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Rowton House in King's Cross on 1 Calthorpse Street where Reg Christie spent some of his final days of freedom (now demolished)
Welcome to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within one square mile of the West End.
EPISODE FIFTY-SEVEN
Episode Fifty-Seven: On Friday 20th March 1953, Reg Christie left 10 Rillington Place forever and entered Rowton House at 1 Calthorpse Street, a lodging house for homeless men, but being a wanted serial-killer, what was his big plan to escape?
THE LOCATION
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Ep57 – The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place – Part Ten – John Reginald Halliday Christie
INTRO: Shame. An emotionally-driven outcome of our own sense of failure, as having been unable to conform to a physical, mental or moral standard (mostly of our own making), we re-evaluate ourselves in a very negative way, and are left feeling guilty, distressed, powerless and worthless. Shame can be a powerful motivator; it can guide us to greatness, wealth, power and success as the raw emotion we originally felt returns, causing our hearts to pump, muscles to tense and nerves to tingle, even decades later. But the outcome entirely depends on the person, as even what seems like a meaningless moment of shame, can trigger a personal crisis which can shape us for the worst. On Friday 20th March 1953, Reg Christie left his ground-floor flat at 10 Rillington Place, never to return, having left behind a wealth of evidence, a thigh bone, a skull and six rotting corpses. During a decade long reign of terror; seven women, one man and a baby had died, but their killer had never been caught, and with most of the victims having gone unreported, nobody knew that one of Britain’s most prolific serial killers lived in Ladbroke Grove. And now, he had disappeared. Some of what follows is based on the killer’s own memories and perspective; so what part of this story is true is up to you. My name is Michael. I am your tour-guide. This is Murder Mile. And I present to you; part ten of the full, true and untold story of The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place. SCRIPT: Today, I’m standing on the T-junction of King’s Cross Road and Calthorpe Street, WC1; one mile south of the Regent’s Canal where the body of Sebastiano Magnanini was dumped, parts of Paula Fields were found and the mortuary where Glyndwr Michael was reborn as a war-hero. To my right is the Mount Pleasant postal sorting depot and… that’s it. There’s a flat, a shop and a pub, but no people. No-one comes here. It’s dead. Even the postal sorting depot is being demolished, as they turn it into – yes, you’ve guessed it - posh-flats for over-paid tosspots, who won’t stay here, but are willing to fork-out four grand a month so they’ve got somewhere to dump their dirty pants; hide their hummus, quaff quinoas, shag their secretary and all as a tax right-off. How romantic. Anticipating this rejuvenation, at 1 Calthorpe Street they’ve built the Crowne Plaza; a four-star hotel with restaurants, a gym, a spa and a swimming pool. Ooh. With tourists on the inside and homeless on the outside, the only people in this area are hobos or hoity-toity, vagrants or Volvo owners, tramps or fans of taramasalata and drifters or dullards who only live for the latest dross on Netflix. Urgh. Before its demolition, on this site stood Rowton House. Built in 1892, it was one of five lodging houses in London built by Lord Rowton providing a bed, warmth and food for London’s low-paid and its down-and-outs. Being six-stories high, with bright red bricks and sharp turrets, it looked more like asylum than a hostel, but with 678 beds, at a cost of one shilling a night, for many men, it beat sleeping on the street. And yet, it was here, at Rowton House, that bald bespectacled man in a brown trilby hat and a fawn raincoat would spend his final days of freedom. (Interstitial). Born on 8th April 1899, in Black Boy House in Ackroyden near Halifax, John Reginald Halliday Christie, nicknamed “Reggie” was the second youngest of seven children; with one older brother, four older sisters and one younger sister, born to Mary Hannah Halliday, a loving housewife and over-protective mother and Ernest John Christie, a working class carpenter with a haughty demeanour, an explosive temper and a burning desire for respectability. Therefore, it’s ironic, that as much as Reg claimed to despise his father, he would spend most of his life trying to emulate him and – when shamed by his own sense of failure – Reg would lie. As an officious man with a senior role in the Methodist Church, the Conservative Association and later the Town Council, having passed his St John’s Ambulance exam, as the only person in the factory trained in first-aid, Ernest was nicknamed “Dr Christie”; a name he loved as it alluded to him being a man of higher status in a middle-class profession. But to his son, Reg knew had a lot to live up to. Unlike Ernest; Reg was small, skinny and slight; a shy boy with pale ginger hair and a limp handshake, and even being adored by his mother and protected by his sisters, he would become quiet, withdrawn and supressed his anger, as – being beaten for even the smallest of reasons – he hid in his father’s shadow and lived in fear of his wrath. In fact, the only time they spoke was while gardening; a hobby they loved, giving Reg with a rare moment of peace with his father, which he would cherish. In 1910, aged eleven, as a good student who never got into trouble, kept to himself and excelled at maths, Reg won a scholarship to Halifax Secondary School. Being bright but timid, like his father, Reg threw himself into extra-curricular activities, singing in the All Souls Church choir and rising to the lofty position of King’s Scout and Assistant Scout-Group Leader in the church troop. And yet, for all his hard-work, his mother lavished him with love, but the praise never came from his father. As a hobby it may have seemed innocent enough, having achieved a high-status position in the scouts, but more importantly it instilled in Reg the importance of rank, uniform and status in winning over the trust and confidence of others, and this knowledge would shape the rest of his life. If the statements of Reg Christie are to be believed, there were three key moments in his upbringing which lead him on the path to becoming a rapist, a serial killer and a necrophile: First; in 1911, as was a Victorian Methodist custom, the body of his maternal grandfather – David Halliday – was laid-out for the family to view prior to burial; having been petrified of this stern-faced bully, he realised this motionless corpse could no longer hurt him and Reg became fascinated by death. Secondly; raised in a female household during a sexually repressive era where nudity was taboo, Reg would deny he ever engaged in the sin of self-pleasure, but during his childhood, he claimed he caught a brief glimpse of his sister’s stocking top, and this brief thrill, brought about strange feelings. And thirdly; as a sexually inexperienced sixteen year old virgin, Reg and two friends went an infamous lover’s lane in Savile Park, known as the ‘Monkey Run’. Having paired-off with a young lady who he later described as “a mill girl of loose morals”, although his chums easily copulated, Reg stood there, trembling and ashamed, his limp penis in his hand, as the girl mercilessly mocked him. As did his friends. As did anyone who knew him. As (at least in his eyes) across his hometown, his failure was marked with a chorus of kids chanting “Reggie no-cock” and “can’t get it up Christie”. Reg wouldn’t love his virginity for at least another year, and for the rest of his life, he would fear sexual failure, hate morally loose woman and bottled-up inside him would remain this shame. (Interstitial) As a teenager, Reg seemed like an upstanding boy who graduated with a school certificate, worked as a projectionist at Green’s Picture Hall and as a warehouse boy at a bootmakers called John Foster & Sons. But inside, being raised as a repressed Methodist, Reg was a mess of deep moral conflict. As a staunch teetotaller, Reg denied that he drank and yet he was a regular in most pubs. As a wannabe ladies-man, he only spoke to women, never men, and yet he loved football. And as a bumptious prig, he exuded good morals, but was a liar, a cheat and a thief, obsessed with sex and death. On 19th September 1916, aged 17, two years into the First World War, Reg enlisted in 52nd Nottingham & Derbyshire Signal Corp and was posted to the Redmires Camp in Sheffield. With a rank, a role and a uniform, the Army should have been his making, but he was never promoted (yet he claimed he turned it down three times), he never excelled (yet he claimed he won many marksman competitions) and during his sixteen months of service, he was charged twice for going absent without leave having snuck off base to visit prostitutes. Women of loose morals, who he claimed to despise, and yet, (in his eyes) they were the only women who wouldn’t mock him, having been paid to be submissive to his needs. Having been mobilised one year earlier, on 1st April 1918, the 52nd Signal Corp was posted to Flanders, on the Belgian front-line, barely quarter of a mile from the German troops, dug deep in their trenches. After four years of brutal conflict, the lush fields were a mess of muddy bogs, bomb craters and jagged reels of barbed wire, on which hung the festering corpses of fallen comrades; as shells burst eardrums, bullets blew faces apart, boots sloshed in a sea of blood and the acrid air was thick with the stench of decomposing bodies. In total, Reg saw active duty for just eleven weeks, but (in that short traumatic period) he saw enough death to last a lifetime. Or so you would think? On 28th June 1918, Private Christie was injured when a mustard gas shell exploded near him, having knocked him unconscious, plumes of the lethal chemical weapon swirled about him, chocking him to death, as if - lying there helpless and vulnerable - an overpowering force gripped his throat. Having miraculously survived, when Reg awoke, the gas would render him blind for five months, mute for three and a half years and – although hospitalised for 32 days - his voice never the same. For his injuries, Private Christie was granted a weekly disability allowance of eight shillings, and for his bravery, he was awarded the British War & Victory Medal. At least, that was the story he told. In truth, his medical notes confirm he had no blisters on his skin, lungs or throat; he was never treated for an eye injury, and that, having been diagnosed with Functional Aphonia (an injury caused not by gas inhalation but by fright), after a three week course of a mild mist expectorant for Catarrhal Laryngitis, there was no known medical reason why his voice remained as a soft whisper. And yet his injury proved invaluable to illicit sympathy from women and to aid his story as an injured war hero. On 22nd October 1919 Private John Christie was demobilised from the Army. That day, he lost his role, his rank, his uniform and his wage; and with no skills, a small disability allowance and an insatiable thirst for sex-workers, Reg started work at Sutcliffe’s Woollen Mill, began dating Ethel Simpson and on 10th May 1920, in Halifax Registry Office, she became Mrs Ethel Christie. As an educated, intelligent, skilled, attractive, warm, moral and decent woman, she was too good for him, but – for whatever reason – she supported him no matter what. During those first few years of married life, Reg was shamed by three incidents, all of his own undoing; first, only able to become aroused by sexually submissive prostitutes, he failed to get Ethel pregnant; second, being regularly unemployed and convicted twice of theft, he had failed to provide as a husband; and third, having failed to live up to his father’s high morals, he was disowned by the family. Feeling deeply shamed, Reg left his hometown of Halifax, moved to London and abandoned Ethel for nine years. But his new life would start badly and descend deeper into despair and debauchery. In 1924, one year later, whilst cycling in the West End, Reg was hit by a taxi, knocked unconscious and suffered minor injuries to his right shoulder, left knee and head. That same year - being unemployed, homeless, broke and hopelessly addicted to sex – Reg was found guilty of two counts of theft, having stolen a bicycle, money and cigarettes, and was sentenced to a further nine months hard labour. For the next eight years he tried to go straight, but being unskilled, he drifted between jobs, until – once again – he was sent back to prison. But this time, his personality had taken a darker turn. On 1st May 1929, after six months of co-habiting with Maud Cole in her ground floor flat at 6 Almeric Road in Battersea (South London), being fed-up with Reg leaching off her, Maud asked him to leave, as she and her son ate a meal of fish & chips at the kitchen table. Silently, Reg got up, as if to leave… …but having swiped her son’s cricket bat, he smacked her hard across her head; everything went black, blood poured from the gaping wound and Christie forced his fingers into her throat, as she screamed ”don’t let him get me, he’s trying to murder me”. Maud survived the attack needing only five stitches. Two weeks later, Reg was tried at South Western Magistrates Court and having claimed this viscous and unprovoked assault was an accident, the Magistrate branded him a “liar” and a “coward”, and Reg Christie was sentenced to six month’s hard labour in Wandsworth Prison. But was this a regular assault, his first attempted murder, or a hint at dark things to come? In November 1933, whilst serving three month’s hard labour in Wandsworth prison for stealing a car, a priest convinced Christie to break his self-destructive cycle and turn over a new leaf. Convinced that the only good thing in his life was his wife, Reg asked Ethel to take him back, and with her affair to Vaughn Brindley over and faced with the shame of divorce, they gave their marriage one last go. So, in December 1938, The Christie’s moved into the ground floor flat at 10 Rillington Place. (Interstitial) From 1943 to 1953, nine people would die: Ruth Fuerst, Muriel Eady, Beryl Evans, Timothy Evans, Geraldine Evans, Ethel Christie, Rita Nelson, Kathleen Maloney and Hectorina MacLennan. A death toll which (in any other era) would raise an eyebrow, but having occurred during the London blitz and the post-war chaos; as he preyed on the homeless, the penniless, the sick, the poor and the pregnant, offering money, food, clothes, a bed or an abortion, and having coerced a simple man to plead guilty to his crimes, for a whole decade, a serial killer walked the streets of London, murdering with impunity. And although, on the outside he exuded the arrogance of a man who was getting away with murder, on the inside, having been raised as morally decent, his ailing body was riddled with shame. Between 1937 and 1952, Reg Christie made 174 visits to the surgery of Dr Matthew Odess in Coleville Square being plagued by fibrisitus, diarrhoea, headaches and piles. And although as a hypochondriac, who craved sympathy through exaggerated and imaginary illnesses, and visited his doctor at least once a month for those fifteen years, the pattern of his sickness has an eerie regularity. From February to August 1949, six years after the murders of Ruth Fuerst and Muriel Eady, being in regular work and good health, Reg made no visits to Dr Odess. That September, having been told that his attractive 20 year old co-tenant Beryl Evans was pregnant, his nervous diarrhoea returned. On 19th November 1949, ten days after Beryl & Geraldine’s murder and the disposal of their bodies, Reg returned to Dr Odess complaining of fibrisitus in the left lumbar muscles of his back. At his trial, Dr Odess stated it was caused not by stress, but by physical strain, having lifted something heavy. From January to March 1950, across the trial and the execution of Timothy Evans, having complained of violent headaches and (coincidentally) memory loss, Reg was signed off work with depression. Two months later, Reg was fit, well and didn’t return to Dr Odess for almost a year. And then, in the eight months prior to Ethel’s death and his last killing spree where he would murder Rita Nelson, Kathleen Maloney and Hectorina MacLennan in quick succession, he would visit Dr Odess thirty-two times. Very little makes sense in the final year of Reg Christie; in April 1950, he asked to be rehoused owing to ill-health, even though there were two bodies buried in his back garden. In May 1951, he took-out life insurance on himself and his wife, but there would be no pay-out, if she was missing or murdered. And on 6th December 1952, days before her death, Reg quit a well-paying job at British Road Services, for no reason - and with no disability allowance or savings – he stopped his only regular income. Being broke, on 17th December, he sold her 22ct gold ring and gold wrist watch at Barnett Pressman’s Jewellers in Shepherd’s Bush. On 8th January 1953, he sold most of his furniture to Robert J Hookway for £12, all except for his flea-ridden mattress. On 27th January, he emptied Ethel’s bank account of £10, 15 shillings and 6 pence having falsified her signature, and – being two months behind with his rent – on Friday 20th March 1953, having rented-out his flat (which he didn’t own) to Mary & John Reilly at a cost of £7 and 13 shillings, wearing a brown trilby hat, a fawn raincoat, clutching three suitcases and with Judy on her lead, Reg Christie left 10 Rillington Place… forever. And yet, there’s was one more death to come at the hands of Reg Christie. That day, having visited Ernest Jacobs at 132 Clarendon Road in Ladbroke Grove, handed over five shillings, produced his dog licence and shown her badly infected eye to the vet, even though she had been his faithful mongrel for twelve years, Judy was placed in the lethal chamber and put to sleep. By 8pm, having walked five miles from Rillington Place and checked into a six storey lodging house in King’s Cross called Rowton House; here he gave his name, address, ID and paid for one week but only stayed for three nights. And as he lay on the itchy woollen sheets of a single bed in a dormitory full of fifty scratching hobos and snoring tramps – where-as once he was a war-hero, a police constable and a married man – now Reg Christie was nothing, with no family to turn to and no friends to trust. And with no plan, every day he walked aimlessly, slept in cinemas and chatted to lone women in cafes. Mary & John Reilly had a sleepless first night in their ground floor flat of 10 Rillington Place, as the trains thundered by and lice scuttled along the walls, but what kept them awake was the smell, and having cleaned thoroughly and opened all the windows, still a feted rotten stench lingered in the flat. Four days later, on Tuesday 24th March 1953; Beresford Brown, a tenant in the second floor flat, who was expecting a baby with his wife Louisa and was due to move into the ground floor flat (as Reg had illegally rented it out to The Reilly’s) was given permission by the landlord to renovate the kitchen. With his work cut-out, as Beresford washed, wiped and stripped the filthy stinking kitchen to make it habitable for his impending family, eager to nail-up a set of brackets for his wireless radio, as he tapped the rear wall, it gave a reassuringly solid thud, but four feet to the left, the wall sounded hollow. Given the shape of the room and with its wooden door nailed shut, Beresford thought it was an old coal cellar, so – eager for more storage space - as he pulled away a six inch strip of hastily stuck-up wallpaper off the corner, with a small torch, he peered inside the darkness of the kitchen alcove. Alerted by Ivan Williams (a tenant in the first floor flat), PC Leslie Siseman of Harrow Road Police Station secured the crime scene until the arrival of Chief Inspector Griffin. Prying open the alcove door, the Police were greeted by the macabre sight of a naked woman kneeling, her bare back to the door, her feet folded under her buttocks and sitting upright as if she was praying, her dirt-covered body was kept erect by her bra which had been secured around a ceiling hook. Her body all cold, mouldy and stiff. But as they moved her… they saw, she wasn’t alone. In total, the bodies of three unidentified women were found in the alcove; all had been bound, raped and strangled; and with their knickers missing, their pubic hair removed and overcome by near lethal levels of carbon monoxide, all had been asphyxiated with either a stocking, a tie or a length of rope. Taken to Kensington Mortuary, their identification would pose no problem; as having been reported missing by her landlady Hannah Rees, the next day, on 25th March 1953 at 6:30pm, Mae Langridge of 80 Ladbroke Grove identified the body of her sister - 25 year old Rita Nelson. At 7pm, a local prostitute known as “Kitty Foley” identified 26 year old Kathleen Maloney. And having found in the bin; a sports jacket, cufflinks and a driving licence belonging to Alexander Pomeroy Baker, at 8pm, Donald & Robert MacLennan identified their sister - 27 year old Hectorina MacLennan. The crime scene was simple; and with the ground-floor flat being small and most of the furniture sold, the search was swift and thorough. Noticing another strong rotten stench emanating from the front room, as he wrenched up a loose floorboard, Chief Inspector Griffin discovered a fourth body. With her wedding ring missing, her bank account empty and all of the neighbours stating she was either in Sheffield, Brighton, London, Northampton or Reading, at 4:30pm, that same day, Henry Waddington identified the body under the floorboards, as that of his sister - fifty-four year old Ethel Christie. And yet, 10 Rillington Place still had more secrets to reveal. Two days later, when Police lifted up an old metal dustbin in the rear corner of the garden, the bottom fell away and out fell fragments of burnt and broken bones. Digging two feet deep, they found the skeletal remains of two unidentified females, but having been buried almost a decade ago, with no facial features, fingerprints or ID, and with one skull missing and the other smashed into 92 pieces, a positive identification would be next-to-impossible. Except… …with the second skeleton matching a missing person’s report dated 4th Nov 1944 and the severed 2nd and 3rd vertebrae matching a skull found in a bombed out house at 133 St Mark’s Road which was held at Kensington Mortuary, the body was positively identified as 32 year old Murial Eady. And having painstakingly reconstructed the badly smashed skull and spotted an unusual metal crown in her upper-right molar, having identified this as the work of an Austrian dentist called Dr Heinrich Blascke, twenty-three years earlier, the first skeleton was positively identified as 21 year old Austrian refugee Ruth Fuerst - the woman whose thigh bone was holding up the garden fence. And yet, 10 Rillington Place still had even more secrets to reveal. As the Police searched a rubbish pile in the garden, among the burned papers and charred clothes, they spied a small metal box of Lewis & Burrows ‘Gees Linctus’ Pastilles. Every lozenge had been eaten and the box was empty, except for four matted clumps of pubic hair. Having exhumed her corpse in Gunnersbury Cemetery, it didn’t match Beryl Evans. Having checked her body in Kensington Mortuary, it didn’t match Ethel Christie, and although three of the matted clumps matched Rita Nelson, Kathleen Maloney and Hectorina MacLennan, the fourth clump of pubic hair was never unidentified. With six bodies found, the Police had just one suspect… and he had completely vanished. The grisly murders at 10 Rillington Place were front page news, the name on everyone’s lips was John Reginald Halliday Christie and his photo adorned every paper, emblazoned with the words “will the killer strike again” as Britain was gripped with the terror that a sadistic serial killer was on the run. Only… he wasn’t exactly on the run. Having left Rowton House, dossed in cinemas and ate in cafes, as he slept by day and walked by night, the most he disguised himself was by keeping on his trilby hat. On Tuesday 31st March 1953 at 9:10am, Police Constable Thomas Ledger was patrolling the south bank of the River Thames, just shy of Putney Bridge, when he noticed a dishevelled man in a crumpled fawn raincoat leaning over the embankment wall as he idly watched a river barge being loaded. Growing suspicious that the unkempt man was a vagrant, PC Ledger questioned him: (PC) “What are you doing, looking for work?” (RC) “Yes but my employment cards haven't come through?” (PC) “What’s your name and address?”, (RC) “John Waddington, 35 Westbourne Gardens”, (PC) “Have you anything on you to prove your identity?”, (RC) “No, nothing at all”. Not believing the man’s story, PC Ledger demanded “Remove your hat”, which the man dutifully did. And being five foot eight inches tall, fifty four years old, with a very recognisable bald head, thick-lensed spectacles and false teeth which slipped, PC Ledger stated “You're Christie”. Reg nodded. PC ledger said “You’d better come with me”, which Reg Christie did, with no fight or furore, and that was that. (END) At 10:45am on 31st March 1953 at Putney Police Station, Detective Inspector Kelly charged Reg Christie with murder and it was then, when prompted by overwhelming evidence, that he gave the bulk of his statements. Of the few items he had on his person was his marriage certificate and a photo of his wife. Having been declared sane, and confessed to the murder of Beryl Evans but not Geraldine, the trial of John Reginald Halliday Christie began on Monday 22nd June 1953 in Court One of The Old Bailey. Tried on a specimen charge for the murder of Ethel Christie, when asked how he pleaded, Reg replied “not guilty” and although he remained calm throughout, his memory of the murders was patchy. At the end of the four day trial, on Thursday 25th June 1953, having deliberated for just one hour and twenty minutes, the jury returned and unanimously found John Reginald Halliday Christie guilty. Transferred to Pentonville Prison to await his execution, although his grey prison fatigues were the only uniform in his life he despised wearing, he adored the notoriety of being an infamous serial-killer. Confined to the condemned man’s cell, Christie wiled away his final days playing dominoes, reading books, cutting out newspaper articles about himself and he would happily discuss the details of the trial with his guards, comparing himself to infamous murders like John George Haigh and relishing the fact that tabloid newspaper - The Sunday Pictorial – offered him £27000 for his life story. Although he was described as neat, friendly and quiet; an unassuming little man who spoke fondly of his wife, doctors concluded he was a conceited ego-centric with no remorse for his victims, and – as witnessed by prison officer Joseph Hornsby – he was a deluded sexual predator, as when he guided the prisoner to the toilet to urinate, Christie turned to the prison guard, held his exposed penis in his hand and said “the ladies love this”. On the morning of Wednesday 15th July 1953, in the execution chamber of Pentonville Prison, where three years earlier Timothy John Evans had been hung - having had one last whiskey and said no final words - at 9am precisely, with his execution meticulously rehearsed so it caused no unnecessary distress, Albert Pierrepoint swung open the twin trap-doors, the prisoner plunged a seven foot and a six inch drop, and with the dislocation of his 3rd and 4th vertebrae, Reg Christie was dead. Unlike his victims, he felt no pain, his death was instantaneous, ironically he was strangled by a length of rope, and as a man who struggled with impotence it was his hanging which caused him to ejaculate. With new evidence having come to light, the murders of Beryl & Geraldine Evans were re-evaluated, Timothy Evans was found not guilty and – with the British Establishment rocked by the revelation that an innocent man had been executed - in 1965, the Death Penalty was abolished. One year later, Tim was granted a posthumous royal pardon and his remains were re-buried on consecrated ground. The body of John Reginald Halliday Christie remains, to this day, buried within the walls of Pentonville Prison. And as much as his name is infamous in the annals of true-crime and his ghastly deeds have gone down in infamy, let us not forget those ten names who history has cruelly consigned to being mere footnotes in his dirty little life. They were Ruth Fuerst, Muriel Eady, Beryl Evans, Timothy Evans, Geraldine Evans, Ethel Christie, Rita Nelson, Kathleen Maloney, Hectorina MacLennan, all of their unborn babies and his mongrel dog Judy. And this was their story. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. That was the final part of The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place, and (because it was quite a complicated case) I will be rolling out an omnibus edition of the series, next week, with all of the waffle taken out. As well as a special Q & A episode, so if you have any question, contact me. And if you’re a murky miler, stay tuned for some mindless waffle after the break, as well as some important news about the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast. No, not that news, new news. but before that, here’s my recommended podcast of the week; which is Rusty Hinges. (PLAY PROMO) A big thank you this week to my new Patreon supporter Sarah Terrell and those brave souls who are helping fund the next step in Murder Mile and the exciting new podcasts. Ooh. So thank you Sarah, you are the jam in my Battenberg. Yummy. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with a special cameo by Police Constable Arsenal Guinness, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well.
Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed by various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here
*** LEGAL DISCLAIMER *** The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, therefore mistakes will be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken. It is not a full representation of the case, the people or the investigation in its entirety, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity and drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, therefore it will contain a certain level of bias to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tor of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk
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Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018 and iTunes Top 50. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms
Welcome to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within one square mile of the West End.
EPISODE FIFTY-SIX
Episode Fifty-Six: On Friday 6th March 1953, 27 year old mother-of-two Hectorina MacLennan went missing from Ladbroke Grove having spent the last three nights staying at a new friend’s house with her boyfriend, Alex. Little did anyone know, that she was the ninth and final victim of British serial killer John Reginald Halliday Christie.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram
Ep56 – The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place – Part Nine - Hectorina MacKay MacLennan INTRO: Fate. A series of uncontrollable events which lead our lives in a very different direction to the one we had planned, and whether it is guided by God’s will, supernatural power or simply chance, fate drives us towards a new destiny, a future that feels unwritten, but it’s the way our life is meant to be. Life is full of unexpected twists and turns, pitfalls and potholes, and no matter how hard we strive to succeed with even the simplest of tasks, nothing is ever easy, as fate throws us a dirty curve, forcing us into impossible situations, and testing our health, wealth, skills and sanity. Fate may seem unfair; it makes the useless famous, the ignorant important and the rude respected; with no rhyme nor reason, and then – sometimes – it forces two strangers together, for the sole reason that one is destined to become a serial killer and the other to become their prey. By the beginning of 1953, a decade after his killing spree began, Reg Christie had nothing; he was penniless, starving and ill, trapped in a lonely flat, surrounded by his souvenirs, memories and eight bodies; with two in his garden, two in the alcove, one under the floor, two in a cemetery, a decapitated head in a mortuary, and an innocent man executed by the state for the murders that Reg Christie had committed. And yet, with his sadistic urges growing, he prowled the cafes of West London looking for his final victim… but they would never have met had fate not forced them together. Some of what follows is based on the killer’s own memories and perspective; so what part of this story is true… is up to you. My name is Michael. I am your tour-guide. This is Murder Mile. And I present to you; part nine of the full, true and untold story of The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place. SCRIPT: Today, I’m standing outside of what is locally known as The Hammersmith Apollo at 45 Queen Caroline Street in Hammersmith, W6; a ten minute stroll from Peter’s Snack Bar at 240 Goldhawk Road and Reg’s former employer at British Road Services, and three tube stops south from Rillington Place. Although its current incarnation is as the Eventim Apollo (a name which no-one calls it), having also been the Carling Apollo, the AEG Apollo and the Labatt’s Apollo, The Hammersmith Apollo was built in 1932 as Gaumont Palace; a three and a half thousand seat cinema and theatre, three stories high, two hundred feet wide, with curved art-deco columns and its original Compton pipe organ. Ooh. As one of London’s premiere music venues which hosted a wealth of musical legends; outside, every night, you’ll spy long-lines of fans; whether a gloom of goths (all trying to look individual but identically dressed), a rabble of rockers (who assume “rock n roll” means to smell like cheap cider and cheesy wotsits), a sleaze of fat old men all squeezed into Ziggy Stardust Lycra onesies, a drone of ten year olds all wearing Ramones t-shirts (with no idea they’re a band, not a clothing brand) and a flush of middle-aged women all drooling over their boyband crushes who’ve recently reformed to cover the cost of their hip-replacements, false teeth, wigs, corsets, butt-tucks, moobs reductions and colostomy bags. And yet, it was here, outside of the Gaumont Palace, that 27 year old Hectorina MacLennan would meet Reg Christie; two unlikely strangers who fate had forced together (interstitial). Great plumes of steam formed as his warm breath hit the cold winter air, and as a constant stream of condensation ran down the dirty bedroom window and dripped onto the cold wooden floor, his one comfort was Judy (his mongrel dog) who shivered beside him; all cold, lean and hungry. The room was empty, the walls were bare; the bed and mattress were gone. Having abruptly resigned from a well-paying job at British Road Services a few days before he murdered his wife and struggling to survive on benefits of £2 and 14 shillings a week, he had pawned Ethel’s possessions, sold most his furniture to Robert J Hookway for £12, and now, being a stone lighter and three shades paler, fifty-four year old Reg Christie slept on a thick pile of old clothes. For the umpteenth time that night, Reg winced in pain, as the lumps and bumps of his makeshift bed played merry-hell with his fibrisitis and his tossing and turning contorted his dicky-tummy into knots. Huffing with discomfort, Reg slunk into his kitchen and warmed his frozen fingers by the tiny flickering fire having used the last few clumps of coal in his scuttle, as - with a series of aahs, ouches and oohs – Reg slowly lowered himself into the deck-chair; his striped pyjamas torn and his slippers tatty. Being weak, hungry, ill and six months away from death, Reg should have been focussed on food, sleep and medicine, but as he sat beside the kitchen alcove, with his sinuses raddled by a winter cold, still his stuffy nostrils stung with acrid stench of strong disinfectant as the corpses of Rita Nelson and Kathleen Maloney rotted barely a few feet away, as his insatiable urges grew deeper and darker. And although, in his trembling hands, he held a small metal tin of Lewis & Burrows ‘Gees Linctus’ Pastilles, having eaten every lozenge, slowly he felt better as he leered inside the box, and grinned. By most accounts, Hectorina MacKay MacLennan was a good woman. Being born on 18th February 1926 just before The Great Depression, between the austerity of two World Wars and raised in Grovepark Street (a tough part of Glasgow), life was hard, but blessed with two supportive parents (William and Marion), three protective brothers (Robert, Donald and John) and two loving sisters (Benjamina and Annie), no matter what life threw at her, she would thrive and survive. Known as ‘Ina’, Hectorina dreamed of marriage and babies, eager to mirror her own parents by being a good mum, with a proud dad, a stable home and a family who stuck together through thick and thin. With a light Glaswegian lilt, a youthful face and being five foot four inches tall, although her cigarette-stained fingers often shook with bouts of anxiety and her slightly crossed-eyes gave the impression she was simple, Ina was a sharp cookie who - being sturdily built - was no push-over. So, as a woman from a strong family living 340 miles away in Scotland, who was naturally cautious, morally decent and was never too proud to ask for help, although she had a limited education, no skills and would live a life reliant on a husband; with no criminal record, drug or drink issues and no history of sex-work, there was no reason (at all) why Ina and Reg should ever have met… but they did. In 1941, aged 15, Ina was living with a handsome Burmese serviceman called Khin Muang Sou Hla (Kin Mahng So Hwa) who was posted at RAF Middle Wallop in Portsmouth, as part of No 10 RAF Group, defending the south coast of England from the onslaught of Nazi bombers during World War Two. As a military wife, although life on the base was routine and drab, with an endless procession of meals to make, uniforms to starch, boots to polish and a baby daughter called Marion to raise, unlike in the big city, here she was protected, well-fed, debt-free and happy. Ina had everything she ever wanted; a home, a husband, a baby, a bed, food, money, warmth and love. Life was good. In 1948, Ina’s parents (William and Marion) and her siblings (Robert, Donald, Benjamina and Annie, all except John who had joined the Navy) moved from Glasgow to 153 Warwick Road in Earls’ Court (West London). With Khin being posted to Cardiff in Wales, to give her eight year old daughter more stability, Ina moved in with her parents… two and a half miles south of Rillington Place. To supplement her income, between 17th April to 3rd June 1950 Ina worked as an usherette at the Imperial Cinema at 191 Portabello Road… two streets east of Rillington Place… and as a part-time waitress in several unnamed cafes in Hammersmith, Shepherd’s Bush and Ladbroke Grove. On 12th October 1950, being five months pregnant with her second child, Ina and Khin were married and on 24th January 1951 Julie Anna was born. It should have been the happiest year of Ina’s life, but with his career blooming, their relationship strained and their new baby being white and western, not being mixed-race like Marion, at the end of 1951, Khin had returned to Burma and Ina didn’t join him. She could have… but she didn’t. Ina was a single-mother with two young children and an estranged husband overseas who no longer supported them, so she lived on handouts from the National Assistance Board. And although she stayed under her parent’s roof, surrounded by siblings and worked for eighteen months as a nanny to Alex & Florence Baker’s four year old child, a wage of just £1 per day simply wasn’t enough to survive. In October 1952, eager to make a better life for Julie Anna and Marion, her parents moved out of the smog, grim and decay of the big city and headed to Achnasheen in the Highlands of Scotland; a tranquil village amidst the rolling hills, bubbling streams and the crisp fresh air, but Ina didn’t join them. She could have… but she didn’t. And with her husband gone, her children gone and her family gone, lacking any purpose, she sunk into a deep depression and fate pushed her into the path of Reg Christie (interstitial). (Christie’s whisper) “I met a couple coming out of a café in Hammersmith, if I remember rightly. They said they had been thrown out of their digs and stayed for a few days. A few days later, the girl came back alone. I advised her not to. She was very funny about it. I got hold of her arm to try and push her out. She started struggling and some of her clothing got torn. She sort of fell limp as I had hold of her. She sank to the ground and I think some of her clothes caught around her neck in the struggle. I tried to lift her up, but couldn’t. I then pulled her onto a deck-chair. I felt her pulse, but it wasn’t beating”. The last nine weeks of Ina’s life are a bit of a mystery, but this is what we know. Without warning, on 1st January 1953, Ina vanished from 153 Warwick Road. Reported missing at Kensington Police Station, she was tracked down and returned home. But by the 2nd February, she had disappeared. That was the last time her siblings saw her, and they stated she had no reason to leave. Depressed, single and gripped by loneliness, Ina had eloped with 41 year old unemployed truck-driver, ex-convict (with two criminal convictions for car theft and loitering with intent) and married father-of-one called Alexander Pomeroy Baker, whose four year old child Ina used to babysit for £1 a day. Although happily married to his wife of sixteen years with five kids and a house in nearby Pembroke Place, over Christmas, Dorothy uncovered the affair, she booted her husband out and Alex and Ina moved into a furnished flat at 4 Oldham Road, not far from Ladbroke Grove. Ina was desperate for a return to the happy family life she had lost, but with spats frequent and money tight their love-nest was short-lived, and two weeks later, Alex moved back in with his wife and kids. Over the next few weeks, being too broke for a Bed & Breakfast, Ina slept rough; whether crashing on friend’s floors, dossing in doorways or huddling in the passageway of her former boyfriend’s home. At the end of January, Ina was spotted in Holland Park by 40 year old Frank Ernest Collyer, known as Ron; an old friend and a criminal with five convictions for burglary who (Ina had confessed to Reverend Arthur Shaw) that he was the real father of her daughter Julie Anne. Shocked at how awful Ina looked, with matted hair, broken nails and a dirty face, both being broke and with nowhere to stay, they slept rough, lived off the proceeds of his crimes… and (it is implied) that Ina turned to prostitution. Valentine’s Day 1953. In the All-Night Milk Bar in Notting Hill Gate, Ron and Ina were supping cups of tea when Ina’s face flushed red, as across the counter, a small, bald and bespectacled man stared at her. Visibly shaken, Ina said “I think he knows were talking about him, he’s a chap I had some trouble with, he gave me an unpleasant time”. And yet, with Ron beside her, the man never spoke to her or approached her. One month later, Ron would identify the man in the All-Night Milk Bar as Reg Christie. On 18th February 1953, Ina’s 27th birthday, having demanded cash in exchange for the safe of return of property he had burgled from a house in Acton, Ron was arrested in Hyde Park and Ina fled. Being sought by the Police and with Ron in Brixton Prison, feeling unsafe as a single woman, Ina went back to Pembroke Place and once again – Alex deserted his wife and five kids – and ran away with Ina. From Sunday 22nd February, across the next ten days, Ina & Alex stayed at the home of Ivor Elliot, a friend of Alex’s at 35 Hetley Road, W12 (a road between Shepherd’s Bush and Goldhawk Road). Having out-stayed their welcome, on Monday 2nd March, Ina visited Reverend Arthur Shaw at the Hinde Street Methodist Church, W1 and asked for help, but he turned her away. And although she still had Alex to protect her, once again, Ina was homeless, penniless, depressed… and pregnant. (Interstitial) (Christie) ”Not very long after that, I met a couple coming out of a café in Hammersmith, if I remember rightly. The man went across the road to talk to a friend and while he was away she said they had to give up their digs at the weekend. Then I told her that if they hadn’t found anywhere I could put them up. They both came and stayed for a few days. When they left the man asked that if they couldn’t find anywhere, could they come back for the night. I agreed to help them out. The girl came back alone”. At least, that was Reg’s version. On Friday 27th February 1953, outside of the Gaumont Palace, having spied the couple through the window of an unnamed café, eave-dropped on their chat and waited until the female was alone, Reg approached Ina and made her an offer. By the time Alex had returned, Reg was gone. As agreed, on Tuesday 3rd March 1953 at 7:30pm, Reg waited for Ina outside of Ladbroke Grove tube station, his hopes were high having lured her here with the promise of a place to stay, but upon seeing that she was accompanied by Alex, his face turned to thunder, as Reg bemoaned “I told you not to tell anyone about the flat, not even your husband, I don’t want lots of people making enquiries”. Alex had scuppered Reg’s plan to get Ina alone, and being taller, younger and fitter, he knew the burly man could easily overpower him, but being so close to his prize and feeling intellectually superior to the 40 year old truck-driver, Reg knew he needed to drive them apart, so he could have Ina to himself. Having mellowed, Reg gave the homeless couple a brief tour of 10 Rillington Place. It wasn’t ideal; the flat smelt bad, the tenant was a stranger, almost all the doors were locked, it had only one bed made from an old pile women’s clothes and the 12 shillings and 9 pence a week rent was too pricey, but being a Good Samaritan, Reg offered them a place to stay for a few nights. Alex was unsure; he didn’t like Reg, he didn’t trust Reg and the feeling was mutual, so having thanked him for the offer, Alex and Ina left Rillington Place and headed back to Ivor Elliot’s in Hetley Road. With the rain heavy, the streets dark and the wind icy cold, they arrived back hoping to dry off by the fire, nab a bite to eat and nod-off together on the sofa, but with Ivor not wanting to be rudely awoken at the midnight hour again, with door was bolted shut, the couple were locked out. They had two choices; sleep rough on the cold street or head back to the warmth of Rillington Place. Arriving at roughly 2am, although he wasn’t expecting them, being dressed in his torn striped pyjamas and tatty slippers, a sleepy Reg welcomed them in and (by all accounts) was pleasant and hospitable. Having no spare beds or sofa; with Ina in the deck-chair, Alex on the stool and Reg perched on the coal scuttle, slowly drying by the warmth of the fire, as they sat, chatted and drank tea. And there they stayed for three nights, guests of Reg Christie, and yet, only one of them was welcome. On Friday 6th March 1953, at 9:30am, with his rations ran out, money short and needing to sign-on; Reg, Ina & Alex left Rillington Place and went to the National Assistance Board by Goldhawk Road. For whatever reason, Ina agreed to meet Reg back at his flat at 12pm, she didn’t say why. She agreed to meet Alex in an unnamed café on Uxbridge Road at 3pm, but she never showed-up. And having returned to Rillington Place, Reg re-assured him she wasn’t here, showed him the rooms, offered him a cup of tea as he sat in the deck-chair barely feet from the alcove, and feigning concern, Reg spent the next few hours with Alex conducting a fruitless search of Shepherd’s Bush to find Ina… who Reg knew was already dead. (Christie) “…she sort of fell limp, as I had hold of her. She sank to the ground and I think some of her clothing must have got caught around her neck in the struggle. I must have strangled her and had sex with her, but I can’t recall, then I must have put her in the alcove”. At least, that was Reg’s version. After almost a decade of trial and error, Reg had perfected his murder technique to a fine art. With Ina reclined in his deck-chair, although the fire was off, the window was open and the kitchen was bitterly cold, she didn’t feel uneasy or unnerved as she sat and calmly chatted to Reg, as underneath her seat a long rubber hose lay, as in his hand Reg excitedly fingered a length of rope. Alex was gone, Ina was alone and – soon – she would be his. Being barely lunchtime, it didn’t matter that she refused his offer of an alcoholic drink to make her more malleable. Being relatively healthy, it didn’t matter that he had no reason to use the square glass jar of Friar’s Balsam, he would do without. And with the truth of her pregnancy being uncertain, there is no evidence whether an attempted abortion took place, but then again, there wasn’t with Beryl. Eager to end her life and to rape her corpse; as he had done with several other women, Reg slowly reached behind the kitchen curtain to unhook the bulldog clip on the long rubber hose and unleash a lethal level of invisible/odourless gas… only this time, Ina saw, panicked and screamed. Desperate to silence her, Reg dived on top of the flailing woman and pinned her down deep into the deck-chair as she punched, kicked and spat with every ounce of strength, and being a sturdily built woman who was no push-over, Ina was more than a match for this feeble fifty-four year old weakling who weighed barely ten stone, and held his breath for fear of being rendered unconscious by the gas. And the more he struggled, the more she fought back. But unlike Ina, Reg had been here before, with Beryl, and having punched Ina hard in the face, as he grabbed his strangling rope and pulled both ends tight, after a minute of fitting and flailing, as her pale skin ruptured red, her nostrils frothed with bloody spit and her hazel eyes bulged out of their sockets, as her last ever breath slowly left her lungs, within a minute, Ina was dead. He stripped her, raped her, tied her ankles and hands, and dragged her semi-clad corpse into the damp cramped alcove. Dressed in only a blue bra and pink suspenders - with Rita Nelson and Kathleen Maloney ahead of her and no space to lay her down - sitting her upright, on her knees and with her back to the door, he tied her bra around a ceiling hook, so strangely it looked like she was praying. And just like the two other bodies in front of her, her knickers were missing… as was her pubic hair. To the best of our knowledge, John Reginald Halliday Christie had murdered eight different women over one decade, all at 10 Rillington Place; Ruth Fuerst, Murial Eady, Beryl Evans, Geraldine Evans, Ethel Christie, Rita Nelson, Kathleen Maloney and Hectorina MacLennan, with Timothy Evans executed for the crimes that he had committed. And yet, although suspected, he had never been caught. By Thursday 19th March 1953 - with a trunk full of dead women’s clothes, two bodies buried in the back garden, one rotting under the floorboards, three festering in the alcove, an unholy smell emanating from the drains, a thigh bone holding up his garden fence, a decapitated skull in Kensington Mortuary and several personal items belonging to his victims having been casually tossed out with the rubbish, along with a small metal tin of Lewis & Burrows ‘Gees Linctus’ Pastilles – although Reg could have, he didn’t dispose of the bodies, or destroy any evidence. Instead, having nailed the alcove door shut, crudely wallpapered over the cracks and sold anything of value at the pawn shops; being two months behind with his rent and practically penniless; dressed in a fawn raincoat, he rented out his flat, packed-up his brown suitcase and with Judy on her lead, Reg Christie disappeared into the night… never to return to 10 Rillington Place. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. If you enjoyed parts one to nine of this ten part series, the concluding part of The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place continues next Thursday, with an omnibus edition one week later, as well as a final farewell episode of Murder Mile to mark the end of the series and the podcast. But before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week; which are Wives Tales and 38 Times Podcast. (PLAY PROMO) If my last few sentences have surprised you, and you don’t listen to Extra Mile, it’s worth listening to last week’s show, or checking out my social media pages, as it was on here that I announced the end of this podcast. It’s been a good run, but sadly all good things must come to an end. But don’t unsubscribe just yet, as I’m working on several new podcasts, and they will be announced here. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well.
Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed by various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here
*** LEGAL DISCLAIMER *** The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, therefore mistakes will be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken. It is not a full representation of the case, the people or the investigation in its entirety, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity and drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, therefore it will contain a certain level of bias to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tor of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018 and iTunes Top 50. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Welcome to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within one square mile of the West End.
EPISODE FIFTY-FIVE
Episode Fifty-Five: On an unspecified date in January 1953, 25 year old Rita Elizabeth Nelson disappeared from the streets of West London, she was six months pregnant and was due to return home to Belfast to have the baby. She was the sixth victim of British serial killer John Reginald Halliday Christie.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram
Ep55 – The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place – Part Eight - Rita Elizabeth Nelson INTRO: Help. A single word which is simple to spell, easy to say, difficult to ask for and impossible to accept when pride is at stake. We all need help when life gets tough, but the harder life becomes, the less we are willing to accept it for fear of admitting defeat. And yet without help, we cannot succeed. We’re surrounded by people who can help, all of whom are ready and willing to sacrifice something to save us, but being victims of our own circumstance, help is often the first word we think of when things get bad and the very last word we will ever utter. By the bleak winter of 1952, barely weeks after the cruel murder of Ethel Christie and shortly before the senseless death of Kathleen Maloney; being ailing and ill, lonely and desperate, with his dark urges festering and being too broke to secure the services of sex-workers, Reg Christie stalked the cafes of West London, preying on vulnerable women and in search of his next victim. Some of what follows is based on the killer’s own memories and perspective; so what part of this story is true… is up to you. My name is Michael. I am your tour-guide. This is Murder Mile. And I present to you; part eight of the full, true and untold story of The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place. SCRIPT: Today, I’m standing on the Seven Stars roundabout on Goldhawk Road, W12; one and a half miles south-west from Rillington Place, three miles west of The Great Western pub in Paddington and several tube stops away from any location we’ve visited before, but a place very familiar to Reg. As a T-junction interconnecting Paddenwick Road and Goldhawk Road, the Seven Stars roundabout is as dull as it sounds; with the only colour in this bland grey landscape being the steamy splattering of puke, piddle and dog-plops; as every car, truck and bus whizzes around this inch-high tarmacked traffic island, passed a handful of pointless shops (most of which are shut) and several road signs there to remind you that the only reason you came here was to go somewhere else. In 1952, on the ground-floor of 240 Goldhawk Road sat Peter’s Snack Bar; a classic British greasy-spoon serving such delightful culinary delicacies as bacon butties, sausage sarnies, heart-hardening fry-ups, deep-fried diabetes, a stroke in a bun, or any form of food stuff as long as it could be cooked in a single pan of hot salty fat, was made from pig parts too shoddy for dog-food, cunningly disguised by a kilo of ketchup and mashed-up so heavily you couldn’t tell an eyeball from an arsehole. And yet, it was here, whilst working just a few doors away, that Reg Christie would pop in for a quick cup of tea, a spot of lunch and a chance to lure another vulnerable woman to her death. (Interstitial) (Old phone ringing) On 6th December 1949 at 2:10pm, four days after the arrest of Timothy John Evans, Police Constable Mount of Harrow Road Police Station was assigned to a routine task in Ladbroke Grove. “PC338, proceed to 133 St Mark’s Road, suspicious object found, over”. “Roger that”. Situated a few doors down from Rillington Place, once a family home, 133 St Mark’s Road was now a derelict shell; with its walls charred black, windows smashed and doors stolen having been bombed during the blitz a decade earlier. Alerted by two children, PC Mount unearthed from between two floorboards what looked like a milky white ball; only its shape was uneven and broken, its sound was brittle and hollow, its texture was smooth and hard and its colour was like an old stick stripped of bark. (Old phone ringing) “Harrow Road, this is PC338, object found at 133 St Mark’s Road is an adult human skull, jaw missing, no other body parts found, over”. “Thank you PC338, over”. And that was that. The Police had discovered the decapitated skull of a female in her early thirties… and they did nothing. There was no press coverage, no autopsy and no investigation. But then again, why would they? With thousands of people listed as missing after the blitz, and millions of bones and body-parts still littering the city, being “just another skull”, it was bagged-up, catalogued and stored in Kensington Mortuary. Although they didn’t know it, this skull was special; as having been buried in a nearby garden seven years earlier, dug up by a mongrel dog (Judy’s whimper), disposed of by the flat’s tenant (“she believed I could cure her”) who hid it from his wife (“tea’s up Reg”), and with the victim’s family believing she had died in a bombed-out air-raid shelter in Putney, this long-forgotten skull would help put an end to the life of London’s most infamous serial-killer. But before that… three more women would die. RITA Elizabeth Nelson was born on 16th October 1927 in Belfast’s City Hospital and raised by Protestant parents – James, a labourer and Lilly, a housewife – whose life revolved around the teachings of the Presbyterian Church. As the middle child of three daughters - with Mae the eldest and Sadie the youngest – RITA’s life was led by the Bible, in the hope of making a good woman out of an unruly girl. But burdened by a high sense of pride and a rebellious streak, Ruth’s stubbornness created a friction in the family who abhorred theft, alcohol and sex out of wedlock. Like most working class girls who lived in the early twentieth century, very little is known about RITA’s life, as with no census records, school reports or medical history, it’s almost as if she didn’t exist. So what fragments were found were sieved from witness statements, criminal records and her autopsy. RITA was an enigma, a deliberate mystery who hid her true-self behind a facade. Why? We may never know. What we do know is that she was five foot five inches tall, of slim build, with a thick mop of wiry brown hair like she had been caught in a breeze, small brown eyes like little acorns lost in a blanket of fresh white snow, an eternally furrowed brow like life was digging a grave into her brain, and (missing four teeth) a wide mouth which grimaced, grinded and grinned, but rarely smiled. With her lips and nails slathered in a thick coat of fiery red, she resembled a ray of joy, but the colour only disguised her sadness. With a posh affectation, she sounded like a real lady from a well-to-do family, but her accent only hid her roots as a poor girl from Belfast. And being fashionably dressed in greens, pinks and blacks, she was always neat and tidy, but she only had two sets of clothes. RITA’s life would descend into disarray, and yet, she always hid, ran and never asked for help. January 1940, in Belfast Juvenile Court, RITA Nelson was charged with theft, she was thirteen years old. December 42, again charged with theft. May 46, she was given six months’ probation for theft. September 46, aged 19, she was fined twenty shillings for engaging in prostitution. November 46, one years’ probation and a £5 fine for assaulting a police officer. January 47, one month in Belfast Prison for breaking probation. And April 48, she was fined forty shillings for being drunk and disorderly. Seven arrests in eight years, all before she was twenty-one, and although on paper she appears to be a career criminal, she may not have been an angel, but she wasn’t bad, cruel or evil, she was just lost. RITA’s life was short and hard. During her teens, she was strangled so badly her attacker fractured the hyoid bone in her throat, her assailant was never arrested and the bone never healed. In 1950, as an unmarried sex-worker and convicted thief, RITA’s two year old son ‘George’ was taken into care. And then, in 1952, after twenty-nine years of marriage her parents divorced, the fractured family collapsed and RITA ran away to London. Three months later, she would be dead. (Interstitial) In March 1953, 28 year old mother-of-one Mary Ballinghall made this statement: “A man I now know to be John Christie helped me onto a train at Hammersmith, we’d both been to the National Assistance Board as I was living on one pound, two shillings and six pence a week, which isn’t enough. He spoke about his dead wife and seemed very lonely. In the Seven Stars café (opposite Peter’s Snack Bar on Goldhawk Road) he bought me a tea, toast, cigarettes, offered me some second hand clothes and a pound to help me along. A few evenings later, I went to his home to collect the money, I sat in his deck-chair, he showed me some pictures of his wife and cried. Suddenly, he tried to kiss me, I resisted and threatened to scream. Then he apologised, gave me a pound and I left”. On 5th October 1952, two weeks before her 25th birthday, RITA caught the overnight ferry from Belfast to Heysham (in Lancashire) accompanied by her 35 year old cousin James Boyd and headed to London. As a deeply private person, RITA kept herself-to-herself, but when asked why she had left Belfast, to different people she said she was either looking for work or had ran away from home; and yet, her work history would be patchy and every week – without fail - she would post a letter to her mother. By lunchtime, that day, RITA and James had called in at the home of her older sister – Mae – who lived at 80 Ladbroke Grove, just two roads south of 10 Rillington Place, and although she had reason to visit this area, her trips were infrequent and she rarely stayed. At 5pm, RITA and James left Ladbroke Grove and headed east to Soho looking for work; with James as a carpenter and Ruth as a waitress. They next day James found work on a construction site in Stratford (East London), but as a young girl with a lengthy criminal record, for RITA, times were tough. But by all accounts, RITA had turned over a new leaf, and with no further arrests, and not one witness statement suggesting she had slipped back into her old ways of drinking, stealing and prostitution, Ruth would remain sober, honest and celibate for the rest of her short life… and for good reason. Struggling to hold down a series of part-time jobs, RITA’s work record was chaotic; December 1952, she was an orderly at Great Ormond Street Hospital, it paid badly and gave her a place to sleep, but often feeling tired and sick, she last just three weeks. On 10th December 1952, she worked as a kitchen maid at the Devonshire Arms public house in Notting Hill Gate, where she also lived, but with her back and feet aching, she was deemed unsuitable and lasted just three days, losing her job and lodging. In need of a bed, a fire, food and being too proud to stay with her sister Mae who lived just half a mile away, on 14th December 1952 RITA moved into a rented flat at 2 Shepherd’s Gardens, W12, where her 68 year old widowed landlady Hannah Rees said she was polite, quiet and kept to herself. With no friends, no close family links and no social life, RITA’s last few weeks are a mystery. With no set routine, her movements are hard to pin down. And having never visited a doctor for a health check or signed-on at the National Assistance Board to claim any unemployment benefits, it’s clear that no matter how hard times got, Ruth was doing this alone. But was this through pride, or shame? Three weeks before Christmas 1952, Ruth visited her sister in Ladbroke Grove and sent her a festive card. On 20th December, her cousin James returned to Belfast, but hadn’t spoken to Ruth since 6th October. And on 18th January 1953, two days after she had posted it, her mother Lilly received the last letter that RITA would ever send. In it, she reassured her she was healthy, happy and well, told her she was six months pregnant and she would be returning to Belfast on 28th February to have the baby. Her family never saw, or heard from her, ever again. In March 1953, 42 year old housewife Margaret Forrest of St Luke’s Mews made this statement: “three weeks ago I was in the Panda Café on 232 Westbourne Park Road, I was sitting at one of the tables, holding my forehead, when a man asked “excuse me, do you suffer from migraines?”. I said I did and he said he could cure it. He arranged for me to go to his house the following Saturday at 2pm and then left. I thought the matter over and did not keep the appointment. The following Tuesday, I was in the café, he came in, he was in a foul temper and asked why I had not kept the appointment. I made my excuses. He suggested I should see him that afternoon. I did not answer. He said I did not appear interested, and said “well, if you would rather suffer, I can’t help you”. I have not seen him since”. RITA’s last known employment was as a counter-hand at the Shepherd’s Bush tea-room at 54 Uxbridge Road in Shepherd’s Bush. She started on Tuesday 6th January 1953 for a wage of just three pounds and eleven shillings a week, but by Thursday 8th - feeling sick, weak and sweating profusely – although she denied she was unwell, RITA was moved off the shop-floor and into the kitchen. She could have been sacked for dishonesty having tried to hide her pregnancy from her employer, but with the tea-room being a branch of J Lyons & Sons; a family business ran by good people who owned such well-regarded establishments as Maison Lyonese in Marble Arch and The Corner House on Oxford Street, they took pity on her and wanted to help her. On Monday 12th January 1953, RITA was sent to Dorothy Annie Symers, medical officer for J Lyons & Sons at 30 Orchard St in Marylebone, W1. Right there, Dorothy wrote the following letter addressed to Evelyn Richards, Lady Almoner of the Samaritans Hospital for Women, it read: “Dear Lady Almoner. Miss Rita Nelson came to see me today and I find that she is twenty-four weeks pregnant. She has recently come from Belfast, has no relations or friends in London, and does not want to return home in her condition, of which she insists she was unaware until today. I wonder if you could help her to be admitted to a home for unmarried mothers to see her through the late stages of her pregnancy. She has no doctor at present. I shall be very glad if you can do something for her. Yours sincerely. Dorothy Symers. Medical Officer, J Lyons & Company”. That day, RITA signed for her final wages, an appointment was made to visit the Samaritans Hospital for Women the very next day, and she was handed the letter which ensured the safety and health and her and her baby. But for some reason – whether pride or shame – she never kept the appointment. On Friday 16th January 1953, the landlady Hannah Rees witnessed RITA leaving her flat at 2 Shepherd’s Gardens to post a letter to her mother – Lilly – in which she said she stated that would return home in six weeks. That was the last confirmed sighting of RITA Elizabeth Nelson… …and then, there was this. In March 1953, Margaret Ellen Sergison, proprietor of Peter’s Snack Bar at 240 Goldhawk Road made this statement: “Reg was a regular, he’d come three or four times a week, often with different girls. He was fond of saying he was a struck-off as a doctor for helping a girl out, even if they didn’t ask. This one girl he met mostly in the day and only once in the evening. He said she was company for his wife who was an invalid. One day she stopped coming. He told me that if ever the girl came back, to let her have whatever she wanted and he would settle the bill. I never saw her again” Eric Henry Webster, a lorry driver and colleague of Reg’s at British Road Services, a few doors down from Peter’s Snack Bar stated “she was about 18, 5 foot 3 inch tall, with brown hair, she was quite well spoken and gave the impression of coming from a good family. She was known to us as Rita”. On Saturday 17th January 1953; with the rent overdue, no reply to her knocks and growing concerned, her landlady Hannah Rees reported Rita as missing at Hammersmith Police Station. On Tuesday 20th January, having been missing for a full four days, the Police gave Hannah permission to break-in to Rita’s flat. It was exactly as she had left it; her bed was unmade, her clothes were on the floor, her nail-polish bottle was empty and on her bedside table lay an unopened letter addressed to the Lady Almoner of the Samaritan Hospital for Women – eight days after it had been written. There are very few certainties with this case: When she died? We will never know. It was sometime after Friday 16th January 1953, when she was last seen alive, but sometime before the death of Kathleen Maloney, whose exact date is unknown. How they met? We will never know. As with RITA being an intensely private person with no routine or close connections, all we have are the statements Reg would give, which can never be believed. Why she trusted him? We will never know. And yet, it seems strange that – for whatever reason – she shunned the help of her sister who lived locally, hid the truth from her mother back home in Belfast and dismissed the much-needed medical care offered by the Samaritan’s Hospital, but (according to those who saw them together) she knew, liked and trusted Reg Christie. But why? (Christie’s whisper): “Sometime in February, I went into a café at Notting Hill Gate for a cup of tea and a sandwich. The café was pretty full, there wasn’t much space. Two girls were sat at a table. One of them asked me for a cigarette. I mentioned I was leaving my flat and that it would be vacant very soon and they suggested coming down to see it together in the evening. Only one came down. She looked over the flat and said it would be suitable. It was then that she made suggestions that she would stay for a few days as a sort of payment in kind. I was rather annoyed and told her that that sort of thing didn’t interest me. I think she started saying I was making accusations against her when she saw there was nothing doing. She said that she would bring some boys down to do me in. I believe it was then she mentioned something about her having Irish blood. She had a violent temper I remember she started fighting. I am very quiet and avoid fighting. I know there was something else, it’s in the back of my mind. She was on the floor. I must have put her in the alcove straight away”. At least, that’s how Reg remembers it happening, except the date was wrong, the location was wrong and the other girl he mentioned was never identified… and probably never existed. Evidence suggests that RITA willingly entered 10 Rillington Place, although she was never seen. She happily sat in his deck-chair and chatted to Reg, although no sounds to the contrary were ever heard. And with no cuts, bruises or alcohol in her system, only a few carrots and meat from the last meal she had eaten the day before, as the odourless colourless gas drifted up from under her seat and her limbs twitched and jerked for half an hour, RITA drifted in and out of consciousness. She wasn’t dead when he strangled her. She may not have been alive when he raped her. With her body wrapped in a blanket, tied around her ankles with a plastic flex and curled in the foetal position, RITA was hidden in the dark and dirty kitchen alcove. As with the other women; RITA was semi-clad, all that was missing was her knickers, between her legs he had placed two cotton vests like a makeshift nappy, and (like Ethel) to disguise her discoloured skin, protruding tongue and ruptured eyes which distended out of their sockets, a knotted white towel had been tied around her head. And there she lay; rotting in a cold coal-cellar, nibbled at by rats and gnawed at by maggots, as in her womb, the six month old foetus of a boy slowly suffocated – a forgotten victim of Reg Christie. RITA Elizabeth Nelson had a tough start in life; although a solitary figure, her stubbornness had helped her survive poverty, separation, assault and prostitution, and even being burdened by a lengthy criminal record, she had fled her own country to seek an honest job, a quiet home and better life for her and her unborn baby, hoping to become a good mum with a chance at a bright future. But being too proud to accept help from those she loved, she found only death, at the hands of a man she believed she trusted. And yet, after RITA Nelson and Kathleen Maloney, somewhere in West London, one more vulnerable women would lured to 10 Rillington Place. (End) OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. If you enjoyed parts one to eight of this ten part series, part nine of The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place continues next Thursday, with an omnibus edition once it’s finished. And for any murky milers, stay tuned for the usual pointless twaddle after the break, as well as some very important news about Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast. But before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week; which are Whispered True-Stories and Something’s Not Right. (PLAY PROMO) A huge thank you to my Patreon supporters. I know times are hard and money is tight, so thank you to my new Patreons, my old Patreons, my non-Patreons and also Patreons who are no longer with us; because no matter how you support Murder Mile, whether by rating us, reviewing us, treating us to cash or cake, by sharing the episodes, or by just listening to the podcast, it is hugely appreciated. So this week’s brand new Patreon supporters are Catherine Nickerson, Maria-Rosa Berger, Josie Rosie and Sarah Leheny. Thank you ladies, you are the marzipan wrapped around my Battenberg cake, which is my favourite bit. Yummy. If only I wasn’t on a diet. Damn it. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well.
Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed by various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018 and iTunes Top 50. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Welcome to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within one square mile of the West End.
EPISODE FIFTY-FOUR
Episode Fifty-Four: On an unspecified date in January 1953, 26 year old Kathleen Madeleine Maloney, an orphan, alcoholic and full-times prostitute went missing from the Paddington area. She was never reported missing. And yet she would be the seventh victim of British serial killer John Reginald Halliday Christie.
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THE LOCATION
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Ep54 - The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place – Part Seven (Kathleen Maloney)
INTRO: Law. A system of rules implemented by a government to ensure the people adhere to the will of the state, by shaping what is good or bad, defining what is right or wrong, and with any infractions judged by a randomly selected jury of their peers in a trial which is unbiased, impartial and fair. But the law is not infallible. It’s only as accurate as the evidence it is presented, so mistakes are made. On 9th March 1950 in Pentonville Prison, 24 year old Timothy John Evans, a semi-literate and easily-led fantasist was executed having confessed to the murder of his wife and child – a crime he did not commit. With the real culprit in court, posing as the prosecution’s chief witness (even though he had already murdered five women, including his own wife), the jury unwittingly let a guilty man walk free. It seemed clear-cut, as from the day of Beryl’s murder to the morning of Tim’s execution, the whole case was wrapped up in just four months. Three years later, having realised that an innocent man had been executed, the case of Timothy John Evans would send shockwaves through the establishment, rewrite law and bring an end to the death penalty – but by then, three more women would be dead. Some of what follows is based on the killer’s own memories and perspective; so what part of this story is true… is up to you. My name is Michael. I am your tour-guide. This is Murder Mile. And I present to you; part seven of the full, true and untold story of The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place. SCRIPT: Today, I’m standing on Praed Street, W2; three streets west of the failed assassination attempt of former Iraqi Prime Minister Abd 0061r-Razzaq Said al-Naif, two streets north of the homes of Kathryn Mulcahy and Doris Jounette (the last victims of infamous The Blackout Ripper) and a short dawdle from Paddington Station where Timothy Evans caught a late-night train to Merthyr Vale, having hastily erased any evidence of his wife’s murder and all at her real killer’s command. Like most train stations, Paddington is an area synonymous with pubs and prostitution; where pissed-up losers pump their pin-sized peckers against a disinterested sex-workers derriere, sad-gits in flashing macks pay to have their limp love-length tugged-at like a bored housewife fishing a soggy noodle out of a stinky sink and where hard-up rent-boys receive a mouthful of unwashed manhood from a happily married man who accidentally slipped whilst weeing against a wall. And that’s the truth, officer. Sadly demolished, one such pub frequented by prostitutes and punters alike was The Great Western at 31 Praed Street; a three-storey, brown-brick, corner-facing, classic British boozer; with a ceiling slathered thick with tobacco tar, carpets sticky with spilled ale and the air foul with the funk of fifty farts, in a stiflingly small bar comprising of six bar stools of varying wobble, four types of beer (warm, wet, thick or strong), two flavours of crisps (salty or bland), one form of greeting (surly) and a urinal floor so deep in badly aimed man-widdle, that wellies were a must. And yet, it was here, sometime during the bleak winter of 1952/53, being unfettered and free having murdered his wife, that Reg Christie would meet Kathleen Maloney; an unfortunate woman who life had forgotten, but whose name would be remembered forever. (Interstitial) On 14th January 1950, in Court One of the Old Bailey, (Mr Justice Lewis) “Timothy John Evans, you have been found guilty of murder, do you have anything to say before I pass sentence?” Looking tiny and frightened, standing alone, Tim said nothing, his simple brain too slow to comprehend his fate as the judge donned the infamous black cloth. But as the trembling man was led away to the cells, in a last-ditch attempt to clear his name, he shouted these eponymous words which would reverberate across the court and the country for decades to come - “Christie done it… I’m telling you, Christie done it”. Tim’s cries fell on deaf ears, as across the five-day trial, the credibility and criminal record of John Reginald Halliday Christie had come into question. And having sowed the seeds of doubt over Tim’s guilt, the defence barrister Mr Malcolm Morris had boldly stated “Well, Mr Christie, I have got to suggest to you, and I don’t want there to be any misapprehension about it, that you are responsible for the death of Mrs Evans and the little girl; if that is not so, that you very much know more about the death than you have said”, openly accusing the decorated war-hero and former special constable of being an abortionist and a child-murderer. To which Christie indignantly whispered “that is a lie”. Malcolm Morris had got nearer to the truth than anyone else; Reg knew it, Ethel knew it and Tim’s mum knew it. Shortly after sentencing, Thomasina Probert accosted Reg Christie in the hallway of The Old Bailey and screamed at the top of her lungs “Murderer! Murderer”, and in an ironic twist of fate, the one person who sprang to his defence was Ethel Christie who shouted “Don’t call my husband a murderer. He’s a good man”. Less than two years later, this “good man” would murder Ethel. Christmas 1952 was a very lonely affair for the recently widowed Reg, with no tree, no tinsel, no family and no presents. 10 Rillington Place was deathly quiet. And as a bitter icy wind whipped through the cracked bricks and rattled the loose floorboards, Reg sat alone, in front of an unlit fire, in the sparsely furnished front-room; supping a hot tea, sniffling into a hanky and sucking on a lozenge from a small tin box of Lewis & Burrows ‘Gees Linctus’ Pastilles having caught a cold. His only companion was his mongrel dog Judy, his only entertainment; a brown suitcase full of photos, cuttings and knickknacks. (Ethel’s echo) “Don’t call my husband a murderer. He’s a good man”. As loneliness crept in, Reg busied himself with daily household chores like burning rubbish in the back garden, selling off the furniture, pawning Ethel’s possessions, washing the floorboards with a strong disinfectant, tipping buckets of bleach down the drains and sprinkling floral cleaning fluid in front of his bay-window, to eradicate a feted pungent aroma which he blamed on dog poo, damp and dirty water. And as Ethel’s bloated body slowly rotted right underneath his feet, having lied to Lily that her sister’s rheumatism was too bad to write her a card so she would recuperate in London over Christmas, on that same day, over the short garden wall of 9 and 10 Rillington Place, Reg waved what Rosina Swan thought was a telegram, supposedly from Ethel; it read “Arrived safely in Sheffield, love to Rosie”. At which, Reg laughed and in a hauntingly dark jibe, he quipped “I will have to choke her off for sending love to you and not me”, all said as he stood several feet from the infamous washhouse, Ethel’s strangled body under the floorboards and the two shallow graves undiscovered for almost a decade. That Christmas Day, feeling sorry for the aging ailing man who was too ill to work, too feeble to cook and too poor to light a fire, in a gesture of kindness, Louisa & John Gregg and their aunt Rosina Swan invited this lonely man round to 9 Rillington Place, where they drank, sang and made-merry… …but as his loneliness grew and his dark urges stirred, having already got away with five murders and with no-one to stop him, somewhere in London, three more victims awaited Reg Christie. (Interstitial) Kathleen Madeleine Maloney was born in the industrial port city of Plymouth on the 19th August 1926. Originally from Ireland, her father Daniel scraped-by collecting the city’s scraps as a rag-and-bone man; foraging for metal to sell, cloth to sew into clothes and bits of wood to burn, as mother Lily, older sister Lillian, step sister Edith and Kathleen the youngest, survived in a hand-to-mouth existence. Raised in a squalid tumbledown dock-worker’s cottage at 112 King Street; with four struggling families squeezed into just two floors with no electricity, gas or running water; just rats, lice and a leaky roof, although she grew-up in the supposed glitz and glamour of the Roaring Twenties, Kathleen resembled a ragged urchin from a damp Victorian slum, with bare feet, matted hair, dirty skin and an empty belly. And being burdened by a plump round face, bad teeth and a crooked eye, she was mercilessly bullied. In her hard, short and troubled life; so vague are the details that many remain a mystery, so chaotic was her way of living that her last movements are unknown, and so forgotten would she become that we don’t even know on what day she died, but as a ragged and starving child struggling in the dockside slums of Plymouth, for Kathleen Maloney, these would be the best days of her life. In 1931, two years after the economic collapse of the Wall Street Crash which plunged the world into financial meltdown, as if the struggle of a hungry, bullied and emaciated child wasn’t tough enough, when Kathleen was only five years old, in the same year, her father died… and then her mother died. As three young siblings; Kathleen, Ethel and Lillian were briefly taken-in by their Aunt Emily who lived one door away at 110 King Street, but as a starving mother herself who struggled to keep the unruly girl on the straight-and-narrow, two years later, having been separated from Edith, Lillian and Kathleen were sent to St Nazareth’s on Plymouth’s Durnford Street; a strict Catholic orphanage where –- being cruelly split-up from her big sister - she lost contact with Lillian too. She was a lonely, scared eight year old and this would be her life for the next decade. With no family, no friends and no role-models; only bellowing priests with scornful eyes, furious nuns with unholy tempers and older girls with bad habits, feeling utterly worthless, Kathleen rebelled and was regularly beaten with a cane on the hands, the bottom and the back for minor misdemeanours like smoking, swearing, theft and fraternising with boys. But with the beatings being no deterrent to a tough little girl with no hope, having started small, her criminal career had nowhere to go but up. Aged fourteen, with war declared and St Nazareth’s evacuated for fear of being bombed, Kathleen and the other girls were billeted ten miles away in Elfordleigh; a grand country-club on 223 acres of land in the picturesque Devonshire countryside. Her stay should have given this ragged orphan a brief glimpse at a better life, but with the building having been requisitioned for the war effort, in the spring of 1944, Elfordleigh would become home to (not only) eighty lonely and hormonal girls from the local convent… but (in preparation for the D-Day Landings) a regiment of the Royal Marines. It seemed like an easy solution to a persistent problem, as all she had to do was kiss, cuddle and flirt with the over-amorous soldiers to be blessed with everything she ever wanted; like alcohol, chocolate and attention, but soon, as shillings were traded for sex, although it seemed like harmless fun, this first foray into the sex-trade would lead Kathleen down the path to misery, poverty and death. On the 19th August 1944, her 18th birthday, having been arrested for fraternising with a black American GI, Kathleen was sent to the much harsher Convent of the Good Shepherd in nearby Saltash, and although even they couldn’t tame her wild ways, just a few months later, as the Plymouth Probation Service transferred her back by train to St Nazareth’s, Kathleen absconded. With no job, no skills and no money, having hitchhiked the 200 miles to London and with her only means of support by selling her body on the streets, Kathleen Maloney began her short hard life as a prostitute – a dangerous profession where – in The Great Western pub at 31 Praed Street – she would pick-up all manner of drunk, druggie, pervert, sex-pest… and murderer (Interstitial) Except, as a deeply moral, honest and teetotal man, who never frequented pubs and never fraternised with prostitutes, there is simply no-way that Kathleen and Reg could ever have met… (Christie) “One evening I went up to Ladbroke Grove to get some fish and chips. On the way back, a drunken woman demanded a pound for me to take her round the corner. I said “I’m not interested”. I’m not like that. I haven’t had any intercourse with any women for over two years. She demanded thirty shillings and said she would scream that I had interfered with her if I didn’t give it to her. I walked away but she came right to my door and when I opened it, she forced her way in…” …and that was the truth, according to Reg. The last seven years of Kathleen Maloney’s life are a mystery. As being a forgotten woman who had nothing; having no will, no known next-of-kin and never being listed as missing, from her late teens to early twenties, the last pieces of her life are picked from a series of shambolic statements by casual acquaintances, extracts from her criminal record and a few fragments found in an orphanage. On 19th January 1945 at Bow Street Magistrates Court, Kathleen was found guilty of wandering abroad. Her crime? Being homeless. She was bound-over for two years and fined £5 which she couldn’t afford. Eight weeks later, being in breach her probation having slept in a doorway, she was sentenced to three months in Holloway Prison, where (for once) she had a bed, hot meals, clean clothes and medical care for her and her unborn baby. But having served her time, she was booted-out back onto the street. Fleeing to the port city of Southampton, where the baby’s father (an unnamed Norwegian seaman) was based, Kathleen gave birth to a baby boy called Danny, and trying to be a good mum, she shared a small lodging at 33 Russell Street with her friend Sylvia Sowerby and started work as a cleaner. But as a hopeless alcoholic with a coarse tongue, a fierce temper and a history of violence, unable to function unless she was soused in red wine, as she drifted back into sex-work, two year old Danny was taken into care, and over the next seven years, her baby boy would be joined by four more. Trapped in a vicious circle of drink and sex, as her criminal record expanded, her life collapsed; April 45, a public order offence for receiving stolen goods. February 46, one month in prison for “lodging in an outhouse in a condition likely to cause infection” having slept in a public toilet. November 48, one month in prison for being drunk and disorderly. April 49, three months prison for assaulting a police officer. July 49, one month for indecency. February 50, two months for prostitution. September 50, two months for theft. February 52, one month for drunkenness and obscenity. And December 52, she spent a further fourteen days in prison and was fined £2 for being drunk and disorderly. By Christmas 1952, after seven years on the streets, fourteen and a half months in prison and as a homeless penniless alcoholic who was four months pregnant with her sixth child; with cold cramping her hands, hunger growling in her gut and her shoes sodden as an icy wind blew down Praed Street, twenty-five year old Kathleen staggered into The Great Western pub to pick-up a punter. In need of just the basics to survive a single night in a bitter British winter; such as a bed, a bite to eat and some booze, she didn’t care who he was, where they went, or what he wanted. (Interstitial) (Christie) “When I opened the door she forced her way in to the kitchen, she was still on about those thirty shillings. I tried to get her out and she picked up a frying pan to hit me. There was a struggle and she fell back on the deck-chair. There was a piece of rope hanging from it. I don’t remember what happened but I must have gone haywire. The next thing I remember she was lying still with the rope around her neck”. Kathleen lived from day-to-day, hand-to-mouth and bed-to-bed; with no home, money or hope, just the clothes on her back, the shoes on her feet and the baby in her belly, having sex with any man just so she had a warm bed to sleep. As one of hundreds of prostitutes in the Paddington area, Kathleen (known as “Kay” or “Maloney”) picked-up punters in the local pubs; The Cider House on Harrow Road (where she washed in the sink), The Westminster Arms on Praed Street (where she had worked as a cleaner), The Mitre in Marble Arch (where the landlord paid one of her fines) and The King’s Arms on the Edgware Road, where she met a twenty year old girl called Maureen Mary Ann Riggs; an orphan who had absconded from a convent, served prison time, worked as a part-time waitress and prostitute and was known locally as “Edgware Road Jacky”. And so, finding their kindred spirit, Jacky and Kathleen became practically inseparable. On an unspecified date, sometime in October 1952, two months before Reg was allegedly accosted by a drunken Irish woman whilst buying fish & chips in Ladbroke Grove, Jacky & Kathleen met a man in The Great Western pub at 31 Praed Street. As a regular customer, the sex-workers said he was polite, friendly, paid well and - apart from occasional bouts of erectile dysfunction – he was no bother. As an odd little man; who was short, scrawny, balding and bespectacled, wearing a badly crumpled suit, thick-lensed spectacles and false teeth which slipped when he smiled, he didn’t look sinister, he looked silly. And as an ex-Special Constable “commended twice”, a war hero “awarded the British War & Victory Medal” and a grieving widower whose beloved wife of “thirty-two years to be precise” had recently died (even though, at that point, Ethel wasn’t dead), the locals knew him as “John” and “Chris” (Christie) “But I prefer it if you call me Reg”. Except, next time they met, he said his name was “Frank”. As a good natured drunk, who danced badly and sang loudly, Kathleen would talk to anyone, especially if they brought her a drink. So having splashed out on a Scotch for Jacky, a red wine for Kathleen and a half pint for himself, Reg made them an offer, all the while, his eyes wide as he licked his lips. Three weeks before Christmas and one week before Ethel’s death, in an unspecified top-floor flat off Marylebone Lane, which had been rigged-up like a photography studio, Kathleen and Jacky posed for Reg. Sometimes they were clothed, semi-clad or nude. Sometimes they were seated and spread, bent over and open. Sometimes they were alone, together or posed with Reg; his scrawny white body perched behind Jacky, his penis erect, as he pretended to penetrate her from behind. Having dressed, Jacky & Kathleen asked for the fifty shillings each (roughly £75 today) he had agreed to pay them, but Reg was broke. As the two girls became enraged, spinning a merry tale, he handed them twenty shillings-a-piece and promised a cut of the profits once the photos had been sold. But the photos were never seen, the girls were never paid and four weeks later, Kathleen would be dead. Exactly when she was murdered we may never know; Christie stated he last saw her in October 1952, Jacky on New Year’s Day 1953, with various sources stating she was last alive anywhere between 19th January, mid-to-late February, or even as late as early March 1953, but having never been reported as missing, the last reliable sighting of Kathleen Maloney alive is this. On an unspecified date; which was either “a week”, “ten days” or “at least two weeks” after Christmas 1952, a thirty-five year old sex-worker, separated mother-of-two and a part-time cleaner of the Red Lion pub called Catherine Struthers, who went by the alias of “Kitty Foley”, met Kathleen Maloney in The Westminster Arms at 11 Praed Street, a few doors down from The Great Western. Described as five foot three inches tall, with dyed blonde hair and dark streaks, a stocky figure, a plump face, bad teeth and a crooked eye, who wore a familiar thick black coat, a white cotton cardigan and a black shirt, having been friends for a few months, there is no denying that the woman Kitty met was Kathleen. This sighting was confirmed by Augustine Murray, barman of The Westminster Arms. At 5:30pm, Reg Christie; a semi-regular customer at the pub with an easily identifiable look, manner and voice, sat by the fire, laughed with the ladies and bought them both a bottle of Stingo (a very strong Yorkshire beer). To Kitty, it was clear that Kathleen liked Reg, trusted him and pitied the recent widower who offered her a few shillings, a bed for the night and some of his dead wife’s clothes. And although Reg sniffled, being burdened by a winter cold, Kitty had no reason to be suspicious. He seemed like a sweet old man who listened politely, talked quietly and kindly offered them a menthol sweet from a small box of Lewis & Burrows “Gees Linctus” Pastilles, which kept in his pocket. At roughly 9 or 10pm, with Kathleen having knocked-back eight pints of Slingo, being unsteady on her feet, cheerfully singing and feeling a tad peckish, Kathleen and Reg left The Westminster Arms and hopped on the No27 bus to Notting Hill. That was the last confirmed sighting of Kathleen Maloney. So, exactly what happened next is a mystery. None of the neighbours saw Reg or Kathleen walk into Rillington Place. None of the tenants heard any shouting coming from the ground-floor flat. And with the Police choosing to ignore Tim’s claim that “Christie done it… I’m telling you, Christie done it”, believing the right man had been executed, there was no surveillance or further investigation into the life of John Reginald Halliday Christie. Why she went with Reg, we shall never know? Maybe being hungry, the lure of a free meal (of potato, peas and carrots) was too great? Maybe being cold, a set of second hand clothes was too tempting? Maybe being four months pregnant, he enticed her in with the promise of a cheap (but not entirely risk-free) abortion? Or maybe, being homeless, what she wanted was just a warm bed on a cold night? Having stated that she had assaulted him, Christie would later claim: “She wanted me to be intimate with her and started taking things off. I said no, I don’t do that sort of thing. I tried to stop her. She was very repulsive and I wanted her out of my house. I don’t remember what happened, everything sort of went haywire, but I remember thinking, ‘Alright… if ever a woman deserves to die, you do”. Being only small yet heavily intoxicated to the point where she could barely stand, although she was trusting, defenceless and had a blood alcohol level of 0.24 (three times over the drink drive limit), fearing she would fight back, Reg incapacitated her even further. With the semi-conscious malnourished girl slumped in the deck-chair, having switched off the kitchen stove, opened the side window a crack and removed the square glass jar, with the long rubber hose trailing under her seat, he unplugged the bulldog clip and let the gas drift up. Unlike Beryl and Muriel, who had willingly inhaled the gas (to clear her catarrh and as an anaesthetic for an abortion), Kathleen was too drunk to even realise, and as the invisible odourless gas rendered her unconscious, as the Carbon Monoxide in her lungs reached a lethal level, only then, did Reg pull a pillowcase over her face, and with both hands gripped taut, he strangled her with a black stocking. (Christie’s whisper) “After that I believe I made a cup of tea and went to bed”. In his many statements, Christie would deny that any sex took place between himself and this drunken woman that he found so repulsive, and although sperm was found in her vagina, it’s impossible to confirm if the intercourse occurred when she was alive or dead. (Christie) “I got up in the morning, went into the kitchen, I washed, shaved and she was still in the deck-chair, a pillowcase on her head and a stocking around her neck. I believe I then made some tea”. Having wrapped her body in a flannelette blanket, tied her ankles with a sock and stripped her body bare of everything except for a white cotton cardigan, (as he had done with Ethel) he stuffed a white cotton vest between her legs like a makeshift nappy, but no-one knows why. And then.., (Christie) “I pulled away a small cupboard and gained access to the kitchen alcove. I knew it was there because a pipe burst in the frosty weather. I must have put her in there. I don’t remember doing it”. And there she remained, raped and strangled, curled-up in the foetal position, in a dirty unused alcove in Reg Christie’s kitchen. With no missing person’s report and no investigation into her disappearance, twenty-four year old Kathleen Madeleine Maloney, the cruelly orphaned girl, was as forgotten in life as she was in death. The next time her step-sister Edith would see her was in a newspaper obituary. Although it’s unclear when she was murdered, one thing we know for certain; when the Police opened the alcove, they found three bodies, not one, and with Kathleen being in the middle, by the time of her death, Christie had already killed another woman and there was one more still to come. Once again, John Reginald Halliday Christie had got away with murder; and with two bodies in the back garden, two in a grave, one under the floor, two in the alcove and one executed for his crimes, he believed he had fooled everyone… but something from his past would come back to haunt him. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. If you enjoyed parts one to seven of this ten part series, part eight of The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place continues next Thursday, with an omnibus edition once it’s finished. And for any murky milers, stay tuned for the chatty farty burpy mouth squits after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week; which are One Eye Open and American Slacker. (PLAY PROMO) Some lovely thank you’s this week; firstly to Danielle Toogood who’s become a much-loved Patreon supporter, so thank you Danielle, I hope you enjoyed hearing this episode and knowing it’s not officially released for another couple of days. No spoilers. A big thank you to Helen O’Brien who very kindly sent a donation to Keep Murder Mile alive… or full of cake, I’m unsure if there’s a difference, so thank you Helen. And it was lovely to meet Murder Mile listeners on a recent-ish Murder Mile Walk; they were Des & Collette Arthur (thanks for the Tunnocks and tea, very yummy indeed), as well as “king of the ticket refunds” Tom Hughes, with Lara Epsley and eek, the other lady whose name I forgot, but then I did say that I struggle to remember more than four names, anyway thank you for the pint. If you want to book onto a Murder Mile Walk, you can do it through my website, on it you’ll hear loads of stories you will never hear on the podcast, I’ll show you some familiar podcast sights, we’ll probably be accosted by a crack-addict, and then, afterwards, you can treat your loved one to a Murder Mile mug which I can deliver to you on the tour. Don’t forget, Valentine’s Day is only a few weeks away. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well.
Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed by various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. 
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