whites, Indian Asians, British Asians, Africans, an Australian, a New Zealander and a South African. Their medical histories were checked and their bloods were screened. For the volunteers, it was a no-brainer. All they had to do was lie in a bed for three days – eating food, watching telly and being prodded by doctors – they describe their symptoms and are given £2000. The hardest part of any clinical trial is the boredom, it’s the waiting which hurts, so many trial veterans know to bring books and music, whereas the newbies tend to play pool or learn to love Loose Women. Everyone had good reasons for being a guinea-pig. Rob Oldfield had returned from the US where he was training to be an actor and needed to repay a loan to his mother. David Oakley, a New Zealander had done two trials before so he knew the score and needed to fund his upcoming wedding. Navneet Modi, known as ‘Nav’ had done two trials too, he had completed his MBA and needed money to pay his bills and buy himself a flight back home to India, but he was too proud to ask his father. Raste Khan was a recent graduate between jobs. Ryan Wilson was a trainee plumber saving up for driving lessons. Mohamed Abdelhady known as ‘Nino’ was an Egyptian-born bar manager in need of some cash. And there were two other volunteers, who were never identified, but their situation was the exactly same. At the pre-trial assessment, the warning signs were there, that something wasn’t right. The volunteers later stated “There was no medical exam, no heart-test, no listening to your breathing, you know, normal things”. “The briefing should last 30 to 45 minutes, ours was done in 10”. “A doctor - I assume he was a doctor, he seemed very young - handed us a brick of papers and said ‘Have a quick flick through this. If you've got any questions, ask me’“. “They handed us a consent form and we signed it”. “Everything seemed rushed”. But often it’s hard to tell the difference between fast and efficient. In the briefing, the doctors reassured the volunteers that “nothing would go wrong”. As although this was the drug’s first in-human trial; they’d be given a safe dosage “scaled back 500 times”, it would be “carefully calculated to their body mass” and it would be “administered in ten-minute intervals”. As for any side-effects, “the worst you’ll get is a headache or nausea, which will be gone in a few hours". It seemed safe, and it should have been... but a small mistake can have disastrous consequences. On Sunday 12th March, the night before, all eight men arrived at Parexel's private ward on the second-floor of Northwick Park hospital. Split into two groups; David, Nav, Nino and Raste were in Trial Bay One, with Rob, Ryan Wilson and the two unidentified volunteers in Trial Bay Two. By that point, Rob had overcome his nervousness “I was enjoying myself, it felt like a weird adventure” and Ryan the plumber was playing pool "That night was a bit of fun, there was a hostel kind of vibe". The atmosphere was relaxed; David had his books lined-up to read, the Commonwealth Games was on the telly, and the eight men all ate the same pre-trial meal of cheese and crackers, and went to bed at around 10pm. The trial was expected to last for three days... but it wouldn’t even last an hour. In charge of the trial was Dr Daniel Bradford, principal investigator for Parexel – “I had been involved in more than 300 trials when I was put in charge of testing a new drug, TGN1412”. As was standard practice, this was a ‘double blind randomised trial’, meaning that six of the men would be given the drug, two would receive a harmless placebo (to act as a control), and neither the doctors, the nurses nor the volunteers would know who had been given what. The ward was medically scrubbed, the equipment was sanitised, and all of the syringes, cannulas and IV drips were fresh out of the wrapper. But again, just like the pre-trial assessment, it all seemed a bit rushed. At 7:30am, the volunteers were awoken. David was annoyed from the off “I like to wake up and have a shower, but there was no time for that”, as the clinical team had a schedule of ten-minute-intervals to keep to, “so I splashed my face with water, got back into bed and they wired me up with ECGs". David Oakley was Patient 001. At 8:00am precisely – with the cannula’s needle inserted into his right arm – an automated IV pump administered the clear liquid at a precise rate. Within six minutes the syringe was empty and David had begun reading his book, as he prepared for a very dull day ahead. At 8:10am, Nino, Patient 002 received his dose in an identical manner. But weighing 14 stone, as one of the heaviest volunteers in the group, his higher dose of 8.9ml was proportionate to his size. At 8:20am, as Patient 003 known as ‘Nav’ was injected, David experienced the most common side-effect in any drugs-trial - “Nurse, I’m getting a headache” - along with nausea, vomiting and diarrhoea. Unable to administer a painkiller and risk ruining the results, the nurse applied a cold compress. At 8:30am, Patient 004 known as Raste was injected. By this point, David’s headache was a full-blown migraine which came in sickening waves and a pain he had never experienced before. Nino felt the same “I started to feel ill almost as soon as they had finished injecting me”, but the trial didn’t stop. At 08:40am, as Ryan, Patient 005 was injected, the wards echoed with the slow moans and groans as one-by-one, all except two of the human guinea-pigs succumbed to the same symptoms at ten-minute intervals, and those who had just been injected, witnessed the horrors they still had instore. At 08:50 and 9am, Patients 006 and 007 (the unidentified men) were injected. As David later said “they could have stopped and saved at least two of us, but they didn’t”, as every symptom got worse. Rob, Patient 008 later said “the other two in the room were already suffering, it was having a massive effect on their bodies, but still the trial continued”. And by 09:10am, an hour after the first side-effect was seen, it was only then that was the trial stopped. But by that point, everyone had been injected. Headaches had become migraines, and Nino started to hallucinate. "I felt like I had rocks in my head. Bright colours flashed before my eyes and I had a conversation with some imaginary person”. Crippled with lumbar myalgia, the volunteers were doubled over as an intense pain gripped their lower backs, rendering every possible position as excruciating as the next - they couldn’t sit, lie or stand. Gripped with rigors, their bodies violently shook like they had hypothermia, “it was like being dunked naked in the Antarctic”. Only - being soaked with sweat - they weren’t freezing, they were boiling, as a rapid fever rapt their blood, their immune system ran rampant and their core temperatures rose. Patients were bucking and burning, twisting and turning, growing sicker by the second. Terrified of the torturous pain he was in and still yet to experience, Nav tried to flee, screaming “I don’t want the money any more, I just want to get out”, only to convulse and collapse in a crumpled heap. The peaceful tranquillity of the ward was replaced by the chaos of a war-zone. Rapidly breathing with panicked screaming, nurses frantically dashed from patient-to-patient, being too few to attend to too many. With the men’s insides spewing out of every orifice, sheets were soaked in an ooze of festering fluids, as – unable to control their own bodies – hot spurts of urine soiled the beds, steaming streaks of diarrhoea spattered the walls, and - having eaten nothing since last night’s meagre meal of cheese and crackers - many of the men bought-up a litre of green bile, so much, even the nurse was shocked. Dr Bradford later said “they tumbled like dominos; the wards were chaotic as they all went into shock”. For that first hour - feeling a little anxious, hot and unable to do anything but sit and watch - Raste and Patient 007 had heard one of the doctors’ joke “well, now we know who the controls are”. Only by then, one terrifying thought must have crossed their minds - “did I get the placebo, or am I next?” This very routine drugs trials had turned into a waking nightmare... ...but for ‘the Elephant Men’ of Northwick Park, the nightmare had only just begun. By 12pm, four hours after the first symptom, Raste was still lying on his bed, feeling fine except for a rightful sense of anxiety, but being left alone “I felt like a ghost”. Around every bed, plastic curtains shielded the patients, and although he couldn’t see what was happening, he could hear their screams. At 1pm, both the placebos were sent home, as the six sickest were isolated together in the same ward. The symptoms the men had experienced that morning – the pain, the fever, the migraines and the vomiting - were nothing in comparison to what would happen to them over the next five hours. Becoming hypotensive, their blood pressure dropped to dangerously low levels, as Tachycardia shot their heart-rates from a sedate 60 beats-per-minute to a suicidal 100, 150 and even 200 bpm. With fevers spiking, their temperatures should have been about 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit or 37 Celsius, but many rose to 107 Fahrenheit and 42 Celsius - just a few degrees higher and they’d be as good as dead. TGN1412 was designed to kick-start the body’s immune system to fight off infection and disease. But with no cancer cells to fight and their natural defences in overdrive, the body started attacking itself. Having developed Lymphopenia, an abnormally low level of white blood cells, and Monocytopenia, a reduced blood cell count, their blood stopped fighting infection and carrying oxygen to vital organs. As every blood vessel in their weakened bodies became inflamed - with their red-raw sweat-soaked skin stretched taut like it was ready to rip, their purple lips bulged like botched batches of Botox and even the daintiest of little digits doubled in width - it was as if each man was being inflated from within. Inch by inch and limb by limb, the six sick men were swelling, and the swelling wouldn’t stop. Trained to inject the drugs, monitor the symptoms and to cope with a few mild side-effects, Parexel’s medical staff administered IV fluids and painkillers to the volunteers, but they were helpless in a crisis of this scale. Tragically, both the cause and the cure were listed in the brick of paperwork that the pharmaceutical firm had supplied, but - being in the fog of a war-zone - nobody saw the solution. The facts were indisputable, the patients were dying... but a blessing lay only two floors below. At 1pm, five hours after the crisis began, Dr Bradford ran down two-flights of stairs to the Intensive Care Unit of Northwick Park Hospital “and grabbed the first two doctors I could find”. Not all medical trials are held in hospitals, but – luckily - this one was. And in an instant, they had access one of the finest (but most cruelly maligned) healthcare systems in the world, packed full of a wealth of highly trained clinicians from across a wide range of specialities and experiences. These were real doctors. Even without wading through to find the solution hidden in Parexel’s paperwork, the NHS Doctors had correctly advised Dr Bradford to administer fluids, antihistamine and the steroid – hydrocortisone. By 5pm, with the patients screams now silenced, as the steaming swollen men slumped in exhausted heaps, an odd peace had descended over the day’s chaos... but their nightmare was far from over. Two hours later, the dominos began to fall. Ryan was first. Struggling to breath, his bloated body was dying and every organ was failing – lungs, liver, kidneys and heart – everything was crashing. Now fully under the guidance of the NHS doctors, Ryan was the first to be transferred to the ICU, and one-by-one, the others would be too, and as Rob was wheeled away, he pleaded “why am I being taken away, no-one is going to die are they?”, but rightly the still-uncertain doctors were reluctant to answer. At 8pm, Dr Ganesh Suntharalingam, a highly experienced Consultant for Intensive Care Medicine at Northwick Park Hospital was called in, and upon seeing the elephant men - having described his new patients as “the sickest I have ever seen” – the hospital declared a ‘medical emergency’. Flanked by specialists, wired to banks of monitors and with tubes inserted into every orifice, machines performed almost every function for the weakened patient’s bodies; ventilators helped them breathe and dialysis cleaned their bloods. The relatives were called and told to expect the worst, and someone said “it looked like one of them might die and that Dr Bradford would be charged with manslaughter”. Just after of midnight, Dr Suntharalingam called Dr Nicki Panoskaltsis, the hospital’s Consultant Haemato-Oncologist. They both agreed, this was unprecedented, no-one should ever get that sick that quick... but it can happen. It’s called a ‘cytokine storm’; it’s where the immune system attacks itself and is an incredibly rare and almost improbable side-effect of some blood cancer drugs. The solution was 1000 micrograms of methylprednisolone, a large dose of very strong steroids, and –ironically - daclizumab, a monoclonal antibody or ‘mab’ which - just like TGN1412 - binds to the t-cell’s receptors, but makes them inactive. The drugs would take hours, if not days, to show any signs of improvement, and with much damage already done, they didn’t know who (if anyone) would survive. The patients loved one’s rushed to the hospital and were shocked by the sights they saw. Rob’s mother witnessed her son “all puffy because of the steroids... the whites of the eyes were deep orange because of all the toxins" which were slowly leaking from every pore of his distended body. Katrina, David’s wife-to-be said “his cheeks were swollen, his eyes were like slits, his face was round like a big red ball, and his stomach was huge, so large, he looked so deformed and disfigured”. Myfanwy, Nino’s partner stated “the most shocking thing was seeing his lungs being pumped with air. He was covered in wires and tubes; his mouth was taped open and he had a tube up his nose drawing out this awful yellow gunk. When I saw him, I wanted to grab his hand, but there was nowhere to hold because it was covered in tapes and needles. His face had swollen horribly and his head had ballooned to three times its normal size, it was a weird purple and yellow colour, and his eyes were bulging”. In a distressed state, she said “Nino had been left looking like the Elephant Man”, and although it was an innocent comment, the tabloids ran with it, and by the morning it was a front-page news. (End) 24 hours after the trial had begun, Police informed MHRA (the drug’s regulatory body) that the ward was a crime scene. They seized everything to check for evidence of tampering, neglect and sabotage. Two days later - as their fevers dropped and the swelling subsided – having regained consciousness, four of the patients were taken off life support, but Ryan and Nino remained critical. David later said “when I first went to the toilet by himself. I nearly passed out. I'd lost 13kilos. We had no muscles. We were like 90-year-old men”. It would take weeks for their organs to repair, months for the anaemia to resolve, and for years – burdened by weakened immune systems - many were terrified of the risk of relapse, infection and even cancer, as well as being plagued with stress, anxiety and PTSD. They would all go on to live their lives as best they could, but for one – Ryan Wilson, the 20-year-old trainee plumber who was learning to drive– having also suffered from pneumonia, septicaemia and dry gangrene, his fingertips fell off, and part of his foot and several toes had to be amputated. The investigation concluded that the drug had been injected into the patients within six minutes, but it should taken an hour, that’s ten times faster than it had been absorbed in the animal tests. And with only ten-minutes between each patient, the staff didn’t have the time to fully monitor any side-effects. An initial report by the MHRA, described as a ‘whitewash’, made 22 recommendations for in-human trials, but no-one was found culpable as scientists couldn’t explain why it gone so badly wrong. Unable to cover the insurance, German pharmaceutical company TeGenero went bankrupt. And in 2009, Parexel settled out of court with all six volunteers receiving an undisclosed sum. That same year, Parexel’s CEO was awarded a bonus worth $1.8m and the company made more than $100m profit. In 2013, TGN1412, renamed TAB08 was successfully trailed in Russia. They used 0.1% of the antibody that was used in Northwick Park trail and it was infused into the bloodstream forty times slower. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. If you like cake and tea, and to learn more about this case, please join me after the break. But before that, here’s a brief promo for a true-crime podcast which may be the very cherry on your Bakewell tart. Mmm. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, many of whom are enjoying the new exclusive podcast series called Walk With Me, and sssshhhh, secret, for a select group of Patron, a second secret podcast called Deadly Thoughts. They are: Michael Anderson, Lay-nee, Kirsty Hewitt, Linda Bond and Beth Steele, I thank you for your support, I hope you enjoyed your goodies. And a special thank you to Ngaio (neye-o), an anonymous friend and Cecilie Østergaard for your kind words and donations via the Supporter link in the shownotes. That’s very much appreciated. Murder Mile was researched, written and 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. *** 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, which are freely available in the public domain, 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, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast 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 to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour 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", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk. Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast #122: The Disposal of Harry Hartley (Charles Mills & Emma Hartley)10/3/2021
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EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-TWO:
Today’s episode is about Charles Mills & Emma Hartley; a young fresh-faced couple at the end of the Victorian era, who - like so many innocents - were forced into an early adulthood. And being inexperienced in the complexities of life, when a baby boy was born, a rash decision was made to save their love, which destroyed an entire family.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of 23 Denmark Street, WC2 where Emma Hartley lived and Harry Hartley was last seen alive is marked with a rum & raison cross. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your knowledge of the case. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
SOURCES: This episode is primarily based on the court records from the Old Bailey trial of Charles Mills, as well as various news sources and parish records. https://www.oldbaileyonline.org/browse.jsp?id=t19000402-274-offence-1&div=t19000402-274&terms=Soho#highlight MUSIC: Man in a Bag by Cult With No Name (credits / interstitisals) Winsome Lose Some by Cult With No Name (end credits) Creepy Instrumental (unreleased) by Cult With No Name The Day I Met Her by Esther Ambrami Collapsing All Around by Amulets Through and Through by Amulets To Have To In Least Water by Patches Wistful Harp by Andrew Huang Times Up by LooPop UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Ep122 – The Disposal of Harry Hartley 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 and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about Charles Mills & Emma Hartley, a young fresh-faced couple forced into an early adulthood. Inexperienced in life and dogged by its stresses, when their baby was born, both were ecstatic... only for Charles, his love abruptly stopped when his future was haunted by his past. Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization 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 122: The Disposal of Harry Hartley. Today I’m standing on the familiar footings of Denmark Street, WC2; one street north of the brutal stabbing by satanic child-killer Edward Crowley, one street east of the suicide of boxer Freddie Mills, six doors west of Dennis Nilsen’s job centre, we’re at the back of the Denmark Place Fire, and a short-hop from the tube stop where a blood-soaked spree-killer was caught - coming soon to Murder Mile. Denmark Street is an adult’s playground. At three hundred feet long, stretching from St Giles church to Charing Cross Road, these thirty assorted three-storey buildings are home to every big-kid’s dream; with coffee bars, vinyl stores and guitar shops. If you’re a real child, this place is boring, as – once mummy’s away doing all the important stuff – daddy drags you to “his street”, where this bloated baldie relives his youth; by gelling-up to his last remaining hair, letting his beer-gut bulge-out of a faded leather jacket and flipping an arthritic V-sign to ‘the pigs’ (when they’re not looking), as his fingers fumble a painful rendition of the Sex Pistol’s God Save The Queen. One such guitar shop stands at 23 Denmark Street, but more than a century ago, it was a family home. Kids today are as equally privileged, with many unable to unglue their eye-sockets from a screen, grunt a simple ‘thank you’ as food is shovelled-in, or lift a single finger until their late teens or early twenties. In 1900, at the last year of Queen Victoria’s reign, life for children was hard. Seen as lucky if you were given a basic education, the impoverished majority worked six-day-weeks by the age of 14, with many earning a pittance for piece-work from the second they could stand. Married-off early, many children had children when they were still only children themselves, and - with no savings or pension - infirmity and old-age would leave many singletons and spinsters with one retirement option - the workhouse. As just a young lad himself, Charles Mills had grown-up fast. With very little family, all he wanted was to live a good life and to be loved, and in Emma Hartley he found hope. But with so much stress placed upon such narrow shoulders, it’s impossible to know whether he got scared, snapped, or was haunted by something in his past and possibly his blood. As it was here, on Sunday 18th February 1900, outside of 23 Denmark Street, that something inside of Charles Mills would force him to make a very rash decision, that he would regret forever. (Interstitial) The young short life of Charles Henry Miles began in poverty and ended in tragedy. Born in 1881 in the parish of St Giles, Charles was the eldest of three sons to Charles Henry Mills Snr, a labourer, and Alice Harriet Cotter, a washer woman. Raised within the squalid stench of The Rookery, his home was this dank feted slum skulking in the shadow of the Horseshoe Brewery, where seventy years earlier a deadly tidal wave of Porter had drowned eight desperate souls - some still in their beds. As a small pale couple, Charles’ parents worked hard to earn little, but (with no sick-pay, holidays and their only respite reserved for Sunday mass) struggling under the relentless back-breaking grind of manual labour – like so many of the poorest in this festering metropolis – they drank to dull their pain. Soon enough, a habit became a crutch, a crutch became an addiction, and swigging-back great glugs of ‘street gin’ (a backyard brew of food scraps, turpentine and urine), slowly their insides began to rot. As an average urchin, Charles didn’t have a childhood; he had no toys, love nor joy. With tatty clothes and barely a square meal to sustain him each day, he resembled the saddest of ghosts; with pale skin, sallow cheeks and a bony torso. And being only an impish five-feet three-inches tall, as an even more pitiful sight, the cracked marble-like eyes of this nervous and delicate boy peeped out through the bent-wire frames of his bottle-bottom spectacles, under the jagged cutting of his pudding bowl fringe. As barely functioning drunks, with two more boys to feed and unable to pay for their lodgings, father was often an inmate at the debtor’s prison, as mother raised her three sons in the local workhouse. Cruelly described as a ‘simple lad’, although painfully quiet and often found sat my himself, he worked hard and had learned to read and write; a wise move having seen how the stresses of life had broken his father, and knowing his future didn’t lay on a building site, he didn’t want to end up the same way. Raised fast, as a boy, he ran errands to support his sozzled parents (for whom drink was now their sole dependant) and to feed and clothe his younger brothers. His childhood was a long-forgotten memory, as this faint slip-of-a-lad was forced to be a man and – barely into his teens - the family’s breadwinner. In 1895, aged 14, Charles worked full-time as an errand boy at Woodfall & Kinder, a printers at 76 Long Acre in Covent Garden. Keen to work long days – as much to earn as to escape his homelife – he rose to the less-junior position of ‘tinker's labourer’, a printer’s aide who ran copy to the clients for approval before it hit the press. He worked hard, he was no bother and he was never late, rude or abusive. After three years of employment and making a modest 8 shillings-a-week, he was learning, earning and had a bright future ahead. With his parents insensible, incapable of work and full-time residents of the St George’s workhouse, 17-year-old Charles funded a bed for him and his brothers at a lodging on Great Queen Street. And although he was prone to bouts of giddiness and headaches – perhaps owing to the printer’s toxic inks or the deafening clank of the press - he powered through the tiredness and the pain in the hope of leading a better life, and - having seen its affect – he never turned to drink. With his life being tough, dirty and relentless, this lack of joy may have got the better of him... ...but then, he met Emma. Just like Charles, Emma Hartley was a local girl, who was born and raised in the fringes of The Rookery. Prior to the turn of the 1900’s, Denmark Street was not a place of music - as being full of back-to-back rows of stables, workshops and slum-houses – it echoed to the squeal of the slit throats of pigs, reeked of flayed flesh at the tannery, and any hope of sunlight was choked by the belching chimney stacks. As a lodging for 26 tenants with two families and three lodgers on one floor, the front first-floor room at 23 Denmark Street was home to the Hartley family. Similar in many ways to the Mills family, aged 16, as the youngest of three sisters; Emma was sparsely educated, had worked since infancy, and as a seamstress she was a solid earner for the family... but their faith (not drink) had kept them strong. As a working-class girl at the dusk of the Victorian era, her life offered few options, and knowing she would never escape her class, her status or her poverty, she was always looking for love. One day - maybe as he sat quietly reading, his oversized eyes magnified by thick lenses under a clumsily snipped fringe still crusted with the crumbs of an old suet pudding - she found and fell in love with Charles. How and where they met was never recorded, but together they seemed like a perfect match. Being a little dot of a girl, Emma was as undersized and scrawny as her tiny lover. With a tangled mess of bright red hair, pale skin and a set of apple-blossom cheeks which sat on top of a skinny white body, she resembled the last match in a smoker’s matchbox – like a tatty white stick with a fiery red top. Looking younger than their tender years but with their edges burred by a lifetime of long hours, they made a cute couple; sweet and adorable. As each other’s first-love, from the February of 1898, this inexperienced twosome was often seen in-and-around Soho, kissing and holding hands. Young love had blossomed, the relentless grind of life seemed bearable, and their future together looked certain. By the winter of 1898 – with Charles earning an okay wage, finally sleeping in his own bed and being hopelessly in love with Emma – his turbulent little life seemed to have turned a corner. Only fate had other plans and - just as his future was looking good - his past came back to haunt him. (Interstitial) November 1898 was bitterly cold. In his box-like lodging on Great Queen Street, breath had frozen the insides of his windows, but Charles was toasty-warm. As snuggled in his beloved’s arms, with their pale skin stuck together like pancakes, being young and amorous... well, the rest you can imagine. William Hartley had wanted so much more for his daughter (as any father would), as with her chosen beau being the son of two drunks banged-up in the poor-house, he feared for Emma. Charles was a bad choice, he didn’t like him and he let it be known, only Emma refused to see it. Being so blinded by their love for one-another, they put their physical needs before their faith, and shamefully they sinned. Being only a slight girl, her skills as a seamstress did well to hide her bump for the first six months, but by May 1899, being twice her width about the midriff, there was no hiding the impending baby. For Charles & Emma, the start of a family should have been a joyous moment... only it wasn’t. Angry at this horny sprat whose carnal lusts (he felt) had sullied his innocent little girl, William Hartley screamed at Charles, struck him squarely on the chin and banished him from ever seeing his daughter or entering their home again, until he “did the decent thing and married her”. For Charles, although earning a pittance and struggling to save, that had been the whole plan; a wedding, a wife and a child, all living the kind of life he had always wanted, but never had; stable, happy and (most of all) sober. Only one thing would forever haunt the happiness of his future... and that was the sadness of his past. In July 1899, one month before the baby’s birth, when the stresses of an impending baby had fractured these two babes barely out of childhood themselves, both of Charles’ parents died in the workhouse. After a hard life dulled by hard drinking, his father had died as a broken bloated alcoholic. Bequeathed nothing but his father’s debts, struggling to cope and still supporting his younger brothers who were barely earning enough to survive, this additional burden wasn’t what plagued him the most. His mother had been sick for a very long time, some said ‘since birth’. Exacerbated by drink, Alice’s epilepsy was untreatable. Committed twice to an asylum, she was always discharged looking weary, beaten and lice-ridden, but she never got any better. Seeing visions and hearing voices, in later life, she would rant and rave like a demented loon, until whatever her illness she truly had, crippled her. One year earlier, still only a boy himself, he’d had to commit his aunt Eliza to the ‘Bedlam’ Asylum, where she later died. She too suffered those same symptoms, which doctors believed were hereditary. Whether it was the stress of life or the fear of his future, around that time, Charles began to change. Seeing a drastic shift in this young lad’s circumstances and wanting to do best by both of them - with his work record always exemplary - his employer at the printworks promoted Charles to a less-junior role and increased his wages from a modest eight-shillings-a-week to a less miserly fourteen. Only, Charles wasn’t Charles any more. Rarely taking a day off sick, he was now prone to giddiness and often said that his head “felt like it was burning”. Gone was the thoughtful lad whose owl-like eyes silently read books, now he was replaced by a skipping loon who bunked-off work. As a timid boy, he got cheeky, coarse and (for no reasons) started to fight. And with his moods becoming blacker, in the presence of his shocked colleagues, this sweet little lad threatened to “drown himself in the Thames”. No-one could figure out what had happened to Charles Mills... ...but clearly, something had happened. That same month – as he grieved by an unmarked grave within the walls of the workhouse, where his parents lived, died and their bones had been buried – with William Hartley having disowned his own daughter, Charles rented his heavily pregnant girlfriend a one-roomed lodging at 13 Arthur Street. Being unwed and too broke to marry (as her father still insisted), he did his best, but it wasn’t enough. On 19th August 1899 - unable to afford medical help at the hospital - little Harry Hartley was born in the squalid filth of the St Giles workhouse; an unholy hell-hole where the desperate were punished for being poor, and where (just thirty-years earlier) a baby called Charlie Chirgwin had frozen to death. Being the spit of both parents, baby Harry was a pale undersized dot; with a round doughy belly, stick-thin limbs and a shocking wisp of red hair, like a large question mark perched on his head. And just like Charles, Harry was a quiet boy, who often sat in silence, thinking and quizzically blinking. As a proud father, Charles purchased his baby boy the best clothes he could buy; a blue frock, black socks, a white petticoat and a little white shawl. To support them, he gave Emma a weekly allowance of three-shillings a week. It wasn’t much but it was as much as he could afford given his tiny wage and dad’s debts. And with this little lamb having adopted a cough, a sniffle and (sometimes) a shiver - with a simple cold in that era being as a deadly killer – he paid his pennies for a doctor. As was common for the poor - with their symptoms rarely taken seriously and with this ‘medical professional’ being little more than a quack - a mild liniment was prescribed, but the baby’s ailments lingered on. Plagued by worry; overthinking every flinch, twitch or drool as any new parent would, and maybe seeing or hearing things which probably weren’t even there, Charles was worried that his son – who was born of his blood - having been blessed with life, but burdened by a family curse. As just a child himself and with no-one to turn to, Charles was a mess, physically and mentally. But as the stresses mounted - having already become someone different - he grew colder and more distant. One month after the baby’s birth, with Charles unable to afford a second lodging, for the sake of the baby, Emma made peace with her parents and returned home to 23 Denmark Street. Blamed for bringing a bastard into the world, Charles saw them less, until he became little more than a stranger. By the Christmas of 1899, his support of the child had dropped from three shillings-a-week, to two, to one, and then none. Struggling to pay his own rent, he had moved between lodgings, being booted out when he got behind or was thrown-out for bad behaviour. Working intermittently, this quiet lad had begun mumbling to himself, was spotted running panicked across the printworks like he was being chased by a wild beast, and feeling ‘giddy’ and ‘hot’, the less he worked, the less he earned. By this point, busy with motherhood, Emma too had gone cold on Charles. For the sake of the baby, they kept it cordial and often he would furnish his family with whatever pennies he could afford. But for both, deep down, there was still a faint hope of rekindling the love they once had. January 1900 saw a new year, a new century and a renewed promise of change and prosperity.. . ...but for this struggling little family, it would bring only misery and death. As was a habit, every Sunday afternoon, Charles, Emma and baby Harry visited her sister Harriet and husband Charles at their home on the Prince’s Road in Lambeth, South London. Given a hearty meal by a warm fire, although hardly prosperous themselves, the Meredith’s weren’t a picture of wedded bliss, but of contentment, as together – through thick and thin - they always pulled through. On Sunday 4th January, as they all sat down to tea and cake, Charles was far from his usual self. Looking tired and short-fused, from the second he had arrived he was desperate to leave with an insistence that Emma, the baby and himself go “for a walk by the Thames”. Rightly, Emma said no, so he sat in silence, his only sound being the muted mumbling of his thin lips as vigorously he rubbed his eyes. To all concerned, he was still grieving his parents - only he felt that a part of them was still with him. On Sunday 4th February - in the same room, at the same time, to the same people – Charles made the same request “let’s go for walk”, which again Emma declined. Hearing a cough and seeing a single spot of mottled phlegm dot his child’s cheek, he insisted he take the baby with him, but Emma said no, so he left alone. The winter wind was bitingly cold, the stone streets were icy-sheets and (so viscous was the darkest season) even the turbulent river Thames had succumbed to the cold and frozen in patches. And as his perturbed mind raced as he paced, all he could think of was his boy, his blood and his legacy. On Sunday 11th February, exactly one week before the unthinkable – as had happened many Sundays prior – a walk was mooted and rebuked, so an unusually restless Charles sulked as the family sat. His language had grown more foul of late, having recently mocked Emma’s auburn hair by calling her a “bleeding carroty cow”, but he was never abusive or violent toward her. It was then that he began to light up a pipe; a habit he knew she disliked, especially as twice he had burned his mouth and once – while leaning over the crib - a red-hot ball of tobacco had singed her baby’s head. As any good mother would, she knocked the unlit pipe from his lips. But picking it back up, he did something he had never done before - he threatened her, hissing "mind you and the baby don’t go over the Embankment tonight". And although a brief moment of tension, he apologised and they both left on good terms. Across the following week, he waited outside of her home on Denmark Street - always outside, never in, as her father had forbidden it – and being unusually tearful and trembling, Emma couldn’t tell what was wrong with Charles, as he refused to discuss it. All he wanted was to see her and the baby. On Saturday 17th February. one night before - after a calm, rational and almost loving conversation - Charles did something he had never done before – and with the baby in her arms - he punched Emma in the face. He never said why he did it, and he never would... but something had made him snap. Sunday 18th February 1900 was a day written in the past which was destined to change their futures. With the bitter icy winds having not ceased since Christmas, as the cobble-stoned streets were deathly and any trickle of water was frozen solid, as was habit, taking a horse-drawn omnibus, Emma and the baby headed to her sisters. Only this time without Charles. Emma: “Our usual time to meet on Sundays was about 3:20, but he didn’t go with me that day as my brother-in-law had said no on account of my black eye. I didn’t tell him that, I thought it would upset him, so I said the baby wasn’t very well”. For once, the baby was fine and his cough was gone... but Charles knew none of this. At 7:30pm, Charles stood against a lamppost outside of 23 Denmark Street, as the fizzing electric arc-lamp bathed his sallow face in a dull yellowy glow. Too afraid to knock, he waited, and as Eliza Grinham - a schoolgirl who lived on the same floor – did her chores, he repeatedly asked her the same question, “where’s Emma?” like he was stuck in a loop, and always he got the same reply - “I don’t know”. Having missed her at 3:20pm, being worried for the next four hours and having waited for three hours more, as Emma and his baby boy hopped off the omnibus at 10:45pm, his haggard lips lifted a little as he saw them both approaching. He was tired, she was tired and the baby had drifted off to dreamland. Outside her door, in a hushed silence, Charles asked “Can I hold him?” It was late, too late, so Emma said “no, he’s sleeping”. Her black-eye was still swollen and its pain was still fresh, but hearing his pleas “please... just for a minute, that’s all” – seeing his eyes all cracked and red with a teetering rim of tears hovering on his lower lids and sensing the sadness within him - being just a boy himself who had lost his own parents (not months but maybe) years ago, she nodded, sighing “okay, just for a bit”. The last seven months had been tough on both of them, and (maybe) having realised his mistakes, the boy she still loved might actually do right, with a husband for her and a father for their son. Slowly, as she handed the baby over, tightly holding this tiny tot in his fatherly arms, Charles leaned forward, his lips perched close as he softly kissed the little wisp of red hair on his son’s sleeping head... ...only this was not a “good night” kiss to his baby boy, but a “goodbye”. With no warning, gripping the snoozing bundle to his chest, Charles fled. Dashing past St Giles church - with the skinny waif-like Emma wailing behind him – chasing him as best she could, somewhere near the dizzying confusion of Seven Dials, she lost them. Howling all the way home, everyone she called searched the streets, his lodging and his workplace, but Charles had vanished and her baby was gone. For more than mile, Charles ran until his bones shook. With his head red-hot, a giddiness guiding his legs and a voice reassuring him that what he was doing was right - as the squealing baby’s head bobbed in his arms – he dashed down Endell Street, Compton Street, St Martin’s Lane and Villiers Street, until his feet hit the icy expanse of the Embankment, and the shallow snowy walls of the River Thames. No-one saw him do it, but undeniably he had. Without a second thought, having hurled the tiny bundle towards a sleeting horizon, as it fell, and its little body smacked hard on the frozen river, for a moment it lay there - helpless and alone – until slowly, the ice broke. Weighed down by a little blue frock, white petticoat and woollen shawl, as the tiny pale baby sank deeper, abruptly its screams ceased. (End) At 11:20pm, just minutes later, 19-year-old Charles handed himself in at the Bow Street Police Station to a stunned constable and inspector. Admitting his guilt, he assisted the Police but was unable to give any reason why he had disposed of his son, so based on his confession, he was charged with murder. Briefly examined by a Police doctor, no evidence of epilepsy or mental illness was found, and a second equally-disdainful doctor dismissed his grief as a motive, stating to the court “I have heard that he had trouble after losing his father and mother - a weak mind would very likely be upset by that sort of thing”. So, based on the analysis of two ‘medical experts’, he was declared sane and fit to stand trial. On Wednesday 21st February, three days later, Harry Hartley was found by a river boatman, four miles downstream. Having died by drowning, laid naked on a cold marble slab at the Rotherhithe mortuary, Emma had to identify her baby boy. And although the last thing she could recall was the warmth of his breath as he slept, devoid of life, the only colour on his frozen body was a little wisp of red hair. Charles Henry Mills was tried at the Old Bailey on 2nd April 1900. Giving no evidence, he pleaded his innocence, and although he was found guilty, the jury overruled the doctors and declared him insane at the time of the murder. He was ordered to be detained at Her Majesty’s Pleasure and having been committed to the infamous Bedlam Asylum - where his aunt had previously died - his fate is known. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. If you would like to learn more about the details about this case, as well as a few details which didn’t make it into the final show, please join me for a tea, cake and waffle after the break. But before that, here’s a brief promo for a true-crime podcast which may fly the flag up your flagpole. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, who are: Caroline Fearne, Lucie Graham-Cumming, Allan Airth, Derek Morrison, Heather Smith, Jason Abercrombie and Victoria Redhead. I thank you all. A special thank you to Ray Mitchell for the very kind donation and Christina Marta for the birthday gift-card, I am feeling very spoiled. And thank you to all those lucky people who have upgraded their Patreon account to the new Handsome Hamlet tier, and are listening to my new weekly podcast – Walk With Me. Ooh. Special. Murder Mile was researched, written and 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. *** 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, which are freely available in the public domain, 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, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast 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 to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour 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", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk. Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast #121: The Yellow Ribbons of Hanwell - Part Two (Arnis Zalkalns)3/3/2021
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42 Castlebar Road, the former home of Arnis Zalkalns/Daksa
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
Alice’s Youth Music Memorial Fund
Alice's Youth Music Memorial Fund is supporting the National Foundation for Youth Music in memory of Alice who had a passion for music. It aims to provide a sustainable legacy of music-making for disadvantaged children in Alice's memory. If you want to help please do make your donation here.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-ONE:
Today’s episode is about the hunt for the murderer of Alice Gross. With rape as a motive but no clear link to any suspect, the attack seemed almost random. And although their encounter was entirely by chance, a cruel twist of fate may have decided her death just three years before she was even born. This is Part Two of Two of The Yellow Ribbons of Hanwell.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of 42 Castlebar Road, the former home of Arbnnis Zalkalns is marked with a red cross. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
Here's a few videos to go with this series; 42 Castlebar Road where Arnis Zalkalns/Daksa lived at the time of the murder, the short-cut between Lock 97 and the River Brent where the attack took place, and near the location at Boston Marnor Park where Arnis Zalkalns killed himself.
I've also posted some photos to aid your knowledge of the case. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable. 
Locations involved in this case: (from top left to bottom right) the entrance to Lock 97 (from south of the canal), the entrance to the shortcut to the River Brent (where Alice was snatched), the short-cut (where the rape and murder took place). the location where her body was found, the footbridge at Brentford Lock, a densely wooded section of the area (it gets worse than this), the exit/extrance to the short-cut at Hanwell Bridge, Hanwell Bridge via Uxbridge Road, The Corner Shop and on the far right: the memorial to Alice at the location her body was found and Arnis Zalkaln's flat at 42 Castlebar Road.
SOURCES:As there is no police file or court documents currently available, this series has been written and researched using a variety of sources, as well as my own research and investigations. Including (but not exclusively):
Alice's Music- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bWYbzRNASic Alice's Solo - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gmVa0tL01Bg UK Documentary - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OLXuAL6LPKg CCTV at Brentford Lock - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SlPfVgJgrN8 CCTV at Corner Shop - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cMg0UhdJrWE CCTV by Uxbridge Road / Hanwell Bridge - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kcCv4E6-558 INTERVIEW WITH PARENTS: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WLkoUdnHiK0 NEWS SOURCES: https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/av/uk-29258630 https://alice-poppymadeleine-gross.muchloved.com/Fundraising https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2016/jul/04/alice-gross-inquest-finds-schoolgirl-was-unlawfully-killed https://www.wandsworthsw18.com/#!pages/shared:common:eaalice021 https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2016/jul/11/revealed-alice-gross-argued-against-banning-foreign-criminals-before-her https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2015/oct/14/alice-gross-inquest-must-scrutinise-suspected-killer-arnis-zalkalns-uk https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2016/jun/27/mother-murdered-girl-alice-gross-lost-faith-uks-ability-protect-citizens https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2014/oct/01/body-found-river-alice-gross-police https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2015/jan/27/alice-gross-murder-arnis-zalkalns https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2014/oct/01/alice-gross-police-find-body-river-brent https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2014/sep/29/alice-gross-police-dredge-london-canal-missing-schoolgirl https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2014/oct/05/alice-gross-murder-forensic-tests-arnis-zalkalns https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2014/sep/16/alice-gross-police-missing-latvian https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2014/sep/24/alice-gross-evidence-latvian-police-arrest-warrant https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2014/sep/04/fears-grow-missing-teenager-alice-gross https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/av/uk-29252462 https://www.theweek.co.uk/60472/alice-gross-why-did-police-not-know-about-killer-s-past https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2014/sep/18/alice-gross-police-arnis-zalkalns-murder-conviction-suspect https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2014/oct/13/arnis-zalkalns-inquest-opened-london-alice-gross https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2014/sep/22/alice-gross-police-suspect-arnis-zalkalns https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-29438682 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-30997004 https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2928026/Latvian-killer-Arnis-Zalkalns-charged-murder-schoolgirl-Alice-Gross-police-say.html https://www.judiciary.uk/wp-content/uploads/2017/03/Gross-2016-0488.pdf https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-29340052 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-29328591 https://www.thesun.co.uk/archives/news/330905/suspect-in-missing-alice-case-is-wife-killer/ https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2761606/Once-tasted-blood-I-feared-strike-An-extraordinary-interview-grieving-mother-wife-Latvian-fugitive-battered-death.html MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: 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 and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about the hunt for the murderer of Alice Gross. With rape as a motive but no clear link to any suspect, the attack seemed almost random. And although their encounter was entirely by chance, a cruel twist of fate may have decided her death just three years before she was even born. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization 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 121: The Yellow Ribbons of Hanwell – Part Two. Today I’m standing on Castlebar Road in Ealing, W5; four miles west of the flat shared by the killers of Vincent Patrick Keighrey, three miles north-west of the Chiswick cat ladies, one street north-west of the newsagents where the sadistic Polish child-rapist Andrzej Kunowski lured his penultimate victim, and one and a half miles south-east of the bloodbath at Gurnell Grove - coming soon to Murder Mile. Ealing is one of the borough’s seven towns including Acton, Greenford, Perivale, Northolt, Southall and (on its westerly border) is Hanwell. As a settlement since the iron age, Ealing comes from the Saxon word ‘Gilligas’ which fittingly means ’place of the people’, being a nice place to live and work. Skirting north of Ealing Broadway sits Castlebar, a B-road heading to Hanwell. As a residential street shoe-horned full of townhouses, terraces, flats and care homes, it’s the kind of place where everyone is pleasant to one-another. In passing, they may nod, wave or utter a cheery “how do you do?” Only to dart inside, pry open the curtains and lambast their partner, as after a decade of niceties, the worst crime of all would be the shame of asking their neighbour - “I’m sorry, but what is your name?” Half way up the hill, opposite a little V-shaped patch of grass called Tortoise Green sits 42 Castlebar Road; a three-storey semi-detached light-brown house with large white windows, a black iron fence and - like so many over-priced London houses – it was subdivided into several rented flats. Today, it’s a lovely home which (I’m assured) houses some thoroughly pleasant persons. But just seven years ago, the basement flat was rented out to a builder with a baby, a bride-to-be and a bicycle. And although hard-working, none of the residents knew about his deadly past or his sadistic obsession. As far as we know, its tenant never knew Alice, she never knew him and although (as he cycled home from work) the murder of a young girl might not have been on his mind, in a chance encounter, there may have been something oddly familiar about Alice which stirred his emotions and drove him to kill. As it was here, on Thursday 4th September 2014, exactly one week after her disappearance, that 41-year-old Arnis Zalkalns vanished, leaving behind his family and taking one more life. (Interstitial) Missing for four days, Rosalind made an appeal to her daughter: "We'd like to say to Alice that we miss her, we love her and that she's not in any trouble, all we want to know that she's safe". Being a grounded girl, Alice’s only vices were walks, pets and music. She avoided conflict, strangers and unsafe settings, and she didn’t keep secrets, as having opened her heart to her family about her battle with depression and anorexia, their love and support kept her strong. She had never run away, but every option had to be considered... even the unthinkable. And although her family and the people of Hanwell never lost hope - as the streets were radiated by blooms of bright yellow ribbons in a vigil to ‘find Alice’ – but as time eroded, the likelihood of finding her alive grew more distant. If someone had taken her, the question was ‘who’ and ‘why’? On day five, having found her black backpack and trainers hidden amongst a dense thicket on a remote river towpath, although it remained a missing person’s case (until the evidence suggested otherwise) it was escalated to Detective Superintendent Carl Mehta of the Met’ Police’s Serious Crime Command. Conducting one of London’s largest searches, hundreds of dogs and officers scoured ten square miles of dense impenetrable woodland –overgrown, unmapped and riddled with dank nooks and recesses - from Three Bridges to Brentford Lock, the River Brent to the Hanwell Flight, covering every conceivable spot from Trumper’s Way to Gallow’s Bridge and Boston Manor Park, as divers waded through three-and-a-half miles of unnavigable rivers, ponds and bogs, relying mostly on touch amidst its silty depths. Over the coming weeks, a jigsaw of CCTV footage would painstakingly rebuild a timeline of Alice’s last known movements as well as any eye-witnesses. And yet, it would yield few clues to her whereabouts, as – at the crucial moment between 4:23pm and 4:42pm - her digital history had a dead zone. It seemed impossible. How could a young girl with a very identifiable look, outfit and walk vanish from a moderately busy towpath on a summer’s day in broad daylight, and yet nobody saw a thing? Released on Thursday 4th September, CCTV footage showed the small, skinny but confidently strutting Alice crossing Brentford Lock at 2.23pm, 3:45pm and finally power-walking under the Trumper’s Way Bridge at 4:23pm, as five cyclists passed her, just minutes before she vanished. Three came forward and were ruled out, but two did not, possibly having not recognised themselves in the grainy footage. It proved, she wasn’t followed, distracted or fazed, she stopped once, she spoke to no-one, she made no other calls or texts, her speed and direction remained consistent and she showed no signs of fear. As a senior detective, from day one, DSI Carl Mehta had been investigating this as a potential homicide, looking for any anomalies and possible suspects. On Saturday 6th September at 5pm, a 25-year-old Ealing man was arrested but later bailed. And on Sunday 7th, after a tip-off, a 51-year-old local was arrested after “a shovel, ropes and sacks” were found in his car-boot, but he was released uncharged. Alice hadn’t vanished of her own volition, that much was clear, so somebody had to know something... ...but even before these arrests were made, DSI Mehta had a second line of inquiry and a suspect. On average, 55000 people go missing in London every year, with roughly thirty-three missing persons reported in the borough of Ealing every week, and that week was no different. Excluding Alice, to the DSI, this list was a typical mix of the borough’s most vulnerable – whether children, the elderly or the mentally distressed – many of whom would return safe and well. But one person’s details stood out. On Friday 5th September, a 41-year-old Latvian was reported missing by his girlfriend; his passport and bank accounts lay untouched, both his UK and Latvian phones were dead, CCTV had lost him one day earlier and – as a new dad with a good job and a baby daughter - he had no reason to vanish. Last seen cycling away from his basement flat at 42 Castlebar Road, his disappearance had eery similarities to Alice. Only he wasn’t the victim, but the prime suspect and his name was Arnis Zalkalns. (Interstitial) Arnis Zalkalns was born in 1973 in the Latvian capital of Riga, under his real name - Arnis Daksa. Little is known about his early years except for a few scant details and although his family would later state “he was a good man, who wouldn’t hurt anyone, especially a child”, his past would refute this. Physically, he was unremarkable, being neither hideous, handsome nor bland. As an average-looking man of five-foot ten-inches tall, slightly stocky and thirteen stone in weight, he mirrored many other welders in the dockyard; he was practical, good with his hands and had the skills to construct his own tools. With a jutting chin, piercing grey eyes and a brown ponytail, he was semi-successful in his pursuit of petite young girls, and although moderately charming, his overriding character trait was aggression. In the spring of 1994, at a Riga nightclub, Arnis met 19-year-old seamstress Rudite Zalkalns. With soft brown hair, pale-skin and a pixyish nose, there was something prepubescent about her elfin features and a doll-like figure, as if – being a little naïve – her mind and body kept remained as a ‘little girl’. And easily enchanted, she ignored her mother’s warnings, she fell madly in love and quickly fell pregnant. By December 1994, hiding her bulging belly under a pink maternity dress, Arnis & Rudite married, with their daughter (Elvira) born two months later... but life was far from bliss, as Arnis was cruel, abusive and controlling. With the cause uncertain – whether Rudite had dented his ego having begun a lesbian fling or stumbled on his alleged links to the Latvian mafia - the violence she suffered was irrefutable. In 1996, having handmade a low-calibre handgun – with his masculinity impugned - he shot her in the stomach. Surviving with a crushed bullet lodged in her spine, being too terrified to call the Police and with Arnis refusing to pay for a surgeon to remove it, she was stitched back up and there it remained. By March 1997, with his temper tightly-wound as his wife dared to go-out without him or his say-so, feeling paranoid and spurned, he callously prepared her death. Under the ruse of a gift, he lured Rudite to a remote woodland on the outskirts of Riga where his weapons lay in wait. Wielding a foot-long cosh he had fashioned from scaffolding pole, he frenziedly bludgeoned the tiny girl to unconsciousness and brandishing a handmade blade, he stabbed in the heart. Stripped naked, tied into a foetal position and stuffed into a black bin-bag, Arnis dumped her body in pre-dug three-foot grave. Discarding her clothes and trainers, he disguised the crime-scene, so that (even to the experts) it looked untouched. His planning was detailed and his execution was faultless, but his failure was his obsession. Rudite was dead and gone, but unable to sleep and being haunted by her face, all he could think about was Rudite. Reporting her missing, detectives found her diary in which she detailed the violence and her despair, and as the Police’s prime suspect, on 9th July 1997, just four months later, he confessed to her murder. So well-concealed was his wife’s body that Arnis himself had to guide the search-teams to her grave. Assessed as mentally-stable, he pleaded guilty to murder and on 18th June 1998, he was sentenced to twelve years in Riga Central Prison, on appeal this was reduced to eight, but he served only seven. Released on probation in 2005 - leaving Elvira without a father or mother - he moved to Liepaja, began a new life with a lady called Liga Rubezneice, they had two children, and keen to bury his criminal past and (maybe unable to let go), he changed his name from Daksa to Zalkalns - his dead wife’s surname. In 2007, Arnis Zalkalns (a welder with no convictions) boarded a coach to London, having never been placed on Interpol’s watchlist of violent offenders. Moving to the West Ealing suburb of Boston Manor, he worked on a building site in Isleworth, cycling his red Trex mountain bike along the Grand Union canal and starting a relationship with his new girlfriend Katerina Laiblove, they would later move into the basement flat at 42 Castlebar Road in Ealing, and together they had a daughter called Linda. He had a new life in a new world with a new family... only his old demons were never put to rest. In 2009 - triggered by either lust, rage or obsession – Arnis Zalkalns was arrested for the sexual-assault of a 14-year-old schoolgirl in Boston Manor Park; a densely overgrown woodland, by the towpath on the Hanwell Flight, just one-a-half miles south of Lock 97. And although fully-investigated, the terrified girl decided to not to proceed and the charges against him were dropped. For DSI Carl Mehta, Arnis Zalkalns was his prime suspect. With a history of violence and sexual assault against young petite girls, his description and mountain bike matched the footage from Trumper’s Bridge, he was currently missing, and his DNA matched a sample found on Alice’s backpack and trainer. On Tuesday 16th September, DSI Mehta took the unusual step of announcing Zalkaln’s as a ‘person of interest’ stating “we simply want to speak to him, as he may have information that can help our search for Alice”. The next day, Police released the CCTV footage showing Alice crossing the short black-and-white footbridge at Brentford Gauging Lock at 3:45pm on the day she disappeared. At 4pm, just fifteen minutes later, that same footage showed Arnis crossing the footbridge and cycling north up the canal. So, why did Arnis attack Alice? He didn’t know her, he had never met her, and (based on the evidence) it wasn’t a pre-meditated murder. If anything, their contact would be as fleeting as any other stranger they would pass on the towpath that day - or any other day - with Arnis as one of many anonymous cyclists who were heading home from work, and Alice as just another jogger keeping fit. So, what happened? Thursday 28th August 2014 was as unremarkable as any other day that summer. Being twenty-three degrees, sunny but not hot, and calm with a light breeze – it was the perfect weather for a long walk. At 12:50pm, with a matching outfit, a confident stride and a swinging ponytail, (“bye mum, love you”) Alice left home on a spontaneous walk via an improvised route decided by her mood and energy. Her speed was consistent as she passed the following locations. 1.02pm Hanwell Station, 1:13pm Hanwell Bridge, 1.15pm Uxbridge Road and 1.26pm she entered Windmill Lane and the Hanwell Flight. She passed Lock 97, the Syphon, Trumper’s Way Bridge, Elthorne Park, Osterley Lock, the M4 flyover and Boston Manor Park; she crossed over at Gallow’s Bridge, passed Transport Avenue, Great West Road, and at 2.23pm she entered Brentford Gauging Lock, where at 3pm she texted her dad. At no point during her walk south did Arnis see her, as from 9am that morning, he was on a building site in Isleworth, three and a half miles of her home and one mile west of Brentford Lock. He worked hard, he took a short break, his mood was good and he left work at his usual time, having completed his shift. At 3:35pm, wearing a blueish short-sleeved shirt, cream chinos and black trainers, he cycled east along London Road on his red Trex mountain bike with his black rucksack on his back, as per usual. Given how meticulously he had planned and executed the murder of his wife – with a pre-dig grave, a handmade cosh, a sharpened knife, cable ties and a roll of black bin-bags, as well as how methodically he had hidden her body and disguised the crime-scene so it looked untouched – we know his attack on Alice wasn’t pre-meditated prior to this moment, as none of the tools he would need were on his person or at the scene. At 3:45pm, Alice headed north across the black-and-white footbridge at Brentford Lock. At 4pm, taking his usual route home, Arnis cycled passed that same spot, heading up the canal, in the same direction as Alice – as many joggers, dog-walkers and at least four other cyclists would at roughly the same time. With her walking speed gauged at three-miles-per-hour and his cycling speed at about eight, based on the timings between CCTV cameras, they would have passed one-another on the narrow towpath near to Boston Manor Park - the site of his alleged sexual-assault on a 14-year-old schoolgirl. At 4:26pm, a camera captured Alice being overtaken by the last of five cyclists at Trumper’s Bridge. Her speed was steady and she showed no sense of fear, so - if Arnis had confronted her near Gallow’s Bridge - feeling afraid, she could have left the canal on this road heading to Hanwell... but she didn’t. Having cycled to Lock 97, Arnis stopped, parked up his bike and - just to the left of Lock Cottage, down a secluded and overgrown short-cut running along the River Brent - he lit-up a Lucky Strike menthol and as he lay in wait for eight minutes as Alice approached, he smoked it down to the filter. So why Alice? A girl he never knew, had never met and hadn’t a single reason to love or hate, who was just one of hundreds (if not thousands) of girls he had cycled-by, every day, on that stretch of canal. Why Alice? Well that we can never know for certain, but there is one immutable and undeniable truth. Alice was a tiny girl, with the wise head of grown-up, but the small skinny body of a child. Being pixyish and petite, with elfin-features and a doll-like frame - although she was unquestionably easy-prey for a five-foot-ten thirteen-stone man - her look bore an uncanny similarity to that of his dead wife. Seventeen years after Rudite’s murder, still haunted by the face of his long-dead lover, the motive of Arnis Zalkalns might have been decided in a fleeting glance – from behind, and on a bike – as in a cruel ironic twist, the tragic fate of Alice Gross was (maybe) set-in-motion three years before she was born? The attack was swift and brazen. It had to be. Being a bright summer’s day, he snatched Alice off the public footpath, silencing her lips with his grubby hand, as he dragged the terrified teen to the bushes, and all the while, through-out her ordeal, lines of unwitting people would pass-by just a few feet away. For Arnis, the risk of being discovered was extremely high, but there hidden amidst the dense thicket, he raped this little girl, until his eighty-three-kilo bulk crushed the last breath of air from her tiny lungs. Evidence suggests that sex was his motive, not murder, but with Alice’s limp and lifeless body slumped beside him, his new motive was her disposal. As he had with his dead-wife, he needed to hide her, so no-one would find her... ever. Only with no plan, no tools and no pre-dug grave, he risked arrest. At 5:49pm, seventy-five minutes later, and at about the same time that Alice should have returned home, a camera on Uxbridge Road caught Arnis emerging from the towpath at Hanwell Bridge. In his bag was stashed her dead iPhone, possibly some of her clothes, and having dumped her backpack along the overgrown short-cut, we know that he had entered the river as the legs of his cream Chinos were rolled-up to his knees. He headed east into Hanwell and cycled 1.9 miles to his flat at 42 Castlebar Road, to his girlfriend and baby daughter. But his stay would only be brief, as Alice wasn’t buried. At 7:30pm, he left his home. In his rucksack was a shovel, a torch, spare clothes and a roll of black bin-bags. Where he found the four house-bricks and the broken bicycle wheel is unknown, but this kind of innocent detritus could easily be found at the canal having been dumped by any lazy fly-tipper. At 7:36pm, he entered The Corner Shop at 24 The Avenue in West Ealing and purchased two cans of strong lager. The shopkeeper said “he smelled bad” and “looked out-of-it, like he was on drugs”. At 7:46pm, the Hanwell Bridge camera caught him returning to the scene where he stayed until 8:49pm. Wading chest-deep into this isolated and unnavigable bend in the River Brent, he dug a shallow trench in the dark riverbed and - having wrapped her small porcelain body in black bin-bags - behind a tree, down a slope and buried deep in three-feet of silty water, he disguised this unrecognisable black lump amongst the mud and weighed her down with bricks, sections of tree-trunk and a twenty-kilo log. So meticulously had he hidden the body of Alice Gross, she wouldn’t be found for thirty-three days. The next day, on Friday 29th August, that same camera captured him at 6:48am and 9:02pm returning to the scene, possibly to check on the body as he cycled to-and-from work, along that same towpath. With her black backpack and blue trainers found just five days later, that day his internet search history was dominated by one name - ‘Alice Gross’. He knew he would be a suspect and he knew he would be caught. But (unlike with his dead wife) he would never confess, or see a single day in prison. (END) On Thursday 4th September at 12:40am, one week after her disappearance, 41-year-old Arnis Zalkalns left his flat at Castlebar Road, and having packed a rucksack with ropes and tools, he vanished. Announced as ‘person of interest’, a forensic search found additional evidence including the bin-bags, his bike, his clothes and the cracked case to Alice’s iPhone at his home. As well as hours of CCTV footage, the cigarette butt found at the crime scene and Zalkaln’s DNA was recovered on her backpack, her canvas trainer and – protected by the waterproof binbags – his DNA remained on her skin. Police were confident of a conviction, all they had to do was find him. The problem was he knew how to hide himself and a body, having done it twice before. But after thirty-one days of being missing, Arnis Zalkalns was finally found. On Saturday 4th October at 2pm, in a remote and densely-wooded thicket in Boston Manor Park, barely a mile south of Lock 97, the badly decomposed body of Arnis Zalkalns was found hanging from a tree. So well disguised was his body and the scene, that a previous search by Police specialists had failed to find it, and with no evidence of third-party involvement, his cause of death was hanging by suicide. The culprit was found, the case was closed and an inquest was held, but having taken his own life, Arnis Zalkalns would never be convicted and the family of Alice Gross would never get justice. On 23rd October, the people of Hanwell stood in silence as a black hearse crawled across Broadway, along long lines of rolling tears and bowed heads, as the little lost girl was returned home. Illuminated by yellow ribbons, candles and flowers, as the procession was lead to Hanwell Cemetery, in the back lay a small yellow coffin, decorated with paintings and designs of everything that Alice loved; art, music, poetry, her family, her pets and a flower-strewn meadow, to reflect her love of nature. But Alice’s name was not to become synonymous with grief, but joy. In her brief life, her love of music would become her legacy, a legacy which lasts to this day and will continue to inspire a new generation of children and teenagers to – battle through their personal problems, just as Alice had - and embrace the things that they love. In her memory, Alice's Youth Music Memorial Fund was established, raising donations and seeking to provide a sustainable legacy of music-making for disadvantaged children. As well as the Alice Gross Song Writing Award which inspires a new generation of young song writers. Alice will live on in our hearts, with the yellow ribbons of Hanwell once again seen a symbol of hope. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. That was the concluding part of the Yellow Ribbons of Hanwell. If you’d like to learn a little more about this case, join me for a cup of tea after the break and to make a donation to Alice's Youth Music Memorial Fund, there is a link in the show-notes. But before that, here’s a brief promo for a true-crime podcast which may be right up your street. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, many of whom joined us a good few weeks ago, so I apologise for the delay. They are: Sally Worsley, Jonathan McLean, Shawna Ewasiuk (Ewayzee-uk), Elizabeth Whitley, George Hall, Guido Puddi, Kim Skwara, Chris Niro, Shirley Jones, Michelle Wilde-Nguyen, Megan Morris and Tee Bylo. With the Patreon competition winners from ages ago being Michael Hanrahan (who won a Murder Mile mug of goodies) and Karen Hillier and Kara Langford (who won a Murder Mile key ring), Murder Mile was researched, written and 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. *** 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, which are freely available in the public domain, 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, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast 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 to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour 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", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk. |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster & tour guide of Murder Mile Walks, hailed as one of the best "quirky curious & unusual things to do in London". 
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