Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast - #279 & 280: The Grey Man - Parts 1 & 2 (Philip Joseph Ward)11/12/2024 
Nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST, 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Channel's Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
side entrance of 1-3 Hadley Gardens in Chiswick @Googlemaps Sept2021
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 TWO HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-NINE AND EIGHTY:
Across the morning of Tuesday 11th of November 1941, from 8:50am to 10:20am, an armed man dressed in grey went on a killing spree across Chiswick, Hammersmith and Acton armed with two shotguns. It seemed like he was picking off random people, but having spent months rehearsing and surveilling his targets, his mission had a purpose. Of so he thought.
THE LOCATION:
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MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: of PART ONE Tuesday 11th of November 1941. The Second World War had raged on for two long years and Britain was losing the fight. Still reeling from the evacuation of Dunkirk, German troops were massed at the English channel poised to invade and an eight-month blitz bombing campaign had reduced many cities to smoking and smouldering ruins of rubble, with Hitler’s plan to pummel the British people into submission… only it had failed. For most Londoners, the bombings had become a bit of a nuisance, fires lit up every skyline, guns were commonplace, and with each street tinged with the stench of rotting bodies, they carried on with life. That day was Armistice Day (later known as Remembrance Day and Veteran’s Day), where – with fresh irony – the people marked the end of hostilities between the Allies and Germany just 23 years before, and with a paper poppy pinned to their lapels, at 11am sharp, the city would fall to a 2-minute silence. As a typical middle-class suburb in Chiswick, West London, Foster Road was full of neat semi-detached houses on a peaceful tree lined street, where you rarely heard a sound above a softly spoken whisper. At 8:45am, as per usual, 28-year-old Leslie Ernest Ludford left his home at 11 Foster Road. Dressed in a smart suit and clutching a briefcase, as he worked as a solicitor dealing in divorces and conveyancing. This half-mile walk took twice as long, as being born with dwarfism, this diminutive man seemed even smaller as a curvature of the spine left him with a hunched back and propped up by a pair of crutches. To some, he may have stood out as weak, but as his father always said “it didn’t stop him, as the only thing he couldn’t do was run”. Leslie was well-respected, a keen player of the card-game Whist and was Chairman of the Brentford and Chiswick Junior Conservative Club on nearby Chiswick High Road. As he’d done so many times before, he turned onto Hadley Gardens heading towards Duke’s Avenue. The street was typically quiet; with a few cars parked up and the milkman having done his round, opposite 1-3 Hadley Gardens, Ada Dancy was selling poppies, Arthur Burgess and Matilda Mott were talking to her, Stanley Randall was in his bedroom, and Violet Pender was a few paces behind Leslie. Ada said “I didn’t appreciate the seriousness at the time”, as Violet agreed “I didn’t think it was real”, as having had a gas attack drill days before, they thought it was a practice for if the German’s invaded. But it was real, and Leslie knew it. From in-front of a dark blue saloon, a tall shadowy man raised a single-barrel shotgun to his shoulder, as its sights fixed squarely as the dwarf hobbled on wooden crutches. Stopping dead, with his eyes wide in terror, he raised his hands and Leslie screamed “don’t, don’t”, but the man showed no mercy. Exploding in a fiery burst, a 12-bore shell of lead-shot ripped apart his upper left arm, shattering the humerus, embedding his flesh with red-hot wadding and fragments of suit, as it spun him like a child’s toy. Collapsed and bleeding, as Leslie steadied himself on the wall, he screamed, as a tall man in a grey suit, a grey overcoat and a grey hat reloaded the shotgun and stalked towards him, focussed and calm. As death loomed, breathless and broken, Leslie hobbled to the side gate of 1-3 Hadley Gardens. But with it locked, as he turned, he saw that all that stood between living or dying was man with a gun. The second shot blasted a 2-inch hole in his gut shattering the wooden gate behind and spattering his blood and bits of his undigested breakfast across the path, as Leslie slumped to the ground. Only the grey man didn’t want him scared or injured, but dead, as he fired again from just a few feet away. Crumpled in a bloody heap, the third shot blew a 4 ½ inches hole from Leslie’s groin to his belly button, lacerating his bladder, his intestines, his pelvis, parts of his spine, and with three gaping wounds to his torso which had shredded his left lung, he was slowly drowning in his own blood, acids and toxins. In panic, the poppy seller and two others hid inside 15 Hadley Gardens, but being deaf and having not heard them, Violet Pender walked on. “I hurried along the pavement thinking I would get out of the way and when I got outside of the house, I heard another shot and I felt a pain in my right thigh”. Staggering to the junction of Duke’s Avenue, passersby dragged her into the surgery of Dr Evans, and as the assailant’s car roared away down Foster Road, this usually quiet street descended into screams. Ambulances arrived at 8:52am, two minutes after the call. Violet was lucky, as although suffering wounds to her right thigh and buttocks, with no broken bones or severed arteries just superficial cuts, she was bandaged, stitched and later made a good recovery. But Leslie was ghostly pale by the time the doctor arrived, having lost two pints of blood which was a lot for his tiny frame. And although barely alive, it was as he was driven to West Middlesex hospital that Sergeant Hammond saw his lips move, “I put my head down to him, raising it slightly from the stretcher and I heard him say ‘Brent. It was Brent’”. He then fell unconscious, and died of his injuries. But who was ‘Brent’? The street was littered with evidence, as beside Leslie’s scattered and bloodstained crutches, five empty shotgun shells were found with their shiny brass-caps bearing the words ‘Eley & Kynock’ and ’12 bore’. But having been passed from person-to-person, any hope of finding a fingerprint was lost. The same was said of the killer’s description, as although Police interviewed the six living witnesses, they could all remember was the gun, the blasts and the fear, but not him. Said to be tall, of average build and in his 20s or 30s, dressed in grey and with his face hidden by a grey Trilby hat, he was a Grey Man in every sense of the word, he was forgettable, as all agreed “I doubt I’d recognise him again”. What baffled Police most was the lack of motive. Leslie’s killing was deliberate, but why target him? By all accounts, he was a pleasant man who lived a quiet life with no debts, enemies or secrets. Being unmarried, he had no jealous lovers. Being a staunch Conservative, he had no Fascist leanings. Being a little dull, he played cards, but never for money. And given the era, he wasn’t a suspected German spy or a British double-agent, as owing to his disability, he was declared unfit for serve in the military. Violet’s shooting seemed random, as she only knew Leslie by sight, she knew no-one called Brent, yet if he’d tried to kill her for being a witness, why didn’t he kill those who had huddled in a nearby house? What was certain was that Leslie’s killing was deliberate, and given his unique look, it wasn’t a case of mistaken identity. With witnesses seeing a dark blue Hillman Minx parking up just minutes before, as planned, the killer had waited, targeted and gunned Leslie down in cold blood. He knew where Leslie lived, and he knew his route and timings having kept surveillance on him in the days and weeks prior. But who was ‘Brent’, and why did he want Leslie Ludford dead? A small clue was gleaned from the scene, as although terrified, Matilda had memorised the licence plate of the car - GGC83. At 9:10am precisely, as detectives started trawling every garage, showroom and hire company, its details were transmitted to every constable and wireless cars in every borough. With the hunter now being the hunted, the Police thought it was only a matter of time before Leslie’s killer was caught and brought to justice. And yet, before the police and ambulances had even arrived… …the Grey Man had moved onto his next target. Five minutes west, having snuck along the backstreets, at exactly 8:55am, the dark blue Hillman Minx pulled into St Mary’s Grove, another quiet residential street where the middle-classes live in silence. He didn’t rush, he wasn’t indecisive, and he wasn’t prowling for victims to kill, as having rehearsed this, he calmly pulled up outside of a two-storey semi-detached Victorian home at 1 St Mary’s Grove. This was the pleasant little home of two sisters; 58-year-old Annie New, a spinster who lived alone in the ground floor flat, and 56-year-old Emma Jane Crisp and her husband Thomas who lived upstairs, with their flat a little quieter, as during the blitz, their daughter Phyllis had evacuated to the country. Just like Leslie, they seemed an unlikely target, and yet the Grey Man was specifically hunting them. Opposite, Mrs Kimpton saw a car pull up, a tall man in a grey suit and hat get out, he walked up the path towards the door, he rang the bell and gave it three loud knocks. Inside, Annie went to answer it, but with her sister Emma saying “it’s the milkman, I want him”, she beat her to the door. Only when she opened it, no-one was there. She looked, but the milkman was a few houses away, and seeing a newspaper at her feet, it was as she bent to pick it up that she spotted a man sitting in a car’s backseat. With its long barrel perched on the car’s right rear window, from inside, the Grey Man fired. Exploding in red-hot fury, both sisters were shot with the first blast. Partially obscured by Emma, Annie was hit in the right forearm as the lead shot ripped at her flesh, described as a “sharp stinging pain”. Emma had sustained the brunt of a double-barrelled shotgun’s brutal force, as with a 117 wounds to her hand, abdomen and chest, her right kidney and liver were lacerated, her right lung collapsed, and leaving a 14-inch hole in her body, blood flooded her plural cavity, as she cried “I’ve been shot”. Staggering backwards, Annie tried to pull her sister away from the line of fire, but before she could, a second shot shredded Emma’s left elbow, forearm and buttock, leaving 174 wounds and a 10-inch hole. And as calmly as he had arrived, the assailant got back into his Hillman Minx and drove away. Screaming for help, Mrs Calcott called the Police from a phone box and they were there in minutes. Rushed to West Middlesex Hospital, where Leslie Ludford lay dying, Annie was permanently disabled, disfigured and traumatised for life, but despite the surgeon’s best efforts, Emma died at 5:25am. The crime scene was a carbon copy of the first; with the same car, the same method, the same shotgun shells, the same suspect – a tall Grey Man who was vague and forgettable – and similar victims, having no known connection to the government, the military, any political group, or any kind of criminality, they didn’t know Leslie Ludford or Violet Pender, and they had never met or knew as man called ‘Brent’. Yet, this killer had specifically targeted either one or both of these seemingly innocent sisters. It seemed unusually random, only the car’s licence plate led to a likely suspect. Detectives discovered that the killer’s Hillman Minx was a hire car, owned by Queensbury Hire Services and rented out for four days from Sunday 9th November at noon to Thursday 13th having paid a deposit. The renter, a Mr P J Ward, which was suspected to be an alias had supplied all the relevant documents, which it was assumed was either forged or stolen. But the man himself was said to be ‘forgettable’. Records showed that Mr Ward, a vague man dressed in grey, had hired the same car three times prior, in February, April and August of 1941, and over four days, each time he drove roughly 65 miles. He used the right petrol coupons, paid promptly, was never late and the car was never dirty or damaged. With a brown suitcase on the backseat, it was clear he’d been rehearsing his killing spree for months, but what connected each victim, and who was the Grey Man; Mr Ward, ‘Brent’, or somebody else? Having left an address on the contract, again the hunter was the hunted, as Police used every resource to find this armed assassin. But before they had arrived at the double shooting on St Mary’s Grove… …again, the Grey Man had moved onto his next target. Two miles east, having driven through the narrow backstreets of Hammersmith to Ravenscourt Park, at 9:05am, barely 20 minutes after the shooting Leslie & Violet and 10 minutes after Emma & Annie, the killer’s Hillman Minx was slowly heading north along Westcroft Square towards Hamlet Gardens. Out of her flat at 34 Westcroft Square, 36-year-old showroom assistant Kathleen Guyver left to post a letter. By all accounts, she was an ordinary law-abiding singleton with no known connections to crime, anything sinister nor any of the four earlier victims, and yet it was clear that he was targeting her. William Porter, a road sweeper and Nellie Heath, a neighbour saw the same car, driven by a tall man in a grey suit, enter via the east as if he was heading towards her home and park up in Hamlet Gardens. Kathleen didn’t stop, turn or change direction, she showed no fear or apprehension, instead she calmly walked along the right-hand path on her pre-planned route. But as she passed the car… (bang) from two metres, the muzzle of a double-barrelled shotgun exploded, blasting two holes in her left side. Seeing the car pull away, neighbours said the blast sounded like an exhaust backfiring, but it wasn’t until they saw Kathleen stagger and blood pour from her side, that they realised she had been shot. Rushed to DuCane Road hospital in Shepherd’s Bush, a 1 ½ inch gunshot wound to the left wrist was surrounded by an outer ring of lead shot, which splintered her radius. A second gunshot had narrowly nicked her abdomen and left a 3-inch wound on the inside of her right forearm. But miraculously, with the corner of her handbag completely blow off by the first blast, and a fountain pen and a pencil blown into pieces, this had saved her from more devastating injuries, disability, and maybe even death. Taken to DuCane Road hospital, Kathleen made an almost full recovery. Like so many others, she could only give a vague description of her assailant “30s, dark hair, I cannot describe him further and I do not think I would know him again”, and she denied knowing anyone named ‘Brent’ or Mr Ward. So, was he a stranger, or was this a sinister code of silence by those too afraid to utter his name? That morning, 74 miles north-east in Suffolk, Police burst into his lodging at Newmarket, some clothes and a suitcase was missing, but shotgun shells of the same type were found. Said to be 6ft tall, mid-20s, slim, balding, and always wearing the same grey suit and hat, the landlady only knew him as Philip Joseph Ward. She knew very little about him, and said he was quiet, polite and kept to himself. When detectives looked into his past, they discovered that Phillip Ward was a Private in the 317th Searchlight Battery stationed in Newmarket, having been assessed as ‘Grade 1’ on 15th July 1940. His Commanding Officer described him as efficient and quiet but very much “the grey man” of the unit. Given training as a rifleman, that week he was on 7 days leave, as he had three times prior that year. Almost no-one knew him, not his colleagues nor the lodgers, with the landlady remembering “every week, he received a registered letter. He is very secretive and has never given any information about himself”, but his parents did live in West London, and his last known address was a lodging in Chiswick. Some people knew him as Ward, one man knew him as Brent, but most people didn’t know him at all. So, why was he targeting this group of seemingly unrelated victims? If indeed he was? With every officer alerted to find the car, as the Police raced to his West London lodging, detectives were getting closer to apprehending the Grey Man. Only, before they had arrived at the last shooting… … the Grey Man had moved onto his next target. Two mile west, having driven in an odd zig-zag pattern across Chiswick and Hammersmith, at 9:15am, the Grey Man pulled up at 4 Bollo Lane, a two storey Victorian terrace beside the Piccadilly and District Line tube. He knocked, rang the bell, and waited, but his victim wasn’t in. Half an hour earlier, he’d done the same as neighbours had seen him, but with Mrs Henrietta Sell, a 52-year-old housewife and mother-of-three out doing her shopping, his plans had now been scuppered twice… or so he thought. Trailing her shopping basket behind her, Henrietta was strolling up Bollo Lane just three minutes from her home, when the Grey Man spotted her. She didn’t know his face, his car, and as he parked up outside of the Fairlawn Café, she assumed he was just another customer heading in for a cup of tea. She wasn’t afraid, worried, or suspicious, so much so that she didn’t even see the muzzle of his shotgun poking out of the driver’s window, as all she would remember was the flash, the blast and the pain. Two shots shattered her left arm, as from a few feet away, the fiery explosion blew off her left thumb at the joint, it eviscerated the soft tissue of her palm, and it severed the humerus at the elbow, so as she staggered into the café, her lower arm dangled and flapped, held together by tendons and skin. Collapsing in shock and blood-loss, Henrietta screamed “the Germans, the Germans have shot me”, and as customers ran to get towels to stem the bleeding, Henry Gaskin & Henry Saville dashed outside. Seeing a grey shadowy man driving away in a dark blue saloon, Gaskin boarded Savile’s truck. Flooring this six-wheeled beast, they sped up Bollo Lane towards Acton Town station with the choking fumes of the accelerating car growing ever closer. But as the truck approached the level crossing, the warning lights flashed, the gates closed, and as the train sped through, the truck braked and they lost him. Like most victims, trauma had scrambled Henrietta’s memory, as all she could recall was “everything happened suddenly, I didn’t see his face. I just remember a long black gun and then everything went blank”. Rushed to Acton hospital, miraculously she survived, but her arm had to be amputated. Once again, a dangerous mass-murderer was unleashing a killing spree in West London. Henrietta Sell had been specifically targeted just like the others, and yet, she didn’t know ‘Brent’ or a Phillip Ward. That morning, Police raided his lodging at 78 Barrowgate Road in Chiswick. As a large three-floored boarding house owned by Jessie & Edith Burrows, Mr P J Ward had stayed at ‘Garthowen’ four times that year, and always for four days. He carried a brown suitcase, he often sent a large truck head of him, he had no guests, no calls, and spoke to anyone. Said to be softly spoken, he was no bother, he always paid on time, he never talked about himself and he was easily forgettable. It was no coincidence though that the home of his first victim, Leslie Ludford was just one street south. In his room, Police found the paperwork for a 12-bore double-barrelled shotgun bought for £26 & 7 shillings on 24th of January 1941 from J Rigby & Co, and 8 weeks before the killing spree, a single barrel 12-bore knock-about shotgun for £4 & 5 shillings from the Midland Gun Company in Birmingham. Both were paid for in cash by P J Ward, delivered to Troop 3 of 317th Searchlight Battery in Newmarket, and as hunting rifles, they were powerful but precise weapons used for shooting at distance with accuracy. As expected, his suitcase was missing, but in his trunk were a selection of recent receipts showing that this very organised man had prepared not just for a single hour – in which he had already murdered Leslie Ludford & Emma Crisp, seriously injured Violet Pender & Annie New, and left Kathleen Guyver & Henrietta Sell on the critical list – but that he had meticulously planned at least two days of killing. He had a passport, 7 torch batteries, 4 packs of cigarettes, 10 chocolate bars, several bottles of ginger beer, 1 pack of tea, 5 bars of soap, gun oil, a cloth, a pack of safety pins, a ball of rubber bands, 2 fancy dress masks, and a knife and chopping board showed that he had made enough sandwiches to last. So far, he had only fired 10 shots all with deadly accuracy, but in total, he had purchased 200. ‘Brent’, Ward or whatever he was really called was hellbent on annihilating a cabal of conspirators who had wronged him, and finding two memo pads dated October 1939 and September 1941 in which Leslie Ludford was repeatedly named, it was clear that he had been planning his attack for four years… …and now the Grey Man’s day of reckoning had come. Tuesday 11th of November 1941. Armistice Day. At precisely 6:45am, he awoke in the single bed of the ‘Garthowen’ lodging house. He washed, dressed in his grey suit, grey overcoat and grey Trilby hat. At 7:30am, he ate a modest breakfast of powdered eggs, toast and tea and quietly read the newspaper. At 8:30am, he bid the landlady a ‘good day’ as he carried a brown suitcase to the garage, and moments later, he left in a hired dark blue Hillman Minx. No-one saw him leave, or suspected he was about unleash a devastating massacre. His victims were strangers to each other, but still bitter after four years, those he had killed were just the beginning. The concluding part of The Grey Man continues next week. UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: of PART TWO Tuesday 11th of November 1941. Armistice Day. The Grey Man’s day of reckoning had come. 8:50am, Leslie Ludford was murdered in Chiswick as Violet Pender was shot in the legs. 8:55am, Emma Crisp was gunned down on her doorstep, with her sister Annie on the critical list. 9:05am, Kathleen Guyver narrowly escaped her execution in Hammersmith. And 9:15am, housewife Henrietta Sell had her arm blown off in Acton and was lucky to still be alive. Two dead, four injured, over three miles in 25 minutes. Armed with 200 shotgun shells, a tank of fuel, a fast car, a forgettable grey suit and enough food to last two days, his killing spree had just begun. Having outrun a truck on Bollo Lane and with armed officers hunting him and his car, any other mass-murderer would have fled. Being calm and calculated, there was no hesitation in his actions, as he wasn’t randomly killing strangers, but specifically targeting those he’d kept surveillance for months. And although he was a wanted man, he headed 1 and a ½ miles south, and back towards Chiswick… …as the Grey Man moved onto his next target. 9:25am. Grove Park Road, two streets south of Emma’s murder and three streets from his lodging, the dark blue Hillman Minx drove along this quiet residential street. It was empty, except for one woman. 24-year-old Winifred Allenby strode confidently from the supply depot of the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force at 24 Hartington Road. As an Aircraft Woman 1st Class, Winifred wore a very identifiable uniform of black shoes, tie and stockings, a blue skirt, shirt and tunic with gold buttons, and a blue peaked cap. Heading back to her hostel at 66 Grove Park Road, under her right arm was slung a gas mask in a green canvas bag (as was the law), and under her left arm, she was struggling with a bundle of bedsheets. Like every victim prior, she was undertaking a mundane task on a seemingly ordinary day, as with a poppy pinned to her lapel, her only thought was to get her duties done before the two-minute silence. Roughly 50 yards from her hostel, a blue saloon passed by, she didn’t know the car or the driver. Its speed was steady, as just two metres in front of her, it pulled in, as its nearside wheel struck the kerb. She wasn’t scared and she didn’t slow, as Winifred recalled “as I approached, I noticed the barrel of a gun protruding from the passenger’s window, the driver was crouching down taking aim. I stopped”, and with Britain readying itself for the impending German invasion, this was not an uncommon sight. Terror was coming to the Britain’s streets, only for Winifred, it would come sooner than she thought. “Actually I thought he was going to fire at the house. I started walking again and was about level with the rear wheels, when the barrel turned towards me”, as from barely a few feet away, “it exploded”. Blasting her with a force of 2300 foot-pounds, Winifred’s slender 8 stone frame flew hard against the brick wall behind her with the same kinetic energy as if she had been hit by a car at 60 miles an hour. Engulfed in a wall of smoke and a shattered cloud as woollen fragments of blue and grey exploded in a mushroom-like haze, the car calmly sped away, as Winifred lay on the path, silent and motionless. She should have been dead, as that was the assailant’s aim, but fate was on her side. Shaking her head as if she couldn’t believe what had happened, she got to her feet, she felt no pain, she saw no blood, and she hadn’t got a single scratch or cut on her face or body. She had been hit, but she wasn’t hurt. Winifred was lucky, as although the shotgun was aimed directly at her torso, with her carrying several thick layers of woollen bedsheets over her left arm – still smouldering with its lead shot embedded – it had taken the full force of the blast. “So, I went straight to the hostel and reported it to the Police”. Like others before her, Winifred didn’t know a man called ‘Brent’ or Ward, she had no connections to any of the victims, her name didn’t appear in any of the memo pads which were found at his lodging, and although her attack had seemed as random as the others, it was key to the whole killing spree. The Grey Man was angry four years after a cabal of conspirators had wronged him… …they were all connected, they just didn’t know it. ‘Brent’ was an alias, but the Grey Man’s real name was Philip Joseph Ward. Born on 16th of April 1910, five miles west in the working-class suburb of Hanwell; his military experience was brief, he wasn’t a fascist, a Nazi, a mafia hitman, a German spy or a British double agent and he had no criminal record. He was an ordinary boy living in a modest flat at 13 Half Acre Road as one of several siblings to William & Hermia, until aged 12, he was concussed and hospitalised having struck his head against a wall. Prior to that his father said “he was a happy little boy, but overnight became awkward and troublesome”. In 1925, aged 15, having begun complaining of hearing voices and people laughing at him, doctors at Bethlem Hospital said it was “suffering the aftereffects of concussion”, but it clearly something worse. In 1927, Maida Vale Hospital for Nervous Diseases suggested he be committed to an asylum, only his parents were against this. In 1931, after an attempt to take his own life, diagnosed with Schizophrenia (in which he was depressed, solitary and fixated on the idea that there was a conspiracy against him) - with anti-psychotic medications like Chlorpromazine not available until the 50s - being admitted as a voluntary patient at Stone House Asylum, on the 14th of January 1932, he was certified insane. After a year inside, feeling that he wasn’t getting better but worse, Phillip discharged himself without permission and returned home to Hanwell under his parent’s supervision. It seemed the best solution, but over those three years, in their words, “he became unbearable”. He was sullen, violent, and being hopelessly paranoid, he believed his loving family were against him. In 1936, of his own volution, for the sake of his siblings, Phillip left home, but unable to work, his father would send him £2 a week. By 1937, aged 27, he was living alone in a small lodging on Horn Lane in Acton. Given anti-depressants, he didn’t steal, fight or drink, and he didn’t spiral into criminality. Said to be a tall, vague and a quiet man, he kept to himself and was largely forgettable. Being a passionate reader, he was well-educated, and - although he never worked, had few friends and never had a girlfriend - he busied himself with social clubs. To many, he was an insignificant man who breezed through life without a care... …but everyone has their breaking point, and as a paranoid schizophrenic, his would lead him to kill. That year, being only slightly political, Phillip joined the Brentford & Chiswick Junior Conservative Club at 443 Chiswick High Road, seeing it as a good place to meet likeminded people, as it engaged in charity work for local causes, canvassing for their MP, and frequent games of whist. Its chairman was a local solicitor who walked on crutches having been born with dwarfism, whose name was Leslie Ludford. Phillip wasn’t a popular member of the club, in fact few people said they knew him, as being seen as an outsider, he insisted on using the alias of ‘A Ross Brent’, even though everyone knew him as Ward. In a later psychiatric report, he described the conspiracy as “a campaign against me… I was treated in a shameful way… they communicated with each other and made me an outcast and spoilt my life”. It began with his unwanted affections of several female members of the club, especially a young lady called Barbara Newmark. On 6th of April 1937, he wrote in his memo pad of the first time he fell in love with her “she had come up the passage with the burst of a smile and it passed and she grew more and more sober each moment, giving me the embarrassed feeling that she was uncertain of me”, and although she wasn’t keen, by September he sent her postcards daily - we known this as he kept a list. His memo pad was full of fantasy like “once Barbara caught my attention by thrusting some snapshots into my hands”, which was untrue, as she was said to be a timid girl who was betrothed to her beau. With several girls and their parents complaining, the committee were keen to “prevent him from being a nuisance”, so threatening to cancel his membership, Phillip was given a warning, which he took well. Only the pestering of the girls didn’t stop, as one said “it was extremely unusual and offensive stuff”. On the 23rd of November, while playing a game of whist, witnesses stated “Ward suddenly overturned a table and made a dash for Leslie Ludford’s throat”, barking “just because you are a cripple, you think you can do as you like”, and he also struck another committee member as he was being turfed-out. On 30th of November 1937, an official letter was sent by all members of the committee that “we have passed the following two resolutions: 1 – that Mr A R Brent’s membership of the branch be cancelled. 2 – that Mr Phillip Ward’s membership of the branch be cancelled. The two resolutions were passed to avoid any confusion as to the person concerned. And should you endeavour to enter this branch after this date, such steps will be taken by the officers to ensure your removal as they deem available”. And although, across the year, many letter were sent back-and-forth as Phillip argued a moot-point, at the top of every letter from every committee member was written their current home address. That was it. That was the conspiracy. The cancellation of his membership to a meaningless social club. To others, this would have been nothing but a mild inconvenience, but to a paranoid schizophrenic, this so-called conspiracy by at least 30 alleged conspirators was the real reason his life was collapsing. The letters continued and his rage escalated well into the next year, but in September 1939 when the Second World War began and the club was forced to close, with no outlet, his rage could only fester. By 1941, all the committee members had forgotten about Phillip Ward… …but going unmedicated, the Grey Man felt he was due a day of reckoning. Across eleven months, Phillip had planned his killing spree with precision. He’d selected two powerful shotguns which were easily hidden in a suitcase, 200 shells which were purchased legally, he’d rented a fast car having stored up enough petrol coupons, and having kept a detailed surveillance on each committee member’s home, he’d picked the perfect time to kill them, and three times he’d rehearsed. On his first attempt in February he drove 70 miles, in April 65 miles, and by August, he’d got it down to 62 miles. Eliminating the slack, his November attack would be the epitome of efficiency, as with no fuss, he’d drive from one location to the next, until everyone on his hit list was dead or disabled. Allowing for changes, he was so calm, he had even made enough sandwiches to last at least two days. His first victim, Leslie Ludford, was the chairman of the Conservative Club. Others especially those who he said had “conspired against me” were the vice chairs Peter Bulwar & Mr J Brett, treasurer Mr D Moore, secretary Miss Jean Crimpton, as well as committee members Mr Audrey, Lydia Isaacs, Gerald Davidson, Freddie Williams, Christopher Fuller, Miss Lewisohn, Doris Moore, Doris Appleby, Mr & Mrs William Brett, Douglas Thorburn, and Mrs Stacey, who was political agent for the Conservative Party. And yet, so far, across the first hour of his massacre, only one of them had been targeted. At 9:25am, having fled the shooting of Winifred Allenby on Grove Park Road in Chiswick, he drove 4.3 miles northwest on a 17-minute journey to Rathgar Avenue, another quiet residential street in Ealing. At 9:47am, Miss Agnes Hunt, a 60-year-old retired school mistress left her home at 1 Lyncroft Gardens and arriving at the junction of Rathgar Avenue and Somerset Road two minutes later, she saw a dark blue saloon. It’s engine on, fumes spewing from the exhaust, and inside, a lone man wearing no hat. As before, she didn’t know the man or the car, but as she crossed in front of him, he pulled a shotgun up to his shoulder, and having got her squarely in his sights, he fired… (bang)… but missed. Not a single lead shot had hit her, she wasn’t even winged, and as Agnes stared directly at him, she got a good look at his face; “early 20s, balding, clean shaven, dark eyes, sallow complexion, and he looked angry”. Speeding off, leaving her stunned, she called the Police stating “I’d spot him, as I never forget a face”. It was uncertain how he missed or why didn’t take a second shot, but a greater mystery remained. He murdered Leslie Ludford, chairman of the committee for conspiring to cancel his club membership. Violet Pender, it was assumed was an unconnected passerby who was shot because she was a witness. He then shot Emma Crisp & Annie New at 1 St Mary’s Grove, only neither of them were club members. But Emma’s daughter Phyllis (who was part in his dismissal) was and although in 1939 she lived at that flat, having been evacuated to Peterborough, it’s likely that having seen her address on a letter, he hadn’t twigged that after four long years, a blitz bombing and a global war that she might have moved. Likewise, neither Kathleen Guyver, Henrietta Sell nor any of their relatives were club members, but as many members had very little to do with him and visa-versa, having got the wrong address, it’s likely he only thought he’d got the right house, having kept surveillance on someone he assumed was right. His attempted murder of Winifred Allenby was tenuous, as with it believed he had mistaken her for Barbara Newmark - the girl whose complaint led to his dismissal - this made no sense as she had joined the Auxiliary Territorial Service and not the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. So was this simply a case of mistaken identity, and if so, why did this obsessed man not recognise the girl he claimed to love? Having begun with a cast iron plan, his killing spree was slowly becoming random, as like many others, Agnes Hunt, the ex-school mistress had no known connection to her attacker, the victims or the club. In a later psychiatric report, Phillip stated “the killing of others (all co-conspirators) is justified, as only by such means can the conspiracy be brought home” to those who wronged him. Unable to find those he blamed, as the spree progressed, his schizophrenia created its own logic, and even if those he killed were innocent, in his mind, everyone was part of a conspiracy against him, even when they weren’t. And yet, before the Police even knew about Phillip Ward… …the Grey Man had moved onto his next target. Having left Agnes Hunt unharmed but stunned, the Hillman Minx was driven up Northfields Avenue, along Argyll Road, 1 and a ½ miles north to Bruton Way, another quiet residential street in West Ealing. At exactly 10:10am, it pulled outside of number 33, a two-storey semi-detached house with a garden. Playing in the street, 4-year-old Robert Stubblefield and 3-year-old Geoffrey Thomas saw the car pull up, a tall grey man get out, and barely noticing them, he walked up a neat little path to the front door. This was the home of 57-year-old housewife Edith Amelia Barringer. She didn’t know him, his alias, and neither she, her husband nor anyone at this address had been a member of the Conservative Club. Inside, hearing a knock and the doorbell ring, her day-servant Elizabeth Eames was about to answer it, but believing it was a rep from Mead & Jefferies who were here to repair her radio, she went herself. Oddly, through its smoked glass pane, Edith didn’t saw a man’s outline, as when she opened the door, no-one was there. No-one, except getting into a car’s backseat was a tall man in a grey suit and hat. “Are you from Mead & Jefferies?”, Edith called. “No”, the Grey Man replied “are you Mrs Barrington?”. Her words were the truth, “yes, it is”, and yet, although she wasn’t the right one but a woman with a similar name, in his eyes, he’d found another conspirator, and those three short words meant death. Like a thunder strike, the double gunshots boomed off every window in the street, as hit with a sonic wall of energy, Edith was blown off her feet and slumped in a blooded heap. Through a smoking hole in her coat, a 3 ½ inch gash had been blasted in her abdomen as her steaming intestines protruded. And ringed by 23 lead shots, they’d shattered her ribs, right kidney and embedded in her lumbar spine. With her pelvis full of blood and her lungs collapsing, although she was rushed to hospital, despite the doctor’s best efforts, she died at 11:40am. Another was dead, as across one hour, three were killed, four were critical or wounded, two had miraculously escaped, but only one had belonged to the club. Death had come to West London, and then, as swiftly as it had arrived… …the Grey Man vanished. No-one knew where he went. It was said that he headed to Sudbury Hill and hid in a side-street; eating his sandwiches, drinking a ginger beer and having a smoke. At some point he polished his single-barrel shotgun, and (as a soldier), at 11am, he may have paid respect to the fallen in the two-minute silence. It’s an irony that may have been lost on him, as with a tank of fuel, two shotguns, 187 12-bore shells, and a list in his head of at least 30 co-conspirators he needed to kill, after an hour, he headed north. But with every available officer ordered to arm themselves and head to west, his killing spree would come to a close. (Radio) “All cars, be on the lookout for dark blue Hillman Minx saloon, plate GGC83, driven by a Phillip Joseph Ward, 31, 6-foot, in a grey suit and hat, he is armed and very dangerous”. With so many dead, and fearing so more deaths, the Police were going to stop him - dead or alive. At 11:45am, seen by Sergeant Frostick on Station Road in Harrow, the officer jumped on the running board and tried to ram the car into a hedge, but speeding away, he was thrown into the road. Five minutes later, seen by PS Sutton & PC Cook on Headstone Lane in Pinner, they commandeered a truck and tried to block its path at Brooks Hill, but again, driving recklessly, the car swiftly accelerated away. Then at 12:03pm, three hours into his massacre, a Police radio car spotted him at Stanmore Broadway. Chased down Spur Road, the two cars sped onto the Watford bypass, he swerved a police barrier, but with the police getting the better of him by going the wrong way up a roundabout, they sideswiped the Hillman Minx, ran it into a kerb, and forced it to a dead stop. Through their windscreen, PC Percival aimed a loaded rifle at his head and dragging him from the car, PC Laver handcuffed and arrested him. “Alright, I give in”, Phillip said, and it was lucky that he had, as although he had enough shotgun shells to kill every club member three times over, he was armed with a knife for when he ran out of shots. Held at Edgware Road Police Station, Inspection Ward cautioned him and “I told him I was going to charge him for a man’s murder in Chiswick”, at which he replied “do you mind telling me his name again”, but when told “Ludford, Leslie Ludford”, he replied “I say I am innocent, I do not know him”. But was this an alibi, confusion, or a symptom of his sickness? (end) The next day, Wednesday 12th of November, a line of women booed the van as he arrived at Acton Police Court. Grinning broadly with vacant eyes, beside a solicitor supplied by his father, he stood in the dock to state his name and to hear the charges against him. But when asked how he pleaded, he didn’t understand what was happening, and his only concern was the £37 the Police had confiscated. Assessed by two noted psychiatrists and the medical officer of Brixton Prison, with Phillip Ward said to be hostile, distant, remorseless and constantly speaking of “a conspiracy”, Dr Grierson said “I am of the opinion that he is suffering from Schizophrenia… and that when received, he was insane, that he was insane at the time of the crimes and he is still insane. I consider him fit to plead but in view of the varying moods associated with the disease, I can only express a final opinion on the day of the trial”. It began on Wednesday 21st of January 1942 at the Old Bailey, but with Phillip Ward unable to focus, instruct his defence counsel, and having already been certified insane ten years before, Justice Gerald Dodson QC stated “he is unfit to stand trial and should therefore be detained at the King’s pleasure”. Sent to Broadmoor Psychiatric Prison on an indeterminate sentence, although schizophrenia’s cause is still unknown, inside he got the help and medication he badly needed, and – unable to harm anyone – he spent his days in silence, reading books in his cell, where he remained for the rest of his life. In January 1972, either at Broadmoor or Newbury Hospital, he died aged 61. The massacre of the Grey Man remains one of West London’s worst mass-murderers, yet it is almost entirely forgotten. So before the memories of the dead are lost forever, we’ll spare a thought for those he killed or hurt; Agnes Grace Hunt, Winifred Allenby, Kathleen Irene Guyver, Henrietta Mabel Sell, Annie New, Violet Mary Pinder, Edith Amelia Barringer, Emma Jane Crisp and Leslie Ernest Ludford. 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.
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Nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST, 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Channel's Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
the infamous 'From Hell' letter
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 TWO HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-EIGHT:
Across October and early November 1888, when 'Jack the Ripper' slayed several women in the East End of London, a smaller and largely forgotten sexual sadist was attacking women in Soho in the West End. Masked using a series of baffling distractions, his crimes were made possible owing to the fevered frenzy in the midst of a mini media mania committed in the Ripper's shadow. But who was he, was it a hoax, or did he even exist?
THE LOCATION:
The location is marked with a teal symbol of a bin just by the words 'Soho' off Wardour Street. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: a selection sourced from the National Archives and the Metropolitan Archives:
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on Bourchier Street in Soho, W1; a few paces east from the spot where Captain Ritchie was bricked, a few doors west from the last plea of Henry Hall, a few doors up from the beating of Baby Richard, and the same street as the dog who saw it all - coming soon to Murder Mile. Formerly called Little Dean Street, Bourchier Street connects Dean Street and Wardour Street. As little more than a dark drab alley where the eateries of Old Compton Street park their sticky oozing bins and the frequently soused empty their bladders, for good reason, it’s the most avoided part of Soho. For those who don’t watch where they’re walking, a common items to step on in this street are usually a puddle of piddle, a splat of sick, a splash of gentleman’s relish seconds after a sex show, a used condom (of course), a pair of spoiled trousers, a pineapple shaped butt-plug, dirty syringes and faeces. Yet, these aren’t the oddest things found on this street, as back in November 1888 was found an eye. A human eye, fully intact, red raw from a recent trauma, and bobbing about in an overflowing gutter. Barely yards away, the body of Eliza Shad lay in her bed, recently dead. Only no-one would find her body for days, as with this speck of West London gripped by the panic that an infamous East End killer was stalking the denizens of Soho, they were looking the wrong way at the wrong thing. But why? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 278: In the Ripper’s Shadow. Three miles east of Soho in the similarly dank and sleezy working-class district of Whitechapel, gossip was forming in the terrified mouths of its inhabitants that a sadistic serial killer was slaying women. Rumblings that something sinister was brewing had begun since the unsolved murders of Emma Smith and Martha Tabram. On the 31st of August, the sadistic killing of Mary Ann Nichols sparked a manhunt for an extortionist nicknamed Leather Apron leading to misinformation, accusation and anti-Semitism. On 8th of September, with Annie Chapman’s body found in the back yard of 29 Hanbury Street, both deaths were connected, some say tenuously. But following the double-murder of Elizabeth Stride on Berner Street and Catherine Eddowes in Mitre Square - half a mile and 45 minutes apart – so desperate were the Police to arrest him and so ravenous were the press for stories, that on the 1st of October, the infamous Dear Boss letter was made public and the name Jack the Ripper would forever be known. With a city in panic, tabloids slathered over the sensation of a serial killer on the loose, especially when George Lusk was posted half a human kidney. And although some supposed facts and alleged evidence was fabricated when the newspaper’s circulation waned, a mass hysteria enveloped the East End and as the petrified public clambered for more, a dark tourism sprung-up as flocks of grisly gorpers dashed to Whitechapel, with it culminating (some say) on the 9th of November and the massacre of Mary Kelly. Whether he existed or not, the idea of Jack the Ripper turned the East End into a frenzy of fear… …and yet, at the same time, a little piece of horror went largely unreported in Soho. It start unremarkably. Friday 5th of October 1888 was typical of most days in Soho. Hours before the dawn-light had cracked the sky and shone a blast of brilliant light on Berwick Street, the costermongers and traders were setting up the market for the day. Being surrounded by slums, hostels and tuppenny lodgings, vendors sold affordable fare for the most impoverished; like bread, eggs and fish, vegetables like potatoes, carrots and parsnips, fruits like apples but nothing exotic, and - being abundant and cheap - oysters. At around 7am, an unnamed Constable who had been patrolling his beat along Wardour Street, turned onto the light bustle of Peter Street, and as he entered the market, his nose recoiled at a horrific smell. So pungent it made his eyes water, this reek of rotten cabbage was enough to make him retch, as in the gutter – swarming in flies who feverishly fed off its decomposition - lay a coiled pile of intestines. No-one thought for a second that it might be human, they just assumed it was animal, probably a pig. It had gone unnoticed and ordinarily it would have been ignored, but with the Constable being a proud local who liked his streets clean, he insisted the cat meat trader, a man called Tam clean up the out-of-date offal from the gutter, even though he had no intestines on sale. Sparking a big old hullaballoo of loud voices, before the festering guts could be got rid of, a pack of hungry dogs had wolfed it down. Tam was given a stern warning, and later released, and that was it. As I said, it started unremarkably, with this side of Soho seeing a few minor crimes that morning, including a watch theft, a broken vase, and at nearby 28 Peter Street, a prostitute called Eliza Smyth claimed she’d been groped in her sleep. It was just an ordinary day in Soho, if anything, it was a bit quiet. Six days later, in the mid-afternoon of Thursday 11th, a group of kids were heard squealing hysterically on the corner of Denman Street and Denman Place, just off Piccadilly Circus. With a local seamstress growing increasingly annoyed by their noise, she was ready to clip them about the earholes, when she saw what they were poking and prodding excitedly – on the spike of an iron railing was a bloody heart. Fresh, red and dripping, everyone assumed it was a pig’s (probably stolen off the market) and with the tale of the intestines having not made it this far, she tossed it in a basement and it was eaten by rats. That day was just another ordinary day in Soho, except a few doors down at an undisclosed lodging, a prostitute nicknamed ‘Swiss Annie’ woke from an overlong sleep, in which she felt unusually woozy, her throat felt sore and her breasts felt tender. Being ashamed, she told only her closest friends. With news of the East End ripper permeating from one red-light district to another, these seemingly insignificant events in Soho wouldn’t be recorded until weeks later, so their accuracy is questionable. But the next one isn’t. Tuesday 16th of October, the same day it was said that George Lusk received the infamous ‘From Hell’ letter and half a kidney, on Sutton Row off Charing Cross Road, human teeth were found scattered, all were bloody with their roots till intact. It caused a commotion, as all were different shades of yellow and brown, many were rotten, but there were too many for a single mouth, some said as many as 50. Two hours later and 40 feet north in Falconberg Mews, a prostitute nicknamed ‘Lady Jane’ or ‘Lazy Jayne’ was found collapsed and semi-conscious, her petticoat missing, her breasts and neck sore, and although she had no head wound nor missing teeth, she also had no memory of how she got there. Jayne Jones (an alias) gave a statement, only it was destroyed when Vine Street Police Station closed. But were those two incidents – the teeth and the attack – connected or a coincidence? With Whitechapel only three miles away, and the name ‘Jack the Ripper’ on everybody’s lips, rumours started to circulate that – maybe – Soho had its own sexual sadist who had already made his first kill. Over the weeks of mid-to-late October 1888, the city saw an unusually cold fog descend and shroud its streets in a choking cloak of impenetrable grey, synonymous with depictions of the Ripper’s London. It is said, although reports were sketchy, that more body parts were found scattered or neatly placed. Monday 22nd, Hanway Place in Fitzrovia, a ponytail was spotted having been hacked-off near the scalp, yet it was bloodless and fleshless. Some suggested an impoverished women was on her way to sell it as wealthy ladies paid a pretty penny for good wigs. Yet, just south on nearby Hanway Street, Emma Jewson awoke in her bed, feeling dizzy, confused with five bruises to her throat in the shape of a hand. But again, was it connected? With domestic violence and drunkenness so commonplace, the Police dismissed this as “a good time girl” who “got what she deserved” from her husband or her punter. Thursday 25th, Baimbridge Street at the back of the old Horseshoe Brewery, a liver was found. Said to be human, although it was impossible to differentiate it from a pig’s, witnesses said it was “wrapped in a woman’s dress”, some said it “sat on a cloth”, and others said it was “near a cloth”. That day, Alice or Anna Dedmun was choked unconscious by a left-handed man in the nearby Horseshoe Hotel. Her liver wasn’t removed, neither was Jayne’s teeth or Emma’s hair, yet rumours spread that the body part belonged to each victim and was a grisly trophy or as a warning to others. And although a plausible reason could be given for each – whether unwanted animal offal, the theft of a barber’s tooth jar, or a simple purchase from a butcher’s stall - it was all about to take a much darker and sinister turn. Sunday 28th, on Flitcroft Street (then called Little Denmark Street), a dirty severed finger was found. Rumours said it had “nail polish” or “a wedding ring”, but with no proof it was a woman’s, we can’t discount that this area of St Giles was full of factories and accidents were commonplace. And yet again, in a doorway at 23 Denmark Place, ‘Minnie’ Jones, a Welsh prostitute was strangled and almost killed. With no memory of the attack, her assailant or the moments prior, her skirt was ripped, she had five bruises to her throat and neck as made by “a leftie with big hands”, she had a missing finger only this wasn’t hers, and yet, a cut had been sliced into her right cheek in the shape of a ‘W’, or two ‘V’s. Again, this could be seen as a coincidence, a remarkable coincidence, if indeed it was true. But could this have been a bizarre distraction by the assailant to draw the public’s attention from his real crimes? It was an era of excitable frenzy, when people wanted to believe that a serial killer was on the loose, or that – as some gossips cruelly suggested - that ‘Minnie’ had done this to herself for attention. Before the murder of Eliza Shad, one more body part was found - a tongue, pinned to a door on Smith’s Court with a note which read “I lov rippin hors” (all badly written and misspelled) with a trail of blood leading through a door, upstairs to an empty lodging. Occurring not long after the Whitechapel double murder and the publication of the ‘Dear Boss’ letter in which its author claiming to Jack the Ripper stated “am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled”, this could be a copy-cat, a hoax, or maybe it never happened? That’s the curse of attempting to unearth fact when the press and the people are more fascinated by salacious guff or grisly aspects, that the truth gets lost in a quagmire of lies. With the East End Ripper taking all the newsprint, Soho’s seemingly insignificant little sex-pest was barely reported. Recounted weeks and (in many cases) months later, by then, those memories had become hazy and exaggerated. For many, it was uncertain if he was fake, or a sadist hiding in the Ripper’s shadow… …yet that didn’t stop a mini mania from erupting across Soho. By the start of November 1888, as several Ripper suspects were named and blamed with the so-called evidence against them being so flimsy it wouldn’t stand up in a court of law, a similar witch-hunt was underway in Soho, as the easily angered with their own axe to grind set out to accuse any undesirables. As happens when mouths run faster than brains, any man seen with either victim in the hours prior was hounded and anyone seen walking by at the time was said to have been “suspiciously loitering”. One suspect was said to have “had a knife”, only it was later said he was “eating an apple”. One man was said to have been seen “fondling” one of the women, only he turned out to be her boyfriend. And one mysteriously “had his face always covered with a hanky”, yet it turned out he had a winter cold. Seizing the opportunity to stick the boot in on anyone they had a gripe with, abandoned wives blamed their unfaithful-husbands, businessmen blamed their ex- partners, and sibling rivalries exploded into finger-pointing, as anyone with a grudge, used this series of unsolved attacks to settle an old score. Therefore its unsurprising that – even though not one of the women had any memory of her attacker – that a list of alleged “eyewitness” descriptions “by the girls” drifted from street to street with little embellishments added in each retelling. The men they were on the hunt for included “a man in his 20s, average height and build in a black suit and hat”, as lynch mobs love vagueness. “An Irish labourer, 30s, big hands, fat head, scarred and a dirty suit”, as well as xenophobic descriptions like “a drunken Pole”, “a swarthy foreigner”, “a Jew with sinister eyes” and any enemy of the era whether homeless, disabled, depressed or disfigured, the mentally unwell, homosexuals, and those seen as degenerates. In short, the usual suspects for bigots and racists. Some blamed it in Soho murderer William Crees even though he’d been in Broadmoor since 1883, a shooting that month on Frith Street was tenuously linked even though none of the victims were shot, with some saying it was an extortion gang, some said it was a prostitute was taking out her rivals, a corrupt copper doing the job the law wouldn’t allow him to do, and others blamed opium and Absinth. As for the body parts, some suggested it was the work of a rogue mortician, a dodgy undertaker, or a lazy barber (as in that era, for the poorest, a hairdresser was also a dentist and a surgeon). It was implied it was a prank by medical students at the London School of Anatomy on nearby Dean Street, and that it was (somehow) an advert for the new play ‘The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde’ which was causing a sensation on the West End stage. But many locals believed it was the tabloid press trying to conjure up a little excitement as had gripped the East End, only being so corny, no-one believed it. Fearing a panic, the Police (said to be under the guidance of local business leaders) were keen to keep a lid on this, as where there’s fear there’s panic. In their favour, the East End Ripper was so infamous that this West End Fondler (and some say, strangler) had hijacked all the press coverage, and with any link between the victim and a body part being so ludicrous, it was dismissed as a mere scaremongering. It died, before it even became a thing. And unlike Jack the Ripper, he wasn’t given a sinister nickname. The problem was (as much as the people wanted a scare story) this wasn’t a series of victimless crimes, as women had been attacked. All were unusually similar, having been drugged, fondled and strangled to the point of near-death, it was said “one had been bitten” and he had escalated to minor mutilation. If connected, someone had deliberately laid a series of distractions as they wanted time with each woman, so it’s possible that – if this was one man - he had chosen them, as this required planning. This frenzy of excitement died as quickly as it arose, and yet, as rumours spread, any new victims found it impossible to be believed, so they didn’t report it. For many women, this was real, but with the myth becoming little more than a joke, many weren’t believed by their own families, let alone by the Police. Only for one more women, this would end in her death. Eliza Shad was a 23-year-old mother-of-one, at least that’s what we think. Said to have been born in or about 1865, she doesn’t appear on any census and she doesn’t have a birth or a death certificate. Conspiracy theorists might decry this as the corrupt elite trying to erase her history to hide a sinister plot, but many records have been lost in office moves, destroyed in the blitz, mistakes made when they were digitised or mis-transcribed when they were first written, and with even official documents like autopsy reports and police files listing a person by their alias, what we know about Eliza (if that is her name) was reported by those who claimed to know her, so must be taken with a pinch of salt. Eliza’s life was the epitome of tragic. It was said, the first sounds she uttered was her wailing tears which echoed down the dark cold walls of a local workhouse infirmary. She wouldn’t remember her father, as before she was born, he had abandoned his wife and children having become a slave to the demon drink and his fate was unknown. As for her mother? She never felt her hug, as like so many women before her, she died in childbirth. Raised by an older sister who was little more than a child herself, she received a basic education and was trained to mend clothes and cook, so at best, she would become a wife or a servant. As far as we know, she never married, so not being seen as a person in her own right, her life went undocumented. Like many of the most impoverished, she lived a hand-to-mouth existence, never knowing if she’d eat that day. Being transient, she never had a home, at best she scraped together a few pennies for a bed in a hostel or a lodging, and at worst, she slept in doorways, sheds or outhouses, shivering in the cold. With no family, it was said her first baby died before it took a breath. The second she had miscarried having been beaten by her drunken boyfriend. And bruised black and blue, her third child was taken by the beadle as she was deemed an unfit mother simply because she couldn’t escape her horrific life. Sunday 4th of November 1888 was a brutally cold day, but Eliza’s luck seemed to be turning a corner. That morning, she went about her usual routine, by going to St Anne’s church for prayers, and having passed 28 Peter Street where a month earlier Eliza Smyth claimed she had been groped in her sleep, she headed to nearby Berwick Street market, where that same day, the festering intestines had been seen. Here she bought bread, cheese and milk, a little bacon and some welks, as in her purse she had enough money to ensure her belly was full. It must have felt odd to be eating as having tried to kick the drink, as a prostitute she would have usually squandered it, but this time, she was able to afford a lodging. It was a big step for an alcoholic, and having paid for three nights board sleeping on a filthy flea-ridden bed made of horsehair and straw in an unidentified lodging house of a Mrs Crowmar, it was something. That night, as a foul wind howled down Old Compton Street, it was said she brought back three men to her lodging on Little Dean Street, and although this dark urine-soaked alley hardly cut a romantic tone, they weren’t here for kissing and cuddling. But was one of them a sadist with an odd obsession? According to the other lodgers, Eliza was discrete, so none of the men were ever seen. No-one heard any cries or screams, as it’s likely she had been drugged. And – if this was true - having laid a bizarre distraction, he had his wicked way with her in the seclusion of her room, and no one was any wiser. On Wardour Street, beside a little path leading to Little Dean Street, a crowd had gathered, larger than usual, as they giggled with grisly fascination at the gory sight before them – a human eye, intact and red raw from a fresh trauma. Having poked it, it plopped into an overflowing gutter where it bobbed. Grabbing it by the optic nerve which dangled at the rear of this bloody bulb, a boy waved it in a girl’s terrified face, and although these spectators laughed, it drew their gaze from something truly sinister. Wednesday 7th of November, three days later, with her rent having expired, the landlady knocked on Eliza’s door and asked her to leave. Getting no reply, she entered and found her cold and dead. (end) Like a carbon copy of previous assaults, Eliza had been drugged so she lay unconscious, paralysed and at her attacker’s whim. Her petticoat had been removed and left neatly folded on a chair. Her breast was exposed and covered in a dried blood which wasn’t hers. And on her thigh was a single bitemark. Again, a small ‘W’ or ‘double V shaped’ cut was found on her cheek, although the police surgeon said it could have been a scratch from the side table. And like the others, with no defensive wounds, her throat and neck was etched the bruises of a left-hander who had taken her to the very edge of death. It seemed as if he liked to play God with these girls, by taking their lives and giving it back, but unaware that having lived such a hard life (barely covered in a sodden blanket as she slept in cold doorways), Eliza had suffered with asthma, and having taken her too far, her lungs were too weak to recover. Dismissed by the police as ‘a possible accident’ by an over amorous lover or punter, being a prostitute who they said may have engaged in indecent acts like sadomasochism, no-one was arrested or sought. And as the last of this series of bizarre assaults over a month of sadistic madness, was this a mistake, was this someone else’s alibi, or the escalation of a wannabe serial killer who had made his first kill? Investigated by Detective Thomas Bowden, the case was wrapped up and filed away as solved. No-one was brought to trial, no-one was even suspected, and it has remained forgotten for 136 years. It is unknown whether he fled, killed himself, was jailed for a similar crime which was never connected, if he was sent to an asylum, or quit owing to the grief that his odd sexual perversion had taken a life. His identity shall remain a mystery, and yet the biggest mystery remains, if any of it was even true. 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.
Nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST, 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Channel's Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
7 Nowell Road in Barnes (as seen in 2019), Copyright @GoogleMaps Sept 2019
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 TWO HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-SEVEN:
Sunday the 1st of December 2019 was the last time 53-year-old William Algar, a talented jazz trumpeter was seen alive. One month later, parts of his dismembered body were found in his flat at 7 Nowell Road in Barnes, having been the victim of cuckooing by a drugs gang. But who had murdered him?
THE LOCATION:
The location is marked with a yellow symbol of a bin near the words 'Chiswick Reach' near tyhe lip of the Thames. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: (some, not all)
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on Nowell Road in Barnes, SW13; five minutes west of the killing of George Heath, four minutes south of where Hectorina MacLennan met Reg Christie, six minutes east of the cat ladies, and a short walk from the slaughtered nudes of Hammersmith - coming soon to Murder Mile. Just shy of the River Thames sits Nowell Road, a residential tree-lined street full of two-storey semi-detached houses from 1920s and 30s. As a working-class area, some are pristine and neatly manicured being owned by old timers who lament the days before the ‘scum’ moved in, and the newbies whose garden resembles a tribute to scrapyards, a museum of dog turds, art shaped like a deflated paddling pool and a complete history of every broken fridge, microwave, foot-spa and telly they’ve ever owned. At the top of the road sits a terrace of three houses with No7 on the left. Across the 2010s, this ground-floor council flat was the home of William Algar, a talented trumpeter who was no bother to anyone, and as a kind man who struggled with his mental health, all he wanted was to get back on his feet. Classified as vulnerable, what he needed was help and support, but being isolated and neglected, what he got was a criminal gang who took over his flat, his mind, and who would end up taking his life. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 277: The Cuckoo. William Hugh Blaise Algar, known as Willy or Blaise, was born on the 10th of August 1966 in the district of Hounslow, where he was raised and lived for the rest of his life. Coming from a good family and being a semi-regular churchgoer, it may seem a cliché, but everyone who knew him said he was lovely, gentle, polite and sweet, with even the trial judge stating “he did not have a harmful bone in his body”. As a child, whereas some struggle to find their place, William’s talent for music shone through, and although basically educated at Chiswick Comprehensive from 1977 to 1984, dedicating his life to being a jazz trumpeter, he later stated he was a professional aged 16. In 1984, he said he graduated from the London College of Music and later studied jazz improvisation at the University of Roehampton. Still only in his teens, having played in a reggae group, in the early 1980s, William had become friendly with the punk (and later gothic rock) band The Damned who were seeking to regain their fame; with Dave Vanian on vocals, Brian James on guitar, Captain Sensible on bass, and Rat Scabies on the drums. Rat Scabies later said “Willy was the trumpet soloist on Grimly Fiendish, what he played was originally the demo, but it was so good that we kept most of it for the single”. He was a 19-year-old professional musician recording with a famous British band, and he appeared with them on the Channel 4 TV show ‘The Tube’, “when we were trying to re-establish The Damned and he helped us to do exactly that”. Released as a single on the 18th of March 1985, Grimly fiendish was the bands biggest hit since 1979, it reached No21 in the UK single charts in April, as well as featuring on the album Phantasmagoria, and on the sleeve, it credits ‘Willy Algar on trumpet’. Yet, those six months were just a brief burst of fame. His talent had peaked as his mental health declined. William later wrote in an online post “I suffered from schizoaffective disorder from Friday night, on the 25th of September 1985”, shortly after it ended, although – as a psychiatric condition with symptoms such as hallucinations, delusions, depression and mania – a single event may have triggered an attack, but it’s likely that it had always been with him. The next twenty years of William’s life are as sketchy as his own recollections, as being sectioned and voluntarily treated across the decades in psychiatric hospitals, his mental health was exacerbated by heroin and cocaine. As a dark side of the music scene, drug abuse is too often normalised, having been the muse of the jazz legends he idolised like Charles Mingus, Charlie Parker, Chet Baker & Miles Davis. In May 1995, he married Marguerite Bidmead, but that didn’t last. Being lost and hopeless in an opium poppy haze, two decades of his life vanished in a puff of smoke, and it took until 2005 to get clean, with William later stating “It's 14 years since I stopped gunning the Skag", having also dealt drugs. Being broke, he tried regular jobs – as a kitchen salesman and acting in a Swiss TV Commercial – but his mental health left him unable to cope. Registered as disabled, he was issued a DLA (a disability living allowance) and in 2010, he moved into a ground floor council flat at 7 Nowell Road in Barnes. This support provided help for this vulnerable man in a time of crisis… …but it also made him a valuable target for scum of pure evil. His flat was small but practical, with a living room, a bedroom, a kitchenette and a bathroom, but said to be “messy and cluttered”, it was typical of a single man who lived a solitary existence. Hidden by an oversized hedge, it gave him privacy and shelter, but it also meant that no-one could ever see in. Being unemployed, over the years, he lost contact with many friends. Many moons ago, he proposed to a girl called Gemma, but marriage never materialised. And on the 31st of March 2015, his life took another spiral into dark depression, when a girlfriend died – leaving him forever saddened and single. To fill the emptiness of his days, he was into spiritual healing, he loved reading poetry like TS Elliot, he backed campaigns to rewild hares on the common, but his one true love was music. Saxophonist Bukky Leo said “music was his life. He was a phenomenal player… it’s very rare to find someone with his kind of drive for music” and as a well-respected trumpeter on the London jazz scene, he played jam sessions at the St Moritz club in Soho, the King’s Head in Crouch End and the Silver Bullet in Finsbury Park. His music kept him alive, and it gave him a reason to live, even when his mental health was declining. In 2018, William posted online that he’d had “168 psychiatric ward terms last year”, and although he had listed himself as the Chief Creative at Luckey Records and planned to record and release his own album, again his schizoaffective disorder had left him even more isolated and broke and vulnerable. Retreating online more and more, his Facebook statuses give us a glimpse at the last year of his life. 13th March 2019, he wrote "found out the news my ex-wife died two or three weeks ago", and with him and Marguerite having lost contact, another tragedy was it took a friend to tell him she was dead. 14th March, in capitals, he wrote "I DON'T GIVE A FUCK. I. DON'T. GIVE. A. FUCK. ANY. MORE", all while being sectioned in a psychiatric ward and although on the 19th he wrote “feeling blue as a boy can be”, on the 22nd he was released, and always being kind "I spent £50 on pizza for the boys on the ward”. That year, a friend tried to get him job as lead trumpeter in the West End hit 'Book of Mormon', but it never happened. The sale of his online artwork titled ‘Bubble Wrap Dark Lord’ only got 6 views. He began missing church and drinking “Jack Daniels for breakfast”. And although on the 2nd of April he wrote "bills, bills, bills. Just can't pay", having posted a plea “I am a musician… who has suffered from a schizoaffective disorder. I need support to avoid going through the NHS for over the 50th time, as they don't adequately support my needs”, of the £2000 he needed, his fundraiser raised nothing. But still he played on, at the King’s Head with Lou Salvoni, at The Jazz in N8 with “my good man, Bukky Leo", sometimes a solo on Putney Common playing ‘On Green Dolphin Street’ by Miles Davis, and on 12th of May, “I made £2 from two thoroughly decent old ladies who said that my sound was good". And then, there was four months of silence… …but why? What happened? On the 21st of September 2019, he wrote that his DLA (disability living allowance) was being taken away “which I cannot do without”. Two days later, he posted about Felix, the cat he was looking after for his friend Amber. That same day, the 23rd, he wished everyone a “Happy Equinox! Only another six months and summer will begin”, never knowing he wouldn’t live to see it. He grumbled “the thing I hate about where I live is that everyone has a nice ride, but as soon as you get one, somebody steals it!” but was this a cry for help? And the last thing he ever posted was “Wil B Algar is feeling… happy”. Only he wasn’t. Being broke, although he’d celebrated 14 years clean, William had begun using cocaine and morphine, and just like in the bad old days – to make some easy money – again, he’d begun dealing Class A drugs. Only it’s far from easy. Dealers deal with other dealers, bad people with no morals who refuse to play by the rules, who use violence to enforce it, and by exploiting a weakness, they take what they want. As a 53-year-old unemployed addict who was thin, frail and registered disabled, he was no match for Emeka Kabiru Dawuda-Wodu, a 19-year-old drug dealer who dubbed himself ‘the devil’, and described as cruel, angry and ‘borderline psychopathic’, he was said to be fascinated by very dangerous knives. As a ‘county lines’ gang, Wodu used children as drug runners, and to make it impossible for the police to find them, dealers often cuckoo themselves into the home of a vulnerable victim – his was William. Being an anonymous little ground-floor flat on an unassuming residential street which was hidden by an oversized hedge, 7 Nowell Road had become a trap house, where Wodu and his gang would deal drugs, and fearing for his life, across autumn 2019, there was nothing William could do about it. He was a prisoner in his own home, as day and night, this vicious gang used and abused him for their own gain and amusement, and as a dealer himself, he couldn’t go to the police or ask friends for help. William had nothing left, and he owed Wodu money. But according to eyewitness Philip Ross, the real flashpoint came near the end of November 2019, when it was said that William spoke 'disrespectfully' to Wodu, who retorted “I'm not your bitch... if you keep talking to me this way, I will kill your cat”. It may seem petty, but that’s how these wannabe gangsters are; pathetic, spiteful and cruel, with no rules nor sense of loyalty, they’d steal from each other, lie to save their own skins, and having picked on a disabled man and the cat he was caring for, it was said they “sadistically tortured” it out of spite. Only, for Wodu and his gang, this little beef with William was far from over. Sunday the 1st of December 2019 was a typically English winters day, being bright but cold. Sometime in the mid-afternoon, he was seen cycling along Castlenau, a busy road two streets from his home, and at the Esso garage, CCTV captured him withdrawing cash from an ATM. He was alone. That was the last time he was seen alive. What’s known about his final hours can only be guessed by the evidence. Toxicology showed that cocaine and morphine were in his bloodstream. Wearing the same clothes, with no defensive wounds and blood spattered up the walls of the living room, he was attacked while asleep or unconscious on the sofa. With no signs of a break in, the killer had a key. An 8cm stab wound to the heart had killed him, but there were 20 more stabs wounds, some of which were post-mortem. And yet, hypostasis (the accumulation of blood after death in the lower parts of the body) showed that he was face down when he died, and that he’d been left in that position for days, or even weeks. Of course, the Police could only assume that, as all that was found was his torso and his head. With no witnesses, it’s impossible to tell who murdered William Algar – a man or a gang, as although they lacked the courage to admit to their crimes, the grisly disposal of his body was a different matter. Two weeks later, on the 17th of December, Wodu, 40-year-old Simon Emmons and 19-year-old Janayo Lucima convened what they moronically called a ‘council of war’. In cold winter months, the corpse shouldn’t have decomposed as fast, but having left the heating on, flies were swarming, maggots were festering, flesh had begun to bubble, and soon the upstairs neighbour would be alerted to the smell. Being not particularly bright and the kind of kids who would have benefitted from staying in school, that day, Emmons used his phone to research ‘Can acid dissolve a body?’. In court, when asked, if he’d been inspired by TV series Breaking Bad, especially a scene there they dissolve a body in Hydrofluoric acid, he said ‘no’. And yet, ten minutes later, it was proven he’d typed ‘hydrofluoric acid Breaking Bad’. He also claimed he was ‘pressured’ into visiting the crime scene and thought “I’ll just be cleaning up”. That same day, Lucima went to Tesco’s in Hammersmith Broadway and was caught on CCTV buying bottles of bleach, washing-up liquid, jay-cloths and black bin bags, paid for using William’s bank card. Across the 17th & 18th of December, as the residents of Nowell Road put up their Christmas lights and engaged in festive hymns, Wodu, Emmons and (possibly) Lucima dragged William’s body to the bath. With the taps on, they hacked off his arms, his legs and his head with a Rambo-style combat knife. Again, in court they’d blame each other. Wodu said “I didn’t know he was dead until Emmons told me and said to help get rid of the body. I thought he was joking”. He said, “the sight made me sick. He was cutting him. Blaise was lying on the floor of the bathroom… Simon was severing his legs. I’ve never seen anything like that before. I vomited a couple of times”, which Simon Emmons completely denied. With the limbs wrapped in binbags and bundled into two backpacks and a suitcase, Wodu & Emmons unsubtly struggled to carry the 41-kilos of remains from the flat, down Nowell Road to Lonsdale Road. Having ordered a taxi (using their names) and wrestled it into the boot, the unsuspecting driver was guided by 45-year-old Marc Harding, 40 minutes south-west to Simpson Road off Hounslow Heath. As a dead-end, off the A314 Hanworth Road, with high-rise flats to the left and the empty dark expanse of the common to the right, Simpson Road isn’t the kind of place you stumble across by mistake. You have to know it’s there, and having pre-dug some holes, William’s limbs were buried in shallow graves. Oddly, it was on heaths like this where William loved playing his trumpet… …only now he was part of it, or at least parts of him were. By Thursday 19th, three weeks after his murder, with his head and his torso wrapped in bedsheets and yet to be disposed of, it was as they cleaned the flat of any evidence, that a call came in from a cohort. 33-year-old Zimele Dube, a street dealer in heroin and crack cocaine was angry, as his enemy, 35-year-old Ebrima Cham nicknamed the ‘Brim Reaper’, who had a reputation for robbing others, was bragging about how he had stolen from Dube four times. Described as 'a maniac who carried a gun', Emmons, Dube & Wodu hopped in a car and sped to the flat Cham was cuckooing in at Grove Road in Hounslow. Cham had wronged Dube, but what did they expect from common thugs with no moral code? On route, they WhatsApp’d him, pretending to be addicts looking for score a fix, but they got no reply. At 11:15am, they knocked on his door, but (like William) with Cham being either asleep or unconscious by taking the drugs he peddled, left partially paralysed, he was unable to fight off his attackers as they broke down the door to unleash what was described as a "frenzied attack" and “an orgy of violence”. Stabbed 11 times in the back, arms and chest using a ‘pirate’s knife’ and (possibly) a second weapon, although paramedics were unable to save his life as a deep wound to the chest proved fatal, with Wodu having stabbed an eyewitness who survived the attack, as well as CCTV footage, traffic cameras and fingerprints found at the scene, the witness was able to give a full description, but not their names. In court, Dube & Wodu blamed Emmons for Cham’s murder, and likewise, he blamed them. It was a pointless killing, over a pathetic little beef, which distracted these hapless wannabe gangsters in their clumsy attempt to clean-up the crime scene of 7 Nowell Road. Still being fired-up on fury and high, they forgot to go back, they left it bloodied, and in the living room with William’s head and torso wrapped only in a blanket, it continued to decompose. Their attempt at disposal was entirely fruitless. But although William had been isolated and alone, he was still missed by those who loved him. By Christmas Day, it seemed strange that with William being so thoughtful and caring that wouldn’t call on his 93-year-old mother Mary, he didn’t send any cards, do any gigs or answer his door or phone. With New Year having gone and still no contact, having asked the Police to perform a welfare check, on Thursday 2nd of January 2020, a month after his murder, officers broke in, and through a fug of flies and an unmistakable smell, they discovered his head and torso wrapped in binbags and a bedsheet knotted twice, with his limbs missing, as well as his genitals and his anus – which were never found. With no witnesses to William’s murder and a semi-competent clean-up, the gang might have got away with murder, but with the car used to drive them to Ebrima Cham’s murder spotted on CCTV, that gave the Police enough pieces of evidence and they started to connect one murder to the other. Headed up by Detective Inspector William White of the Met’s Specialist Crime Command, by tracking down the unsuspecting taxi-driver, on Saturday the 11th of January 2020, forensics carried out a search on Simpson Road and Edgar Road, and police dogs identified two shallow graves on Hounslow Heath. Anyone with half a braincell would have laid low having murdered two men, but on Christmas Day, Wodu and the three others cuckooed another flat, they joked about Cham’s killing, they boasted about cutting up William’s body, and on the 3rd of January, Wodu atacked 20-year-old Charlie Hirshman in a petty spate over a cigarette. Repeatedly stabbed, Charlie survived and described his assailant, but was left with “life-altering injuries including breathing difficulties and the inability to ever laugh or smile”. With two other suspects questioned and bailed pending further investigation, Harding was arrested on January 27th, Wodu on February 4th, Emmons two days later, followed by Dube & Lucima. And although, like petty little boys fighting over a toy, they blamed each other, although warned that his phone calls from prison were being taped, Wodu asked his mother to move his Rambo knife from his wardrobe, and he considered pretending to be mad as a defence, stating “I get so mad… it was like something was saying 'Just do it, just do it’''. Only no sane juror would fall for those lies. (end) Across an 11-week trial beginning in May 2021, both murders were tried concurrently at the Old Bailey before Judge Wendy Joseph QC. Deliberating for 34 hours, on Tuesday 15th of August, Emeka Dawuda-Wodu, Simon Emmons & Zimele Dube were found guilty of the murder of Ebrima Cham. In the murder of William Algar, all were convicted of perverting the course of justice, but unable to prove who had killed William, Wodu, Emmons & Dube were found ‘not guilty’ of his murder or his manslaughter. In Scottish courts, the result would be ‘not proven’, which implies no innocence, as these attacks were said to be “extraordinarily vicious beyond anger” and “of borderline psychopathic proportions”. Sentenced on Thursday 17th of August, Marc Harding was given 3 years and 3 months for digging the holes, likewise for Janayo Lucima who was sent to a Young Offenders Institution owing to his age, Zimele Dube to life with a minimum of 28 years and Simon Emmons & Emeka Dawuda-Wodu to life with a minimum of 31 years, plus 11 years and 3 months for Wodu’s attack on Charlie Hirshman. Had it not been for Cham’s murder, they may have walked free or served a ridiculously short sentence. But sometimes life issues its own justice. Just weeks after his release, in what was said to be a spat with a rival, Janayo Lucima was shot and killed on Comeragh Road, two miles from 7 Nowell Road. And who knows how long the others will survive in prison given their bad attitudes and their lack of respect. With no-one held accountable for William’s murder, the case remains opens, and subject to review. As would have been his wishes, William Algar was cremated at Charlton Park Crematorium, it was said his ashes were scattered in a place he loved best, a fund was set up to raise to money for Youth Music, and on 29th January 2020 at The Silver Bullet Jazz Jam, The Bukky Leo Quartet and many of his friends, family and fans paid a “special tribute to Blaise Algar”. He may be gone, but he lives on in his music. 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.
Nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST, 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Channel's Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
9 Goring Way (today) Copyright @GoogleMaps Sept2022
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 TWO HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-SIX:
In the evening of Tuesday 20th of May 1941, 28-year-old single-mother Phyllis Crocker and her 18-month-old daughter Eileen went to bed, as usual. Being 3 months pregnant, Phyllis drank a cup of cocoa to help her sleep, as made by her husband. But little did she know it would make her sleep for an eternity.
THE LOCATION:
The location is marked with a yellow symbol of a bin near the words 'Greenford' in the west. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES:
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on Goring Way in Greenford, West London, UB6; two streets south of the fleeing of the bloody butler, two streets west of where Reg Christie met Muriel Eady, and three streets north of the wood where the happy campers befriended a naked satanist - coming soon to Murder Mile. At 9 Goring Way currently sits a two-storey white-washed terraced-house on a quiet residential street. Built in the 1920s as part of the West Ridge Estate, the double-door shows that it’s still split into two small flats as it always was, with one above and one on the ground floor, where tragedy once struck. In the back garden stands a patio where (in the years since) someone’s mum has probably given herself a lobster tan while high on Lambrini, someone’s dad possibly burned the sausages till they’re blacker and more charcoal covered than a coal miner’s winkle, and where someone’s kids certainly squealed that ear-splitting screech which makes every dog shudder and even each deaf people pray for mercy. Back in 1941, as the Second World War raged on, this too was a family home, having been rented to 28-year-old single-mother Phyllis Crocker and her 18-month-old daughter Eileen. At the height of the blitz, it was a deadly place to live, and although every day she risked being skewered by shrapnel or blown to smithereens, this lovely little family would be killed by something much closer to home. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 276: Killing for Victory. Phyllis knew that life was hard, so to survive, she fought even harder. Bad luck plagued her life from the start, as Phyllis Elizabeth Crocker was born just six months before the brutal ravages of the First World War, which ripped apart her life before she was even at school. Raised in Ilford, East London to two loving parents, Harry & Sarah Crocker, Phyllis’ childhood was blessed with everything a young girl could need; happiness, health, hope, and her future looked rosy. But in a cruel symmetry to her own demise, tragedy struck her life a little after the first full year of the war when she was the same tender age as her daughter-to-be, as aged 18 months old, her dad died. Killed in a car crash at Godstone in Surrey, as the family’s breadwinner, Harry’s sudden demise not only left Phyllis’ mum widowed with a young toddler, but also impacted on her mental state. Wracked with crippling anxiety and depression, life was hard, but being desperate to feed her daughter as the war raged on, Sarah knuckled down and worked her guts out as a nurse, a housekeeper and a landlady. So perhaps, as a role model, that was where Phyllis got her strength and resilience in the face of fear? On the 3rd of September 1939, when the Second World War was declared and millions were terrified by their uncertain fate, 25-year-old Phyllis Crocker was unmarried and nine-months pregnant. With no money and being a decade before the National Health Service, she gave birth to Eileen thanks to a charity, yet with the father being a married man, the name on the birth certificate was left blank. Seen as sinful, many women may have buckled under the pressure to marry any man no matter how dire her situation, but Phyllis had courage and determination. Said to be “bright, jolly and exceptionally nice”, although this was a terrible time to be an unmarried mother - as with few rights, the law was against her - she fought on to ensure that her baby daughter received the best that she could afford. In January 1940, when she wasn’t wrestling with sleepless nights and nursing her 3-month-old at all hours, Phyllis worked on the assembly line of the Hoover factory in Perivale. Seen as a modern vacuum cleaner with a two-speed motor, bag indicators and a lightweight Bakelite hood, it was made using noxious chemicals like phenol and formaldehyde, as well as deadly poisons like potassium cyanide. Life was hard, but she had work, money and a place to live. Then on the 7th of September 1940 at 4am, the Luftwaffe unleashed an 8-month bombing campaign, and alongside the millions of citizens who fled the cities fearing for their lives, the persistent bombing – day and night, with many never knowing if they’d live to see the dawn – this exacerbated her mother’s already fragile mental state, and in a fit of abject despair, she drowned herself in the River Thames, leaving Phyllis alone, and also homeless. With her young life pockmarked by tragedy, even the hardiest of men may have crumbled… …but for the sake of her child, against all odds, Phyllis strived to succeed. By the bleak Christmas of 1940, when not a single light shone upon this city bathed in blackout, Phyllis moved into the ground floor flat at 9 Goring Way in Greenford. Being cheap and with factories nearby, she knew the risks, she wasn’t unsettled by the bombs, and the flat was small but a lovely little home. Every day, she had a cup of tea with her upstairs neighbour Lillian, a local bakery delivered bread, and in her small back garden she soaked up the sun and let her baby sleep, as enemy bombers refuelled. With fresh food in short supply as Hitler tried to starve Britain into submission, as part of the ‘Digging for Victory’ campaign, in her own back garden, Phyllis grew vegetables to feed herself and her beloved little baby, using a rather sturdy wood-handled spade which she stored in a 3-foot-wide coal box. She did everything to protect herself and her child, only death wouldn’t come from the skies. At the factory, Phyllis fell in love with Lionel Watson, a 30-year-old dark-haired well-built man who said he was a recently divorced father of four. When in truth, he was the epitome of selfish and cruel. Lionel Rupert Nathan Watson was born on the 30th of November 1910 in Woolwich, South London, as the second eldest of 7 children to Oscar, a wharf labourer and Ellenor, a housewife. On the surface, it may have seemed as if Lionel was a man who dreamed of being the daddy to a big family, as having married Alice Vera Langley on the 17th of October 1931, by 1936, they had four children of their own. According to Alice, “it wasn’t a satisfactory marriage” for many reasons. Firstly, he wasn’t a man who could commit to work, often being described as “lazy”, “a liar” or “sick”. Secondly, with a history of mental illness in the family, he was admitted to Warkworth House, an asylum in Isleworth in 1934. And again, as stated by Alice, “on account of him going with girls”, he regularly cheated on his wife. Rightly having had enough, Alice said “we separated three times, as granted by Ealing Petty Sessions on the grounds of his persistent cruelty”. As philandering wasn’t his only crime, so was violence. “He used to punch me with his fists, twice I’ve had the doctor out, and I’ve also lost the sight in one eye”. Against any woman he no longer loved, or wanted, Lionel was scum; nasty cruel selfish scum who only thought about himself. Refusing to pay a penny in child support and leaving them to survive on meagre benefits, on the 1st of January 1940, Alice left him, and with the children being evacuated, even his mother said “I found the children in a verminous condition”, being ragged, filthy and malnourished. For now, they were safe from this vile little man… …only one woman had already fallen for his charms. Released from prison in December 1939 having served 18 months for theft, as part of his probation, he started working at the Hoover factory in Perivale, where he met and fell in love with Phyllis. When he wanted to, he could be sweet, coming across as a good man who, claiming to be “divorced”, said he still cared for his ex-wife and missed his children terribly, as in his wallet, he kept their photos. Only what she didn’t know was that Lionel was a liar who gave a selective account of his past, and was only separated, as he refused to let Alice remarry, making her life without him even more of a struggle. As the two dated and Lionel moved into 9 Goring Way, even Lillian, her neighbour referred to them as ‘Mr & Mrs Watson’, and with Phyllis believing that he’d be a good husband to her and a kind father to Eileen, on the 18th of January 1941 at Ealing Registry Office, they married, even though it was a sham. For the first few months, they lived like a happy family, until December 1940, when Phyllis found out that she was pregnant. For many couples, this news would have been a delight, but it wasn’t for Lionel. With four children of his own (not that he saw them), being a (so called) stepfather to hers and with a sixth on the way, he pestered her to have an illegal backstreet abortion and as many did, it went septic. Having miscarried a three-month foetus, on 22nd December 1940, she was rushed to hospital suffering a fever, chills and vomiting, an abdominal pain which crippled her, and vaginal bleeding so severe, she needed a transfusion, and the discharge was so rancid and sulphurous, it was as if her insides were rotting. With her condition critical, diagnosed as ‘sepsis of the uterus’, although a year before antibiotics were in use, having flushed out her womb with saline and alcohol, after two weeks, she was on the mend. To the Police, Lionel would later deny any involvement in the abortion, claiming “she told me she was pregnant. She said she took something and was very ill. She was never the same afterwards though”. But was that a lie, or his alibi? By the March of 1941, Lionel’s love for Phylis (the wife he had bigamously married) had cooled. Like many before her, she was now a woman he no longer loved or even wanted; as having caught a glance, liked what he saw, and started flirting with her at the Hoover factory, a new girl had taken his fancy. 17-year-old Joan Filby was a filer in the machine shop. Said to be sweet and naïve, this child lived with her parents, and although she’d been friendly with Phyllis, having moved onto another job, she wasn’t to know that she’d been fed a lie - that Lionel wasn’t recently divorced, or no longer seeing Phyllis. Homelife at Goring Way was mundane, they didn’t argue, but it was clear that the love was lost. Often, he made excuses that he was working late, out with the lads, or off to see his kids who’d been moved to Eastbourne, when in truth, this 30-year-old wannabe lothario was taking Joan to the cinema. And while still having sex with Phyllis - as being unwed, Joan had refused - a side effect of sex is pregnancy. On the 21st of April 1941, four weeks before her death, Phyllis saw her GP, Dr Stewart, having exhibited some familiar symptoms; a fever, chills, vomiting and crippling abdominal pain. Dr Stewart discretely asked her “have you taken anything for it”, as he suspected an impending septic abortion, but insisting “no” and with there being no bleeding nor sulphurous discharge, it was put down to a stomach bug. Across the month of May, her sickness was oddly intermittent, as sometimes she felt achy and weak, nauseous with headaches and breathlessness, and other times she felt fine - even though she wasn’t. Unaware, many of the symptoms she put down to her pregnancy and her old sceptic miscarriage… …only, for many months, Lionel had been plotting to kill her. In late January 1941 – one month after the abortion and two weeks after their bigamous marriage – Lionel ‘acquired’ from the case hardening department in the factory a small lump of the deadly poison, Potassium Cyanide. To three people he gave three different reasons, all legal, why he needed it: being to destroy ants in his garden, to kill an unwanted dog, and even to clean a bath. In that era, it raised no suspicions, yet its real purpose was one he’d hide from everyone, especially his wife and her child. Tuesday 20th of May 1941 was an ordinary day for Phyllis. In the morning, as usual, she had a cup of tea with Lillian, she dug a strip of soil to grow beetroots and carrots, at 2pm she went shopping (buying some butcher’s bones for the dog of Lillian’s brother who temporarily lived in her garden), at 4pm she did some washing, and at 5pm, Mrs Burgess saw Phyllis & Lionel hang a blanket on the line, as the baby gurgled in her cot enjoying the last rays of sunshine. Being three months pregnant and with it too risky for Phyllis to have another illegal abortion, it looked as if a new baby was on the way whether Lionel liked it or not. And yet, with him seeing someone else, he had already prepared a concoction to cause her to miscarry, and solve all his other little problems. While she was undressing, using a hacksaw and a file, he ground the cyanide down to a fine powder. While she was wrapping her baby in a nightdress and blanket, and bedding her down for her sleep, he was boiling a pan of hot milk, as into one mug, he scraped the clear powder which swiftly dissolved. And while Phyllis kissed her little daughter who lay in the cot beside her, Lionel walked in, grinning like a husband having done a good deed, as he handed the wife he once loved, a steaming mug of cocoa. Dressed in a vest and petticoat, she got in beside him, and (probably supping a tea so he didn’t confuse the cups) they lay listening to the radio, as without any force, she drank the last drink she’d drink. Its slightly bitter taste of almonds masked by an extra sugar and a wee nip of whiskey to help her sleep. Having been sick for months, she often suffered with headaches, nausea and dizziness, so as her heart raced and her breathing became erratic, she didn’t know that she was dying, she didn’t know he’d poisoned her, and as she drifted from woozy to unconsciousness, within a minute, Phyllis was dead. With her skin unblemished and with no marks of violence, no vomiting nor blood, if a doctor enquired, the symptoms would mirror her botched illegal abortion, as no-one would suspect she was poisoned. Barely a day before he murdered her, Lionel spoke to Mr Odell the baker and told him “we don’t need any more bread, she’s going away”, and having paid off the final bill, no-one would suspect a thing. Only his dirty work wasn’t finished. As Phyllis lay there, silent and slowly cooling, in his eyes, one unloved and unwanted woman was out of the way, yet he wouldn’t be free until he had murdered the other, and being an innocent little child with no knowledge of the dangers in the world and the bad men who stalked its streets, she eagerly supped from the same mug her mother had, as the man she saw as a dad sent her to an eternal sleep. And with both dead, Lionel was free. The next day, while his wife and her child lay cold and stiff on his bed, in the factory’s machine shop, Lionel slipped Joan a note which read “well dear, I expect you wonder why I preferred you out of all girls. I have begun to love you”, and asking her out to the cinema, at which he would gift her with a dress and a pair of shoes which belonged to his wife, he ended the letter “with love and kisses”. Joan had no idea who he truly was, and how little he thought of her, as when asked about his feelings towards her, he later said “I just took her out after my wife died to kill time and because I was lonely”. Like his real wife, his bigamous wife, and the girl he said he was seeing, he used women until he needed them no more then he disposed of them. Only the bodies of Phyllis & Eileen would be a real problem. With the dog in the back garden, Lionel couldn’t bury them. Although at the start of the war millions of pets were euthanised, he’d used all the cyanide and it was too suspicious to steal more. And with no car nor any way to move them elsewhere, he hid them under his bed, as their bodies began to rot. It barely took a day before Lillian, the upstairs neighbour, started asking questions why Phyllis hadn’t joined her for her morning cup of tea, asking “Where’s Phyllis? I haven’t seen her today?”. At which she said he turned pale and stammered, “she’s gone away to see her aunt in Scotland”, (Lillian) “it’s funny she left without saying goodbye’, (Lionel) “yeah, well, she went very early, she was in a hurry”. On the 24th, four days later, masked by distant bombers as flames licked the skyline, having wrapped Phyllis & Eileen in bedsheets, Lionel hid their bodies in the coal box. It wasn’t his nosey neighbour or the rancid smell which made him move them, it was a date with Joan and he was hoping to get lucky. Selling off the jewellery, he took Joan to the cinema, and convincing her to come back to the flat, he showed her a photo of what was said to be “his baby” and he gave her some of his dead wife’s dresses. By the 26th, with the dog having gone, Lillian saw Lionel digging under the flagstones in front of the coal box. She called down, “hello, what are you doing, digging for victory?”, chuckling at her little joke, he brushed it off with a brusk “just burying some cabbage leaves”. As by day, he dug a very large hole, and by night, he buried their bodies, scattered it with quick lime, and replaced the heavy flagstones. Every day, he scrubbed them with disinfectant to disguise the smell, and then he got on with his life. But he wasn’t the richest, ust like he wasn’t the smartest, and knowing that an attractive young girl is an expensive hobby to keep, with Phyllis having £43 in her Post Office account (about £2700 today), he tried to bleed it dry, but he got scared when he realised he didn’t know how to forge her signature. By the 15th of June, more than three weeks after the murder, having run out of money, he tried to give Joan more gifts (like his dead wife’s fur coats, a bracelet and a gold ring), but she’d rejected them. She wasn’t suspicious, but she had been warned by the girls at the factory that he’d got a bad reputation. And with the relationship now over, all that remained was a hole, two corpses and a very bad smell. On the 29th of June, Lionel was witnessed again washing the flagstones down with disinfectant, as with the bombs leaving body parts on every street, every resident knew the familiar smell of rotting bodies. It was as familiar as fresh coffee, and although he blamed the drains, their terrible suspicions rose. On Monday 30th of June 1941, while Lionel was at work, Lillian pried up the foul-smelling flagstones with an axe, and digging into a layer of earth and quicklime, “I reached down and felt something soft”. Alerting the Police, Phyllis’ body was found with her baby wrapped in her arms. (End) Detecting traces on the saw and a witness who saw him steal a lump of Cyanide, even after six weeks of burial, so high was the dose, that the pathologist Sir Bernard Spilsbury confirmed it was Cyanide. Arrested at the Hoover factory on Tuesday 1st July, he pleaded his innocence, and using her abortion as a shield, he claimed Phyllis had killed her baby, then herself, and getting scared, he buried them. Tried at the Old Bailey on the 15th of September 1941 before Justice Cassels, he stuck to his story about his mentally ill wife being so sick that she committed suicide and then murdered her own child. But as he stood there, in the witness box, giving his side of the story for three hours, at no point did he act like a grief-stricken widow but as a cold callous man whose every waking thought was selfish and cruel. Witness after witness told of how he emptied her bank account, sold off her possessions, dug the hole where the bodies were found, and just one day after her death, he sent a love letter to his girlfriend. And with Mr Hall, an employee of the Hoover factory confirming “I saw him take the Cyanide, he said he needed it to clean his bath”, with his defence having crumbled to dust, he was as good as dead. On the 18th of September 1941, after a four-day trial, having retired for just 20 minutes, Lionel Watson was found guilty of two counts of murder and was sentenced to death. And although he appealed his case, being rejected, on 12th November 1941 he was hung at Pentonville Prison by Thomas Pierrepoint. His cremated remains were scattered inside the prison, whereas Phyllis & Eileen were given a full burial in Greenford Park Cemetery. Arrogant to the core, in a last letter, Lionel claimed “I'm not afraid to die. I would have gone with Phyllis had not been for my four little children. God bless them all". 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.
Nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST, 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Channel's Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-FIVE:
On Sunday 5th of November 1978, at a little after 5:30pm, two women stood at a bus stop on Sydney Place in Kensington, SW7, waiting for the rush hour bus. Having been close friends for decades, there seemed to be an odd friction between them, and although their issue was of a personal nature, within minutes, one would be a wanted criminal on the run, and the other would be shot dead. But why did Alvada Kooken murder Margaret Philbin?
THE LOCATION:
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SOURCES: (a selection)
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on Sydney Place in South Kensington, SW7; five streets north of the Devil’s Child’s home invasion, three streets east of the killing of Countess Lubienska, the epicentre of Guenther Podola’s brutal amnesia, and the same street as the drippy dangler - coming soon to Murder Mile. On the corner of Sydney Place and Onslow Square is a bus stop, Stand HY to be exact. Bus passengers are an odd breed of human (if indeed they are), as bus stops are spots where only cretins with coughs congregate and the lonely stand in the hope someone will talk to them, alongside teens with tinny speakers, drunks with greasy kebabs, brats with gobs as big as their mother’s backside, and an miserly old bag who chastises the driver for his lateness, only to waste more minutes rooting for her bus pass. If only this was a one-way trip to Switzerland, as these are the kind of people the world wouldn’t miss. And yet, a massacre of some of life’s most incompetent wouldn’t be the first murder to occur here. On Sunday 5th of November 1978, at a little after 5:30pm, two women stood at this stop along with a throng of other passengers waiting for the rush hour bus. Having been close friends for decades, there seemed to be an odd friction between them, and although their issue was of a personal nature, within minutes, one would be a wanted criminal on the run, and the other would be shot dead. But why? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 275: Stolen Womanhood. Some people don’t feel whole unless they marry, some don’t feel complete until they’ve had children, others feel empty when they’re bereaved, yet many are content in themselves. Everyone is different. But how does it feel when you’re no longer physically whole, with a ‘real’ piece of yourself missing? Alvada Ruth Kooken was born on the 5th of November 1923 as one of two siblings to Alva & Gertrude Kooken, alongside her brother Marvin. As a smart and forward-thinking family, they gave her a good start in life, and being educated at Downingtown High School in Pennsylvania, later moving from Kansas City in Kansas to neighbouring Kansas City in Missouri, this gave Alvada a taste for travel. Raised during the Great Depression - in the 1930s, when a woman’s role was solely as a homemaker - she came into adulthood during World War Two, and with millions of men fighting overseas, women like Alvada became vital part of industry, experiencing jobs and freedom like they never had before. When the war was over, some women went back to their old lives and old ways, but for others, it lit a fire under their backsides to live their own lives, rather than as a man’s appendage. They wanted their own money, their own home and - as a new breed of career women - to make their own decisions. Getting work as a secretary in the US Navy, the fallout of the war and the subsequent conflicts of the Cold War, Korea and Vietnam led Alvada to see the world. With much of her work classified, we can only get a hint at her exciting life from her movements; in 1947, she boarded the ‘Willard A Holbrook’, a US ship transporting refugees from Bremerhaven to New York, in 1948 she lived in Paris, in 1949 she was back in Kansas City to see her beloved family, and in 1956 she caught a Pan-Am flight to London where she continued working as a senior secretary at the US Naval Headquarters in Mayfair. As a government employee with a long illustrious service, Alvada was respected and earning £8000 a year - in an era when the average UK male earned barely half of that - she had achieved her goals and was living in her own flat in Basildon Court at 25 Devonshire Street in an exclusive part of Marylebone. But for every success, she was forced to make a sacrifice. Said to be 5 foot and 5 inches high, Alvada was a good-looking lady who was always neat, well-dressed and elegant. With collar length blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, startling blue eyes, and a pleasant face, which – devoid of wrinkles - always made her look younger than her true age, she was softly spoken with an accent which hid her past but accentuated her love of history, culture and travel. Everyone who met her said she was “likable, but a bit intense at times”, especially as she watched her friends get married and have babies - whereas for her, it was not to be. It was never said why, maybe it didn’t fit her grand plan, maybe she didn’t meet her Mr Right, or maybe it just didn’t happen? But for the rest of her life she would be cruelly defined as a spinster, as if being single was somehow a sin. In May 1963, when Alvada was 40, her mother died. As expected, it hurt her heart, it ached her soul and it left her with a sense that something in her life was missing. Whether a coincidence or not, that year, she started seeing a psychiatrist (one who came highly regarded from a slew of professionals on nearby Harley Street) and she would continue seeing him when she got low for the rest of her life. Thankfully, although miles from home and often feeling alone, when she needed a shoulder to cry on, the ones she trusted most with her secrets were her closest friends; Betty Stuckey & Margaret Philbin. Born on the 1st of September 1933 in Romford, Essex, Margaret Helen Philbin known as Peggy was the daughter of a housewife and a retired civil servant, with her brother a bank clerk. Like Alvada, she was raised with an ambition to succeed and having met while working for the US Government in Paris, said to be inseparable, Margaret and Alvada would become best friends for more than twenty years. It was a perfect friendship, and as two single women, they balanced each other out. They ate together, holidayed together, sometimes they double-dated, and were like a couple - only without the bad sex, the silent loathing and the arguments over who put the bins out – they always remained close. As a woman of routine, the porter at her apartment said “Margaret was quiet, a perfect tenant”, and a bubbly lady who enjoyed her life, never got upset and made the most of every moment. Said to be ‘pretty and popular’, into her mid-40s, although Margaret was childless, for her for it wasn’t an issue. Her loyal friendship kept Alvada happy and stable… until a medical incident changed everything. In May 1976, in her Marylebone flat at Basildon Court, Alvada hosted a dinner party for her boss and his wife. It was a small but elegant affair for a few senior dignitaries, with fine food, soft lighting and smooth music. Knowing how important it was for her career, as a good friend, Margaret helped out. By all accounts the party was a great success, but during the meal, Alvada was taken ill. With her face profusely sweaty and pale, and with her vomiting, it was believed to be food poisoning. But with her gripped by abdominal swelling and an intense pain in her gut, it was later suspected to be appendicitis. Rushed to The London Clinic, two streets away on Devonshire Place, Alvada could afford to go private, and therefore the doctor she paid for was the best. And when I say ‘the best’, I mean ‘the very best’. Her doctor was the distinguished consultant gynaecologist and internationally respected obstetrician, Dr George Pinker, Sir George Pinker to be precise; who for decades had been a consultant at St Mary's, the Middlesex, Bolingbroke, Battersea, Radcliffe, the Soho Hospital and the Samaritan Hospitals for Women, he assisted in the first Caesarean birth under epidural, he was president of the British Fertility Society and supported the research (three years later) which led to the birth of the first test-tube baby. Considered an expert, he pioneered many practices seen as standard today, and as the gynaecologist to Queen Elizabeth II, Sir George delivered nine royal babies – breaking with tradition by insisting they be born in a hospital – they included Peter & Zara Phillips and Prince William & Prince Harry. Said to be kindly, charming and courteous, for his services he was made a Knight of the Royal Victorian Order. If Alvada was to trust her body to anyone, it was to be Sir George Pinker, and that’s who she got. Assessed as an abdominal infection, although she’d had no prior sickness nor diseases in her family, it should have been cleared-up with antibiotics, but the swelling and bleeding persisted and it got worse. Consulting another surgeon, it was determined that emergency surgery was essential, Alvada was told of the risks, informed that – given the spread of the infection – that sick and healthy organs may need to be removed, and she signed the paperwork. Everything was done in accordance with the guidelines. In surgery, with the infected organ identified, “as a possible source of later infection if it was left in”, with the patient’s prior consent, he removed her appendix, uterus, fallopian tubes and her ovaries. It potentially saved her life and prevented further abdominal infections, and as a 53-year-old singleton who was already menopausal, she hadn’t planned to have a baby, and it wasn’t biologically possible. When she awoke, she felt sore, yet with the antibiotics working now the infected organ was out, her swelling was down, she didn’t feel sick, and being on the mend, she would be sent home to recuperate. For the first time in a month, Alvada felt bright and hopeful… …but at her bedside, told that her womb had been removed, her world came crashing down. She said “I didn’t want a hysterectomy. I know it sounds foolish for someone of my age to feel that way, but women do have children in their 50s. I knew he had taken out something that was healthy and normal, and I told him ‘you’ve made a mistake’. He tried to impress me with jargon so I got up and left”. Audrey Whiting, a friend who lived in her block said “she couldn’t think or talk about anything else”, as - in her eyes - a vital piece of her body had been ripped out and her womanhood had been stolen. Biology had been against her, she didn’t have a man to impregnate her, and now with her last chance at being a mother gone forever. Alvada later told the court “I had no feeling. I was dead inside”. Whereas once she was driven, the judge later described her as “a lady of impeccable background who worked throughout… only to become utterly and quite suddenly changed”, as whereas once she was whole, now she had a hole, a gap where her womb once was and – she felt - her future should be. By day, through misty eyes, she watched the women whose bumps she envied, but by night, as she clutched her pillow, she cried herself to sleep to the ghostly wails of the baby who could have been. In one swift slice – at least to her – her body was rendered empty, and hollow, and useless, a husk. Descending into insomnia and despair, although she’d put on weight prior, it was only now that she felt disgust when she looked in the mirror. Once she was young and feminine, and yet with her youth having abandoned her, what looked back at her was an old, bloated and sexless mess. But only to her. Audrey said “she blamed the dinner party, and with Margaret” – her younger, prettier, more popular and fertile friend - “having helped her, this led her to believe she was to blame for the whole thing”. It seems preposterous and it was, but maybe it’s no coincidence that Alvada’s father had died the year before, and with both parents’ dead, unable to face the truth, her mind sought someone to blame? In her head, Alvada believed it began with a clandestine call, in which “her friend had connived with a surgeon to have her ovaries unnecessarily removed”, even though Margaret wasn’t her next-of-kin. Nothing her friend said would convince her of the truth, as all Alvada could think of was the surgeon who stolen her womb and the woman who (she said) had arranged it, maybe out of spite? And with the two falling out, and never speaking again, even though Margaret moved to a new job as a secretary with a shipping company, this was not something that Alvada would ever forget… or even forgive. In August 1978, two years later, Margaret was sent a long and rambling letter in Alvada’s handwriting containing a list of thirty people involved in this conspiracy against her, who she believed had poisoned her at the party and plotted to rip out her womb. The list included nurses, doctors, friends, family and associates, but at the very top of the list was Betty Stuckey, Sir George Pinker and Margaret Philbin. It was a threat, but unsure if it was an idle threat, as Alvada became increasingly unhinged, that month, Margaret moved to a new flat in Pelham Court at 145 Fulham Road, a short walk from Sydney Place. For weeks, an eerie silence grew between them, only that threat wasn’t idle. In April, six months prior, Alvada had concocted a deadly plan. Having acted as if nothing was wrong as she wrote memos for the US Navy, across several evenings, she sidled into a series of seedy East End pubs and socialised with unseemly types, making it clear she was looking for a gun. She offered one man £1000 saying it was a present for her father. To another, she said it was only “to frighten two friends”, but neither wanted anything to do with it. And although they gave statements to the US Embassy, with Alvada having purchased a .38 revolver and 50 bullets, that all came too late. Sunday the 5th of November 1978. Guy Fawkes night, an annual celebration of the terrorist plot to blow up the Houses of Parliament, and either burn, maim or kill as many politicians as possible with a naked flame and barrels of gunpowder. At her flat at Pelham Court, in an ironic twist, Margaret was hosting a dinner party with fine food, soft lighting and smooth music. Only this time, no-one would fall sick, and no-one’s womb would be stolen. At around 5:30pm, with her guests having left, Margaret got herself ready for a night out at a fireworks display (and maybe to meet the man of her dreams who would become a lover, a husband and a father to her many children). Wearing a grey suede skirt, a red and yellow blouse and a brown fur coat, she descended the lift, exited the double doors of 145 Fulham Road, and headed to the nearest bus stop. As always, the night was bitterly cold as a biting frost gripped the air, a low fog clung to every surface, and with a frisson of excitement and reckless stupidity, it was as thrilling as it was annoying. From any and every corner, catherine wheels whizzed, shooting stars popped, and rockets banged, as with her ears echoing to the cacophony of booms, pops and flashes, the streets were also wreathed in smoke. It was the perfect night for fun… but also a murder. Nearby, for several hours, Alvada had lain in wait for her former friend, watching the double doors. Whether a coincidence or not, that day was Alvada’s 55th birthday, and although she was only a year older, maybe it was a reminder that she was still unmarried and forever childless, or a treat to herself? Dressed in a long grey coat and a headscarf, Alvada kept her distance as she followed Margaret across Fulham Road into Sydney Place. She later said “I didn’t intend to kill her. I wanted to hurt her because I knew she was the instigator of the whole thing. I knew I couldn’t sue her for what she had done”. The street was bustling with kids, couples and families on their way to a bonfire. Margaret had no idea she was being followed, until suddenly she felt eyes burning into her like red hot coals. “I saw her. She saw me. I knew she was frightened because she quickly crossed over”, then she stood at the bus stop. They hadn’t spoken in two years. They hadn’t seen each other since. “I followed her along a street and stopped behind her as she paused under a streetlamp”. To everyone else they were just two faces in a crowd, waiting for a bus, with one of them - Alvada - clutching a white and blue plastic Pan Am bag. Alvada said “she did not speak and I did not speak to her. I was waiting for something to happen”. It was something which – in a rational mind – would never happen, but - in an irrational mind – must at all costs. “If she had said ‘I am sorry’, I couldn’t have done it”, Alvada had said, “but she didn’t”. At that point, “two Spanish women passed. I know it made her bold enough to turn and look at me”, and as she did, Alvada pulled from her bag the revolver, and from inches away “I shot her in the head”. Having slipped the gun into her bag and slunk away into the crowd who’d mistaken that smoke-filled flash and bang for the one of thousands of others that night, with 1 down and 29 to go on her Kill List, next up was to be Margaret’s co-conspirator Betty Stukey and Dr Pinker in his Harley Street clinic. And with that, Alvada had vanished into thin air. Passengers on the No14 bus to Putney saw nothing as it pulled up to the stop. Some got on, but one woman didn’t, and with her being slumped on the cold wet and increasingly sticky floor, it was as she was illuminated by a streetlight, that they saw blood flowing from her mouth, her nose and her eyes as it pooled underneath her, as from the back of her head, the right side of her skull was missing. A passing Police Sergeant gave her mouth-to-mouth for several minutes before a doctor took over. Raced to St Stephen’s hospital, armed detectives stayed by her bed in the hope she could a statement, but she remained unconscious. For hours, doctors fought to save her life, but suffering chronic blood loss, a brain haemorrhage, and with her heart constantly stopping, at a little after 8pm, she died. Her killing was described as “calculating and chilling”. Hunting a “mystery woman in a long grey coat and a headscarf”, her photofit was issued to all police and identifying the victim, the motive wasn’t initially clear. But as the detectives searched Margaret’s flat, finding a rambling letter from Alvada complete with 30 names, one of whom she had shot dead, they realised that this wasn’t an empty threat, but a deadly mission. That night, the next two victims in this so-called conspiracy, Dr Pinker and Betty Stuckey, were placed under armed Police guard, the other 27 persons were advised to go into hiding, and Alvada was declared as “armed and dangerous”. Announcing her name and description at a press conference, Police stated “we need to catch her now, before she kills again”, as she had a history of mental illness, a belly full of hatred, and 49 more bullets. Every place she had lived or worked was checked. Every station and seaport was alerted. Security was tightened at Stanstead, Heathrow and Gatwick. And with a possible sighting at a bus stop on Gallows Corner near Romford, it was thought she may be heading to RAF Lakenheath, where she had friends. Police swarmed the area hoping to arrest her before she shot somebody else … …the problem was that wasn’t her. On the night of the murder, Alvada had planned to kill Dr George Pinker in his Harley Street clinic and Betty Stuckey at her home in Putney, but with the shooting having snarled traffic to a standstill, the No30 bus she needed never arrived, and fearing the Police would catch her, he caught the tube home. Packing a bag, she never went on the run. Instead, having withdrawn enough money, she booked into the Royal Garden Hotel on Kensington High Street, barely one mile north of the crime scene, and hid. On Wednesday 8th of November, while Police were searching airbases in Essex & Suffolk, James Hazan spotted the woman whose face he’d seen in the newspaper exiting the hotel, “I got hold of her arms, shouted for a policeman and made a citizen’s arrest”. And with that, the manhunt was over. (Out) Tried at the Old Bailey, beginning on Monday 9th of July 1979, before Mr Justice Cantley, the jury were asked if this was a coldblooded murder, or manslaughter by provocation. Evidence proved there was no conspiracy, nor any hint, between the respected surgeon and any of the 30 names on her kill list. With Alvada said to be “suffering delusions of persecution and a degree of schizophrenia”, she refused to allow her defence to put forward a plea of ‘diminished responsibility’ owing to her mental state, and with a defence of provocation (caused by her belief that her womb had been stolen by a jealous friend) dismissed by the jury, 55-year-old Alvada Kooken was sentenced to life for wilful murder. Transferred to Broadmoor Psychiatric Hospital for assessment, under Section 72 of the Mental Health Act of 1959, she was given a Hospital Order meaning she could only be released when she was deemed mentally well, and although she appealed her sentence, this was later dismissed. Seven years later, she was still at Broadmoor, while on a supervised day trip to Southsea with other patients, she escaped, hopped on a train and headed to London. Armed guards were posted to Dr Pinker’s home and his clinic, and although again the Police warned “this woman is dangerous. Do not go near her”, she was later found in a meeting room at St Ermins’s Hotel in Westminster, fast asleep. She didn’t rant about killing, and having fled, maybe for a brief moment she just wanted to feel free? On 8th of January 1995, Alvada died of natural causes in Broadmoor, aged 71. Shipped back to Kansas City, she was buried beside her parents in Forest Hill cemetery. Across her life, she’d achieved so much, but with a key piece of her life missing, till her dying day, she blamed it on her stolen womanhood. 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. Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast - #274: Immoral Earnings (Mary McCormack & Alfred Nathan Bain)6/11/2024
Nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST, 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Channel's Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-FOUR:
1st August 1970, 20-year-old Mary McCormack of Limerick was found strangled in her ground floor flat at 85 Talgarth Road in Baron’s Court, W14. With no signs of a break-in, the police suspected it was either a client who she let in, or a tenant with a key. But did the Police convict the right man?
THE LOCATION:
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SOURCES:
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on Talgarth Road in Baron’s Court, W14; four streets from the coldblooded couple, five streets from little Sonia’s killer nanny, a short walk from the bubbling drum of John George Haigh, and the same house as a killing possibly connected to Charles Manson - coming soon to Murder Mile. At 85 Talgarth Road, currently stands a four-storey Victorian terrace house. With steps up to the floors above, it’s still split into flats and bedsits, and looks as rough and dirty as it always did. Situated off the A4 Flyover, its bricks are thick with pollution, and it’s the kind of sordid place you’d expect to see a paedo hunched over his laptop, or a van of immigrants manhandled inside for sex-work and slavery. It has a squalid and unsettling feeling, and for good reason. In the early hours of Saturday 1st August 1970, in the front facing ground-floor flat of 85 Talgarth Road, a 20-year-old prostitute called Mary McCormack was found strangled. With no obvious break-in, her killer was either a punter who she let in, or her alleged pimp with his own key. But what was the truth? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 274: Immoral Earnings. What follows is based on the declassified court records and eyewitness testimony. According to the police, their prime suspect in the killing of Mary McCormack was Alfred Nathan Bain. Born on the West Indian island of Grenada on the 19th of June 1941, he was raised in ‘a sun-kissed paradise’, but according to Alfred, his childhood was “unsettled” as his parents “were always fighting”. With Grenada being Crown Colony, and later, an Associate State of the British Commonwealth, seeking a better wage, like many, in April 1960, 19-year-old Alfred Bain swapped the sun, sea and assurance of his homeland for a better wage in England. Only it was hardly the ‘utopia’ he’d been promised, as it was always raining and cold, the food was bland and unpalatable, the streets were ravaged by race riots, and many flats or B&B’s still had signs in their windows which read ‘no blacks, no dogs, no Irish’. Later stating “I drifted”, training as a mechanic, he said that in 1961 he was a greaser at Metropolis garages in Barnes, in 1964 at Blue Star in Fulham and in 1965 at HR Owens on the Old Brompton Road, although this couldn’t be verified as they hired staff on a cash-only basis. He said he was also a window cleaner and managed a record shop, again unverified, and from August 1968 onwards, he worked as a taxi-driver using in his black Wolseley saloon (registration 5832MG) which was prone to breakdowns. Police suspected the history he gave was lie and although he only had one previous criminal conviction for receiving stolen goods –a handbag - on the 1st of January 1969 he was fined £8 10s and as a first offence was given a conditional discharge, but the Police believed he was a pimp, which he denied. 1970s Britain was an era when some police officers were unashamedly racist and openly corrupt, and with Alfred being black, it’s likely he would have been seen as a criminal, even if he wasn’t, and an easy target to convict with a predominantly white jury – but this isn’t to say he was innocent or guilty. Just as, when a brothel was raided, those women wouldn’t be seen as exploited sex slaves in need of help but punished for being a prostitute - but that isn’t to say the Police were innocent or guilty. This is a complicated case marred by bias on both sides, and too often the victims are forgotten, so the testimony you’ll hear will be the words of the women who accused him of selling them for sex. Linda Chinnery was 15 years old, when in July 1968 she got a job at Dollis on Oxford Street. Stealing a purse, she was given two years’ probation, but as a typical teen, she hated reporting to her probation officer and having been sent to an approved school, she absconded, and hitched a lift to London. At a pub in Fulham, this homeless child was introduced to Alfred Bain and the two became acquainted. Linda testified “a white man came… Alfie took the man aside, when he had left, Alfie told me he had arranged that I was to have sex with the man. I was a bit ashamed, but thought I’d get some money”. As a child prostitute charging £10 a time, “I kept £5 and bought a dress”, and other times, “Alfie said he’d save the £5 for me” - this being a trick many pimps used to keep their girls under their control - “and suggested it would be an easy way to make money”. Being unaware of the consequences, soon this vulnerable young girl was being violated by between 3 to 10 drunk and strange men every day. In 1971, Alfred was convicted of “procuring Linda Chinnery to become a prostitute and also knowingly living wholly or partly off her earnings” between the 15th of September and the 30th of October 1969. But his (alleged) control of these girls was said to be more than just manipulation and coercion. Susan Collette who also testified said, “Alfie put Linda on the streets. He threatened her the first time, but after that, she went out with Alfie without an argument”, as for many prostitutes, the fear of the ramifications if they didn’t do as they were told was more terrifying than the consequences itself. Given a blonde wig and the street name of ‘Karen’, at 79 Shirland Road in Maida Vale – a four-storey terraced house which Alfred denied owning but said he sublet it into flats for the landlord - Linda saw “lots of men, mainly white, coming to the house”. Adverts were placed in phone boxes advertising a ‘model’, with details of her age, her hair colour, her size and that she offered ‘personal services’, as well as a phone number which led directly to the front ground-floor bedroom at 85 Talgarth Road. Alfred also denied owning that building, even though he had a room on the ground floor, which Linda said was so he “could keep an eye on them”. By the autumn of 1969, Linda was the tenant of what was said to be a brothel and where she contracted Trichomoniasis, a sexually transmitted infection. When questioned, Alfred denied that he ever beat the girls, only Linda’s testimony contradicted this. Linda said “after one man left, I found that £5 was missing. I panicked. I was frightened, because of Alfie’s reaction. He told me if this sort of thing happened, there would be trouble for me”. And fearing his anger – which Susan Collette witnessed stating “Bain was angry that Linda had double crossed him” - she packed her bags in the dead of night and fled. It is uncertain if she went to the police, or not. Linda was safe, but with a loss of income to the man who used women as a commodity… …her disappearance (it was suggested) lead to the murder of Mary McCormack. In court, Alfred Bain denied he knew that Mary was a prostitute, with his defence counsel Sir Dingle Foot QC stating “there was no evidence that she had been forced to act as a prostitute. This is not a picture of wicked exploitation”, even though he was convicted of “procuring prostitutes” and the one woman he either coerced or forced into prostitution (according to her own testimony)… was his wife. Carmel Keane was from the crime-ridden Southill estate of Limerick in Ireland. Having met Alfred at a party, they moved to London, married in 1965, and with one daughter (Mandy) back in Ireland, at first they were said to be happy and together they had another daughter, Elsina. But with their relationship turning sour – possibly owing to what happened next - Elsina was put into care aged just 3 months. Carmel said “Alfie suggested I should earn some money. He told me that his girlfriend before gave him enough money and that if I wanted to keep him, I’d better do this. He suggested I go on the streets”. This was his wife, the woman he supposedly loved, and yet (she says) he forced her into prostitution. “He nagged me about it and knocked me about, because I didn’t want to do it”. But later convicted of selling his wife for sex between June 1967 and November 1969, she said “I was working in Hyde Park”. Picking up at least 3 men a day, he’d drop her off in his unreliable black Wolseley saloon, he'd park up nearby to protect her (as she was his income), and she earned £50 a day “none of which I ever saw”. Upon his arrest, when assessed by the prison psychiatrist to see if he was fit to stand trial, it was said “he has an inflated view of himself as a lover”, he admitted he is “possessive in his attitude to women”, and “was proud that the women he married was willing to” in his words “sell herself to men for him”. By Christmas 1969, just two months after Linda had fled, Carmel walked out and returned to Ireland. It’s plain to see why the Police saw Alfred as the most likely suspect in Mary’s murder, as even before we get to the evidence of the case, he openly abused woman as a commodity to make himself money. A friend of Linda’s was Valerie Kemp who said that Alfred had suggested to Keith Appleton (Valerie’s boyfriend) that she become a prostitute and that he’d “benefit financially if she did”. In February 1969, realising she was pregnant - perhaps out of kindness, although it’s unlikely - Alfred arranged an illegal abortion using a man of questionable experience called Cosmo Ashley. Cosmo had a bag of surgical tools (a specular, a dilator, some rubber tubing, and a medical book), but being a part-time engineering student and just a hospital porter with no medical qualifications, he had only a rough idea what to do. Nicknamed ‘Dr Lee’, Cosmo stated that Alfred paid him £15 for the abortion, even though it wasn’t his girlfriend who was pregnant, and Valerie said that “Alfie told me to tell Dr Lee that I was sixteen. I was fifteen at the time and Alfie knew this”. But unless she was one of his ‘girls’, why would he do that? According to a later conviction, one of the prostitutes Alfred “wholly or partly knowingly lived off” between at least 4th April and 31st July 1969 was Mary McCormack, even though he would deny this. Like Linda, Mary came from Limerick, and having met her in a bar, after Linda had fled, Mary moved into the ground floor room at 85 Talgarth Road, with adverts plastered in phone boxes advertising a ‘model, 18, 4 foot 11, slim’, with a phone by her bed, and coincidentally Alfred in the room next door. He had known her for six months, later telling the police, “I liked her. I offered her that room. She used to bring men home three times a week. If she did not bring a man home, she would come to me. I had no money from her except rent. She only gave me sex”, denying any involvement in prostituting her. When arrested, hidden in his Wolseley’s floor, Police found two bank books showing that from May to July, he had paid in £475 (£9200), in an era when the average weekly wage was £32 a week, and yet, although he claimed to be a part-time taxi-driver, he refused to say where the money came from. The front room of 85 Talgarth Road was a tragic little place, with pornography on the walls to get men hard, and signs that read ‘smile’ so the girls didn’t forget to act like they weren’t always miserable. So it didn’t look like a semen-coated hell, it had some home comforts like a radio, a TV, a fire and a drinks cabinet, but with those only there to make the male punters feel comfortable, it wasn’t a place to live. Five months into her life as a hole for drunk perverts to pump, this petite leggy brunette was discretely looking to get out, knowing that – like many girls before - this isn’t the kind of job you could just quit. Fearing her pimp’s fury, Rosalind Wright QC said “it is believed Mary was planning to start a new life”, she had hidden £250 (£3700 today) under the carpet, “and she’d enquired about returning to a job at a gin distillery two weeks before her death”. Like Linda, she would vanish in the dead of night, and – unbeknownst to her - with the police keeping surveillance on the flat, she had some protection. But on Thursday 30th July, one day before her murder, with the police stating of Alfred “he came out and looked at us, we thought we’d been rumbled”, the surveillance was stopped, leaving Mary alone. The Police suspected Alfred owing to the holes in his alibi. Alfred said that on Friday 31st of July 1970, “I left at 9:45am. I saw Mary, I said ‘see you later sexy’. I never saw her alive again”, as he didn’t return until 1:30am. He said she was wearing a pink nightie (which cannot be verified), but when her body was found, she was in a black negligee, a peephole bra, knickers, with her hair and make-up done, and her shoes were on the floor as if she’d taken them off. Outside, with his unreliable Wolseley playing up, Alfred said “the starter broke, a man helped me push it to Edith Road”, two streets away, “and I drove it to 131 Percy Street, where it was parked all day”. From 12pm for 15 minutes, he tried making calls to his daughter in Limerick, but couldn’t get through, and being an era of bad telephone communications, it’s likely, but there was no record of the calls. At 2:27pm, he placed a bet as proved by a betting slip, and although he said he did this at 4:30pm, this could have been an honest mistake, and he later agreed with the time when confronted by the proof. At 3:50pm, unable to call his daughter, he sent a telegram from Shepherd’s Bush post office, with the staff refuting this, saying the customer was “a coloured woman, not a man”, but mistakes do happen. From 4pm to 5:30pm, he said he tried booking a flight to Limerick via Aer Lingus, a call there was no proof of, but then, it was the 1970s. And between 6pm and 6:30pm, he said he arrived at Continental Garage on Gayford Road in Hammersmith where his other car - a Simca saloon - was having work done on the body and gearbox, and he stayed there till 10:20pm, which his friends at the garage verified. That day, witnesses saw the following at 85 Talgarth Road. In the morning, a stocky man in a tweed jacket, possibly a pre-arranged punter. Around lunchtime, a late 40s craggy-faced man with grey hair (who was known as a regular client). And an Indian, late 40s, 5ft 8in, with grey hair and a suede jacket who rang her doorbell between 3 and 6pm - none of which resembled Alfred. But a witness said they saw “a black Wolseley outside of 85 Talgarth Road at 6:20pm”. He said his was at Percy Road, 2 miles north-east of the flat and barely a few streets from the garage. But did the witness make a mistake? The witness didn’t get the licence plate, and when asked if this was his car, Alfred stated “no”. At 10:30pm, having bought some off-sale beers, Alfred Bain, his friend Albert Bertrand, and his cousin Clunis Cato, returned to the flat at 131 Percy Road, and tried to get the car’s starter working. Clunis said he saw Alfred several times that day, and said of each occasion, “he was as normal as ever”. This is where the truth deviates, but then, if he was innocent, this confusion could be owing to trauma? Alfred said, with the Wolseley broken, he asked his friend to drive him to 85 Talgart Road. Only Albert denied this, stating “I drove him to 131 Percy Road at midnight”, then he drove himself home. When given this statement, Alfred changed his story, stating he drove alone in his Simca, its gearbox fixed. In his own words, Alfred said “I arrived at 1:15am. I opened (the door) with my key”, as seen by Rene Willoughby who lived upstairs. “I went straight to my room”, right next door, “I saw my television”, which was broken “and I messed with it for five minutes. I then decided to leave it until the morning”. There are no witnesses to what happened next, but Alfred said, “Mary’s radio was playing louder than usual. I peeped into her room. I didn’t notice her”, later stating, “I thought Mary was hiding from me”, possibly for fun, although this was never fully explained. “I went to her room and the telephone was in its usual place, on the floor. I thought it funny that she should go out leaving the receiver off”, which was odd as she was clearly in as her shoes and stockings had been removed and were beside the bed. “I noticed her bag on the floor… I saw a black stocking and that made me more anxious to look for her. I knelt down to look under the bed”, which again is an odd thing to do, unless you accept that she was either playing hide and seek, was caught in the act of something risky, or she was truly afraid of him? Alfred then claimed “I noticed her foot sticking out from under the bed, I grabbed it round the ankle. I shouted ‘Mary’. I quickly moved the bed over to the left. She was on her face and I grabbed her shoulder. I shouted ‘Mary, Mary’, I shook her and turned her over. I knew there was no life in her”. Alfred shouted for his neighbour, Rene, to come down, and at 2:20am, they called the Police… …almost an hour after Alfred said he had entered the flat. With Police securing the scene at 2:25am, the investigation was headed up by Chief Inspector Sayers. What was clear from the outset was that, with no signs of a break-in and the house secure, the culprit was either someone Mary invited in, or a resident with a key. And with her intercom broken, someone may have disabled it to stop anyone being alerted to her punters buzzing in, and then getting no reply. Pathologist Dr David Bowen stated “the body had been on its back for most of the time after death”, as its hypostasis confirmed this, “but then someone had turned her over” as Alfred had reported. Taking swabs from her mouth, anus and vagina, it was determined there was no sexual assault. Taking hair, blood and urine samples, she wasn’t drunk, on drugs, or poisoned. And with no skin scrapings of a suspect under the nails, she hadn’t been scared of her attacker and she didn’t fight for her life. But there was a good reason why? Bruising to the lower lip showed she’d been punched, possibly knocking her out. Rolled onto her front, her killer used his weight to pin this tiny woman down, and with her immobile and helpless, from behind he strangled her. Killed not out of panic but a furious anger, he crushed her larynx, and left a deep bloody groove in her neck, having held the ligature tight until he was certain that she was dead. When the room was searched, her wallet containing £250 to be used for her escape was missing, only with it hidden behind the bar and under the carpet, it was unlikely a stranger had stumbled upon it. Detectives said the murder weapon, which was never found, was likely to be a strip of plastic edging which came off a hi-fi speaker in her room, having belonged to Alfred several months prior. It seemed an odd choice as a ligature, especially if a stranger had chosen to strangle her in the heat of passion. With no witnesses, the evidence was circumstantial. Friends said Alfred was “disturbed and broken hearted” when he spoke of her death, And with Mary’s murder occurring between 12:30pm and 1:45pm, if that is correct, there is an inconvenient gap in Alfred’s timeline when he was seen by no-one; being 15 minutes after he struggled to call his daughter, and 30 minutes before he placed a bet. Arrested that night, detectives were so sure that Alfred was the culprit (rather than one of her clients) it could be said that they were blindsided by the need to prove his guilt. Asked “did you kill Mary?”, he said “no, I’m innocent… the power of truth is in me and I want to help you”. At which, the Sergeant said “you’re a pretty good actor but you sometimes overdo it. Why did you kill her?”. He denied he did. Giving several statements and repeatedly questioned, initially he gave a false testimony, he refused to comment, his shifting story was full of holes, and (against all evidence) he denied knowing Linda Chinnery or Valerie Kemp, he denied procuring an abortion, he denied being a pimp, he denied living off immoral earnings, he denied 85 Talgarth Road was a brothel, or that he prostituted his wife. (end) On the 6th of January 1971, Alfred Bain was tried at the Old Bailey charged with murder and living of the proceeds of prostitution, as well as conspiring to procure an abortion with Cosmo Kumah Ashley. Pleading ‘not guilty’, the prosecution stated he had tried to establish an alibi with lies and inconsistent actions, but with “no conclusive evidence to prove he had killed her”, on the 22nd of January, after five hours, the jury found him guilty of living of immoral earnings, and he was jailed for two years in prison. Unable to prove that he murdered Mary McCormack, a retrial of the charge was ordered, and on the 25th of February 1971, this time using the same evidence, he was found guilty and sentenced to life. Appealing his conviction in June 1972, the judge stated that “the evidence met the legal standard of guilt”, and with Alfred released on licence, he died in May 2001, with his daughter pursuing his appeal. If he was guilty, what couldn’t be agreed on was why he had killed Mary. The Prosecution suggested three motives; that he suspected her of ratting him out to the police (hence the surveillance), that he wanted her money (even though, in his bank, he had vastly more than her), or that, having planned to start a new life, he had strangled Mary in a fit of rage, as he saw women as a disposable commodity. Whether we believe he was guilty or innocent is irrelevant, as the conviction should be based on hard evidence and not opinion or bias, otherwise what is the point of the law. The truth is lost to the midst of time, and what happened in that room only Mary knows, and possibly Alfred, both of whom are dead. 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.
Nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST, 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Channel's Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
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 TWO HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-THREE:
On Tuesday 11th August 1936, at roughly noon, in the basement flat of 7 Roseford Gardens in Shepherd’s Bush, 66-year-old widow Elizabeth Fortescue was smothered to death, as her attacker ransacked her flat. Given the violence used against her, the Police suspected “she had died at the hands of a violent man”. But how true was that?
THE LOCATION:
The location is marked with a bright yellow symbol of a bin just by the words 'Shepherd's Bush' kin the west of the map. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: (a selection)
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing by Roseford Court in Shepherd’s Bush, W12; three streets east of the savaged prince, opposite the Shoebox Killer’s last attack, next door to the petrol station where the First Date killer had a body in a boot, and three streets north of the bongo basher - coming soon to Murder Mile. Built in 1968, on the south side of Shepherd’s Bush Green stands a block of flats called Roseford Court. Named after the road demolished to make way for it, Roseford Gardens was a quaint set of Victorian terraces where everybody probably suffered from TB, rickets, typhoid and had a tooth between them. In 1936, the basement flat of 7 Roseford Gardens was home to 66-year-old widow Elizabeth Fortescue, an unassuming woman who went about her life without grumbling or causing a fuss. She did right by those she lived with and deserved to live and long and happy life. And yet, by opening her door to a person of pure evil, it was said “she died at the hands of a violent man”. But how true was that? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 273: A ‘Bad’ Man. Elizabeth Fortescue was born Elizabeth Ada Coker on the Hallow’s Eve of October 1869 as one of two sisters to working-class couple, William & Sarah Coker. Raised in Marylebone and living local most her life, she was a Londoner through and through and rarely saw beyond the same streets in her early days. Her life wasn’t tragic or sad, as although far from well-off, she was rich in spirit, as all she craved was the simple comforts in life; like a roaring fire, a homecooked meal, her bills paid and a neat house. As a woman who took pride in her appearance, although some suggested she looked a little frumpy, she always blacked the ironwork of her fire, and proudly washed her doorstep every Saturday without fail. Burdened by a stern expression and the stout frame of a woman who wasn’t to be messed with, her ‘no nonsense’ exterior belied her truth about Elizabeth. She wasn’t tough but hardened by a lifetime of hard graft. She wasn’t grumpy, but (rightly) only let into her life those she trusted. And although a woman of solitude with few friends, she was full of kindness, love and would do anything for anyone. In 1894, aged 25, she met and fell in love with Alfred Cecil Fortschunk, a Londoner whose work often took him to Ireland, and as his new bride, she followed him to Dublin and later to Pontypridd in Wales. Little is known of their life together, but by 1917, with the First World War having ravaged Europe and with Britain rife with anti-German sentiment, the royal family changed their name from the Germanic Saxe-Coburg-Gotha to Windsor as did Albert & Elizabeth Fortschunk who became Mr & Mrs Fortescue. Married for 26 years, in December 1920 when Albert died, Elizabeth was left with no home, no savings, and with no children to look after her in her later years, she had to make do with a widow’s pension of just 10s a week (about £25 today), but being frugal and hardworking, she ploughed on with her life. Into her sixties, whereas many woman had retired, unable to do so, she travelled the breadth of the country earning an honest wage as a food demonstrator, as blessed with a pleasant demeanour, she bestowed upon the housewives of Britain’s towns and cities the value of canned and powdered goods. It was long hours and hard work, but as a single woman on a pitiful pension, it kept her alive and well. By 1928, she moved into a two-roomed basement flat at 7 Roseford Gardens in a three storey Victorian terrace which (having seen better days) was cheap. To make it affordable, she split the rent with her sister, but with Louise moving out in 1932 owing to a falling out, Elizabeth took in a series of lodgers. She was a good woman who never did wrong… …and yet it was a good deed she did for a friend which left her for dead. From 2nd of July to 19th of August 1936, the landlady Anna Blades was on holiday. Needing someone reliable and honest, she asked Elizabeth to collect the rent on her behalf, having done it before. On Sunday 9th August 1936, two days before her death, she had collected £4 18s in rent from Celia Rowe on the second floor, Alexander Wills on the first, she (of course) paid her own, and as was standard, she placed the money in an envelope, popped it in a portmanteau case, and stashed it under the table. It was hardly Fort Knox, but who would break into a flat in the hope a few quid hidden in a box? Being broke, but a nice lady, Elizabeth gave her new lodgers - Alfred Stratford and his girlfriend – a day’s grace to pay 11 shillings having rented out her front room, and she went about her day. Monday was as uneventful, as was the Tuesday. That morning, she woke early as she always did, she made a cuppa, she cleaned her small single room, she shook and beat the rugs in the garden, and she began washing a mountain of laundry, only to be interrupted by Leslie Windmill, an engineer of the Gas, Light & Coke Company who at 11:20am installed a water boiler and was done in 20 minutes. That was the last time she was seen alive, but she was heard returning to her washing. As a solitary woman who kept to herself, it wasn’t uncommon not to see or hear her for hours or days. By the Thursday though, with milk bottles piling up outside of her door, and getting no reply from the flat, Mrs Rowe’s husband peeped in through her bedroom window, and was shocked by what he saw. The investigation was headed up by Detective Inspector Rawlings. The motive was obvious from the outset, it was a simple case with a likely suspect. The flat consisted of the lodger’s room, a passage and a scullery, all of which were untouched. Yet her tiny room, barely 8 feet square with just a sofa bed, a table, a dresser and a fireplace had been ransacked and trashed. Every drawer had been searched, every cupboard had been opened and with the culprit clearly looking for something specific, everything was in disorder. On the small side table, two handbags and a purse were open, their contents spread. On the sofa bed, a suitcase had been forced and emptied. And on the main table, the portmanteau case was broken open and the envelopes of rent money missing. Elizabeth didn’t have jewellery or heirlooms, all she had was a cash tin in her dresser with £3 and 17s, almost as much as the rent itself, which the culprit missed. But they might not have known about it? What was stolen was barely enough money to last one person a week, yet it was worth killing her for. In front of the door lay what looked like a bundle of old clothes still to be washed, only its shape was akin to an Egyptian mummy wrapped in all of its bandages from the day it had been entombed. Police Surgeon Dr Ernest Travers would state “the body was trussed up from head to foot with various articles of clothing, dusters, rags, etc”, with the top half of a pyjama suit still in the scullery sink, damp. “Her ankles were bound with sheets, also her knees, wrists and elbows tight to her sides” as someone had strived to keep this short but stoutly built woman still as she struggled to fight herself free. Underneath, her face was a bloody swollen mess, as keen to keep her silent, her brutal assailant had slammed their fist hard into her face, breaking her nose and rupturing the left eye till the pupil blew. Knocking her to the floor, and leaving her back, legs and arms a patchwork of thick black bruises, at least one of those punches had dislodged her dentures, and caused her to bite down on her tongue. But as scared and overpowered as she was, this proud and resolute woman never gave up the fight. Wrapped so tight she was immovable, as overkill, her attacker had wrapped her pyjama trousers about her face and neck to silence her, cutting a deep groove in her skin the more she struggled. Over that was wrapped a thick duster, over that a large cotton sheet, and over that a blue woollen jumper; an inch of several layers of material, and with some wet or damp, it was akin to being waterboarded. Dr Travers said “she couldn’t have breathed for very long with those things tied over her mouth”. And although bound, as she struggled to emit a muffled scream for help, unable to render her unconscious with a heavy blow, several times her head was slammed against the hard wooden floor with so much force and violence that the pathologist couldn’t tell if she had been beaten to death with a hammer. Unable to move, scream and barely breathe, it took a full 30 minutes for Elizabeth to die, as every pained breath got shallower and weaker, and with no-one having heard her, she died alone and afraid. Her death was tragic… …but for the police, the suspect was obvious. Given the violence against her, they were looking for a man. Having searched her room for the rent money, it was likely that he knew her. With no signs of a break-in, he was believed to be a resident. And with the front room untouched and only one set of fingerprints found on the ransacked items (her handbag, purse, suitcase and the portmanteau case), with her new lodger missing since the day of her murder, a manhunt was on to arrest Alfred Stratford. Warnings were issued at every station and port that he was violent and dangerous. But who was this ‘bad man’? Born on the 3rd of October 1895 in East London, Alfred was the eldest son of George & Ruth Stratford, and bar a brief stint in Saskatchewan aged 3, his life was mostly spent in Dalston or Bethnal Green. When assessed following his arrest, his psychiatric report states “he is poorly educated and struggles to read being of below average intelligence”, when in truth, his low IQ and his mental (and sometimes) physical slowness was attributed to a 13-year bout of epilepsy exacerbated by a dog attack as a child. Deemed fit and strong, he earned a good living as a labourer, and having married his sweetheart Emily Wheeler when he was aged just 20, across their marriage he fathered seven children with her, but like so many parents in that era, two died too early, with James aged 9, and George barely even a toddler. By 1914, with the outbreak of the First World War, Alfred was enlisted as a Private in the Royal Sussex Regiment – to do his bit and earn a good wage for his family - and although not a leader, as a soldier who was fit, brave and could take simple orders and undertake them to the fullest, he flourished. On 11th of November 1918, the last day of the war, Alfred fought in the brutal Battle of Mons, a bloody fight to liberate the Belgian town from the Germans. Deemed a success which led to this hero awarded the British War and Victory medals, having been shelled, the next 11 years of his life were spent in and out of hospital, as even after many operations and bone grafts, his left forearm was badly deformed. Shipped home to Dalston, being unable to continue working as a labourer, he was forced to support his family on the few pounds he could make, and a pitiful disability pension of just 16 shillings a week. Later assessed as a ‘desperate criminal’, who having been trained to kill was ruthless and aggressive, his motive was money. But although mentally slow, he showed no signs of insanity or trauma and with no criminal record, it didn’t seem like he had gone bad. Besides, he wasn’t a leader… but a follower. So what was his motive? In 1933, while living at 191 Quinn Square in Bethnal Green with his wife and children, 38-year-old Alfred caught the eye of his neighbour, 16-year-old factory-hand Mary-Ann Flynn. As an attractive girl with a short black hair, bright red lipstick and a mesmerising smile, Alfred was instantly smitten. It was wrong, and he knew it, and although his family needed him, in 1936, when she was 19, they eloped. Whether it was love, we shall never know, but whereas he was mentally slow and some say easily led, as a girl who wanted more than life was willing to give her, others say she was manipulative and cruel. On Sunday 2nd of August 1936, just nine days before, Alfred & Mary-Ann committed a violent attack on a lone woman, which has some haunting similarities to the brutal murder of Elizabeth Fortescue. For a few months, Mary-Ann was the maid to Florence Gaze, affluent heir to the Gaze Drapery empire who lived with her siblings at 13 Middleton Road in Golders Green. With their modest house full of silk sheets and jewellery, 24 hours earlier, Mary-Ann had loaded up a suitcase, swiped £6, and fled with the plan to elope with her lover. But needing more money, she returned with a different plan. Florence Gaze later recalled, “I went to the door and the caller was Mary-Ann”, standing there without an ounce of remorse for the theft. “She said she had come for her clothes, so I asked her in”. Florence saw this as a chance not to accuse her, only to ask why, but what she didn’t see was this was a ploy. “I was talking to her in the hall when the bell rang again”, only she was expecting no-one. “I opened the door and saw a shabbily dressed young man. Before I had time to say anything, he seized me with both hands, and threw me to the floor”, badly bruising her back, arms and legs. Fighting to hold her down with his deformed left arm, “he tried to gag me with a blouse. I called out to Mary-Ann who I thought was helping me”, only she wasn’t, “instead, I discovered she was the one holding my wrists”. Florence was overpowered by Mary-Ann, as Alfred started to ransack the room. “For a time, I lay on the floor with a cloth in my mouth”, gagged and struggling to breath. “Somehow, I managed to get to my feet and ran along the second passage towards the kitchen. I got the cloth out of my mouth and I began talking to Mary-Ann. She said ‘I met this man and he made me do it’. I asked him to let me sit up but he struck me a blow which sent my head against the wall, but although I was very frightened, before I lost consciousness, I ran out of the house”, fleeing over the fence and alerting the police. Florence Gaze was lucky to be alive, as although this gruesome twosome frequently shifted the blame between each other, and sometimes took the blame exonerating their lover, with the police having set up a man hunt for this “bad man and his accomplice”, the couple had headed to Shepherd’s Bush. That day, seeing an advert in the newsagent’s window for a room to let at 7 Roseford Gardens, Alfred paid a small deposit, and the couple moved in, with the latest victim in their spree in the next room. Elizabeth had no idea about their crimes, she thought they were a couple in love. And seeing that they had no luggage and were short of a few bob, she would do her best to help them as best she could. But was her killing really the fault of this ‘bad’ man? When arrested, Mary-Ann confessed in full. She said “towards the end of the week, we didn’t have any money. Alfred said we may as well go to the police station and give ourselves up for leaving home”, as he knew he would be arrested for deserting his family, as well as the assault on Florence Gaze. That night, on Sunday 9th of August 1936, Elizabeth sat in her room supping tea with her friend, Mrs Gould, as Mary-Ann passed the slightly ajar scullery door, “when I went to the sink I saw her with some envelopes of money on the table”. And although just a passing glance, this evil seed grew a cruel oak. “I told Alfred what I’d seen, and I suggested we take it. He said ‘no’, he didn’t like the idea”, but by the Tuesday, when Elizabeth’s boiler was fitted, he was onboard, having either been pestered or smitten. “I put the idea to Alf that we should attack her as she was at the sink washing”, as with her back turned she wouldn’t be unnerved by a petite young girl with a sweet voice and rosebud lips. “I said I should speak to her, then he should come out with a duster and tie it around her mouth”, which he did. Only the plan went wrong from the very start, as she was an over-eager girl with greed on her mind, and the gag slipped off as he was a slow-witted veteran who fumbled owing to a badly deformed arm. “All the time she was screaming”, fighting to get free and terrified for her life. “I sent him to get some more cloths to gag her” and grabbing a stack from the sink, many were damp having just been washed. “I was holding her down with my hand over her mouth and a cloth to keep her quiet, she was struggling with me, trying to pull the cloths from her mouth and she bit my fingers terribly”, so with a violent rage mistakenly attributed to brutal man, not a seemingly feeble girl, “I hit her in the face and banged her head on the floor”, as they trussed her up like a mummy, so she couldn’t move, speak or breathe. “As I was holding her down. I said to him ‘leave me with her, you look for the money’”, which is why the police never found any of her fingerprints in Elizabeth’s room, as like her loyal servant, he went looking for the loot, ransacking the room, as Mary-Ann stopped this suffocating woman from fleeing. “I shouted to Alf ‘have you got it yet?”, directing his hand to the portmanteau case, and grabbing the cash, they had brief moment of conscience, asking (Mary-Ann) “what shall we do, leave her like this?”, (Alfred) “is she all right?”, (Mary-Ann) “yes, we’ll get caught if we stay”. And later confessing, “she was still struggling when we left her. We shut both doors to her flat, went upstairs and out the front door”, knowing that she was alive and breathing, but that no-one would find her until it was too late. “We went to Shepherd’s Bush”, by which time Elizabeth’s strength had begun to fail her, “and we got a bus to Fenchurch Street Station”. And as the giggling lovers counted their haul of £5 and 10s (£600 today), Elizabeth breathed her last, as muffled by a mountain of cloths, she uttered her death rattle. “Then we got a train and went to Southend”, where they stayed for two weeks, enjoying the sun, the sea, the sand, and not eloping (as being married, Alfred couldn’t), but seeing this as their honeymoon. As the two lovers frolicked and guffawed, the police were already on the hunt for a ‘bad’ man, but no-one had suspected that the killer could be a ‘bad’ woman, and this bias would dog the investigation. Their capture and arrest was simple, as being creatures of habit, they returned to East London. Dubbed ‘a danger’, on the 3rd of October at 1:15pm, Alfred was spotted by DCI Rawlings at a bus stop by the corner of Kingsland Road and Dalston Lane. Asking “is your name Stratford?’, replying “yes”, before he could be arrested, he interjected “alright, I know”, and was taken to Dalston Police station. Deemed less important, as in court they would paint her as a stupid little girl who was obsessed with a ‘bad’ man – asking Albert who wasn’t the sharpest, “have you the slightest doubt that this girl worships the ground you walk on… and would willingly have lay down her life to save you?” – Mary-Ann was found in their new lodging at 106 Greenwood Road in Hackney and made a full confession. And yet, although Albert was bundled into a van and roughly manhandled, Mary-Ann was given time to wash, dress, and while prettying herself before the ogling constables, possibly she crafted her story. Mary-Ann gave a lengthy statement covering several pages, claiming “I want to make a clean breast of the whole thing to get it off my mind”, which formed most of what you’ve just heard. When handed it, Alfred apologised, saying “it might take a while, I read very slowly” and eventually added “it is all true, absolutely true what she says. It’s no good me saying anything, she’s said all that’s true”. And that was the bulk of his statement, he had nothing to add, edit, and it’s likely he didn’t understand it. Tried at the Old Bailey on the 19th of November 1936, with Mary-Ann’s statement declared as invalid, as the police had failed to correctly caution her, the testimony of both culprits became invaluable. And yet, as he changed his story to protect her, she denied any violence against the victim, and said her confession was made “to shield him and take the blame. He is the only man I have ever loved”. But was this the truth to save him, or a lie to save herself? With the judge declaring “the jury took a merciful view of her. There was no doubt that she was aiding Stratford, and but for her assistance, it is probable that Mrs Fortescue wouldn’t have been killed”, Alfred was sentenced to death for his crime, while Mary-Ann was sentenced to just 8 years in prison. So sympathetic were they to her, that when Alfred was condemned to death, Mary-Ann was ushered out of the court to spare her this “terrible ordeal… as for the rest of her life, she will have the sorrow that she will never again in life see the man she loved”, treating her as if she was the real victim. But some sympathy did fall on Alfred. With the jury recommending mercy, his sentence was reduced to life, and serving nine years in Maidstone Prison, released in 1945, he died in 1971 at the age 75. The press said that “justice was served”, and yet, there would be one more death before the year was out. Sent to Holloway, on 14th May 1937, five months into her sentence, Mary-Ann died in the prison hospital. Conceived on their honeymoon, she had carried Alfred’s child to full-term, but with her too weak to survive this painful birth, she died when her baby daughter was only 32 hours old. Said to have been adopted, somewhere a woman exists, hopefully having lived a good life and blissfully unaware that her birth was owing to a brief but bloody union between a ‘bad’ man and a ‘bad’ woman. 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.
Nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST, 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Channel's Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
45 Manchester Street, Marylebone, W1 - (c) GoogleMaps 2004, July 2023
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 TWO HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-TWO:
On Sunday 31st July 1949, just before midnight, Michael Martin unleashed a violent attack on a defenceless 53-year-old prostitute known locally as ‘Mona’. To the press, it seemed like an all-too-familiar story of a destitute woman who was brutally murdered by a horny drunken punter, but with time and infirmity catching up with all of us, this anonymous streetwalker’s death marked the end of an amazing criminal.
THE LOCATION:
The location is marked with a sickly green symbol of a bin just south of the words 'Baker Street'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: (a selection)
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Manchester Street in Marylebone, W1; a short walk south of the brutal slaying of Sharon Pickles, two roads east of the killing of William Raven, a few doors down from the failed lobotomy of Gabrielle De Wolfe, and the same house as the ‘tragic rags’ - coming soon to Murder Mile. At 45 Manchester Street currently sits a four-storey brown-bricked Grade II listed townhouse from the 1780’s. Being renovated into pricy flats for society’s elite, its brochure is probably filled with beautiful people lounging in pristine rooms on shiny metal chairs while sipping a swanky cocktail. So it might as well say “no fatties, no foreigners, no dole scum, and if you didn’t go to Eton, holiday at Monty, or have eaten a Pringle, this is not the place for you, thank you and good day. I said GOOD DAY!” (door slam) Back in 1949, this was a 14-roomed lodging house occupied by manual labourers and impoverished families, many of whom worked in the local factories. In Room 12 on the third floor, a quiet young man who assisted at the local theatre had recently moved in, and by all accounts, he was no trouble at all. But on Sunday 31st July 1949, just before midnight, he would unleash a violent attack on a defenceless 53-year-old prostitute known locally as ‘Mona’. To the press, it seemed like an all-too-familiar story of a destitute woman who was brutally murdered by a horny drunken punter, but with time and infirmity catching up with all of us, this anonymous streetwalker’s death marked the end of an amazing criminal. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 272: Red Mist. On an unspecified date in August 1949, in an undisclosed cemetery in Wandsworth, a priest gave a by-the-book eulogy as two gravediggers piled six pine coffins into a lonely hole. With no mourners or pallbearers, they stood with resigned silence as this job encroached on a tea-break, being unbothered as they buried a baby who died of croup, a malnourished pensioner, an unnamed tramp, a stack of unidentified remains left over from the blitz, and another prostitute murdered in London’s West End. With no flowers nor headstones on this council-funded grave, the only way to tell who they once were was by the cheap brass plaque on the lid, bearing only their name. One was etched ‘Margaret Reid’ and although no-one knew who she was, and no-one could be certain if this was even her real name… …she lived a life which was truly fascinating, and yet, ultimately heartbreaking. Margaret lived a life of lies, so unearthing her truth has been a labour of love for long time. Born in Dublin in 1897, or possibly 1894, her age is impossible to tell, as later in life she wasn’t averse to shave a few years off and even a decade when it suited her, and having gone under several aliases like ‘Maggie Reid’, ‘Elsie Brown’ and ‘Monica Reeves’, it likely that her real name was Annie Beamish. Being a mystery, we know nothing about her parents, her siblings, her childhood or her circumstances, so what drove her to lead a life of crime will never be known. What is certain is that Annie Beamish wasn’t just a prostitute and a thief, she was a one-woman crime wave, and the scourge of the city. To many, Annie looked like nothing but a little slip of a girl, being just 5-foot 1-inches tall with a fair physique, her hair was always neat, her make-up was subtle, and she wore pretty dresses and fancy bonnets. With her perfume smelling delicately of lavender and her jewellery affordable but never showy, she neither stood out as a social climber, a gold-digger, or a con artist - as that was the point. Aged just 20, where-as as many women in her position either worked for a pittance, sold their bodies for sex or resorted to pinching, Annie was a gifted thief who was cunning and devious. Being young, pretty and with the voice and demeanour of a middle-class assistant, having trawled the classified ads, she would be invited - by appointment - to view a wealth of respectable homes. Stating “I am seeking apartments for two gentlemen coming from America”, all it would take would be a swift slight-of-hand or being left alone for longer than it takes to blink, and Annie would have swiped something special. On the 28th of January 1914, Annie Beamish was tried at Southern Police Court in Dublin, Described as an “industrious thief”, in a 10-week-period, this one-woman-crimewave had stolen a set of furs, a lady’s golf coat, several silver watches, numerous silver chains, a brooch, a mink stole, several purses, a leather handbag and a fountain pen from at least 30 houses in Dublin’s more respectable districts. No-one knew she had swiped these expensive trinkets or cherished heirlooms until hours or days later, and although sentenced to three months hard labour, it was hardly a deterrent for this skilful crook. It was a scam Annie had perfected, but having gone from an anonymous thief to an infamous scourge, a few years later, she fled Dublin and headed somewhere where her face and methods were unknown. In 1917, Annie moved to London, and having adopted the airs and graces of a Sergeant Major’s wife, under the alias of ‘Mrs Monica Reeves’, several homes were looted in Croydon using the same tactics, and as a supposed first-time offender (in this country at least) she was bound over for just 12 months. In her teens and twenties, Annie had a knack for theft… …but as she approached her thirties, it somehow left. On 8th July 1919, under the alias of ‘Mona Reeves’, Annie was sentenced to three months hard labour at West London Police Court. Having lost her fast hand and her ability to blend in, she’d tried to swipe a purse on a bus, but being seen, although she pitifully threw herself at her victim’s mercy by claiming to be a war widow and the mother of a gravely sick child, unable to disprove her lies, she was arrested. It’s odd, but as her aliases changed, the backstory she invented for herself seemed to both mask and mirror what was lacking in her life; a nice home, a respectable husband, children, money and stability. Over ten years, she’d gone from a young and nimble con-artist who ate well and slept in fine hotels, but getting older, slower and shabbier, now she couldn’t escape the mistakes of her own making. Arrested again, having stolen a gold watch and a leather trunk from a lodging house in Hammersmith, she received three further months hard labour, and her Irish criminal record was sent to England, along with her fingerprints, her mugshots, her past convictions, her methods and all of her many aliases. By 1920, looking a little too tatty to charm her way into a rich man’s home, but still being pretty enough to catch the eye of a horny young man, Annie began using her fading looks as the bait in a honeytrap. On the 4th of August 1920, having picked up a punter called Benno Weiss in Piccadilly Circus, she lured him back to his Pimlico flat with the promise of sex, but before any ‘sweaty bumpy-rumpy’ took place, she robbed him of £11 (about £600 today) and fled. It wasn’t subtle or cunning, but she was desperate. February the next year, she tried the same trick again with two other girls, but failing to spot that their mark was that same man, by 1921, when another robbed punter saw her in a pub and swung a punch at her, although a man called James Robert Syrett came to her defence, this was in fact her pimp. When arrested, Annie was given the choice; pay a fine or spend eight days in prison. She chose hard labour, stating “I’d rather do the time than go back with him”, as her life had turned to hell. By 1921, with her face bruised, her nose broken and her cheeks flushed red, Annie was arrested again, this time for “using insulting words and drunken behaviour”. With police records describing her as ‘low class’ and ‘common’, the master criminal was gone, replaced by “a hard-living, hard-drinking whore”. In 1925, James Syrett, her ‘husband’ and pimp was convicted of ‘living off her immoral earnings’ for the last three years. Having punched her black and blue, and leaving her with fractured ribs, a fractured eye socket and a face so swollen she was unable to testify against him having almost killed her, he was sentenced to three months hard labour – the same length of time she spent inside for stealing a purse. She finally escaped him the following year as he was persistently imprisoned for pimping and violent assault, but with her being a shambling drunk who sold sex to buy booze and (if she was lucky) a hearty meal and a warm bed, the next decade of her life was spent as a nobody… … to everyone except a few punters and the police. The 1930s were hard on women. Being unmarried, childless and entering her forties, Annie was seen as an outcast, with no husband to provide for her and no children to look after her in her old age. With her brain clouded by drink, she no longer had the cunning to pull off a daring heist, so instead, she resorted to stealing notes from a punter’s wallet, which often ended in her being arrested or beaten. Seen as ‘damaged goods’, the only man this ragged mess could hope to get the ‘eye’ from was a pimp, a drunk or an abuser. Her looks had gone, her charm was forgotten, the weight had piled on, and she was slow, malnourished and miserable as the stresses of her failing life were etched across her face. By the late 1940s, having been a prostitute for two decades and a criminal for two-thirds of her life, all she knew was deception. She couldn’t do an honest day’s work if she tried, and she couldn’t help but lie. She was a thief to her core, and all she had left was drink, theft and sex, and that was now an issue. Possibly during wartime, off a punter, Annie had contracted Venereal Disease. With penicillin yet to become commonplace as a cure and the National Health Service in its infancy, she couldn’t afford to eradicate this disease, so – although her life revolved around what money she could make by selling sex – left with an itchy, swollen and bloody vagina with an infected discharge, sex was often too painful. The fascinating life of Annie Beamish the one-women crime wave was almost over. It could have ended in any number of ways; a glorious shoot out like Bonnie Parker or in the electric chair like Martha Place. Only Annie wasn’t at the peak of her powers, or an infamous femme fatale who haunted the headlines, she was just a shambling shadow of her former self, whose body had given up in so many ways… …and yet, her tragic end came at the chance encounter with an ordinary boy. Born in Dublin in 1927, unlike Annie, Michael Joseph Martin was an unremarkable young man; he was said to be calm, kind and even tempered. Coming from a working-class family, he hadn’t experienced the finer things in life, so he never coveted them. He knew his place in life and was content with that. Said to be of an average build and an average height, with an average look and an average intelligence, Michael was average. He didn’t stand out and he didn’t do anything to draw attention to himself. He wasn’t loud, timid or attention-seeking, and (until that moment) he hadn’t committed a criminal act. Aged seven, his mother died, and although his father remarried, it left a gaping hole in his heart. With her love, cuddles and soothing songs absent from his life, he always felt like something was missing, as on the rare occasions that he sought out a girlfriend, she couldn’t replace the love he was longing. As an average student, he left school aged 14, but he struggled to find work, as not being a burly guy, he lacked the physical strength for manual labour, and the intelligence for a desk job. In 1945, with the war over and seeing the city reopening after six years of darkness, Michael came to London, and even though the Labour Exchange found him several jobs as a garage hand, a builder’s boy and several delivery jobs, aged 22, he found his calling as a theatre attendant in the West End. The hours were long and late, but it wasn’t demanding work, which was lucky as he was not a well man. Three years earlier, he’d begun vomiting. At first it was intermittent, then daily, then every time he ate. In March 1947, admitted to Harefield Hospital, he was diagnosed with an ‘oesophageal spasm’, an ailment he’d had since childhood meaning that any food or liquid couldn’t pass fully into the stomach. Exacerbated in adulthood, his sickness had made him painfully thin, ghostly pale and always tired. One year before, surgeons at the Harefield Thoracic Surgical Unit had attempted to rectify this fault by crushing his spasming nerve, but as this failed, a fortnight later, he underwent a major operation which resulted in his left chest wall ripped open, the muscles fused and his eighth and ninth ribs removed. Whilst in recovery, he got a tubercular infection of the upper part of both lungs, which left him wheezy, and although the surgery meant he was able to swallow some solids, even touching the scar down his chest made him wince, any knocks caused him distress, and any punches or falls left him in agony. Never one to give up, still he worked, still he earned, and still he tried to live his life as best he could. Michael was lonely, he wanted a girlfriend but being too shy to ask, instead he got acquainted with a solitary prostitute who plied her trade outside of his theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue. He knew her only as ‘Elsie’, as long forgotten was Monica Reeves, Margaret Reid, as well as the real Annie Beamish. He later admitted, “I met her about eight months ago. We used to step out and that, go to the pictures and places to eat, then I’d go to bed with her”. He wasn’t a deviant or a sadist, he was just a bit sad. To see them walking hand-in-hand through Soho, it was clear they were an odd match. A painfully pale and skinny 22-year-old theatre attendant who wheezed and often walked with a slight stoop, and a 53-year-old slightly ragged sex-worker, who still tried to look as pretty as she once did when this superior con-women was at the top of her game, but now bloated with drink, she resembled a bad drag act. He never said why he picked her; maybe she was the cheapest, maybe hearing her Dublin accent made him feel closer to home, or given her age, as a boy who liked to hug, maybe he was missing his mum? If he’d wanted a mother-figure, he could have done better, as having been a criminal for more than 30 years, all Annie knew was theft, deception and cunning, she always stole and she couldn’t help but lie. “When we got going, she started to make a pest of herself. She started annoying me for money and I hadn’t any to give her”, Michael said, “I wanted to give it up. She got nasty”, often getting violent, “and she threatened me with the police. She’d say ‘I used to ponce on her’” – suggesting he was her pimp. Being too ragged to con her way into a rich man’s home, having lost her fast hand which could swipe a wallet in a heartbeat, and unwilling to engage in sex owing to her infected vagina, Annie had resorted to blackmailing her regular clients for a few quid. His life could be ruined by being charged with ‘living off immoral earnings’, and with it almost impossible to disprove, it would be his word against hers. Exasperated by her pestering, he stopped seeing her, and previously lodged at 38 Blomfield Villas, not far from Paddington station, he moved almost two miles east to 45 Manchester Street in Marylebone. He’d been there barely a week… …when on Saturday 30th of July 1949, (Michael) “I was coming home about 11:30pm”, Michael told the police, “I was walking along Baker Street, I heard someone give me a whistle”. The street was dark-lit but busy, as the pubs kicked out and passing punters sidled up to sex-workers for a nice night of nookie. “I walked on and took no notice”, he said, “I heard another whistle, turned and there she was. I know her as Elsie Brown. She was standing on the corner of Paddington Street”. Maybe it was his politeness or his loneliness, but “I got chatting to her”. Annie, now known as Elsie was selling herself, “she insisted on coming with me… and because she had started to make a scene, I agreed to take her back to my digs”. At least, that was his excuse, having had a few pints after work to ease his pain. Dressed in a blue beret, a black dress, black woollen coat and blue suede shoes, Annie still tried to look as appealing as possible, but the ravages of her life had peppered her with a tinge of sadness and loss, as she followed Michael up three flights of stairs to Room 12 – a place she would never leave. (door) His bedsit was small, barely big enough for a single bed, an armchair, a wash basin, a wardrobe and as a young lad who worked part-time as his chest was still causing him misery, he didn’t have anything for her to steal; except a shaving brush, a kitchen knife, a bible, a clock, two tatty suits and a floral tie. Michael’s statement was riddled with inconsistencies. Having invited her up, “I told her she wouldn’t be staying the night. So I started to get undressed. I said she was getting no money out of me. So, when she wouldn’t go, I opened the door, but there was no sign of her movement”. The night was warm, but with no money to get a bed in a doss house, leaving now meant she’d end up sleeping in a doorway. “She kept on aggravating me”, as having lost her charm, all she could do was pester. “She drove me crackers with her tongue and called me an Irish fuckpig” which was odd as they both came from Dublin. “She was swearing all the time”, her screaming echoing off the walls, “and she made a wallop at me”. With a single blow, she struck him hard in the chest, right over his scar. To anyone else, her limp slap would have been like a gnat headbutting cotton bud, but still being bandaged, scarred and very tender, it buckled him to his knees, and as pain ripped across his face, this usually placid man saw a red mist. “I was in a raging temper… I cannot bear anyone to thump me on the chest. So I gave her one or two across the chops with my fist. I don’t know what came over me. I hit her again and went to the floor”. The lodgers heard her screams, “I heard a woman saying ‘don’t Danny, you must be mad’” as another herd “a succession of six or seven heavy bangs on the floor followed by two of three thuds, one of which was especially heavy, shaking the entire building. I heard a groan from the room above”. Racing from the basement, Dorothy Green the housekeeper banged on the door, shouting “leave her alone”, and having unlocked it, “I put a light on as the room was in darkness. I saw him, stripped to the waist and bending over a woman on the floor, his hands were covered in blood, right up to his elbows”. All she saw was Annie’s legs, but fearing a further attack, “I locked the door and sent for the police”. 15 minutes later, PC Duddy arrived from Marylebone Lane Police Station. “As I entered the room, I saw the man, half naked, both hands bloodied, he did not run, struggle or flee, he seemed to be in shock”, all he could hear him say was ‘oh my god, oh my god’”, as he started down at what he had done. On the floor lay Annie, alive but broken, barely able to speak but her words inaudible as she choked on her own blood. Michael said he remembered slapping her once or twice, but her lips were puffy and split, her nose had twisted like a snapped twig, her teeth waggled loosely in her bloodied mess of a mouth, and although her arms and hands fought off his frenzied attack, her face had been crushed. The pathologist said “at some point she had lost consciousness… whilst on the ground she sustained some crushing facial injuries... attributed to either kicking or even stamping on the body with the foot”. Rushed to St Mary’s Hospital, Annie died the next day, as these were not the worst of her injuries. Michael confessed “I made sure she wouldn’t nag me again” and grabbing a 12-inch kitchen knife from his dresser, “I stabbed her. I think I did it more than once. I think that’s all”, only he did much more. When PC Duddy arrived, he said “she was choking, blood was spurting from her mouth”, as along with her crush injuries, she had 13 slashes to her skin and 10 stab wounds to her face, neck, chest, and with the knife protruding between the 2nd and 3rd ribs, it had penetrated 2 ¾ inches into the left lung. As she breathed, bloodied air bubbles popped by the side of the blade, which had bent through force. A few days later, Annie Beamish, the forgotten one-woman crime wave was mistakenly buried under the alias of ‘Margaret Reid’ in a council-funded coffin at an undisclosed cemetery with no mourners. Some said that this career criminal who had brought misery to Dublin had got her comeuppance for all the bad she had done. But did she really reserve to die in such a horrific and tragic way? (End) Taken to Marylebone Lane Police Station, drenched in blood, still in shock and too drunk to answer any questions, Michael was left in a cell to sober up, and later confessed to stabbing her. A psychiatric report at Brixton Prison confirmed he was mentally and physically fit to stand trial, and on 11th of September 1949, the one-day trial was held at the Old Bailey before Justice Steathfield. Pleading ‘not guilty’ to murder, Michael was asked “did you mean to kill this woman?”, he replied “no. it was in temper. I couldn’t help myself. I did not realise what I was doing”, at which Mr Hawke for the Prosecution prodded “did you mean to stab her?”, at which he replied “yes, but not mean to kill her”. Later that day, with the jury finding enough grounds, Michael Joseph Martin was sentenced to 10 years in prison on the charge of manslaughter by provocation, and as a first offender, he was out in 7. Michael Martin was an ordinary man who was pushed to the limits of his pain by a set of unfortunate circumstances. By chance he met Annie Beamish, and through poverty and desperation, she punched him in the one place which led to his blind rage and red mist, and ultimately to her brutal murder. Annie Beamish was a criminal, a habitual thief and a brilliant con woman who – although the scourge of an entire city - made the best of a bad life through her deviousness and her cunning. But criminals rarely live long or even profitable lives, its mostly a myth focussed around the period when they’re at the top of their game, and then as her powers waned, the real Annie Beamish was lost and forgotten. Who she was, we shall never know, and the whereabout of her grave is currently unknown. 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.
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Sussex Gardens (Sharon's regular haunt) @WikiCommons
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 TWO HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-ONE:
On Wednesday 18th and Thursday 19th of August 2021, having recently been released from prison, Lee Peacock brutally murdered his ex-partner Sharon Pickles and her partner Clinton Ashmore. But was this due to jealousy, or a drug-induced paranoia, or jealousy, being stuck inside their own ‘vicious circles’.
THE LOCATION:
The locations are marked with bight green symbols of a bin on the west of London near the words 'Regent's Park'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: (some, not all)
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on Sussex Gardens in Paddington, W2; a place synonymous with prostitution, as we’re just a few doors down from Doris Jouanette the Blackout Ripper’s last victim, Agnes Walsh who was brutalised by the ‘sad faced killer’, as well as being a familiar pick-up place for Ruby Bolton, and Amanda Walker who was mutilated by the sadistic ‘Honey Monster’ - coming soon to Murder Mile. It’s around this point in the podcast that I make a witty remark about our location to defuse the horrors of its heinous crime, only there’s nothing amusing about Sussex Gardens. As one of London’s busiest red-light districts for almost two centuries, this tree-lined street looks sweet, but two long lines of cheap and sleazy hotels mask a truly dark side, being doss holes for the destitute, half-way houses for homeless ex-cons, and – for a small fee – rented rancid mattresses paid for hourly for sex-workers. With sex being its business, we could giggle about sounds of bedsprings and the stench of salty stains, but every seedy transaction by a drunk horny punter only leads back to the misery of a once innocent young girl who had dreams of a normal life, until it was ruined by a bad parent, a pimp or a predator. So many tales go unreported as the culprit is often the system itself and our unwillingness to deal with the issue, and although this begins as a story about two lovers, whereas once their hearts belonged to each other – trapped by a need to feed their master – their bodies and brains belonged to drugs. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 271: Vicious Circles. The early years of Sharon Pickles’ life was as ordinary as anyone else’s. Born in 1976 and raised in Yorkshire, she was blessed with everything she needed to make a good life and bright future for herself; she had a father, a mother and a brother who loved her; she had a home, she had friends, she had dreams, and – unlike many children – she had food, a bed, all the essentials. In 1984, an article in the Yorkshire Post stated that Sharon was one of seven girls at Todmorden High who raised £50 by doing a sponsored swim for the Pennine Animal Liberation League, as even at such a tender age, she was full of kindness and love. Like us all, she had plans to become someone good… …as no-one sets out to become an addict, but that is what she became. It can happen to anyone, as all it takes is a taste and they’re hooked. It was never said what led Sharon to drugs – maybe a dare, trauma, depression or peer pressure - but soon her life wasn’t her own. An addict isn’t a person when they’re gripped by an addiction, they’re merely a slave to the drug itself. No longer able to function as a human being, like many, Sharon became a subordinate to her cravings, who couldn’t work, eat or sleep as a persistent taunting gnawed at her brain. It consumed her days, it haunted her dreams, it knew her weaknesses and fears, and as it ravaged her ever-weakening body with an endless stream of ticks, tremors, cramps and sickness – unable to escape its vice-like grip – it eternally prodded her to “feed me, feed me”, but even when she did, her addiction wanted more. Hers was not a unique story, as many drug addicts face that fate daily, and even when those she loved tried to intervene - like an abusive partner whispering to his battered and bruised spouse “you know it only me that loves you, right?” - the chemicals made her paranoid and told her who to trust. Drugs isn’t a habit, its slavery, with the user’s body usurped as a host for the drug itself. It was during her late teens that Sharon became an addict, and once hooked, it turned this sweet blonde girl with a petite frame and an elfin-like face into a gaunt and pathetic shadow of herself for the next 25 years. Drugs are expensive and all-consuming, with most addicts needing about £100,000 a year to feed their habit, and unable to work, most turn to crime. Sharon was a prostitute, and as a slave to her addiction, she sold sex to buy drugs, and when the drugs wore off, she sold more sex to buy more drugs. She was trapped in a vicious circle from which she would never escape. Her first conviction for prostitution was aged 21. A decade later, described as “a persistent offender” and a “blight on society”, she had been convicted 122 times, unable to stop. On the 22nd of November 2006, Sharon Pickles and her friend, Gail Bennett appeared at Marylebone Magistrates Court. Said to be “so out of it, they could barely stand”, they were sentenced to an Anti-Social Behaviour Order (known as an ASBO), meaning they were banned from setting foot in Sussex Gardens for five years. Gail and Sharon (nicknamed ‘blondie’ by the locals) were the two most prolific prostitutes in Sussex Gardens. Residents complained “they’re out of control… one morning we were woken by the two women having sex with clients against my window, they drank and took drugs on my steps” with many families complaining of used condoms, bloody syringes and faeces on pavements and in playgrounds”. The drug-addled twosome made their lives a living hell, by brawling, vomiting and screaming. One neighbour even threw water over Sharon as she lay sprawled and unconscious on his step, “I used a camera flash to scare them, but they were too high to notice”. Nobody cared or wanted them there, what they wanted was the courts to lock them up, but the law was inadequate. Arrested, they’d be fined £40, they’d then earn £30 for sex with each client, they’d pay the fine and carry on undeterred. And although their ASBO banned them from Sussex Gardens, in a box-ticking exercise they were also “banned from soliciting for sex anywhere in Westminster”, even though street soliciting is illegal, and if they broke their ASBO, that would only result in two months in prison, which they’d serve just one. The law was a joke, the courts were toothless, rehabilitation didn’t work, and although the drugs, the dealers and the users were to blame, so were some of the sleezy and cheap hotels in Sussex Gardens. As a neighbour stepped over Sharon who had collapsed comatose on his step, he barked “why don’t you do this somewhere else”, at which she slurred “give me the money, we’ll go to a hotel”. That was an option, as part of the problem was the slew of unscrupulous hoteliers who charged £20 an hour to rent what was said to be “a claustrophobic cubical no bigger than a prison cell, with a rancid pink sheet on a mouldy mattress, with bare bulbs, filthy walls, and the worst part was the smell of stale sweat”. But if the punter was too skint, she’d have sex in a doorway, the backseat of a car, or behind a bin. This was her life, and this was her vicious circle. Aged 20, Sharon tried to lead a normal life by marrying and later giving birth to a daughter. But with her husband said to be “her pimp”, that relationship collapsed and with her child taken into care, when trauma ravaged her life, the warm comfortable blanket she always returned to… was her drugs. Sharon wasn’t bad, she was just lost, but what she craved most was love. In her ground-floor council flat at Alpha House on 1 Ashbridge Street in Marylebone’s impoverished Lisson Grove, she lived with Stephen Coggin, an old friend who was bedbound with multiple sclerosis. Described by residents as a “ticking time bomb”, although they had accused Sharon of cuckooing this “vulnerable tenant” - by allegedly forcing herself into his flat and living rent-free as this prolific drunk and drug abuser bought clients back for sex - the truth was that she cooked and cared for him. He wasn’t her boyfriend, but with no husband or child, she needed to love someone and feel normal just once. In 2008, 15 years earlier, a new love had entered her life, and his name was Lee. Like Sharon, Lee’s upbringing was ordinary and unremarkable. Born in the West London district of Brent in 1972, Lee Christopher Peacock had everything a boy could ever need; a good home, loving parents, a supportive sister, and raised in leafy Hertfordshire, he was schooled in St Albans. Said to be handy, he trained as a carpenter. So where did it all go wrong? Aged 14, desperate to be part of the in-crowd, like many teenagers do, he dabbled in cannabis. As a relatively harmless drug, he got stoned for fun, but seeking a stronger high, he got into skunk, and experimenting with LSD, Ecstasy, MDMA and cocaine, he eventually became a slave to crack cocaine. Cooked into small brown rocks, when smoked, crack gives a fast euphoric high, causing dopamine to flood the bloodstream, and giving the user a feeling of power and confidence, but only for 15 minutes. And the bigger the high, the greater the fall, so with the lows only supressed by another high, the user is assaulted by debilitating sicknesses, like tremors, fatigue, depression, hallucinations and paranoia. Like Sharon, Lee was a slave to his addiction, he burgled homes to buy drugs, and once the drugs had worn off, he burgled more homes to buy more drugs. That was his life, and that was his vicious circle. By 2019, Lee & Sharon had been a couple for a decade, two addicts feeding their need through crime and unable to flee. Said to be loving, they had many ups and downs as most couples do, but although the law only punished Sharon with small fines and toothless threats, Lee was repeatedly put away for long stretches inside, and in May 2019, he was sent down for 40-months for aggravated burglary. Stuck inside a cramped prison cell 23 hours a day, his body was assaulted by the horrors of withdrawal from his two drugs of choice - Crack and Sharon. Struggling to cope without the chemicals he was enslaved to, his mind became a mess of emotions as paranoia plagued him day and night. But being apart from Sharon for what seemed like an eternity, via a smuggled-in phone, he texted her his fears. (texts) “I miss you”, “I love you”, “don’t leave me”, “who you seeing”, “what’s his name”, “so I know him”, “where’s he live”, “why aren’t you taking to me”, “you ain’t replying, why?”, “what’s wrong”, “don’t you love me no more”, “Why?”, “Sharon?”, “Sharon?!”, “SHARON?!”, “Why? Why?” (Silence) Reaching a peak of paranoia and delusions, on Friday 4th of June 2021, half-way through his sentence, Lee Peacock was automatically released from prison under the supervision of the probation service. He later stated, “I wasn't violent in the 15 years I'd been with her. Obviously for chunks I was in jail, but she was my princess, not a hair on her head would ever get hurt by me”. He claimed he loved her, he claimed he would never hurt her, but unable to tell the difference between reality and delusions… …six weeks later, he would murder her. So many organisations were built to convict and protect them, but the system failed as it was underfunded and overworked, with its laws applied like a ‘one size fits all’ plaster. Being out on licence, Lee was ankle-tagged, made to work and assessed by a probation supervisor, and with his addiction on the road to recovery having ‘gone into withdrawal’, his vicious circle should have been broken. Only unlike heroin, there is no methadone for crack, so forced to go ‘cold turkey’, this shambling wreck of raw emotions rattled with a cocktail of other chemicals to pacify his anxiety, seizures and insomnia. Crack addiction is bad, but withdrawal is worse, it’s like suffering all the side effects of a bad drug for days, weeks, and even months on end, so with any drug abuse resulting in his instant recall to prison, his shivering body and sleep-starved brain was awash in a haze of headaches, paranoia and delusions. By mid-August, said to be seeing Clinton Ashmore known as ‘Cliff’, after weeks of obsessive texts from Lee, Sharon finally broke it off, replying “I'm done with you... leave me alone... we both know it's over”. Only Lee couldn’t believe it was ‘him’ she was angry at, or ‘him’ she was leaving, and - maybe through the paranoia of his drug withdrawal, or simply his own fragile inadequacy – he’d claim in court he thought she was being coerced by someone else, maybe a pimp, a dealer, or her new boyfriend, Cliff. But the last text she sent him was irrevocably blunt and with no hidden meanings: it read; “Do not come in this house, put the key on the table outside and leave me alone you two-faced piece of s**t”. Their relationship was over, but legally, there was nothing to stop him going to see her. On Wednesday 18th of August 2021, six weeks after his release, 45-year-old Sharon Pickles returned home as the dawn-light broke. Having been a sex-worker for quarter of a century, like clockwork, a CCTV camera captured her stumbling down Ashbridge Street at 6:01am having illegally had sex with 10 or more men on Sussex Gardens – her ASBO having long expired, its effect having changed nothing. As a familiar sight, dressed casually in a black leather jacket, light blue jeans and a pink t-shirt, Sharon’s eyes were hollow, her stomach was empty, and several men’s feted stench hung on her lips, but at least her veins were finally full of heroin, as her vicious circle led her to bed, to sleep, and to repeat. At 7:31am, the same camera on a building site opposite captured a Boris bike approaching. Riding it with urgency was Lee, like a stubbly Uncle Fester, his pale bald head was in contrast against his black jeans and jumper, as he dumped it outside of Alpha House. He didn’t ring the communal doorbell to be buzzed in, as still having his own key to the ground-floor flat they’d shared, he just let himself in. Like his mind, his motive was confused, as claiming he wanted to ‘win her back’, in his rucksack he had Sharon’s kitten, and if things didn’t go according to plan, a Stanley knife with a razor-sharp 4cm blade. In that state, or some say any state, Lee wasn’t a rational man, he couldn’t be reasoned with, and even though saying he loved her and claiming his motive was “to kill those four people who he felt had ‘taken advantage’ of her while he was in prison” – especially a dealer nicknamed Skrilla, and ‘Cliff’ her boyfriend – it may simply be because Sharon had moved on with her life while Lee was in prison. Entering either Flat 13 or 14, it was said, he unlocked the door, and ignoring the hall, the kitchen, the living room, and even the room of her sleeping bedbound flat-mate Stephen, with her either asleep or in a semi-comatose state, he got on the bed and quietly roused her, as the two addicts sat alone. In court, Lee assured the jury, “I’m not a monster… I never meant to harm anyone”, or so he claimed. As he tried to talk her round - whether through jealousy, drug withdrawal or a last hit of crack to give him the confidence to do the unthinkable so she could never see anyone else, ever again - the prosecution would later state “you intended nothing less than to kill each of them, didn’t you?” Lee denied it was premeditated, only the knife suggested otherwise. Lee said it was a freak accident, only her horrific injuries incurred in a sustained frenzied attack didn’t back up his lies. And although he himself denied killing her, his own hand would prove his guilt having left behind a full confession. Sharon had no-one to protect her, and with Lee seething at her daring to love anyone but him, in a fit of rage, he attacked. Slashing her neck with the 4cm blade, it severed her windpipe, cutting off her air supply, as blood seeped into her trachea causing her to choke, as her hands clutched her open throat. Attacking again, each of the nine wounds ripped open a vein or artery, and unable to scream, as blood spattered up the walls, door and floor, running in panic to her one place of safety, she collapsed in the bathroom floor and died; her mouth agog, her eyes open, her ghostly face above a red seeping hole. “She was my princess, not a hair on her head would ever get hurt by me”, Lee had claimed, but having wrapped her body in a duvet and unceremoniously shoved her under the bed, at 8:49am, a CCTV camera captured him riding away on a Boris bike, like he was a man taking in the crisp morning air. Sharon was dead, but Lee knew it was also his life which was over. That day, he texted his family, stating “I’m in serious trouble… my time on this earth is very limited. After this conversation, you will never hear from me again... I will never be released from prison. My hand has been forced after what I did”, as the next night, he visited his estranged father. He hadn’t seen his father, Terry for three years, then out-of-the-blue, he arrived in North Wembley on his doorstep with a kitten in his rucksack, and an odd tale to tell, stating “I killed three people, one was my girlfriend, as well as two black bastards”, which was either a lie, an alibi, or a paranoid delusion. Having fled, rightfully, Terry called the police, and having entered her flat at 10:42pm, officers were confronted by a bloodbath, and they only became aware of the body in the room when they spotted under the bed a pair of red-stained hands, still clutching her throat, as Sharon lay pale and lifeless. A manhunt began that day… …but Lee was conducting his own manhunt. Nicknamed ‘Skrilla’ which is slang for money, Lee claimed (and maybe believed) that ‘Cliff’ either was Skrilla, knew Skrilla, or as part of Skrilla’s gang had coerced her to leave him, even though Skrilla may not have even existed, and at about midnight - as the Police sealed off Sharon’s Flat – Lee was seen on CCTV entering a rundown estate on Jerome Crescent in Lisson Grove with 58-year-old ‘Cliff’. Unlike with Sharon, there was no confusing his motive, as although he would claim “he moved in on my woman and then told me that he did with a rain of punches” – from the backpack still containing Sharon’s kitten – he pulled the same bloodstained Stanley knife and unleashed a savage brutal attack. Like Sharon, Cliff was defenceless and alone. Like Sharon, he tried to flee in fear – with blood dripped and sprayed from room-to-room as in panic the bleeding man ran from the hallway to the bedroom, the bathroom and the living room, leaving a petrified trail of red across almost every wall, door, floor and even the ceiling - only to collapse with massive blood-loss beside the bed. And when dead, Lee didn’t leave a confession, or even try to hide the body, as in just 15 minutes, he was done and gone. Two hours later, at 2:15am, found by a female friend with a 14.5cm wound to his neck, and nine deep slices to his face, neck and left arm, Police were alerted, and a double murder inquiry was established. Across the entire city, the news was plastered with his mugshot and signs which read “have you seen Lee Peacock?”, and even though it was only stated “the Police just talk to him about the murders", Detective Chief Inspector Wayne Jolley later said: “Peacock is a violent and murderous individual who has taken the lives of two people for no better reason than satisfying his own craving for violence”. Considered armed, dangerous and unpredictable, his manhunt was swift but cautious… …and yet, Lee had one more death on his mind. (kitten sound) One week after Sharon’s murder, on Wednesday 25th of August, a man fitting Lee’s very unique look was spotted entering an abandoned houseboat near Marnham Fields in Ealing, on an isolated part of the Grand Union Canal. With no engine, no electrics and no water, it had been used as a crack-den and dumped. Lee had broken in, and lying low, with no food, a crack pipe and only the kitten to play with, it was at 6pm, that hearing armed police surround this flimsy wooden shack, that he grabbed the Stanley knife. “Lee Peacock? This is the Police. You’re surrounded. Come out with your hands up”, the officer barked, only Lee didn’t. With the same knife, as officers broke down the door, he slashed his own throat, and although his blood spattered across the three fresh confessions he had written, the swift intervention of the paramedics saved his life, and meant he would face justice for a brutal double murder (end) With the two-day trial beginning on Monday 30th of January 2023 at the Old Bailey before Mr Justice Murray, Lee Peacock admitted killing Sharon & Cliff, but having denied it was murder, that meant that both victim’s families had to endure a horrific trial where all of the evidence was examined in detail. In his defence, Lee told the jury “I'm not a monster. I never wanted to harm Sharon”, later arrogantly adding about Cliff, “I'm sorry but he caused it”. Only there was no denying that Lee’s actions were “cold-blooded” and “determined”. Prosecutor Edward Brown KC said “the evidence shows without doubt… that the killings were no accident… the defendant can have intended nothing less than to kill”. With clear pre-mediation and several confessions, an insanity plea and diminished responsibility could not be considered, and as he was going through withdrawal, blame couldn’t be placed on the drugs. Having deliberated for two hours and twenty minutes, Lee Peacock was found guilty of two counts of murder, and was sentenced to life for a minimum of 39 years, meaning he will most likely die in prison. Tragedy had struck three times for three people and three families. It began innocently enough with two lovers using drugs as an escape from the pain of their lives, and although Sharon was demonised by the residents of Sussex Gardens - and for good reason – drug addiction is an issue which we (as a society) refuse to take seriously, preferring instead to administer pointless fines and toothless threats. Both Sharon & Lee could have been saved, if only we’d given them a way to escape their vicious circles. 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.
Nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST, 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Channel's Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND SIXTY-NINE & SEVENTY:
On Thursday 18th of October 1945, the bloodied body of veteran taxi-driver Frank Everitt was found wedged on the bridge in a hole at the pump house on Lambeth Bridge, which he could hardly fit into. At first, it seemed like he was either stuck or sleeping, but was this just a crude attempt to conceal a corpse, or a meticulously planned execution?
THE LOCATION:
The location is marked with a yellow symbol of a bin in the south by the words 'Lambeth'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: (a selection)
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF PART ONE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on Lambeth Bridge, SW1; four streets west of the Campanile where Maggie Davey and her daughters plunged to their deaths, three streets south of Sir Michael O’Dwyer’s assassination, and two roads east of the last days of the dodgy flannel-dodger - coming soon to Murder Mile. Situated downstream of tourist traps like Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament, Lambeth Bridge is a more peaceful way to cross the River Thames, as there’s no attention seeking turds posing for selfies with their lips pouting like a constipated duck, no hot dog carts selling mashed-up horse anuses for a quid, and no dayglo rickshaws full of squealing hen-do’s high on Lambrini and dreaming of cock. It’s a convenient cut-through from north London to south for any vehicle not wanting to get snarled up. Opened in 1932, being 828 feet long, Lambeth Bridge is a five-span steel arch complete with a three-lane road, a dual walkway and it still has its original gas lamps and parapets. With no obstructions or hiding place on any part of the bridge, it’s an unlikely spot to dump a dead body… but someone did. On Thursday 18th of October 1945, the bloodied body of veteran taxi-driver Frank Everitt was found wedged on the bridge in a hole he could hardly fit into. At first, it seemed like he was either stuck or sleeping, but was this just a crude attempt to conceal a corpse, or a meticulously planned execution? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 269: The ‘Taxi Driver’ Murders – Part One. Frank was an unusual victim for a very unusual crime. Born 1889 in Bedingham, a small rural village south of Norwich in the county of Norfolk, Frank Everitt was the eldest son of Alfred & Selina, a working-class family for whom hard-work was their bread and butter. Swiftly growing to be a strong and sturdy lad – 5 foot 11 inches tall, 150lbs or 13 ½ stone - aged 13, he left school and trained to be a horseman in the tough and rugged wilds of his father’s farm. Described as reliable and honest, being solidly built and slightly stern, Frank wasn’t the kind of man to be pushed around. Burdened by accusatory eyes and a flattened nose (as if it’d been broken in a fight) although an intimidating presence, he would defend his family and friends with his last breath. Upon his death, a police report stated “he was an honest man of a strong character who had no enemies”. A big part of Frank’s life was his family. Married on 23rd of November 1913 to Lilian Baldwin, they had three children – Mabel, Arthur and Joan – and although the horrors of the First World War took him away from his home for months on end being a gunner in the Grenadier Guards, he was always seen as a solid earner for his family, giving them a good life, even if his sacrifice meant he’d live in squalor. Frank loved his wife, he always had, and he always would. In 1920, the pain of losing 7-year-old Mabel ultimately led to them separating, and although distant, as a man of honour, he remained faithful and devoted to his wife and children, and continued to provide them with a good life until his dying day. Medically discharged from the Army owing to Phlebitis (an inflammation which caused blood clots in his lower legs), as a no-nonsense disciplinarian, on 8th of February 1915, he joined the Metropolitan Police in Wood Green and later at Harrow Road in West London. Rising to the rank of Sergeant, as a strict but fair by-the-book officer who loved his job, he was described by his superiors as ‘exemplary’. Being a beat copper, he knew the streets, the criminals, their ways and their faces. It was said ‘he had a good nose for sniffing out bad men’, his copper’s hunch was rarely wrong and unlike some corrupt officers who took a bribe to turn a blind eye to a crime, he wasn’t afraid to dob a pal in, if needs be. On 20th of October 1931, aged 42, seeking work which was less punishing on his aching legs, Sergeant Frank Everitt was discharged from the police on a modest pension, but keen to keep his family living in a nice little bungalow at Longthorpe in Gloucestershire, Frank began a career as a taxi-driver. It was an honest job from which he would earn the nickname of ‘The Duke’. As he had been as a copper, as a cabdriver, Frank was punctual and officious. Described by his bosses as “one of the firm’s best employees with a consistent record of milage and takings per duty”, he may not have been the most popular driver, but he was always reliable, a man of routine with no surprises. In 1937, he joined the London General Taxicab Company at 1-3 Brixton Road, and on most nights drove the same dark blue Austin saloon, registration place CLT138. Wearing an affordable and slightly worn plain brown suit, a shirt and tie, a flat cap, and on his coat, he had pinned his cabbie’s badge (number 36749) as was the rules, and each day left at 5:30pm, and returned to the garage from 2:30am to 3am. As was his job, he shuttled all manner of strangers with parcels and suitcases across the dark-lit city, and still having a copper’s nose for crime, anything suspicious, he fed back to his pals in the police. Being an ex-cop with no criminal record, Frank was the epitome of honest. He didn’t drive more than he needed, especially during wartime when tyres and fuel were rationed. And his taximeter, which logged how many trips and paid or unpaid miles he had done each shift - as indicated by the meter’s flag being down and the ‘for hire’ light off when he had a customer – his record was said to be accurate. But some said that ‘The Duke’ lived a life beyond his modest means. Every two weeks, he headed off to his bungalow in the country which he referred to as ‘my estate’, but was this bragging? It was said he earned more than the other drivers and often took his estranged wife on holiday twice a year. It was only after his death that the tabloid press and those who claimed to know him suggested that his larger-than-average income was supplemented by ‘means other than being a humble cabdriver’. Having kept his connections in Harrow Road and Wood Green, it was said he was an informer and a private detective who tipped off the police to criminal activities in the West End. On 22nd of October 1945, four days after his death, The Daily Herald reported “police are searching for his black notebook which could smash the case wide open… it is thought to contain details of a Soho gang and the stuff they dealt in… in it, he had a secret list of names”, which he marked down with a blue mottled pencil. Some also suggested he was earning a dishonest income by tipping off the criminals, playing both sides of the law, and reaping the profits from a lorry full of contraband whiskey which was destined for West End nightclubs, where Frank was known to frequent, as well as drop customers from and to. And yet, there was nothing in the police files suggesting his income came from corruption; he didn’t drink, he didn’t gamble, he didn’t wear flashy clothes, the only jewellery he owned was an eight-sided silver watch which his wife gave to him but it no-longer worked, and he lived in a cheap little bedsit at 81 Babington Road in Streatham. He worked hard and almost everything he earned went to his wife. But was ‘The Duke’ an honest ex-copper, a corrupt cabbie, and did someone want him dead? Wednesday 17th of October 1945 was a day like any other for 56-year-old Frank Everitt. He washed, he shaved, he popped on a fresh shirt, and having eaten a meat stew in a café, at 5:30pm, he picked up his usual dark blue Austin saloon at the London General Taxicab Company. In his pockets was an old brown Morocco-leather wallet, his black notebook, his blue pencil, a tobacco pouch, his pipe made of cherry wood, and two packs of ‘Punch’ matches – everything was cheap but practical. As always, his shift was predictable, as across the next 9-hours, he’d ferry a slew of strangers – whether soldiers, sadists, partygoers or pimps - from high-end clubs to seedy S & M sex dungeons, from cafes for a pre-booze buttie to dodgy pubs flogging off counterfeit whiskey under the counter. He wasn’t a serving policeman anymore, so it wasn’t his job to arrest anyone, just to drive and to be discrete. Like all cabbies, his movements were logged by his taximeter and witnessed by his passengers. We know that at 12:17am, he picked up two well-dressed men by Big Ben and dropped them at Marble Arch. At 12:45am, he drove an American soldier to Hans Crescent at the back of Harrods. And at 1:15am, he picked up a woman on Walworth Road in Elephant & Castle. All were identified and had alibis for the night, and his taximeter corroborated the times and the distances he had travelled. It was an unremarkable night, with no incidents, no accidents, and no unscheduled trips or stops. At 2:15am, nearing the end of his shift, Frank was parked outside of the Milroy Club on Stratton Street in Mayfair. As a member’s club and casino, a line of cabs waited outside as its wealthy clients paid well and gave good tips. Said to be in good spirits, at 2:30am, he was here to pick up his regular passenger (an unnamed waitress) who he would drive back to the garage near to where she lived. He would then head home, and after a good sleep, he’d catch the morning train to see his wife in Gloucestershire. And although he had assured his friend “I’ll see you back at the garage at 3am”, he did neither. Moments later, the taxi had vanished, and so had Frank. Chief Inspector Chapman who headed up the investigation later described it as “one of the cleverest murders in criminal history”, as for the next three and a half hours, Frank and his cab had disappeared. Nobody saw them, nobody heard them, and nobody hired them, he didn’t go home, or anywhere else. At 6:30am, four and a half miles west in Notting Hill, his taxi was found in St Helen’s Gardens, a place he had no reason to be. As a bomb-damaged cul-de-sac with no streetlights and no occupied homes as it was being demolished, it was dark, isolated and chosen so the crime itself could never be seen. The engine was off, the handbrake was up, and the keys were still in the ignition. It didn’t make sense that someone would steal a nearly new Austin saloon taxi, only to then dump it just a few hours later. The car hadn’t been crashed, in fact, it was in perfect working order. The only damage was the interior light whose leads were torn away possibly to disguise what had happened within. If the motive wasn’t car theft, then it must have been robbery, but with no money found, that was impossible to prove. But three things were missing; the black notebook, the blue mottled pencil, and the driver - Frank. But where was he? In the luggage platform to the left of the driver’s seat lay Frank’s handkerchief, having either fallen out as he fled the car via the wrong door, or as he was dragged out. On the backseat’s floor lay his broken pipe and his cabbie’s badge which had been ripped from his jacket which rested in a pool of blood. It was clear that, curled up on that floor, Frank had profusely bled as his pockets were emptied of cash. Only he hadn’t been injured there, as by the time he was dragged inside, he was already dead. But how did he get there, when did he die, and – more bafflingly - where was he now? Oddly, they’d already found him, but with his cabbie’s badge missing, they didn’t know it at the time. It was at 5:56am, as the first rays of dawn-light pierced the thick fog which had shrouded the city, that an unnamed woman heading to work crossed on the eastern walkway of Lambeth Bridge. To her right, against the parapet was a six-foot high, three-foot wide and two-foot-deep brick-built pump-house as used by the London fire brigade to draw water from the river during the blitz, only now it lay defunct. To the side, being big enough to fit the brigade’s hose, a 12-inch hole lay a few inches off the ground. As she passed it, she later said “I saw a set of boots sticking out”, but thinking it was a homeless man silently sleeping, she walked on, as many passersby did as the morning rush-hour began to ramp up. It wasn’t until three hours later, at 9:04am, that PC Denys was alerted to this unusual sight, and unable to get any reaction as he waggled the boots, unlocking the door to the pump house, he saw the body. Its interior was cramped as the pump engine took up most of the space. Lying beside it was a man whose face couldn’t be seen, as every inch of his pale white flesh was splashed with deep red blood. It was clear that with his pockets turned inside out, that someone had searched his body for something specific. Later speaking to his grieving wife, she said several items were missing; his cap, his pipe, his broken watch, a black notepad, a blue pencil and two packs of ‘Punch’ matches - nothing of any value. Based on his usual takings, it’s likely that roughly £9 was stolen, about £500 today, but in his waistcoat pocket there was still £1 and 30 shillings (or another £70). So was this made to look like a robbery? Stripped from his person was any form of ID; his wallet containing his driving licence and a letter from the Police Commissioner, and with a tear to his suit’s breast pocket, they suspected that he was taxi-driver, as that’s where most cabbie’s badges were hung. But why hide the identity of a robbery victim? When Dr Larkin arrived, he later said “lying on his back with blood all over face, his cause of death was hard to ascertain owing to the position of the body”, so they removed him to Southwark Mortuary. Every detail of the murder seemed to have been considered to stall the investigation, possibly to give the assailants more time to flee. But what baffled the police most was where the body was dumped. Why hide him in a pump house? Why leave his feet hanging out? And why didn’t they break down the door, instead of stuffing a 5-foot 11-inch and 13 ½ stone man wearing a full suit and thick winter coat through a 12-inch hole in the wall, which was barely big enough for his shoulders, chest, or boots. Given the effort, after a little experimentation using a similarly sized officer, detectives surmised that this could only have been accomplished by two men, not one. But why would two murderers waste so much valuable time trying to jam a big man through a small hole on a busy bridge? And how did they know about the hole, as the police would state “this isn’t the kind of place you stumble across”. It was that three-and-a-half-hour gap between 2:15am when Frank was last seen alive, and at 5:56am, when the dead man’s boots were first seen, which proved most perplexing. With his abdomen warm and rigor mortis fully established, the pathologist determined his time of death from 3am to 5am. The evidence proved that he didn’t die on Lambeth Bridge where his body was dumped, in St Helen’s Gardens where the taxi was later found, and with his blood pooling and congealing while he lay on the backseat floor and it smeared suggesting the cab was driven, they were certain he was shot elsewhere. But where was he murdered? Not a single witness had seen this ordinary looking taxi driving around the familiar streets of the West End on this dark and foggy night, and why should they? Examining the taximeter, it showed that Frank had driven 101 miles over his 9-hour shift; 63 miles were paid fares across 40 trips and 23 miles were unpaid distances (which was about average for a jobbing cabbie, 3 of which were from the garage). But 15 miles were ‘disengaged’ meaning the taximeter recorded the distance, but not the timings. This could only have been done by the driver himself, or someone who knew how a taximeter works. Detectives knew it was 7 miles from Lambeth Bridge to St Helen’s Gardens, 5 miles to Scotland Yard where they had the taxi forensically examined, and with 3 miles remaining, as he was last seen by the Milroy Club, it had to have occurred somewhere between Mayfair and Lambeth Bridge, 2 miles south. When and where Frank Everitt was murdered will remain a mystery forever, as with it unlikely he was killed near Lambeth Bridge - as why move his body from the driver’s seat into the back, only to dump him in the pump house – every street from Piccadilly, St James Street, The Mall, Pall Mall, St James’ Park, Birdcage Walk, Parliament Square and to Millbank are all busy and populated, even at 3am. For no known reason, before 2:30am, he left Stratton Street. It’s unlikely he picked up his killers there as no fare was recorded, and as a veteran cabbie, once the journey began, he’d have pulled down the taximeter’s flag, turning out the ‘for hire’ light on the roof, and the fare would have been logged - only the flag was up, the light’s wires were torn out, and whoever had disengaged it knew how to do it. So did they pull a gun on him and get him to drive? It’s possible, but nobody saw it. They may have had him drive to a quiet secluded spot like nearby Hyde Park and pull up, as nobody saw him kidnapped and nobody heard the shot, which could have been mistaken for a car backfiring. And with Frank’s hands on the steering wheel and his foot on the accelerator, would a trained killer really risk shooting the driver while the taxi is still in transit? This seemed the most logical solution. According to the lead investigator, Chief Inspector Chapman who described it as “one of the cleverest murders in criminal history”, he concluded “this was an execution, planned carefully to the smallest detail” by two men who knew what they were doing, and they knew how to confuse the investigation. With no obvious struggle, and being an ex-copper who could handle himself, Frank’s death was swift. From the backseat, his killer pulled a .32 calibre automatic, maybe a Walther or a Luger. With the muzzle placed at an upwards angle at the nape of Frank’s neck, the shooter fired a single shot. Leaving a powder burn under his left ear, the bullet ripped through his neck, his jaw, the frontal lobe of his brain, and exited two inches above his eye, blowing off his right ear, and embedding in the cab’s roof. Slumping forward, Frank was alive but paralysed, and so horrific were his injuries that the when the pathologist first saw him in the pump house, he thought he’d been beaten to death with a hammer. Moving his body to the back, his assailants tore out the interior lights, emptied his pockets, stripped him of any ID, and having disengaged the taximeter, amidst the fog, they headed south to Lambeth Bridge, shoved his body in a hole in a disused pump house and dumped the taxi in an isolated spot. By the time the body was found, both assailants had vanished into thin air. For Chief Inspector Chapman, Superintendent Greeno & Detective Inspector Morris, most ‘execution style’ killings are professional, with the perpetrators aware of how to leave no evidence of their crime. Police searched every pawnshop for Frank’s silver watch, but never found it. Several passengers early into his shift, they struggled to find. And although several sets of fingerprints were lifted, as the cab hadn’t been valeted for at least a week, it was uncertain if any of them belonged to the two culprits. On Monday the 22nd of October 1945, 4 days after the murder, a .32 calibre German Lugar wrapped in the blue bloodstained shirt of either a British or Allied soldier was found in a pig swill bin on Kenton Street, not far from Piccadilly, as well as a pair of military issue socks, two keys and a padlock. Police questioned hundreds British and Allied deserters, especially Polish servicemen, as with the war over but their country under Russian control, too fearful to return home, many remained in the UK. But although the investigation was thorough, with no suspects, it quickly stalled. (End) A £1000 reward was offered by the Taxi Fleet Federation for any information leading to Frank’s killers, but as the tabloids sullied this mysterious case with their own theories, soon the facts were lost in the myths. One theory was that Frank was an informer helping to bring down an extortion racket, but the Police denied this. Another said his executioners were after his notebook, and although it was never found, there was no proof that he even had “a secret list of Soho gangsters”. And although the Evening Standard reported “The Duke’s cab may have been used by a blackmailing gang in the West End”, with him being an ex-policeman with a supposedly large income, there was no evidence to back this up. To many, Frank’s alleged ‘execution’ seemed like a one-off murder by a criminal gang who had killed either a cabbie, a crook or an ex-copper for an unknown reason and fled. The chance of finding them was slim, and as the days turned into weeks, it seemed as if this would be another unsolved murder. But on Thursday 1st of November 1945, exactly two weeks later, at roughly the same time of night and in an isolated and unlit location in Notting Hill barely 1 ½ miles from where the taxi was dumped, a black marketer and some say “a police informer” known as ‘Russian Robert’ was murdered. Said to be driving a taxi, his death was described as an execution, having been shot from the backseat by a Lugar. There were so many similarities that, with the suspects arrested and later convicted of murder, Chief Inspector Chapman visited them in prison. What he uncovered was a story of money, jewels, a truck full of counterfeit booze and two Polish deserters who would stop at nothing to get what they wanted. They murdered for profit, but if that was the case, why did they execute ‘The Duke’? The concluding part continues next week. UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF PART TWO: At about 4am, two hours before dawn, the dark blue Austin saloon skidded to a halt in the foggy gloom of St Helen’s Gardens. Inside this unlit taxi, two men sprang at speed, and fled swiftly into the night. From the driver’s seat ran a tall and skinny beanpole of a man in a bloodstained grey suit and matching felt hat, as from the backseat, still clutching a 32 calibre German Lugar pistol, dashed short and squat chap in the black uniform of a Seaman in the Polish Navy. Said to have been executed with precision, the body of Frank Everitt had been stuffed into a cramped hole on Lambeth Bridge, a few miles south. But why did two polish deserters kill ‘The Duke’? The Police didn’t think it was a robbery as they only took £9, a black notebook, a blue mottled pencil, and two new packs of ‘Punch’ matches. The Press suggested this ex-copper turned informer was executed over a “secret list of Soho gangsters”, or that they had brutally shot dead a black marketeer over a truck full of contraband whiskey as a message. Heading up the investigation, Chief Inspector Chapman described it as “one of the cleverest murders in criminal history”, as within days, their detective work had hit a brick wall and stalled. Frank’s killers would never be caught, and their motives would never be known. Or so the Police thought… …as exactly two weeks later, two killers would strike again in an almost identical execution. Unlike ‘The Duke’, the second victim was a criminal to the core. ‘Russian Robert’ was the alias of Reuben Martirosoff. Born in Tbilisi in the ex-Soviet state of Georgia on 22nd of December 1905, as the eldest child to Georg & Sonja Danieloff, his true identity is unknown. Raised in a prosperous family of Armenian Jews, his upbringing was privileged, living in a palatial home, wearing handstitched clothes and dining on chef cooked meals. But amidst a violent civil war, with the peasants looting, its monarchy overthrown and replaced by an authoritarian government, aristocrats like the Danieloff’s lost everything, and fleeing for his life, aged 15 Reuben never saw his parents again. Being homeless and penniless, as he had no papers to prove his identity, between both wars Reuben drifted across Europe surviving on his wits. He was only a boy, but blessed with a sharp brain and quick tongue, he became fluent in nine languages including French, German and Arabic. As an immaculately dressed playboy with “flashing eyes and a gambler’s smile”, he blended-in like a rug by a roaring fire. But as a stateless alien, being illegal in every country he entered; to make a penny, he became a thief. As an invisible man, the only records we have that he existed are his convictions and his deportations. Under many aliases such as ‘Robert Martirosoff’, he arrived in the UK on a fake Swiss passport in 1928, but convicted of theft, in 1929 he fled to Paris and was imprisoned again. The same happened in 1930 in Berlin, and being deported in 1931, in 1932 the Germans re-arrested him, and was expelled again. Reuben was a criminal boomerang with a broad smile for whom the law was no deterrent. By the mid-1930s, he’d been expelled from England, France, Germany, Argentina and Uruguay, with convictions also in Austria and Czechoslovakia. Having been re-arrested in Paris, he was forced to join the French foreign legion, only having already broken out of prison in Buenos Aires, going AWOL wasn’t difficult. By 1936, having served 4 months hard labour for the theft of £2000 worth of jewellery in London, he couldn’t be deported as he was stateless, and later being convicted in Istanbul, Vienna, and (cheekily) back in Buenos Aires in 1937, with a cloud of war looming over Europe, he made London his home. With goods in short supply and rationing in full force, someone was bound to earn a crust out of this crisis, and that person was Reuben. Keen not to be deported back to Russia, on 30th of June 1940, he married Yetta Slotsky, a British citizen, having lived together for just two weeks. Arrested that day for theft, having served nine months in prison, he moved in with his true love – Auriel, a waitress with whom he had two children – an 8-month-old girl called Sonia, and a 5-year-old boy called Stalin – only he couldn’t marry her, as although he dodged the law like a crusty dodges baths, she was already wed. Reuben was now a British citizen, protected by the law that he flouted galore… …but how he made his money would lead to his downfall. A friend of his said “one day he’d be broke, the next, he’s carrying thousands of pounds”. His suits were expensive, his shoes handmade, and his cigarettes imported. On the surface, he ran a legitimate betting shop at 80 Brewer Street in Soho, but behind closed doors, he was a black marketeer who could get anything, and an expert jeweller who acted as a go-between among many gangs of criminals. He loved living an extravagant life, a life he felt he deserved before the Communists destroyed it all. But he was cursed. As a reckless gambler, he won big but also lost heavily. As a playboy, he had a wife, a girlfriend and mistresses dotted about the city, all of whom he kept in luxury. And yet, as a successful criminal with no allegiance to anyone but himself and his money, he was as loved as he was hated. Across 1940 to 45, as London was blitzed by Nazi bombs, the more his empire grew, the less he seemed to be arrested. He had fines for a few minor offences, but no detective ever nailed him. A friend said, “it was because he used anonymous taxi-drivers to courier his contraband goods across the city”, and although another said “I think he was an informer for the police” - which of course they denied - as an illegal alien who lived by his own rules, why wouldn’t he accept a copper’s coin to rat out his rivals? But was this why Reuben Martirosoff alias ‘Russian Robert’ was murdered? Was he a police informer who fed titbits to an ex-Sergeant called Frank Everitt? On Wednesday 31st of October 1945, 12 days after ‘The Duke’s murder, Rueben was at Jerry’s Club at 7 Archer Street in Soho, when he got a call from his girlfriend. She said “a Polish naval officer wants to meet you at Edgware Road tube at 11:30pm”, and although cryptic, he understood it and acted on it. Heading home to Earls Court, said to be “a bit drunk”, at 11:05pm he collected his car - a maroon Opel four-seater saloon, registration plate DXR388 – and he sped towards the destination. Why he did so is unknown, but his girlfriend said he always had on him; a gold watch, a signet ring with the initial ‘R’, his bookmaker’s book, and two wallets with at least “£400 to £800” (roughly £22000 to £44000 today). As arranged, at 11:30pm, Rueben picked up two Polish men at Edgware Road tube. In the passenger’s seat sat the tall skinny beanpole of a man in a freshly cleaned grey suit and a matching felt hat, and in the back, sat the short squat chap in the black uniform and cap of a Leading Seaman in the Polish Navy. At the Quebec Club in Marble Arch, Rueben bought them several drinks, as seen by the club’s owners, and their conversation and mood was said to be friendly and calm. They stayed till 12:30am, then left. But who were they, and had they already planned to ‘execute’ him? The tall man was Marian Grondkowski. Born in Cobryn, Poland on 29th of April 1913, like his father, Marian had a practical brain and trained as an architectural engineer, but as the Nazis spread across Europe like a plague, he was enlisted in the Army. With Poland destroyed and its people enslaved or imprisoned, being shipped to England, he became a Sergeant Major in the Special Sabotage Company. Like Churchill’s Special Operations Executive, the SSC trained soldiers in the art of dastardly cunning, where their true weapon was in the planning, having been taught to cheat, steal, destroy and kill, to disrupt the enemy’s plans and to evade capture without being seen or leaving any hint of their crime. Part of his battalion was Henryk Malinowski. Born in Warsaw, although he was short and squat with a walk like a moody bulldog, having never had a career or much of an education, when the Nazis stormed through his city, Henryk was imprisoned in Stalag 12G, a concentration camp in Luxembourg. But as a tough little bruiser, as well as a private in Special Sabotage Company, he broke out and fled to England. Marian & Henryk were trained in weapons, deception, theft and espionage. Described as bright and loyal, the Army gave them the tools, but what they hated was the Army. Having punched his senior officer, Marian was briefly imprisoned, and despising their regiment, the war and any authority - said to be selfish and undisciplined when drunk – separately in and March and June 1945, they went AWOL. Like Rueben, they lived by their wits as criminals in this war-torn city, but what they lacked was his charm and sophistication. As an educated, cultured, ex-Russian aristocrat who spoke nine languages, he could seamlessly blend in among the city’s elite and royally rinse them dry. But these two were half-cut squaddies who could steal a car, pick a pocket, or give a guy a good kicking. But that’s it. So, while Reuben was living the high life, hobnobbing at the Ritz and smoking Havana cigars, they were living in a filthy squat on Elgin Crescent making fake handbags, and they were so short on cash that in the days prior, they had sold their radio, their sewing machine, their beds and even their mattresses. They had nothing. As the saying goes, “they hadn’t a pot to piss in, nor a window to throw it out of”. On the day of Frank’s murder, Marian & Henryk had planned an armed robbery of engineering firm at 21 Athlone House in Kentish Town. Having staked out their target, these experts in sabotage knew that the boss paid the staff’s wages every Wednesday and carried at least £250 (or £13000 today). It was to be a simple smash and grab on an unarmed civilian… but having got plastered on vodka, and with them both suffering the after-effects of a course of treatment for Venereal Disease, the second Henryk pulled out his Lugar and shouted ‘hands up’, an apprentice snatched the gun and pushed Marian on top of him like a scene from the Keystone Cops, and they ran off, minus at least one pistol. That evening, hours before Frank’s killing, still woozy after their injections for VD, they pecked at a cheap meal at a Czech Restaurant on Edgware Road, and stated they could remember very little else. But was this the truth or a useful alibi, as who could prove otherwise? Having investigated Frank Everitt’s ‘supposed execution’, on the surface, it’s easy to see why the Chief Inspector said it was “one of the cleverest murders in criminal history”. But as half of success is luck, if had he seen their previous crimes and their bumbling ineptitude, he’d have taken his words back. This became the calling card of these two clumsy clods, as on the afternoon before Reuben’s murder, Marian and another Polish deserter called Jozef Howak-Halioz had planned to burgle the home of a Greek waiter and part-time jewel thief called Charlie at 19 Hillmorton Road in Holloway. Jozef said “as Charlie worked till midnight, it woulda been easy”, but with Marian still sick owing to more injections to cure his weeping winkle, “they set about doing a job in Caledonian Road, but that too was a bust”. They were as hapless as they were hopeless, but being broke, they had nothing to lose. What they also lacked was discretion. Jozef said “on Tuesday 30th October about 4pm, the three of us walked down Marble Arch. I heard Henryk mention ‘Russian Robert’. He said ‘I will tell him I have some business with him. Then when he comes, we will shoot him and take his wallets too”. He had only known Reuben for barely a month, so he said “it wasn’t anything personal, it was just about money”. In court, Marian & Henryk bickered like squabbling schoolgirls, blaming each other, claiming they liked Reuben, and admitting they were there, but denying that they were the one who fired the fatal shot. So, what we know is based on the evidence and the facts they blathered out to save their own skins. Having left the Quebec Club at 12:30am, Reuben drove them in his maroon Opel saloon to Kensington Park Road, as spotted by a constable at 1:20am. Henryk said “I had a truck full of contraband whiskey being delivered”. For some reason it didn’t happen. Reuben was supposed to receive a cut, but did they kill him to get a bigger slice, did he renege on the deal, or had he blabbed his rivals to an informer? The detectives never found the truck, or the whiskey, or any proof that any of it even existed. Roughly 10 minutes later, Reuben’s car drove into Chepstow Place, Bayswater, not far from St Helen’s Gardens. Outside, this residential street was dark and thick, as a dense fog slowed the car to a crawl. Inside, with the interior light on, it was clear that the mood was sour, but with no arguing, it was silent. Reuben was driving, and although both denied being the shooter, Marian was in the front passenger’s seat, and Henryk was in the back, with their last 32 calibre Lugar hidden in a holster inside his jacket. Given Reuben’s seating position, his lack of defensive wounds and Marian’s witness statement, it was as Henryk seethed that the shot rang out. (BANG) Marian said “I saw a flash”, as with the gun’s muzzle etching a circle of acrid powder under Reuben’s left ear at the nap of the neck (as it had with Frank), it smashed his jaw, skewered his cerebellum, and exited via his right eye later found in the footwell. Slumping forward, a smashed steaming slice of Reuben’s skull lay on the dashboard, the hole in his head still smoking, as spattered across the windscreen lay the gooey dripping fragments of his brain. As before, the bullet had embedded in the roof, but the evidence left behind wasn’t their biggest issue. Being a hot-tempered thug, Henryk was too furious to wait for the car to stop, and as the blinded and paralysed body of a barely alive Reuben slumped forwards, his foot slammed into the accelerator, his torso swung the steering wheel right, and although Marian’s hands and feet scrambled to save them, the car careened into the kerb, bounced off an iron bollard, a brick wall and crashed outside 12 Chepstow Place. As an occupied street, dogs barked and curtains twitched as its residents roused. Mistaking the shot for ‘a car’s exhaust backfiring’ and a crash owing to drunks, no-one got involved, but the killers had to act fast. Marian wanted no part of this, but with Reuben slowly dying, he was already in too deep. Smashing the interior light with the butt of his gun, in the foggy darkness, Henryk & Marian moved the body into the backseat and, like vultures over a carcass, proceeded to strip it of anything valuable; a gold watch, a signet ring, and two wallets, which Reuben’s girlfriend claimed contained as much as £800 (£44000 today), but they disputed this saying “in it was six £1 notes and 10 shillings”, about £60. Not being the brightest, they missed £20 he had in his pocket, and not knowing the difference between shit or Shinola, they took his handkerchiefs, his last cigarette, and his notebook and pen which had the names of those who owned him sums of money, but being too thick to realise it, they binned it. Keen to make a getaway, these highly trained experts in deception, theft and sabotage hopped in the car to sprit it away, and – to evade capture and subvert the investigation through their devious cunning - dump it in a remote part of town, doctor the evidence and the shove the body somewhere baffling. Having overthought the evidence, the police (aided by a ravenous press on the hunt for scandal) would assume it was an execution, rather than it simply being a feeble robbery by two hopeless halfwits who were still half-cut from a night drinking contraband whiskey, and VD injections for their drippy dicks. But having crashed the car and jarred something loose, as the bugger wouldn’t start, they propped the corpse upright, covered him in a rug, popped his hat over the remains of his shattered head, and like a 1940s remake of Weekend at Bernie’s, they made it look like he was taking a nap, and they fled. As they say, planning is everything, but luck is half the battle. When Frank was murdered, luck was on the killer’s side, but when these two tried to rob Reuben, the luck they encountered was mostly bad. Only their bad luck would continue long after the murder. As the saying goes “there is no honour among thieves”, so when detectives were questioning Polish deserters in connection with the murder of Frank Everitt, with ‘Russian Robert’s murder plastered all over the papers and a death sentence being mooted, Jozef was more than willing to rat out his rivals. Under a shady ruse, on Saturday 3rd of November, three days later, as a Police informer himself, Jozef led detectives to Marian’s hideout at 17 Mansfield Road. Finding Reuben’s wallet and lighter in his flat, Marian was arrested for murder, and keen to lay the blame on Henryk, he dobbed him in as well. At his lodging at 42 Belgrave Road, Police found a wealth of irrefutable evidence, including Henryk’s Naval uniform and Marian’s grey suit, both bloodstained, Reuben’s other wallet, his signet ring, a black notebook, a blue mottled pencil, two packs of ‘Punch’ matches, a magazine containing six 32 calibre bullets, and a Lugar automatic pistol which was still spattered with blood which matched Reuben’s. The Met’s gun expert tested it, and confirmed “it is in good condition, and did not go off accidentally”. It was 6:30am, an hour after dawn as a few faint cracks of light pierced the gloom of Chepstow Road, that Reuben’s body was found. As with Frank, many people had passed him thinking he was sleeping, but seeing the damage to the car, it was then that PC George Larkins of F division decided to check. “I thought the car was abandoned. Inside I saw a man, fully dressed, lying in the back seat. I spoke but got no response. I felt his pulse, but got nothing. I removed his hat, and saw his face covered in blood”. Their subterfuge was weak, as even to a beat bobby “it was obvious he’d been shot in the head”, as cold sticky blood pooled about the seats, flies buzzed feverishly, bits of brain speckled the windscreen, and with a bullet hole in the roof, coins on the floor, as well as the smell of cordite - this was a murder. The Met Police’s Scientific Unit scoured the car, matching the bullet to the gun, and eventually finding two sets of fingerprints amidst the sea of red ooze, Superintendent Cherill of Scotland Yard’s infamous print bureau confirmed “these are the same prints”, which matched those of Marian & Henryk. It was a cut and dried case of robbery and murder, and although investigated by a different division, Chief Inspector Chapman whose own detection of Frank Everitt’s supposed ‘execution ‘had stalled, he’d spotted too many similarities for both cases to be a coincidence. Occurring just two weeks apart, their wounds, weapons and positions were the same, both men were possibly killed while driving, both had a broken inside light, an attempt at a robbery, the bodies were searched in the backseat, evidence was tampered with, and they were then dumped and disguised like they were sleeping giving the killers time to flee. Both crimes required two men with experience, and both victims lead possibly mysterious lives; with one being a criminal, and one an ex-copper. With no witnesses or fingerprints found at Frank’s murder, the evidence was circumstantial, and with Frank’s notebook - of supposedly “a list of Soho gangsters” involved in the sale of contraband whiskey – never being found, when they were searched, Marian had two packs of ‘Punch’ matches (like Frank used to us) and a blue mottled pencil (last seen in his notebook). Even the detectives admitted “the evidence was slim”. But who had killed Frank, was it both of them, neither, or was this just a coincidence? (End) Tried at the Old Bailey in Court One on the Tuesday 12th of February 1946, as Frank’s killing didn’t pass the evidential test, both men pleaded ‘not guilty’ to the robbery and murder of Reuben Martirosoff. Having turned on each other, they admitted being there when Reuben was shot, but both denied they fired the fatal shot. But it was all academic. Summing up, Justice Croom-Johnston stated “the evidence indicates these two men were on a common purpose - getting money unlawfully and by violence of a man who was killed, and with this deemed as joint venture, I find you both responsible of his murder”. On Wednesday 13th of February, after 70 minutes of deliberation, Henryk & Marian were found guilty of Reuben’s murder and sentenced to death. They appealed their conviction, but this was rejected. Interviewed prior to their trial, although Marian said that on the night of Frank’s murder they were in Ilford, and Henryk said “I did not kill The Duke”, Chief Inspector Chapman visited them in Wandsworth Prison on the eve of their execution. “I hoped that faced with few hours to live, they would make a confession”. Hanged at 9am, both men went to their graves taking the truth about the murder. Who killed Frank and why will remain a secret forever, and although mysteries often remain a mystery, it’s unlikely that Frank was corrupt or an informer. Said to be a loyal and loving husband and father, he earned more than most to provide for his family, having worked hard every day and lived in squalor. Wrongly described as “one of the cleverest murders in criminal history”, his supposed ‘execution’ was simply a robbery by two desperate men who (that day) had luck on their side, and the only reason he was targeted wasn’t revenge or a hired hit, he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. 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. |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. 
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