Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast - #147: Resistance: The Last Fight of Countess Teresa Łubieńska22/9/2021 
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Platform 5 at Gloucester Road tube station
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 FORTY-SEVEN:
Today’s episode is about Countess Łubieńska, a formidable woman who endured a life of unspeakable horrors, and yet never stopped fighting for the rights of others. But when a simple night-out turned deadly, her last fight... would be for her life.
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 Platform 5 of Gloucester Road tube station is located with a dark orange cross, just below the words Bayswater, below Hyde Park. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
Here's two videos to go with this week's episode. The one on the left show you Platform 5 at the Gloucester Road tube station where Teresa was last seen alive, and the one on the right shows you her last steps, before she was murdered. These videos are links to YouTube so they won't eat up your data.
SOURCES: As this case was researched using court records and several other sources, with just a few listed below.
MUSIC:
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 Countess Łubieńska, a formidable woman who endured a life of unspeakable horrors, and yet never stopped fighting for the rights of others. But when a simple night-out turned deadly, her last fight... would be for her life. 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 147: Resistance: The Last Fight of Countess Łubieńska. Today I’m standing at the Gloucester Road tube station, SW7; two streets east of the Polish super-spy Krystyna Skarbek, four streets north west of the devil child’s home invasion, directly opposite the basement where John George Haigh dissolved the entire McSwan family in a drum of acid, and three streets from the infamous killings of a misunderstood young man - coming soon to Murder Mile. This is Platform 5 of the eastbound Piccadilly Line service at Gloucester Road. With the surface station opened in 1868 and the deep-level lines in 1906 - following a recent refurbishment - much of this tube stop remains unchanged; with its ornate titling, its deep green and cream tiles, its blood red surface station and its wonderfully arched platforms down below. Aesthetically, it’s actually quite beautiful. Sadly, many commuters miss this, as the platform is merely a place where they grumble about a train being delayed by a full minute, and for the rest of the journey – with heads down, a book open and earphones on – they daren’t catch anyone’s eye for fear of engaging in a conversation with a real human-being; except to grunt at someone who’s bag’s on a seat, to tut at a flannel-dodger for whom deodorant is merely a yearly gift, and to gasp at the ladies who manage to perfectly apply their make-up on the world’s bounciest tube without looking like they’ve been smooched by Bongo the Clown. Minding your own business is a skill we’ve all mastered, especially in London... ...but when crimes occur, this apathy makes for terrible witnesses. On Friday 24th May 1957, at 10:19pm, a Piccadilly Line train from Earls Court pulled in on Platform 5. From the middle of seven carriages - most of which were a-third full of revellers heading to and from the West End - a tall elderly white-haired lady exited the train. Her name was Countess Łubieńska; a truly formidable woman who looked a little frail, but – with fire in blood – was unafraid to right the injustices of the past. But somewhere between the platform and the lift, she was murdered. As it was here, having battled her way through a life of torture and pain - in a tube-station miles from her broken homeland - that Countess Łubieńska would lose her last ever fight. (Interstitial). If you think you know what courage is? Then think again. Countess Łubieńska was born Teresa Skarżyńska on the 18th April 1884, the daughter of Władysław & Dorota. Raised among the wealthy Polish elite in south-eastern Poland, her early life was privileged, she lived on a large country estate and she was educated at an élite Catholic boarding school for girls. In 1902, aged 18, she married Count Edward Łubieński; a prominent man from a once-powerful Polish clan, money was no object and together they raised three children; Isabelle, Stanisław and Izabela. Given her upbringing, she could easily have become just another pointlessly pampered lady, living a life of luxury, as from her high horse she looked down her nose at the less fortunate below... ...but that was not Teresa. Revered throughout Poland for her generosity of wealth and spirit, she was esteemed throughout the country, with every Pole knowing that her home was always open to all. She fed the poor and nursed the sick, but what made her more impressive was how she fought for those who needed her help. Teresa was a fire-brand, a force to be reckoned with who sought-out injustice and was never afraid to pick a fight with someone bigger than herself. As a moral woman who couldn’t abide bad behaviour, she would single-handedly tackle ruffians in the street, and easily go twelve rounds with any fascist. What she lacked in size, she more than made-up for in presence; as when she spoke, they listened, but when anyone needed an ear, she was silent. As a big personality, Teresa was staunchly-loyal and had a remarkable memory for details - she always remembered a name and she never forgot a face. During the First World War, she served in the Red Cross, she fought for her country supporting the 14th Regiment of Jazlowiec Uhlans, and she served alongside the Red Army in Kuban, southern Russia. By 1918, the war may have been over... but her fight had only just begun. Following the October Revolution and the armed uprising of Bolsheviks, as hostilities erupted between Russia and Poland, their country estate was encircled and – being a prominent Polish diplomat – the enemy forces stabbed her husband to death. To protect her three young children, Teresa fled with nothing but the clothes on their backs, as the Red Army stripped her home of money and possessions. Witnessing her husband’s brutal murder, the rape of her life and death-threats against her family, that would have been enough to break anyone... and yet Teresa never gave up. Instead, she fought on. Over the next two decades, living in a small top-floor flat at 6 Sierpnia Street in Warsaw, this widowed single-mother earned a modest wage as an accountant for the Post Office Savings Bank and – although times were hard – she continued to shelter the poor, to feed the hungry and to fight her oppressors. But as hard as her life was... it was about to get even worse. On the 1st September 1939, Germany invaded Poland in a blistering ‘blitzkrieg’ attack. Within six days, the country had fallen, its military was wiped out and its people fell under Nazi and Soviet control. 700,000 Poles were captured and 133,000 were killed, one of whom was Teresa’s only son – Stanislaw. Seen by the Nazis as ‘Untermensch’ - a sub-human species - with many Poles (especially Jewish Poles) confined to the ghetto; disease and famine swept through Warsaw, and – so hungry were the people – that when a horse fell dead in the street, they stripped it for meat, until all that was left was bones. Teresa was alone and struggling, but there was no time for selfishness or grief (as many would resort to), as the Polish people needed her help and – no matter what – she would fight to protect them. Her shabby little top-floor flat at 6 Sierpnia Street was home, but it was far from safe; as with a German barracks in front, a Gestapo building behind and the other floors all occupied by enemy soldiers, she was very much a lone hen in a fox’s den. But this did not stop her from doing her patriotic duty. As a resistance fighter and a lieutenant in the Polish Underground Army, her flat became a key base of operations for the resistance movement - where industrial sabotage and the assassination of fascist collaborators was planned - and for three years, she continued to hide dissidents, spies, refugees and even an entire family for six months, in that tiny little flat, right under the noses of the Nazi’s. But as selfless as Teresa was – simply to save their own skin - someone ratted her out. On the 11th November 1942, Teresa was arrested without trial, sent to Warsaw’s brutal Pawiak prison - where resistance-fighters were publicly hung as a warning to others – and here she was tortured. Relentlessly and without mercy, she endured weeks of painful and humiliating tortures, day and night. Designed to break her spirit; she was starved, sleep deprived, drowned, frozen and raped. Forced to stand in stress positions as she was beaten with an iron bar, whipped red-raw and kicked until she was black and swollen, many sadistic techniques included the snapping of bones, nails ripped out, genitals burned and taken to the brink of death, she would be brought back to life, only to be tortured again. These savage beatings would have broken even the toughest of soldiers... but Teresa never broke. In fact, for the rest of her life, she would wear the scars on her flesh like a badge of honour and defiance. And yet, as hard as her life had been so far... it was about to get even worse. From Warsaw, Teresa was sent to the Ravensbrück concentration camp; a Nazi death camp where you were either worked to death, starved to death, or were gassed in the extermination chambers. Imprisonment had left her frail and weak, as – like so many others – being riddled with lice and scabies in this filthy hell-hole, she fell seriously ill in a camp riddled with dysentery, tuberculosis, typhoid and pneumonia. But what kept her alive was her formidable spirit and unwillingness to let the Nazi’s win. Even inside, Teresa put others before herself. Nicknamed the White Angel of Ravensbrueck, her self-sacrifice and kindness made her legendary among prisoners and so feared among the Gestapo, that -for two years - she was held in a ‘punishment block’, which few survived... and again, she was tortured. In January 1945, with the tide of war turning against Hitler, the Nazis began destroying all evidence of their barbaric crimes, including the mass-extermination of its prisoners at camps like Ravensbrueck. In the final weeks of the war, Count Folke Bernadotte – regarded as the Swedish Oskar Schindler – made a secret deal with Heinrich Himmler and negotiated the release of 31,000 prisoners. On 28th April 1945, Teresa found herself standing on the quay at the Swedish port of Malmö. She was little more than a skeleton swathed in filthy oversized rags with a shaven head and shoes made of paper. Countess Teresa Łubieńska had fought through war, death, poverty, loss and torture. But regardless of what she had endured, the fact that she was alive and that she was still standing, that was courage. And yet, although the Second World War had ended... for so many Poles, her fight was far from over. With the Potsdam Conference divvying-up Poland among the Allies and the Soviets, like this already smashed and battered country was a spoil of war – with her hometown now under Communist control – this allied collaborator knew that if she ever returned to Poland, she risked being shot as a spy. So, with no other options, no money and no possessions, Teresa moved to London... ...where twelve years later, she was murdered. During the post-war years – to many, who never knew this amazing woman - The Countess was just a little old lady; frail, thin and weak, but with a bob of white hair and a very defiant walk. Struggling to get British citizenship, she found it difficult to find even a menial job, and so she relied on charity. Therefore, it’s unsurprising, that - living in a small rented room in Cornwall Gardens, two streets from the Gloucester Road tube station - she became friends with Krystyna Skarbek, codename ‘Christine Granville’; the former super-spy, who at the same time was reduced to working as a hotel maid, and when she was murdered by her stalker, one of the mourners who stood at her grave-side was Teresa. Through the forties and the fifties, the city was full of refugees, who were displaced and abandoned. And although Teresa had nothing, she feed the poor, she nursed the sick and – with her indomitable spirit – she slammed her fists on the table of debate, demanding that the voice of the people be heard. As chairman of the Polish Association of Ex-Political Prisoners, Teresa spoke-out against Communists, Nazis, fascists and racists, who - even in the post-war years – still had millions of supporters. She picked fights with Wladyslaw Gomulka (the communist leader of post-war Poland), she waged a viscous battle with the West German government to get compensation for Polish refugees, and – as a Catholic - she was unafraid to take on the might of The Vatican, from Cardinal Wyszynski, all the way up to the Pope. For many Poles in Britain, Teresa was beloved... ...but by those she opposed, she was feared. By May 1957, Teresa was 72 years old. Her health was declining, but - still fighting on- that fire in her belly was a fierce as ever, as just like her prisoner’s tattoo and the torture scars which pockmarked her cut-and-burned body – although time had made them fade a little, they would never disappear. And still being a moral woman, she was not averse to clipping a ruffian about the ear for foul language. In the two weeks leading up to her murder, Teresa had received three death threats; two by phone, one by letter, and all were anonymous vague threats issued – at a distance - by cowards. Rightly, she informed the Police, but she wasn’t overly concerned, given the real horrors of the life she had lived. Friday 24th May 1957 was a good day. The weather was warm but cool, and as a very social person, Teresa had been to a friend’s birthday party on Florence Road in Ealing. Dressed in a set of pearls, a white jacket and a little hat with bright flowers, although she was poor, she always dressed well. At a little after 9:50pm – being in good spirits, but not being a night-owl - Teresa said her goodbyes and left the party accompanied by her good friend, Father Kazimerz Krzyanowski; a roman Catholic priest, the Polish assistant at the Brompton Oratory and a survivor of Dachau concentration camp. Just shy of 10pm, they entered Ealing Common tube station, purchased two single tickets and sat in the seventh compartment of the District Line tube train. The journey was uneventful, the carriage held roughly twelve people, all of whom were quiet and (as often happens) kept-to-themselves. At no point did they sense any danger; they weren’t approached, harassed or (as far as they know) followed. As Father Krzyanowski lived at Redcliffe Gardens in Kensington, at Earl’s Court they exited the train. With a short walk to his home, he wished his friend “goodnight” and left the station. Teresa changed trains and took the Eastbound Piccadilly Line service one stop east to Gloucester Road tube station. Being a Friday night and one hour before the pubs chuck-out, the train which held an average of 220 seated passengers was roughly one-third full of workers and revellers going to and from the West End. At 10:18pm, one minute before, the westbound service departed, so by the time that the eastbound service pulled into Platform 5, both platforms were bustling with pockets of people, but weren’t busy, At 10:19 precisely, entirely alone, Teresa exited the train onto the wide well-lit platform. Speaking to no-one and walking at her usual ‘determined’ pace, she followed the ‘exit’ sign and headed up a short set of stairs, along the tiled corridor towards the passenger lifts, and the station concourse above. The distance from the train carriage to the lifts was roughly 150 paces. But nobody saw her, heard her, or witnessed what happened next. Emanuel Olu Akinyemi, a 32-year-old ticket-inspector was manning one of the passenger-lifts that night. At 10:18pm, to catch the eastbound Piccadilly Line service (which Teresa was on), he saw two people enter the lift; a short brunette lady in red shoes and a fair-haired foreigner in a checked suit. Apart from them, the concourse was empty, as he entered the lift with his passengers. During its brief descent, he heard a scuffle coming from in or near the iron spiral staircase to the right of the lifts, and assumed – as had happened many times before - it was tearaway kids trying to avoid paying the fare. But as the lift doors opened and the scuffling stopped, he witnessed no kids playing-up. Instead, he saw a lone woman; frail, tall and white-haired, a haunted expression on her face and her arms outstretched, as she staggered towards the lift, weakly muttering “bandit, bandit”. Putting out his hands to aid her, inside her jacket he spotted blood pouring from the left-hand-side of her chest. The only words her faltering voice could muster was “bandit, bandit”, and although this strong-willed woman remained upright as they ascended, clutching her heart, she collapsed at the foot of the lift. Emanuel called the police from the nearest phone-box, PC Ron Sherfield was on the scene in minutes, and although conscious – choking on her own bloodied breath – she had spoken her last known words. Giving no description of her attacker, she was taken to nearby St Mary Abbot’s hospital.... ...but shortly after arrival, she died. Teresa was stabbed five times with a small short-bladed knife; one in the stomach, one in the back and three in the left-hand-side of her chest, with two piercing her heart. She had no defensive wounds. A search was conducted of the station, the platforms and all departing trains, as well as the tunnels, but no weapon or assailant was found. A street-to-street search was initiated, but with no description of the aggressor, this proved fruitless. A few spots of blood were seen beside the iron spiral staircase by the lifts, but – with no witnesses - Police could only speculate that this was where it taken place. And although fingerprint experts were called in, being a high traffic area, there were no usable prints. The investigation was headed up by Detective Chief Inspector John Du Rose and Chief Superintendent Edward Greeno of the Met’ Police, but – given the victim’s status - they were also joined by MI5. A public appeal was made; 18,000 passengers and staff were interviewed, 214 Piccadilly Line trains were examined, her home was searched, any person listed in her address book was contacted, and – over the next few months - every knife found in any station was handed to forensics to be tested. Of the 13 people in the eastbound Piccadilly Line carriage that night, most were traced. Of the 17 who rode in the lifts at the time of the attack, almost all were found. But – for whatever reason – maybe they didn’t recognise themselves, didn’t see anything strange, or didn’t want to come forward, many witnesses remain unidentified, like the brunette in the red shoes and the foreigner in the check suit. Several possible suspects were identified, such as; an underground worker who had booked a room at a local hotel but hadn’t used it, a teacher who had arrived at school the next day with a black eye and scratches to his face, and a homeless man who was loitering near the station, but all had alibis. The case remains active, but as of today, no-one has been arrested for Teresa’s murder. (End) So, who killed Teresa and why? It was unlikely to be a robbery, as her silver brooch was still pinned to her jacket and her handbag was on her arm, but – as someone who would never back-down from a fight - this couldn’t be ruled-out. As a moral woman who was quick to rebuke the rudeness of ruffians, a relative later stated that Teresa often used the word “bandit” to describe hooligans, and a station porter had seen a ‘gang of youths’ (some of whom carried knives) getting up-to-mischief on the platform, shortly before the murder. As a political animal, who was beloved by many, but equally as feared by others, Teresa had ruffled the feathers of Nazis, Communists, fascists and racists – who she also referred to as “bandits” – as well as the governments of West Germany, Russia and Soviet-backed Poland, and The Vatican. But if this was an assassination, why murder a frail old lady, a decade after the end of the war? The murder rate in London was at its highest that year. So, it could have been a politically-motivated hit, or just as easily, as an unplanned attack by a lone nutjob, the jealous reaction of a stalker (as had happened to Krystyna Skarbek), a case of mistaken identity, or - as someone who everyone agreed “never forgot a face” - maybe she spotted someone from her past who was wanted for war-crimes? An inquest was held on 28th August 1957 at Hammersmith coroner’s court, where her death was ruled as ‘murder by persons unknown’. With a huge outpouring of emotion from the Polish communities, hundreds of mourners attended her service at Brompton Cemetery, she was buried not far from the political activist Emmeline Pankhurst and was posthumously awarded the Golden Cross of Merit. But let’s not remember her for her death. Let’s remember her for who she was; a resistance fighter, a charity-worker, a humanitarian, a champion of the poor, a defender of the right, an agitator of the wrong; a mother, a wife, a widow, and above all, she was Countess Teresa Lubienska – a living legend. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, if you love to listen to a fat bald man waffle on about tea, cake, Eva and coots, and you’re keen to hear more details about this case and do a little quiz, stay tuned till after the break. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Becky McDowall, Chris Hawkes and Craig Stephens. I thank you. I bless you and so do the coots, but Eva doesn’t, not because she’s rude, but because she’s suffering from a massive hangover... again. What can I say? She likes yards of ale. 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, totalling 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.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY-SIX:
Today’s episode is about Harry Tuffney. Through his eyes, he saw himself as a loyal and loving man who always fought to live a good life; with a job, a home and a wife. But when his perfect little dream went awry, Harry would do the unthinkable.
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 75 Star Street is marked with a blue cross, just by the word Paddington. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
These videos are links to YouTube so they won't eat up your data.
SOURCES: This case was researched using the original declassified police investigation file, as well as several other sources, not all of which are listed below:
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 Harry Tuffney. Through his eyes, he saw himself as a loyal and loving man who always fought to live a good life; with a job, a home and a wife. But when his perfect little dream went awry, Harry would do the unthinkable. 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 146: Harry Tuffney: The Abandoned Man. Today I’m standing on Star Street in Paddington, W2. Two streets from four very different killers; the solo-strangling of the Sad-Faced Killer in Sussex Gardens, the necrophile Reg Christie preying on Kathleen Maloney in Praed Street, the sadistic Blackout Ripper casually smoking after his failed attack on Kathryn Mulcahy in Southwick Street and then there was Frozen Jim - coming soon to Murder Mile. Just shy of Paddington Station, Star Street is one of a series of identical residential streets packed full of late 19th century three-storey terraces, which was formerly a slum. But with white stucco on ground floor, brown brick above and wrapped with black wrought-iron railings, they’ve brushed-up right nice. The problem is – with each street identical, and every house indistinguishable – it’s hard to tell them apart except for a tiny detail; like a lamp, a flower box, a garishly-coloured door, a mat with an oh-so witty slogan like ‘welcome’ (only misspelt so it reads ‘weclome’), ‘my other house is a mansion’ (which it isn’t), ‘you don’t have to be mad to live here, but it helps’ (suggesting that said owner is a ‘personality on legs’ when in fact he’s just a turd in a suit) and – the ever-funny - ‘beware of the wife’ (not the dog, the wife, implying she’s viscous, has rabies and spends half the day licking her genitals... I’m guessing). And if the postman or any passing guest is really lucky, the door might even have a house number. Today, it’s a home, but back in the 1930’s, 75 Star Street was Elizabeth Warren’s lodging house. A nice place where young couples could stay while struggling to afford their own home. In the front second-floor rooms lived Harry, a mechanic, and Kitty, a waitress; a pleasant couple in their late thirties who had recently got engaged and we’re looking forward to spend their whole lives together. This was where their love affair had begun... but sadly, it was also where it would end. As it was here, on the night of Friday 29th June 1934, that gripped with a life-long fear of abandonment, Harry Tuffney would ensure that he and his beloved Kitty would never be apart. (Interstitial) Into the wee small hours of the night, dressed in just pyjamas and a nightdress, Harry & Kitty were sat on Harry’s bed. Being in an age when unmarried couples didn’t dare share a bed (let alone have sex) for offending civilised society or the Good Lord above – being engaged, but unmarried, as they couldn’t afford the fee – the couple had single rooms with single beds connected by an adjoining door. Having sat sipping whiskey and ale from two tumblers, the love-sick twosome – who had only been an item for barely a year, so their feelings were still as box-fresh as the day they had met – had talked of their past and their future; of one together and one apart. And as the night drew ever blacker, so did their talk, as the thought of never being able to lie side-by-side turned their talk more morose. Through Harry’s eyes, there were no cries nor noises that night, only tears. No-one in that fully occupied lodging house heard a single sound as the unthinkable happened, as it was all very peaceful. With Kitty tucked-up in her own little bed, snuggled under the softness of her own sheets, Harry kissed his beloved’s cheek - “goodbye my sweet” – as her last ever breath left her slowly cooling body. Kitty was gone, Harry was broken, so with no reason to live, Harry used his last alive moments to write two letters; one to the police explaining the situation, and one to his family apologising for what he had done and was yet to do. “Dear mum and all. My darling passed away at 3am. It was instantaneous. She did not suffer at all. Never murmured. We had quite a long chat together, had a bottle of ale and a small bottle of whiskey. A parting drink from this world into the next. At 1am, after our talk, she said she did not care which way things went. Little did she know how near both our times were. Goodbye all. Harry”. With handwritten love-letters strewn about the floor and their last drink still whetted with her lipstick, Harry laid upon the carpet. Placing down two cushions for his head, he laid flat and opened-up the gas taps. Breathing the invisible killer deep, as in heaven, he prayed he would see his beloved again. Through Harry’s eyes, death was the only option... ...her death, his death, together... ...as Kitty was the only woman he would ever love. Born Edith Kathleen Longshaw in 1896, making her 38-years-old when she died, Kitty was never a fan of being called Edith, instead she preferred Kathleen, Kitty or Kat. To be honest, the nickname suited her, as with large almond-shaped eyes, a small nose and prominent cheeks, she looked like a cat. Raised in the peaceful village of Shipton-under-Wychwood in Oxfordshire, being far from any bustling city or choking industry, this small ancient parish was dominated by the stately manor houses of two wealthy families for the last five centuries. But Kitty’s family wasn’t one. Being working-class, as far back as anyone can recall, they had always lived here, working as farmers and domestic servants. Kitty’s life was as tough as anyone’s in that era, but with a loving mum, a hard-working dad and being one of several brothers and sisters, she came from a good family in this tight-knit country community. When the world was first plunged into all-out war, she remained in the village, working as a maid and keeping-tabs on her aging parents. When her brothers returned from war, some – like Ernest – stayed and used his military training to become a mechanic and chauffeur for one of the prominent families, but with some of others now living in the big city, Kitty wanted more for her life and moved to London. Widely regarded as reliable, pleasant and fast on her feet, Kitty worked several jobs in cafes and pubs, but really found her place as a ‘nippy’; one of the infamously speedy waitresses at Maison Lyonese, the corner-house tearoom owned by J Lyon’s & Co on the corner of Edgware Road and Marble Arch. Dressed head-to-foot in black with a white lace pinny, red buttons and a paper hat, Kitty worked fifty-four-hours-a-week for a wage of twenty-six shillings. It wasn’t a lot, but she got by, and being a “nice girl”, she befriended a regular customer called Mrs Warren who ran a lodging house at 75 Star Street. If ever she needed a clean affordable room – which sometimes she did – all she had to do was ask. And that was Kitty. She led a simple life (as many of us do); with no real troubles, issues or stresses. She worked hard, she lived as well as her wage would allow, and she hoped one day to have a home, a few kids, and - having been in-and-out of relationships - she was yet to find her ‘Mr Right’. Not a prince, nor a Romeo... ...just someone she could love. Harry was born Harry Tuffney in 1898, making him two-years younger than Kitty when he took his own life. Raised in Chalfont St Peter, a village in Buckinghamshire, he also came from working-class stock. Living in a cramped hovel in the delightfully-named Gravel Hill, the Tuffney family was large but typical of the era; with Harry being the first surviving child of mum Alice and John, a brick-layer; followed by Florence, Lucy, William, Isabella and George in quick succession. Without question, life would be hard, given his limited education and modest wage as a part-time baker’s boy. But his childhood would be short and tragic, as – with madness on both sides - his family were cursed by ‘maladies of the mind’. In 1912, aged just four, his baby brother George died in the Buckinghamshire Insane Asylum. His illness was undiagnosed, but it was reported that be suffered from ‘strong emotions’ and ‘bouts of delusion’. Three years earlier his aunt had died in the same asylum, his younger brother William was committed there in 1920 (where he would remain until his death), and – being prone to ‘hearing voices’ and ‘irrational acts’ – one frequent inmate was ‘the only woman he would ever love’ – his beloved mum. With a loss of affection, Harry had no stability in his early life, and although this was a sad tragedy which many families suffered – through his eyes – he always felt that he had been abandoned, a feeling which left him always searching for that one constant love who would remain by his side... forever. It is unknown whether Harry was ever a patient at the asylum, but as a painfully loyal young man who took loss very personally, around the time of his aunt’s death, aged eleven, Harry was found hanging from an apple tree. He survived, but no-one really knew if this was an accident, bullying or suicide. In 1916, aged 18, Harry did ‘his bit for King & Country’ and enlisted. Trained as a motorcycle mechanic, he rose to the rank of Staff Sergeant in the Light Car Patrol of the 11th Machine Gun Corps, based out of Tanta in Egypt. Harry had finally found his place in life; he had a career, a wage, a home and a new family amongst his fellow soldiers. He was described as loyal and brave, but a little ‘hot-headed’. Years later, he would claim that - in 1918 - he was hit by shrapnel in the head. There is no medical record to disprove this, and by 1934, he had no injury or scar. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. In 1920, it was said that while attempting to quell an uprising in Tanta and seeing one of his comrades “bashed and nearly killed” by a brutal mob - in a pique of uncontrolled anger – he “ran amok in a riot”, shooting and stabbing three Egyptians to death. Three weeks later, to protect a military policeman who was also a pal, he shot an Egyptian boy dead. No action was taken, no report was filed and (being war-time) there was no trial or inquiry. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. On 12th June 1920, finding “the only women I will ever love” he married 18-year-old Victoria Mardaros, they moved into a little flat at 28 Tel El Haddadin in Tanta, and being demobbed from the Army, he found a new career as the chauffeur, bodyguard and motor mechanic to an unnamed Egyptian Prince. To His Highness, Harry was (and would always remain) his eternally loyal servant, but always believing that Victoria – who he later described as “an obnoxious woman whose conduct preyed on my mind” - was unfaithful, six years later Harry divorced her... but not before he had tried to shoot her dead. Of this, there is no evidence nor criminal trial, but - in his eyes – it was her who had abandoned him. In 1928, with the Prince moving to London, so did Harry, and although his career was his one constant, his love-life was in chaos. That summer - “the only women I will ever truly love” – his mother, died in the Buckinghamshire Insane Asylum. Being broke and distraught at her passing, he tried to find love again, but by 1932, his second wife Margaret also died, just weeks after they were married. In Harry’s eyes, he had been abandoned, again and again, and again. Love had eluded him, happiness was a distant memory, and he would be forever cursed to live his life alone... ...until September 1933, when Harry met Kitty. Where they met was unrecorded, but they clearly liked each other having found their kindred spirit. With Harry, a mechanic and Kitty, a waitress, unable to afford swanky dinners and champagne, their romance was like anyone else’s – simple and sweet. They went to pubs, cinemas and took walks in the park, eating cheese and pickle sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and feeding the crusts to the ducks. It was a very normal relationship given the confines of the era; and still only courting, they held hands in public, kissed in the dark of the cinema and went to dances as an excuse to hold each other tight. At Christmas 1933, after four months together, Harry proposed and Kitty accepted. Fuelled by the fear that time was ticking away, maybe he was a little too rash to find a wife and she was too eager for babies? But there was no denying that they were in love. So, in March 1934, they moved in together. Taking up Mrs Warren’s offer, by the April, Harry & Kitty had rented two adjoining rooms at the lodging house at 75 Star Street. It was pleasant, clean, quiet and full of ten lodgers in full-time employment. Originally a larger room overlooking the street, being subdivided by a partition wall, Harry & Kitty’s rooms were small but affordable; with each consisting of a single bed, an armchair, a wash stand, a small fireplace for heating and for hot water, a small hob connected to a gas-tap at the skirting board. Being a temporary fix until they could afford a place of their own, it was filled with the typical things; a trunk of clothes, a wireless radio, some hats, some coats, some shoes, his bits for shaving, her bobs for make-up and a few pieces to make a nice night-time brew, as well as being sparsely decorated with a few family keepsakes, their many love-letters, and – on their bedside tables – a photo of each other. According to the lodgers, the future Mr & Mrs Tuffney weren’t just lovers, they were best friends; who stood side-by-side, were always loving and although a little quiet, no-one ever heard them quarrel. There was no denying, that Harry was entirely devoted to Kitty... ...only Kitty was not as devoted to Harry, and it plagued on his mind. Like many relationships, once the honeymoon period was over, feelings were never as strong. It didn’t mean she didn’t love him – she did – she just didn’t love him, as much. But as another loving relationship seemed to slip through his fingers, his life-long fear of abandonment rose, once again. Over the next few weeks, still living in adjoining rooms as they could afford little else, they remained together but had clearly drifted apart; they touched less and kissed as infrequently. Desperate never to lose “the only women I will ever truly love”, Harry insisted they marry soon, but always keen to keep the peace, Kitty simply smiled, trying to make the best of a difficult situation for both of them. But as the hurt slowly ate away at Harry’s heart, the paranoia began to gnaw away at his brain. In one of several letters written to his sister Lucy, Harry wrote of his pain and anguish, stating “there’s something wrong with my brain. One day, I feel that something is going to snap”. Helplessness had made him bitter and jealousy had made him moody, but something was not right in his head. In May 1934, after a decade of loyal service and just four weeks before he did the unthinkable, Harry lost his job as chauffeur and mechanic to the Egyptian Prince. The reason? He had become unreliable, although he would later claim he was sacked after an unnamed client made a false complaint against him. Of course, there was no evidence to disprove this, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. On Friday 15th June 1934, two weeks before, Kitty sat Harry down and told him the truth – “Harry, it’s over” – she said it softly, she held his hand and – to make him not feel like a failure, as she knew he would - she used every possible platitude to ease his pain; “you’ve done nothing wrong”, “it’s not you, it’s me”, “it wasn’t meant to be”. All of which, he seemed to take rather well. Two days later, having admitted to his sister that he had been snooping in Kitty’s handbag, Harry found a letter from a man called Briggs addressed to Kitty, in which the two planned to run-away together, and in the weeks prior, he had seen her out-and-about with several men. He said nothing to her about it, he put the letter back and it was never seen again. Although, there is no evidence to disprove this... ...but in his eyes, it was all true. Friday 29th June 1934 began as a very ordinary day. Still living in adjoined rooms and staying on friendly terms, Harry joined Kitty for a breakfast of tea, toast and boiled eggs. With her uniform crisp and neat, Kitty went to work, doing the regular 11am to 11pm shift at Maison Lyonese, a few streets away. The day was bright and sunny, but for Harry, the morning was already beset by a persistent gloom. In her fireplace, he had spotted the charred remnants of yet another letter to Kitty from Briggs. “I felt a blackness coming over me. I became infuriated. I went for a walk to feel better”. Skulking four streets south, six-minutes later he arrived at an iron-monger’s on Kendall Street, and purchased an axe. Harry: “it just came into my head... go out, buy a chopper”. With its wooden handle one foot-long and the six-inch-wide steel blade half-a-kilo in weight – as a very common tool for any household with a fireplace – it was light enough to carry in his hand, but heavy enough to split a large log in half. Returning home “I saw the letter again. I had an itching feeling all over my body, as I have felt before and I could see rings coming at me. I seemed to go very peculiar”, and he hid the axe under his bed. Mid-afternoon, Kitty came home. He would claim: “we kissed as usual. I felt better and I forgot all about the axe”, although several sources would state that she didn’t arrive back till almost midnight. That night, dressed in just pyjamas and a nightdress, they sat on Harry’s bed talking of their past and their future; of one together and one apart, with Harry favouring one and Kitty the other, as their calm and amicable conversation stretched into the wee small hours, waking no-one in the whole house. With work the next morning, although lipstick would prove that the two had sipped whiskey from two tumblers, no alcohol was detected in Kitty’s system. She wasn’t much of a drinker, in fact; she wasn’t ever morose or maudlin, she didn’t have dark thoughts or depression, and she never talked of suicide. Harry: “After drinking an eighth of a bottle of whiskey, I went to my room, undressed, I went to her room to say goodnight, and she said I was not looking well. She said she was fed up, and I suggested we should gas ourselves. We sat on the bed, and after drinking more whiskey, she started to write a letter”. Her last ever letter. Although, if this was true, her suicide note was never found. Through his eyes – unable to face a future where this love-sick twosome could never lie side-by-side – together they had decided on a death pact. But through hers, she was just tired and headed to bed. Harry: “I remember seeing it under the bed, I picked up the chopper and after that I went blank”. With Kitty tucked-up in her own little bed, snuggled under the softness of her own sheets, Harry kissed his beloved’s cheek - “goodbye my sweet” – and with one swift strike, he buried the axe’s blade deep into the back of her head; splintering her skull, splitting it wide and exposing her brains, as a thick pool of red goo formed about her lifeless corpse, as her last ever breath left her slowly cooling body. Locking the door, with Kitty gone, Harry used his last moments alive to write one letter to the police and one to his family (some living, some dead) apologising for what he had done and was yet to do. “Dear mum and all. My darling passed away at 3am. It was instantaneous. She did not suffer at all. Never murmured. We had quite a long chat together, had a bottle of ale and a small bottle of whiskey. A parting drink from this world into the next. At 1am, after our talk, she said she did not care which way things went. Little did she know how near both our times were. Goodbye all. Harry”. With Kitty’s handwritten love-letters to Briggs strewn about and their last drink still whetted with her lipstick, Harry laid upon the carpet. Placing down cushions for his head, he laid flat and opened-up the gas taps. Breathing the invisible killer deep, as in heaven, he prayed he would see his beloved again. Through Harry’s eyes, death was the only option... ...her death, his death, together. (End) Only Harry didn’t die. Why? We don’t know. Maybe a window was open, maybe the gas was weak, or maybe, it was all a lie? A few hours later, still wearing his blood-stained pyjamas, Harry handed himself in at Marylebone Lane Police Station, confessing “I have killed my girl. Here is the key to the door”. The Police arrived at 75 Star Street at 9:14am, to find a body, an axe, two tumblers, two letters written by Harry, no letters written by Kitty or Briggs, no witnesses, no assault, no signs of a struggle, and – following a medical - the police surgeon confirmed that Harry was suffering from coal-gas poisoning. Harry was charged at 11:30am with her murder, to which he confessed “I murdered the girl and that is the end of it. I done it. I suffer for it. I have had my revenge”. And unlike many other aspects in his life, we know this definitely happened, as there was a report, an inquest and a trial. While on remand at Brixton prison, two medical specialists came to different conclusions: Dr Organ for the defence stated that “Harry was temporarily insane at the time of the murder” and had a “family history of insanity”, where as Dr Grierson for the prosecution refuted this, stating that Harry was sane. Tried at the Old Bailey, Harry pleaded guilty to manslaughter by reason of insanity, but having already made a full confession to the Police, the jury found him guilty and he was sentenced to death. Harry Tuffney was executed at Pentonville Prison on 9th October 1934. But was any of this Harry’s fault? As with his mother, his aunt and two younger-brothers dead; having been hung as a child, injured as a soldier, and having shot and stabbed four Egyptians to protect his friends, with a divorced first wife, a dead second wife, and now a dead future third wife, all of whom had cheated on him? Would Harry have committed this heinous act if they hadn’t abandoned him? All of that is entirely true... but only if you see it through Harry’s eyes. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, if you enjoy a bit of non-obligatory chin-waggery, featuring a cup of tea, a possible cake (diet permitting), a little quiz and a few extra details about this case, join us after the break. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Nicola Marshall, Darren Gallagher, Carole Anne Willsher, Matthew Miskell and Sarah Bevan. I thank you for supporting the show, my belly, my cholesterol count and shares in Mr Kipling’s bakery. I thank you. 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, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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Olga's former home at Cumberland Park in Acton, W3, where Dylan Freeman was murdered
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 FORTY-FIVE:
Today’s episode is about Olga Freeman, a devoted mother to her ten-year-old physically and mentally disabled son – Dylan. She had everything in place to ensure he had the best care possible. But when the Covid Pandemic hit, Olga & Dylan’s lives were thrown into chaos.
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 Olga home is located with lilac cross, just above the words ACTON. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
Here's a video to go with this week's episode, showing you Olga's former home in Cumberland Park, Acton, W3, where Dylan Freeman was murdered. These videos are links to YouTube so they won't eat up your data.
SOURCES: As this case is very new, and none of the court records are available, it was based on news sources, so the veracity of the content cannot be fully verified. https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-56025628 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-53904823 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-53833604 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-55794997 https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-9249697/Mother-given-indefinite-hospital-order-suffocated-autistic-son.html https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-55794997 https://www.standard.co.uk/news/crime/olga-freeman-guilty-killing-disabled-son-acton-b900984.html https://www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/mum-admits-killing-son-10-23379040 https://www.standard.co.uk/news/crime/acton-murder-mother-court-dean-freeman-son-10-a4526786.html https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2021/feb/11/olga-freeman-uk-woman-who-killed-disabled-son-detained-in-hospital-indefinitely https://www.standard.co.uk/news/crime/dylan-freeman-death-mother-disabled-son-inquest-a4532506.html https://www.image.ie/self/the-tragic-death-of-dylan-freeman-shows-the-pressure-cooker-of-lockdown-on-those-already-struggling-to-cope-235830 https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/crime/lockdown-child-killings-murder-london-b1792720.html https://www.mylondon.news/news/west-london-news/acton-mum-who-chocked-disabled-19817407 https://www.cps.gov.uk/london-north/news/mother-admits-killing-10-year-old-son-acton https://krw-law.ie/olga-freeman/ https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/dylan-freeman-murder-acton-mother-olga-freeman-inquest-a9688351.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 Olga Freeman, a loving mother... (Podcast grinds to a halt / white noise / distortion). Imagine if everything stopped. Without reason or warning, everything you ever knew or depended on suddenly ceased in the blink of an eye. None of it was your fault, but you were left to fend for yourself. When the Covid pandemic hit, for billions of people the whole world stopped dead. The simple things we all took for granted became a massive concern; like our jobs, our health, our wealth and our loved ones, followed by mass panics over some of life’s basics like water, pasta, rice and toilet paper. Lockdown was a difficult time for everyone - as being prisoners in our own homes - without a routine to keep us sane, boredom created tensions, and (at times) living with those we love became an ordeal. These were desperate times – a crisis for our age - which pushed our stress levels to breaking point, our sanity to its limits, our tolerance to the edge, and many of us lost loved ones... ...but as the bulk of the population sat on their fat arses, staring at screens and grumbling about the loss of seemingly insignificant little luxuries; like trips to the flicks, nights in the pub, holidays in Greece, footie matches, concerts, picnics and what they would do once they had completed Netflix? While some lamented their so-called hardships and woes living a mildly inconvenienced life in lockdown... ...others were really struggling, being trapped in a waking nightmare. For those with physical disabilities and mental health issues, as well as those who selflessly provide the care they so desperately need, even little changes to their routines can have a devastating effect. Simple changes to when they eat, sleep or play; what they do or where they go can quickly spiral into a traumatic event. But what if – one day, without any warning – everything collapsed, their routine upended, and they were forced to stay indoors, every day, with no end in sight? With every vital piece of specialist care or support services they had always relied-on taken away in the blink of an eye, and no matter how loud they shouted or how hard they cried, no-one could hear them scream. Olga Freeman was a single-mother, living alone, with her severely disabled son – Dylan. Every day was a struggle and every hour was difficult, but she coped as best she could, thanks to her dedication as a loving mother and the routines and services she had put in place to give Dylan the best possible life. But when the pandemic struck... ... and everything stopped... ...Olga Freeman was left alone. (Podcast sound comes back in). My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 145: A Desperate Lockdown for Olga Freeman. (Let the theme tune play long, street sounds) A little over one year ago, this was Olga’s home that she shared with her ten-year-old son - Dylan. It is a small two-bedroomed flat on the ground-floor of 18 Cumberland Park in Acton, West London. The brickwork is white, the windows are large, there’s a central door to the flats above and a small shared garden outback. It is not unlike any other home on this lower-middle-class residential street. In fact, being a quiet little street discretely dotted with cars, trees and the occasional house converted into a community-minded business like a dentist’s, a doctor’s surgery or a nursery, it’s not unlike any other street. It’s a nice homely place where families live, and here they can feel safe and protected. If you were expecting a glib comment or an amusing quip by myself, as often happens in his part of the podcast as a bit of light levity before the heart-breaking horrors of this story folds? Think again. (Don’t let the music end, don’t add a busker or an interstitial. Don’t add anything familiar). Olga was born Olga Voronina on 19th March 1980 in Moscow, Russia. Raised during the death-throws of this communist state - with the Soviet Union dissolved on 26th December 1991 - Russia developed closer links to the West and Olga’s financially-successful family fulfilled their middle-class aspirations. With political isolation a thing of the past, fortune was on their side as they headed into a bright future. With blonde hair, hazel eyes and a warm smile, Olga was blessed with an inviting face which matched her intoxicating personality. And combined with a methodical brain and hard-working ethic, it was clear to everyone she met that she would be a success. By the turn of the millennium, she was studying law at Moscow State Law Academy, by the mid-2000’s she was doing her post-grad’ at BPP Law School in London and – being fluent in English – she worked for several corporate law firms in the City. Her life was blessed; she wasn’t rich, but her life was good, she worked hard and the rewards paid off. Like anyone else, she enjoyed the fruits of her labour; but she didn’t go to excesses, she didn’t commit criminal acts, she didn’t set-out to hurt anyone and she didn’t have a bad bone in her body. She had a brief history of depression, but who doesn’t? And through good diet, yoga and medication, she coped. By the end of the 2000’s, Olga had met and fallen in love with Dean Freeman, son of famed celebrity photographer Robert Freeman and a talented photographer in his own right, having shot portraits of the Spice Girls and David Beckham. Together Olga & Dean travelled the world and lived the jet-set life of everyone’s dreams; first-class tickets, exclusive parties and - to escape the stresses of life – they holidayed in a Brazilian tropical hideaway amidst the rain forest overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. The perfect life had fallen into place for Olga. With good careers, the couple married, moved into a million-pound Edwardian house in Acton and on 3rd January 2010, their son Dylan Valentine was born. They had it all and they lived the good life... ...but even for those who don’t deserve it... ...fate can be cruel. Dylan was sweet child, a little dot of pink flesh with a mop of blonde hair, just like his mum. Like any parent, this bundle of joy was a delight, as – in their eyes – he was beautiful and perfect in every way. But at a few days old, it was clear that Dylan wasn’t well, he couldn’t feed properly and his lungs were weak. Unlike the other babies, he didn’t cry, instead the best he could muster was a weak high-pitched wail, like he was eternally dying. Physically, his body was frail and malformed; with a head abnormally small, a degenerative eye-sight and a narrow set of hands and feet crudely held together by weak muscles and loose joints (which made simple tasks like standing, walking and holding objects difficult). Dylan was diagnosed with Cohen’s Syndrome, one of the rarest congenital birth defects with only five hundred known cases across the world, and a genetic disorder for which there is no known cure. With his body fighting against him, Dylan’s little life would be plagued by physical disability. Requiring constant love and care - twenty-four hours a day, seven-days-a-week – he would be unable to walk, feed or function without help. With his brain as underdeveloped as his body, Dylan was also on the autistic spectrum, which meant he was prone to mood swings, struggled to communicate, and when he was sad or in pain, he couldn’t express it, so instead he would howl like a wounded wolf cub. And as if that wasn’t enough, he was also at a higher risk of infection and autoimmune disorders. Disability aside, Dylan blossomed into a lovely little boy who everyone described as gentle, happy and sweet, and whose favourite part of the day was cuddling up to his mum as they watched Peppa Pig. Olga gave up everything for her beloved son; her career, her lifestyle, her dreams. As a smart driven businesswoman, she became a full-time carer, as he was her everything - her world - and she was his. Olga was a great mum; dedicated and loving. To stimulate her son’s body and his brain, she took him swimming, to the park, to art galleries, and together this family of three went on overseas holidays. To aid his education, he went to a special needs school five-days-a-week. And when she needed it, she got in a respite carer, as she knew that she had to be physically and mentally fit in order to cope. It wasn’t easy, but Olga was incredibly patient. Although he struggled to swallow food, she would turn meal-times into play-time just to get him to eat. As he howled by night, she sang him to sleep, and – drained of all energy – she slept whenever she could. Friends all said “she always put a brave face on”, never showing if she was stressed, as she wasn’t doing this for her, she was doing this for him. Olga was holding it together... ...but owing to the stresses of work and caring for Dylan, Olga & Dean separated and later divorced. To keep some consistency, Dylan spent the summers with his dad in Barcelona, where he now lived. But with the family home broken-up as part of the divorce settlement, Olga & Dylan moved into a small two-bedroomed ground-floor flat at 18 Cumberland Park in Acton, not far from his school. As a recently single mum with a severely disabled son, life was hard but she coped. As he grew older, larger and began to enter puberty, Dylan became more disruptive, and yet, still she coped. But when the whole world was plunged into chaos... ...everything that Olga & Dylan relied on, collapsed. It was said in court: “she did an awful thing... but she was not an evil person, even if it was an evil act”. Through the winter of 2019 and 2020, Covid-19 wasn’t a major issue; Brexit was on our mind, Trump was still President and our Prime Minster (Boris Johnson) had dismissed it as a Chinese problem. With the virus over there, rather than over here, the world had side-stepped several outbreaks over the last decades – such as Swine Flu, Bird-Flu, Sars-1, Ebola – and Spanish Flu was a distant memory. On 16th March 2020, like many countries across the planet, Britain entered a national lockdown... (Insert soundbite of Boris Johnson announcing lockdown restrictions). Unessential shops were shut, unnecessary travel was banned and public gatherings were forbidden. Everything was pared down to only the most basic of essentials, and as key workers carried-on – doing a heroic job with no overtime nor protection - the selfish shoved the vulnerable aside, ransacked the shelves and the sale of fridge freezers surged, as the irresponsible hoarded chips, pizzas and Kiev’s by the kilo. It was a crisis which showed everyone in their true colour – dividing the selfish and the selfless. Three days later, Olga celebrated her 40th birthday alone. Although in good spirits, she was rightfully concerned about the virus, as her son was at a higher risk of infection than most. But with very little credible information being released on how to protect them both, all she could do was to be vigilant. For many, it was a time of great uncertainty; as rules were flouted, masks were non-existent and the unscrupulous sold hand-sanitiser at grossly inflated prices. Initially, the lockdown was only supposed to last for three weeks, but as the infection rate sky-rocketed, emergency measures were introduced. On the 25th March 2020, the British Government fast-tracked through Parliament the Coronavirus Act; to give them powers to slow the spread of the virus and to reduce the burden on public resources. Overnight, every school closed and many parents (who were unqualified) became their child’s teacher. But this act also relaxed the legal onus on local councils to provide case for those with Special Needs, so alongside every school being shut, vital care and support services were withdrawn overnight. Parents of Special Needs children were said to be “quaking in their boots”, as “many of our children have behavioural problems. They can be highly aggressive and self-destructive. They are bouncing off the walls, scratching themselves or lashing out. It's like a pressure cooker only there is no break”. Gone was the specialist care. Gone were the respite carers. One week earlier, Dylan was attending a special school five-days-a-week - an important time which aided his development and wellbeing – as well as giving Olga a brief window to sleep and mentally-reboot. But now it was just the two of them. Olga & Dylan were alone, stuck inside a small two-bedroomed flat, day and night. With her family in Russia, her ex-husband in Spain, travel banned and her friends isolating (as everyone was), doors and windows were locked and – shielding to protect him from infection – this twosome stayed at home. Even little changes to his routine were traumatic, but now everything familiar was gone. And as Dylan became more unsettled and agitated, the less he slept, the less she slept, as a numbness filled her mind and her body. But still – being a loving devoted mother – she never gave up, she ploughed on. As carefully as she could, she took Dylan for walks in the park, they played on a little trampoline in the back garden, they cuddled on the sofa watching endless episodes of Peppa Pig, and she even bought him special pillows to help him sleep... which he rarely did. Every day was exhausting, every night was identical, and with lockdown extended from weeks to months, there was no end in sight. Or so it seemed. (Insert soundbite of Boris Johnson announcing the easing of lockdown restrictions). On 10th May 2020, after just nine weeks of limited isolation; with PPE still unavailable to every health care worker and the UK listed as the worst infected country in Europe and second worst in the world, the lockdown restrictions were lifted. Masks were binned, holidays were booked and pubs reopened. We were three months from a second wave and six months from a vaccine, but with “fuck it” being the national response, and “I’m bored now, I deserve some fun” - with the government caring more about money than its people - the truly selfish acted as if a global pandemic had never happened... ...and that it wasn’t still killing (as it is, as of today) thousands of people every day. Lockdown had devastated Dylan’s mental health, it left him agitated and volatile. But combined with the isolation and the exhaustion, even worse was how it had impacted on Olga. To help her sleep, she had started taking Melatonin, a natural sleep aid to help sedate her and Dylan. Being at her wits-end, she was prescribed anti-depressants, as well as pain-killers, as having to constantly carry her ten-year-old boy from sofa to bed to the bath, the physical stresses of being his carer had damaged her knees. She hadn’t slept in weeks; her smile was gone, her eyes were dark and her skin was sallow. Olga was now little more than a hollow ghost of her former self. But still – being the devoted and loving mother of a little boy who she would love with her last dying breath – she cared for Dylan as best she could. Throughout, she kept in regular contact with Ealing Council who provided her son’s care, and although some services returned, with a severe backlog and a staff shortage, they were “slow to respond”. On 26th June 2020, she asked the council for an increase in the carer’s allowance, but this was rejected. On 6th July, as the carer was part-funded by herself and she was unable to work, she requested an increase in funding to help cover the cost, but no decision was made. And on the 7th July, she called the council stating that she was “under significant pressure”, that she was “feeling forgotten” and that – more importantly - she was “so stressed, she was not functioning mentally”. Those words should have raised alarm bells... ...but they didn’t. Diagnosed with depression and anxiety, Olga suffered a breakdown owing to the extreme stresses she was under. She was overwhelmed and broken, but her care for Dylan didn’t stop for a single second. And never once was he hurt, abused or malnourished, as she never stopped loving her little boy. In the week leading up to the 15th August, Olga’s depression had developed into a psychosis. Unable to eat; chain-smoking and guzzling coffee to keep herself awake, she was sleep-deprived and isolated. And as her reality blurred, her mind was distorted by the sound as Dylan howled like a wounded wolf. At times, Olga said she was experiencing “supernatural events”; she heard voices, she saw apparitions, and – gripped with delusions of grandeur - she even believed that she was the second coming of Jesus. Edita Surpickaja, her friend and former nanny was worried. Having heard Olga’s ramblings about “her mission”, how “they were waiting for us in Jerusalem” and how “this was the best thing for Dylan” - worried she would flee the country, having purchased two tickets to Tel-Aviv – Edita hide her passport. But by then, it would be too late. On Saturday 15th August 2020, at about 10pm, Olga texted Edita with the words “I am done”. Calling her back, Edita was so concerned she recorded their conversation, as Olga admitted “I have sacrificed my beloved child to create a balance in the world”. It was impossible to believe, but sadly, it was true. Edita arrived at 12:45am. She wasn’t allowed into the bedroom, but Olga confessed to what she had done. At 2am, she reported to Acton police station stating “I have killed my son”, and at 2:15am, with Dylan found unresponsive, the little boy was pronounced dead, and Olga was arrested for his murder. Seeing this as her only option, Olga was as gentle with his death as she had been with his life. Having fed him a sedative in a spoonful of mashed-up banana, as he softly drifted-off, she tucked him up under her duvet to keep him safe and warm, as – for the last time – she kissed her little boy goodnight. As Cohen’s disease had ravaged his lungs, always struggling to breathe, to aid his departure, she placed a bath sponge in his mouth and secured it with the strap of her bra and a strip of Sellotape. He didn’t panic, he felt no pain and his death was quick, as he faded-away into a long eternal sleep, surrounded by the toys he loved so much; his teddies, his Thomas the Tank Engine and his Peppa Pig. (End) A post-mortem was conducted at Great Ormond Street Hospital, where a pathologist confirmed that death was caused by upper airway obstruction. There were no signs of abuse, bruises or neglect. On the 25th January 2021, the trial was held at the Old Bailey with Olga seen via video-link from the Orchard Ward, a psychiatric unit at St Bernard’s Hospital in West London, where she pleaded guilty to manslaughter. It was undeniable to everyone that this was a truly tragic case of a single mother doing her best under extraordinary circumstances, and which both Dylan and Olga were the victims. In her summation, the judge stated to Olga: “that you loved your son and sacrificed yourself for him I have no doubt. The burden of caring for a severely disabled boy was one you took on, as mothers do, out of love and duty. I can see that and I can see how you discharged it faithfully for years. You fought for your son to have the best support, but it was a burden that took an enormous toll on you. Although he was not able to tell you so, I am sure you were loved by him and there will have been many joys in the life you led together. I have no doubt at all that you were a loving and dedicated mother to a vulnerable child, until multiple pressures overwhelmed you and your mind”. On 11th February 2021, Olga Freeman was sentenced to an indefinite hospital order, and (as of today) she remains at the Orchard Unit. A report into the council’s lack of care during the pandemic, stated “It is clear from the evidence of this review so far, is that this death could not have been foreseen". OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, if you enjoy a bit of non-compulsory chit-chat about cake, tea and other details about his case, as well as a little quiz, then feel free to join me after the break. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are James Parry, Verity Herrington, Emily Clark and Margaret Christensen. I thank you for supporting the show as well as my ever-expanding waistline. With a special thank you to James for your kind donation via the Supporter link. I thank you. 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, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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Brewer's Green in St James', as it looks today
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 FORTY-FOUR:
Today’s episode is about Martha Browning, a young girl who murdered her elderly bed-mate for that most common of reasons - money. And although her attempt to cover it up was bafflingly inept, her motive was one that no-one could truly fathom.
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 Mrs's Graham's Lodging House at 1 Providence Place, where the murder of Elizabeth Mundell took place is marked with a red cross and is under the word ST JAMES'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
Here's a video to go with this week's episode, showing you Brewer's Green. Sadly the lodging house and Providence Place has long since been demolished. These videos are links to YouTube so they won't eat up your data.
SOURCES: This case is primarily based on the original court records held at the Old Bailey, but it is also based on several news sources, only a few listed here.
MUSIC:
Just Stay by Aakash Gandhi Contempt by Seclorance Serenity by Parvus Decree Rain by Silent Partner Baci Soavi e Cari by Capela Duci Omonia by Dan Boden 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 Martha Browning, a young girl who murdered her elderly bed-mate for that most common of reasons - money. And although her attempt to cover it up was bafflingly inept, her motive was one that no-one could truly fathom. 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 144: Martha Browning’s Baffling Motive. Today I’m standing in Brewer’s Green, Westminster, SW1; three roads south of Ghodratollah Barani banging on the gates of Buckingham Palace, four roads east of the scattered remains of Emily Beilby Kaye, one hundred yards east of the assassination of Sir Michael Francis Dyer by Udham Singh, and very close to the mystery of Bob Gould, the man who was never there - coming soon to Murder Mile. Brewer’s Green is an odd place, as being perched at a y-shaped junction, it consists of one large tree, an impossibly tiny school and a fenced-off patch of grass, but – surrounded on all sides by modern glass-fronted monstrosities – it looks like the last vestige of its past has been swamped by its present. Preserved for posterity, on the corner of Caxton Street sits the Blue Coat School; a 17th century relic often called The Blue Boy, and yet everything built prior to the 1900’s has long-since been demolished. Flanked by embassies, law firms and equity firms; as well as salons where a single trimmed follicle can cost a monthly wage, posh hotels where even touching the mini-bar requires a second mortgage, tailors who intricately stitch pocket-hankies (“which are NOT for blowing your bogies on – thank you”) and – of course – there’s a Pret’, the McDonald’s for every avocado-chomping middle-class numpty. More than 170 years ago, Brewer’s Green was unrecognisable; being a rabbit’s warren of dark alleys, dilapidated hovels and overcrowded lodging houses. Just off Caxton Street, at 1 Providence Place was a three-storey townhouse occupied by thirty-two lodgers. Paying by the week and sometime by the day - being too poor to rent or buy their own - many shared a room and often a bed with a stranger. Two such bed-fellows were 61-year-old Elizabeth Mundell and 23-year-old Martha Browning. Like a surrogate mother and daughter, being snuggled up under a blanket was no great issue as it kept them both warm and safe. But when money got tight, their situation forced Martha to do the unthinkable. As it was here, on 1st December 1845 that Martha murdered Elizabeth. And although she would almost disguise her ghastly crime, right from the start, her motive was cursed with a fatal mistake. (Interstitial) Everybody likes a laugh and a joke, right? A bit of fun to alleviate the stresses and strains of daily life. Elizabeth Mundell was a jolly lady, as full of life as she was of food, and being a pink round ball of flesh, which heartily wobbled like bowl of blancmange when she laughed, she was impossible not to love. But as a woman for whom tragedy often beat her with a shitty stick? She made the best of a bad life. Elizabeth was 61-years-old, a good age for a working-class woman in that era. Born on the 4th February 1785, her family were labourers and washer-women, so her depressing little life’s history was written before she had even breathed. But rising to the modest rank of domestic servant, she did alright. Slogging her guts out seven-days-a-week, sixteen-hours-a-day to serve her ungrateful lord and master, her meagre wage included no holidays, no sick-pay, no benefits, no pension, and it was barely enough of a pittance to survive. But in her twenties, she met and married Thomas Mundell, later a soldier in the Queen’s Guards based out of Horse Guard’s Parade near the newly renovated Buckingham Palace. Married for close-to forty years, they battled through thick-and-thin, and although they tried for a child several times, with the morality rate for babies being high, only one was known to have survived. But together; Thomas, Elizabeth and their daughter Ann lived a good life in Kennington, South London. As the matriarch, Elizabeth was strong. Although large, she was fit, healthy and agile on her feet, with part of her width being the muscles she had developed owing to the demanding nature of her work as a domestic, a wife and a mother. But by 1840, life rewarded her with cruelty. Unable to keep up with the younger servants, Elizabeth was let go. Being too old, Thomas was invalided out of the Army. And with pensions the preserve of the middle-classes, they were forced to rely on their only child. In 1843, Thomas died, leaving Elizabeth as a penniless widow. To dull her depression, sometimes she drank, and around the same time, she sank a bottle of poison, although some said this was a mistake. She had worked her whole life, but had nothing to show for it, except a few odd-and-sods which fitted in a small wooden chest and some cheap knickknacks she kept in a red cloth ‘housewife’; a small bag she stashed in her bathrobe pocket, full of needles, threads, buttons and things which made her smile. She loved to laugh and devoured anything which distracted her from her pain. She took pleasure in the simple things in life like a cup of tea, a suet pudding, but most of all, she loved a bargain; keeping any leaflet or voucher which saved her money, and especially any harmless sales gimmick - like a fake cheque or a pretend pound note – which no-one in their right mind would take seriously. In 1844, she moved into a first-floor room of Mrs Graham’s lodging house at 1 Providence Place, and – as much for company, warmth and an income of 18 pence a week – she shared her bed with a lodger. In November 1845, a friend of her daughter and someone she had known for six months became her bed-fellow; she paid on time, they got on well, and although – being a larger lady – Elizabeth took up most of the mattress, it didn’t prove a problem as her lodger was quiet, harmless and petite. Her name was Martha Browning... ...three weeks she would kill Elizabeth Mundell... ...and yet, no-one foresaw this, as she didn’t look like a murderer. Martha was twenty-three, but looked barely thirteen. Being as tiny as a dolly and as fresh-faced as a peach, she exuded innocence and was the kind of girl many wanted to protect. With a faint little voice and apple-blossom cheeks, although undeniably sweet, her pixie-ish proportions were partly down to malnutritian, and plagued with illness, she walked with a slowness which mirrored her child-like mind. Little is known about her life, except she was born in Alton in Hampshire, her father was dead and her two siblings lived in London. Since the summer, Martha had worked as a lowly servant to Captain William Matthews and his wife Jane on Bedford Street in Covent Garden, but being too light for heavy work and too simple for complicated tasks, on the 18th of November, she was let-go from her job. The few coins she had squirrelled away were gone, the bitter winter was howling in, and living under the black shadow of the workhouse which loomed behind like a dirty cloud of doom. Unable to pay 18 pennies-a-week for a bit of a bed, soon her fate would include hunger, poverty and homelessness. Thankfully, she had a very maternal bed-fellow in Elizabeth... ...but pushed to such extremes, even the meekest of creatures are likely to snap. Around that same time, inside Elizabeth’s red cloth ‘housewife’, Martha spotted something she had never seen before, and probably would never see again. Printed on paper, swirled with ornate italics and emblazoned with what her semi-literate eyes read as ‘Bank of England’, she saw a £5 note. It was tatty, it was old, and (having kept it for so long) it had an odd smudge of dirt in the corner. For Elizabeth, she was not shy about showing it to others, as it made her smile... ...but for Martha, that note would pay her rent for the next two years. On the night of Sunday 30th November 1845, both women went to bed at 10:30pm. According to Mary Cheshire, the lodger in the next room, Elizabeth was “in good spirits”, but Martha would disagree. Martha: “she went off all well and sober, but about midnight she was turning and restless, she didn’t say what of but earlier she had pains in her head. About four o’clock she plunged like she was fitting, I asked her what was wrong, she said it was a dream. I asked should I get her anything, she said no”. For the next three hours, they slept. But at 7am, Martha was awoken by Elizabeth’s screaming face. Her eyes wide and wild, her jowls undulating, as she screamed “Murder! Murder! What are you doing to me?!” Maybe it was widow’s grief, or bad food, or some sort of madness? As she was not herself. Martha: “she threw her hands up to her face, screaming all hell and such, I got up, washed her face with water, but it did no good, none at all, so I said to her I’d go fetch her daughter”. Of course, that was Martha’s version of events... ...but Mary Cheshire had heard the screams. “I heard Mrs Mundell cry out, I went to her door and found it fastened on the inside. I hammered, nobody answered, I rapped again, and the girl answered in a low tone of voice ‘nothing’s the matter’, I heard nothing after that, no noises nor calling out”. Fifteen minutes later, having put on her bonnet and cloak, Martha unlocked the door: (Martha) “she was lying in the bed, quite quiet she was, Elizabeth pleaded “don't go for Ann", but I had to”. Before leaving, Martha knocked on Mary’s door; she told her Elizabeth was sick but now sleeping, she was going to fetch help, and asked Mary to check on her if she heard any noises. She heard nothing, so never went in... and during the fifteen minutes that Martha was away, no-one else entered the room. Of course, there was a reason why Elizabeth was so silent. A few streets south, at 11 Rochester Street, Martha frantically banged as loud as her tiny fists could, as her little lungs breathlessly exclaimed “your mother’s ill, she fitted, come quick”, at which Ann followed. But by the time they had returned to the lodging house, Elizabeth was already dead... ...but her death was not from a fit, nor natural causes. The scene was bizarre. It was only a small simple room, but the bed was empty. Elizabeth was missing, and upon the indent where she had slept, three heavy wooden chairs had been stacked high. But why? Behind the door, Elizabeth lay. Dressed in a nightdress; she lay sprawled on her back, her limbs lying limply by her sides and her head hung back, as the roundness of her belly arched high. With bloodshot eyes bulging from her pale livid skin, through her frothy gaping mouth, a fat purple tongue poked. Shocked by the sight, Martha fled screaming “for God's sake, send a man, a woman’s hung herself". And so, it seemed, as knotted around her neck, embedded deep into her flesh was a length of cord. But if this was a suicide, it looked as if it was cobbled together in a panicked state by a simple mind. Dr John Atkinson arrived soon after, determining “her flesh was swollen and livid, her eyes open, blood issued from her nose and ears, with froth from her mouth, consistent with hanging... or strangulation”, but – aside from the fact that she had been of “good spirits” - several details didn’t make sense. If she had hung herself, why had the three chairs remained upright? Why were the roof pegs unable to take the doctor’s weight, let alone hers? If the rope had snapped, why hadn’t it frayed and left a tatty length of noose dangling? And why were there two ends of rope on either side of her neck? If instead, she had strangled herself? How did she tie the knot without it loosening? How did she pull the rope from behind her own back? Why was the rope still taut, as the second she lost consciousness, it would have untied? Given the depths of the marks in her neck, why were there no resulting rope burns on her palms or fingers? And how did she climb onto the box, after she was already dead? And if this was a murder? Being strong, Elizabeth could have fended-off any assailant, but only if she was awake. With the door locked from the inside, so how did her killer get in? And – most importantly of all – what had been stolen, as nothing appeared to have been touched... or so they thought? That night, at the Coach & Horses pub in Dean’s Yard, an inquest was held into the death of Elizabeth Mundell. Witness statements were heard, Martha gave an account, the jury saw the body in-situ, but – as was standard practice in a case so seemingly simple - Dr Atkinson’s was not asked to give evidence. So, based on her widow’s grief, her poverty and prior history of suicide, the jury declared that Elizabeth had died by “suicide owing to her state of insanity”. Martha was not arrested, no police investigation was initiated, and - with Dr Atkinson unable to usurp the coroner’s decision - the case was closed. Back at the lodging house, Elizabeth’s body was laid-out, so mourners could lay flowers and pay this lovely lady their last respects. But struggling to cover her funeral costs, there she would remain there until the money could be found or her rent ran out. And unwilling to sleep in the same room or even the same bed as a dead body, Ann let Martha (her mother’s murderer) sleep in her home. But still, grief aside, things didn’t sit right for Elizabeth’s family. Upon moving her body onto the bed, Edward, Ann’s husband had noticed that the mattress was wet, as was to be expected, as when a person is hung, their bladder often voids, expelling urine. Only the top was bone dry and the wetness was underneath, meaning someone had flipped the mattress over. At Ann’s home, Martha was clearly nervous as a second inquest was requested and looked likely to go ahead. And against what he was permitted to do, Dr Atkinson had informed Ann & Edward that the inquest’s findings were wrong, that death was not suicide and that Martha was most likely the killer. What they needed was undeniable proof... ...what they got was Martha Browning. Two days later, Ann & Edward, accompanied by Martha, headed to the lodging house to prepare the body for burial. A sadness hung in the air like the feted stench of decomposition. Riddled with guilt as the grieving daughter wept, Martha kissed the corpse’s cheek and uttered “do you think she’s happy?” And although an odd phrase to utter insuch company, as she prayed, what she did next defied logic. With uncharacteristic generosity, to Edward, Martha declared “most likely you are short on money. I will lend you a sovereign"; a small fortune for many, but being the equivalent four month’s rent for an unemployed girl of just twenty-three-years-old, he thanked her, but his suspicions had been piqued. From her cloak pocket, she pulled a note; printed on paper, swirled with ornate italics and emblazoned with what her semi-literate eyes read as ‘Bank of England’, she held a £5 note. It was tatty, it was old, and (having been kept by its original owner for so long) it had an odd smudge of dirt in the corner... ...which Edward saw. “I offered to change it for her”, he said “but she insisted on doing it herself”. Into the Blue Boy, a public house beside the small school on Brewer’s Green, Martha entered, note in hand. But barely a minute later, she emerged with a look of dejection and even a little shock on her squished-up little face, stating "oh, they have played a trick on me, I do not understand, they said they would not change it...” ...and they wouldn’t, and for good reason too. Thousands were printed, but this £5 note was one Edward & Ann had seen before, as had many others, as having brought so much joy to Elizabeth, the dirty smudges were as identifiable as fingerprints. Grabbing her by the scruff of her neck, Ann & Edward forcibly marched the girl towards Scotland Yard, and being too tiny to break free or flee, Martha could do nothing to escape their grip, as she was dragged kicking and screaming along St James’ Park, up Horse Guard’s Parade and to 4 Whitehall Place. In her hysterical panic, between fits of pleading and passing-out, she made a full confession, declaring; "what will my mother think of me; a murderer; to die on the gallows", several times she asked those around her to pray for her guilty soul, she admitted that this was her first and only robbery, and said "I cannot keep it any longer. I murdered the old woman, and deprived your wife of her mother." The £5 note was presented, Martha confessed, she was arrested at the Gardener’s Lane Police Station and - whilst ripping out fistfuls of her own hair and repeatedly collapsing to the floor like a dumped rag-doll - she tearfully pleaded "I am an unfortunate creature, do with me what you like". Headed up by Inspector Partridge, an investigation was conducted by the newly formed Metropolitan Police, and several pieces of evidence were found, which the initial inquest hadn’t requested; such as two pawn tickets for a gown and a shawl once owned by Elizabeth - and most damning of all - in her own box, they found a length of cord identical to that she had used to strangle her bed-mate to death. This time, thanks to Dr Atkinson’s testimony (which he was finally permitted to give) a second inquest dismissed the case of ‘suicide by insanity’ and found grounds to proceed with a charge of murder. Martha Browning was tried at the Old Bailey on 17th December 1845, before Mr Baron Alderson and Mr Justice Patteson. The case was a media sensation, as no-one could believe that this mere slip of a girl with elfin-like limbs and apple-blossom cheeks could be so callous, especially as often she had to be carried into the dock by two policeman and several times the trial was stopped as she had fainted. Her defence was simple. Elizabeth’s death had no witnesses; no-one had seen it nor heard it, she was unwell (as an inquest had proved that) and all of the evidence was entirely circumstantial, so her guilt could never be proven without a “shadow of doubt”. The jury agreed and asked for leniency... ...but the judges overruled them, and she was sentenced to death. At five minutes to eight, on the morning of Monday 5th January 1846, Martha was led from her cell at Newgate Prison. In a barely-audible whisper, she thanked the guards for their kindness, and weeping like there was no tomorrow (which there wasn’t), she was led outside to the hangman’s gallows. As the first woman executed at Newgate for 14 years, a crowd of 30,000 spectators had assembled; some sat eating picnics, some got pissed, many jeered and heckled, and so excitable were the crowds, that when Martha appeared, a stampede crushed several, leaving a 9-year-old girl crippled for life. As the clock struck eight - having made her peace with God, Martha uttered her final words, “may the Lord have mercy on my soul” - with her thin limbs fastened and the noose tightly secured about her tiny neck, the trapdoors flung open and the little body of Martha Browning dropped. (End). Only, she didn’t die... as with William Calcraft being less of a skilled executioner and more of a grisly showman, through his bungling for the sake of entertainment, Martha endured a truly horrible death. As being so tiny and light, her body-weight hadn’t broken her neck in a single swift snap, but instead, she was yanked and dangled, and as her neck stretched, she was strangled for several long minutes. Ironically, her end mirrored Elizabeth Mundell’s at her own hands, but with crowds baying for blood, Martha’s life was ended by Calfraft’s trademark finale, as the fifteen stone man hung from her feet. In her prison cell, Martha had fully confessed to a priest. Her motive was simple, she was desperate and had been tempted by the £5 note... a sum of money which could (and did) change her life forever. But even though the murder was pre-planned... a small (but vital) detail had eluded Martha. To distract her from her pain, Elizabeth loved to laugh. She took pleasure in simple things like a cup of tea, a suet pudding, but most of all, she loved a bargain. Always looking to save a penny, she kept any leaflet or voucher, especially a harmless little gimmick like a fake cheque or a pretend pound note. Printed on paper, swirled with ornate italics and emblazoned with what her semi-literate eyes read as ‘Bank of England’, what Martha saw was a £5 note, but what everyone else saw was a practical joke. You couldn’t spend it, and it was worth nothing, it wasjust a simple ploy to lure the customers in, and which no-one in their right mind would ever take seriously, or think was legal tender. But having missed the joke, Martha’s motive was fatally flawed, as the note - once again - made Elizabeth smile. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, an entirely optional bit of chit-chat which includes some aimless thoughts, a few questions and lots of extra details about the case continues after the break. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Hazel Cullen, Mark Gibson and Simon Russell, I thank you all. May the king of Battenberg bestow upon you a lifetime supply of cakes, all served up by Reg Christie clutching a cup of tea. What a treat! And – of course – all the treats you get via Patreon; like badges, stickers, key-rings, photos and videos, plus episodes you won’t get anywhere else. 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, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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 entrance to 80 Park Lane where the fight broke out
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 FORTY-THREE:
Today’s episode is about Tudor Simionov; a good moral man and a protector, who earned an honest wage as a bouncer. But when his colleagues came under attack from a group of selfish thugs, his new life in Britain was destroyed in the blink of an eye.
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 80 Park Lane where the murder of Tudor Simionov took place is marked with a mustard yellow cross and is under the word MAYFAIR. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
Here's a video to go with this week's episode, showing you the private entrance to 80 Park Lane where the attack on Tudor Simionov took place. These videos are links to YouTube so they won't eat up your data.
SOURCES: As there is no police file available, as this is a very recent case, I've used press sources, so I can't whole-heartedly attest to the validity of every source / details, but I do try.
Footage - https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-8159905/Chief-suspect-run-trio-jailed-total-24-years-knife-murder-bouncer.html#v-5520951722443782618 Footage – Partner giving statement - https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-8159905/Chief-suspect-run-trio-jailed-total-24-years-knife-murder-bouncer.html#v-3741379285176860086 FOOTAGE – final moments of the attack - https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-8159905/Chief-suspect-run-trio-jailed-total-24-years-knife-murder-bouncer.html#v-3719151298850475158 A friend of Tudor gives trinute - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ZH0YG696zc https://www.standard.co.uk/news/crime/park-lane-stabbing-hero-security-guard-died-fighting-off-attackers-who-were-trying-to-gatecrash-a4028506.html https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-52064448 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-49552377 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-49087363 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-49097785 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-49576744 https://www.ilfordrecorder.co.uk/news/crime/three-jailed-over-manslaughter-of-tudor-simionov-3254690 https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-8159905/Chief-suspect-run-trio-jailed-total-24-years-knife-murder-bouncer.html https://www.kilburntimes.co.uk/news/crime/brent-men-jailed-for-manslaughter-of-tudor-simionov-3836488 https://www.standard.co.uk/news/crime/tudor-simionov-fiancee-of-bouncer-fatally-stabbed-outside-exclusive-mayfair-mansion-party-appeals-for-help-to-catch-suspected-killer-a4228306.html https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2020/mar/27/three-men-jailed-fatal-stabbing-london-doorman-bouncer-tudor-simionov https://www.shropshirestar.com/news/uk-news/2020/03/27/party-gatecrashers-jailed-over-park-lane-bouncers-death/ https://metro.co.uk/2019/01/04/shocking-moment-bouncer-took-thugs-just-stabbed-mayfair-party-8310869/ https://www.countytimes.co.uk/news/national-news/18339595.party-gatecrashers-jailed-park-lane-bouncers-death/ https://www.thesun.co.uk/news/8120841/mayfair-club-bouncer-stabbed-death-abu-hamza-son-arrested/ https://londonnewsonline.co.uk/three-jailed-for-manslaughter-of-bouncer-on-new-years-day/ https://news.sky.com/story/fiancee-of-bouncer-stabbed-to-death-at-private-party-appeals-for-help-to-find-suspected-killer-11801745 http://neighbournet.com/server/common/hfcrime294.htm https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-7276749/Gatecrashers-stabbed-bouncer-death-bid-New-Years-Eve-party.html MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: *** 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, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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.
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 FORTY-TWO:
This episode is about Ghodratollah Barani and Mark Morrison. Today’s episode is about two homeless men; both strangers, both forgotten, who were forced to live on London’s streets for two very different reasons. And although their stories were both tragic, you won’t have heard of their plight, as nobody cared.
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 benches at Marble Arch where Mark Morrison was murdered is marked with a teal cross and is on the far left under the word Marble Arch. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES:
This was created using several sources, https://www.scotsman.com/news/uk-news/man-told-psychiatrist-i-will-kill-murder-1532880 https://www.thestar.co.uk/news/missing-man-psychotic-disorder-has-links-sheffield-444513 https://www.standard.co.uk/news/crime/police-searching-for-missing-killer-who-strangled-man-before-trying-to-break-into-buckingham-palace-to-see-the-queen-a3543581.html https://www.yourlocalguardian.co.uk/news/15297069.dangerous-man-reported-missing-from-south-croydon-care-home-ghodratollah-barani-strangled-rough-sleeper-to-death-in-marble-arch-to-become-king-of-england/ https://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/2013/03/01/schizophrenia-ghodratolla-barani-queen_n_2788450.html https://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/2013/03/01/schizophrenia-ghodratolla-barani-queen_n_2788450.html https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-4634940/Mentally-ill-killer-strangled-homeless-man-flees-France.html https://www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/convicted-killer-who-tried-meet-10453958 http://www.edenbridge-chronicle.co.uk/article.cfm?id=113936&headline=Missing%20Ghodratollah%20Barani%20killed%20a%20man%20in%202013§ionIs=news&searchyear=2017 https://www.express.co.uk/news/royal/806958/manhunt-killer-attempted-break-in-buckingham-palace-king-of-england-afghan https://www.sheffieldtelegraph.co.uk/news/public-warned-not-approach-missing-former-sheffield-man-receiving-treatment-psychotic-disorder-470867 https://www.thepavement.org.uk/stories/1601 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-18563132 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-18531157 https://www.yorkshirepost.co.uk/news/asylum-seeker-detained-killing-stranger-1870944 https://www.dailyrecord.co.uk/news/uk-world-news/man-strangled-homeless-scot-after-1738019 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-21631567 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-18660711 https://www.thorntonheathchronicle.co.uk/missing-killer-may-have-been-spotted-in-thornton-heath/ https://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/2012/07/01/ghodratollah-barani-charged-murder-mark-morrison_n_1640969.html https://www.gulf-times.com/content/pdf/Dailynewspaper/Main2017_5_21173478.PDF https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-18563132 Boris on a Wire - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3hRwnXmdRCo Queen & Bond (tell your face) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1AS-dCdYZbo Missiles on Roof - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SXZXqltbnZI Complete Opening Ceremony (plus sheep) - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4As0e4de-rI Operation Poncho in operation - https://youtu.be/Wxh2fPjn6pY 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 two homeless men; both strangers, both forgotten, who were forced to live on London’s streets for two very different reasons. And although their stories were both tragic, you won’t have heard of their plight, as nobody cared. 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 142: The Invisible Men of Marble Arch. Today I’m standing in Marble Arch, W1; one street north of the Hyde Park Bombing, three streets west of Annie Sutton’s sadistic stalker, one street east of the murder of Police Constable Jack Avery, and one street south of strange revenge attack at the Victory Café – coming soon to Murder Mile. Situated on a traffic island between Edgware Road, Park Lane, Oxford Street and Bayswater, Marble Arch (formerly known as Tyburnia) is named after the infamous white-marble arch designed by John Nash in 1827. Inspired by Paris’ Arc du Triumph, this 45-foot-high, 60-foot-wide and 30-foot-deep monument was originally the state entrance to Buckingham Palace, but was relocated here in 1851. Since then, it has had no purpose. Having been requisitioned as an army barracks in the forties and a police station in the sixties, it is now used for storage, and there are plans-a-foot to re-site it again. Being a bafflingly pointless landmark, Marble Arch is often used as a place of protest where the furious give impassioned speeches to small but likeminded crowds of nodding heads, where tourists take selfies whilst quaffing that quintessentially English delicacy - fish n chips (which actually originated in Israel) and if you’re lucky, you’ll see a fist-fight between three floating Yodas, all called Yurgi. At night, Marble Arch becomes a different world; a makeshift shanty-town of cardboard boxes where London’s forgotten bed-down and vanish. Oddly, for a group of people so invisible and forgotten, too many are frequently abused, beaten, robbed and persecuted simply because they have no home. Two such homeless men were Ghodratollah Barani and Mark Morrison; they didn’t know each other, they had never met, and they had nothing in common except that they lived on the streets. Both were shunned by the wider world, and yet a cruel series of circumstances would force them together. As it was here, on Friday 22nd June 2012 at about 3am, that Ghodratollah Barani strangled Mark Morrison to death. And although this incident would highlight the failures in our overworked mental health and immigration systems, because of who they were, it was barely reported. (Interstitial) Homelessness is very much an invisible issue... From a population of 66.5 million, it is estimated there are 280,000 homeless people living in the UK. That’s one in every 250. But homelessness is a word which is often misused and misconstrued, as it doesn’t just mean someone who sleeps rough, it refers to anyone without a permanent place to live. But where-as any home - no matter how provisional – can provide some safety and stability, for many their only option is to live where-ever they can find shelter; on the street, in a doorway, or on a bench. It’s impossible to accurately assess the true scale of rough-sleepers, but different organisations have estimated it’s anywhere between 2500 and 9000 people sleeping rough, in the UK, every night. Left to the elements, they live without life’s basics; like fresh water, clean clothes, heat, safety and food. And yet their stories remain forgotten or go unheard, as – let’s be honest - with all of us unwilling to fully engage with the problem, except to toss these nameless souls a few coins in their pot just so we can feel better about ourselves, we often assume they are homeless for two reasons - drink or drugs. But there are many reasons a person can become homeless. Some have no option; forced-out owing to a family break-up, a divorce, loss of work or income, cut benefits, or a conviction. Some are fleeing abuse, violence, persecution, politics, or are actively escaping life’s stresses. Some are mentally unwell having slipped through the cracks. And others are veterans abandoned by the country they fought for. Sadly, it’s still a criminal offence to sleep rough, under Section 4 of the Vagrancy Act of 1824, and with no fully-functional system in place to provide an alternative, many homeless are arrested and bounced between a wealth of grossly under-funded agencies, only to be turfed-out once a box has been ticked. Life on the streets is dangerous. Over the last five years, 650 homeless people died on London’s streets with 770 dying each year in England and Wales; owing to hunger, assault, hypothermia and murder. Although, you’ll never hear their stories, as ‘dead tramp’ doesn’t sell newspapers, ‘asylum seeker kills UK vagrant’ only sells in trashy racist tabloids and as many outlets are more about making money than disclosing facts, too many churn-out a puke of predictable pap about unfaithful footballers, two-faced politicians, or minor celeb’s weeping over a meaningless woe, just in time for the release of their book. And even though the old press adage is “if it bleeds, it leads”, we all know the true criteria when it comes to reporting crime; that a drug-death is usually the victim’s fault, that the death of a black man is “probably” gang-related, that a dead sex-worker is only “of interest” if her killer is given a salacious nickname like ‘The Ripper’, and that a missing child is only a tragedy if they’re white, blonde and pretty. The ugly, the poor, the unknown and the marginalised aren’t worth the ink. And if they’re homeless or immigrants? People care even less. Two such men who shielded by the shadow of Marble Arch in the summer of 2012 were Ghodratollah Barani and Mark Morrison; two very different men on the same street for two very different reasons. 46-year-old Mark Morrison originated from the Dunblane area of Stirling in Scotland, and later he lived in Glasgow. Described as a polite and pleasant man, Mark had a successful career as a chef, but owing to ‘personal problems’, he travelled to London in the spring of 2012 and became homeless. Living on the street; he stayed out of trouble, he kept to a regular routine and he was easy-to-spot owing to his oval sun-bleached face, his tangled salt-and-pepper hair and a ragged goatee beard. Sleeping rough, his favourite spot was on a wooden bench beside Marble Arch. We don’t know why. But maybe the endless roar of traffic lulled him to sleep, the posh hotels on Park Lane reminded him of his old life, or surrounded by other homeless people pitched in tents, he found safety in numbers? And that’s all the press could be bothered to report. It wasn’t worth their time digging into his past to ask why he had run away, why he was sleeping rough, or what we could have been done to help? If he had been famous, on that spot there would now be a plaque... ...but as he was a nobody, Mark was entirely forgotten... ...just like Ghodratollah. Ghodratollah Barani was either 26, 27, 29 or 32 years-old, depending on which source you trust. Some said he was born in Afghanistan or Iran, as if the two are interchangeable, but given that a basic search confirms that his name was Persian and that he spoke Farsi, we can safely assume that he was Iranian. But you’ll soon see where this lazy journalism came from, as for too many tabloids, foreign is foreign. Speaking limited English, Ghodratollah previously lived in Sheffield before coming to London. Being little and round, he was 5 foot 6 inches tall, medium build and had a broad babyish face. And just like Mark, the details of his life weren’t worth the press bothering to get right; so, we’ve no idea why he fled, how he travelled, who he was, what he did, or anything about his family, his history or his life. And as one of 35,000 applications submitted every year, the life of Ghodratollah Barani was forgotten, and his existence and his status were boiled down to two highly contentious words – asylum seeker. But for both men, more than any other year, 2012 would be a bad year to be homeless. (Soundbite) “The host city for the 2012 Olympic Games will be... London”. On 6th July 2005, London won the bid to host the 2012 Olympic Games. At a cost of $14.8 billion dollars, it would convert a 500-acre site of toxic wasteland in one of London’s most deprived boroughs into an Olympic Park; developing a wealth of new homes, jobs, roads, facilities and a legacy which lasts today. Still reeling from the economic collapse of 2008, the opening ceremony was a spectacle like no other (even if the Queen had forgotten to tell her face) and it was a vital moment of pride for Great Britain. But not everything about the 2012 Olympics was as glorious as it seemed. Anticipating a huge influx of tourists bringing a much-needed revenue to the city - with the Tottenham riots of one year earlier still fresh in the world’s mind - London needed to be seen as “clean and safe”. In 2009, London Mayor Boris Johnson pledged to clean up the city and to end homelessness for good, but the methods employed were rough, heavy-handed and just a smoke-screen. ‘Operation Poncho’ directly targeted the homeless by establishing ‘No Sleep’ and ‘Dispersal’ zones in tourist hot-spots, it increased Police stop-and-search powers to tackle smoking, drinking and sleeping in public, any haunts favoured by rough-sleepers were continually ‘wet-down’ with high-pressure hoses, and any bench or ledge was fitted with steel railings and dulled spikes to make anything but sitting-upright impossible. Near to tourist spots, cycle-ways and Olympics highways, any temporary shelters were removed and – as happens before every royal wedding – many ‘undesirables’ were forcibly bagged-up and bussed-out to neighbouring towns like Brighton, Reading and Slough. Operation Poncho’s ethos wasn’t to solve the problem of homelessness, but to push these ‘unfortunates’ out-of-sight and out-of-mind. So, as if their lives weren’t stressful enough, rough-sleepers were marginalised even more than usual. For Mark, who kept-to-himself, it was an inconvenience. But for Ghodratollah - with immigration and mental health services under even greater strain - his homelessness made him even less of a priority... ...and even more invisible. In Autumn 2011, Ghodratollah was being held at Brigstock House, a dispersal unit in Thornton Heath used as long-term accommodation for asylum seekers until their applications have been decided. But after six months of waiting, with his application rejected, his accommodation was withdrawn. Guidelines were followed, boxes were ticked, papers were filed and somewhere in an office, a faceless official crossed-off yet another number from their list. “Next?” But while Ghodratollah would appeal this decision, he would live rough. With no home, this made any application harder, as with vagrancy being illegal and hindering his immigration status, into the system and the city, he would vanish. Six years earlier, Britain was riding high, having won the Olympic bid. We don’t like winning, as it gives us nothing to grumble about, but again, we don’t like losing, especially to the French. “Zut alors”. But following the financial crash of 2008, being cash-strapped, the British tax-payer balked at the initial budget pitched at £2.8 billion, which ballooned to a whopping £8.7 billion. Behind schedule, the city became a building site, as the run-up to the Olympics were beset by a series of embarrassing blunders. Described as “a predictably British clusterf**k”; Wenlock & Mandeville, our mascots who looked like brightly-coloured flaccid penises were quickly ditched. BoJo, our flag-waving mayor and (dare I say it) current Prime Minister got stuck on a zipwire. The ticket system was so farcical it left thousands with either no tickets, or an unpayable bill, being forced to watch crap like ‘horse dancing’. Local businesses were banned from the site, as the only official food-outlet was the world’s largest McDonald’s. G4S had ballsed-up so badly, the British Army was called in. And everyone’s expectations were low, as (a) we’re British, and (b) the opening ceremony had been announced as featuring “fifty REAL sheep”. Of course, we’ve all forgotten about the crappy build-up to London 2012, having replaced it with the triumphs of Olympic heroes like Usain Bolt, Michael Phelps, Jessica Ennis, Chris Hoy, Mo Farah, Nicola Adams, Laura Kenny, Gabby Douglas, Bradley Wiggins and David Weir, to name but a few. As well as Tom Daley’s awesome dive, Stefan Feck’s belly-flop, and even Oscar Pistorius before the... you know. The Queen and Bond parachuted in, Mr Bean played Chariots of Fire, the Paralympics was an absolute triumph, and the Danny Boyle’s opening ceremony was (pardon my French) “f**king brilliant”. That shift in mood started the moment the ceremony began on Friday 27th July, but in the weeks prior, as Union Jack bunting adorned the streets, London 2012 was considered a “waste of money”. But for Ghodratollah, the Olympics meant nothing. As being stressed by his failed immigration status, his imminent risk of deportation and his new homelessness, they all impacted on his mental health. In the early hours of Sunday 17th June 2012, Ghodratollah was seen banging on the Privy Purse Gate of Buckingham Palace. He demanded to see the Queen, as only she could help him, and he claimed he was the King of Afghanistan – which is why so many lazy journalists got his nationality wrong. Stopped by the Police, even though their powers had been increased under Operation Poncho, as he hadn’t broken in, caused damage or a disturbance, he wasn’t an immediate threat to himself or others and - more importantly – he wasn’t making London look messy to the tourists, he was sent on his way. It is said that one-in-three asylum-seekers suffer some form of depression, anxiety or PTSD. But was he suffering from a mental collapse... ...or was this simply a cunning ploy to progress his asylum? The next day, on Monday 18th June, he did it again, banging on the gates of Buckingham Palace and claiming to be a King. Believing he was mentally unwell, under Section 136 of the Mental Health Act, the Police were authorised to “take him to a place of safety”, in this case, a hospital. But what can you do, if you’re in a foreign country and you don’t know that you’re mentally unwell? Ghodratollah was assessed that day at St Thomas’ hospital; first by junior psychiatrist, Dr Nancy Butler, and later by Dr Neeraj Kabra, a senior psychiatrist, with his words translated by a Farsi interpreter. But then, mental illness isn’t like a broken leg; it’s not immediately obvious, it can easily be faked, the symptoms can be confused, and are often caused-by intoxicants, stress, injury and other illnesses. So often a specialist can only take the patient’s word about what they claim they have seen or heard. In both assessments, he said that three times he had attempted to kill himself; once by setting himself on fire, once by stabbing himself, and once by asphyxiating himself with gas. None of which needed medical assistance afterwards, and left no physical scars. In both assessments, he said he heard voices telling him he needed to “kill someone, within three days, to become to King of England”, but he had no known history of violence, showed no signs of aggression and Police detained him without issue. In this case, it was decided that he was “suffering from situational crisis because he was homeless and was waiting any adjudication of his asylum claim". But Ghodratollah didn’t help his own assessment? Throughout, he appeared anxious and agitated, owing to an appointment with the UK Border Agency at 11am, and believing this was his “last chance” he asked the doctors to write a letter to support his asylum application. Unsurprisingly, the doctors believed he was faking his symptoms of schizophrenia. It was never reported whether he attended the meeting, but on Tuesday 19th June, he returned to St Thomas’ complaining of back pain. He didn’t claim to hear voices or mention that he was the King. On Wednesday 20th, he returned to St Thomas’ with a new issue, but being fit and well, he was discharged. And on Thursday 21st, he returned to Buckingham Palace, but this time, refused to let go of the gate. Being even more agitated and determined to see the Queen, he was restrained, escorted to safety and his case was referred to social services, who requested that – again - he be mentally-assessed. At the Gordon Hospital, an adult psychiatric centre on Bloomberg Street in Pimlico, over several hours, a number of doctors assessed him, but found “no grounds to admit him”. He couldn’t be committed and it wasn’t worth arresting him, so being issued with an exclusion order banning him from entering the Royal Parks (including Buckingham Palace), that evening, Ghodratollah Barani was released. As a homeless asylum-seeker, he was little, harmless and invisible... ... but a few hours later, he would do the unthinkable. Five weeks before the start of London 2012, the city pulsed with tension and stress. The bunting was up and the tourists were out, but businesses were rightfully grumbling as a £13bn boost to the local economy had failed to materialise. The unfinished Olympics highway was a national embarrassment which would leave exhausted athletes stuck on hot coaches. Terrorists were being dicks, so in parks and on tower-blocks sat batteries of surface-to-air missiles to shoot down any hijacked airliners. But – for once, like a drizzly-little miracle - the typically inclement British weather was actually okay. The Olympics was upon us, nothing else existed and – with many having been bussed to neighbouring towns, whose homeless population had doubled - the rough-sleepers of Marble Arch were invisible. By day, tourists flocked to take selfiesof this purposeless monument. By dusk, any possible sleeping spots had been wet-down with high-pressure hoses. But by night, some of the homeless had returned. Neither were aware of the other, and that was just how the British government wanted it. Friday 22nd June 2012 was no-different to any other night. Being clear, dry and warm; for this 46-year-old ex-chef from Sterling, even at 3am, it was nice enough to leave his tent and to sleep on a bench. Being his favourite spot, Mark Morrison snuggled-up in his sleeping-bag, gazing at the yellowy haze of the sky, as the soothing hum of traffic circled him. The night was calm, with the tube shut he wouldn’t be bothered, and as always – keeping out of trouble – he was polite and pleasant to everyone. As far as we know, the two men had never met. Fluent in different languages, it’s unlikely they spoke. And being relatively passive men, nobody heard any screams or saw a struggle. But at a little after 3am, an engineer working at Marble Arch tube station saw a man stooping over Mark, who lay slumped by the foot of the bench. Being confronted, Ghodratollah ran off and the Police were called, but it was too late. Mark had been strangled to death with green piece of tent cord. His life snuffed-out for no reason by a man he didn’t know. But was this murder caused by a ‘situational crisis’ as the doctor had said, a part of Ghodratollah’s deluded plan to become King of England... or simply a ploy to get his British citizenship? (Interstitial) The next day and the following Sunday, Ghodratollah was arrested for breaching the exclusion order by banging on the gates of Buckingham Palace, and again he was later released. But with CCTV footage identifying him as the killer of Mark Morrison, using his fingerprints which had been kept by the Home Office, on Friday 29th June 2012 he calmly presented himself at Horseguard’s Parade and was arrested. On Saturday 30th June 2012 at Westminster Coroner’s Court, Ghodratollah Barani was charged with murder. Remanded at the hospital wing of Belmarsh Prison, he was diagnosed with schizophrenia. On 1st March 2013, having pleaded guilty to manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility, he was given an indefinite hospital order. As of November 2015, he has lived at the Evergreen Lodge care home in South Croydon, a facility for men with complex mental health issues; he has improved under medication and counselling, and - although limited - he has found work and a social life (of sorts). It is unclear whether his asylum has since been approved, or if he will be deported upon release. So, was this a situational crisis, a cunning ploy, or was it really schizophrenia? We don’t know. What we do know is that homelessness is a big problem we refuse to resolve, as any reporting of crimes against our city’s rough-sleepers often go unreported, or in this case, badly reported. But homelessness is solvable and none of it requires a human being bussed-out and hidden elsewhere. As seen at the start of the pandemic, within in a single week, almost every rough sleeper was given a bed; a place of safety, where they could wash, eat and sleep, with a chance to resolve their problems and get back on their feet? But with ‘our crisis’ almost over? The homeless are back on the street. Where they remain nameless, faceless and invisible. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, a non-compulsory chatty mcchatface follows after the break, where you can learn a few extra details about this case, if you want, but if it’s not your thing, I won’t be offended if you don’t. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Jo Fulton, Harry Morrell-Hall, Kelly Jackson, Epona 2 and Alex Kolb, I thank you all. I hope that the new Cake of the Week feature isn’t proving too delicious for you all, and that you haven’t coated your Murder Mile goodies in chocolate and scoffed them. Plus, a thank you to an anonymous donator via the Supporter Link (I’m guessing it was Audrey Tautou, trying to get my affection, without Eva knowing, as Eva does get very jealous) and a special thank you to Amanda Harris for your kind donation via the Murder Mile website. I spent it on a coot shaped 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, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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Brown Hart Gardens in Mayfair, formerly known as the Duke Street Gardens.
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 FORTY-ONE:
Today’s episode is about Annie Sutton, a lone single mother who lived in a shared lodging with a series of strangers; all were friendly and liked her, but one lodger loved her a little too much. But what do you do when you live with your very own stalker?
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 former lodging house at 19 Hart Street in Mayfair is marked with a rum & raison cross and is under the word MAYFAIR. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
Here's a video to go with this week's episode, showing you the view from the elevated platform on Brown Hart Gardens and the lodging hours at 19 Hart Street where Annie & Henry Sutton were murdered by Joseph King. These videos are links to YouTube so they won't eat up your data.
SOURCES: This was created using several sources, including the court record from the Old Bailey Archive, London Metro' and church records, as well as several news sources (not all included below).
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 Annie Sutton, a lone single mother who lived in a shared lodging with a series of strangers. All were friendly and liked her, except one who loved her a little too much. But how would she cope living with her own stalker? 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 141: Annie Sutton and the Stalker Within. Today I’m standing in Brown Hart Gardens in Mayfair, W1; one street east of the electro-convulsive abortion of Elsie Goldsmith, three streets north of radioactive poisoning of Alexander Litvinenko, one street south of the Europa Hotel where the flight-crew of El-Al 016 were massacred, and four streets north-east of the last brave fight of Tudor Simionov – coming soon to Murder Mile. Originally called the Duke Street Gardens, Brown Hart Gardens is one of those architectural anomalies that the average pedestrian walks-by every day, knowing it looks out-of-place, but never asking why. Surrounded on all sides by mansion blocks (the posh word for flats), Brown Hart Gardens is an oblong-shaped walled garden with very ornate features; like a baroque domed pavilion of Portland stone, paved Italian greenery and a quaint little café, but what’s it’s hiding is a large electricity substation. And that epitomises Mayfair; rich and poor, arty and ugly, two opposites living side-by-side with one on show for the world and the other hidden in shame. Here you will see; red-trousered numpties next to a shambling mess in filthy rags, a snoot of hoity-toities living it large as life’s forgotten few hunker in flappy boxes, and arseholes who begin every sentence with ‘I’, quaffing fizzy-wine which costs an annual-salary per bottle, next to a homeless man heated only by a damp sleeping bag and a hit of scag. It has pretty much been erased, but 150 years ago, this part of Mayfair was a place of abject poverty. Comprising of Brown Street and Hart Street, this used to be a series of working-class dwellings for the city’s poorest, before it’s demolition in 1888. Situated at 19 Hart Street was a four-storey lodging full of thirty people; with many so broke, they were forced to share a room and even a bed with strangers. Living hand-to-mouth, they could never choose neighbours; so many simply they made the best of it, some found new pals, but others were left living side-by-side with someone who would do them harm. As it was here, on Thursday 20th January 1887, that Annie Sutton would last interact with her fellow lodger - Joseph King; a stalker who lived for her touch, but loved her to death. (Interstitial) (Croaky/stroke-ish) "I love Annie. I am very fond of her. But if I don't have her... no one else shall". Annie Sutton was typical of many working-class women living in London in the late 1800’s. With a cruel unjust society burdening her with little more than a limited education and a few basic skills, she was reliant on others simply to live, and doomed to a sad relentless existence of poverty and failure. Like many people, she was a nobody, hence very little was deemed worthy enough to document her life. Even in court, at her own trial about her own death; she was listed as Sutton, Button and Burton. Born in a small village near Exeter in 1847, Annie did everything right according to the rules of the day, as with women banned from keeping savings or owning a home, she married to ensure her survival. Life was hard, but she made-do with what little she had. In August 1885, at the St George’s parish workhouse in Mount Street, Annie gave birth to a baby boy called Henry; a small pale sprat named after her husband. Together this little family of three lived an existence with no certainties – they shared a small cramped room with another family, scraped-by on an unsustainable pittance, struggled to pay the weeks rent or risk eviction, and ate a meagre ration only if and when they worked - and although the chance of little Henry living into adulthood was slim, with a hard-working labourer father and a devoted mother, his odds were no better than fifty/fifty. But as cruel as life was for a working-class woman, fate would be even crueller. In the bitter winter of 1885, Annie’s husband died. Left bereft and heartbroken, this 40-year-old recent-widow and newly single-mother was bequeathed nothing but his last wage; a paltry sum, part of which paid for his funeral. But with no savings, no policies, no pension, no goods of any value, no family to fall back on, and no benefits doled-out by a welfare state to provide a small but vital safety-net - once those 27 shillings were spent, she was out. Annie had two choices; cry or fight. To put a roof over her head, food in her belly and to stop her one-year-old son being sent to the workhouse - like hundreds of other women within a single square mile - she became a washer woman, scrubbing the soiled filthy clothes of strangers for pennies. Of course, she could always remarry? But still being in the grip of grief, love had long escaped her heart. By July 1886, Annie and baby Henry had moved to 19 Hart Street in Mayfair, a series of four-and-five storey lodging houses which surrounded the Duke Street Gardens. Number 19 was a simple brown-brick block comprised of eight small rooms on four thin floors, with a basement wash-room for bathing and laundry, and being in an era before the luxury of plumbed-in gas, water or electricity, it was heated and lit by fires. But it wasn’t an unpleasant place to live. On the ground-floor lived the landlady Harriet Pearson, an elderly widow who kept a good house for nice people who looked out for one another. It had a homely atmosphere and lacking any communal areas except for the stairwell, she would welcome lodgers into her kitchen to cook and share a meal. The top two floors were housed by four families, but (as was standard in any lodging-house) the others were occupied by singletons. In the front first-floor room, Harriet’s adoptive son William Jewell shared with a burly omnibus driver called Charles Stanfield. Behind them, in a small back-room, two domestic servants - Lizzie Coten and Emily Sharp – shared a tatty horsehair mattress, as beside them Annie and her baby slept in a small lumpy bed. And in the back-room behind Harriet’s kitchen, a slightly-deaf elderly servant called Richard Bartholomew shared with a 41-year-old labourer called Joseph King. It was an odd mix of strangers, but everyone seemed friendly... ...only Joseph wanted Annie to be more than his friend. (Croaky/stroke-ish) “I will have her as my wife. If not, I will break her neck”. The history of Joseph King is a bit of a mystery. Born in Thurston, a Suffolk parish near Bury St Edmonds in 1846, he was the eldest of two brothers, but – since his teenage years – he’d had no further contact with his parents. Being pretty-much a loner, he was childless, unmarried and having only ever been in love with two women, his hopes at romance ended in disaster, as in his words “they betrayed me”. Being a thinly-built man, with a tangled mess of dark brown hair like an abandoned rat’s nest, sunken yellow eyes like two discarded pots of piss and a stick-like body punctuated by a beer-filled pot-belly, although Annie would have lived a slightly better life as a wife than a spinster, he wasn’t her type. With hands scuffed, his head scarred, moods which swung from ominously distant to uncomfortably close, and – having fallen from a horse aged 17 – his tongue rasped with a croaky lisp, his leg dragged and limped, his face unevenly drooped, and the right-side of his skull was soft to the touch. But according to those who knew him, he wasn’t a bad man. He was odd, but no real bother. Burdened by a partial paralysis down the right-hand side of his body, he still earned a modest 27 shillings-a-week as a bricklayer for Patman & Co, building a house at nearby 10 South Audley Street. He moved into 19 Hart Street six months earlier and always paid his 3 shillings rent on time. He drank in the evenings but he wasn’t abusive. And he cheekily (if creepily) called his elderly half-deaf bunkmate ‘daddy’. Times were tough, so with Annie & Joseph both being single, perhaps this was a love-match? Sadly not. As in Annie’s eyes, Joseph wasn’t right... ...but in his eyes, it was love at first sight. During his first month, she rarely saw him, as while she slaved away over hot piles of laundry, he lived up top. But when a cheaper bed became available on the ground-floor, suddenly as she would descend the stairs, she began to sense a creaking and a silence, as a sallow set of hollow eyes closely eyed her. As the weeks passed, all-too-often Annie found the uncomfortably tight stairwell conveniently blocked by Joseph, who greeted her with a raspy “oh, good day... again”, and yet he seemed to be going nowhere for no reason. Each time, she was polite, but she never stopped to talk, as the useful excuse of armfuls of unwashed clothes or a screaming baby at her breast always seemed to hasten her step. And as weeks turned into months, his escalating attention turned from small talk to little gifts; often he’d give her bread, milk, a brooch, baby shoes, or money to help her get by. Being broke, struggling to save three shillings for the week’s rent and keep the workhouse at bay, she knew she shouldn’t say yes, so often she didn’t, but as a singleton with a hungry child, sometimes “no” was impossible to say. On Saturday 5th January 1887, two weeks before her death, Joseph knocked on Annie’s door. Opening it a crack, he couldn’t see his beloved hidden by a mountain of sodden clothes and thick steamy clouds which rose from her scorching iron, so Emily Sharp relayed their words. Joseph: “Oh, I’ve come for my washing”, Annie: “It’s not ready, go back down”. But before the door was even shut, Joseph was in. Inside her room, he grinned at Annie... only being too busy, Annie ignored him. Abruptly, Emily asked him to leave, as the landlady didn’t approve of men inside a ladies’ room. But Joseph didn’t hear her, as his focus was fixed firmly on Annie – her head-down and shrouded by mist. At his feet, he saw eighteen-month-old Henry playing on the wooden floor. Scooping the little tot up, Joseph gently stroked his head with a palsied hand, as on his forehead he planted a kiss with wonky lips muttering “love him, love this boy” - his love seemed genuine, like he was destined to be his daddy. A little weirded-out, Emily snatched the boy back and shoved Joseph out. But before this odd-ball was ousted, he said these words; "I love Annie Sutton, I am very fond of her...” – ten words which Annie ignored – only to utter “...but if I don't have her, no one else shall". Annie Sutton was trapped in her own home with her own stalker... ...but as ‘being in love’ isn’t a crime, all she could do was keep her distance. Joseph was not shy about airing his deepest feelings of love among the lodgers - “he’d talk about her most nights”, “he loved her, he said”, "the boy too, he treated it as if he was its father", “he said he’d marry her on Whitsuntide” - but there is a very fine line between love-sick, besotted and obsessed. “He said once or twice, when he was cross and swearing, that if he could not have her, nobody else should”, “I heard him say, if she would not have him for his wife, then he would snap her neck”. His words (often spat while sozzled) seemed like a load of hot-air, but Annie was stuck. She couldn’t move-on and she couldn’t move-out, so wisely she kept busy, and she did nothing to encourage him. Only her silence simply added fuel to his resolve and his jealousy, as fate cruelly intervened. On Saturday 15th January, six days before, Joseph was sacked from his job. “I discharged him because he was a very inefficient and clumsy workman” said the foreman. Later adding in court “he used to do everything wrong. He was a bit looney, a general butt of the jokes, he was not right in his mind”. With no job to do and nothing to fill his time, Joseph drank and festered. No matter where Annie went, he was there, watching intently as she went about her life; ascending the stairs and descending the stairs; as she cooked, she washed, she walked and she slept; seeing who she talked to, who she ate with, what she said and what she did; he followed her to the shops, the church and the bathhouse. On Sunday 16th, between five and six pm, a former-lodger and frequent customer called Mr Rolf came calling at Annie’s door. As always, he knocked, she greeted him “hello Mr Rolf, here you go”; she handed him his bundle of clean clothes, he paid his money and left, “thank you my dear, good day”. To Annie, it meant nothing, as it did to everyone else who lodged at 19 Hart Street... ...except one. Ten minutes after Mr Rolf had left, Joseph was still seething. As she sat in her room, softly soothing her son to sleep, Annie’s ears rumbled to a heavy stamping up the stairs and a hard banging on her door. “Annie! Annie!”. Without thinking, she opened it, fearing a fire or an accident, but what she saw was a tearful Joseph fuming with jealousy, as a long dribble of drool spooled down his droopy lip. "You would have been on the floor with that man Rolf”, believing that in that brief window between being handed his laundry and saying “goodbye” the couple had sex. “You are my sweetheart”, he cried, “I put on my coat, and put my tobacco and pipes in my pocket ready to be locked up for you”, like this was to be the last stand of a desperate man. Of what? We don’t know. But with slow deliberate words, he expressed his undying love for her, and rasped “I would go up to my knees in blood for you”. And he would... but who’s blood? Having witnessed his strange declaration of adoration, the landlady ushered Joseph back down the thin stairwell and calmly he returned to his room. He was agitated and emotional, but perfectly sober. One hour later, he asked Annie if she could wash his shirts, as if nothing odd had happened. Two hours later, he softly knocked on her door and romantically cooed "Goodnight my darling; I am going out"... ...but wisely she had bolted the door shut. Annie didn’t have any other option; in the eyes of the law, he hadn’t done anything criminal, he was simply a love-sick fool talking silly. In the eyes of the doctors, he wasn’t mad, so nothing could be done. But inside of his obsessive little mind, Joseph believed that he and Annie were already lovers. On the evening of Wednesday 19th January 1887, one night before, Joseph lay in his bed; he was calm, sober and slept soundly. Beside him, Richard was restless as somehow, he had misplaced his razor – and although half-deaf – he would later confirm that Joseph hadn’t left their room, at all, that night. Likewise, in the room above, Emily had bolted the door shut, and with baby Henry exhausted from a cold, the four occupants slept well. So, no-one came into or went from their room until the morning. Only Joseph would deny this. Joseph: “the woman was in the habit of coming to my bed, or I to hers, often two or three times a week, for two or three hours at a time. The landlady disliked fraternisation, so it was our little secret”. An affair so secret, that no-one heard a thing; not a bolt unlock, a creaky step, a baby cry, or the moan of its mother in sexual ecstasy. The night was silent. And although Richard may have been half-deaf, he wasn’t blind, so the last sounds he heard before Joseph snored was him saying “goodnight daddy”. Joseph would never become Annie’s new husband... ...and Annie would never again find love. The morning of Thursday 20th January 1887 was bitter, as a cold biting wind pierced the icy streets of Mayfair. At a little after 8:15am - with her baby still fast-asleep in her bed - Annie smoothly unbolted her door, crept down the creaking stairs and (so as not to disturb the snoozing lodgers) she left the silence of the house to pick-up a jug of milk and a loaf of bread from a grocer’s cart on Duke Street. Oddly, it was there-and-then, after five days of swigging and sloth, that Joseph decided that he needed a job; he shot out of bed, popped on a shirt, his greatcoat and wide-brimmed hat called a wide-awake, and (with drive and vigour) he left the room, stating " I am going out for a little while, daddy". But in truth, he wouldn’t visit any building sites that morning, as he would only walk as far as Duke Street. At 8:45am, Joseph returned to 19 Hart Street, all dejected and depressed - or so he said. Being rejected for two jobs in as many minutes and – just the night before - having fiercely quarrelled with his beloved barely six weeks before their supposed marriage, he would claim that “enough was enough”. So, with Richard’s own razor gripped in his hand, he said he planned to cut his own throat and end his torment. But once again, no-one heard any of this, so it’s likely that none of it ever happened. And besides, when he returned to his room, Richard said he seemed okay, as he uttered “no joy daddy, oh well”. And although he wouldn’t take his own life, a tragic death definitely plagued his mind. At 8:50am, Annie returned. Her cheeks were flushed red from a foul wind, but the simple pleasure of freshly-baked bread warmed her body, as a cool jug of milk soothed her heat-blistered hands. That day would be like any other; a baby to feed, a few shillings to earn and a mountain of clothes to wash. Entering the hallway, it was as quiet as when she had left it. No-one stirred and mercifully her baby was silent as she softly ascended the stairs. But what happened next was heard but not seen. Annie barked three phrases “get off the stairs”, “let me pass” and “keep your hands off me". Abruptly, a milk-jug smashed, as a blood-curdling scream ripped through all four-floors of the lodging house. Bleary-eyed and half-dressed, the lodgers peered-out into the thin dark stairwell. All they saw was Annie and Joseph; him with a bloody razor gripped in his tight fist, and her with the pale flesh of her neck ripped apart and spewing meat like a burst sausage, as a crimson river flowed down her chest. Clutching her silenced throat which bubbled as she breathed, stumbling down each step and bouncing off every wall to escape the maniac above, Annie staggered into the safety of the landlady’s kitchen. Surrounded by friends, here she was safe, as lodgers locked the door, stemmed the flow of blood with a towel and gave her a brandy to steady her nerves... only Joseph hadn’t followed her. He had hurt her just as he had intended, a long slow slit to stem her words. But upon this woman who had betrayed his love, he would inflict a real pain - the kind she had never felt before and would never feel again. Joseph ran upstairs. He broke open the back-room door. And with the bloodied razor balled tight in his fist, as her little child slept sweetly, he began sawing at its neck with the sharp blade; slicing deeper and faster. And unable to cry with its wind pipe severed, as veins split and arteries spewed, he slit the child’s throat all the way down to its tiny spine. So, by the time that the razor was wrestled out of his hand, baby Henry’s little head was almost cut clean off. Barely minutes later, a police officer had arrived, but he was too late to do anything but gasp at the horror before him; as a distraught Annie bled to death, and her baby boy was already dead. (End) His trial was held on the 28th February 1887 at the Old Bailey, to debate if Joseph King was insane. A doctor declared he was of ‘low-intellect’ but ‘fit to stand trial’, and yet, his defence drew attention to his actions, an old scar on his forehead, and a softness to his skull, having fallen from a horse aged 17. Upon his arrest, Joseph was taken to Marlborough Street Police Station, where he confessed “I have killed the woman whom I loved, also her dear child", whilst he calmly sat and smoked his pipe. He also said they had sex that night, quarrelled later, and that she jilted him, but said the child’s murder was her idea, having pled: “If you do end me? Kill the child. Don't leave it to the mercy of the world”. In his cell, while awaiting his committal hearing, Joseph was given a meal of potatoes, meat and bread, which he apparently ate with “great lividity”, cutting and ripping at his food with blood-stained hands. Often remarking on how the marks remained - “yes, there it is... it is still there” - as he licked his fingers clean, and refused a towel or soap - "I won't have them washed, these were the hands that did it". On 21st March 1887, Joseph King was executed at Newgate Prison. Annie Sutton bravely fought back her tears and pain, as this recent widow and newly grieving mother was taken to St George’s hospital. For three days doctors battled to save her life, but having lost too much blood and all hope of ever finding happiness, she died at 1am and was buried with her baby. And the tragedy is, being so poor, this only occurred as she was forced to live with her stalker. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, a non-compulsory chin-wag over a tea and a cake follows after the break, where you can learn a few extra details about this case, but feel free to switch-off now if you don’t like waffle. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Bridget Cooper, Alexis Kilday, Amanda Lamb and Anna Bellingham, I thank you all. Your physical goodies should be with you now, and I hope you’ve enjoyed the exclusive goodies online. Plus, a thank you to Nicola Smyth for sending me a very kind parcel of chocolatey treats in the post, which actually lasted a whole three days. I know! Miracle! Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of the fabulous 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, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY
Today’s episode is about Joe Gynane, an addict, it’s hard to say more as drugs were his life. But when this junkie took a life, the law would ask a valid question: “was he to blame for the murder, or was it the drugs, and did they diminish his responsibility?”
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.
This is the location of The Coach & Horses public house on the corner of Greek Street and Romilly Street where Joe Gynane stabbed Mohammed Elmi to death. It is marked with a blue cross just under the words 'Tottenham Court Road' on the west end of Soho. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
Here's a little video showing you the location of The Coach & Horses public house in Soho, where the murder of Mohammed Elmi by Joe Gynane took place. This is a link to YouTube, so it won't eat up your data.
SOURCES: to name but a few.
https://www.bailii.org/ew/cases/EWCA/Crim/2020/1348.html https://www.strath.ac.uk/humanities/lawschool/blog/lifeexperienceandjurorbiasincriminaltrials/ https://insidetime.org/an-odour-was-all-it-took-star-poem-of-the-month/ https://insidetime.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/01/Inside-Time-January-2020-LOW-RES.pdf https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-7570929/Evil-killer-34-jailed-30-years.html https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-49993168 https://www.expressandstar.com/news/uk-news/2019/10/09/addict-found-guilty-of-stabbing-man-to-death-in-pub-doorway/ https://www.belfasttelegraph.co.uk/news/uk/addict-found-guilty-of-stabbing-man-to-death-in-pub-doorway-38579088.html https://londonnewsonline.co.uk/drug-addict-is-jailed-for-30-years-for-soho-murder/ https://www.mylondon.news/news/zone-1-news/remorseless-killer-stabbed-man-death-17060524 https://metro.co.uk/2019/09/23/alleged-killer-stabbed-boy-16-hours-after-murdering-man-with-same-knife-10794375/ https://www.yourlocalguardian.co.uk/news/17959299.wimbledon-addict-found-guilty-stabbing-man-death-pub-doorway/ https://www.wimbledonguardian.co.uk/news/17922809.wimbledon-man-allegedly-taking-drugs-victim-stabbing-death-court-told/ https://www.thisislocallondon.co.uk/news/17959299.wimbledon-addict-found-guilty-stabbing-man-death-pub-doorway/ https://www.standard.co.uk/news/crime/soho-stabbing-man-charged-after-knife-attacks-in-london-s-west-end-and-camden-a4082631.html https://old-bailey.com/2019/10/03/whats-on-at-the-old-bailey-oct-4/ https://www.thesun.co.uk/news/8550555/stabbing-soho-london-man-dies/ https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/crime/soho-stabbing-london-suspect-victim-romilly-street-a8805276.html https://metro.co.uk/2019/03/07/murder-investigation-launched-after-man-repeatedly-stabbed-in-soho-dies-in-hospital-8856572/ https://www.standard.co.uk/news/crime/soho-stabbing-man-dies-days-after-being-repeatedly-knifed-in-london-s-west-end-a4085711.html https://www.enfieldindependent.co.uk/news/national/17958068.addict-found-guilty-stabbing-man-death-pub-doorway/ https://uknip.co.uk/breaking/news-207210/man-found-guilty-of-stabbing-in-central-london/ 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 Joe Gynane, a drug-addict, it’s hard to say more as drugs consumed his world. But when this hopeless junkie took a life, the law would ask a valid question: “who was responsible for the murder; was it Joe’s fault or his drugs?” 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 140: The Diminished Responsibility of Joe Gynane. Today I’m standing on the corner of Greek Street and Romilly Street, in Soho, W1; one street south-east of the bombing of the Admiral Duncan pub, one street north of the epileptic bank-robber Jack Murphy, and two streets south-east of the collapse of a porn king – coming soon to Murder Mile. At 29 Greek Street sits The Coach & Horses, one of my favourite pubs. With a boozer situated on this site since the 1700’s, it has kept its traditional aesthetic; being a four-storey grade-II Victorian corner house with white walls, an ironic red flash, and the ground-floor chock full of original features; like red steel pillars, tobacco-stained tiles, heavy wooden doors and the old Taylor Walker lanterns. Made famous by the play ‘Jeffrey Bernard is Unwell’, Norman “one of London’s rudest landlords” and - it is said – the inspiration for Robert Louis Stephenson to write The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, The Coach & Horses is a wonderfully honest old-man’s boozer where you can sup a decent pint, over a good old sing-song on the piano, all under a portrait of the Queen Mum. And yet, if you ask nicely, you can be led upstairs to one of the city’s best (and most secret) vegan restaurants. Ssshhh. Recently acquired by a pub chain, thankfully they haven’t ripped its guts out. But they have stripped-out the sticky carpet and even fixed the toilets, so – when weeing – no-longer do you have to stare into a dank abyss of leaky pipes, stale piddle, possibly the plague and mould so old it’s gone a bit racist. Like most pubs, outside you may see the odd fight, mugging, flasher and even the occasional murder. One such murder occurred recently, it made the papers but few people paid attention to it – as I didn’t – as being a tawdry tale about a junkie who killed a possible dealer over some drugs, nobody cared. In the public’s eyes, they were two blights on society who had made their own decisions – one took drugs, one sold drugs and they both chose to live a life of crime and to make fast money the easy way. But the trial would pose an interesting conundrum – if the attacker was high on drugs at the time of the murder, was he fully responsible for his own actions, or were the drugs (he took) partly to blame? As it was here, just before dawn, on Sunday 3rd March 2019, that Joe Gynane stabbed Mohamed Elmi to death. But when did his rational decision-making stop and the drugs take over? (Interstitial) The legal definition of ‘diminished responsibility’ is “an unbalanced mental state which makes a person less answerable for a crime and grounds for a reduced charge, but it does not classify them as insane”. There are three factors to determine a person’s diminished responsibility; if they couldn’t understand the nature of their conduct, couldn’t form a rational judgement and couldn’t exercise self-control. All of which could be affected by learning difficulties, disability, trauma, disease, drink or drugs. But who was Joe Gynane? Joe Derek Gynane was born on an unspecified date in February 1985, to a mother whose surname was May and an unidentified father in the South London borough of Lambeth. And that’s as far as the press would delve into his past. Described as ‘evil’, on paper, this 34-year-old was the epitome of a drug-addict; dark-ringed eyes, a broken nose, messy brown hair and a tired pasty face dotted with spots. As expected, his childhood was a dark depressing muddle of abandonment, isolation, fear, rejection and hopelessness, and although a lethal cocktail of drugs was his one-constant to escape from the horror of his life and erase the pain of his past, he wasn’t uneducated or unintelligent. Far from it. Seven months after his arrest, whilst incarcerated at HMP Whitemoor, a category A prison, Joe’s poem titled ‘An Odour Was All It Took’ – a brutally honest insight into his life - won Poem of the Month in Inside Time, a prison magazine, and later won the 2020 Pinter Poem Award, a prize for poets in prison. And this is it: “The smell of cut grass stained the air, evoking memories of a bittersweet childhood; a time before care, before care, drug despair - oh how I wish I was there. School in the morning, football in the afternoon, painted circles adorned the walls of my room. Two cats and an apple tree in the garden, I struggle to place my memories. My memories have made my emotions harden. Self-reflection, soul inspection, toilet, spoon, injection, adolescent withdrawals, a bought erection. An outpouring of pain, shame, all aboard the thought train. The smell of cut grass stained the air, evoking memories of a bittersweet childhood; a time before care, before prison, a colourless prism. Memories out of synch, anachronism, football stickers, foil, pipe, light flickers, Soho bound city slickers; dark days, bright nights, a young moth down to Piccadilly’s lights. A corner cuddled, seeking oblivion, memories muddled, a fruitless pursuit trying to clasp a puddle that bubbled. An outpouring of pain, shame, all aboard the thought train. The smell of cut grass stained the air, evoking memories of a bittersweet childhood; a time before care, before I made my mother cry, earthbound yet seeking the sky, my passage resides in a cling-filmed package, emotions, memories, abandoned baggage. Blackheath firework displays, fairies sprinkling dust on the school plays, the good old days, before me and innocence parted ways, waifs, strays, a cup in the hand, homelessness pays. An outpouring of pain, shame, all aboard the thought train. The smell of cut grass stained the air, evoking memories of a bittersweet childhood; a time before care, before fear, despair, a shed tear, stealing from those I hold dear, near. My breaking point, suicide, life, what’s the point? Institutionalised. At home in the joint, at home with a joint, freedom, bound to disappoint. My core’s rotten, I should be forgotten. An outpouring of pain, shame, last stop for the thought train”. By the age of 13, when most boys were playing with their PlayStations, Joe’s home-life had fractured, he was living in care, he had been abused, and was addicted to heroin and crack. Living on the streets and surviving off hand-outs, the only constants in his depressing little existence was drugs and prison. With a criminal history of sixteen counts of theft, robbery and violent assault, all drug-related, Joe was in-and-out of prison throughout parts of his adult life, and although incarceration would provide him with a bed, clean clothes and three meals-a-day, it posed a problem for someone so reliant on drugs. Joe was addicted to three drugs – heroin, crack and spice Heroin enveloped him with feelings of euphoria, with a hit like being wrapped in a cotton-wool cocoon where nothing can harm him. But the pleasure would be short-lived and followed by a toxic mix of short and long-term symptoms; like nausea, vomiting, itching, abscesses, insomnia, confusion, cramp, constipation, collapsed veins, organ failure, mental illness, anxiety, depression, sexual dysfunction and irrational thoughts. With the only way to suppress the side-effects being to inject more heroin. Like many addicts, Joe also used crack cocaine to counteract the effects of heroin, it gave him a quick high, hyper-alertness, increased strength and energy, but only for thirty minutes. Like heroin, the side-effects were severe; including insomnia, confusion, aggression, anxiety, paranoia and hyperexcitability (which clouded his rational thoughts), as well as ‘coke bugs’ (a vivid hallucination that insects were burrowing into his skin). With the only way to suppress the side-effects of crack, being to smoke spice. As a psychoactive cannabinoid, spice relaxed him, but again being a short-lived high; it led to sweating, palpitations, vomiting, irritability, extreme violence, suicidal thoughts, an irrational distrust of other people, and auditory and visual hallucinations so vivid he couldn’t tell reality from fiction. To suppress the side-effects of spice, he took heroin and so the vicious circle began again, and it would never end. Only prison and drugs are not a good mix, as unable to regularly acquire a steady supply of heroin or crack in prison, Joe was moved onto methadone to help combat the withdrawal. But since the Smoking Ban was introduced in 2007, with no tobacco to dilute the spice, many prisoners smoked it neat. On Friday 1st March 2019, whilst on remand in police custody and awaiting trial on a charge of robbery at Highbury Magistrates Court, although he had made-up with his mother and could have gone to stay with her in Plumstead? He didn’t. Although he could have collected his prescription for methadone to assuage his drug-addiction? He didn’t. And although he should have gone to his bail hostel? He didn’t. As Judge Richard Foster would state: “you made a conscious decision, a bad decision to go to Soho”. Joe Gynane had been an addict for more than twenty years, almost two thirds of his life. As a homeless man used to being attacked (and stabbed) by strangers, he carried a large kitchen knife. As a junkie just out of prison, he was suffering from withdrawal, as he headed into Soho in search of a fix. And although many of the bad decisions were entirely his, one was outside of his control... ...as just thirty-six hours before the murder, Joe was released on conditional bail. On the evening of his release, CCTV cameras would record Joe in and around Old Compton Street; a vibrant frenetic place of fun festooned with a kaleidoscope of clubs, bars and cabarets. But seen by some as a series of squalid streets of sin, Soho also has a very dark side courtesy of drugs and poverty. Whether day or night, it’s a regular occurrence to see shambling drunks stumbling towards their next swig, heroin addicts collapsed in matted heap, constipated crack-addicts relieving their rotten guts in a doorway, and – sometimes – it’s impossible to sup a pint without being accosted by the deluded. Drug-deals aren’t even hidden, they happen in plain sight, in broad daylight and in front of children. For the jury at Joe’s trial, it was very simple; he made the decision to go to Soho in search of drugs. He knew the risks, he took the chance and over the next thirty-six hours, he binged on heroin, crack and spice. Trapped in an all-too-familiar vicious circle of depleting highs and bigger hits – with his body so used to this abuse – he staggered from fix-to-fix, losing the fight to counteract the side-effects. And so, a familiar tragedy unfurled; score, euphoria, dip, stumble, collapse, inject... and repeat. On the wet and windy night of Saturday 2nd to the morning of Sunday 3rd March, cameras witnessed Joe Gynane taking drugs alone and in the company of others, including 37-year-old Mohammed Elmi. In court, Mohammed’s family described him as a “kind, jovial and cheeky son”, who as the eldest of four siblings “paved the way for us in our new environment”; a protector in a new country and life. As a devoted father of two boys aged seven and nine, who he adored, he provided as best he could, given that his options were cut short following a traumatic brain injury in an unprovoked assault. It remains unproven whether Mohammed was just a user or a supplier, a fact his family dispute, stating “he was not a drug dealer, he had qualified as a plumber”. But in court, Joe grew increasingly unhappy, barking “the geezer's making it up as he goes along. Just sentence me now, I'm sick of him”. Joe’s erratic paranoid behaviour did him no favours, even as his own defence, Edward Henry QC tried to put across that Joe was “a broken, bewildered and also deeply troubled individual, unaware of Mr Elmi's vulnerability”. But when Joe’s poem - ‘An Odour Was All It Took’ - was read out aloud in court to give context to his drug-taking and troubled past, Joe stormed out cursing “I don't need to listen to this bollocks”, he spat at a dock officer, and shouted “that's what I think of your court”. After two decades exposure to illicit drugs, a life-long history of abuse, homelessness, hunger, assault, mental illness and a default emotional setting which was stuck at paranoid, Joe trusted no-one... ...not just the law, but also other addicts... ...as well as himself. In the early hours of Sunday 3rd March 2019, thirty-six hours into a drug-fuelled binge, Joe unsteadily staggered through the dark-lit back-streets of Soho, his stumbling feet were as unbalanced as his mind. Shortly before dawn, a nasty drizzle engulfed the air, a fine thick mist which soaked everything as a chilly wind made Joe’s jacket as wet as it was heavy, but still he didn’t go home, as he wasn’t done. Several times, Joe and Mohammed were seen together; meeting for minutes or seconds. Both were easy-to-spot, so – if this murder had been pre-planned – Joe wouldn’t have chosen to wear blue jeans and a cream jumper, or attack a man in a black puffa jacket and a blue top with red and white stripes. But then again, who was in control by that point – Joe or his addiction? At any time, Joe could have decided that enough was enough... but he didn’t. He could have dumped the large kitchen knife stashed in his jacket... but he didn’t. And having ran out of money for drugs, he could have left for his hostel, perhaps to pick-up his prescription for methadone... but again, he didn’t. Joe Gynane had just one motive in his confused little mind – more drugs. But how? This short fix of euphoria was long-since a distant joy, as a catalogue of symptoms swept through his ravaged body, fighting against each other like a junkie gauntlet to the death; shivers, cramps, spasms, sweats, exhaustion, insomnia, high fevers, low chills, vomiting, confusion, palpitations and nausea. Spiralling-out of control, the grim misery of addiction had taught him that ‘no more drugs’ was not an option. He couldn’t just quit, as withdrawal was worse than death. A sickness worse than any sickness as his symptoms would never die, only duplicate... unless he got one more hit of heroin, crack or spice. One more hit... until the next one... and then the next... and then the next... At about 5:45am, twenty minutes before dawn, the streets were deathly quiet; except for the howl of amorous cats, the rumble of emptying bins and the soft shush as street-sweepers wipe away any trace of piss and glass as the night’s revellers slept soundly in their beds... but still the junkies crept. Under the shadow of the Palace Theatre on Romilly Street, hunkered in the unlit doorway of The Coach & Horses pub stood Mohammed Elmi; dodging the drizzle and cold, as again, Joe Gynane approached. Neither was a friend nor enemy, as with one needing the other, the two men remained on good terms. There was no falling-out, no sore looks, no cruel words, no money owed and no punches thrown. It was just as it had been for the last thirty-six hours. Without warning, Joe plunged the twelve-inch kitchen knife through the jacket, two thick layers and inflicted five separate two-inch-wide wounds to Mohammed’s stomach, hip and thigh. With no defensive cuts, the stabbing came silent and frenzied, not out of hatred, but out of sheer desperation. As Mohammed slumped on the rain-soaked floor – focussed only on a quick fix - Joe rifled the pockets of the dying man’s Puffa jacket, his feverish hands staining red as blood gushed from the failing organs and pooled about his greying frame. As Joe fled, he left Mohammed to die in the dirty sodden gutter. Their brief history together was erased in an instant, over a short-lived hit and some easy cash. Mohammed was treated at the scene by London Ambulance Service and transferred to hospital, but being listed as critical for the next three days, he died on Wednesday 6th March at 7.42pm. The investigation was straight forward, as having secured the scene, although the rain had erased any fingerprints, this partially-lit back-street was well-covered from all angles by at least ten cameras. But who was the assailant, the Police would ask? Well, that would be answered by Joe... ...or maybe by his addiction. By 11:35am, with his new high having worn off and his ill-gotten gains spent, Joe stabbed a 16-year-old drug-dealer called (REDACTED) in an alley on University Street, just a few streets north. Again, he stole drugs and money, but he didn’t flee. When Police arrived - spotted acting suspiciously - he was challenged, he ran, he ditched the blood-stained knife and was swiftly detained. He confessed to both attacks and gave evidence in remorseless detail, crying “how many times have I got to do this? I’ve stabbed loads of people, they won't die. I have stabbed him fifteen to twenty times. I don't want to be out there anymore. I don't care if I murder someone. Everything I’m saying is gospel, it's all true”. That day, 34-year-old Joe Gynane was charged with two counts of attempted murder, two counts of assaulting an emergency worker and the possession in public of an offensive weapon. But who was responsible for these attacks? Was it Joe, or his addiction? The trial of Joe Gynane began at the Old Bailey on 23rd September 2019, before Judge Richard Foster. Faced with all four charges; he admitted his guilt to the two lesser offences, he pleaded guilty to GBH with intent on 16-year-old (REDACTED), but pleaded ‘not guilty’ to Mohamed Elmi’s murder. Instead, he would plead guilty to his manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility. The evidence was self-explanatory, as without a shadow of a doubt, the prosecution and the defence agreed that Joe had plunged a knife five times into Mohammed. Both sides agreed that Joe was an addict who suffered from a personality disorder. But where-as Dr Farnham for the defence said that; (owing to his addiction) his drug-use was involuntary, at the time of the killing he was suffering from “polysubstance dependence syndrome and cocaine psychosis”, thus his responsibility was diminished. Conversely, Dr Blackwood for the prosecution disagreed with how severe his disorder was and how dependent Joe was on drugs, thus his motive for murder (being robbery) was a conscious decision. This was the core of the jury’s debate; what was a rational decision by Joe, an irrational decision by his addiction, and where did his decision-making deviate from voluntary to involuntary, or did they? What was rational? Not staying with his mum, not sleeping at his bail hostel, rejecting his methadone, breaching his bail conditions, going into Soho, seeking out drugs, or meeting-up with fellow users? Was the nausea, the mistrust, the paranoia, the anxiety, the sweats, the cramps and the seizures, as well as his skewed perspective and the auditory and visual hallucinations all voluntary, given the fact that he had taken the drugs and he knew the risks? Was the abuse he suffered as a child, his time spent in a care-home, his undiagnosed mental illness, and his life as an abandoned boy struggling and starving on the London streets, did that diminish his responsibility and mitigate the severity of his crimes? Was the robbery and the murder merely a logical step for a hopeless addict with sixteen prior offences for theft and assault? Or was his mind simply mangled by a life-long addiction to drugs? (End) So complex was the case, that the trial would take two-and-a-half weeks to complete, with the judge directing the jury “do not reach a conclusion until you had heard all of the evidence, in particular those by the psychiatrists” ... and yet, so confused would the jury become over exactly what constituted diminished responsibility, that it almost derailed the case and led to a mistrial. Having heard Joe’s own testimony, his poem, statements by Mohammed’s family and waded through a mountain of medical paperwork, after three-and-a-half-hours of deliberation, on the 9th October 2019 the jury returned with a unanimous verdict – Joe Gynane was found guilty of murder. Nothing less, with no lesser charge of manslaughter and not on the grounds of diminished responsibility. He was sentenced to life with a minimum term of thirty-years in prison, meaning he will not be eligible for parole until November 2049. By then he will be 64-years-old - not that heroin addicts live that long. He is currently serving his sentence at HMP Whitemoor in Cambridgeshire, where he wrote his award-winning poem, a poignant piece which mourned his past and predicted his future: “My core’s rotten, I should be forgotten. An outpouring of pain, shame, last stop for the thought train”. As stated at the start, diminished responsibility is determined by three key factors; an inability to understand the nature of your conduct, to form a rational judgement and to exercise self-control. But isn’t that what drugs do and isn’t that why we take drugs? To erase the horrors of our real-life, to flee from the trappings of a rational world, and enter the embrace of a place free from responsibility? Was Joe guilty? You decide. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, if you liked listening to this podcast, there is some non-essential extra stuff after the break, where we sup tea, maybe have a cake and dive into some extra stuff about this case. It’s not essential listening and it might not be for you, so feel free to switch off now if you’re not a fan of waffle. If you fancy treating yourself to some seriously good stuff, like a handwritten thank-you card from me, a goodie pack of stickers, badges, fridge magnets and (maybe) even a posh key-ring, early ad-free episodes of Murder Mile, rarely seen crime-scene photos, location videos, a weekly ebook, a secret podcast series called Walk With Me, back issues of Deadly Thoughts, exclusive merch’ (oh yes, I’ve got more Reg Christie, Blackout Ripper and Police Constable Arsenal Guinness mugs on the way), as well as a new treat - a weekly video series called Cake of the Week. Oooh, it’s the dirtiest kind of porn, where I share a video of a tasty cakey treat. You can access this by subscribing to the Patreon account for Murder Mile via a link in the show-notes, and your subscription will help support this handmade podcast. Of course, you can also help support us by leaving lovely reviews and sharing the show with your friends, which defeats the haters. Boo! Thank you. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of the fabulous 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.
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-NINE:
Today’s episode is about soldiers and sex-workers, two ancient trades intrinsically linked, especially during war-time. And although – if people were created equally – a price would never be put on a person’s life; we clearly value those who fight over those who fuck.
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 site at Waterloo Bridge where Peggy Richards fell to her death, having been strangled, is located with a lime green cross at the turn of the River Thames by Waterloo. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
Here's two videos to go with this week's episode; on the left is the exact location where Peggy was (allegedly) strangled and her body dumped over the bridge by Joseph McKinstry, and on the right is the Wellington Hotel on the corner of Alaska Street where Peggy and Joseph drank and had sex. These videos are links to YouTube so they won't eat up your data.
SOURCES:
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 soldiers and sex-workers, two ancient trades intrinsically linked, especially during war-time. And although – if people were created equally – a price would never be put on a person’s life; we clearly value those who fight over those who fuck. 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 139: The Fall of Peggy Richards. Today I’m standing on Waterloo Bridge, between WC2 and SE1; one road south-east of the strangled baby of Maria Poulton, two streets south of the botched robbery of James McCallum, a few feet west of David Morley’s assault and close to the drowning of Annie Frimley - coming soon to Murder Mile. Waterloo Bridge (known as New Waterloo Bridge) carries the A301 over the River Thames, between Waterloo on the south bank and The Strand on the north. Fashioned in a box-girder design, it’s made of Portland Stone and is laid over five concrete piles which are sunk into the river’s mud-flats. At 1200 feet long by 80 feet wide, it has four lanes, two cycle ways and two footpaths. Like many of London’s bridges, it’s often ignored as means of connection between the pricey pubs of Covent Garden, the arty-twaddle of Festival Hall, the IMAX where numpties pay twice the price to see the same film (only bigger), a small fortune to go ‘weeee’ on the world’s slowest Ferris wheel, or for footie louts to drunkenly grunt towards Waterloo Station as they tunelessly massacre ever single note. Built as a replacement for John Rennie’s defunct Strand Bridge, New Waterloo Bridge is often referred to as the ‘Ladies Bridge’. Constructed between 1938 and 1945 - with all eligible man enlisted to fight - Lind & Co hired mostly female contractors to complete the work; whether welders, scaffolders or stone-masons. Skilled trades which until the world was plunged into war was only seen as a man’s job. Officially opened in 1945 owing to bomb damage, being the only Thames crossing to be directly hit by German bombers during the blitz, it was partially opened on 11th March 1942, just three weeks after the murder of Deptford sex-worker Peggy Richards. And although, during war-time, women were invaluable to our industries, for those in the “oldest profession”, prostitutes remained invisible. As it was here, on Thursday 19th February 1942, that Peggy Richards would die. But being a potentially political powder-keg between two allied nations, the British legal system would put into sharp contrast who they valued the most; the soldier or the sex-worker? (interstitial) Peggy’s death began as a simple exchange between two strangers... ...one who needed money, and the other who needed sex. Born in 1897, Joseph Ralph Bradley McKinstry was raised in Hull, one of the oldest neighbourhoods of Gatineau, in the city of Quebec, on the south-east edge of Canada. Known to his pals as Buck, Joseph was stockily-built like a swollen testicle, with dark wisps of thinning hair, beady-eyes encircled by a set of silver-framed spectacles and not a single tooth in his head - not one – as adhering to the odd fashion of the 1920’s, he had every tooth ripped out and replaced with dentures to save on dentist fees. In short, Joseph was nothing special. He worked in manual jobs and was often short on cash. He wasn’t much of a looker, but he didn’t struggle when it came to pulling a less-than-choosey lady. And although he wasn’t everyone’s cup-of-tea, some said he was smooth, whereas others called him a cocky twat. In 1923, he was charged with passing false cheques - which seems to be his only conviction, having no known history of violence or assault - a detail which was barely mentioned in any news article. In 1932, he married. But raised in an era when women were seen as little more than an appendage to a man, she is never mentioned by name, only as the ‘wife of Joseph McKinstry’. They moved to Ottawa, set up home, in 1934 they had a daughter called Isabelle, and much later a son called Roland. Many said he was a good father and a loving husband, except morally he had no qualms about spilling his seed in a slew of sex-workers when he was miles from the woman he claimed to love. Again, the press never failed to mention that Peggy was a ‘prostitute’, and yet, they never listed him as a ‘brothel botherer’ or a ‘prossie pest’. Which isn’t surprising, as there are so many derogatory names for sex-workers, but so few for those who use them, as this puts the blame squarely on her, rather than him. With the outbreak of war, as a reservist, 42-year-old Joseph was conscripted into the machine gun re-enforcement unit of the Cameronian Highlanders of Ottawa, an infantry regiment of the Canadian Army. We know this, as the press praised his heroics, but not his inability to keep his penis in his pants. Only, his glorious military career wasn’t exactly the stuff of legend. On 10th May 1940, Private Joseph McKinstry took part in Operation Fork. With Denmark having fallen to Nazi control, Britain feared that the same fate would soon befall the Nordic island nation of Iceland, so (as the British do) they decided to invade and force it to become an allied stronghold. But as military invasions go, it was hardly our greatest hour, as we had grossly under-estimated its peaceful people. Operation Fork was a failure before it began. Fully ladened with guns, bombs and seven hundred and forty-six Royal Marines setting sail for Reykjavik onboard four warships – two destroyers; the Fearless and the Fortune, two cruisers; the Berwick and the Glasgow, as well as 4000 Canadian soldiers, with a battalion of Cameronian Highlanders onboard the Empress of Australia - they were ready for war... ...but with their Supermarine Walrus aircraft flying too low over the port, the surprise was blown. By the time this heavily-armed armada had arrived, the city’s people had filled the dock ready to greet these invaders with smiles and flowers. No shots were fired, no lives were lost and the only upset was the citizens being asked to move back “so our soldiers can get off the destroyer”... which they did. Until April 1941, Iceland was garrisoned by 30,000 bored and lonely troops, some of whom regularly used prostitutes. So much so, that the Icelandic census recorded two-hundred and fifty-five known offspring who were conceived out of liaisons between invading soldiers and Icelandic sex-workers. That year, Private McKinstry and the Cameronian Highlanders were deployed to England, trained at Stirton outside Bradford and later stationed at the Witley Common Camp near Aldershot. And like any other soldier given a few day’s leave, he would head into London’s West End for spirits, sex and sin. In every article, Joseph comes across as a husband, a father and a solider... ...where-as Peggy wasn’t even seen as a person, she was just a prostitute. What details were reported about Peggy were far from glowing. ‘Peggy Richards’ was her street-name, not that anyone cared, and being born Margaret MacArthur near Wallsend in Northumberland about 1910, she died aged 32. And yet, sources would list her age as 34, 38, 42 and even 48, never younger. With twenty-nine convictions for prostitution and theft, they said that she lived a sinful life with an unnamed docker in poverty-strewn Deptford, and – as a sex-worker who spread ‘venereal disease’ for her own selfish need – she was described as “ugly”, “stout”, “weather-beaten”, “easy” and a “drunk”. And that’s it. The life and times of Peggy Richards was summed-up in the public’s mind by five cruel words, which didn’t portray her a defenceless victim of murder... ...but as a criminal who deserved to die. Thursday 19th February 1942. With the Nazis advancing, most of Europe having fallen and the Allies in retreat, it was dark times, as German bombers rained down death from the skies. One week earlier, the Blackout Ripper had been arrested for slaughtering four woman, but it barely made the papers. Having fought with her lover on Valentine’s Day, for almost a week, Peggy had slept in a slew of flea-bitten hotels if her pissed-up punters could afford it. But when they couldn’t, she slept rough. Simply to exist, she sold her body for sex. Each day wearing the same tatty clothes; a red crepe dress, a black wool cardigan, a fake fur coat, black stockings and a red scarf wrapped around her head like a turban. In contrast, billeted at Witley Common Camp where every soldier was given good food, a clean bed and a solid wage – having sent a few dollars back to his wife and child in Canada - Joseph and his pals headed to Waterloo in search of drink and girls. As a Private, he wore blue Glengarry trousers, a tunic and a beret, with a bright red pompom on top and bearing the badge of the Ottawa Cameronians. And as if it wasn’t already obvious which of these two people our governments valued more; Joseph carried an Army issue gas-mask, and where-as all Peggy had to protect her was a half-empty handbag. That evening, Joseph disembarked his train at Waterloo Station, his pal said “what about drinks and some women?”, Joseph agreed, they bought a pack of prophylactics and sauntered to the closest pub. At 7pm, the barman of the Hero of Waterloo pub at 108 Waterloo Road saw ‘Peggy’ enter the saloon bar in the company of two Canadian soldiers (one of whom was later identified as Joseph McKinstry). At 8pm, the threesome headed to The Wellington Hotel, a pub directly opposite at 81 Waterloo Road, where they drank until closing time at 10.30pm, and purchased a few bottles of beer as off-sales. In his own words, Joseph said “I asked her to go out” – which was a common code for sex – and having stumbled into Alaska Street; a rotten unlit crevice of festering bins, scuttling rats and puddles of urine, under the roar as trains thundered overhead – “I had her in a doorway”. He paid her five quid without quibble and as his pal tottered back to the station, Joseph & Peggy headed towards Waterloo Bridge. That was the last time that Peggy Richards was seen alive. Three weeks from its opening to pedestrians, Waterloo Bridge was under construction. With no traffic, no lights and being in blackout, it was difficult to see a few feet ahead, let alone the black river below. Joseph would later admit to detectives: “we went for a walk, she was annoying me, I barked at her ‘oh shut up you goddam bitch’, and as we sat on parapet of the bridge... I had her again”. At 11:55pm, the storekeeper for Lind & Co and his colleagues – a lighterman, a night-watchman and a GPO engineer - heard the sound of arguing on the bridge. Exiting the storeroom by the south shore door, they clambered up the concrete stairwell and spotted a lone man looking over the parapet. The storeman’s torch illuminated the soldier’s face and the word Canada on his tunic. In his right hand was a beer bottle, the soldier (identified as Joseph) reassured them “I’m alright mate” stating his pals had crossed the bridge, as in his left hand he pushed an unseen object into his respirator case. Owing to obstructions, the night watchman guided him to safety and he staggered north to Covent Garden. Unsure what had occurred, the storekeeper and his co-workers searched the unlit bridge by torchlight, finding only a scarf wrapped like a turban by the parapet, two feet from where the soldier had stood. They shone their torches down into the black muddy river below... ...but they saw and heard nothing. At 1:30am, Joseph was seen at the YMCA canteen on Platform 15 of Waterloo Station, trying to get a ‘chit’ to stay at the Union Jack Club, a servicemen’s club at 91 Waterloo Road. Short of sixpence for a night’s bunk, a fellow Canadian spotted Joseph ferreting for silver in a handbag (matching Peggy’s), smoking a ‘Churchman’ cigarette (the type Peggy smoked) and the soldier reported him to the Police. When asked by a Constable “do you have anything in your possession which doesn’t belong to you”, Joseph (who had given a false name) replied “no”, but when pressed, he grew petulant and threw it onto the table, claiming he’d been with a woman drinking “she hit me with the bag and then ran off”. The handbag held ration books in the name of Peggy Richards, the bottom right lens of his spectacles was cracked, his dentures had broken in half and across his forehead was a small swelling bruise. Unable to find a witness, including Peggy, to either confirm or deny his story - being a Canadian soldier – Private Joseph McKinstry was dealt with by the Provost Marshall of the Ottawa Cameronians, but was released without charge. After a good night’s sleep, Joseph returned to his barracks in Surrey. Nobody was worried about Peggy’s safety... ...as no-one reported her missing. The next day, on Friday 20th February 1942, at a little after 6:30am, as a slim crack of dawn-light pierced the dull grey clouds - still unable to rationalise that he thought he had heard - the storekeeper returned to the bridge’s parapet where a woman’s head-scarf was found and the soldier was seen staring down. Alerting the Police, at 9.35am, a patrol boat approached the south-west foreshore, under the shadow of Waterloo Bridge. Being half way between high and low tide, face-down in the silty mud, a body lay motionless; its fake fur-coat was matted, its red crape dress was sodden and its pale legs were buckled. Hoisted-up in a wicker cradle, a Police surgeon gave this anonymous woman a cursory once-over and proclaimed “another suicide, I suppose?”, stating his belief she had been dead four to seven days. And that was the end of Peggy’s story... ...an unloved and unattractive prostitute who in a pique of alcoholic depression jumped to her death; she was mourned by no-one, buried in an unmarked grave and (like unwanted litter) easily forgotten... ...or she would have been, had her autopsy not landed in the hands of a highly skilled pathologist who was hailed as brilliant, inventive, fastidious and – more importantly – sympathetic. At 2:30pm, in Southwark Mortuary, the corpse of Peggy Richards was laid on a cold marble slab before Dr Keith Simpson. Untouched, her pale face was daubed with red lipstick, cheap rouge and river mud, as he had expected. And although some of her garments had been disturbed by the natural flow of the ebb-tide, one stocking had slipped off, but – stranger still - her underwear was completely missing. The Police surgeon’s time-of-death was wildly-out. Detecting a temperature of 47 degrees Fahrenheit in her internal organs, having compared this to 38 degrees in the mortuary and a river temperature of 31 degrees, Dr Simpson estimated she had died 14 hours earlier – “about midnight, give or take”. And as for this being a suicide? Within a few minutes of seeing the injuries to this unfortunate woman, he had notified Superintendent Reece of the CID - “this is not a suicide... this is a suspected murder”. Across the middle of her back were jagged scuff-marks, small uneven tears similar to the dotted holes in her red crape dress, and situated at a height of three feet and six inches from her feet, they exactly matched the hard surface of the parapet’s wall, suggesting she had been forced against it. Being a sex-worker, it was impossible to prove whether intercourse had taken place in the moments before her death, but a psychical assault was very evident. Wiping away the mud, five fingertip bruises had encircled her neck (like a ghostly red hand) and the hyoid bone of the voice-box was fractured. Whether she fell or was pushed, her death occurred just moments after she was strangled... ...and although her motionless body was found in the River Thames, she didn’t drown. Tumbling backwards over the parapet, as Peggy’s body plunged a minimum of 10.8 metres or 30 feet, the shallow muddy foreshore should have broken her fall, but it didn’t. Owing to its design, directly below her was one of five solid piles used to support the bridge’s span. Weighing roughly twelve stone, Peggy hit this 4.3-metre-wide re-enforced concrete wall at a speed of roughly 38 miles-per-hour. Both thighs snapped, both knees broke, most ribs split and her chest cavity was crushed, and although her head remained intact, there were extensive injuries to her internal organs, as she bounced off the rock-hard surface (built to survive impacts from steel ships) and tumbled into the muddy foreshore. Alone, broken and (hopefully) unconscious, Peggy died face down in the mud. Four days later, Dr Keith Simpson concluded – “it was murder”. With an investigation in full swing, Police swiftly questioned the stockman and his three colleagues of Lind & Co; the barmen at The Wellington and The Hero of Waterloo pubs, the Canadian soldier at the YMCA, the Police Constable at Waterloo Station, the Provost Marshall and Peggy’s boyfriend. Having compiled a description of this unknown assailant – stocky, mid-forties, thinning hair and cocky, with cracked silver glasses, a bruised forehead and a broken set of dentures, wearing a blue uniform with a red pompom beret and the badge of the Cameronian Highlanders – given a list of every soldier on leave in London that day, they tracked down Private Joseph McKinstry to his billet in Surrey. Significantly, when he was found, he joked to his pals “goodbye lads, I’ll see you again... if they don’t hang me”, only – at that point – he hadn’t been informed why the police wanted to speak to him. Held in a detention cell at Bow Street Police Station, having been cautioned, Joseph asked “is your chief going to charge me with murder?”, the officer said “I don’t know, you are merely detained whilst further enquiries are made”, at which Joseph coldly stated “I am not going to remember too much of what happened on that goddam bridge, until I hear what he knows and what the witnesses say”. He gave a brief statement: “I had been with a girl, drinking. She hit me with her handbag as we came out of the pub. I got hold of it, she ran off and I got left with it”, but he denied assault and murder. With Peggy attacked on the 19th, found on the 20th and her autopsy concluded by the 24th, Joseph was arrested and charged with her murder on Wednesday 25th February – in total, it took just six days. Given a wealth of evidence and witnesses, the trial should have been a mere formality... ...but with Joseph being a Canadian soldier and Peggy a British prostitute... ...handed a political hot-potato, only one life would be deemed worthy. On Wednesday 15th April 1942, husband, father and solider, Private Joseph McKinstry was tried at the Old Bailey for the murder of Margaret MacArthur, alias Peggy Richards, and he pleaded ‘not guilty’. The evidence was overwhelmingly weighed towards his guilt; the prosecution had her scarf, handbag, cigarettes and silver coins; several sightings of this very identifiable man wearing his military uniform, an admission in his own words that “we drank and had sex twice” the last time being on the parapet of Waterloo Bridge directly above where her body was found, a thorough autopsy which had proven she was strangled by a right-handed man (which Joseph was), and the Police report even concluded that “there is no doubt that Joseph McKinstry was responsible for Peggy Richard's death”. On paper, Joseph McKinstry was as good as dead, and the hangman’s noose would await his neck. But from the start, his defence made it clear who was worthy and who was not; that Peggy was nothing but a common prostitute and Joseph was a brave soldier defending our country in our time of need. Arguing that her death was either an accident or suicide, they did everything to discredit the autopsy; disputing how Dr Simpson could prove she died at midnight using the temperature of her organs (a method which is standard practice today), suggesting that the fingertip bruises around her neck were crush-injuries caused by logs or lumps of iron in the water, and that although the blood in her liver showed that she only survived for ten minutes after the fall - without a shred of evidence – the defence argued she could have lived for four more hours... which put a question-mark over her time of death. The defence concluded: “there is no evidence that Joseph McKinstry was with Peggy Richards after 10:30pm and his presence with her on the bridge at midnight can only be inferred by his statements” – (Joseph) “she hit me with the bag and then ran off”– and being a sex-worker, it was suggested that she could easily have picked up “someone else”, and it was this unseen stranger who murdered Peggy. The jury agreed, and on Wednesday 22nd April 1942, Joseph was acquitted of Peggy’s murder. (End) The murder of sex-workers – especially during war-time – was (and still is) seen as little more than the occupational hazard of faceless nobodies slaughtered on London streets at an often-unreported rate; including Agnes Stafford, Mary McLeod, Evelyn Hatton, Margaret Cook, Rita Green, Dora Freedman, Ginger Rae, Evelyn Oatley, Margaret Lowe and Doris Jouenette to name but a few, but no-one cared. War-time juries were reluctant to convict any serviceman of a capital offence, especially allied soldiers like Americans or Canadians, as this was likely to cause an unnecessary rift between our nations. We’ve seen it all before, foreign soldiers convicted of murder – including Richard Rhodes Henley, Thomas Edward Croft, James Forbes McCallum, Henry Smith and George Brimacombe – only to have their executions commuted, acquitted, pardoned, or given a woefully lenient sentence, and returned home. Upon his acquittal, when Police returned some of his personal property, with his trademark arrogance and self-entitlement, Joseph asked “the money found in the dead woman’s handbag, can I have it?” In April 1942, Joseph returned to Canada as a free man, to enjoy his life and his future. A few months later, he and his unnamed wife conceived a boy called Roland. But in January 1944, tragedy struck when a fire engulfed their home in Hull; his wife, their 8-year-old daughter and 10-month-old son all perished in the flames, and yet sustaining just a few burns, miraculously Joseph escaped death... again. And as with Peggy Richards - just like the law – fate would only deem his life worth saving. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, if you enjoyed that episode, there’s some non-essential extra stuff after the break. But before that, here’s a very exclusive message from our good friends at Cult With No Name. (Play Promo) If you enjoy listening to the Murder Mile theme-tune – which is a track called Man In A Bag, track five from the album Heir of the Dog – also available as a ring-tone – and Winsome Lose Some (the end credits track you can hear right now), as well as many other tracks used across this podcast, their full back catalogue is available via the link in the show-notes. I own every album by Cult With No Name, I’ve been to most of their gigs, and they’re all great. Nights in North Sentinel is their 10th album launching on 30th July, and it’s an intoxicating audio tour-de-force of joy, love and loss. I loved it. As musicians, Erik & Jonny are not afraid to push the envelope, to roll out something original and different in each album, and best of all, they’re really lovely people. To support local musicians like Cult With No Name, click on the link and have a listen. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, who are Victoria Mcloughlin, Tim Newbound, Jennifer Trebon, Jessica Cheeseman and Rob Richardson, I thank you all, and – if like me you are dying in the heat – don’t forget that a Murder Mile mug also makes beer and wine cooler and taste great. Plus, a little reminder, that CrimeCon “the world’s number 1 true crime event” is coming to London on Saturday 25th and Sunday 26th September. It’s the “ultimate true crime weekend”, sponsored by the Crime & Investigation Channel; a two day event full of criminologists, profilers, authors, journalists, film makers and some of the real life survivors, with 5 stages, 50 hours of content, live discussion and presentation, you can meet loads of likeminded true crime enthusiasts and we also have Podcast Row which features oodles of your favourite podcasters including me. Phwoar To take part, click on the link in the show-notes and use the offer code MILE for 10% off, plus you’ll get a little gift from me. And – because this virus is still being a bit of a bellend – every ticket comes with a full refund guarantee. So, grab one of the last tickets, as I’d love to meet you there. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of the fabulous 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.
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.
Platform 4 of Tottenham Court Road tube where Daniel Gonzales was arfrested (in front of the silver cabinets on the left), this is also where a key scene from An American Werewolf in London was shot, but is that significant?
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 THIRTY-EIGHT:
Whether in the grip of a drug-induced psychosis, a psychopathic fantasy or paranoid schizophrenia, Daniel Gonzales had left two injured and four dead in a two-day killing-spree. But with a kill-list of “at least ten”, the next life he would take would be his last.
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.
This is the location of Holborn Police Station, where Daniel Gonzales was interviewed by the police and where most of his most salacious quotes about the murders came from, which would be used to convict him. It is marked with a purple cross near the words 'Theobalds Road'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
Here's two little videos; on the left is Platform 4 of the Northern Line at Tottenham Court Road tube where Daniel was arrested - the same location as used in the horror film An American Werewolf in London - and on the right is Holborn Police Station where Daniel was interviewed. It is from these sessions that many of Daniel's quotes about the killing would come from, which would ultimately be used to convict him.
SOURCES: This series is predominently based on the Mental Health Inquest into the treamtent and care of Daniel Gonzales, as well as various news sourcesm some included below:
http://www.thecnj.com/camden/2009/030509/news030509_01.html https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC1570800/ http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/4814670.stm http://courtnewsuk.co.uk/daniel-gonzalez/ http://www.hundredfamilies.org/daniel-gonzales/ http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/southern_counties/6939722.stm http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/southern_counties/4813234.stm https://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/health-and-families/health-news/mother-fought-to-get-help-for-disturbed-son-before-he-went-on-killing-spree-6106528.html https://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/health-and-families/health-news/jurys-question-was-daniel-gonzalez-a-schizophrenic-or-a-cold-blooded-killer-470200.html http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/8010705.stm https://www.getsurrey.co.uk/news/local-news/no-parole-for-killer-gonzalez-4838930 http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/southern_counties/4813234.stm http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/4794124.stm http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/4790948.stm http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/4786632.stm http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/4782914.stm http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/4763162.stm http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/4758968.stm http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/southern_counties/4814122.stm https://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/health-and-families/health-news/mother-fought-get-help-disturbed-son-he-went-killing-spree-6106528.html https://www.standard.co.uk/hp/front/man-quizzed-over-murders-6968808.html https://www.getsurrey.co.uk/news/surrey-news/daniel-gonzalez-surreys-most-dangerous-17396399 https://www.getsurrey.co.uk/news/local-news/loner-wanted-become-serial-killer-4840720 https://www.getsurrey.co.uk/news/local-news/killing-really-good-buzz-woking-4840758 https://www.getsurrey.co.uk/news/local-news/jury-considers-whether-gonzalez-killed-4840788 https://www.getsurrey.co.uk/news/local-news/life-means-life-for-gonzalez-4840823 https://www.getsurrey.co.uk/news/local-news/inquest-death-serial-killer-4824608 https://www.getsurrey.co.uk/news/local-news/mother-serial-killer-speaks-out-4838547 https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-379285/Killer-tried-bite-death.html http://www.thecnj.com/camden/030206/news030206_08.html https://www.theargus.co.uk/news/6810209.woman-fought-knifeman-with-her-slippers/ https://www.thisislocallondon.co.uk/news/708850.freddy-krueger-imitator-gets-six-life-terms/ http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/4766878.stm https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2006/jan/27/ukcrime http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/6939722.stm https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2006/mar/17/ukcrime.owenbowcott https://ssristories.org/serial-killer-convicted-of-murder-bbc-news/ http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/4802628.stm https://www.standard.co.uk/hp/front/charges-heard-in-cell-6944933.html https://www.theargus.co.uk/news/1611550.family-speak-of-relief-at-serial-killers-death/ https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x77ywdb 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. Whether in the grip of a drug-induced psychosis, a psychopathic fantasy or paranoid schizophrenia, Daniel Gonzales had left two injured and four dead in a two-day killing-spree. But with a kill-list of “at least ten”, the next life he would take would be his last. 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 138: Daniel Gonzales: The Lost Boy – Part Four. Today I’m standing on Lamb’s Conduit Street in Holborn, WC1; three and a half miles south of the double-murder of Derek & Jean Robinson, one mile north-west of Daniel’s criminal trial at the Old Bailey, one mile north-east of his arrest at Tottenham Court Road tube, and thirty-four miles north-east of his incarceration at Broadmoor Psychiatric Prison – coming imminently to Murder Mile. Situated off Theobald’s Road, at 10 Lamb’s Conduit Street currently sits Holborn Police Station. Build in the 1960’s, it’s an ugly monstrous block of reinforced concrete with flat dark windows and an imposing fifteen storey office block above. With almost no signage, it’s often mistaken for council flats or a defunct utility company, until they spot the iconic little blue lamp known as the Mercia Lantern. Fitted with custody suites, a vehicle bay, a firing range and a canteen, sadly - for one of Murder Mile’s much lauded and recently promoted temporary Police Sergeants - it doesn’t have a bar: (PGAC) “what do you mean you don’t serve Guinness? Well, what else am I supposed to have for breakfast?” In 2013, when London had 136 police stations - owing to repeated government cut-backs, as well as the loss of back-room staff and officers on the beat - now there is barely one station for each of the city’s 32 boroughs, with many buildings closed to the public including this one. So, should you wish to report a crime, here you’ll find a locked door, an empty office and a sign directing you elsewhere. Before its demise, many murderers were interrogated by detectives at Holborn. As is standard police procedure; their details were recorded, questions asked and responses taped as part of an on-going investigation. Every suspect had the right to say “no comment”, but one man did not. But this was not a confession of remorse, but a chance to brag about his crimes which directly led to his conviction. As it was here, on the afternoon of Friday 17th September 2004, just a few hours after his arrest, that Daniel Gonzales confessed to four murders. But who did the talking – his ego or his illness? (Interstitial) (Daniel) “...I’ll be famous, like those kids who did the shooting massacre at Columbine, man. Mine’s a big f**king story. Yeah, I’m gonna be front-page news”. Desperate for fame, Daniel’s murders were the perfect combination of sickening and salacious for the tawdry tabloids; as with tales of blood, knives, a Jason mask and callous soundbites of how he sliced-up his petrified prey, they cemented his infamy with a catchy nickname – the Freddy Krueger killer. Only his crimes went mostly unknown; as with Hurricane Francis ripping through the Caribbean, two earthquakes unleashing a double tsunami in Japan and the hunt for Iraqi fugitive Saddam Hussein, as well as the recent arrest of the Camden Ripper and the investigation into Dr Harold Shipman (one of the world’s most prolific serial killers), his timing was terrible. In comparison, Daniel was small-fry, the press didn’t care and the British public were focussed on the X-Factor final. That morning, forensics teams were at three locations across London; the murder of Kevin Molloy in Tottenham, the attempted murder of Koumis Constantinou in Hornsey and the brutal double-murder of Derek & Jean Robinson in Highgate, but as yet, they were unaware of Peter King and Marie Harding. Having issued a description of this unnamed assailant, Daniel was being hunted by the Police. Only by then, he was already in Soho. (VHS Fast-Forward). Friday 17th September 2004 at 12:10pm. Later discovered in his bag at the Left Luggage kiosk, in a handwritten note Daniel had declared: “I will be a serial killer. I am gonna make sure I get to London and kill as many old bill as soon as I can”. At 12:11pm, he entered Exit One of Tottenham Court Road tube station. Being lunchtime, it was quiet, and being dressed casually, he blended in. Except that in his jacket, he held an eight and a twelve-inch kitchen knife, and although this spree-killer had already murdered four, any more would be a bonus. At 12:13pm, at the ticket office, he purchased a travel card which would give him a day’s travel across the London network, only it wouldn’t get him home. So, where he was heading? We don’t know. And having been unable to shower, he paid using a £20 note, which – just like his hands and clothes – were stained with blood. If he had used a ticket machine, he’d have gone undetected... but he didn’t. At 12:14pm, as Daniel walked through the turn-style and headed towards the Northern Line, staff spotted a bite mark on his neck, a wound to his leg and arm, and informed the British Transport Police, who confirmed that he matched the description and monitored his movements until officers arrived. At 12:16pm, Daniel stood on Platform 4 of the sound-bound Northern Line waiting for the next tube. To take him, maybe to a major transport hub like Waterloo or Clapham Junction, to tourists-spots like the Southbank or Leicester Square, or simply to furnish this blood-hungry spree-killer with a carriage full of captive victims trapped inside a train whose doors lock the passengers in once it’s in transit? (Daniel) “I will be a serial killer. I am gonna kill as many ‘old bill’ as soon as I can”. The time was 12:17pm. With his heart pounding (“kill, kill, kill, kill”), two knives in his jacket (“kill, kill, kill, kill”) and four sinister voices inside his head (“kill, kill, kill, kill”), with people on the platform, at least one more to life to take and two Police officers approaching (“kill, kill, kill, kill”); there he stood, he was silent, and then... ...he stopped. Quietly and without any fuss, Daniel gave up. He was searched, handcuffed and - with no need to call for back-up - the two officers calmly escorted him to the concourse, where Daniel was arrested. But why did his killing-spree stop? Was he bored? Were the voices silent? Were four victims enough? Was he too desperate to share his sordid tale with the world? Or as a fan of horror movies like Friday the 13th, Halloween and Nightmare on Elm Street, is it significant that Platform 4 is where lycanthrope David Kesler slaughtered a London commuter in the film - An American Werewolf in London... ...or is this just a coincidence? At roughly 12:45pm, Daniel was processed at Holborn Police Station, held in a custody suite, and later interviewed, initially in connection with the attack on Koumis, but later he would confess to others. The evidence would prove – without a shadow of doubt – that Daniel Gonzales was a murderer. Several knives were found; one at Hilsea, two in Tottenham and two upon his arrest, all of which were soiled with Daniel’s fingerprints and the blood of Peter King, Kevin Molloy and Derek & Jean Robinson, as well as the DNA of Marie Harding on his Jason Voorhees hockey mask found in his bedroom. Police had train tickets, mobile phone data, CCTV footage and eye-witness statements, as well as his diary. And although he would plead to the lesser offence of manslaughter by diminished responsibility, it was during these interviews – in which he bragged, laughed and recounted the killings with a joyous sense of sadistic relish – that Daniel’s own words would ultimately be used to convict him of murder. (Mix of quotes) “I wanted to be Freddy Krueger for the day”, “to kill as many as possible... maybe ten”, “I slit her throat”, “I had to carve him”, “I felt clean, orgasmic”, “This is something I live for – killing”. It would be impossible for a jury to sympathise with this boy’s plight as a paranoid schizophrenic, once his diary was read aloud in court – “I got that old bitch proper, bloodbath, pouring out of her throat, boy. I got to say this, it felt really, really, really good. One of the best things I’ve done in my life”. For some - hearing how he was “cunning and manipulative”, how many experts had failed to detect “any signs of mental illness”, how he had refused to engage with the programme, how he had rejected his medication in place of a cocktail of illicit street drugs, how his diagnosis as a paranoid schizophrenic was not universally agreed, and how a pre-sentence report at HMP Reading had stated that “Daniel admitted to manipulating the symptoms of his illness in an attempt to avoid being sent to prison” – his reliance on mental illness as a excuse seemed a convenient ploy to use when it suited him most. If a jury agreed that Daniel was little more than a psychopath who wilfully committed these murders, he would be given a life sentence or a whole life tariff, meaning he may never be released from prison. But if they agreed with his diagnosis, a charge of diminished responsibility could see him committed to a psychiatric hospital, and depending on if, when and how well he engaged with treatment and if he recovered from his mental illness, Daniel could be released back into the community in a few years. Which would leave the jury with a real quandary - was Daniel bad, mad or maybe, faking both? Upon his arrest, Police headed to his home in Knaphill. Hearing the news, his mother Lesley was clearly distraught that her worst fear – “Does Daniel have to murder or be murdered before he can get the treatment he so badly needs?"; words she had repeated again, and again, and again - had come true. But across the next few hours, she patiently sat and furnished the police with full history about Daniel. She told them everything; from the drugs, to the crimes, to the voices and his psychotic episode just days before, she helped piece together a timeline, and – even after everything she had endured over the last two decades – with grace and dignity, she expressed remorse for the victims and their families. And yet, remorse was something her son could only achieve – it seemed - when it suited his need. But was this lack of compassion down to Daniel’s ego or his illness? On Wednesday 22nd September 2004, Daniel appeared at Highbury Magistrates Court, charged with the murders of Derek & Jean Robinson; he gave his name, his address, and Police were authorised to hold him for a further three days, pending their investigation. He was unresponsive and vacant. On Thursday 23rd September, Daniel was returned to Highbury Magistrates Court to be charged with the following additional offences; burglary, grievous bodily harm and the attempted murder of Koumis Constantino, the attempted murder of Peter King and the murders of Kevin Molloy and Marie Harding. But being describedas “highly emotional” and “badly behaved”, like a little boy wrapped up in his own self-pity, Daniel refused to attend, so the judge, Mrs Dorothy Quick transferred the hearing to his cell in the courts’ basement. With four security standing guard, the prosecution and the defence by the door and the judge in his cell, Daniel was asked to give his name, age and address, but he refused. Instead, he lay motionless on the floor; his legs stiff and rigid, his head fixed at an odd angle, and his vacant eyes glaring into the emptiness, as for the first time in almost a week, he said nothing. But was Daniel mentally unwell...? ...or simply playing the insanity card? While awaiting trial, Daniel was remanded at HMP Belmarsh, a Category A prison full of murderers, rapists and terrorists. If infamy was his goal, he should have relished his bad-boy status in this sea of like-minded sadists? Only quickly it became abundantly clear, that Daniel needed psychiatric help. “...there was a dramatic change in his mental state. He was aggressive, lunging at prison staff, so much so they needed a six-man unlock” (six prison officers, sometimes in riot gear, just to enter his cell). On 15th October 2004, after three weeks at Belmarsh, Daniel was moved to Broadmoor, a maximum-security psychiatric hospital at Crowthorne in Berkshire, just five miles from where he was born. For a boy who dreamed of being a serial-killer, surely (in his own twisted way) his incarceration at this infamous institution for the criminally insane - where deranged legends he had only ever read about; like Peter Sutcliffe, John Straffen, Robert Napper, Kenneth Erskin, David Copeland, Robert Maudsley and Anthony Hardy could now become his equals – surely this would become Daniel’s crowning glory? But it wasn’t. Upon admission to Broadmoor, Dr Das, the forensic consultant psychiatrist would state: “he needed continuous seclusion and observation round the clock... he was withdrawn... unpredictable... and violent... we really couldn’t understand the psychopathology of what was going on underneath”. Across his hospitalisation, Daniel was moved from the Luton Ward, to the Isis Ward and to the Henley Ward at Broadmoor, as each had their own specialties to cater for his ever-changing illness, and yet each ward’s psychiatrist held a clear consensus that Daniel was suffering from a “psychotic illness”. Initially, whether it was schizophrenia was uncertain, as when Daniel was treated with antipsychotic medications, he didn’t react well; “it brought down the agitation and he became quite placid, but we saw a man who had extrapyramidal symptoms (such as tremors, muscle spasms and full-body rigidity): sometimes he was stiff as a board” - which was why Daniel chose to self-medicate with street drugs. (Dr Das) “he was on the highest level of observation... which required him to be at arm’s length of at least two members of staff, 24 hours-a-day” for the first 18 months – a measure which even Dr Edward Petch, consultant psychiatrist would admit was “very, very unusual. Within Broadmoor I have never seen anything like it", but for Daniel’s safety and wellbeing, it was essential. This was a level of care that Daniel and his mother had spent years pleading for - (Daniel) “To have proper care, you need a doctor to follow your path and to cross-examine you thoroughly. If I was seeing someone two or three times a week, that’s at least something”. And now he finally had it. During his hospitalisation, Daniel was required to attend his trial at the Old Bailey. And although it was his own words which would convict him – whether they were spoken by his ego, or the voices in his head – what the jury saw was a psychopath, but what the doctors saw was a boy in distress. Having given his testimony in court, Daniel was returned to his cell at Broadmoor and kept under 24-hour arm’s length observation, given his emotional state and his threats to kill someone or himself... ...but even with the best care, in the best facility, there will always be lapses in concentration. Dr Das would state “I have never encountered that level of self-harm before”. As Daniel was lying in bed, silent and still, under the cover of his bed-sheet, he sunk his teeth deep into his cubital fossa – the fleshy depression of his elbow’s pit – severing the muscles and rupturing an artery. He lost several litres of blood and was lucky to survive, but – even after this - he would still exclaim “I want to die”. Dr Petch, the admitting psychiatrist later said “I’ve never seen anyone bite himself with that ferocity”. In the space of a year, that was the third time that Daniel had tried to end his own life, and so severe was his psychopathy, that once again he was moved to a specialist care unit at Broadmoor. But if this suicide attempt was just a ploy to avoid a lengthy prison time, was his life worth such a big risk? By September 2005, a year into his hospitalisation – although his moods still swung wildly from elation to depression; he lashed-out, harmed himself and still heard voices, with his account of the murders ranging from self-pity to uncontrollable grief – doctors described Daniel as “a changed man”, thanks to high doses of antipsychotic and mood stabilising medications, used to treat schizophrenia. Lesley would say “this is the best he has ever been; we’ve not seen Danny so well since he was fifteen”. Nurses would also describe him as “a boisterous, affectionate and tactile man, who had a good sense of humour... a warm smile, and loved music and movies”. As for the doctors at Broadmoor, this was a very positive step – “as it led us to think that the medication was doing something right”. But the jurors wouldn’t see any of this. On Tuesday 28th February 2006, the trial began at the Old Bailey, before Judge Ann Goddard QC. The evidence that Daniel had committed these murders was irrefutable, but what divided opinion was his motive; was he a homicidal psychopath hellbent on blood, or a schizophrenic guided by voices? To put it simply, at the time of the murders, was he “bad” or “mad”? For the defence, Dr Edward Petch, a psychiatric consultant at Broadmoor agreed that Daniel’s “illness was atypical and the lack of acute episodes made diagnosis difficult”, but that in his expert opinion, Daniel exhibited "a degree of disturbance which was without parallel in my experience". Arguing that he was a paranoid schizophrenic, that he should be found guilty of manslaughter owing to diminished responsibility and treated accordingly, stating that “he is one of the sickest patients I had ever seen”. As for the prosecution, with a wealth of compelling evidence on their side – including the knives, the mask, the victim’s, the diary and Daniel’s own words, as well as conflicting medical testimony from Dr Phillip Joseph, a psychiatrist who said it wasn’t schizophrenia, but an "anti-social personality disorder" – the prosecution put forward that Daniel was a psychopath hellbent on a mission to commit murder. On Thursday 16th March 2006, after a three-week trial, the jury retired... ...and after just ninety-minutes, they returned with a unanimous verdict. Daniel Gonzales was found guilty of murder; they believed that drugs had played a key-part, the voices in his head were fabricated, he was not suffering from mental illness, and he had killed in cold-blood. Sentenced on Friday 17th March, the relatives of the victims hugged each other, as for the murders of Marie Harding, Kevin Molloy and Derek & Jean Robinson, and the attempted murders of Peter King and Koumis Constantinou, Daniel was given a whole life tariff, meaning he would never be released. Once again, Lesley & Daniel had been let down by a chronically under-funded mental-health system “incapable of providing joined-up care over any period of time". But this sentence had one shining light – as although the jury didn’t believe that Daniel was mentally ill – the judge would rule that (until he is deemed fit) he should be spend the remainder of his sentence at Broadmoor psychiatric hospital. Over the next few months, although Daniel was still “considered one of the most dangerous patients at Broadmoor”, he continued to improve, he had stopped self-harming and was moved to a lower-risk young person's unit called the Windsor Ward. His mother said; “he is so much better. We can have a laugh now. But he has begun to wonder about what he did, and where he is, and has got depressed. I can't talk about it to him and he can't to me. But sometimes he says, 'I'm so sorry, Mum, I'm in here". With his appeal rejected and no chance of parole, Daniel’s future looked hopeless. But as Dr Petch would state “he had killed four people, (but we) felt there was one left... and that was himself”. (End) On Thursday 9th August 2007, just before 8am - as part of hospital protocol to observe any patients who are deemed to be a suicide risk, once every thirty minutes - a nurse saw Daniel, half-naked, lying on his bed. She had no real fears, as over the previous week, he had seemed happy and settled. At a little after 8:20am, the nurse grew concerned as he had not collected his medication. Returning to his room, she found the walls spattered and his bed saturated with blood. Using the shattered edge of a CD case, Daniel had slashed both wrists deep. He could not be revived and was pronounced dead. At the inquest into his death, a consultant reiterated that “Danny was one of the most disturbed and sick young men that had been treated at Broadmoor Hospital for years" and that “the crimes he had committed and the sentence he had received had caused him a great anxiety”, hence his suicide. In March 2009, an independent review into his care by NHS South-West concluded that Daniel “had suffered from schizophrenia” and “he was not treated successfully”. But deemed as a case of “missed opportunities” where “lessons could be learned”, no person or organisation was held accountable. Whichever way you look at it, Daniel Gonzales was a lost boy. To the jury, he was lost in a life of drugs and horror films. To the tabloids, he was lost in a deluded fantasy of killing and blood. To his mother, he was lost in a system which was supposed to protect him. But to Daniel, he was just a little boy lost inside his own mind – a prison he could never escape from and where no-one would hear him scream. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. That was the final part of Daniel Gonzales – The Lost Boy. Next week, a regular episode. As always, if you enjoyed that episode, there’s some non-essential extra stuff after the break. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, who are Kayleigh Dodd and Lizzy Dee, plus a thank you to Amanda Simms for your very kind donation via the Murder Mile ‘donate button’ in the eShop. I thank you all, and I pray that a truckload of Mr Kipling’s cakes is accidentally delivered to your homes alongside a large tanker full of freshly brewed (but always hot) tea. Yummy. Plus, a thank you to everyone who leaves lovely five-star reviews, as us little podcasts can’t survive without them. 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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