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Battlebridge Basin on the Regent's Canal (where the dismembered body parts were found)
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 TWENTY THREE
Episode Twenty Three: On 19th February 2001, at Battlebridge Basin, ten dismembered body-parts, belonging to an unidentified woman, wrapped in six separate bags, were found submerged in the Regent's Canal. But who was she? And who had murdered her?
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THE LOCATIONS
IMPORTANT: You're probably thinking, "hello, where's all those lovely coloured dots on the map gone?" Don't worry, there still there, but that was the Murder Mile map of one square mile of Soho & Covent Garden, where-as this is a brand-new map of Paddington & Bayswater; a different square mile of London's West End, which we shall return to over the next 100+ episodes.
As the photos of John Sweeney, Melissa Halstead and Paula Fields are copyright protected by 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.
23 – Canal Killers – John Sweeney (Paula Fields & Melissa Halstead)
INTRO: Thank you for downloading episode twenty three of the Murder Mile true-crime podcast. If you enjoy Murder Mile? You’ll be delighted to hear that I’ve set-up a secret hidey-hole where I shall stash some truly fantastic treats relating to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast; including behind-the-scene videos, crime-scene photos, biographies, case-notes, transcripts and exclusive monthly episodes which delve deep into the lives of Soho’s most colourful criminal characters as featured in the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast. And with a tiny donation of just $3 per month (or £2 in real money), you will also ensure the future of Murder Mile for years to come. To check out our Patron page, please go to www.patreon.com/murdermile or click on the link in the show-notes. Don’t forget to stay tuned to the end of this episode to hear more about Murder Mile’s recommended podcast of the week, this time it’s the fabulous Based on a True-Crime. Thank you for listening and enjoy the episode. SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within one square mile of the West End. Today’s episode is about John Sweeney; a deeply deranged, dangerous and violent alcoholic, whose jealousy, rage and hatred of women left to a bloody trail of body-parts across Europe. Murder Mile contains graphic descriptions of death which may offend, as well as realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 23: Canal Killers – John Sweeney Part 1 (Paula Fields & Melissa Halstead) Today I’m chugging along the Regent’s Canal, passing a recently renovated part of King’s Cross called Battlebridge Basin; a former Victorian wharf in which vast blocks of arctic ice were once stored in stone cellars providing the city with a steady supply of cold drinks, fresh fruit and ice-cream, back in the days before fridges. Ooh, a historical tit-bit, how fascinating. Now, Battlebridge Basin is perched in the typical kind of former crack-hovel and whore-haven which property developers cram full of empty art-galleries, wanky wine-bars, offices for arseholes and hardly used shag-pads, having conned a couple of hipster half-wits to stump-up a big wodge of cash for a drafty shithole in an “up and coming area”, which (we all know) is code for “rough as fuck”. And perched opposite that is an uneven stony tow-path, lined with a cavalcade of canal-boaters, all batting away an endless barrage of baffling questions from nosey nincompoops such as “do you live on a boat?”, “yes I live on a boat”, “oh, well where do you sleep?”, “I sleep in my bed”, “oh, and how do you wash?”, “in my shower”, “and you cook?”, “in my kitchen”, “drink?”, “from a glass”, “stay warm?”, “by the fire”, all which is topped-off by a bonkers pile of dribbly mouth-plop such as “so, what do you eat”, only for the frustrated boater to want to reply ““food, I eat food”, only to realise that Dipshit McThickTwit won’t piddle off until he’s received the answer he’d hoped you’d say like “I catch fish with my teeth, I forage in bins, I blow otters for tobacco cash and I grow my own mung-beans using an old mix of ear-wax, toe-chud and belly-button fluff”. It’s sad because it’s true. And if this area sounds slightly familiar to you, that’s because it’s just one hundred metres from the flat of drug-dealer Michael Walsh, three hundred metres from Caledonian Road and six hundred metres from the West Portal of the Islington Tunnel where devoted father, Italian tour-guide and heroin-addict Sebastiano Magnanini was found hog-tied to a shopping trolley and dumped in the Regent’s Canal. And it was here, at Battlebridge Basin, on Monday 19th February 2001, that in six separate bags, weighed down with various house-bricks, that ten dismembered body-parts of a woman were fished out of the canal; these hastily hacked-up remains having belonged to the ex-girlfriend of a jealous, drunk and vengeful sadist, whose name was John Sweeney. (INTERSTITIAL). Born John Patrick Sweeney on Saturday 13th October 1956; Sweeney was raised in Kirkdale, a working-class district of Liverpool that borders the towns of Bootle, Walton and Everton, in an era when this prosperous city had shifted from being one of Britain’s busiest shipping ports, only to slide into economic decline and endemic poverty, and end up full of crumbling Victorian terraces, pockmarked with the bomb craters of the World War Two blitz. Sweeney’s upbringing was unremarkable and uneventful, as although the family were poor, Jack and Catherine (his parents) instilled into their son an Irish Catholic sense of morality, pride, hard-work and family values. And although life was tough, money was tight and the future looked bleak, in 1950’s Liverpool; a city packed full of working-class Irish families, Sweeney’s childhood was normal. And as a bright boy, from a good family, with no qualifications, although he spoke with a stutter for which the young boy was mercilessly bullied, Sweeney set about learning a trade, earning a wage, and seeing the world as a jobbing carpenter. For five years, Sweeney crossed the Continent, working on various construction sites in France, Spain, Italy, Germany, Austria and Holland; with a kitbag full of tools; a wallet full of cash and an eye for the ladies. But it was here, during this blank spot in his history, that Sweeney’s personality changed forever; something had shifted, something had snapped and something had broken, and what returned to England a few years later, was a bitter, angry and jealous man whose life was consumed by a passion for drink, a hunger for drugs and a thirst for extreme violence. Aged twenty, having returned to Liverpool, John Sweeney still looked like the boy who’d left a few years earlier, with his curly red hair, dark blue eyes, a cheeky grin and arched (clown-like) eyebrows, but now his hair was thinning, his eyes were bloodshot, his nose was bulbous, his cheeks were rosy like those of a rampant alcoholic, and his almost angelic face which always seemed to be smiling, cheery and kind, belied a vicious temper and sadistic rage which bubbled beneath. Sweeney had come home, to see his family, to settle down and to find himself a wife. But this road to love would ultimately lead Sweeney down the path of violence, torture, dismemberment and death. (INTERSTITIAL) Having found himself a good woman with a warm heart, a kind smile and strong family values, in 1976 John Patrick Sweeney married Anne Bramley and moved into their matrimonial home in Skelmersdale in Lancashire (14 miles from his home-town of Kirkdale), which was quickly followed by the births of their two children, Michael and Tracey. But this was not the home of a happy family. With Sweeney’s binge-drinking and excessive use of cannabis; two very different drugs, known to cause and also exacerbate a user’s sense of aggression, hostility, depression, anxiety and paranoia; not only had Sweeney started using aliases – like Joe Johnson, Joe Carole and often being referred to as “Scouse Joe” - to cover his increasing criminal convictions for drunkenness, drug-possession, theft and assault, but as a father and a husband he was often absent, distant and violent. In 1979, three years into their turbulent marriage, with the safety of her two toddlers to consider, as well as her own life, and having reported Sweeney to the Police on numerous occasions for assault and battery, Anne made a brave decision and divorced her violent and abusive husband. But just two years later; having apologised and promised Anne that he was a changed man, with the drink and drugs behind him and a bright future ahead, Anne gave Sweeney one last chance, and in 1981, they remarried. But Sweeney hadn’t changed; he was still drunk, drugged and dangerous, and with Anne having left him once before, her rejection had lit a fire in Sweeney’s belly, and there was no way that she was ever going to leave him again. Their second marriage would last barely a year. Becoming more paranoid, hostile and violent; having thrown bricks at her window, bashed in the family turtles and repeatedly threatened Anne’s life; verbally, physically and artistically - with Sweeney having handed his son a gruesome pencil sketch depicting his mother, dead and lying in a coffin, scrawled on the gravestone the words “Rest in Peace Anne” - once again, fearing for her family’s life, Anne made a midnight run to the safety of her family home in Northampton. But no matter how far she ran or how well she hid, Sweeney would always find her. In November 1982, having moved herself and her two young children into a small cottage in Ormskirk; a small market town in West Lancashire, just 14 miles north of Liverpool, Anne thought she had found sanctuary, but her peace was shattered, as she had been followed here by Sweeney. That evening, as a cold wintery wind whipped over the hills, the moon shadowed by thick clouds and a cold sharp frost crunching under foot, Sweeney crept towards the family home. Through a crack in the curtains, he spied a single light on inside, but hearing no voices, no sounds and no movement, he broke the lock on the backdoor, knowing no-one was home. Inside lay the detritus of the family life he felt had been denied by Anne; with food in the cupboards, toys on the floor and photos on the mantelpiece, Sweeney slunk into the darkness of Anne’s bedroom, opened the wardrobe, crept inside and hid. And as he stood there, surrounded by the familiar sight of her clothes and the scent of her perfume, all of which reminded him of how she had rejected him, Sweeney lay in wait for his wife to return, a pick-axe in one hand, a claw-hammer in the other. But he didn’t have to wait long, as just a few minutes later, from inside his wife’s wardrobe, Sweeney heard the jangle of her house-keys, her front-door unlock and her house-lights slowly illuminate each room as footsteps calmly walked into her bedroom. With his knuckles white with anticipation as he tightly gripped the pick-axe and claw-hammer in both fists, having readied himself for a vicious and frenzied attack on his soon-to-be ex-wife, Sweeney burst out of the wardrobe, his wild eyes fixed… …on two policemen; both big, ready and packing handcuffs; as Sweeney dropped his weapons, his stutter went into overdrive as he unleashed a volley of excuses about who he was, why he was there and what on earth he was doing in the wardrobe with a pick-axe and a claw-hammer. Thankfully, Anne and the kids, having spent a pleasant evening at their neighbour’s house, and heard the sounds of an intruder breaking in, assumed it was a burglar, called the Police and John Sweeney was arrested. But he wasn’t charged with attempted murder or attempted manslaughter. As with no assault committed, malicious intent being hard to prove and the incident having occurred in what was (technically) his own house, so the law was at a loss with what to do with him, but owing to his long-history of threats and violence against Anne, John Sweeney was “bound-over to keep the peace” by Ormskirk Magistrates Court, meaning that – as a condition of his bail – he had to stay away from Anne. That same year, Sweeney started afresh and moved to London, where he remained for decades, only returning to Liverpool to see his mum. And although he and Anne crossed paths, for the sake of the kids they remained on civil terms, until her death in 2001, when she lost a long battle with cancer. The same year that ten dismembered body-parts (consisting of two arms, two legs and a woman’s torso), wrapped in six separate bags and weighted down with house-bricks were found submerged at Battlebridge Basin in the Regent’s Canal. But the body in the canal was not Anne. Sweeney never made an attempt on Anne’s life again. Maybe he never had the chance? Maybe he still loved her? Or maybe he knew it was wrong to deprive his kids of a loving mother? But with so much jealousy in his eyes, so much hatred in his heart and so much anger in his bones, Sweeney (once again) went looking for love, and her name was Melissa Halstead. Born in Oakwood (Ohio), the middle child to Margaret & Jack Halstead, a middle-class couple with a dentist’s surgery in Dayton; Melissa Halstead was bright, bubbly and bold, whose free-spirited nature was matched only by her kindness, warmth and compassion. And being a beautiful woman, with sparkling eyes, excellent pose and a stunning bone structure, Melissa was quickly scooped up by New York’s famous Ford Modelling Agency, where he career as a fashion model began, touring across America, Europe and Asia. Described by her brother Jack Junior as “egocentric” and “magnanimous”, Melissa always saw the best in people, never the worst, and although she was slow to trust a stranger “once you were her friend, you were her friend for life”. By 1986, having retrained as a fashion photographer and make-up artist, Melissa had settled down in London and a new chapter in her life was about to begin... and end. Melissa told her family very little about her new boyfriend, who was known as “Scouse Joe”, and quite what she saw in this ruddy-cheeked, red-headed, moody, drunken, twice-divorced handyman with a lengthy criminal past and a long history of violence, was anybody’s guess? Nut whatever it was, it wasn’t worth it. Described by Sweeney as a “love-hate” relationship, with Melissa being hopelessly besotted by her drunken abusive beau and him being a short-fused and quick-fisted alcoholic, often he’d explode in a jealous rage, as he pummelled and scarred her strikingly beautiful face with a never-ending series of black eyes, bloody lips and swollen cheeks. The warning signs were there. And on three separate occasions, having tried to leave him, Sweeney was arrested and charged with (ABH) Actual Bodily Harm for having violently assaulted Mellissa during their brief and tempestuous liaison. In September 1987, he smashed her in the face with a stool. In December 1987, he beat her so badly (as she lay cowering on the floor) that he fractured her legs. On one occasion he was heard to scream “Who do you think you are? I’m the one who says what you can and can’t do”, and yet, for both offences, he served no prison time and was fined just £5. And in April 1988, having threatened Melissa with a knife, scaring her so badly that – in a haunting premonition of her grisly death, she remarked to her sister that “if I go missing, it’s John Sweeney who would have killed me” - this time, Sweeney was “bound over” by the courts, as had happened with his ex-wife Anne, the condition being that he had to stay away from Melissa forever. In October 1988, in a mixed blessing by the British Government, with Melissa living having worked using an expired permit, she was deported from the United Kingdom and restarted her life again in Austria, France, Germany, Belgium and Holland, hundreds of miles away from Sweeney. But no matter how far she travelled, how well she hid and how carefully she covered her tracks, each time she moved, Sweeney would find her; his anger fuelled by drink, his paranoia stoked by spliffs, his jealousy fired-up by her rejection, and the court’s bail conditions invalid outside of the UK. Having stalked his supposedly deceitful girlfriend across six different European countries, on Tuesday 1st November 1988, Sweeney tracked Melissa to her new flat in the Austrian city of Vienna. Being drunk, drugged and deluded; having found it impossible to believe that the relationship’s failure was his fault and obsessed with the idea that Melissa had cheated on him, Sweeney broke in via the back-door, bound and gagged her friend and ransacked her flat, as he trashed every cupboard, drawer and box-file for any evidence of her obvious infidelity. Experience of his violent jealous rages had taught Melissa well; she knew not to rile him, confront him or even answer back, instead sensing that he needed to cool off, she purchased him a ticket to Amsterdam where he could smoke weed, drink beer and chill. Whether this was a kind gesture to quell his agitated mental state, a cunning ploy to distract this dangerous man long enough to escape, or an honest promise to rekindle their relationship in the next city on her itinerary, is unknown? Regardless, the ruse worked, Sweeney took the ticket and left. But a few days of getting boozed-up and stoned-out had done little to quell the fiery Scouser’s temper, and sensing that this ticket was a simply scam, to either pacify him, bribe him, or shrug him off, just as every bloody woman had done in his shitty little life; having rejected his love, his kindness and his loyalty. Oh yes, those lying cheating bitches had conspired against him, and he would make them pay. Melissa was to blame; she had rejected, just like Anne; she had abandoned him, just like Anne; and she had destroyed him, just like Anne. Sweeney’s anger had come full-circle and now it was time to complete what he had begun, and to get his revenge. On Friday 4th November 1988, just four days later, and almost exactly six years after his failed attack on Anne from inside her bedroom wardrobe, Sweeney approached Melissa’s flat. Unlike that night at Anne’s cottage, Melissa was home. Unlike that night, he didn’t break-in, he knocked. Unlike that night, as Melissa saw her stalker return and a heated argument ensued. But just like that night, six years earlier at Anne’s cottage, Sweeney was ready, as grasped in his right hand, his knuckles white with anticipation, he clutched a claw-hammer. As Melissa led Sweeney up the stairs to her first-floor flat, facing forward with her back turned, she felt a heavy thud, heard a dull crack and her vision went black, as straddling her – his teeth gritted, his eyes wild, his arm swung high - Sweeney struck the soft skull of a petite woman who was half his weight, his foot-long hammer raining blows down upon her with over half a kilo of steel. Somehow, Melissa survived. From her hospital bed, having escaped with her life and suffered nothing more than severe bruising and a fractured skull, Melissa later stated “I only ever wanted to help him, but now I know he must have really hated me”. Later that day, John Sweeney was arrested For the unprovoked attack on Melissa Halstead, which left the ex-model traumatised, in pain and disfigured; after four months in custody, having claimed that it wasn’t a premeditated attack, but an emotional act between two lovers in the heat of a passionate debate, Austrian authorities were unable to charge Sweeney with attempted murder or even attempted manslaughter, and (once again) Sweeney was found guilty of the lesser charge of aggravated assault, he was sentenced to a 10 year deportation order and just 12 months in prison. His short sentence and early release having been assured after an impassioned plea to the judge by the one person that he had almost killed - Melissa. Incredulous at her sister’s forgiveness from her hospital bed of the man who had attempted to murder her, Chance O’Hara asked her sister if she had lost her frigging mind, but – being a kind, warm and caring soul, who only saw only the good, even in those who were bad through and through – Melissa had believed his cries, tears, begging and his promise to leave her alone, if she would get him out. In March 1989, having accepted his apology and his promise that he was a changed man, with the drink and drugs behind him and a bright future ahead, and (just like Anne), Melissa gave Sweeney one last chance, and – having served just six months in prison – they rekindled their relationship. Barely a few months later; the footless, handless and headless corpse of 33 year old Melissa Halstead would be found, hidden in a duffle bag, floating in a canal having brutally died at the hands of her evil sadistic and jealous boyfriend. But Melissa was not the body which had been found at Battlebridge Basin in the Regent’s Canal. That woman was still alive, for now, as she was yet to become a future ex-girlfriend of John Sweeney. To be continued. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. And don’t forget, if you are the victim of domestic abuse, or you have inflicted violence against a loved one, never be afraid to speak out, as professional help is only a phone-call away. As a treat to you all, this week’s recommended podcast of the week is called ‘Based on a True-Crime’, and if (like me) you’re both a film-buff and a true-crime nut, Chelsea & David who host this awesome podcast, not only do they dive into some truly classic films (such Amityville Horror, The Exorcist and my personal favourite 10 Rillington Place) but they also analyse the crime which inspired the film, debunking any myths, mistakes and narrative additions for dramatic licence. Check out their promo. Don’t forget to check out the Murder Mile website at murdermiletours.com, find us on Twitter or Instagram, or join the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast discussion group on Facebook. A quick thank you this week to the fabulous people who have left five-star reviews of Murder Mile and have been truly fabulous on social media, they include; Suzie Brace, Mandi Collins, Ian Flintham, Kazzerlicious, Ferris the Frog, Nala Llabnrut, Janine Maddon, Clairelet, Stuart who left a fabulous comment on the Murder Mile blog about the Denmark Place Fire and to Gearoid Curley, who h=not only listens to the Murder Mile podcast, but came all the way for Cork to come on the Murder Mile Walk, I thank you. And Kaz Every. And of course a quick shout-out goes to my good friend, Barry at the Extraordinary Stories Podcast; if you fancy shaking up your true-crime playlist, and adding in a big dose of myths, murders, theories and conspiracies, all of which is well-told and truly mind-bending stuff, wrap your head around the Extraordinary Stories Podcast. Available on all podcast platforms. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Next week’s episode… is the concluding part of Canal Killer – John Sweeney. Thank you for listening and sleep well. 24 – Canal Killers Pt2 – John Sweeney (Paula Fields & Melissa Halstead) INTRO: Thank you for downloading episode twenty four of the Murder Mile true-crime podcast. If you’re new to Murder Mile, please note that this episode is the concluding part of a two-part special into canal-killer John Patrick Sweeney, so I would strongly advise you download any other episode. For regular listeners, thank you for listening, for sharing, for reviewing, for spotting the secret thing (that only a select few have found, one of whom did so whilst picking up dog-poo) and to those who’ve signed up to the exclusive content on the Murder Mile Patreon account, I thank you. Don’t forget to stay tuned to the end of this episode to hear more about Murder Mile’s recommended podcast of the week, this time it’s the murderously good Wining about Crime. Thank you for listening and enjoy the episode. SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within one of three square miles. Ooh. Today’s episode is the conclusion to the story of John Sweeney; an abusive, violent and dangerously disturbed man whose drug-fuelled paranoia and insane jealousy of his girlfriends, led to a bloody trail of body-parts across Europe, the full-extent of his brutality remains a mystery even today. Murder Mile contains graphic details of abuse, torture and death which may offend, as well as realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 24: Canal Killers – John Sweeney Part 2 (Paula Fields & Melissa Halstead) Today I’m not within one square mile of Soho, Paddington, King’s Cross, or even the Regent’s Canal; I’m 256 miles away in Holland’s beautiful capital city of Amsterdam; a coastal city crammed full of architectural marvels from the medieval times to the modern age; cross-crossed by laid-back cycle-ways, stunning bridges, and interconnected by an intricate canal system… which isn’t full of moany stoners in hi-viz vests, who’ve draped their leaky plastic cruiser in a huge blue tarpaulin, as if looking like an Ikea bag is the height of chic. (out of shot) “Ah get shagged!” Unlike stuffy old London, Amsterdam is so liberal; not only is it chock-full of history and high-art, but it also has three museums dedicated to prostitution, procreation and penises, and also (I’m guessing) a kid’s cannabis crèche, a dildo recycling service, six streets named after syphilitic sailors, a free orgasm vending-machine; a shop which sell willy-warmers woven from old pubes, and an publically funded institute promoting the complete history of the anus. And as I sit outside of a snowy café; chomping on pancakes, supping on wheat-beers and toking on an entirely legal spliff; although I’m nowhere near Battlebridge Basin - where on 19th February 2001, ten dismembered body parts of John Sweeney’s ex-girlfriend were found submerged in the Regent’s Canal - this is where the last episode ended and where this new episode begins. On Monday 27th March 1989, having served just half of a twelve month sentence for violently attacking his girlfriend with a half-kilo foot-long claw-hammer on the stairwell of her Austrian flat - an horrific attack which left her riddled with pain, plagued by flashbacks and crippled with anxiety – 34 year old John Patrick Sweeney walked free from JustIzastalt-Wien-erdberg prison in Vienna. Having spent two weeks in hospital, his terrified victim – Melissa Halstead; whose bruises had heeled but whose skull was still fractured and required a daily dose of pain-killers to dull her constant headaches – was safe from his anger, jealously and violence. And to protect her from any further danger, the judge had also issued Sweeney with a 10 year deportation order, which not only ensured he stayed away from Melissa, but also banned him from returning to Austria for the next decade. And as Sweeney breathed in that fresh Austrian air, the cool mountain wind tickling his bright red beard, a stunningly beautiful blonde lady kissed him on the lips. Quite what she saw in him, nobody knows? But this bright, bubbly, American ex-fashion model who had believed his cries and his lies that he was a changed man, and had personally pleaded the judge for her boyfriend’s early release, Melissa Halstead picked Sweeney up from prison, her car packed with their bags, and (outside of the protection of the deportation order) they headed off to Holland, ready to begin a new life together. But those six months of incarceration and solitude had done nothing to cure him of his addiction to drink, his hunger for drugs, his jealous streak, his paranoia and his obsession with torture and violence. Sweeney was a sick man. And as much as Melissa believed that he loved her, really he was controlling her. As much as she insisted that he was protecting her, really he was assaulting her. And as laidback as their new home-city was; with its late-night bars, legalised drugs and liberal attitudes to sex, Amsterdam was the worst place for a jealous, paranoid, sex-obsessed alcoholic and heavy cannabis user, who also dabbled in LSD and was hopelessly addicted to heroin. Although he did a few odd-jobs as a carpenter, most of which funded his habit, Melissa’s career as a photographer and make-up artist paid for the rent, the food, everything. And as the months went on, so did the beatings, all of which Melissa covered over with weak excuses and heavy mascara. As a minor blessing, Melissa’s occupation was perfectly suited to her free-spirited nature, which gave her ample opportunity to see the world and meet new people, in an unpredictable and unscheduled routine which meant she would often be away and out-of-contact for days, weeks and even months. But the longer she was gone; the more Sweeney drank, the blacker his moods got, and the more his jealousy festered. During the last week of April 1990 - with Europe still in a state of celebration, five months after the fall of the Berlin Wall and the end of the Cold War – Melissa Halstead returned home to Kromme Waal in the centre of Amsterdam, and the basement flat she shared with violent and controlling boyfriend; her plan (once again) to try and leave Sweeney forever. On Thursday 3rd May 1990, 50 miles from Amsterdam, in the Dutch coastal city of Rotterdam, a green army surplus kit-bag was found partially submerged and floating down the Westersingel canal. Seeing the thirty inch canvas bag bobbing up-and-down, two keen-eyed Police constables assumed it was either stolen luggage or dumped rubbish, but as both men huffed and heaved the heavy hessian sack onto the stony towpath, as gallons of canal water drained out, still the bag was a dead-weight. In an unnervingly similar incident to one which would take place at Battlebridge Basin on the Regent’s Canal, almost a decade later, as the Police unzipped the bag, they witnessed what would become the grisly calling-card of a maniac. Inside, the naked torso of a mid-thirties female had been hacked-up, folded in half and forced into the tight duffle-bag; across her ankles and neck were rough jagged tears where (using what carpenter’s refer to as a Rip Carcass Saw), he had sawn through the tibia and fibula of both lower legs and the cervical curve of her neck, severing her spine and decapitating her hands and head. And although her body had been bound with a tough braided sisal rope (the kind used on building sites), having been submerged in water for a little over a week, with decomposition in an advanced state, already her pale discoloured skin had slipped free of its binds. The Police were at a loss as who this woman was, as whoever had murdered her, had made a conscious effort to destroy any evidence of who she was. And with no clothes, no bag, no ID, no hands, no head, and almost all of the DNA evidence having washed away into the canal, all Police had was a torso with no name, no face, no eyes, no teeth, no birth-marks, no operation scars and no fingerprints. And having no head, Police couldn’t even identify her by that tell-tale skull fracture, having recently been attacked by her boyfriend using a carpenter’s claw-hammer. With no missing person’s report fitting her limited description, and her hands and head having never been found, Melissa Halstead was marked as a Jane Doe and buried in an unmarked grave in a Rotterdam cemetery. Exactly how and where Melissa died, we shall never know, as being so hard-working and free-spirited, her family in Ohio only realised she was missing when on 2nd November 1990 she failed to call her mother to wish her a happy birthday, and hired a local lawyer to investigate her disappearance. But by then, it was too late; her basement flat was totally empty, meticulously clean and its former occupants were gone. Melissa had vanished, Sweeney had returned to England and (once again) he went looking for love, and her name was Delia Balmer. (INTERSTITIAL) Having met Sweeney in a kooky Camden pub in early 1991, although Delia was instantly smitten with this cheeky-faced Liverpudlian who was artistic, well-travelled and lived an almost idyllic bohemian lifestyle, together they truly seemed like an odd-couple; as she was a petite timid blonde who worked as a nurse saving lives but had an irrational fear of all electronic devices, and he was a tall red bearded psychopath with one murder and one attempted murder in his past, and one murder still to come. Being honest, sweet and trusting, it wasn’t long before Delia let Sweeney move into her home; a ground-floor flat in Leighton Grove (Camden), which was situated just one mile from Regent’s Canal, and barely one and a half miles from Battlebridge Basin where the body-parts would later be found. And as bizarre as their flat was; with Delia having covered every phone, radio and television in cushions for fear that they caused cancer, the epitome of disturbing was how Sweeney decorated the flat; not only with beer cans, spent spliffs and crack-pipes, but also a pet tarantula, a large stash of horror magazines and a wall packed full of morbid self-drawn art-work depicting axes, blood, torture, body-parts and headless female corpses. As with Melissa and Anne, it wasn’t long before her life was being dominated by his paranoid deluded jealousy, as Sweeney controlled every aspect of Delia’s life, whether she was there or not, and what started with a never-ending succession of emotional blackmail, mental abuse and physical assaults over a four year period, soon descended into an incident of unimaginable horror. In November 1994, with Delia having attempted to leave her psychopathic partner after a series of violent beatings which left her bruised, bloodied and fearing for her life - as punishment - Sweeney tied the tiny helpless woman to the frame of her bed, using the same kind of tough braided sisal rope he had bound Melissa’s lifeless body with, and in a sickening ordeal which lasted 48 hours, Delia was repeatedly raped, strangled, beaten and tortured, as Sweeney held a gun to her head, threatening to cut out her tongue with a kitchen knife if she screamed. Delia later stated, “I could see the dark, empty, evil look coming into his eyes and his hands started to shake”. And with the cold steel of the handgun pressed firmly against her head, Sweeney pulled the trigger till the hammer went click, his empty threat made all-the-more real as he loaded the gun before her eyes and boasted about how the last ex-girlfriend who tried to leave him was found floating in a Rotterdam canal, her head and hands hacked-off using the Rip Carcass saw he kept in his bag. But just like his ex-wife Anne Bramley, he didn’t kill Delia Balmer; he couldn’t, he wouldn’t and no-one knows why except Sweeney. Instead, having left her bruised, bloodied, terrified and tied to the bed, Sweeney fled to Germany. But with the Police now aware of his details, description and aliases, he was arrested a few days later, deported back to the UK and held on remand at Pentonville Prison. A Category B prison on the Caledonian Road, just a ten minute walk from Battlebridge Basin. Traumatised by her horrific ordeal, Delia confided her fears to a friend. And in an odd premonition of what was to come, she said “He will do something. He will cut me to bits. Just like he had Melissa”. On Thursday 22nd December 1994, three days before Christmas, John Patrick Sweeney was released on bail from Pentonville Prison, just one mile from Delia’s home in Leighton Grove, and “The moment I discovered he was out, I was on edge. I knew he would be coming for me”. A few hours later, with the winter sun having set, a cold wind blowing and the first few flakes of snow settling, having finished her shift as a nurse, Delia cautiously cycled into Leighton Grove; lined on both sides with three-storey townhouses, the dark-lit street was empty, only illuminated by the flicker of TV sets, the twinkle of Christmas lights and the dull orange glow of a handful of street-lights. Swinging open the iron-gate, Delia pushed her bicycle along the cold stone path, up to the concrete step at the foot of the front door to her ground-floor flat; everything was quiet, calm and safe. Or so it seemed. As Delia nervously fumbled her keys into the lock, from the shadows, Sweeney pounced. With his arms flailing, his eyes wild and his teeth gritted; Sweeney began slashing and hacking at the tiny helpless woman, her trembling hands held defensively up to her screaming face, as gripped in both fists he held a kitchen knife and a two kilo axe. Delia later recalled “I saw my finger fly through the air, and I thought: ‘That’s it. I don’t want to live anymore”. In a sustained, sickening and frenzied attack, on the doorstep of her own home, Delia Balmer (the five foot three inch nurse, who was as timid as she was tiny) suffered multiple lacerations to her hands, arms, legs, face and chest; as well as two broken arms, deep stab wounds to her thighs and breast, an axe-wound to the head, a punctured lung, and the little finger of her left hand entirely severed. And lying in a puddle of her own blood, struggling to breathe as Sweeney stood over her, hacking away at the petrified woman, Delia could have died, but didn’t. Hearing her screams, her neighbour Jiles Allen dashed out of his house and armed with a baseball bat, Jiles chased Delia’s attacker down the street, as the five-foot ten-inch frame of Sweeney vanished into the shadows, being the kind of coward who’s too scared to pick on someone his own size. Believing she had breathed her last breath, Delia later said “I died that day” and thought that she had finally escaped her violent boyfriend forever, but when she awoke in the intensive care unit of the Royal Free Hospital (where she worked), Delia’s first thought was “Oh no, I am alive. Now what, hell?” Although physically, emotionally and psychologically scarred, for the six years that Sweeney was on the run from the Police, friends would caution her to watch her back, knowing that the demented red-head had unfinished business and would come looking for her. But for Delia, she didn’t care, her life was over, she’d reply “it’s too late. I am not scared anymore because I am not me anymore”. When interviewed by the Police, Delia told them everything; about the abuse, the torture, the rapes, about Sweeney and his confession that he’d murdered Melissa Halstead in Holland. And as the Police examined Sweeney’s belongings in Delia’s Leighton Grove flat, they saw not only his deeply disturbing collection of self-drawn art-work of footless, handless and headless women, drenched in a pool of blood, whose limbs had been hacked off, but also a green army surplus duffle-bag which contained a groundsheet, bin-bags, sisal ropes, gaffer tape, a claw-hammer and a rip carcass saw – a psychopath’s tool-kit to dispose of a human body and ensure that no-one would ever identify it. By Christmas 1994, four and a half years after the grisly discovery of an unidentified woman’s torso which was found floating in Holland’s Westersingel canal, even though the family of Melissa Halstead had hired an investigator and reported her missing; no-one knew where she was, what had happened to her, or that the headless body buried in an unmarked grave in a Rotterdam cemetery was her. And although, six years later, the ten dismembered body-parts found wrapped in six separate bags at Battlebridge Basin in the Regent’s Canal bore an uncanny similarity to the disposal of Melissa Halstead; the body in the canal was not Delia Balmer. That woman was still alive, for now, as she was yet to become a future ex-girlfriend of John Sweeney. On the run and desperate to keep his head down, Sweeney bunked in the Kentish Town flat of his old friend, Kevin Pratt, during which he bragged about his horrific attack on Delia, he confessed that he’d killed Melissa Halstead, and lied that there was a £10,000 reward for his capture. Needing to move on, he headed north to Northampton to pay an uninvited visit to his ex-wife Anne and his kids Michael and Tracey in their new home. Staying the night, Sweeney proceeded to drink and get stoned, as he told Anne that he had “done something really bad, which would make your hair stand on end”, but this time he confessed to the murder of Melissa Halstead and two others. Hitching a lift to his home-city of Liverpool to visit his mum, Sweeney used this downtime to taunt the detectives who were desperately searching for him. And on Monday 2nd January 1995, just eleven days after the terrifying attack on Delia Balmer in which he left her for dead, Sweeney sent a letter to the Police at Scotland Yard; bragging about his crimes, boasting how they’d never catch him and (in a cruel play-on-words) describing his assault on Delia as “an AXEident”, spelling the first part of the word AXE. Having run out of options, and being an easy-to-spot red-headed Liverpudlian carpenter, Sweeney fled the UK and headed into Europe where he’d spent the bulk of his life, learning to stay under the radar by living in hostels, working cash-in-hand jobs, and using an assumed name like Joe Johnson, Joe Carol and Michael Fawcett. And even though he needed to stay near drug-dealers to feed his habit of LSD, cannabis and heroin, in the circles he moved in, this wasn’t difficult. And so, for the next six years, John Patrick Sweeney disappeared. What happened during these years; where he went, what he did, and who he saw? Nobody knows. But by the turn of the last Millennium, in early 2000, John Sweeney had returned to England and (once again) he went looking for love, and her name was Paula Fields. (INTERSTITIAL) As the youngest of eleven children, born into a lower working-class family, in one of the most deprived areas of Liverpool, at the end of the 1970’s, life for Paula Fields and her siblings was tough. After the closure of the shipyards; mass unemployment and poverty followed as a badly underfunded council struggled to provide even the most basic of necessities such as heat, warmth, food and housing for thousands of struggling families, and yet her troubles had only begun. Aged just nine years old, Paula’s mother died, leaving herself and her ten older siblings to be split-up, with some farmed off to different relatives and others were placed into care. And growing up in an era dominated by demolition, tension, closures and the Toxteth race-riots, with no education or qualifications, Paula was desperate to become a good mum, so after the birth of her three children, in 1998 Paula made the brave step and moved to London, to seek a better life for her boys. But life down south wasn’t any better, and it would only get worse. As a single mum, who struggled to look after two of her three boys (both under five), she worked shifts in a local laundrette to scrape together enough money to fund a single-room in a local flea-pit hotel and half-way house called the Highbury Hotel, but within just two years; being broke, hungry and desperate, Paula had turned to prostitution, was hopelessly addicted to crack cocaine, and both of her boys had been taken into care. So, by the autumn of 2000, as a homeless penniless sex-worker and drug-addict with a chaotic lifestyle, a criminal record and absolutely zero chance of ever getting her kids back, Paula truly was at her lowest ebb when – in the Kilburn flat of his brother Tony - she first met and fell in love with a bushy bearded, red-headed carpenter who went by the nickname of “Scouse Joe”. And being instantly smitten with this cheeky-faced Liverpudlian who had a semi-regular income, easy access to drugs and a rented flat in Digby Crescent in Holloway, Paula moved into her new boyfriend’s flat; spending her days and nights off-her-face, surrounded by his pet tarantula, a bizarre collection of violent art, and his green canvas duffle-bag full of ropes, hammers and saws. As with Anne, Melissa and Delia; it wasn’t long before her life was being dominated by his paranoid deluded jealousy, as Sweeney controlled every aspect of her life, and what started with a never-ending succession of emotional blackmail, mental abuse and physical assaults, soon descended into death. At 9:30am, on Friday 15th December 2000, with the walls of the cramped one-bedroomed flat echoing to the regular sounds of shouting, swearing and domestic assaults, Paula Fields was last seen walking into Sweeney’s flat at Digby Road in Holloway; just two days after (it is believed) she had discovered his true identity, and two days before Sweeney moved out. Paula was never seen alive again. On the morning of Monday 19th February 2001, during the half-term holidays, two schoolboys were fishing along the banks of Battlebridge Basin at the back of King’s Cross when their hook snagged on something partially submerged and reeled in a heavy black bin-bag, which reeked of rotting flesh. Only this time, with Sweeney having cut up his victim into ten separate chunks, hacked through her wrists, elbows, knees, ankles and neck with the jagged tearing of his rip carcass saw, wrapped each piece in bin-bags and weighing them down with bricks, to stop her body-parts from bobbing on the surface of the canal as Melissa had, Sweeney meticulously cleaned the bath in his Digby Crescent flat, burned all Paula’s belongings and moved out. And with no clothes, no bag, no ID, no hands, no feet, no head, and almost all of the DNA evidence having washed away over the two months they’d spent festering in the water, all the Police had was a torso with no name, no face, no eyes, no teeth, no birth-marks, no operation scars, no fingerprints and no missing person’s report matching her description. Just like Melissa, Paula would be just another unclaimed body buried in an unmarked grave, as once again, Sweeney had got away with murder. Or he would have done, if he hadn’t made a big mistake… he left one victim alive. Following recent sightings of John Sweeney in London, Police issued all constables with the description of a red-headed Liverpudlian carpenter, who lived under various aliases, and was wanted for the rape, imprisonment, assault and the attempted murder of an Australian nurse called Delia Balmer. On Friday 23rd March 2001, a red-headed carpenter who went by the name of Joe Johnson was spotted working on a building site in Shoe Lane, Holborn. Knowing Sweeney’s history of violence and being wanted for firearms offenses, the Police took no chances, armed officers were called in and Sweeney was arrested. He had a seven-inch knife in his waistband and a loaded 9mm Luger pistol in his locker. Searching his new flat at Charteris Road in Finsbury Park, Police found two loaded sawn-off shotguns, a makeshift machete, a homemade garrotte wire, a large stash of bullets, a baseball bat, an axe, bin-bags, cable-ties, a groundsheet, a green canvas duffle-bag full of ropes, hammers and saws, and over two hundred deeply disturbing self-drawn paintings and poems depicting the violent rape, torture, dismemberment and death of various women. On one painting, Sweeney had written a poem which read “Poor old Melissa, chopped her up in bits, food to feed the fish, Amsterdam was the pits". Another was a drawing of a gravestone, which read “RIP Melissa Halstead, born 12th December 1956”. But many made reference to Delia and Anne; their bodies naked, their limbs bound and their heads hacked-off. For the attempted murder of Delia Balmer, John Patrick Sweeney was sentenced to a ten year term behind bars at Gartree Prison in Leicestershire. And as much as Sweeney had bragged to the Police about the many murders he had committed over the last twenty years, including; a devoted mid-30’s church-goer called Sue who Sweeney pursued to Switzerland, a mid-40’s Brazilian called Irani who lived in North London, and a late 30’s Columbian called Maria, all of whom were his ex-girlfriends and have never been seen since, as well as supposedly two German men who he had caught having sex with Melissa, with very little evidence, Police couldn’t arrest him. But then, another victim of John Sweeney would provide a vital clue, which would put Sweeney away forever, and she would do so, from beyond the grave. On 12th June 2007, following advances in genetic technology and coinciding with a review of unsolved murder cases, Dutch Police uploaded the DNA profile of an unidentified female whose decapitated body had been found, eighteen years earlier, floating in a Rotterdam canal… and they got a match. In a joint task force between Scotland Yard and the Dutch authorities, Police not only identified the bodies of Melissa Halstead and Paula Fields, but were able to connect their method of deaths, disposals and identify their killer. Of his known victims; Anne Bramley died of cancer in 2001 and Delia Balmer has since retired from nursing and released a book about her experiences entitled ‘Living with a Serial Killer’. And although the remains of Paula Field and Melissa Halstead were returned to their families (with Melissa’s ashes interned in her hometown of Dayton, Ohio), neither their hands, feet nor heads were ever found. On Monday 4th April 2011, 54 year old John Patrick Sweeney was found guilty of the murders of Melissa Halstead, Paula Fields and the attempted murder of Delia Balmer, and was given a whole-life-sentence, meaning that he will never be released. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As mentioned before, if you are the victim of domestic abuse, or you have inflicted violence against a loved one, never be afraid to speak out, as professional help is only a phone-call away . This week’s recommended podcast of the week is Wining about Crime, hosted by Bonnie, Wining About Crime dives into the lives, habits and the disturbing psychology of some truly baffling serial-killers, spree-killers and murderers, always asking the big question; who they are, where they come from, and why they kill. Check out the promo for Wining About Crime. (Play Promo) Don’t forget to check out the Murder Mile website at murdermiletours.com, find us on Twitter or Instagram, or join the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast discussion group on Facebook. A quick thank you this week to the fabulous people who have left five-star reviews of Murder Mile and have been truly fabulous on social media, they include; Des O’Connor, Natalie Prince Sanders, Carylynn Flannery, Simon Lupton, Robomanjay997, Terri Revvis Swann, Angizoink (I agree, more podcasts should have the word “arse” in it), Neil Marjorum and Alvaro Scorza. And of course a quick shout-out goes to two very different and equally excellent podcasts that I heartily recommend you check out; first is True-Crime Island, hosted by Cambo, who – like a hard-boiled Aussie news anchor – unearths the latest murder stories from around the world, so you don’t have to. Fuckalunga. And second is The Cleaning of John Doe; hosted by Vanessa, who each week takes you into the grisly, bloody and shocking world of her day-job as a crime-scene cleaner. Yes, you heard that correctly. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Next week’s episode… is the first of a four part series on The Blackout Ripper. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER *** The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible 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 ***
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” and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk
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Little Venice as seen from the Lord Hill Road / Formosa Road bridge
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 TWENTY-TWO
Episode Twenty-Two: On the afternoon of Sunday 10th May 2015, a suitcase was found floating in the Grand Union Canal in Little Venice containing the folded-up corpse of 23 year old Marta Ligman. But how had she got there, who put her there, and why?
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THE LOCATIONS
"Hey! Where's all the coloured dots gone?" Well, this is a new Murder Map, featuring murder cases which took part in new square mile in and around Paddington, Notting Hill and Bayswater.
Ep22 – Canal Killers – Part 2 Marta Ligman
INTRO: Thank you for downloading episode twenty two of the Murder Mile true-crime podcast. Last week we were in the East of the West End, today we’re in the West of the West End, and soon we’ll be returning back to our familiar home, right in the middle of the West End. If you’re wondering why, what I’m doing is setting up new Murder Miles; four square miles of murder covering Soho & Covent Garden, King’s Cross & Euston, Paddington & Bayswater and one area as yet undecided. That way, we can cover the full-story of many of the West End’s long-forgotten murderers, serial-killers and spree-killers as they slaughter their way from Soho to the surrounding boroughs, kicking off with an upcoming four-part special on the true-story of The Blackout Ripper. Don’t forget to stay tuned to the end of this episode to hear more about Murder Mile’s recommended podcast of the week, this time it’s the amazing Dark Divide. Thank you for listening and enjoy the episode. SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within one square mile of the West End.Today’s episode is about Marta Ligman; a caring daughter, loyal friend and devoted girlfriend, who dreamed of being a mother, but died at the hands of her jealous, controlling and abusive boyfriend. Murder Mile contains descriptions of abuse, distress and death which may offend, as well as realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 22: Canal Killers Part 2: Marta Ligman. Today I’m on my little boat, chugging along the final stretch of the Grand Union Canal, in an area known as Little Venice; with a cuppa tea in one hand, a Belgian bun in the other, and the ship’s tiller being steered by my big round butt-cheeks. “Ah, Little Venice” I hear you sigh “it sounds so romantic”. And it is… sort of. But unlike the real Venice; with its myriad of art galleries, theatres, museums, cafes, restaurants and architectural marvels, all spread across a labyrinthian canal system of interconnecting waterways; Little Venice has only one canal, one ornate bridge, one towpath, two good pubs, one fine restaurant, one okay-ish café, and no gondoliers at all. You can’t even buy a Cornetto here. Little Venice is so short that when tourists arrive, after just a two minute walk – having mistakenly headed towards the horror of Westbourne Park, instinctively tucked their purses into their pockets, cash in their socks and credit-cards wherever they have a slot, as locals wave them off shouting “go back, go back, the muggers are awake, they can smell money” – they stop, and say “oh, is that it?”. Little Venice is a mishmash of millionaire’s shag-pads and council flats, dumped at the arse-end of the choking fumes of Paddington Station; with the skies full of cranes, the grass verges strewn with dog-shit and the towpaths splashed with piddle and plop as a slew of boaters decant stinking cassettes of faecal matter from their loos into a vast feted pit of willy-waste, vaggie-splash and steamy bum-lumps. Oh yes, this is exactly like Venice. Then again, romance is vital to sustain any relationship, it’s the fuel that keeps that spark alive, along with large doses of love, honesty, compassion and (above all) trust. But on the afternoon of Sunday 10th May 2015, in the very heart of Little Venice; life stood still and the romance died, as floating in the water, something heavy thunked again the steel hull of a canal-boat; marking a violent end to a deadly relationship, and the death of Marta Ligman. (INTERSTITIAL) In 1993, just three years after the fall of Communism in the former soviet blocs of Eastern Europe, Martusia Ligman (known as Marta) was born in a small village of Trzeciewiec (Chetsieviets) in north central Poland. Raised by her beloved mother, doting father and older brother Lukasz, in a modern seven-bedroomed house, Marta had a joyous upbringing full of good health, humour, happiness and – best of all – a loving family. Being a small rural village of just 520 people, surrounded by thousands of acres of farm-land, fields and forest, whose most notable feature was a 320 metre tall soviet-era radio mast which dominated the flat skyline, although Trzeciewiec was a nice place to raise a traditional Polish family, to a modern Polish girl like Marta (who shunned Communism and embraced Capitalism) being more than 200 miles from the capital city of Warsaw, her home-town felt like a vast empty wilderness. On the 1st May 2004, along with Cyprus, the Czech Republic, Estonia, Hungary, Latvia, Lithuania, Malta, Slovakia and Slovenia, and later Bulgaria and Romania, Poland (having become one of the wealthiest and most progressive countries in Eastern Europe) joined the European Union, which allowed the free and unrestricted movement of all European citizens, to and from all countries, including the UK. Described by those who knew her as “the most beautiful girl, so popular, so kind, always laughing and joking”, as well as “petite, calm and always polite”, Marta dreamed of moving to London, having a good job, a nice home and starting a family with a loving husband. In 2008, aged just 16 years old, Marta met a handsome man in an internet chatroom, who although he was eleven years her senior, he had a steady job, a beaming smile and romanced her with sweet-talk, heart-shaped emoji’s and tales of his new life living in London. In 2012, having packed a large black suitcase, Marta excitedly hopped on a two-hour flight to Heathrow to join her beloved boyfriend; her dreams were coming true. But three years later, she would be dead (INTERSTITIAL). Marta started her new life in Harlesden (north-west London); a lower-working class enclave which although fiscally poor is a culturally rich former village, complete with a diverse mix of Somali butchers, Eritrean cafés, Russian bakers and Irish pubs, as well as the Delicja Polish Delicatessen on the High Street, where she worked as a cashier six days a week. With bright red hair, a warm smile and a cheeky face, Marta was not only popular, but she was also a little ray of light who easy-to-spot… …but sometimes, her lovely smile would slip, her playful laugh was muffled and her beautiful face would be marked with cuts, scrapes and swelling, as her bright blue eyes were hidden by dark black bruises. Her dream had turned into a living nightmare, and his name was Tomasz Kocik. (Kochik) Being tall, handsome and toned, with bright blue eyes, funky spiked hair and a smooth yet rugged look, Marta was instantly smitten with Tomasz Kocik. And as their love blossomed, finances grew and he held down a steady job as a forklift truck driver for a construction company, Marta & Kocik moved in to the ground-floor flat of no5 Buckingham Road (just of Harlesden High Street), with the talk of wedding bells and babies. But after three years of living together, the relationship had soured; not just because of Tomasz’s addiction to amphetamines (the effects of which included sleeplessness, anxiety, paranoia, hostility and aggression); not just because of Tomasz’s ever-increasing sexual appetite which had gone from pornography, bondage and sex-games, to trying to coerce his unwilling girlfriend into group-sex; but by spying on her, stalking her, searching her social media for evidence of infidelity and demanding to see the deli’s CCTV to prove where she had been that day; as Tomasz became more possessive, controlling and jealous, his violence towards Marta increased. Shortly before her death, Marta had changed her status on Facebook from “in a relationship” to “it’s complicated”. On the Monday 27th April 2015, her boss received a text which read “I am so sorry, I have to go to Poland, my mum is sick”, which was uncharacteristic of her, as being so polite, honest and living only a few houses away, she would either call-up or pop in see her boss face-to-face. On the evening of Tuesday 28th April 2015, Marta called her mother (Ewa) in Poland, which she would do every day without fail. But as her bruises got blacker, as her face grew more swollen and her fresh cuts struggled to heal, so Marta put on an ever-increasingly braver face to protect those she loved from the truth. That was the last time that Marta Ligman was heard from, or seen alive. At 2:30pm on Sunday 10th May 2015, almost two weeks after Marta’s disappearance, just a few yards shy of the Lord Hill footbridge in Little Venice, something heavy thunked against the hull of a moored-up canal-boat. Expecting either litter, a log or a canoe, the startled owners peeped over the bow of their boat to spot a large black suitcase, totally submerged and floating in the water - a sight which is not unusual to see - expect sprouting out of the zip was a shock of bright red hair. With no purse, no ID and no obvious birth marks, Police were puzzled as to who this woman was; all they knew was that she was a white European woman, in her early 20’s, 5 foot 2 inches tall, roughly 8 stone in weight, with bright red dyed hair, but there was no missing person’s report which matched that description. And with her petite frame being in a severe state of decomposition, whoever had tucked her tiny corpse into the foetal position, wrapped her in a white curtain, a set of black bin-bags, and had dumped her body in the Grand Union Canal, they had done-so seven to ten days prior. On Monday 11th May 2015, 24 hours after the young woman’s body had been discovered, and with her death splashed all over the news, Tomasz Kocik reported to the Police that his girlfriend Marta Ligman was missing, a positive identification was made, and Tomasz confessed to unlawfully dumping her body in the canal. In the subsequent inquiry, in his defence, Tomasz would later state that on the evening of Wednesday 29th April 2015, having finished his shift as fork-lift truck driver, Tomasz had returned to their ground-floor flat at 5 Buckingham Road in Harlesden, to find Marta, lying on the sofa, pale and unresponsive. Fearing the worst, Tomasz laid her limp body on the floor and fought to resuscitate her; pumping her heart with his hands and fighting to breathe the life back into the lifeless lungs of his beloved girlfriend, but by then, she was already dead. Owing shock and panic, Tomasz didn’t call the Police. He couldn’t. Her death was partially his fault, as with both Marta and Tomasz leading a very active and varied sex-life, which included role-play, bondage and sadomasochism, as well as spankings, beatings and mild-torture, all of which was mutually-agreed physical violence between two consenting adults, as well as the recreational use of stimulants to increase their stamina and sexual libido, after a four day sex session between the 24th and 28th April, having taken large quantities of amphetamines, Marta Ligman (who was just 5 foot 2 inch tall, 8 stone in weight, and suffered from various health problems) had suffered a sudden heart attack and died. That night, being wracked with guilt at not having stopped her, terrified that he would get the blame for her accidental death and that (having purchased the amphetamines) that he would be charged with her manslaughter, Tomasz pulled from the loft a large black suitcase, unfurled a white curtain, a reel of black bin-bags and set about disposing of his beloved girlfriend’s body. Of course, that was his version of the story, but the evidence, the autopsy, the CCTV footage and the wealth of witness testimony would tell an entirely different story. This is what happened to Marta Ligman, and – I warn you now – it is not easy to listen to. Sometime between the evening of Wednesday 29th April and the morning of Friday 1st May 2015, 23 year old Marta; a petite woman with a sweet-smile and a kind heart was beaten unconscious by the man who supposedly loved her – Tomasz. In a sustained assault, lasting anywhere between a few minutes, a few hours or even a few days, in a rage fuelled by a lethal mix of amphetamines and jealousy, he repeatedly pounded his cowardly fists into the bruised, terrified and swollen face of a woman who was almost a foot shorter than him and half his weight, until she was unrecognisable, having inflicted multiple fractures to her face, hands and ribs. It was a brutal attack which should have killed her, but didn’t. Believing she was dead, Tomasz pulled from the loft her large black suitcase, wrapped her body in curtains and bin-bags, folded her limbs and torso into the foetal position (her legs pressed tight to her chest, her head tucked into her knees and her arms pushed down to her feet) and stuffed her into the canvas suitcase, zipping it shut, a sprig of her bright red hair peeping out of the top. How long she remained inside that suitcase? Nobody knows. And after the brutality of the initial assault, being confined in such a constricted airless space may have proved fatal, but what her autopsy couldn’t confirm was (whilst inside the suitcase) whether Marta was dead, dying or unconscious. In the early hours of Friday 1st May 2015, at 6:30am, Tomasz wheeled the three-foot high and two-foot wide, black canvas suitcase, out of his front-door at no 5 Buckingham Road, along the residential street (full of families, postmen and eager commuters) almost an hour after sunrise, and dragged it left towards Nightingale Road and right onto Scrubs Lane, its plastic wheels buckling under the weight. Amazingly, he wasn’t stopped, spotted or arrested. But then again, what’s so unusual about a man frantically dragging a weighty suitcase towards Willseden tube station? Nothing. Nothing at all. And so, as he lugged the over-loaded luggage more than half a mile down Scrubs Lane, passed passing motorists and CCTV camera, as he reached the top of Old Oak Bridge, he hauled the heavy baggage, down onto the towpath, out of view, and into the quiet and seclusion of the Grand Union Canal. Unlike Little Venice, this stretch of the canal doesn’t attract the tourists, boats or even people; it’s an ugly eye-sore in an industrial part of town, and with his evil actions disguised by the dark shadows of the Old Oak Bridge, as well as the buzz of traffic, the rumble of trains and the drone of a nearby waste recycling facility, Tomasz was unseen and undisturbed as he sunk the suitcase into the canal. As before, having been beaten, trapped and dragged over half a mile in an almost airless suitcase, once again, the autopsy couldn’t confirm whether – as the suitcase was submerged into the water – if Marta was dead, dying or unconscious. But having brought along a long stick, just in case, Tomasz proceeded to prod the large dark suitcase, causing air-bubbles to rise to the surface, as the body of his girlfriend sunk further under the water into the inky blackness. Having destroyed her bank cards and Polish ID, by cutting them up and burning the tatty fragments on the towpath; with his trousers being soaking wet, Tomasz returned home to 5 Buckingham Road, got changed into a clean set of clothes, and then headed off to work, as if nothing had happened. People disappear all the time. So I guess he thought that no-one would notice. I guess he thought he had covered his tracks. And I guess he was arrogant enough to think he could bluff his way out. But what he hadn’t counted on was – with red-headed Marta being so friendly, popular and easily recognisable – that the moment she wasn’t there, people noticed. Using her mobile, Tomasz updated her Facebook profile, concocted a story for her friends and family that Marta had left him, packed-up and returned to Poland, having added the unlikely coda that he wasn’t going to follow her, as “he wanted to give her some space”. Even going so far as to text Marta’s boss at the Polish deli, using Marta’s phone and identity, and (in an entirely contradictory story) to say ”I'm sorry, I have to go back to Poland, my mum is sick”, which he had done, before she was dead. But her mother (Ewa) wasn’t sick. On Thursday 30th April 2015, having not received her daily phone call from her daughter for two days, Ewa was worried, and getting no reply from either of Marta’s phones, she called Tomasz. Blatantly lying to her distraught and desperate mother, Tomasz (playing the part of the love-sick boyfriend) told her that he had kissed Marta goodbye, she went to work, and when he returned home, she had gone. He didn’t know why. He texted her, but she didn’t reply. And all of which he said to Ewa as lying beside him was her dead, dying or unconscious daughter folded-up in a large black suitcase. With Tomasz being unwilling to look for Marta, having claimed that she needed space, time to think and that she would come back when she was ready, Ewa contacted Madga & Andrzej Ligman, her cousins who lived in the UK, who fruitlessly searched everywhere they thought Marta could be. And as Magda & Andrzej desperately combed the city streets, eager to find missing Marta, Tomasz couldn’t help but be the cold, callous and self-absorbed bastard that he always was, as using his dead girlfriend’s phone and her identity, he pestered Anna Modrezejewska (Modrey-eve-ska) (who was Marta’s closest friend) with an uncharacteristic volley of texts, which not only suggested that Marta was alive, but that the 22 year old attractive brunette should join them for some “hot fun” in a three-way sex session. Being creeped out and uncomfortable, Anna ignored the messages, but the texts kept on coming. On Monday 11th May 2015, a full day after the discovery of Marta’s unidentified body in the Grand Union Canal in Little Venice, following pressure from her distraught family, Tomasz Kocik finally reported his girlfriend missing, almost two weeks after she was last seen alive. And naturally, Tomasz was the Police’s prime suspect. That same day, 34 year old Tomasz Kocik of 5 Buckingham Road (Harlesden) was arrested and charged with the murder of 23 year old Marta Ligman, with all of the evidence pointing to him being a man who was jealous, controlling and abusive. And yet, throughout these years of systematic emotional, mental, sexual and physical abuse, at the hands of an unloving, uncaring and drug-fuelled sadist, Marta never spoke up, she never sought help, she never told her family and she never got out. Marta had a dream, it began three years earlier back in the small village of Trzeciewiec (Chetsieviets) in north central Poland, as she her packed her worldly possessions into a large black suitcase. At the inquest held at the Old Bailey, Pathologist Dr Nathaniel Cary concluded that, because bruising can only occur when a person’s heart is beating and their blood is circulating, as Marta’s body showed signs of hypothermia having been subjected to the cold for an extended period of time, and as her death was caused by "a blunt trauma to her torso and limbs”, that this injury may have been sustained in the initial frenzied attack by Tomasz, being beaten whilst in the suitcase, being dropped as the case was dragged half a mile, or (having been submerged) that her body was hit and driven-over by a canal-boat… suggesting that throughout the entire ordeal, that she may have been alive. Having given his testimony that Marta had died of an accidental overdose after a four-day drug-fuelled bondage sex-session, an event which may have led to Marta’s death being recorded as “death by misadventure” and Tomasz being sentenced to the lesser charge of “the unlawful disposal of a body”, but the jury didn’t believe his lies, and having deliberated for less than a day, Tomasz Kocik – an obsessively jealous and controlling boyfriend with a long history of violence - was found guilty of murder on 27th November 2015. He was sentenced to serve a minimum of 18 and a half years. On Tuesday 8th March 2016, to mark International Women’s Day, Labour MP Jess Phillips paid tribute in Parliament to the Counting Dead Women Project; an organisation set up to share the harrowing stories of murdered women. She stated “In 2015 a woman was murdered in the UK every three days. Women murdered by men that they should have been able to trust. Commonly women are murdered by their partners, husbands and boyfriends – but also in some cases by their fathers, their sons, their brothers. We wish to give voice to honour the women who died”. (PLAY AUDIO) One of the 120 women she named… was Marta Ligman. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. If you are the victim of domestic abuse (whether a man, a woman or a child), if you know someone who is in an abusive relationship, or you have inflicted violence against a loved one, never be afraid to speak out, as professional help is only a phone-call away. Normally at this point in the podcast, I draw your attention my recommended true-crime podcast of the week, but having heard such a harrowing and heart-breaking story, the last thing you want to hear is about a show where they sink back a few beers, say “dude” and “bro” every six seconds and take the piss as they recant some scant details about a victim’s misfortune. Well, thankfully that’s exactly what we don’t have. This week, I highly recommend a true-crime podcast called Dark Divide; hosted by Krista, not only is it well researched, well-written and wonderfully told, but these are incredibly personal pieces of storytelling, told from the victim’s perspective, with a sense of warmth, compassion and heart. And here’s the promo for Dark Divide. (PLAY PROMO) Don’t forget to check out the Murder Mile website at murdermiletours.com, find us on Twitter or Instagram, or join the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast discussion group on Facebook. A quick thank you this week to some fabulous people who have left reviews of Murder Mile and have been truly fabulous on social media, they include; Andy Chidlow Parish, Mike Featherstone, Erikka Pappas, Mykeff, BrianMcG, MidnightListener, VanessaH, PhoebeSophie and D1611984. With loads of fabulous five star ratings from listeners in the UK, USA and Australia, but (oddly) no iTunes reviews from anyone in Canada? Hmm. This wasn’t because of episode 16 (about Richard Rhodes Henley) was it? I’m not implying you’re all chronic masturbators. Just… a few. And of course a quick shout-out to our good friends at True-Crime Story-Time, you’ve heard me mention this podcast before, and rightly so, check them out, it’s a fabulous true-crime podcast which just keeps bettering better and better. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Next week’s episode… is part three of our canal killing series, this time featuring the mysterious death, disappearance and disposal of Paula Fields 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 Kai Engel, 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 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” and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk
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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 TWENTY ONE
Episode Twenty One: On the evening of Tuesday 22nd September 2015, Italian tour-guide and English teacher Sebastiano Magnanini was last seen alive walking by King’s Cross Station. Two days later, his decomposing body was found dead in the Regent’s Canal, having been tied to a shopping trolley. But what happened?
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THE LOCATIONS
IMPORTANT: You're probably thinking, "hello, where's all those lovely coloured dots on the map gone?" Don't worry, there still there, but that was the Murder Mile map of one square mile of Soho & Covent Garden, where-as this is a brand-new map of King's Cross, Euston & Islington; a different square mile of London's West End, which we shall return to over the next 100+ episodes.
21 – Canal Killers Part 1 – Sebastiano Magnanini
INTRO: Thank you for downloading episode twenty one of the Murder Mile true-crime podcast. We’re back; same music, same intro, same host, but no waffle, no wittering and no dyslexic stutter (courtesy of some rather nifty editing), after weeks bent double with my mouth-agog and eyes wide like saucepan lids, researching like buggery on a bum-numbing seat in the National Archives, to bring you a brand new slew of rarely told murder cases from London’s West End. Right now, I’m knee deep in autopsy reports, crime-scene photos and witness statements using the original declassified police investigation files to prepare for you an original four-part special on the London’s little known spree-killer - The Blackout Ripper; a sadistic homicidal maniac who stalked the dark-lit streets of Soho; slashing, ripping and slaughtering his terrified victims, and yet, the true-story of the Blackout Ripper remains largely untold. Expect it in your ear-holes soon. Before that, we’re opening with the first of our new four-part specials, and focussing on a place north of Soho, on the fringes of the West End; it’s the place where I live, write and record the Murder Mile true-crime podcast, and a place that many Londoners don’t even know exists… the canal. Don’t forget to stay tuned to the end of this episode to hear more about Murder Mile’s recommended podcast of the week, this time it’s the fabulous Texas-based true-crime podcast - All Crime, No Cattle. Thank you for listening and enjoy the episode. SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within one square mile of the West End. Today’s episode is about Sebastiano Magnanini; a lovable, fun-loving and colourful character who died in mysterious circumstances, but whose life and death left the police scratching their heads. Murder Mile contains grisly details which may offend, as well as realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 21: Canal Killers Part 1: Sebastiano Magnanini. Today I’m on my canal-boat; a lovely red & green fifty-foot steel vessel, which is my office by day, my bed by night and my cosy little home since I flicked the v’s to corporate slavery and embraced creative freedom. Right now, I’m chugging along at a brisk three miles-per-hour; the sun dappling the water, the soothing waves tickling the towpath, as perched at the stern is me, with the ship’s tiller in one hand, a cup of tea in the other, and the wind lightly ruffling my few remaining hair follicles, as the soft growl of the engine merrily jiggles my gut, butt and man-boobs. Ah, life is good. Oh look, there’s a coot. Ah look, a family of swans. Oh wow, a cormorant diving for fish amongst the carp, perch and pikes. And over there, an otter playing with… what looks like… a brown trout. Urgh! And above, a flock of seagulls… (seagull noises, plopping) ah you bastards, go shit on your own boat. And as I chug along the Regent’s Canal, at the back of King’s Cross Station, I pass a line of moored-up boats; with log-fires burning, a stew on the stove, and a reclining on his plastic pleasure craft amusingly adorned with pirate flags is beardy man in a hi-viz vest smoking a giant spliff. I call to him, “Hello my boaty brethren” (man replies “ah, get f**ked”). Ah yes, this is the life (and “wanker”). Okay, there may be the odd smattering of crime; the occasional weekly stabbing, daily mugging and the sporadic hourly break-in, with the dark-lit towpath littered with zonked out druggies, lip-wiping rent-boys and gangs of strutting rude-boys grabbing the crotch of their grey terry-towelling tracksuits (like they’ve just ram-raided a branch of Mothercare and forgot to nab a lotion for their nappy-rash) But on the water itself? It’s fine. The worst that will happen is your boat’s bottom may scrape against a myriad of dumped bits and bobs, such as; builder’s rubble, car-parts, stolen bikes, shopping trolleys, bank safes, WW2 bombs, handguns and grenades, and sometimes clunk against the decomposing corpse of a dead cat, a dead dog, a dead fox, and – occasionally - a dead man. On Thursday 24th September 2015, I heard such a clunk; but little did I know what it was, or even who. (INTERTSTITIAL). 46 year old Italian Sebastiano Magnanini, known by his friends as “Seb”, was a gregarious, fun-loving and free-spirited man, with an infectious smile and an honest charm, who walked without a care in the world, and had lived the kind of life that most people can only dream of. Being fluent in Italian, English, Spanish and even Khmer (the official language of Cambodia), as the oldest of two boys born to Italian parents in Cannaregio, the northern district of Venice, young Seb was a restless boy who was eager to see the world, meet new people and seek out adventure. After a faltering start as he struggled to find his feet, Seb found work as a tour guide in Cambodia, where he was described by his employer as one of the best and the most studious. Being multi-lingual, he taught English in Colombia, Cambodia and Thailand. And as a budding song-writer and guitarist, Seb’s passion for music and uncanny knack at carpentry led to him developing a second-string to his bow rigging sets for theatres and concert venues, including Prince’s gigs at Koko in Camden. Many people dream of seeing the world, but Seb had been there, he’d done that and (unsurprisingly) he’d got all the t-shirts. But by 2015, being an unmarried man in his mid-forties, with no savings, no pension and no assets, Seb felt it was time to grow-up, settle down and provide a stable home for his beloved daughter. In August 2015, having led a colourful life (including a brief criminal past for which he served his time, paid the price and dedicated the next twenty years to turning over a new leaf and finding inner peace), Seb returned to London to embark on a fledgling career in journalism, as here was a man with responsibilities and a wealth of fascinating stories to tell. And as upbeat, joyous and caring as Seb was, he also had a dark-side; as he was a man wracked with an all-consuming addiction which he had attempted to distract with adventure. But now, back in London, living a life a little less exciting, in a city surrounded by sin, Seb succumbed to his demons, as he set off in search of his next fix… of heroin. On the afternoon of Tuesday 22nd September 2015, Sebastiano Magnanini waved goodbye to his work colleagues in South-West London, and as always, being in good spirits, with a spring in his step and whistling a little ditty on his ever-smiling lips, Seb hopped on the Northern Line train, arrived at Euston by 4:50pm, his every movement captured on security cameras, as he headed towards King’s Cross. It made perfect sense that Seb would come here; as a kind and giving man with a big personality, an even bigger heart, and his generosity was well known amongst the homeless community. But on this night, he wasn’t here to help the homeless, he was here to feed his habit, and as he approached Caledonian Road, a busy city street just off the Regent’s Canal, he stepped into the darkness and out of view of the cameras forever. Just three years earlier, whilst staying at Camden’s Arlington House homeless hostel, Seb overdosed on heroin. He almost died. He was lucky to survive. And this should have been the wake-up call he needed to rid himself of his deadly addiction, but Seb would always be haunted by the lure of drugs. It was Seb’s secret life that he kept well hidden; never smoking it at home for fear of being discovered, never injecting it on the street for fear of arrest, and having burned too many bridges with friend’s who he’d assured he had quit, seeing no other option, Seb would shoot-up in a stranger’s house. That evening, as Seb walked along Caledonian Road; a street rife with robbery, burglary, gang violence, shootings and stabbings having taken the lives of the guilty and the innocent, Seb’s addiction saw no fear, only a hunger for heroin, on this stretch of road was a notorious pick-up point for Camden’s drug-pushers. As Luke Allen, his close friend would later state “That’s the lowest rung. He shouldn’t have been there”. But it was there, on that night, that Sebastiano Magnanini would meet a drug-dealer who would end his addiction forever. His name was Michael Walsh (INTERSTITIAL). Strolling down the brightly lit gloom of Caledonian Road, over the smoky hue of the Regent’s Canal where just five hundred feet and two days later Seb’s decomposing corpse would be found, the two men walked, looking as dissimilar as two heroin addicts could. 46 year old Seb; a tanned and toned Italian with a trimmed beard, a joyous smile, a sense of style and a characterful face etched with lifetime of fun, love and laughter. And 41 year old Michael Walsh; with bloodshot eyes, a hollow joyless face and the putty-white doughy complexion of a hard-core junkie, whose life has been spent cooking-up, shooting-up and zonking-out. After just a five minute walk, both men turned right onto Wharfdale Road and entered Walsh’s flat. The following details of what happened that night are based on unreliable, spurious and drug-addled sources, so exactly what happened may never be known. Sat in Michael Walsh’s dingy flat, in an unnamed house on an unspecified part of Wharfdale Road, Seb began to feed his overpowering addiction with a deadly cocktail of alcohol, cannabis, heroin and crack cocaine. Four drugs, in one body, with four very different effects; the alcohol being a stimulant which increased his heart-rate, blood flow and sense of wellbeing but decreased his balance, his moral code and his sense of danger; the cannabis being an anti-depressant, filled him with feelings of warmth, love and relaxation (as he sat in this stranger’s flat), but slowly drained him of his energy, his memory and his ability to stay awake; the heroine being a Class A stimulant sent an instant rush of pleasure to his brain’s opioid receptors, flushing his skin in a warm tingly bath (like he was being cocooned in a soft sleeping-bag of marshmallow), leaving Seb feeling that nothing could touch him, nothing could harm him. And with his pleasure heightened, his emotions Increased and his pain sensors blocked, with his heart heavy, his breathing slow and his limbs like lead weights, the effects of the first three drugs were off-set by a fourth; crack cocaine, another class A stimulant, with an intense high and a rapid low, which sunk Seb into an extreme depression, followed by bouts of paranoia, aggression, hostility, muscle spasms and convulsions, the effects of which could only be remedied by another hit. Four drugs, in one body, all fighting against each other; with extreme highs and lows of love and anger, calm and chaos, euphoria and depression. But these were the minor effects of this lethal chemical concoction which can also cause nausea, vomiting, itching, confusion, paranoia and hallucinations, dropping the user’s heart rate and breathing to such a life-threatening level, that they risk heart attacks, stroke, seizures, coma, brain damage and even death. Of course, as Seb was a seasoned drug-user, his 46 year old body was used to this chemical abuse, and having overdosed before, he wouldn’t make the same mistake again, not now he was older, wiser and was a man with grown-up responsibilities; a job, a home and a daughter. So cocooned in heroin sleeping bag, his addiction sated, Seb’ fell asleep on the sofa and drifted far away to dreamland. But the comfort of his dream-like state was in stark contrast to the reality that Seb was in. As being immobile, unaware and unconscious, trapped in the dank, dark and dingy flat of a desperate drug-abuser, whose habit was only momentarily subdued by those quick hits of crack cocaine and heroin, and now – itching, shaking and angry - Michael Walsh needed more. In court, Walsh would later state that the ever-generous Seb’ had given this stranger his wallet, his money and his credit cards, and (in his intoxicated and comatose state) had asked Walsh his new found-friend to nip to the bank, withdraw some cash and score them both some more drugs. Of course, whether that is true, only two people actually know… and one of those would soon be dead. Paranoid at the risk of this theft being discovered, Walsh roped in 22 year old Daniel Hastie; an autistic friend and a rough-sleeper, who on many occasions had slept in Euston Station and knew of Seb’s warmth, kindness and generosity amongst London’s homeless, but being hungry, cold and easily led by an older man, Hastie was lured in with the promise of money, food, warmth and a new tracksuit and trainers. Over the next 18 hours, having forged his signature, Walsh & Hastie withdrew £1,690 (almost the entire contents of Seb’s account) as he slept solidly and soundly. Giddy with their good fortune and weighed down with their new purchases of food, drink, drugs and fancy footwear, a little after lunchtime on Wednesday 23rd September 2015, Walsh & Hastie returned to the Wharfdale Road flat, to slip Seb’s much-lighter wallet back into his pocket, as if nothing had happened. But sometime during the night, something had happened. Seb’ was still lying on the sofa; he was still, he was silent and he was cold. His tanned olive complexion was ominously pale. His lips had a blue-ish hue, as around his gaping mouth, on the sofa and floor, puddles of concealed vomit had pooled. His once-twinkling brown eyes were wide open, the pupils fixed like tiny pin-points of darkness. And his lifeless body was contorted into an agonising shape of convulsions, as stroke, seizures and heart-failure had taken his life. As 46 year old Sebastiano Magnanini lay there, dead, on the sofa of a known drug-dealer, with a long history of theft to fund his all-consuming habit, Walsh began to panic. Seb was dead, and Walsh had no idea what to do. Not having a garden or spades, he couldn’t bury him. Not having a car, he couldn’t drive him to a morgue. And not wanting the Police involved, he couldn’t call for an ambulance. So taking another quick hit of crack to calm his nerves, which quickly caused his paranoia to spiral, Walsh roped in 64 year old Paul Williams, another homeless friend with the promise of money, food and Class A drugs. They needed to dump the body; somewhere near, somewhere quick and somewhere accessible. In a sprawling metropolis like London, they had just one option - the canal. Stealing a shopping trolley from the local branch of Tesco Metro, Walsh & Williams loaded Seb’s fifteen stone corpse into its silver-wired frame; secured his wrists, ankles and neck with duct-tape, squeezed his contorted body into the foetal position (his arms, legs and head, tucked tightly into his chest), and having weighed down the trolley with dumb-bells to ensure that it would sink; they covered the corpse with a simple bed-sheet, and waited for the right moment to leave. At roughly 4:55am, on Thursday 24th September 2015; Walsh & Williams exited the flat on Wharfdale Road, turned left and pushed the overloaded trolley towards Caledonian Road; a brightly-lit city-street which (even at this ungodly hour) is regularly patrolled by the Police and screened by CCTV. But then again, in an area such as King’s Cross; which is synonymous with drugs, theft and poverty, what’s so suspicious about two homeless looking men pushing a shopping trolley full of bedding? Nothing. Nothing at all. And yet, the disposal of the corpse of Sabastiano Magnanini wouldn’t be as simple as a quick trip to the canal, as with the overloaded trolley having a wonky wheel, the streets full of inclines, the paths full of broken paving stones, very few kerbs having ramps and with nearest stretch of the canal often filled with long lines of narrowboats, full of sleeping but easily awoken occupants, Walsh & Williams needed a place which was dark, shadowy and secluded, and had to wheel this trolley of death left up Caledonian Road and right along to Islington Tunnel, a full half a mile along brightly-lit roads full of residential houses, a perilous journey which took almost 20 minutes. At 5:15am, having unsteadily wheeled the wonky trolley down a sharply declining slope towards the unlit towpath of the Regent’s Canal, Walsh & Williams stopped at the entrance to the West Portal of the Islington Tunnel; a dead-end shrouded in trees and shadows, and a dark gaping hole out of the sight of prying eyes. And with no prayers, no grace and no care given; the body of Sebastiano Magnanini was dumped into a watery grave, cast into the canal like a stolen bike, as Walsh & Williams fled; his friends unaware of his death, his family unaware he was missing, and his few remaining savings used to feed the drug-habit of a desperate junkie. A sad burial for a good man who had lost a long battle with his evil demons. At 8am, a few hours later, eager to chug from Islington to Little Venice in a 3 hour trip consisting of three and a half miles, four locks and six cups of tea (well, I am British), I set off into the cold, dank and dark gloom of the East Portal of the Islington Tunnel; a tight mile-long tube of stone illuminated by a single headlight and a tiny pin-point of daylight way in the distance. After thirty minutes of shadows, solitude and a steady drip from above, as I approached the entrance to the West Portal of the Islington Tunnel, something scraped along the underside of my boat, slowly creeping near the rear where I stood, and looking down into the inky water to spy the origin of the rough metallic scraping underneath, as my eyes adjusted to the light… …I sneezed, “atchoo”… …both eyes shut, blinded by the morning sun, distracted by an urgent need for tissues, and with the canal being a thick murky soup of mud and silt from two days of rain and speckled with a light drizzle, the scraping had stopped, I saw nothing and carried on; unaware, unfazed and oblivious. I guess I was lucky. As seeing something that horrific, that shocking, in such a tranquil setting could scar a person for life. But barely an hour later, with the drizzle having stopped and the low sun hitting the water at a sharp angle, whilst taking his morning walk along the towpath, an Australian tourist and his seven year old daughter saw the metallic glint of a shopping trolley, the bed-sheet having slipped. Having roped off the scene, questioned the residents and erected a bright yellow tent for forensics, Detectives from New Scotland Yard fished-out from the canal the bloated and decaying body of an unknown man; with no name, no ID and no wallet. But with his body being as colourful as his life, Police issued a description of his distinctive tattoos; a carp on his torso, a lizard on his shoulder and a few small tattoos on his fingers. That day, Sebastiano Magnanini was claimed by his distraught family. Naturally, the press smelling the stench of the salacious story of a mysterious man who’d been hogtied to a trolley and dumped in the canal was too good to miss, but the second that Chief Inspector Rebecca Reeves stated “His past in Italy has been taken into consideration, since we are at the initial stage of the investigation…”, the press started to froth at the mouth, their feverish brains going into theory overdrive, and entirely ignored Chief Inspector Reeve’s caveat that “…but at present we do not believe that the crime can be traced back to organized crime". No! There was dirt to be dug, and the press started digging. What they found was this: On the 14th December 1993, 23 year old Seb’, along with two cash-strapped chums stole an 18th-century painting, The Education of the Virgin by the Rococo master Giovanni Battista Tiepolo from the church of Santa Maria della Fava in his hometown of Venice. Having badly bungled the job by bringing the wrong tools, the hapless trio necked back a few beers, toked on a few joints, and returned to the church. Eventually stealing the 2bn lire painting (worth about £1m), but unsure who to sell it to, or how to hide the three metre by two metre canvas? They stashed it in a farmhouse and they were later arrested, with Seb’ serving 18 months for theft. Obviously being Italian, even those British bastions of supposedly quality journalism (the Guardian, the Independent and the Telegraph) drooled over these delicious details and emblazoned every article with the revelation that this may be a either revenge killing, an underworld connection, or a possible mafia hit. But the autopsy proved otherwise. Sebastiano Magnanini had died of the acute toxic effects of heroin, cocaine, cannabis and alcohol in his system. In January 2016, after CCTV showed Walsh & Walliams pushing the weighty trolley along Caledonian Road, and Walsh & Hastie withdrawing money from the bank; Walsh, Williams and Hastie were arrested and plead guilty. But not to murder, manslaughter, or even 2nd degree manslaughter? On the 5th February 2016, 41 year old Michael Walsh and 64 year old Paul Williams were charged with the lesser offense of “preventing the unlawful burial of a body”, and were sentenced to serve four years and two years a piece, with 22 year old Daniel Hastie serving twelve months for “conspiracy to commit fraud by false representation”. And having concluded that the death of Sebastiano Magnanini was an "accidental overdose", with most of the evidence having washed away, the DNA traces unusable and his body badly decomposed, many details of this case are a mystery. And yet, one detail in particular remains unresolved; if Seb’s death was an accident, why was he found with a broken nose and a “blunt force trauma” to the head? Did he fall over whilst intoxicated? Was he dropped whilst his body was being disposed of? Or was this sweet-natured man with £1900 in the bank, violently assaulted by a desperate drug-addict with an addiction to feed? That… we shall never know. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. If you’re looking for a new podcast, this week is the absolutely brilliant and also one of my personal favourites, the Texas based true-Crime podcast called All Crime, No Cattle; hosted Shae and Erin, All Crime, No Cattle deep-dives into the murky world of the Lone Star State’s darkest killers, with each episode packed to the brim with juicy details, solid research and is neatly balanced by an honest compassion for the victims, a heartfelt sympathy for their situation and a fantastic chemistry between both hosts. It really is a treat, so check it All Crime, No Cattle. Yeehaw! (PLAY PROMO) Don’t forget to check out the Murder Mile website at murdermiletours.com, find us on Twitter or Instagram, or join the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast discussion group on Facebook. A quick thank you this week to some fabulous people who have left reviews of Murder Mile and have been truly fabulous on social media, they include; Erin Nichols, Elizabeth Lowdell, Erin Fleming, Beth MacKenzie, Jennifer Sievers, Dale Pennycuick, Hannah Mirza, Stephanie Kunz, Niesha Kennedy Robinson, Kelly Palmer, Venessa Chapa Humfield, Esther Amrandarizx Ludlow, Shaw Maloney, Paula Coll, Ronnie Ball, Charlie Worroll, Robin Warder, Jennifer O’Dell, Kathryn Spenser Cook, Skunz18, LaurieK1 and Zimbellina13. If I’ve missed you, I apologise, feel free to buzz me saying “Oi!”, and if you’ve reviewed me recently, these podcast are recorded two weeks before they’re released, so your thank you may take a while to filter through. But to everyone who listens, thank you. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Next week’s episode… is part two of our canal killing series, this time featuring the mysterious death, disappearance and disposal of Marta Ligman. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER *** The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible 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 ***
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 Kai Engel, 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” 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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