Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
EPISODE NINETY-ONE:
Today’s episode isn’t about the victim, it’s about her murderer. His identity isn’t a mystery; we know his name, his age and (based on witness descriptions) he would later become known as ‘the sad faced killer’; we know what he did, when he did it and where, but the one detail we can’t explain is why?
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of the Sura Hotel at 162 Sussex Gardens is where the yellow triangle is. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, Paddington or the John George Haigh or Reg Christie locations, you access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
0 Comments
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE NINETY:
Today’s episode began as an ordinary morning for three police officers going about their regular duties. And what started as a simple stop-and-search on a West London street for (what would have been) a very minor traffic offence, lead to the brutal and senseless executions of three good men. This would become knonwn as the Wormwood Scrubs Police Massacre.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of the Wormwood Scrubs Police Massacre just outside of 57 Braybrook Street took place where the orange triangle is. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, Paddington or the John George Haigh or Reg Christie locations, you access them by clicking here.
Here's two videos to go with this week's episode: The Wormwood Scrubs Police Massacre. On the left is a location video taken outsode of 57 Braybrook Street and on the right is a short video showing you Erconwald Street where the police first spotted the Standard Vanguard van driven by Roberts, Duddy and Witney and it ends outside of 57 Braybrook Street where the murder too place. This video is a link to youtube, so it won't eat up your data.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable. Sadly as the photos of the police officers and the criminals are all owned greedy news groups, I can't show you them here, otherwise I'll have to pay a hefty fee, but they are on my social media accounts so suck it big business.
Left to right: two shots of Braybrook Street (top facing Wormwood Scrubs prison) and bottom facing west, in the middle is the memorial to the murderer officers, on the top right is East Acton station where the police spotted the criminal's van and bottom is Erconwald Street heading towards East Acton station.
Credits: The Murder Mile UK 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 as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. SOURCES: This episode was researched using the original police investigation files from the National Archive, four were available, two were closed.
MUSIC:
SOUNDS:
TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: THE WORMWOOD SCRUBS POLICE MASSACRE SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode began as an ordinary morning for three police officers going about their regular duties. And what started as a simple stop-and-search on a West London street for (what would have been) a very minor traffic offence, lead to the brutal and senseless executions of three good men. Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 90: The Wormwood Scrubs Police Massacre. Today I’m standing on Braybrook Street in East Acton, W12; two stops south of the death of eight-year-old Peter Buckingham, three roads north-east of the home of Vincent Keighery’s killers, three streets north of the Shepherd’s Bush Police Station where the murder of Katerina Koneva ended and this story began, and four stops west of Britain’s most prominent pathologist whose manipulation of forensic evidence may have led to an innocent man being hanged - coming soon to Murder Mile. This side of East Acton is best described as ‘vague’, it’s little more than a mish-mash of mismatched houses and flats on a grey landscape wedged between a cross-cross of train-tracks, a canal, the A40 flyover, construction sites, cranes, drains, trucks, buses and the vapour trails of planes. Oh, it’s lovely. So, if you enjoy trees, grass and breathing? Tough titties. But if you live on a diet of energy drinks, crisps, weed and court summonses; if you love inhaling exhaust fumes, swallowing flies and wiping a thick soot off your forehead, as you dream of developing a terminal lung disease whilst being mugged and stabbed? With a hospital, a prison and a cemetery nearby, East Acton is the place for you. This message is not endorsed by the East Acton Tourist Board. In contrast to that, as part of the Old Oak Estate, Braybrook Street feels like it’s lost in a time-warp. As a series of two-storey brown-brick terraced houses on one side of the street, with wooden gates, big chimneys and neat privet hedges, it looks homely but a bit old-fashioned. In front, on some scrubland known as Wormwood Scrubs, you half expect to see girls in mini-skirts playing hopscotch, and beside the infamous prison at the end of the street, boys playing football and dreaming of being Booby Charlton, and although it looks pleasant enough, the street is still haunted by the horrors of that day. As it was here, on Friday 12th August 1966, that the lives of three brave men would be taken, and although the infamous Wormwood Scrubs Police Massacre would cause a national outrage, the incident itself had started over something so trivial. (interstitial) Britain. 1966. Harold Wilson wins the General Election, the Pound was pre-decimal, on the cinema was Alfie, on the telly was Till Death Us Do Part and on the radio was The Beatle’s Paperback Writer; Ronnie Kray had shot George Cornell in the Blind Beggar, Ian Brady & Myra Hindley were on trial for the Moor’s Murders, the first black train guard was appointed at Euston station, the London of the sixties was first described as “swinging” and England beat West Germany 4-2 in the World Cup. Friday 12th August 1966 was an ordinary day for three coppers assigned to Shepherd’s Bush Police Station; they were Detective Sargent Head, Detective Constable Wombwell and Police Constable Fox. Detective Sergeant Christopher Tippett Head was one of four children to a widowed mother. Born to be a copper; aged 17 he enlisted as a cadet, at 19 he did his national service in the RAF police, at 23 he joined the Met’ Police and was posted to Fulham, and in 1964, Chris was promoted to Detective Sergeant in the Criminal Investigation Department, known as CID. He was tall, calm and reliable; being single he was married to his job, but after 13 years of service, although he was only thirty, he was seen as a father-figure to new recruits. At 7:30am, that morning, as part of his routine, DS Head left his accommodation at Ravenscourt House and walked one mile north to Shepherd’s Bush Police station. Police Constable Geoffrey Roger Fox, 41-years-old, had been a local bobby in ‘The Bush’ for the last sixteen years; he knew the beat, the people and the places, he was good, honest and reliable. Geoff had been happily married to his wife Marjorie for two decades, they lived in a modest council flat in Northolt and together they raised a family - two teenage kids (Ann and Paul) and two-year-old Mandy. As a change of job, PC Fox had been assigned to a Q-Car, as driver of an unmarked police car (assigned to CID) which patrolled Acton, Shepherd’s Bush and Hammersmith. That morning, as per usual, he kissed his wife and kids goodbye and drove the forty-minute journey to work in rush hour traffic. And Temporary Detective Constable David Stanley Wombwell, 25-years-old; young, smart and fresh-faced. Raised by his father and grandfather, David studied engineering at London Polytechnic, and having recently been assigned to ‘F’ Division, although he had only been with the force for three years, he was quickly rising through the ranks with a promising career ahead. He had been married to his wife Gillian for four years and they had two young children; three-year-old Daen and eight-month-old Melanie. At 7:15am, he too kissed his wife and babies goodbye, pulled out of their home on East Acton Lane, and trundled his green VW Beatle to Shepherd's Bush Police Station. So far, it was the start of an unremarkable day. At 8am, the three officers started their shift by performing a hand-over from the night-patrol, a three-man Q-Car unit, known by the call-sign Foxtrot Two-Two. DS Head inspected the incident reports, DC Wombwell read the RT Log (a record of the unit’s radio transmissions) and the Stop Book (a log-book of every person they had questioned), whilst PC Fox examined the car; a blue Triumph 2000 Automatic which was fast, nippy and reliable, even if the Borg-Warner gear-box was notoriously temperamental, and took a second to shift it from neutral to reverse to drive with a solid click. At 9am, with PC Fox driving the unmarked Police car, DS Wombwell operating the radio and DS Head in the back, as the three men in civilian suits pulled their anonymous little car out of the back of Shepherd’s Bush police station, it blended-in seamlessly with the traffic on Uxbridge Road. Their call-sign was Foxtrot One-One. Their role? To patrol the area freely, to identify anything suspicious and to intervene where necessary, but apart from a few drunks, domestics and driving offences, the morning was uneventful. At 12:30pm, they returned to the station, filled in their paperwork, and even though the unit had been together just a few weeks, the three colleagues popped out for a usual spot of lunch at the Beaumont Arms pub on the corner of Wood Lane. At 2pm, they returned for the last three hours of their shift. And that’s it. They had no enemies, no grudges and no debts. They weren’t corrupt, brutal or on the take. They didn’t see, hear or sense anything which was out of the ordinary. And yet, just one hour later, all three men were shot dead. (Interstitial) The barbaric slaughter of DS Head, DC Wombwell and PC Fox sent shock-waves of revulsion through the British establishment and society, so sickened were the people, they called for Parliament to bring back the death penalty, just one year after it had been abolished. As this wasn’t just a shooting, this was the cold-blooded execution of three unarmed men; it was violent, cruel and sadistic. …but their killers didn’t intend it to be. Friday 12th August 1966 was an ordinary day for three criminals in Shepherd’s Bush; they were Jack Witney, John Duddy and Harry Roberts. John Edward Witney, known as ‘Jack’ was an only child who was abandoned by his father and following the death of his mother lived an unhappy childhood in several foster homes. Aged 17, he joined the Army, but four-years later he was court-martialled for desertion and sentenced to twelve-months in Colchester Barracks, where he escaped and he would remain on-the-run until his arrest. He had three known aliases, he was married for six years, and earned a few bob as a plumber and labourer. He was thirty-six years old, five foot nine tall, skinny, with receding hair, two missing teeth, a dimpled chin, lobe-less ears, a u-shaped scar on his forehead and was described as looking ‘a bit gormless’. That day, Jack Witney was at a loss as he was too afraid to go home and tell his wife he had lost his job. John Duddy, known as ‘Jock’ had a poor but happy childhood as the sixth of eleven kids to a housewife and a policeman. He was raised and educated well, but aged sixteen he was sent to borstal for burglary and later to prison for theft. Aged 21, he did his Army national service in Malaya and Suez, but being demobbed, he found it difficult to hold down a regular job and committed several robberies with Harry Roberts. Six weeks before the murders, while working as a truck-driver, his brakes failed, the lorry crashed and he was unable to return to work or drive. John Duddy was thirty-eight years old, five foot seven tall and stocky, with bushy eyebrows, grey wavy hair and dirty teeth, he was heavily tattooed with a skull and the words ‘True to Death’ on his right arm. Since the accident, as his debts mounted, he had been drinking heavily and (three weeks prior) his wife of eighteen years walked out on him. And Harry Maurice Roberts; a career criminal who was born in Essex, raised in London and learned to be a petty thief by seeing his mum sell black market goods during war-time rationing. With a deep-seated hatred of the police and a distain for other people, as a youth he served nineteen months in borstal for attacking a shop-keeper with an iron bar. In the Army, he often bragged about the enemy soldiers he had shot dead and said he had a taste for executing prisoners of war. Being demobbed, he robbed book-makers, post-offices and banks, and in 1959 he was sentenced seven years for robbery. So violent was this assault that the judge warned him “next time, it’ll be the rope”. Harry Roberts was thirty years old, five foot ten, with brown wavy hair, thick arched eyebrows, a bulbous nose and several scars on his eyelid, cheek and left thumb. One month before the murders, he had just been released from prison, he was living with his girlfriend and had no plans to ever go straight. So far, this too was the start of an unremarkable day. At 8am, Witney and Roberts called at Duddy’s home at 142 Wymering Road in Paddington. Their plan was simple; between 8am and 6pm, each day, a dark-blue 1966 Ford Corsair was parked-up near East Acton Station, having put a set of identical false plates on a similar-looking car parked nearby, by the time the Police had realised that the car they had found wasn’t the missing one, the gang and the Ford Corsair they had stolen would be long gone. But their day started badly and only got worse. Firstly, their getaway car (a black Daimler owned by Harry Roberts) was a danger to drive as the brake-pads were shot, so if the car-theft cocked-up and they sped away, they could end up dead. Secondly, the only working vehicle they had left was Jack Witney’s Standard Vanguard; a small post-war estate which was rusty, small and slow, it had a suspiciously bad paint-job being some-kind of blue but with white bits peeping through and - being unreliable - the tyres squealed around corners, the chassis thumped over small bumps and (even on the smoothest of roads) the exhaust back-fired and rattled. At 9:45am, with Witney driving, Roberts riding shotgun and Duddy in the back, having stashed in the footwell a brown canvas bag containing overalls, false plates and three revolvers - a 38 calibre Enfield, a 38 Colt Special and a 9mm Luger – they set-off in search of another blue Ford Corsair. (Rattling) Only to encounter a third problem; they couldn’t find another blue Ford Corsair, so having wasted a full three hours trawling the back streets of West London, it wasn’t until 1pm that they found a not-quite new, not-quite blue, almost Ford Corsair look-a-like, which would have to do. Except, that led to a fourth problem; Witney (the supposed locksmith) couldn’t break into the spare Corsair and as he jiggled a wire coat-hanger to try and trip the lock’s tumblers, the wire broke and wedged in the key-hole. Losing his shit, Roberts erupted in a volley of spit, spite and curse words, and being so fed-up with the whole caper, he ordered the bungling bandits back into the van and they headed to the Clay Pigeon pub in Eastcote for a few pints and a game of darts to calm his temper. That was their plan. It was as crappy as their rusty squeaky little van. (Rattles/squeaks) And yet, just one hour later, they would shoot three innocent and unarmed policemen to death. The afternoon had been as uneventful as the morning for the crew of Foxtrot One-One, as their blue unmarked Q-Car patrolled the back streets of Shepherd’s Bush and East Acton. Except for the rumble of trucks, the squawk of birds and squeal of excitable kids playing, the streets were predictably quiet. At 3:12pm, having driven north up Old Oak Road and instinctively decided to inspect a recent car-theft hotspot, they indicated right, and – after an awkward second as the gear-box shifted from neutral to drive with a slow but reluctant click - the blue Triumph 2000 turned north-east onto Erconwald Street, their eyes and ears finely attuned to the sights or sounds of anything suspicious. (Rattling/squeaks) Cruising by the residential houses of the Old Oak Estate, as they passed East Acton tube station, three hundred feet ahead, they spotted a vehicle driving at an unusually sedate pace, as the silhouettes of its three occupants looked from side-to-side like they were seeking someone or something. Keeping the anonymous Q-Car at a distance, the three officers watched as the battered old van continued north towards Wormwood Scrubs prison, and turned west onto Braybrook Street. (Rattling/squeaks) Suspicions were raised by the unroadworthy vehicle; an old rusty 1952 Standard Vanguard with a botched paint-job, bald tyres, a shot suspension and an exhaust that rattled and back-fired. So, having made the decision to ‘stop-and-search’, as PC Fox drew the Q-Car alongside the van, with the flash of his Police ID and a single-fingered gesture, DS Head signalled the van’s driver to pull over. With the van stopped and its engine dead, following standard police procedure, in the Stop Book, DC Wombwell wrote the date “Friday 12th August 1966”, the time “3:15pm”, the location “outside of 57 Braybrook Street” and the vehicle’s description “blue Standard Vanguard, registration plate PGT726”. The street was peaceful; to the left was a row of houses from which radios sang and mums chatted, ahead girls played hopscotch along the kerb, boys kicked a ball about in the scrubland, and in a lorry, two delivery men took a discrete afternoon snooze before returning back to the bacon factory. In line with protocol, should the suspects try to flee, as DC Wombwell and DS Head exited the Q-Car, PC Fox re-positioned the Triumph ahead of the suspect vehicle and kept the engine running, DS Head stood kerb-side examining the van’s contents and occupants, and having shown his Police ID, DC Wombwell spoke to the driver. (DC Wombwell) “Afternoon Sir, DC Wombwell. Is this your car?” Jack Witney was polite and co-operative; “Yes Sir, it is”. With his van being a bit of a dog, he knew not to be a smart-ass with the copper, and that if he admitted to his faults and paid the fine, he could go about his day. To be honest, as this was just a traffic stop, Jack was less worried about a few points on his licence and more worried about how he would tell his wife that - once again - he had lost his job. And as DS Head peeped through the windows, in the backseat John Duddy sat all still and quiet, as in the passenger’s seat Harry Roberts shifted uncomfortably, a brown canvas bag dumped by his feet. DS Head asked “Sir? What’s in the bag?”, but Harry Roberts ignored him. This was not going to be a good day for Jack Witney; not only was he jobless, potless and about to have his ear chewed-off by his missus, but his vehicle wasn’t legal, and although he pleaded with the fresh-faced officer to give him time to sort it out, the van was uninsured, untaxed and unroadworthy. By the passenger’s side door, DS Head knocked on the glass and repeated “Sir, I asked you, what’s in the bag?”, to which Roberts huffed, yanked it open and flashed a set of dirty overalls, but nothing else. Again, Witney pleaded further, throwing himself at the young officer’s mercy that if he lost his van, he could loses his income, his home and probably his wife, and as DC Wombwell examined his licence for previous motoring offences, Jack knew that his fate was in the policeman’s hands. DS Head tried the door, it was locked, he knocked louder, “Sir, open this door”. Roberts froze. He knew the false plates couldn’t be pinned on a crime and it was still legal to carry a gun, but not owning a firearms licence and being an ex-convict who was still on parole, he risked a being sent back to prison. Harry seethed; he hated coppers, despised the filth and resented the bully-boys-in-blue who told him what to do, and – rather than just accept the fact that his crappy life was all because he was a shitty thief with a bad attitude, a foul temper and a loose fuse - he was furious at the pigs for everything he had ever done wrong. And although this brief moment amounted to nothing more than a minor traffic violation, (DS Head) “Sir, I need you to show me that bag?” as his fingers fumbled inside, “Sir?”, his blood boiled, “Sir?” his temper rose, “Sir?” and his patience snapped, “Sir?!” As DC Wombwell leaned on the driver’s side window, listening to Witney’s plea, Roberts pointed a 9mm Lugar at the startled officer’s face and from point blank range, a bullet tore through his left eye, his brain and as it exploded out of the back of his skull, the second his head hit the road, he was dead. Terrified, unarmed and fleeing with his hands held high, as DS Head ran, a shot hit him squarely in the back, the force spun him ninety degrees, and as the stocky cop thudded onto the hard tarmac, Roberts chased him down, as the defenceless officer lay bleeding in the road barely hidden by the Q-Car. From a few feet away, aiming at his face, Roberts fired again… but the gun jammed. Profusely bleeding from a collapsed lung and bullet wounds to both sides of his torso, even as his chest filled with blood, DS Head seized the opportunity, grabbed Harry Robert’s legs and kicked-out wildly, booting Robert’s in the face and splitting his lip. A second later, having ejected the dodgy cartridge, as the coward – once again - took aim at the injured officer’s face, DS Head screamed and Roberts fired… …but again, the gun jammed. With one officer dead and one officer dying, as Harry Roberts struggled with a faulty gun, armed with nothing but a useless truncheon, PC Fox threw the Triumph into reverse to back-up and try to run Roberts over, but the gear change took an interminably long second to shift from neutral to reverse. Roberts shouted “Duddy! Get here! Come on!”, but as PC Fox began to reverse, in the van’s backseat Duddy was frozen in horror as Roberts stood over the paralysed officer, jiggling the jammed gun, just seconds from a senseless execution. Again, he screamed (Roberts) “Duddy! Fuck sake! Get the driver”. Grabbing a .38 Enfield from the bag, Duddy ran to the reversing Q-Car and fired. The first shot smashed the passenger’s side window, and as the bullet whizzed by PC Fox’s chin, it shattered the quarter light and embedded in the driver’s door… but the officer was unhurt. As PC Fox struggled to shift the Triumph from reverse to neutral, from the front, Duddy fired again, blasting a football-sized hole in the windscreen which exploded sharp shards of glass in PC Fox’s face… but again, he was unhurt. Suddenly, with a solid click, the gear-box shifted from neutral to drive and as Roberts stood a few feet from the car’s bonnet, jiggling his jammed gun as the dying officer lay at his feet, as PC Fox stamped on the accelerator, through the shattered side window, Duddy dived head-first into the Q-Car and within an inch of the officer’s eyes, shot PC Fox in the face, as the bullet ripped through both temples. At that moment, DS Head was still alive, PC Fox was dead and the car he was in was out-of-control. As it jolted forward, the Triumph only clipped Roberts, but – lying helpless in the road – the speeding car slammed into DS Head, wedged his body under its steel chassis and dragged the officer - alive and conscious - several yards down Braybrook Street. And with the engine revving, the hot exhaust burning into his skin and the right-rear wheel spinning wildly, as the one tonne vehicle pinned the officer under its axle, the Q-car finally came to a halt… but by then, having dashed back into their van, the cowards had fled and left three good men dead. (End) Having gone into hiding, John Edward Witney, John Duddy and Harry Maurice Roberts were swiftly caught and arrested. The trial was held at the Old Bailey on the 12th December 1966, just three months later, and to set an example, Justice Glyn-Jones stated “it matters not who fired the gun, each one of you is responsible for the act of the others”. After less than thirty minutes of deliberation, a unanimous jury found them all guilty of firearms offenses, intent to resist arrest and three counts of murder. The Judge later stated “you have been justly convicted of what is perhaps the most heinous crime to have been committed in this country for a generation. I think it is unlikely that any Home Secretary in the future will ever see fit to show you mercy by releasing you on licence, therefore I recommend you serve at least thirty years before parole is considered”. And although Roberts was warned that “next time, it’ll be the rope”, with the death penalty abolished, unlike his victims, he escaped with his life. In 1981, John Duddy died in Parkhurst Prison. In 1991, having been released six years earlier on licence, Jack Witney was found beaten to death in his Bristol flat. And having shown no remorse for his actions, the officers or their grieving families, even though he occupied his time inside by earning a pathetic pittance off his notoriety by selling signed autographs of himself and painting sickening artwork of the massacre, on the 11th November 2014, after forty-eight years in prison, Roberts was released. As of today, he still lives in London. The brutal executions of Detective Sargent Christopher Head, Detective Constable David Wombwell and Police Constable Geoffrey Fox are remembered to this day, still mourned by their families, and on the fiftieth anniversary of their murders, a memorial stone was placed on the site of the Wormwood Scrubs Police Massacre, in memory of three good men who were killed over something so trivial. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Don’t forget, after a short gap but hopefully an advert, but probably just a short gap, soon I shall be expelling air from my lungs and vibrating my voice-box in a way which some people say is amusing. I shall leave that up to you. Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Dawn Long, Erika Sinervä, Jo de Vries, Lucy Barr, Jason Bright and Ummii Amri, I thank you all and I hope you got your goodies. And a hello to everyone who listens to Murder Mile, I hope you are all safe, well and full of tea and cake. 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. 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 ***
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards 2018", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE EIGHTY-NINE:
Today’s episode is about the tragic death of eight-year-old Peter Buckingham; a lovely little boy who wasn’t starved, abused or mistreated, if anything he was adored, and yet, several traumatic incidents lead to this innocent being murdered by the one person who loved him the most – his own mum.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of the flat at 134 Milton Avenue, NW10 9which has since been demolished) is marked with a dark green triangle. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, Paddington or the John George Haigh or Reg Christie locations, you access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
Credits: The Murder Mile UK 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 as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
SOURCES:
MUSIC:
TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: THE LAST GASP OF PETER BUCKINGHAM SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about the tragic death of eight-year-old Peter Buckingham; a lovely little boy who wasn’t starved, abused or mistreated, if anything he was adored, and yet, several traumatic incidents lead to this innocent boy being murdered by the one person who loved him the most – his own mum. Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 89: The Last Gasp of Peter Buckingham. Today I’m standing on Milton Avenue in Harlesden, NW10; four streets south of where the First Date Killer dumped Kate Beagley’s bloodied car, two stops east of the factory where Reg Christie met Muriel Eady, three streets south-west of the home of the suitcase canal dumper (Tomass Kocik) and barely one mile west of the bungled release of Ashraf Amrani - coming soon to Murder Mile. Harlesden is a real hotchpotch, where-as in the 1900’s it was still a pretty little village on the outskirts of London, as the city’s population swelled, Harlesden Village was swamped by an industrial hub, full of cranes, trucks, trains and the choking chug of factories. Today it’s no different, except that drifting among the exhaust fumes you’ll detect the fragrant whiff of fried chicken, cannabis, stale pits and a confusingly delightful smell as the biscuit factory fires-out its ovens. Mmm. Toasty biscuits! Unless you live here, Harlesden isn’t the kind of place you’d consciously visit. Yes, it has some sights; Acton Lane Power Station was where parts of Batman and Aliens were filmed, Dennis Nilsen was briefly a local policeman, there’s a hospitality company which sends pedants into a spin as they’ve spelt ‘events’ with an apostrophe, and even I lived here, in an almost derelict rat-infested old people’s home where the cockroaches were eaten by the mice, the mice were eaten by the rats, and as the rats died of obesity, the cockroaches moved back in. And although I once saw three mice dancing in my bag of dried cous-cous, we still received from Brent Council a four-star rating for hygiene. Baffling! Two streets from Harlesden Village is Milton Avenue. One side of the street consists of a 1920’s terrace and the other is mishmash of new builds and maisonettes, now known as Greenwood Terrace. Being heavily bombed during the war, many of the original buildings were demolished long ago and any memory of this murder has long since erased, and although – as one of thousands of Londoners who were killed that year - there’s no memorial to the little boy, his story is no less tragic. As it was here, on Thursday 18th November 1948, in the ground-floor flat of 134 Milton Avenue, that a desperate mother felt forced to make a tragic decision and took the life of her own son. (Interstitial) Murder isn’t always about money, pride or revenge. It isn’t always about monsters, sadists or maniacs. Often there is no clear distinction good or evil, right or wrong, villains or victims, as killings aren’t always about hate. In fact, we are more likely to be murdered by the ones we love. Elenore Buckingham was born either Elenore Kary, Elinora Karg or Elsinore Cary, somewhere in or near the rural village of Finkenberg in Austria on a date close to the 21st May 1915, but with so many records lost, falsified or destroyed, the first twenty-one years of her life will forever remain a mystery, and yet if she hadn’t felt forced to do something so heart-breaking - like many of us - she would cease to exist. Like so many millions born before her, Elenore’s story is one of insurmountable tragedy and trauma. Raised among the snow-capped peaks of the Tyrol mountains; life was simple, physical but rewarding. It may seem unimportant, but - living far from city’s disease-ravaged slums, the choking fumes of the industrial towns and (being barely a whisper on the horizon) the mechanised slaughter as millions bled red across the bloody battlefields of The Somme - every day Elenore breathed in the fresh crisp air of the clear blue skies, she drank the cold clean water from the newly-formed mountain streams and under her feet the soft dewy grass danced. Finkenberg was a tranquil place; quiet, calm and unspoilt. So, her young life should have been idyllic... but even death can visit paradise. In 1915, as the youngest, Elenore was one of six siblings in a family of eight. With three babies having died before they were born, the family were already used to pain, but the worst was yet to come. In 1916, the First World War took their father, then the measles took two boys, chicken pox took a girl and with the Influenza pandemic infecting a third of the world’s population over two years and killing close to one hundred million people, the family weren’t spared, and Spanish Flu took two more. By 1924, Elenore was both the youngest, the eldest and the only child in this devastated family who had survived. And what began as a little farm full of cows and crops - as the plants withered and the cattle keeled-over - the only thing they seemed to be growing were gravestones. For the next ten years, all Elenore and her mother had left was their home, their country, their lives and each other, but as the twenties gave way to the thirties, a new horror was looming. Adolf Hitler was an Austrian, just like Elenore. He loved his country, just like Elenore. And (supposedly) he had Jewish ancestry, just like Elenore, so she thought she should have been safe… but she wasn’t. Resenting the restrictions placed upon Germany after the First World War, Hitler sought to restore power by expanding his country’s empire. In 1934, with the Nazis banned in Austria, Hitler ordered all fascist sympathisers to smash, loot and destroy; and in a coup which saw the country’s Chancellor murdered, within a few years, Austria fell under the Sudetenland and its people under Nazi control. Fuelled by rabid anti-Semitism, bigotry and a deluded mission to eradicate those who weren’t of pure-blood, the Nazis persecuted and executed anyone with a traceable Jewish ancestry, who they saw only as a ‘mischlinge’ (or half-blood) - just like Elenore. In the blink of an eye, everything she had owned or loved was gone and (for nothing she had said or done) she was no longer welcome in her own country. Elenore was just a small quiet woman; too shy to speak up and too timid to lash out; with her bitten-down fingernails often trembling and her pale pained face framed by the frayed ends of the pigtails she chewed. She had no siblings or parents to protect her, and yet, somewhere within her was a fire. In April 1936, although she had never set foot outside of her village before, clutching a small battered suitcase and barely able to utter a few English words, she fled her homeland and headed towards an uncertain future, unaware she was escaping an almost certain death in the gas chambers of Auschwitz. In June 1936, three years before the outbreak of the Second World War, twenty-one-year-old Elenore Kary arrived in (what was still) the peaceful and undamaged city of London. Here she would become a wife, a worker, but - best of all for Elenore – a mother, as among her new family, she was safe. And yet, just eight years later, this doting mother would put her own child to death. (Interstitial). Compared to a little rural village like Finkenberg, London was dirty and chaotic. For someone so timid, the city was a terrifying noisy cacophony; here she couldn’t sleep, she couldn’t breathe and everything was slathered in soot. Nothing was soft, fresh or natural. It never got dark and it never went silent, but seeing the city as her sanctuary from death, slowly this crazy chaos became her new normal. In April 1937, Elenore embraced England as her own and became a naturalised British citizen – which proved a very prudent move as many innocents with Germanic accents would soon be seen as possible spies and deported back to their homelands, only to be imprisoned and executed as traitors. In June 1939, just ten weeks before the Second World War was declared and with Austria under the jackboot of Nazi control, Elenore married James Buckingham – a lovely older gentleman who (being aware of her frayed nerves from a turbulent childhood) he was always kind, devoted and patient. And as if some divine being had witnessed her tragic little life and decided that (for once) she deserved to be given a bit of break, on the 16th May 1940, the recently married Elenore Buckingham was blessed with (not just a baby boy) but she gave birth to twins. John & Peter were perfect; two pasty bundles of joy, all wrinkly and bald, chubby and helpless, with reassuringly milky smells, playful little gurgles and consistently full nappies, and although both boys were born with two arms, two legs, ten fingers and ten toes, Elenore couldn’t help but worry. She knew she had been blessed, so unlike her three unborn siblings who she never got to see, both of her babies made it through to birth. Unlike her older brothers and sisters, some who didn’t survive into infancy, her boys dodged every childhood illness. And in a small Hampstead flat, thick with the steam from a never-ending cycle of wet towels, drying sheets and nappies bubbling on a boil-wash – solely owing to their doting mother - both John & Peter made it through their first year unscathed. Elenore was a fighter… but still, her life was wasn’t without its challenges. Once again, with the Nazis snapping at her heels, the threat of a German invasion in her new homeland became a real possibility. Being in the grip of rationing, everything her babies needed was in short supply, but they never went without. And with her husband James being too old to enlist and too crippled to return to a better paid job as a labourer, earning very little as a night-watchman, it meant that when he worked, she slept, and when he slept, she worked, so although the newly-weds rarely saw each other, their life just about ticked along… but through it all, Elenore fought on. Anyone who ever met them said that the Buckingham’s were a delightful family – they were honest, decent and loving – and that, at the very centre of it all was Elenore. At the inquest, the words of her friends and neighbours never once wavered; to her beloved boys, she was a good mother; she would do anything to feed them, anything to clothe them and anything to protect them. Anything! But no-one ever thought that – in order to keep them safe - she would do the unthinkable. Between 7th Sept 1940 and 11th May 1941, the Luftwaffe unleashed an aerial assault on Britain. No longer attacking strategic targets, but striking populated areas instead, as the allied forces were out-matched and ill-prepared to repel such a devastating and unrelenting attack, for eight months, day and night, the German bombers rained down wave-after-wave of bombs, mines and incendiaries - which left forty-three thousand civilians dead, one hundred and thirty-nine thousand injured and two million homes (and lives) destroyed – as the Nazis sought to pummel Britain into submission. But it failed. People were dead, lives were ruined and cities had fallen, and yet life went on. For the sake of her twin boys, Elenore had embraced the British way of life, as with a straight back, a stiff upper-lip and a mid-digit to Adolf, the order of the day was to ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’. So, as ordinary people went about their everyday lives, it wasn’t uncommon to head to the local shops only to find rubble, for the death of a friend to casually crop-up in conversation, and to dodge body-parts as you walked the bomb-damaged streets, as things really were ‘here today, gone tomorrow’. Like so many others, this became Elenore’s new routine; and as distant bombs dropped; she washed (boom), she cooked (boom), she cleaned (boom); and as the bangs and shakes grew louder and nearer, she’d grab her twins and take cover under a sturdy table, or if she was out, with John & Peter tucked under each arm, she’d sprint into the nearest air-raid shelter, to endure yet another sleepless night and restless day, as babies cried, bombs dropped and the world around her was smashed. Through it all, she stayed strong for her boys, but the unrelenting trauma took its toll. Being in her late twenties; her skin was now wrinkled, her hair grey and even a knocked pot made her flinch. So after 262 days of almost constant death and destruction, as the blitz ceased, the bombing didn’t just stop. Instead, for the next three years, it became unpredictable. And then, a second Blitz began. Owing to the invention of radar and having strengthened our air-defences, aerial attacks by bombers and fighters were kept at bay, but as the Nazis had developed both V1 and V2 rockets, death no longer came from the skies, but from the horizons, and with a more devastating force. This time, there were no sirens and no warning, as each flying bomb was fast, fierce and indiscriminate. (Booms heard, things shake, growing louder and nearer). On 3rd June 1944, the Hampstead flat of the Buckingham family was hit (huge blast). Thankfully, the bomb wasn’t a direct hit, so although it shattered windows and splintered doors, it was enough to knock out a wall, but nothing more. Outside the smouldering ruins of their home, Elenore sat, as she cradled her four-year-old boys; both were a little bruised and a little dirty, but unharmed, so when James returned, being relieved to see that his family was safe, he reassured his silent and motionless wife not to worry. Things can be bought and objects can be replaced, but – what mattered most – was that they were all okay… …but as they would soon discover, some things could never be fixed. Being homeless, the Buckingham family salvaged what they could, borrowed what they had to and with so few safe and habitable houses left standing, they moved into a ground-floor flat in Harlesden. Milton Avenue wasn’t great. Being a major industrial junction, the parks of Hampstead were replaced by thundering trains, the rubble-strewn street was pockmarked with bomb-craters, everything was buckled or smashed, so – with this part of the city still a prime target for the Luftwaffe, as the second wave of the blitz pummelled London in one final push - along each side of this two-storey terrace were the ghostly shells of what-were-once family homes. Everything was tinged with death… …and although this little flat was too small for a family of four; it had a roof, walls, floors, water, warmth and (in a small kitchenette) a simple gas oven. So, for now, they made do, as Elenore returned to her usual routine; as she washed (boom), she cooked (boom) and she cleaned (boom). On 30th April 1945, with Adolf Hitler dead, the war was finally over… …but Elenore’s battle had only just begun. Across the smoky ruins of the city, as the people cheered, the children played and jubilant church bells rang out, with her native Austria free and her twin boys safe, Elenore should have been elated. But this tiny nervous lady, who was still only thirty, had witnessed enough trauma to last a lifetime. Her body was frail, her brain was fried, her smile was gone and her nerves were shot. For Elenore, these weren’t joyous sounds, as every cheer shrieked like a scream, every church bell clanged like a funeral toll and a child’s wail was shrill like an air-raid siren, even the silence was deafening, as now a soundless sky didn’t signify peace, as in her mind, the stillness was a warning of new dangers to come. Two days later, being unable to cope, Elenore took an overdose of Aspirin. One week later, having almost recovered, she attempted suicide again. On 8th May 1945, suffering from severe depression and having been declared ‘a risk to herself’, under Section 16 of the Lunacy Act, Elenore was committed to the Shenley Mental Hospital in Hertfordshire; a new psychiatric facility regarded as the cutting edge in mental health, which offered rest, relaxation and recuperation, as well as innovative treatments such as viral therapy, drug-induced comas, insulin injections and electro-convulsive therapy – a successful treatment for major depressive traumas. Administered a course of ECT, a good diet, exercise and bed-rest, Elenore showed much improvement; as over the weeks she became calmer, happier and healthier. But having never been apart for so long from her twin boys, the longer she stayed, the more anxious she became, so believing it would be more beneficial for Elenore (and John & Peter who were still only five-years-old) to be with their mum, on 28th July 1945, after ten weeks away, Elenore Buckingham was discharged from Shenley Hospital. Upon her return to Milton Avenue, she was reassured by familiar things; her tiny little flat, her doting husband and – of course – her babies, as every night she cradled her boys as they soundly slept. She was home… but home was full of nothing but bad memories; and now, on every radio, in every newspaper and before every feature film were reminders of what this former Austrian had potentially fled. Images of the holocaust; of the death camps, of the rotting bodies and of the gas ovens. After sixteen months, the horrors returned, and having attempted suicide a further three times, being declared “of unsound mind”, on 5th November 1946, as the celebrating city launched a cacophony of fireworks – being tortured by the bangs and the flashes - Elenore was re-admitted to Shenley Hospital. With her delusions darker, her self-hatred deeper and paranoid that the nurses had stolen her babies, Elenore repeatedly escaped from Shenley, and although a second course of ETC and insulin injections (to curb her psychotic episodes) did show some improvement – against the advice of the hospital’s superintendent – as such a lengthy separation had caused anxiety not just to Elenore but also her twin boys, James petitioned for her release and – after five months away - Elenore was discharged. Eighteen months later, she did the unthinkable. Like most days, Thursday 18th November 1948 was a living nightmare. The Buckingham family were stuck in a no-win situation, as whether at home or in hospital, Elenore only got worse; her language was foul, her moods were manic and - petrified that her neighbours were conspiring to kill her and gripped by the terror of being sent back to Shenley Hospital - her life was one-long paranoid delusion. At 7:30pm, as per usual, James headed out on another twelve-hour nightshift. With Elenore becoming more violent, he never felt she would hurt their boys, as only he was the brunt of her abuse and only his face bore her scars, and although she had threatened to kill their kids, he knew she never would. As everyone would later testify, Elenore was a good mum; she was loyal, loving and - devoted to her eight-year-old twin boys, John & Peter - she would do anything to protect them. Anything! That night was no different; she made her boys a light supper of vegetable stew, she washed their faces, she brushed their teeth, she dressed them in vests and underpants, and having kissed their foreheads, she put them both to bed. With the icy winter wind howling, the old house drafty and the coal fire out of fuel, on the floor of the kitchenette she placed a mattress, and as all three snuggled-up together under a duvet, they were soothed by the warmth of the gas oven, as they drifted off to sleep. (Hiss/gas sound) Elenore whispers – “this is the only way out… this is what everybody wants”. (Coughing) During the night, John awoke; with his skin shivering, his eyes stinging, his head pounding and his lungs spluttering, unsure if this was a nightmare, all he knew was that (with the gas oven off) the kitchen was dark and cold. In her arms, he saw his mother feverishly rub his brother’s frozen limbs, and as she carried the limp boy into the bedroom and tucked him under a duvet, John followed - but as he snuggled up next to Peter, he could feel that the bed was as icy cold as his brother. Still feeling drowsy, it didn’t take long till John drifted back to sleep; and although his twin was still and silent, his mother was not, as she sat on the bed beside her two boys, hugging herself and rocking back-and-forth, repeating “he’s still warm, he’s still okay, he’s still warm, he’s still okay”. But Peter wasn’t okay. (End) At 8:55am, when James returned home, as he entered the hallway, he was hit by the smell of gas, but the tank was drained. In the kitchenette, the oven’s taps were open, but the gas had gone. And in the bedroom was what remained of his family; John was crying, Peter was silent, and – with her eyes red raw - Elenore wept “I tried to keep him warm but I couldn’t bring him back to life”. Elenore and John were both treated for carbon monoxide poisoning and made a good recovery, but Peter – who was the smallest, the weakest and the nearest to the gas taps – had inhaled the most of the invisible odourless poison. At 10:20am, eight-year-old Peter Buckingham was pronounced dead. There were no signs of violence, abuse or a struggle, and (given the type of oven) experts declared it was impossible for the gas taps to be turned on by mistake. Elenore Buckingham was charged with murder, attempted murder and suicide by asphyxiation, to which she confessed: “I was doing the three of us, but I just couldn’t stand it, the gas made us sick. It’s Shenley Hospital I’m afraid of. I didn’t want to go back, so I was taking my two children with me”. At her brief trial, the jury took into account the traumas she had suffered; her diseased siblings, her dead parents, the Nazis, the war, the blitz and a bomb blast, and although no-one doubted her undying devotion and love for her boys, even though she had survived so much, the biggest horrors she faced were the ones she could never escape - the ones inside her head. On the 8th December 1948, at the Old Bailey, having been certified insane and declared unfit to stand trial, Elenore Buckingham was found guilty of wilful murder by reason of insanity; she was detained at His Majesty’s Pleasure and sent to Broadmoor Psychiatric Prison, where her fate is unknown. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Don’t forget, after (hopefully) a brief advert, although you never know, I shall be saying random words and moving about my boat as I make a cup of tea, eat a cake and generally waste lots of air. Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Oliver Hepworth, Stacey, John Dane, Jennifer Green, Anna White and Melanie Gudgel, I thank you. I hope you all enjoy the virus-free thank-you cards and goodies. 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. 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 *** Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards 2018", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast #88: The Three (Possible) Murders of Vincent Patrick Keighrey8/4/2020
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Guardian's Podcast of the Week and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE EIGHTY-EIGHT:
Today’s episode is about the three possible murders of Vincent Patrick Keighery, a delightful elegant bachelor brutally tortured in his Bayswater flat. But whose story was true and why was he killed? Was it a robbery, a homophobic attack, or a sex game gone wrong? You decide.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of Flat 58 at Craven Terrace is marked with a purple triangle. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, Paddington or the John George Haigh or Reg Christie locations, you access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
TOP SET: studio photo of Vic, the hallway of Flat 58, the bathroom, and top right the flat as seen from The Mitre and bottom right, the White Hart pub before it was demolished.
MIDDLE SET: Top left, Carroll House as seen from The Mitre, bottom left; Carroll House and Brook Mews North where the White Hart was, middle top; 15 Craven Terrace where the Si-Bon Cafe was, bottom middle, the street door to Carroll House and right is Craven Terrace.
Credits: The Murder Mile UK 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 as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
SOURCES: The original police investigation file from the National Archives marked as Murder of Vincent Patrick KEIGHERY at 58 Carroll House, London W2. One file is held till 2045. - http://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C556258 MUSIC:
SOUNDS
TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: THE "LOVER'S" DEATH PACT. SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about the three possible murders of Vincent Patrick Keighery, a delightful elegant bachelor brutally tortured in his Bayswater flat. But whose story was true and why was he killed? Was it a robbery, a homophobic attack, or a sex game gone wrong? Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 88: The Three (Possible) Murders of Vincent Patrick Keighery. Today I’m standing on Craven Terrace in Bayswater, W2; three streets south of the bizarre suicide pact of Barbara Shuttleworth and Felic Sterba, a short walk from The Champion pub where Dennis Nilsen met the lover whose rejection led to a spate of serial killings, three streets west of the unsolved murder of Emmy Werner, and four streets east of the infamous “sad-faced killer” – coming soon to Murder Mile. Whereas north Bayswater is a bit of a dog’s dinner, south Bayswater has been through so many phases – whether as resplendent residences for the Regency elite, arty squats for Bohemian bums or derelict slums for dead beats, drunks and dole-dossers – it’s so desperate to be posh like it was in its heyday, that half the houses are owned by tax-exiles, flannel-dodgers, celebrity paedos, investment wankers, oil-bastards and the odd giddy granny who moved into her shabby council flat in the 60’s and is now neighbour to a Saudi Prince with fifty wives, five Ferraris, three Lambo’s, a gold toilet, a ruby anus, a questionable human rights record, an unquestionably small penis and an unpronounceable name. On Craven Terrace, among the Regency townhouses is an ugly little block of flats called Carroll House. It’s not pretty, posh or stylish. In fact, it resembles fifty shoe-boxes bolted together by a bored child, and although it looks too new to have a history, what happened here was dark, nasty and perplexing. As it was here, on Saturday 28th November 1964, that Vincent Keighery met his three (possible) deaths, and although the culprits were all convicted, which murder was real? (Interstitial) Vincent Patrick Keighery was gay. That may seem an unimportant and even an irrelevant detail to us, but the secret of his sexuality would define both his life and his death. Vincent, known as ‘Vic’ was born in the spring of 1914 in Ennistymon, a small market town on the west coast of Ireland. Home to roughly sixty families across ten streets spanning half a mile, although this tiny community consisted of traditional skills, it had nothing modern, but it did have five churches, as life revolved around three things – going to mass, knowing your priest and saying your prayers. With Vic’s father dying after the birth of his youngest sister, being the eldest of three and devoted to his widowed mother, even as a young man, Vic had the maturity to take on the role of a father-figure. Being tall and gangly; where-as many boys blossomed from scrawny brats into big tough lads who earned a crust in manly jobs such as farmers, miners or soldiers - plagued by chronic asthma – Vic was diligent but far too delicate for manual work, and yet, this ‘weakness’ would serve him well as a skill. Educated at Ennistymon National School under a curriculum of maths, English and religion; with two conflicting views drummed into his brain that (as a Christian) he must be kind, decent and tolerant of all mankind, and yet, all homosexuals were an abomination to God; whether Vic knew he was gay that early on is impossible to know, but he definitely knew that he was different and felt he had to hide it. Leaving school aged 14, the best education Vic got was from his mother; a solid hard-working widow who single-handedly raised a good family and built a flourishing business, having ran the ‘Glenbourne Hotel’ for two decades, eight miles north in the spa-town of Lisdoonvarna. Always happy and singing, Vic loved working alongside his mother. Admittedly, some duties he was too delicate to do, but being impeccably neat, he excelled as the hotel’s cleaner; so without fail, the towels were folded, the sheets were crisp, the room was aired and not a single speck of dust was seen. In 1941, aged 26, being declared unfit to fight for his country (owing to his asthma, his pacifist beliefs and his homosexuality), Vic worked as cook for the Ministry of Aircraft Production in Dublin. As a frail man, he felt different. As a Christian, he felt ostracized. As a gay man, he felt unwelcome. And now, as a ‘supposed’ traitor, as pleasant as he was, he knew that Ireland was no longer the place for him. Following his beloved mother’s funeral, the hotel’s collapse and having turned his back on a religion which treated him more like a leper (whose ‘sexual disease’ they said needed to be ‘cured’), having re-opened the ‘Glenbourne Hotel’ with his brother, in 1949, Vic moved to London and never returned. Twenty-three years later, Vincent Patrick Keighery was well cemented in London life; he had a good job, a stylish flat, a busy social life and a semi-regular boyfriend. He was good, honest and happy. And yet, for one of three tragic but equally-plausible reasons, he would end up dead. (Interstitial) 1964 (like most years before) had been a good year. For the last thirteen years, 51-year-old Vic had worked as the canteen supervisor for the Metropolitan Police. His obsession with cleanliness had earned him a career - as being a meticulous man in a pristine white suit, hair-net and gloves - he enforced the highest standards in the force’s canteens across the city. At work, he was fastidious but intensely private. Outside, he was flamboyant but cautious. Vic was a real character, a slim six-footer who stood-out as a harmless eccentric. Blessed with youthful skin, dark parted hair and thick arched eyebrows, although his Irish accent was now little more than a lilt, as he tried to leave his old life behind, he still looked like the cheeky little boy from County Clare. Dressed like a dandy, he always looked immaculate in sharp suits, starched shirts, bright cravats and fine hats, with gold cufflinks, shiny shoes and - between his fingers - a cigarillo lit by a very extravagant gold Flaminaire lighter. And being a gay bachelor with no family, he splashed-out his modest salary on small luxuries; like fine art, great wine and fancy foods, with trips to gallery, the ballet and the opera. But this posed a problem for Vic; looking wealthy (when he wasn’t) it made him a target for thieves, being gay (which he was) with homosexuality still illegal he risked losing more than just his job having been attacked before, and as an older gentleman with a penchant for the “common sort”, “dirty lads” or “rough little rogues”, although he was painfully lonely, he could also be his own worst enemy. According to his best-friend Kenneth Shuttleworth, Vic saw himself as a sophisticated upper-class gent. The problem was that being attracted to “a bit of rough” with calloused hands, coarse tongues and sweaty bodies, Vic took pleasure in turning a lout into a lush. Being so pristine – like a horny Pygmalion - before any sex ever took place, Vic always insisted his date bathed, dressed in one of Vic’ own fresh shirts and enjoyed an exquisite meal over a few fine glasses of Beaujolais. Unsurprisingly, as a frail man left alone with a burly stranger in his posh flat, having been robbed several times before, although Vic took precautions, it didn’t dampen his sexual desires… and that is how he met his killer. Seeking a nicer neighbourhood to live, on Saturday 14th November 1964, Vic moved from Kennington to Flat 58 at Carroll House in Bayswater, W2; a modern six-storey apartment block with a lift, good locks and a street door only accessed via an intercom. Being a top-floor flat with windows which overlooked Hyde Park, although compact, it was perfect for a single man who liked to entertain; it had a full fitted kitchen, a bathroom and a sitting-room, with his bed to one-side and a sofa for his guests. Having loaned £300 off his pal Kenneth to cover the costs, until pay-day, Vic would be almost broke. But being so meticulous, he itemised every penny spent and scheduled every second spare to ensure the move was swift, his budget didn’t swell and his stylish flat remained spotlessly clean and damage-free. On the 16th Ken & Vic decorated, on the 17th they let the paint dry, and with his furniture being delivered on the 19th , Vic organised for the carpets to be fitted on the 18th, but someone cocked up. At 10am, on Thursday 19th November 1964, one day late, a van was dispatched from the Patent Steam Carpet Cleaning Company on Latimer Road, W12 to Craven Terrace, W2; in the back was a dry-cleaned carpet, the job was listed as number 53562 and the driver’s name was John Simpson, known as Jock. With his furniture in, the paint dry and no carpets down, Vic should have been furious, but he wasn’t. Jock was a 28-year-old Glaswegian with fair hair, blue eyes and rough hands, who having served almost three years in prison for theft and burglary had struggled to find work, so six weeks earlier he’d turned his hand to driving a van, and although he lived apart from his wife and kids, he was exactly Vic’s type. For almost an hour, the two men chatted over a coffee in Vic’s small but lavishly-decorated pad. And although – always looking for a quick quid to make on the side - Jock offered to lay the carpet for £1, the next day, Vic laid it himself, as he regaled Kenneth about the handsome young man he had met. A few days later, Jock was sacked. One week later, Vic was dead. But why? On Saturday 28th November 1964, in his bedsit at 113 Coningham Road in Shepherd’s Bush, Jock and his two pals - 23-year-old William Dunning, known as Willy, a married labourer with one conviction for burglary, and 20-year-old Michael Odam, known as Layne, a single seaman with four convictions for theft, assault and drunkenness – formulated a plan. All were broke, but after a few pints, the three lads left their flat at 4:30pm, as according to Jock “I know a queer we could get some money from”. For Vic, it began as a very ordinary day; he inspected the police kitchen at the Camden section house, arranged a stock-check for Monday with William Hall, had a hearty lunch of Irish Stew, potatoes and bread pudding and left at 2pm. By 5pm, in Bayswater, he purchased a bunch of flowers, a bottle of Beaujolais, a pack of cigarettes and a refill for his lighter, as with no plans except to relax after a long week, tonight he would unwind with a good wine, a long snooze and a classical concert on the radio. At 5:30pm, by the street-door of Carroll House, the three lads rang the intercom for Vic’s flat. The plan was simple; Jock goes in, flirts a bit, finds the wallet, tosses it out of a window to Willy and Layne, Jock leaves and Vic doesn’t realise it’s missing till the morning. But with Vic not in, they headed a few doors down to the Si-Bon café at 15 Craven Terrace, where they ate egg and chips, as served by the manager. At 6pm, with Vic back from shopping, Jock rang the intercom, he was buzzed through the street-door, he ascended to the sixth floor in the lift, and was let in to Flat 58 by Vic, as witnessed by one neighbour. And outside, under Vic’s balcony, stood Willy & Layne, as witnessed by another. According to Jock… upon seeing the dry-cleaned carpet still rolled-up in the hallway, he offered to lay it down that night for £1, Vic agreed, but first they would have a drink. In the sitting room, the two men chatted, drank Vermouth and listened to classical music, as Willy & Layne waited outside in the cold. But the robbery was as wash-out as Vic’s wallet and chequebook was nowhere to be seen. Thirty minutes later, having been invited out for drinks by Vic, feeling a little too sweaty to be seen in a posh Bayswater pub, although Jock said he’d rather head home and scrub-up first, he accepted Vic’s offer to “have a bath here, I can give you a clean shirt”. At 7pm, they both left Carroll House and headed to the White Hart pub at 31 Brook Mews North, where they saw and spoke to no-one. At 10:30pm, they left the pub, returned to the flat, Jock cooked them both a meal of buttered chicken in a cheese sauce as they drank two glasses of Beaujolais, and at 11:30pm, Jock said goodbye to Vic, left Carroll House, caught a taxi back to Shepherd’s Bush and went straight home to bed. And that was Jock’s story. It’s little more than a failed robbery, backed-up by witnesses at the Si-Bon Café, the White Hart, Carroll House and fingerprints inside Vic’s flat. But there are several problems with this story; Why did Jock not mention Willy & Layne after he enters Vic’s flat? Why did Jock offer to lay the carpet when Vic had done it himself one week before? Why did Jock cook a meal of buttered chicken when (according to the autopsy) Vic’s final meal was Irish Stew? If this was a robbery, why didn’t Jock steal anything else? Why would the Police later find Vic’s wallet hidden in the kitchen cupboard and his chequebook under the carpet, if he hadn’t planned to invite anyone up to his flat that night? And if Vic did give Jock a crisp white shirt to wear, why was it later found by the bed heavily stained with Vic’s blood? Jock could be entirely innocent… only William Dunning, also known as Willy, told a very different story. At 4:30pm, that day, in their shared ground-floor flat in Shepherd’s Bush, as Willy & Layne had subbed Jock £1 to pay his rent, Jock said “I’ve gotta do a job for a friend, maybe I’ll let you have it later”. What the job was is unclear, but at no point did anyone mention a robbery, a wallet or a “queer with cash”. At 5:30pm, as corroborated by Jock’s story, with Vic being out, the three men ate egg and chips at the Si-Bon café, a few doors down but not within sight of Carroll House. At 6pm, with a job to do, Jock said “you two wait here while I see if he’s in”. By 7pm, he hadn’t returned, so having rang the intercom but got no reply, as the light in Vic’s flat was off, Willy & Layne headed to the White Hart pub. Inside, Layne said “Look! Over there! Jock’s talking to someone”, that someone was Vic. Not wanting to disturb them, they signalled Jock to the loo, where he promised to get them the £1. But by 10:30pm, as Jock had left the pub, assuming he’d gone back to Vic’s flat, Willy & Layne waited in the café. At 11:30pm, the café shut, so with the door to Carroll House open, they rang the doorbell of Flat 58. “Oh! Hello!” Vic cooed, seeing two rugged men on his doorstep. Willy asked “Sorry to bother you, but can we talk to Jock?”, peeking inside the small quiet flat. Vic said “I’m sorry but he’s gone”, just as Jock had stated, but being hospitable Vic ushered “…but please, come in, have a drink?”, so they did. Willy & Layne sat in the spotless sitting-room, unsure how to sit, what to say, or where to put the glass of “red stuff”, as Willy called it, “I think it was wine or port or summat”. With the boys side-by-side on the sofa at the foot of the bed, Vic grinned in the armchair and topped up their glasses. After half an hour, with Layne nodding-off, Willy asked “do you mind if I use your loo?”, Vic didn’t, so he left. Willy stated “he showed me to the loo, and came in behind me. He made a lewd suggestion, I pushed him, he put his hand on my face and one on my privates. I’d been interfered with as a boy so I’ve got a horror of queers. He went to kiss my mouth. I headbutted him. I don’t remember much after that, except Layne shouting at me. Then, we put the man in his bed, walked to Marble Arch and got a taxi home. In the morning, Layne said “you gave him a terrible beating, you nearly wrecked the place, he was out cold”. After that Jock came home, we all went out for a pint, and thought nothing more of it”. And that was Willy’s story. It’s little more than a drunk heterosexual fighting off the sexual advances of a drunk homosexual. In fact, they didn’t even know that Vic had died until four days later when the death appeared in the newspaper. But there are several problems with this story; if Jock was going to lay the carpet, why didn’t he take any tools with him? Realising Jock & Vic had left the flat, why did Willy & Layne decide to go to the White Horse pub, one street away, when The Mitre is immediately opposite Carroll House? Why did Willy & Layne not want to disturb Jock & Vic in the pub, if they didn’t plan to rob him? What is the chance of the street-door to Carroll House being left open? Why would Vic invite two strangers into his flat? If Jock wasn’t in, why would Willy & Layne go into a stranger’s flat? If Willy wrecked the flat, why didn’t the neighbours hear it and why did it not look a mess in any photos? And (more importantly) where was Jock’s bloodied shirt, as well as the towels, bedsheets and the electrical flex? In court, all three could still be found innocent, but following their arrest and believing that Jock had implicated them both in the murder, Willy & Layne came forth with another different story. At 4:30pm, all three left their Shepherd’s Bush flat. The reason? Robbery. (Jock) “I know a queer with some cash”. Jock had no issue flirting with Vic as “I’ve known gays, I don’t have a problem with them”. At 5:30pm, with Vic not in, they ate egg and chips in the café. At 6pm, with Vic back, Jock went inside the flat, Willy & Layne waited outside, but no wallet was tossed down. At 7pm, having bathed and dressed in a fresh white shirt, Jock & Vic went to the White Hart pub, followed by Willy & Layne. In the toilet, as a change of plan, all three agreed to rob Vic inside his flat, later that night. To not raise any suspicion, Willy & Layne would wait inside The Mitre pub and gain entry to Carrol House via the street door, which would be left open by Jock. The robbery would be unexpected and sudden. At 11:30pm, with Vic a little bit tipsy, Willy & Layne rang the doorbell to Flat 58. The second it opened, Layne threw a coat over Vic’s head as a distraction; they kicked him, punched him and bundled him onto the bathroom floor, as all three rained down a volley of fists and feet on the frail asthmatic, in an prolonged attack that the pathologist would describe as “severe and horrifying violence”. As the terrified man squealed in pain and lashed out in a blind panic, needing to shut-him-up, they stuffed his bloodied mouth firmly with a small towel, tightly bound his legs and hands with an electrical flex ripped out of the wall, and – as they ransacked every room, searching for his money - the less he talked, the harder they beat him - unaware that (having spent his last penny on the flat), he was broke. They kicked him so hard, he broke five ribs. They punched him so fiercely, his false teeth shattered. And with his face a swollen mess, his whole body bruised, and blood pouring from his eyes, nose and ears as his brain haemorrhaged, at some point - unable to breath – Vic went limp. Removing the gag, he didn’t scream. Untying the flex, he just slumped in a lifeless heap. And as they moved the bloody barely-breathing mess onto his bed, and tried to revive him, it was too late, as Vic was dead. (End) They wiped down the surfaces, they stole his watch, his lighter and a bottle of gin, locked up the flat, threw the keys down a drain and at Marble Arch, all three caught a taxi back to Shepherd’s Bush. When Vic failed to show-up for work, his colleague William Hall alerted the flat’s caretaker and four days later, his body was discovered. Inside, the Police found four sets of fingerprints, an electrical flex and a bloodied shirt. Aided by several witnesses who helped construct a photofit of the man Vic was seen with, aided by news coverage, a feature on the TV show Police Five and invaluable co-operation between the Police and the gay community; Jock, Willy & Layne were arrested and gave a series of confessions. All three were tried at the Old Bailey on 22nd March 1965, and with a unanimous jury finding them guilty of ‘murder whilst in the furtherance of a theft’, William “Willy” Dunning, Michael “Layne” Odam and John “Jock” Simpson were sentenced to death. But with the death penalty soon to be abolished, and England’s last execution having been carried out six months earlier, after an appeal on 12th April 1965 - during which their defence counsel had claimed that a key witness was unfit to stand trial - their executions were commuted to a life sentence, and all three served just twelve years. Vic was a good man; he was neat, kind and decent. He was highly respected in his job, he was adored by his friends, he was devoted to his mother and – having fled the bigotry of his homeland to be the man who he wanted to be – although lonely but with a lot of love to give, and a character who lived a good life, being drawn to the wrong type of boy, his life was cruelly cut short and he died for the sake of a pound. (Fade out… don’t go into credits music, just let the silence hang) But wait a minute… if there were three possible murders of Vincent Patrick Keighery, which was the real one? Well, as mentioned before, there are several problems with each of these stories, and even though the last one was used to convict all three men, something was missing. Whilst undergoing medical tests at Brixton Prison, Jock & Willy confessed to a fellow prisoner - Andrew Watson-Allen – their part in the murder. His statement was key to the prosecution’s original case, but as this witness had been sectioned under the Mental Health Act four times before, owing to a nervous disorder, even though his statement is clear and ludic, it was rejected at appeal. It read: “Jock told me that when Vic and he returned from the pub (where they had met Willy & Layne), all four went back to the flat together. Jock & Vic had a drink and then some “gubbing” took place, that is sucking a penis with one’s mouth. Jock said he had a lot to drink and fell asleep on the sofa. He was awakened by a struggling and grunting noises. He saw Willy & Layne, they had hold of Vic, he was stood beside them, his hands were behind his back, tied with a flex. Vic started to struggle, so Jock headbutted him to keep him quiet, but Vic wouldn’t shut up, so they beat him and stuffed his mouth. Suddenly, he went all still and Jock said ‘he’s had it, Vic’s dead’”. So, they robbed him and fled. Exactly what happened that night is unclear. But if this statement isn’t true? Why did the Police find that Vic’s belt, zip and trousers were undone? Why did the pathologist confirm that Vic had suffered extensive bleeding, bruising and a widening of the anal passage? And - if this was just a robbery - why were Jock, Willy & Layne all sent to Brixton Prison hospital to have their penises and anuses swabbed? Perhaps there really were four possible murders after all? Or maybe, there was just one. (Out) OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Don’t forget, after the gap, I shall be opening and closing my mouth repeatedly, where nonsense will come out and cake will go in. Yummy! So, get your tea stewing now as it’s drivel time. Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Gemma Fisher and Mona von Petersdortf, I thank you. Plus a huge thank you to everyone in the healthcare profession, emergency services and all other services doing a sterling job to keep our countries afloat during these turbulent times. Thank you everyone, you deserve medals, respect and to be paid much more than you are. 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. 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 ***
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards 2018", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
|
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. Archives
October 2024
Subscribe to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast
Categories
All
Note: This blog contains only licence-free images or photos shot by myself in compliance with UK & EU copyright laws. If any image breaches these laws, blame Google Images.
|