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The former home of Teddy Sieff, and scene of Carlos the Jackal's first (badly bungled) assassination
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-NINE:
Today’s episode is about Carlos the Jackal; the infamous terrorist, hijacker, kidnapper, bomber and assassin, whose name was (supposedly) the stuff of legend. But were any of his atrocities so skilful that they deserved such a feared reputation, or was he really just a cack-handed twat?
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 Teddy's Sieff's former home at 48 Queen's Grove (and where Carlos the Jackal committed his first failed assassination is marked with a light purple cross. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your knowledge of the case. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
SOURCES: To name but a few...
https://www.nytimes.com/1975/07/05/archives/basque-woman-is-linked-in-london-to-paris-mystery.html https://www.independent.co.uk/news/carlos-held-after-20year-manhunt-scotland-yard-may-question-killer-who-is-said-to-have-been-behind-series-of-terrorist-attacks-in-london-1376671.html https://www.irishtimes.com/news/world-s-least-wanted-defendant-1.127090 https://www.theguardian.com/news/2001/feb/26/guardianobituaries https://www.standard.co.uk/hp/front/house-where-carlos-the-jackal-first-struck-faces-the-bulldozer-6630867.html https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-39421429 https://www.standard.co.uk/news/house-where-carlos-the-jackal-first-struck-faces-the-bulldozer-6630867.html https://www.theguardian.com/culture/2018/jan/22/lois-sieff-obituary https://www.thejc.com/news/uk-news/lois-sieff-wife-of-british-zionist-federation-vice-president-jospeh-sieff-dies-aged-94-1.451800 https://www.stjohnswoodmemories.org.uk/content/memories/crime_drama/carlos_the_jackal https://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/europe/carlos-the-jackal-faces-new-trial-over-terrorist-attacks-in-france-6258237.html https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=Fl88AgAAQBAJ&pg=PA125&lpg=PA125&dq=Teddy+Sieff+Carlos+the+Jackal&source=bl&ots=Mg9Zr14II6&sig=ACfU3U0EfPwhg3e_4bq4ej3yvCAoiYy3IA&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjN6_vRpbXnAhVYRxUIHa5GA54Q6AEwCHoECAoQAQ#v=onepage&q=Teddy%20Sieff&f=false https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-4308544/Carlos-Jackal-blows-kisses-dock-tirade.html MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about Carlos the Jackal; the infamous terrorist, hijacker, kidnapper, bomber and assassin, whose name was (supposedly) the stuff of legend. But were any of his atrocities so skilful that they deserved such a feared reputation, or was he really just a cack-handed twat? Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 129: Carlos the Jackal (or Jackass?) Today I’m standing on Queen’s Grove, in St John’s Wood, NW1; three streets north of the elementary murder of William Raven, two streets west of the home of the fallen police hero Jack Avery, four streets north-east of the severed torso of Hannah Brown, and a few bus-stops north from (possibly) one of the first unsolved murders by the Blackout Ripper – coming soon to Murder Mile. Situated north of Regent’s Park, Queen’s Grove is posh, very posh. With the average house priced at £3.2 million and with some selling upwards of eight. Many have nine bedrooms, five bathrooms and two kitchens - all for just two people, with not a smile between them – as well as a sitting-room, a drawing-room, a sketching room, an etching room and a doodling room, with a pantry (possibly where they keep their pants), a scullery (to store the skulls of dead servants), a winery (where they whinge about posh things), and they don’t own a telly over fifty inches, as that’s ‘unseemly’ and ‘vulgar’. As a very quiet and private street - far from anything as uncouth as a corner-shop or a vape emporium - with walled and gated homes on either side, this is not the sort of area you might see youths playing footie, unsavoury types imbibing a reefer or spot a set of Ugg boots (perish the thought). No, anyone seen chatting over the back-fence is more likely to be the hired help gossiping while the master’s out. Scandal does happen here; whether affairs with the nanny, an occasional dead butler, or a billion quid syphoned-off to Bermuda, but it doesn’t seem like the kind of place where a terrorist cuts his teeth. On the corner of St John’s Wood Road sits 48 Queen’s Grove; a two storey, thirty-roomed house, made of brown bricks, white Doric columns and secured by tall trees, thick walls and a wrought iron gate. Since the 1950’s, this was the family home of Joseph Edward Sieff. As a beloved businessman and a heartfelt humanitarian, Teddy was a good man who dedicated his life to helping others, and asked for nothing in return. Not money, not a name, nor anything as crass as celebrity or fame. And yet, having been placed on a terrorist’s kill-list, his life was spared by the incompetence of his would-be killer. As it was here, Sunday 30th December 1973, in a bid to build his reputation, that Carlos the Jackal would attempt his first murder... only to royally balls-it-up, just as he always would. (Interstitial). It’s easy to create a legend, if you gloss over the failures and mistakes of the truly inept... ‘Carlos the Jackal’ was born Ilich Ramírez Sánchez on 12th October 1949 in Michelena, an affluent rural town on the western border of Venezuela, to a loving mother but an overbearing father. Professing to be a Communist, all three sons were named after Vladimir Ilyich Lenin - founder of the Soviet Union. But in truth, as a wealthy lawyer living a privileged life, he was little more than a ‘champagne socialist’. Raised in a Marxist ideology while whole-heartedly quaffing the fragrant fruits of their Capitalist spoils, Ilich adopted these principles – being keen for his father’s attention - and therefore this duality stuck. Aged 10, when this little boy should have been climbing trees, Ilich joined the Venezuelan Communist Party. Aged 15, he organised anti-government demonstrations for the Venezuelan Communist Youth League. Aged 17, he attended the anti-imperial Tricontinental Conference in Havana, and was (allegedly) trained in guerrilla combat tactics at Camp Matanzas. And although the Cold War world crept closer to Armageddon and possible annihilation, a greater conflict was fought closer to home. In 1966, his parents divorced. Jose, his father wanted Ilich to stay in Venezuelan and remain a Marxist, but Elba, as a good mother, wanted a better life for her boys and moved to West London. Ilich had only ever read about the decadent excesses of Capitalist West, but now he was living it and loving it. His new life was affluent but stable. He lived with his mother and brothers in a flat on the prosperous Kensington High Street. As a bad Marxist, he was educated privately at Stafford House College and later at the London School of Economics, where his teachers described him as cocky, brash and rude. Being obsessed with spy thrillers, Ilich would sit transfixed at the cinema watching Dr No, From Russian With Love, Goldfinger and Thunderball, all the while dreaming of being James Bond; dressed in a sharp suit, driving a fast car, swigging Boulenger, blowing shit up and making whoopie with a lovely lady. So, looking like a tall fat Austin Powers, Ilich drank, partied and royally shagged his way across London. As the crow flies, he was only five thousand miles from homeland, but after just two years of western excesses, this arrogant little playboy was a million miles from his father’s ideal as a Marxist-Leninist. In 1969, Jose sought to rectify this by enrolling Ilich at the Patrice Lumumba University in Moscow, a radical hotbed of foreign Communists, named after the assassinated Congolese leader. But loving too much his life as a low-rent lothario who dined like a decadent dandy, one year later, Ilich was expelled. Feeling a failure, in July 1970, Ilich joined the PFLP (Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine), an anti-Zionist terror group who drew attention to the plight of their occupied lands through high-profile hijackings, bombings and assassinations. Trained in terrorism, it was here that Ilich was given the first part of his infamous nickname. Not in tribute to a fallen hero, as many of his fellow fighters found him lazy and aloof, but surrounded by Arabs, they called him Carlos to mock his South-American roots. In 1971, following the Black September uprising and the bombing of the Palestinian camps, co-leader of the PFLP, Wadi Haddad ordered Carlos back to London to set-up a European base, which he did... ...sort of. Seen as a cocktail party swinger, Carlos returned to his playboy life; boozing, schmoozing and bedding left-leaning ladies, who hid his stash of cash, false passports and illegal weapons. Along with his love of Bond films, in 1971, he read Frederick Forsythe’s ‘The Day of the Jackal’, a thriller about an infamous assassin - which many readers mistakenly believe is about him, but it isn’t, and he rarely denies it. By 1972, owing to his link to the PFLP, an MI5 surveillance unit watched his movements, but this West End wonder-lush didn’t exactly exude the angry rhetoric of a radical terrorist; he drank, shagged and looked a little edgy on a visit to St George’s hospital, where an optician prescribed a pair of dark glasses to curb his sensitivity to bright lights – a distinctive look which would later become his trademark. For his first solo mission, he delivered machine guns to the fanatical Japanese Red Army, and although he claimed he took part in the 1972 Munich Olympics massacre, he didn’t. Carlos was nothing, a driver and a bag man with a mixed-up ideology, who the PFLP had no hope for, and MI5 had misplaced. Carlos wanted to be infamous, a celebrity and a legend... ...but that’s impossible to achieve when you’ve done diddly-squat. Where-as Teddy had a well-earned reputation through excellence, hard-graft and generosity. Born on the 28th November 1905, Joseph Edward Sieff, known as Teddy was one of two sons to Effraim & Sarah, a highly respected couple from affluent Jewish families. In contrast to Israel, his much-bolder brother, Teddy was a sweet, softly-spoken and sensitive man who many described as a ‘quiet shadow’. Educated at the prestigious Manchester Grammar School, alongside his brother, he befriended Simon Marks, son of the co-founder of Marks & Spencer’s and the three went into business together. In 1933, with Israel as joint managing-director, Teddy played a key role as the store’s merchandise developer. But he never let his wealth, class or seniority dictate how he spoke to those below him, as in keeping with its founder’s motto - “if the canteen is good enough for the staff, it’s good enough for the bosses” - for that, even as he was promoted company chairman, the staff would always love and respect him. In 1929, Teddy married Maisie, the love-of-his-life and together they raised two daughters. Everything was perfect, but after more than twenty years of wedded bliss, Maisie died, leaving Teddy a widower. And although distraught, as a doting father, Teddy strived to keep some semblance of normality during such a turbulent time in his children’s lives, as well as finding love and filling a lonely hole in his heart. In 1952, he met Lois Ross; that same year they married, they had a son, and two years later, his family moved into the affluence of a well-protected home at 48 Queen’s Grove, and there they remained. By 1972, aged 67, with a mop of white hair, his voice like a polite whisper and his sweet face softened further by a set of owl-like glasses, this ‘quiet shadow’ had earned his retirement. Still mourning the death of his brother, Teddy handed the company to Israel’s son, but remained as company president. And although, with their children all grown-up and married-off, Teddy & Lois often rattled round their 30-roomed house, his twilight years gave him more time to devote to his true passion – charity. Teddy always had a big heart and deep pockets, not because he felt he had to, but because he cared. Typical of Teddy, following surgery in 1966, he donated £50,000 to aid the renovation of the hospital’s wing, he personally thanked every nurse and matron, and as an extra thank you to these NHS heroes (who weren’t paid particularly well) he gave them two week’s salary each out of his own pocket. But this was not an uncommon act of generosity for Teddy, who always thought of others before himself. Top of his philanthropic agenda was the plight of children, so using his influence, he helped to build primary schools, develop educational programmes and support humanitarian causes, especially in the volatility of the Middle East, as - when wars erupt - it’s always the young who are affected most. As a Jew, who strived to fight anti-Semitism his whole life, this ‘quiet shadow’ gave a powerful voice to the poor and helpless, as honorary vice-president of the Zionists Federation and chairman of the Joint Palestine Appeal, who in a single evening, helped raise $2.5 million for humanitarian causes. Outside of charity, he liked gardening, music and was patron of the arts. In 1971, he was named ‘Man of the Week’, and he would (rightfully) earn a reputation as a man who was successful and beloved. And although the seventies were a turbulent time for many, Teddy had no enemies... ...or so he thought. 1973 was a year of violence. With the eruption of the Arab/Israeli war, world trade slowed to a crawl by an oil embargo and – miles from the hotly-contested promised land of Israel – cities were crippled in fear as terrorist groups like the PFLP launched hijackings, bombings and assassinations. For many in the West, this overseas skirmish was more of a “their problem, not ours”, and although the tragic scenes on the news were sad, for the viewers, it was ‘out of sight, out of mind”. The PFLP knew this, so to force our dithering leaders into action, they brought terrorism to the British streets. Turning all the peaceful streets into the potential sight of a bloodbath, as armed police patrolled; every bin was searched, every bag was checked, every package was scrutinised, and even good neighbours were seen with suspicion, as the bomb factories of the politically deranged emerged next door. In October 1973, Sir John Cohen, the founder of Tesco’s empire Had warned Teddy that he was one of thirty prominent Jewish businessmen who were on a ‘death list’ by the PFLP. Scotland Yard were notified, tensions were high, and every possible target was on the lookout for suspicious packages, as that month, three booby-trapped fire-bombs had exploded outside several Marks & Spencer’s stores. Terrorism was the hot topic on everybody’s lips, and with the newspapers baying for a James Bond-style assassin who was suave, daring and brave, Carlos was eager to be seen as a ‘celebrity terrorist’... ...the problem was, he was inept. The evening of Sunday 30th December 1973 was the epitome of foreboding, as a bitter icy wind howled and whipped dead leaves down the desolate streets of St John’s Wood. Darkness bathed every brick in black and bare trees loomed large like Satan’s own shadow, as Death walked into Queen’s Grove. Just shy of 7pm, a lone man stood below the unlit street light outside of 48, his frame and his features disguised, as - with Britain in the grip of a miner’s strike - many lights were off, both inside and out. But standing six-foot-two inches tall and sturdily built, this stranger was hardly inconspicuous; as with black leather gloves that creaked with each crinkle and military boots that clomped like Frankenstein’s monster, the round little baby-face of 24-year-old Ilich Ramírez Sánchez was masked by the fur-lined hood of his green Army parka, his scarf (as red as a Communist’s flag) and the thick black rims of his trademark glasses. So, lucky for him, being a typical British winter, he didn’t look too foolish or sinister. In his pocket, he held a gun; a Russian-made Tokarev 7.62mm pistol fitted with a clip of eight rounds. As an assassin’s tool, it was fine. As a plus, it was pocket-sized, the recoil was short and the explosion was quiet, but on the downside, the aim was terrible, it lacked power and it was prone to jamming. I mean, hidden in a bag at his girlfriend’s flat was an-arsenal of arms to choose from, including a British-made Browning HP MK1, a reliable high-power semi-automatic pistol, with two-to-three times the bullet capacity. But being a ‘playboy Marxist’ with daddy issues, he opted for the Soviet Special. And, I guess it would be a little cruel to gloss over the fact that – in his hideaway – was stashed several grenades, a few pounds of explosives and a cache of spare bullets, he even had access (as we all do) to ropes, knives and a hammer. So, he could have had a back-up weapon, should anything go wrong? But he didn’t. It’s unknown whether this was confidence, cockiness or incompetence, as the murder of Teddy Sieff was meant to be the hit which he would make his name as a celebrity terrorist. And yet, he hadn’t got a getaway car and he didn’t have a plan; he was just going to walk-up, knock and shoot. What could possibly go wrong? At 7pm precisely, Carlos pulled open the black wrought-iron gate of 48 Queen’s Grove, walked the short unlit path to the Georgian mansion, and to the right of the black front door, he rang the doorbell. With a loaded pistol clutched in his fist, it would be an easy hit, as - unlike many other prominent Jews on the PFLP’s ‘death-list’ - his target had declined a Police guard, he was clearly in, and being a big-hearted philanthropist and a man-of-the-people, strangers were always welcome at his door. That was Carlos’ first mistake; Teddy Sieff was rich, and rich people never answer their own doors. Peeping round the black front door, Carlos was confronted by Manuel Perloira, the Sieff’s Portuguese butler. Thinking quick, before the hired help could slam it shut, he poked the pocket-sized pistol in the servant’s face, and in a heavily-accented voice growled “take me to Sieff”, which the Butler did. By 7:01pm, Carlos was in, but with his mission already messed-up, he had no plan of how to get out. Standing in the opulent reception of his target, for a brief second Carlos took at the artworks upon the walls (a Gainsborough, a Tiepolo and a Warhol), only he wasn’t here for a robbery, he was here to kill. So, jabbing the gun’s muzzle in the butler’s back, silently he frog-marched Manuel up the staircase, having ordered him to call to his master; “Sir? Mr Sieff? Could you come to the landing a second?” That was Carlos’ second mistake in as many minutes; as being so disliked by his fellow fighters, being forced to act as a lone assassin, he didn’t have a spare pair of hands when he needed it most. At 7:02pm, Teddy didn’t reply, instead his wife Lois did. But being in the midst of changing for dinner, she didn’t exit the bedroom where Teddy was, but her dressing-room directly opposite. So, seeing her butler being held hostage, she locked the door, telephoned the Police and the officers dispatched. At 7:03pm, perched behind his petrified prisoner, Carlos slunk into the master bedroom, but Teddy was nowhere to be seen and – hearing the distant wail of sirens - time was running out. “Call him!”, Carlos urged, forcing the butler to lure his target out into the open - “Sir? Mr Sieff? Are you there?” And he was, so as the door to the ensuite bathroom opened, the two men came face-to-face. It was no match; an armed assassin trained by the Iraqi military, and a half-dressed male in his late sixties, with thick spectacles, a bad back and a recurring heart problem. In short, Teddy was as good as dead. From less than a metre apart, the trigger was pulled, the muzzle exploded, the gun jerked back and in a short hot flash of fire, a round of burning lead hit Teddy squarely in the head. Instantly slumping down to the floor, Teddy lay unconscious and helpless, as blood poured and pooled from his pale face. As the sirens drew ever nearer, Carlos aimed the pistol at Teddy’s brain, one last shot to finish his target off, and having cemented his place in infamy, the celebrity of Carlos the Jackal would be born. But as it often did, the gun jammed... and with no back-up, no spare bullets and no time to unclog the chamber, by 7:04pm, Carlos had fled through the back door, just as the squad car arrived. It wasn’t perfect, but he was in and out in less than four minutes, his identity was hidden and his target is dead... ... or so he thought. Teddy was rushed to the Middlesex Hospital, and although he had been shot in his upper lip, the bullet was deflected by his teeth, missing his jugular vein, and lodging in his jaw. An operation successfully removed the bullet, he jokingly said he was saved by his “Milk Marketing Board teeth”, and a few days later, Teddy was released with nothing but a few small marks on his lip, which looked like a cold sore. Teddy lived a long and happy life, he died of natural causes in 1982, nine years after he was shot. The PFLP took full credit for this ineffectual shooting, and the career of Carlos the bungling terrorist had begun – with no-one knowing who would get hurt when this cack-handed twat was running amok. On 24th January 1974, he threw a bomb into Hapoalim Bank in the heart of London’s banking district; it bounced off the ceiling, smashed a bulb, no-one was killed, but it did make a small hole in the floor. On 3rd August 1974, he exploded three car-bombs in Paris, against two right wing newspapers and the offices of the Jewish Social Fund. The cars were wrecked, no-one was hurt, and their work resumed. On 15th September 1974, two grenades were thrown into a café in Paris, two people were killed, thirty were injured, and although he claimed it as his, Carlos has since denied he had anything to do with it. On the 13th January 1975, he fired two rocket-propelled grenades at an El Al airliner taking off at Orly Airport... only to miss it completely, and destroy a parked DC-9, an empty storage building and - as he tried to flee - he shattered the windscreen of his getaway car, owing to the recoil of the rocket. As an assassin, he has had some “successes”, but many of them have been through luck rather than skill. So, how did such an incompetent klutz become one of the world’s most infamous terrorists? (End) Simple, he was the right man in the right place at the right time; terrorism was hot, spy thrillers were all the rage, and the press wanted a suave dangerous playboy, who - unlike James Bond - was real. On 1st July 1975, a bag belonging to Ilich Ramírez Sánchez was found hidden in the top-floor flat of his friend, Angela Otaola. Inside, Police discovered several passports under six aliases, a consignment of C4 explosives, three guns (including the pistol used to shoot Teddy) and the ‘death-list’ of prominent Jews. For the press, this was front-page stuff, but the one detail they drooled over the most was that - inside his terrorist toolkit - he carried a copy of Frederick Forsyth’s thriller ‘The Day of the Jackal’. Three days later, the Police proclaimed Ilich as “one of the most cold-blooded and dangerous terrorist leaders in Europe...” - which is true, if you choose to ignore all of his mistakes, failures and blunders – citing him as highly regarded “because of his ruthless professionalism, like the hired killer in the novel ‘Day of the Jackal’”. After that, the press nicknamed him Carlos the Jackal and the rest is history. On 15th August 1994, Carlos was captured in Sudan and extradited to Paris. Aged 71, he’s serving a life sentence in Clairvaux prison for the murder of an informant and two counter-intelligence agents, plus an additional life term for killing eleven and injuring more than 150 people, although it is believed he may have murdered as many as eighty. As of today, this ‘celebrity terrorist’ remains as cocky, arrogant and unrepentant for his crimes as ever, and he has never charged for the shooting of Teddy Sieff. So, ask yourself this, is he really Carlos the Jackal, or Carlos the Jackass? OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. If you enjoyed that, there’s at least half an hour of tea drinking and utter waffle after the break. If you like it, stay. If you don’t, go. It’s not for everyone, hence it’s not an extra part of the podcast. But before that, here’s a true-crime podcast which may be the first mouthful of a pint of pink Angel delight. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, who are; Jay jones, Lord Ponsonby Farquhar and Freddo, I thank you all, I hope you got your new goodies, and I hope those lucky Patreon supporters are enjoying the exclusive ‘Blackout Ripper’ mugs and new blood-red key-rings I’ve made, which are only available via Patreon. For as little as $3 a month, you get lots of goodies. Plus, a thank you to an anonymous donation via the Supporter link, I thank you. And a thank you to everyone who keeps listening to the show and sharing it with their pals, it’s very much appreciated. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
The home of Vincenzo Iale, where he invited Jason Marshall and where he would be tortured and murdered
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 ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-EIGHT:
Today’s episode is the final part about the murder of Peter Fasoli, a lonely man who let a stranger into his life, only to be tortured, suffocated and left to die inside his burning bungalow. His killer had fled, believing he had covered his tracks, but he had left behind an eye-witness.
SOURCES:
https://www.towleroad.com/2017/09/peter-fasoli/ https://www.southwalesargus.co.uk/news/national/18000310.new-inquest-ordered-death-murder-victim-found-died-accidentally/ https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/amp/uk-england-london-41399617 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-40779337 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-40813798 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-40880239 https://www.harrowtimes.co.uk/news/15096437.man-28-charged-with-2013-murder-of-northolt-man/ https://www.mylondon.news/news/west-london-news/man-charged-police-2013-northolt-12611437 https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/crime/jason-marshall-peter-fasoli-39-years-minimum-cling-film-computer-arson-camera-a7967661.html https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2017/sep/26/fantasist-jason-marshall-jailed-murdering-man-peter-fasoli-sex-session https://www.hackneygazette.co.uk/news/crime/revealed-fantasist-murderer-absconded-from-john-howard-centre-years-before-3565108 https://attitude.co.uk/article/a-man-whose-death-was-initially-ruled-an-accident-was-victim-of-serial-killer/22367/ https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-7734349/Peter-Fasoli-killed-fake-MI5-agent-Northolt-west-London-new-inquest-rules.html https://www.pinknews.co.uk/2019/11/29/peter-fasoli-jason-marshall-gay-serial-killer-london-murder-torture-mi5-inquest/ https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/east-ham-fantasist-jason-marshall-guilty-of-sex-murder-to-classic-fm-39dbhj6n9 http://www.ealingtoday.co.uk/default.asp?section=info&page=eanortholtmarshall002.htm https://chiswickherald.co.uk/ealing-man-jailed-for-years-for-murder-p7243-95.htm https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2017/aug/03/man-accused-of-murder-during-sex-session-killed-second-victim-in-italy-court-hears https://www.rollingstone.com/culture/culture-news/former-male-escort-found-guilty-of-murder-and-arson-in-dating-app-killing-112831/ https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2017/aug/09/jason-marshall-fantasist-found-guilty-murdering-man-peter-fasoli-sex-session https://www.newhamrecorder.co.uk/news/crime/east-ham-man-guilty-of-murdering-computer-repairman-in-seven-3133350 https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/jason-marshall-serial-killer-old-bailey-murder-trial-peter-fasoli-badoo-classic-fm-clingfilm-suffocated-northolt-london-rome-italy-vincenzo-iale-umberto-gismondi-a7878401.html https://www.standard.co.uk/news/crime/olympics-cleaner-claims-he-has-no-memory-of-allegedly-smothering-his-handcuffed-victim-with-clingfilm-a3603566.html https://www.ilcorrieredellacitta.com/news/cronaca/omicidio-a-torvaianica-alta-condannato-a-16-anni-jason-peter-marshall.html&prev=search&pto=aue https://www.ilmessaggero.it/roma/cronaca/jason_peter_marshall_adesc_ograve_uomo_chat_condannato_roma-1245838.html&prev=search&pto=aue http://mysocalledgaylife.co.uk/2017/08/another-gay-murder-more-police-failings/ https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-4775550/Fantasist-28-guilty-murdering-gay-man.html MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is the final part about the murder of Peter Fasoli, a lonely man who let a stranger into his life, only to be tortured, suffocated and left to die inside his burning bungalow. His killer had fled, believing he had covered his tracks, but he had left behind an eye-witness. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. (lighter) My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. (fire/flames) Episode 128: The Badoo Killer – Part Two. (hints of The Snowman) Peter lay slumped, hidden in a dark recess between his side of the bed and the back of his brown sofa; helpless, motionless and unable to scream, move or even breathe. With his wrists and ankles hog-tied by adhesive tape, his oxygen-starved face deformed by thick layers of tightly-wrapped clingfilm, and his last gasps of breath suffocated by a plastic carrier-bag, Peter was dying a slow and painful death. Described as a “good man who would help anyone with anything”, Peter didn’t have an ounce of hatred in his heart or a cruel thought in his head, as all ever wanted was to be loved. And yet, given that his date had arrived with a bottle of flammable liquid stashed in a rucksack, it’s clear that Peter’s death was decided before the torture, the foreplay, the chat, and even before he had opened his door. Peter was alive but unconscious as the accelerant splashed upon his bare flesh - and although dotted with red raw holes where searing cigarette tips had singed his skin - ignited by his killer as he callously walked away, the hot propellant engulfed his body as his skin, hair and bindings burned and smoked. The fire was started at 12:41am precisely, an alarm activated within seconds, and at 12:43am, seeing smoke pouring from the little bungalow, several neighbours called 999. “Emergency, which service do you require?”, “Fire. There’s flames pouring out of 2 Rubens Road”, “Is anyone inside?”, “I don’t know, possibly Peter?”. Alerted at 12:44am, three crews from Northolt Fire Station at Pett’s Hills sped the two-mile route in less than five minutes, and arrived at 12:49am, eight minutes after the fire began. Three appliances and two ambulances blocked the L-shaped kink of Rubens Road. Unable to gain entry to the white door by the little stone path, fire fighters used the jaws-of-life to pry open a double-glazed window. With the fire focussed around the bed, found alive but unresponsive, Peter’s blackened body was dragged from the burning building, but on arrival at Hillingdon hospital, he was pronounced dead. Peter was 58-years-old; he never married, he had no children and he left behind a sister and a nephew. ...but for his grieving family, they would be denied the peace or justice that they rightfully deserved. The investigation into Peter’s death should have been simple. A naked man, bound with adhesive tape and suffocated with clingfilm and a plastic bag was found inside a burning building. The windows were closed, the door was locked and the room was ransacked. So, surely a murder looked most likely? Suicide or auto-asphyxia was ruled-out, as It would have been impossible for Peter to tie his own hands and ankles behind his back, and suffocate himself. Burglary was deemed unlikely as - although drawers were emptied, shelves were up ended and almost every wire was pulled out of the back of his bank of computers - there were no signs of a break-in and nothing appeared to have been stolen. As for arson, the fire brigade concluded that “there were none of the classic signs of a deliberate fire”. There was no ignition source, as the killer had taken the lighter. No evidence of accelerant, as all of the fuel had burned-off. And owing to an excess of electrical equipment, a faulty appliance seemed more logical. As for third-party involvement? Only one bowl of cereal sat in the sink, there were no fingerprints and no-one saw a single person enter or exit the bungalow. The neighbours heard no screams, only music. Of the three security cameras watching Peter’s door, all were either broken or its recorder had been damaged in the fire, and there were no other CCTV cameras nearby. And even if it could talk, the only living entity known to have been in that room, that night was Peter’s budgie... and it was dead. An autopsy found no signs of restraint, as owing to the heat of the blaze, the adhesive tape, the plastic bag and the clingfilm had vapourised. So, with a little blackening in his lungs and a history of heart problems, the cause of death was attributed to smoke asphyxiation, suggesting he died in his sleep. An inquest was held at West London Coroner's Court on 16th August 2013. With foul-play ruled out and the fire investigators stating that the blaze had been started by “a faulty light bulb above his bed” - a bulb which hadn’t been switched on that night - a verdict was returned of “accidental death”. With the coroner concluding that the case was not suspicious, a murder investigation was not required and so the Police had no reason to check any of the following; Peter’s bank account, his phone calls, his internet history, his social media, his recent purchases, his contacts, his itinerary or his computer. The case was closed, Peter was buried, and no-one saw this as a miscarriage of justice. Over the following year, Peter’s bungalow was boarded up with metal sheets. His personal possessions were placed in storage by a family friend. And given its grisly history, nobody wanted to move in to 2 Rubens Road. So, in 2015, the building was demolished and a new-build now stands in its place, taking with it the last physical memory of Peter Fasoli and his murder was erased forever. Jason Marshall had fled, believing he had got away with murder... ...only one witness still remained, and they had seen and heard everything. Having missed the last tube home, still dressed like an MI5 agent, Jason caught a series of night buses from Northolt back to his hostel at Forest Gate and slept soundly, his mission to kill was accomplished. Waking, Jason checked but there was nothing in the news. It’s a sad indictment that ‘kinky gay killer tortures loner in burning bungalow’ is the sort of salacious headline that the trashy tabloids would die for, and yet, they wouldn’t waste a single drop of ink to report ‘lonely man dies in house-fire’. To cover his tracks, the next morning at 9:33am precisely, Jason sent Peter a message over Badoo. In short, it read “Sorry I didn’t turn up last night. Felt sick. Meet soon? Gabriel”. A few hours later, he sent a second “You there?”, followed by several more, “Don’t ignore me”, “I said I was sorry”, “oh, don’t be mean”, but receiving no reply, he wrote “fine, be like that” and their communication ceased. Jason didn’t need an alibi... but he invented one, just in case. On Tuesday 8th January, barely 30 hours after the murder, Jason purchased a return flight to the Italian capital city of Rome, using Peter’s bank card. As the card hadn’t been reported as stolen, the purchase was small and no-one was monitoring his bank account, it’s use wasn’t flagged-up as suspicious. On Friday 11th, at 6:50am, an EasyJet flight departed Gatwick Airport carrying the crazed killer. Two hours later, his flight landed at Fiumicino airport. With no sirens, armed police or roadblocks, just a cursory grunt and a glare by an immigration official, Jason was welcomed into Italy. Being half-Italian, with Latin looks and fluent in the language, he blended in among the city’s revellers of the arty district of Prati, where he lived off his victim’s money and partied like a man without a care in the world. For at least a week, his pathetic little life was good... ...but once the money was gone, the fun stopped. Like many millions, the anonymity of hiding behind a pen-name, a cherry-picked profile and a chosen photo lets them hide their inadequacies, casually chat and (like Peter) log-out when they get bored. But for one man, Badoo wasn’t just a dating website, it was a hunting ground full of sad lonely men. Jason didn’t need to prowl the streets to find the perfect victim, as with so many men vying for love, all he had to do was click. Unwittingly, they had packed their profiles full of details to make his hunt a lot simpler; their age, size, height and weight (selecting an older smaller male who wouldn’t put up a fight), their status (a quiet singleton who lived alone), their lifestyle (a man with a disposable income) and – more importantly – their sexual preferences (choosing a submissive male into S&M, bondage and role-play, who was eager to fulfil a younger man’s sadistic fantasy of interrogating a suspect. On Saturday 26th January, twenty days after Peter’s murder, 67-year-old Vincenzo Iale, a retired tour guide and divorced father-of-one welcomed a stranger into his home, who went by the alias of Gabriel. Situated on a quiet side-street in the sleepy seaside town of Torvaianica Alta, Vincenzo’s home at Mar dei Coralli uno consisted of a two-storey box-like building with white walls and brown ceramic tiles, but as a security conscious man, its sturdy gate could only be accessed by a buzzer or a key-pad. At 7pm, their date began as any interaction between two strangers would. “hi, I’m Gabriel... erm, well, Jason really, hello”, (“Ciao, sono Gabriel ... ehm, beh, Jason davvero, ciao”), “hello, I’m Vincenzo, nice to meet you... in person”, (“ciao, sono Vincenzo, piacere di conoscerti ... di persona”), “ha-ha, yes, in person... finally”, (“sì, di persona... finalmente”), possibly followed by “please come in”, (“prego entra”), “shall I take my shoes off”, (“devo togliermi le scarpe”), a “no, that’s fine” (“no, va bene”), and a few casual pleasantries about his journey, the sea, the weather and Vinzenzo’s home. With the romantic mood set by soft lighting and classical music, the two men chatted. Standing briefly, Jason removed his jacket to reveal a ill-conceived uniform of an MI5 Agent (this time, on assignment at the British Embassy); blue jeans, a woolly hat, a smutty t-shirt, a Nokia mobile, a homemade ID, and a utility belt full of childish crap; kitchen gloves, plastic handcuffs and a toy gun. Only this time, along with his hunting knife, he carried a truncheon and a can of pepper spray, all of which were real. With the sexy chit-chat having stalled, ‘Jason Marshall, MI5 Agent’ informed “Vincenzo Iale of Mar dei Coralli” he was “under arrest for being a spy” (“sei in arresto per essere una spia”). Smiling, Vincenzo willingly stripped, he was gagged and hog-tied with adhesive tape, and the two men engaged in sex. ...only this fantasy role-play was about to get very real, very quick. “I want your PIN number” ("Voglio il tuo numero PIN") Jason screamed, as the red-hot tip of a cigarette seared his victim’s flesh. “I want your PIN”, he wailed, raining down blows upon his body with an inch-thick truncheon. “Your PIN”, he spat, blinding his bound and muffled hostage with pepper-spray; until he relented, gasping for air. With that, Jason went shopping and returned a whole 400 Euros richer. To fabricate a burglary, he upended shelves and ransacked cupboards, but bafflingly he didn’t make it look like a break-in. And he stole nothing of any value; just a cash card, the electronic key to the gate, the laptop’s hard-drive (as if to erase any trace of their history) and Vincenzo’s second-hand Fiat. But now, with the role-play having ended and the date having soured, their brief friendship was over. ‘The Badoo Killer’ had no use for his only witness. Having decided that suffocation by clingfilm was too slow, and an inferno drew too much attention, Jason went old-school. Yanking an electric flex from a bedside light and wrapping it tightly around Vincenzo’s neck, Jason stretched the cord wide, his knee buried in the arched back of his hog-tied hostage, until his face turned blue and his body went limp. Lying there, alive but unconscious, Jason plunged his eight-inch hunting knife into Vincenzo’s chest, and slamming it down four times, the cold steel penetrated his ribs, lungs, back and the carpet below. And like the Angel Gabriel himself, standing over the body, he administered the last rites - “In nominee patris et filii et spiritus sancti. Ego sum resurrection et vita” – and with no fire, no smoke and no alarm to quicken his step, as a calm as when he entered, Jason left Torvaianica Alta, never to return. It wasn’t until one week later, that Vincenzo was discovered... ...but by then, Jason was flat-broke, desperate and was seeking a third victim. His name was Umberto Gismondi; a little lonely Italian man of modest means who lived alone and was a submissive into S&M, bondage and role-play. Having flirted online, they agreed to meet in person. Only this time, the Police were watching. Having found Vincenzo’s mobile beside to his body, the chat on Badoo had led to an unknown male known only as Gabriel. Tracking the withdrawals from a stolen cash card and a stolen second-hand Fiat, Jason was being tailed by a Police surveillance team. On Thursday 21st February, at 7pm, they saw as Umberto Gismondi let a stranger into his home. “Hi, I’m Gabriel... well, Jason really”, (“Ciao, sono Gabriel ... beh, Jason davvero”), “hello, I’m Umberto, nice to meet you... in person”, (“ciao, sono Vincenzo, piacere di conoscerti ... di persona”), “Prego”. The mood was awkward and stilted, but lifted by soft lighting, warm smiles and romantic music. From the dark of a blacked-out van, two surveillance officers watched the windows of the little flat in Casal Morena, a suburb in the south east of Rome, as inside, two strangers sat and made small talk. Only the night, for the watchers, was dull. Incredibly dull. Being either a little too shy to engage in sex so soon or the kind of man who liked to be loved, Umberto kept Jason at a distance; together they ate a delightful dinner, sat on the sofa watching television and occasionally kissed, but there was no sex. The surveillance had proved fruitless. So, when their agonisingly-dull shift was finally over, instead of waiting for fresh men to replace them, the officers just left, leaving Umberto alone with Jason. Inside, Jason had grown impatient. With Umberto happy to just sit and chat, rather than he hog-tied and shagged senseless, Jason’s mission was stymied by a dithering man and his fraught nerves were ready to snap. All it took was a single sound, a mocking laugh from Umberto’s lips, as he found Jason’s tale that he was an MI5 agent idiotic, and (rightfully) panned his pathetic uniform and his plastic gun. (Laughing) Furious; Umberto was beaten, kicked, pepper-sprayed, battered with a truncheon and suffocated with cushions. “I want your PIN number” ("Voglio il tuo numero PIN"). The torture lasted for hours, as Jason dragged him from room-to-room, beating him senseless, but the Police were gone. Bloodied and barely conscious, having given up his PIN, Jason was 400 Euros richer and stole an iPad. But before he could return to dispose of his only witness, having released his gag, Umberto screamed. Neighbours came, Police were alerted, the attacker’s name was given-up, and having tracked the GPS on his mobile to a bus heading south in the suburbs of Rome, at 3:30am Jason Marshall was arrested. The evidence was overwhelming; a stolen car, a key-card and bank cards in the names of Vincenzo Iale and Umberto Gismondi, as well as a knife, a truncheon, pepper-spray, adhesive tape, a fake uniform, bloodstains, DNA and – having survived the attack – Umberto proved to be a very credible witness. But two large problems emerged... Firstly, Jason claimed he had no memory of the last three months; from November 2012 - when he blacked-out in an unnamed Scottish forest - to a few days ago - when he awoke in an Italian psychiatric hospital; drugged and handcuffed to a bed, with an armed police guard at his side. Dates which – coincidentally or not – Include him maiming Umberto Gismondi, and murdering Vincenzo Iale. And secondly, sticking with his implausible story that he was an MI5 Agent on a mission to arrest spies, and that he was the Angel Gabriel on a divine prophesy, with his medical history showing a history of depression, anxiety, a diagnosis of Asperger’s and having been sectioned under the Mental Health Act, he was deemed fit to stand trial, but his heinous crimes were viewed under diminished responsibility. On 9th July 2014, at the Frosinone Court of Assizes, 25-year-old Jason Peter Marshall of Greenwich was found guilty of the murder of Vincenzo Iale and the attempted murder of Umberto Gismondi. After appeal, he was sentenced to sixteen years in prison, with at least three to be spent in psychiatric care. And with The Badoo Killer jailed, the case was closed and his name and his crimes were forgotten... ...almost, as there was still one eye-witness, yet to speak, who had seen and heard everything. On Saturday 8th November 2014, being close to two years since the fire, and fifteen months after a coroner’s inquest had ruled the death of Peter Fasoli as ‘an accident’ owing to a ‘faulty lightbulb’ - a logical outcome which neither the fire brigade, the police or his relatives had any reason not to believe – his nephew (Christopher Murgatroyd) removed Peter’s personal possessions from storage. Some were charred, many were damaged and others were beyond repair, but as part of the grieving process to mourn his beloved uncle, Christopher knew that Peter had been compiling a family tree. Keen to recover the project, he switched on his uncle’s laptop, which had survived the inferno. As a neat man, typically the files on his hard-drive were well-organised, so it didn’t pose a problem to find his research, his reference sources and a treasure trove of family photos. But one file stood out... ...it was a large file, a very large file, so large it took up most of the hard-drive. Clicking the video file open, Christopher was confronted by a familiar sight. As filmed using the laptop’s webcam by the bank of computers, this fixed shot showed the inside of the little bungalow; his uncle sat in his recliner chair, eating a bowl of cereal, and behind him lay his blue bed and his brown sofa. Initially it seemed an odd thing to film, a seven-hour recording of him sitting alone eating his dinner? Only this dull little video was far from unremarkable, as although it had no name, its date was unique. Peter had pressed record just before 7pm, on Sunday 6th January 2013 - the evening that he died. At 7pm precisely, having briefly exited the shot, the audio picked up the chat of two socially-awkward man - “Hi, I’m Gabriel... erm, well, Jason really, hello”, “hello, I’m Peter, nice to meet you... in person”, “ha-ha, yes, in person... finally”, “please, come in” – as into the bungalow walked a stranger. Rightfully concerned, Christopher spooled through the video and witnessed everything; from the role-play, to the torture, the robbery and the suffocation. With his uncle out-of-frame - his bound-body and his shrink-wrapped head slumped in an oxygen-starved heap behind the sofa – having said a prayer in Latin, the stranger ransacked the room and yanked-out cables from the bank of computers. And although the video abruptly cut-out... the audio kept recording, saving the file to the hard-drive and capturing the last moments of his Peter’s life; the splash of flammable liquid, the click of a lighter, the licking of flames and the piercing shrill of a fire alarm. Quite why Peter chose to record this is unknown, but with this silent witness finally speaking, a murderer would be brought to justice. (End) On 10th November 2014, the video was handed to the West Yorkshire Police, and received by the Met Police, a murder inquiry established and the ‘accidental death’ of Peter Fasoli was re-investigated. With the coroner’s inquest re-opened, the Police had powers to search everything; the hard-drive, the phone calls, the bank cards and the Badoo messages, all of which led to 25-year-old Jason Marshall – a nobody they had never heard of – as well as the fake alibi, the cash withdrawals, the flight to Italy, and his recent conviction for a murder and an attempted murder, two attacks identical to Peter’s. On 15th February 2017, stalled owing to a lot of red-tape and a lengthy stint in an Italian psychiatric unit, a European arrest warrant was issued, and Jason was arrested on transfer to Heathrow airport. Tried at the Old Bailey, Jason pleaded not guilty, but his defence of amnesia due to hard drinking was dismissed, as in not one single piece of footage did he look unsteady, confused or drunk. And although his mental-illness was deemed a factor, the judge made it clear that Jason was to blame for his actions. Judge Hilliard QC said: “you were motivated by a desire to cause Mr Fasoli pain. You tortured him for so long because you enjoyed it so much. You felt no remorse for what you have done, only pleasure”. The jury took just 75 minutes to reach a unanimous verdict, and being found guilty of both charges, Jason Marshall was sentenced to a minimum term of 39 years for the murder of Peter Fasoli. A fresh inquest also overruled the original verdict of ‘accidental death’ by the coroner’s court, but no blame was attached to the Police or Fire Brigade, who admitted that “minor oversights had been made”. As of today, The Badoo Killer resides at HMP Frankland, where he will remain until 2056. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. That was the final part of The Badoo Killer. And as always, after the break we have the non-compulsory part of the show for those who like info, idiotic coots and iced buns. So, if that sounds awful, switch off now. But before that, here’s a promo for a true-crime podcast which may be the lovely soft and sweet layer of frangipane which nestles in the middle of a lovely scrumptious Bakewell tart. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, who are; Kerry Roberts, Jessica Cooke, The Lady Juliet Maybank and Anthony Priddey, I thank you all for supporting the show, it’s much appreciated. Plus, a thank you to everyone who has recently left lovely reviews and kind words for Murder Mile on your favourite podcast app’, it’s very much appreciated and – even better - it acts like a stiff mid-digit to all those nasty people who have no lives, hate everything and their jollies by pissing on people chips. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk. Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast #127: The Badoo Killer - Part One (Peter Fasoli / Jason Marshall)14/4/2021
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Two comparison shots of 2 Rubens Road in Northholt; left is the little bungalow where Pter Fasoli lived, and to the right is the new build in it's place, after it was demolished
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 ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SEVEN:
Today’s episode is about Peter Fasoli, a lonely man who lived alone and went looking for love online. His needs were simple and his story is far from unique, but having met a young man on a dating app, the stranger he let into his home would change his life forever. This is Part One of Two.
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 former location of Peter Fasoli's bungalow at 2 Rubens Road, where he first met Jason Marshall and was tortured and murdered is marked with a dark purple cross. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your knowledge of the case. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
SOURCES:
https://www.towleroad.com/2017/09/peter-fasoli/ https://www.southwalesargus.co.uk/news/national/18000310.new-inquest-ordered-death-murder-victim-found-died-accidentally/ https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/amp/uk-england-london-41399617 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-40779337 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-40813798 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-40880239 https://www.harrowtimes.co.uk/news/15096437.man-28-charged-with-2013-murder-of-northolt-man/ https://www.mylondon.news/news/west-london-news/man-charged-police-2013-northolt-12611437 https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/crime/jason-marshall-peter-fasoli-39-years-minimum-cling-film-computer-arson-camera-a7967661.html https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2017/sep/26/fantasist-jason-marshall-jailed-murdering-man-peter-fasoli-sex-session https://www.hackneygazette.co.uk/news/crime/revealed-fantasist-murderer-absconded-from-john-howard-centre-years-before-3565108 https://attitude.co.uk/article/a-man-whose-death-was-initially-ruled-an-accident-was-victim-of-serial-killer/22367/ https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-7734349/Peter-Fasoli-killed-fake-MI5-agent-Northolt-west-London-new-inquest-rules.html https://www.pinknews.co.uk/2019/11/29/peter-fasoli-jason-marshall-gay-serial-killer-london-murder-torture-mi5-inquest/ https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/east-ham-fantasist-jason-marshall-guilty-of-sex-murder-to-classic-fm-39dbhj6n9 http://www.ealingtoday.co.uk/default.asp?section=info&page=eanortholtmarshall002.htm https://chiswickherald.co.uk/ealing-man-jailed-for-years-for-murder-p7243-95.htm https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2017/aug/03/man-accused-of-murder-during-sex-session-killed-second-victim-in-italy-court-hears https://www.rollingstone.com/culture/culture-news/former-male-escort-found-guilty-of-murder-and-arson-in-dating-app-killing-112831/ https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2017/aug/09/jason-marshall-fantasist-found-guilty-murdering-man-peter-fasoli-sex-session https://www.newhamrecorder.co.uk/news/crime/east-ham-man-guilty-of-murdering-computer-repairman-in-seven-3133350 https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/jason-marshall-serial-killer-old-bailey-murder-trial-peter-fasoli-badoo-classic-fm-clingfilm-suffocated-northolt-london-rome-italy-vincenzo-iale-umberto-gismondi-a7878401.html https://www.standard.co.uk/news/crime/olympics-cleaner-claims-he-has-no-memory-of-allegedly-smothering-his-handcuffed-victim-with-clingfilm-a3603566.html https://www.ilcorrieredellacitta.com/news/cronaca/omicidio-a-torvaianica-alta-condannato-a-16-anni-jason-peter-marshall.html&prev=search&pto=aue https://www.ilmessaggero.it/roma/cronaca/jason_peter_marshall_adesc_ograve_uomo_chat_condannato_roma-1245838.html&prev=search&pto=aue http://mysocalledgaylife.co.uk/2017/08/another-gay-murder-more-police-failings/ https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-4775550/Fantasist-28-guilty-murdering-gay-man.html MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about Peter Fasoli, a lonely man living alone who went looking for love online. His needs were simple and therefore his story is far from unique, but having met a young man on a dating app, the stranger he let into his home wouldn’t lead to love, but death. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 127: The Badoo Killer – Part One. Today I’m standing on Rubens Road in Northolt, UB5; four miles north of the discovery of Alice Gross, five mile west of the child-rapist known as The Beast, four miles south-west of the bungled drugs-trial at Northwick Park hospital, and three miles west of the picturesque sights of Horsenden Hill, a scene forever stained by the unsolved murder of schoolgirl Hannah Deterville – coming soon to Murder Mile. Situated off the busy White Hart roundabout, Rubens Road is an odd little L-shaped street, at the back of Lime Tree Park. Like many West London estates, where-as once this was a field for as far as the eye could see, it has since been spoiled by the thoughtless erections of unimaginative builders; comprising of terraces, a few trees, several box-like flats and odd lumps of rock which litter the land for no reason. As a stranger to this street, I can’t say that I felt welcome, as the second I cycled in; lights flipped on, curtains twitched, eyes peeped out, and a few doors down, a neighbour in a Hulk onesie watched but did ‘flip-all’... except to provide this running commentary to his wife - “who’s he?”, “dunno”, “why’s he here?”, “dunno”, “what’s he doing?”, “dunno, it looks like a fat bald man in an ‘I heart Eva Green’ t-shirt, dragging six tonnes of Mr Kipling’s cakes and pretending he’s not filming a murder location”. But that’s the strange thing about any residential street. We’re suspicious of any outsiders who dare to walk near our homes, but it’s the things which occur behind the twitching curtains which are often more sinister. We all have secrets and sadness, made worse as we live in an increasingly insular world where - rather than opening our doors, ears and hearts to a real person in real life - we open an app’ in the hope of finding a cheap deal, a pointless fight, a fake friendship and maybe even a date. At 2 Rubens Road now sits a new build. Demolished in 2015, originally it was a two-roomed bungalow owned by Peter Fasoli; an IT technician who sought to cure his loneliness by finding love on the gay dating app’ - Badoo. Only what Peter forgot was that behind every online avatar lurks a stranger. As it was here, on Sunday 6th January 2013, that Peter opened his door to a handsome young man he had only met online, and although they appeared well-matched... his date was pure evil. (Interstitial) For those who find the world a scary place, cyberspace can be both their sanctuary and their prison. Peter John Fasoli was a 58-year-old IT technician of Italian origin. Being a little shy, he kept to himself, he was unmarried, his closest family lived miles away in Yorkshire, and living in a small bungalow at 2 Rubens Road, although he was a resident for several years, few of his neighbours knew him by name. His home mirrored his life. As being a tiny two-roomed home, one floor high and barely 25 feet wide; it was small, neat and (some might say) adorable. Outside a window as-wide-as the-house-itself, lay a thin strip of neatly-mown lawn with a few potted plants, a bird feeder and - to the right - a little stone path leading up to a white PVC door. As the home of a middle-aged bachelor, it seemed as if someone had awkwardly tacked this bungalow onto the end of a nice terrace, to which it never truly belonged. As a little man who was rightfully conscious of his security, three cameras monitored his door, as (once inside) a whole side of his home was impressively crammed full of IT tech; whether webcams, hard-drives, monitors and digitisers. But not only was this his office where long-days were spent sat in a recliner chair, it was also his entertainment hub and his connection to a social life... of sorts. The rest was practical and basic. It was a simple home of a single man; with shelves full of technical manuals and hand-labelled VHS tapes, cabinets of toiletries and files full of papers. And yet, except for the orangey/yellow walls, there were no artistic flourishes, no family photos, and no hint of his history. In front of a bank of screens sat a two-seat brown sofa, with a budgie in a cage to keep him company, and behind lay a double mattress with a blue duvet squeezed into a boxroom barely big enough for the bed. And that was his life; he slept, ate and worked; with his world packed into a few square feet. For Peter - being little, shy and chubby - socialising was difficult; as outside of IT he hadn’t any hobbies, he found it hard to meet new friends, and having a heart problem - although an oxygen cylinder by his bed would relieve any bouts of breathlessness - it limited his activities and made him more insular. That said, he had no problem socialising in cyberspace. Like many millions, the anonymity of hiding behind a cheeky pen-name, a cherry-picked profile and a carefully chosen photo (which made him look less like a little round man with brown glasses, a receding hairline and a thin greying moustache) let him hide his inadequacies, accentuate his attributes, casually chat and log-out when he got bored. It gave him the confidence to meet like-minded men in the safety of a chatroom, and all before they agreed to meet in person. He could discuss his hopes, his dreams and his fantasies with a raw honesty; whether he desired love, sex, a one-night-stand or something a more risqué to brighten-up his day. In December 2012, using the dating app’ Badoo, Peter met a potential date who went by the alias of Gabriel. He was tall, young, handsome and dark-haired, with a penchant for older shorter Italian men on the quiet side. And in a sexual-partner, he sought a subordinate male who was into S&M, bondage and role-playing, as Gabriel had a fantasy about being an MI5 agent and interrogating his suspect. It seemed like harmless fun, and having chatted it through, the two men mutually agreed to meet for consensual sex at Peter’s home on Sunday 6th January 2013 at 7pm. If it went well, it could lead to love. If it didn’t, they could end it without hurting anyone’s feelings. And if Gabriel could find another man who was keen, there was even the possibility of a threesome. It was a win-win situation for Peter. Only, there’s a massive pitfall for those who live a sheltered life in a fake world behind an anonymous mask? You can never truly tell who someone is – what details in their self-penned profile are real, false, tweaked or glossed-over - without meeting them in person first. (Door knock) So, with another blind date arranged, into the safety of his own home, Peter Fasoli welcomed a stranger. (Interstitial) Gabriel’s real name was Jason Marshall. As a man who lived his real life in the realms of the unreal, many details are hard to verify; some may be fact, some may be false and some may be pure fantasy, but given his difficult upbringing, it’s easy to understand why he chose to escape inside his own mind. Jason Peter Marshall was born on the 11th August 1988 in Greenwich, South London, to a young couple with a cruel addiction to heroin. It was a bad start for a small baby and his life would only get worse. Court records show that, aged just ten, with both parents jailed, Jason was punished for their crimes. As an innocent boy, he was sent to a children’s home in Southend, bounced between foster homes and (seeing this as right) social services returned him to his mother, once her sentence was served. By 2000, living in Stratford, East London, 12-year-old Jason said he could hear voices and see visions, sometimes by angels and other times by aliens, believing he was the incarnation of the angel Gabriel. Entering his teenage years, Jason was diagnosed with borderline Asperger’s Syndrome, a condition on the autism spectrum. Typically, he was detail obsessed and persistent in completing tasks, but lacking many social skills, he found it difficult to make friends, so retreated inside his imagination. Many with Asperger’s rely on routine, but so chaotic was his life, that it exacerbated his anxiety and depression. On the outside, Jason looked little more than a fresh-faced boy, who was slim, calm and quiet, with chestnut eyes, brown cropped hair and flawless skin. But on the inside, his mind was in utter turmoil. Jason hated himself. In his eyes, he had no authority or purpose. He was a nobody. But in others, he could see the respect that a unform had given them. How much of this is true is uncertain, but he said he once posed as an air cadet to steal charity collections, he dressed as a ticket inspector to issue fake fines on the London Underground, he allegedly scammed his way into Southwark and Kentish Town police stations to steal their radios, and caught criminals using a homemade warrant card, pepper-sprayed his assailants, and later claimed he had been arrested for impersonating officers and officials. In 2008, aged twenty and sectioned under the Mental Health Act following a suicide attempt, he was sent to the John Howard Centre, a medium-secure psychiatric unit in Homerton, East London. While there, he absconded, served a short stint in prison for a non-violent crime, and monitored by the DSPD – the Dangerous and Severe Personality Disorder service – in 2010, he absconded again whilst being transferred to a specialist hostel. And having been returned to prison, he fell off the scheme’s radar. Released into society and discharged by the psychiatrists back under the care of his GP, in early 2012, Jason was given a bed in an East Ham hostel and worked as a street cleaner at the London Olympics. But losing his job, he plunged into a spiral of depression and heavy drinking, sinking eight cans of Stella and a half bottle of Jack Daniels a day, which – mixed with his medication – resulted in memory loss. And yet, oddly, in not a single frame of CCTV footage, does he look unsteady, confused or drunk. According to Jason, from the first day sometime in November 2012 - when he blackout in an unnamed Scottish forest - to the last day in February 2013 - when he awoke in an Italian psychiatric hospital; drugged and handcuffed to a bed, with an armed police guard at his side - he has no memory of those three months. Dates which – coincidentally or not – Include him meeting and murdering Peter Fasoli. Out of work, under the alias of Gabriel, Jason (allegedly) hired himself out for the fee of £400 an hour, as a sex-worker on the gay-dating app’s Grindr, Badoo and adultwork.com. His preferences were S&M, bondage and role-play. He liked smaller older men, preferably Italian. And he got his thrills by dressing-up like an MI5 agent (in a homemade uniform), where he would arrest ‘naughty boys’ on trumped-up charges and subject his submissive suspects to a lengthy interrogation, by stripping them naked, tying them to the bed, and inflicting a mix of pain and pleasure, until they begged him for forgiveness. And that – supposedly – is how he met Peter. On the evening of Sunday 6th January 2013 - dressed in a black woollen hat, a black waist length jacket, blue jeans and a black ruck-sack (a budget version of what he guessed all MI5 agents in Her Majesty’s Secret Service wear) - Jason caught the Central Line train from Stratford to Northolt. And after a short walk to the little bungalow at 2 Ruben Road, at 7pm precisely, Peter Fasoli welcomed a stranger. It began, as any interaction between two socially-awkward people would. “Hi, I’m Gabriel... erm, well, Jason really, hello”, “hello, I’m Peter, nice to meet you... in person”, “ha-ha, yes, in person... finally”, possibly followed by a “please, come in”, “shall I take my shoes off”, a “no, that’s fine”, and a few casual pleasantries about his journey, the flat, the weather and Peter’s impressive bank of computers. With no third person in-tow (which was unsurprising as Peter kept-to-himself and Jason didn’t have any pals) the proposed threesome was off. But this was no bad thing, as having a weak heart, although his oxygen cylinder was full, Peter had to be careful not to get too excited, or to over-exert himself. For Peter, who had met many young men this way, he seemed very at ease with his new friend, who beamed a nice smile, spoke in polite tones and – having removed his woolly hat and rucksack, as the room was toasty warm – had perched himself on the small brown sofa, as the two men got acquainted. To see their body language, you would assume they had either met before and knew each other well. Having trimmed his little grey moustache and being dressed in a black t-shirt and trousers – perhaps to appear younger and slimmer to his date who was half his age, a few stone heavier and nearly a foot taller - as they chatted, Peter sat in his recliner chair and finished a bowl of cereal for his dinner. To set the mood; a soft night-light illuminated from beside the freshly ironed bedsheets, by the sofa his little budgie gently twittered its merry little song, and out of two large speakers smoothly oozed the sounds of Classic FM; with Charlotte Hawkins’ Classics at Seven, Sir Trevor McDonald’s Headliners till ten and taking them up-to and beyond the midnight hour was Smooth Classics with Myleene Klass. This getting-to-know-you was all well-and-good, but they knew they were here for one reason - sex. Standing briefly, Jason removed his black jacket to reveal the uniform of an MI5 Agent. It wasn’t real, obviously, as MI5 agents don’t wear uniforms, otherwise they wouldn’t be secret. Only Jason didn’t know that, and besides, he didn’t care, he just liked uniforms and how powerful it made him feel. To say it looked homemade would be an understatement. His black woolly hat had been rolled up like he was secretly on a covert operation. Around his neck lay a black lanyard with a fake ID which read ‘Jason Marshall, British Secret Intelligence’. Around his hips he wore a utility belt, filled with everything a secret agent would need; a pair of white latex gloves, a set of plastic handcuffs, a toy gun in a holster, a pretend can of pepper-spray and an MI5 radio, cunningly disguised as a Nokia mobile. And to aid the act, he even connected one earpiece to his phone, like it was a real commlink to a walkie-talkie. Admittedly, Peter could see that he hadn’t tried all that hard with his uniform, as unable to find a black t-shirt, Jason had opted for a blue one. So, when he had removed his jacket, instead of his top reading something dangerous like ‘MI5 Agent’, instead it read ‘Pussy’... the official t-shirt of all secret agents. For Peter, his expression wasn’t of fear for this man of supposed authority, in fact, he seemed charmed by its childishness, and with the role-playing being part of the foreplay, soon enough they would both be naked, so... who cared? But as a nice detail, to stay in character, Jason kept on his black gloves. At a little after 7:30pm, with the chit-chat and polite pleasantries done, ‘Jason Marshall, MI5 Agent’ informed “Mr Peter John Fasoli of 2 Ruben Road, Northolt” that he was “under arrest for being a spy”, under an unnamed Espionage Act, “having hacked into a government laptop and helped a terrorist”. Being rightfully terrified as this was a very serious offence for which he deserved to be punished, Peter slowly got out of his recliner chair, smiled at the secret agent – who pointed to the double bed where his very thorough interrogation was due to take place - and having finished his dinner, Peter popped his bowl into the sink of his kitchenette, as spies hate it when the leftover cereal starts to congeal. As part of the role-play, Jason’s agent wasn’t all that aggressive, and as a spy, Peter was easily passive. They both smiled, they both nodded, they both seemed to be enjoying themselves, and if you were to see the expression of Peter’s face - as I have - you would know that the act was consensual. Whether he was into the role-play as a submissive, or he was just eager to please a handsome young man? Only Peter’s definition of consensual sex was very different to Jason’s. Towering a foot taller, Jason ordered Peter to “strip... all of it”. Eagerly, the little man did, pulling off his black t-shirt, black trousers and white underpants, but folding them in a neatly folded pile for fear of leaving creases. Seconds later, Peter’s little tubby frame was as naked as the day he was born. “Get on the bed” Jason barked in a voice too quiet to make him quake, but Peter did, as he liked to be dominated. “Face down”. Fear was part of the thrill, as lying there helpless, the unknown was exciting. From the rucksack, Peter watched as this stranger pulled a roll of adhesive tape - “I’m going to tie you up” – as the man he-had-only-just-met (but trusted implicitly) tightly bound his wrists and ankles, with his limbs hog-tied over his bare buttocks and as a strip of tape muffled his mouth. Peter was helpless and immobile, left to his interrogator’s mercy, and as his heart pounded, he grew excited and aroused. And with the lights down, the little man silenced and the eager strings of classical music blaring out of two speakers, no-one on Rubens Road knew what was going on behind the curtains of number two... ...only this fantasy role-play was about to get very real, very quick. Lying face-down on the pillow, Peter saw his gloved assailant fumble in the neat pile of clothes he had left by his bed, and retrieve his black leather wallet. “I want your PIN number” his captor demanded, holding a Lloyd’s TSB bank card. Unsure if this was part of the act or a joke, from his utility belt, Jason drew an eight-inch hunting knife, and pressing the cold steel blade against Peter’s trembling cheek, again he demanded “PIN number”. For Peter, the fun had stopped, but his pain was far from over. Unwilling to give-in to his robber’s demands, the torture of Peter Fasoli began. Delusional to the very last, Jason threatened to slice-off the tip of his tongue and to Taser his hog-tied hostage with 50,000 volts, only just like his pistol, the stun-gun was fake. “The PIN number!”. Wrapped up in his fictional world of spies and interrogation, several times a syringe was stabbed into Peter’s arm, as a “truth serum” flooded his blood. Only a tox’-screen would later confirm it was Halliperidol, an anti-psychotic drug used to treat schizophrenia, which would have had no effect on Peter. “I want the PIN”. All the while, his screams muffled by tape and classical, as his budgie panicked in its cage. It may seem silly, even delusional, but for every torture method that failed, one would work. Sparking-up a cigarette, Jason inhaled deep until the lit tip grew red-hot. A tiny ball of anger that raged and smoked to a dangerously searing 900 degrees Celsius, and as Jason (his torturer) loomed nearer, this distant dot of hell hove closer, until – stubbing it deep - the little fiery poker singed his pale skin. “The PIN!”. The torture began just before eight... and it didn’t stop until the night had passed eleven. Exhausted and breathless, with his weak heart beating chaotically, it was only after his sweat-soaked face had been repeatedly smothered and asphyxiated with a pillow, that Peter finally broke. With the PIN memorised, Jason popped out to the shops, leaving Peter alone. Naked, muffled and bound, trapped inside the walls of his own prison, Peter couldn’t scream out for help, reach for his phone, bang on the wall, or trip any one of his three alarms (for fire, smoke or theft). And as his breathing became more laboured, he couldn’t reach the life-giving air of his oxygen cylinder. Being a Sunday night in Northolt, not much was open, so with nearest Tesco shut, Jason went to the Shell garage on the Ruislip Road, withdrew £780 from Peter’s bank and made a few unusual purchases. Just after midnight, Jason returned to the little bungalow at 2 Rubens Road; unseen and unheard. Inside, Peter was still bed-bound, the budgie was squawking a racket, and on the radio Classic FM was playing the Birmingham Repertory Theatre production of Raymond Brigg’s Christmas classic - The Snowman; a story about an unlikely friendship made infamous by the song ‘Walking In The Air’. Ironically, with the role-play having ended and the date having soured, their brief friendship was over. Peter wanted Jason to leave and – with no more use for Peter - Jason knew it was time to head home. But first, the man who the papers would later dub ‘The Badoo Killer’ had to dispose of his only witness. Seeing Jason’s recent purchase, Peter pleaded for life, his muffled cries of “No! No! Please!” piercing through the thick tape across his mouth, as out of the rucksack, Jason pulled a roll of clingfilm. Yanking out a long length of this thin transparent film (usually used to seal leftover foods), in a swift motion, Jason repeatedly wrapped it around his head, the remarkably strong film sticking to his sweaty skin, as it formed a seal over Peter’s hair, face and – the last hole he could breathe through – his nose. Fighting with every last breath, although hog-tied, Peter fought to free himself, rocking his bound body back and forth, and as his would-be killer wrestled to cover his oxygen-starved head in a carrier-bag, the two men rolled off the double bed and landed behind the little brown sofa with a hard thud. The only sound audible being the quickening crinkle of plastic and Peter’s muffled cries of “I can’t breathe”. Unfazed, having no compassion for the little man who lay dying at his feet, Jason calmly stood. And as if he was the Angel Gabriel himself, speaking from high in the heavens, he administered the last rites in Latin - “In nominee patris et filii et spiritus sancti” (English – “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost”) “Ego sum resurrection et vita” (English - “I am the resurrection and the life”). (End) By that point, Peter wasn’t dead but dangerously unconscious, as carbon dioxide poisoned his lungs. He had lived alone, and he would die alone, having hoped to meet a man who would make him happy. With a possible murder to cover-up and eager to make a burglary look more believable, Jason riffled through drawers, upended shelves and ransacked cupboards, but oddly he took nothing. Not a laptop, a webcam or handy gadgets of this tech savvy man, he didn’t even steal the gold watch from his wrist. Several unidentified items were flushed down the toilet, and keen to cause as much confusion to any investigation, he yanked out as many wires as he could see from the bank of computers. Abruptly, the music stopped and as several flashing LEDs ceased, it was clear that Peter wasn’t making a sound. Lighting-up another cigarette, Jason smoked as calmly he gathered his belongings from the bungalow. His jacket, his hat and his rucksack. And at intermittent intervals, the sound of a splashing liquid could be heard, as Jason flung a flammable fluid over the bed, the walls and the sofa, but mostly over Peter. With the click of a lighter, as the flames slowly licked and the small room filled with a thick acrid cloud, a smoke alarm activated, as it’s piercing cries wailed through the walls and deep down the street. And knowing that, within a few seconds, several sets of bleary eyes would soon peep from behind the twitching curtains of Rubens Road, at 12:41am precisely, Jason left the bungalow, never to return. Peter Fasoli’s death was tragic, a cold-blooded attack on a vulnerable man for a few hundred quid, and following a badly bungled investigation, two more men would die at the hands of the Badoo Killer. But as clever as Jason Marshall thought he was, he would be caught by the simplest of mistakes. He believed he had murdered his only witness... but there was another, who saw and heard everything. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. The final part of The Badoo Killer concludes next week. As always, after the break we have the non-compulsory part of the show for those who like details, ducks and delicious cakes, so switch off now if that isn’t your bag. But before that, here’s a promo for a true-crime podcast which may be the chocky lumpy bits in your double chocky choc-o-lump lumpy muffin. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, who are; Anne Ibadulla, Vicci Lewis, Trine (like Katrina) Madsen, Kelley R Smith and Draco2008, I thank you all. I hope you’re enjoying the secret exclusive goodies. Plus a thank you to Darren De-Rosa for your very kind donation to keep me fat and Eva in shoes (via the Murder Mile eShop). Plus a thank you to all new, old and original listeners who continue to share this show with their friends. It’s very much appreciated. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Savoy Buildings, formerly known as Fountain Court, as it looks today. The original Coal Hole tavern was on the near left hand side, oppositre the gas light
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 ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SIX:
Today’s episode is about Maria Poulton, a humble cook in a notorious West End tavern called The Coal Hole. Branded as ‘pure evil’, her shocking crime scandalised this infamous den of depravity, only this tragic little murder wasn’t committed through rage or hatred, but mercy and love.
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 former location of The Coal Hole Tavern, where Maria Poulton was forced to hide her unwanted pregnancy and the sad truth behind the baby's death is marked with a black cross. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your knowledge of the case. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
Left to right: The Coal Hole Tavern (at 92 The Strand, not the oriignal tavern, this is the one many people mistake it for), a photo taken inside the alley today (it's the same height and width as in the 1830's) and two photos of the inscription on the pillars at the extrance to Savoy Buildings / Fountain Court.
SOURCES:
This episode is primarily based on the court records from The Old Bailey, as well as many other sources such as census records, newspapers and others.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about Maria Poulton, a humble cook in a notorious West End tavern called The Coal Hole. Branded as ‘pure evil’, her shocking crime scandalised this infamous den of depravity, only this tragic little murder wasn’t committed through rage or hatred, but mercy and love. 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 126: The Coal Hole Concealment. Today I’m standing on the Savoy Buildings, just off The Strand, WC2; one street south of the botched robbery at the Coach & Horses pub, one road north of where baby Harry Hartley was hurled into the icy River Thames, a short walk east of the last 37 seconds of Desmond O’Beirne, and directly opposite The Strand Palace Hotel and the little-known killing of Lila Gillman – coming soon to Murder Mile. Infamous as a semi-prosperous piece on a Monopoly board, The Strand is little more than a four-laned thoroughfare from Trafalgar Square to Temple Bar, passing such thrilling sights as The Savoy Hotel, Charring Cross and the Royal Courts of Justice. It’s a useful place for those awaiting their trial, whereas everyone else simply stands here, looking baffled and asking “how do I get back to Covent Garden?” The Strand is an odd spot to shop, as her mountaineers go gaga over Gortex, preening ponces purr over cashmere pullovers, dullards go “ooh” over a pricy stamps, and – between a mucky-doos for the ne’er-do-wells and a free dose of diabetes at the all-you-can-gorge Pizza Slobatorium – are sandwich shops where throngs of office-workers enthusiastically order “a cray-fish, guava and avocado focaccia”, only to regret nibbling this fishy filth, slide it into a bin and claim “ooh, that was too filling”. One part of this street has always had a specific purpose and although a tavern called The Coal Hole now resides at 91 The Strand, it is often mistaken for its more infamous namesake, a few feet away. Hidden between numbers 103 and 104, and formerly known as Fountain Court, the Savoy Buildings is a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it alley leading from The Strand to the River Thames. With no light or life, just walls and doors, it’s little more than a foreboding crack in the city, where behind a series of cellars and corridors, the unseen filth and slog of the hospitality trade is hidden from respectable society. Long since demolished, at 15 and 16 Fountain Court once stood the original Coal Hole. An infamous drinking den, saucy theatre and cess-pit of scandal, where every kind of immoral act took place; some of which were illegal, most of which were depraved, but unfairly, only one was punishable by death. As it was here, on Friday 13th April 1832, whilst perched upon her chamber pot, that a modest cook called Maria Poulton would risk her own life to commit her first and last killing. (Interstitial) By today’s standards, the life of Maria Poulton was far from immoral... ...but back in the early 1800’s, society would regard her as the epitome of sin. Born in 1805, near the Essex hamlet of Ardleigh Heath, Maria was an ordinary working-class girl from very humble beginnings. With no land or home of their own, like so many families forced to toil in the harsh spoils of manual labour - where the privileged stayed pampered and the poor were kept in their place - the Poulton’s fought an everyday battle to be safe, dry and fed. But for Maria life was harder. Blessed with a basic literacy from Sunday school and a good moral code as a Catholic, no matter what her hopes and dreams for her own future were, she was limited to the live the life that the upper-class men of our so-called civilised society had dictated. Therefore, Maria followed her family; with her brothers becoming labourers like their father and her sisters working as domestics like their mother. Physically, Maria was often mistaken chubby, a girl prone to gluttony - with swollen ankles, wide hips and a round belly - but in truth, she was typical of any malnourished urchin who survived on a meagre diet of hard bread, thick lard, starchy potatoes and the cheapest cuts of the fattiest meat. Her face was sickly pale but flushed about the cheeks, and her walk was cautious being crippled by bad joints. As a person, Maria was unremarkable, but what made her so-beloved was her nature. Life had dealt her a dirty hand, but she didn’t let it ruin her day; she knew her place and - with that – she was okay. She was poor but was always clean. She was lonely but not unhappy. She owned little except her pride. And although disadvantaged, throughout her difficulties, she would remain sweet, meek and humble. (Twist) A few years later, she would be branded as a sinner, a harlot and a killer – she was condemned as one of the worst human beings alive - and yet, she didn’t steal, spit or fight, she didn’t even swear. Earning a wage since her earliest years, Maria worked as a maid and a cleaner in the local taverns and later as a kitchen hand. She kept-to-herself, she was rarely ill and she never complained to anyone... ever. Even if her life was bad, she dealt with it, alone. That said, her life could have been a lot worse. So, by late 1820’s, having begun work as a cook at The Coal Hole, although the hours were long; her money was steady, her meals were free, she was warm, well-fed and had a roof over her head - albeit having to sleep in a shared bed with the master’s maid. For a poorly-educated working-class girl, she had done okay; she was single, solitary but self-sufficient. Like many women in this era - with no chance of a pension, savings or a home of her own - the best she could dream of was to marry a good man and spawn several offspring to see her through to her dotage. But by 1831, with her sisters married off and being the grand old age of 26, Maria was cruelly cursed by society as a spinster, and hardly being a great beauty, her family didn’t hold out much hope. Feeling the pinch to follow-suit and (deep down) keen to be loved, in July 1831, Maria met a handsome man called Harris; a romance blossomed, their lust peaked and (just like her love) her belly began to swell... but this love-of-her-life was not-to-be, as being betrothed to another woman, he fled. Maria had been abandoned, left to fend for herself with a little baby growing inside her... ...but being so independent, as a single-mother she could easily have succeeded. Only several months later, her unfortunate circumstance would cause this lovely lady to do the unthinkable (Interstitial) The law has scandalised women, their rights and their biological blessing for centuries. Prior to the 1800’s, the women of England were free from legal or religious persecution regarding the termination of a pregnancy. It was their body and an abortion by any means was their choice. But in 1803, Lord Edward Ellenborough, 1st Baron Ellenborough and Lord Chief Justice of England and Wales sought to legally clarify the term ‘abortion’, the act itself and its punishment. Introduced in the all-male, all white and all devoutly religious House of Lords, after a few amendments (but without the need to consult a woman, or even their own wives), the bill passed the House of Commons (115 years before the first female MP sat in the British Parliament, 165 years before the first female Lord) and it came into law on the 18th May 1803. It took less than eight weeks and opened a viper’s nest of bigotry. Only, this act of parliament - which (in a swift strike) crushed a woman’s right to decide what she could do with her own body and of the life of the unborn baby inside her - wasn’t deemed important enough to establish in its own bill. It was a sub-clause in the Malicious Shooting or Stabbing Act of 1803, which criminalised the discharging of loaded firearms, as well as any stabbing, cutting, wounding, poisoning, maiming, disfiguring and disabling of His Majesty's subjects. Oh, and the termination of pregnancies. As of May 1803, the act decreed it was an offence for any person to perform or cause an abortion post the point of ‘quickening’ (where the foetus can be felt moving in the uterus, usually at 16 to 20 weeks). The punishment of which was either transportation for a minimum of fourteen years... or death. An amendment also criminalised the act of concealment, meaning that should a baby die during the physically dangerous process of child-birth and the mother fail to report it, her innocence may only be found if a medical professional deemed the death an ‘act of God’, but If it had breathed a single breath - in an era where pathology was still in its infancy - the courts could find the mother guilty of murder. Ellenborough’s law penalised all women, especially those who were poor, vulnerable and unmarried. In the 1830’s, by the time that Maria fell pregnant, women were denied the right to vote, own a home or control money. Sex was strictly forbidden outside of wedlock, so if a man chose to ‘seduce’ a woman and subsequently refused to marry her (as Harris did), it was she who would be shamed. Owing to the shame this ‘fallen women’ had brought upon her family, unmarried mothers were often banished from their homes, villages and families – just as Maria had. And with divorce still illegal for another 37 years, if a man grew bored of married life and wanted to marry his mistress, he could declare his wife insane by committing her to the local asylum, where - as ‘his property’ - it was his word against hers. Decreed by Parliament, Maria could be branded a harlot should she record the birth of her illegitimate child, be condemned alongside her baby to a life in the workhouse having been judged an unfit mother simply because she was single, or possibly, convicted as a murderer should she hide its natural death. A few streets away, at the infamous Newgate Prison, an average of 30,000 spectators would leer and jeer, as many bad men were publicly hanged for treason, rape or piracy; many ordinary bods had their necks snapped for such menial crimes as theft, forgery or misrepresenting a will. But often, a woman was subjected to ‘an interminably long strangulation’ having been found guilty of the ‘murder of a bastard child’, a term reserved for child-killers, as well as any mother who had procured an abortion. So popular was this free-entertainment, that opposite the hangman’s gallows was built London’s first drinking fountain, although many of the more ‘respectable’ spectators celebrated at The Coal Hole. Originally called The Unicorn, The Coal Hole Tavern at numbers 15 & 16 comprised of two four-storey red-brick buildings at the north-east end of Fountain Court. As a dark foreboding alley - as gloomy as ashen skin and as skinny as a fleshless bone - with any sun eclipsed by its tall walls, a foul wind whistled down this featureless hole all the way down to the Thames, like a descent into the bowels of hell. So bleak was Fountain Court, that artist William Blake lived at number 3, during his worst depression. Owned by John Rhodes, the Coal Hole was the former coal cellar for the Savoy Hospital. Hidden below ground, it earned a rightfully rude reputation as a place of drunkenness, immorality and debauchery. Only this was not a low-rent flea-pit for grubby labourers and bawdy sailors, this was a high-brow arty establishment for the more discerning ‘young gentlemen’ in their most fashionable top hat and tails. As a member’s club for ‘men-only’, a place patronised by celebrities, The Coal Hole had private rooms for masonic meetings, a lounge where coffee was not the only stimulant, a hotel called the Metropolis where guests could “depend upon well-aired beds” (which was code for ‘sex on tap’), a theatre replete with songs, jokes and a little ‘Tableaux Vivant’ - an arty excuse to ogle the jiggling jollities of a dancer’s boobs, butt and biff – and a tavern where the bawdy excesses of unabashed drunkenness were served in solid silver tankards. And with a blind-eye turned by the law, fights and orgies were not uncommon. Whatever you desired you could have – drink, drugs, sex, flesh – the only rule, you had to be a man. This was not a place for a young lady, but as the cook for its ‘supper club’, Maria saw very little of this. From dawn till dusk, she slaved away in a steamy kitchen, serving honest foods like soups, chops, steaks and pies. She fed the customers and ensured that the master’s small staff were well-fed too. As a cheerful woman with sweet smile and a quiet demeanour, she was neat but never prim-or-proper, she was well-liked and yet rarely said a word, and although senior to Elizabeth Emmerson the char-woman and Sarah Simmons – the maid she shared a bed with – she had a maternal warmth which they both loved. But not being one to freely gossip about her life or loves, they respected her privacy. To those who knew her, there was no denying that, as a quiet, loving and self-sufficient woman, even if her lover hadn’t fled, Maria would unquestionably have been a good mother to her baby... ...only the law-of-the-land would force her to make a desperate choice. For the first few months, she was blissfully oblivious to the baby inside her. But as a reddening flushed her pallid cheeks, her chronic ankles began to swell and a new roundness bulged about her midriff, as autumn turned to winter, extra layers and a thick black apron would disguise her shape, for now. Harris was gone, the scoundrel had fled north it is said, having promised her a ring but he had proposed it to someone else. When she needed them most, her family had turned, having chosen their pride over her life. So now, she had no-one. None of this was her fault, it was fate, but she would be blamed. As her body grew, her options shrank, as every day she was reminded of her dire situation. Outside of The Coal Hole sat The Strand, a busy London thoroughfare; in front, couples passed through Covent Garden, unbothered by the law as a piece of parchment and a gold ring had made them legal; to her left was the Strand workhouse, a stark warning to any unwed woman as its cemetery sprawled with the tiny graves of unwanted babes; and to her right - carried on an ill-wind - were the deathly cheers and cries as yet another ‘evil woman’, an abortionist of a bastard, was hung at the gallows of Newgate. These were the choices she was given... and none of them were good. Living in a top-floor room above The Coal Hole; she had small washing bowl, a dressing table, a thick horsehair bed, and beside this, in a seated wooden box, a porcelain chamber-pot; the precursor to the flushable toilet, where pans of pee and poop were expelled without privacy and disposed of by hand. It wasn’t much, but being warm and dry, she had more than most. And although everything was shared with Sarah, it was cosy, snug and she was good company... but for Maria, it lacked privacy. Changing clothes side-by-side and sleeping belly-to-back, it was impossible to hide such a swollen secret. In court, Sarah would state “I asked, about Christmas-time, if she was in the family way? She said no”, and respecting this modest lady, “I never mentioned it again”. But her pregnancy was very obvious. By that point, being four-to-five months gone and having felt the ‘quickening’, Maria was left with only one option. It was illegal and dangerous, but in private, she would risk her life by aborting the baby. Medically, in the 1800’s, there were very few fool-proof methods to induce an abortion. They all came with risks and they all had side-effects. Some were as mild as cramps and nausea; some were a severe as disability and death. Popular among the poorest were tansy oil, a violent purgative to flush out the bowels; pennyroyal, a herb used for colds, fatigue and as an insect repellent; ergot, an alkaloid to treat migraines, which can cause seizures, organ failure and also miscarriage; as well as cheaper methods like hot baths, turps, street-gin, vaginal plunging, a punch to the gut, or a fall down a flight of stairs. Of course, there was always the sharp tug of a wire-rod by a back-street abortionist, but although more effective than most, their brutal efforts could often be fatal to both the mother and her baby. It is unclear which method Maria chose – maybe one, maybe many – but as a sickly pale girl who was naturally unsteady on her feet, she hid her sickness well, often putting down the vomiting to a bug, or the violent stomach pains to off-food. And as always, as bad as her life got, she dealt with it, alone. Given a little privacy, Maria would perch upon the chamber-pot. Sweating and gripping, as the twinge of hot needles poked her innards, she prayed the poison didn’t kill her, but did its work. And as the debauched excesses of the so-called ‘gentlemen of civilised society’ thundered on, silently she awaited the white porcelain bowl to become flush with the gush of blood and the slop of a limp foetus. There she sat, awaiting her worry to be over... but the blood never came. The abortion had failed, so with baby to be born in secret, Maria would have to deal with the consequences... one way or another. On the night of Thursday 12th April 1832 - with the ‘supper club’ kitchen closed and the nights frivolities winding down – as per usual, Sarah & Maria snuggled-up in bed, their bodies radiated a reassuring warmth. Only that night, Maria was a lot hotter and clammier, and struggling to lie still as she writhed, her rotund frame twisted as she groaned, but when asked, she claimed it was “just a stomach ache”. By the next morning of Friday 13th, having had a fitful sleep, Maria was unusually hard to rouse. Her movement was slow, her pale face dripped with sweat, and unusually, she complained of a headache. She came down to breakfast, which Sarah had prepared, but returned to her bed, her eggs untouched. At 2pm, rightfully concerned, Sarah & Elizabeth returned to the bedroom and softly knocked, but got no reply. They knocked again, but heard nothing. So, as they entered, they saw Maria, alone, perched upon the wooden box of the chamber-pot; struggling to stay upright, her skin wet and her body weak. “Miss Poulton?”, Sarah asked, “what’s wrong?”, the porcelain pot obscured by her long nightdress, a black apron and several petticoats. But in a barely audible whisper Maria replied “nothing... go, please, go”. She didn’t, instead asking “Shall I fetch Dr Jones?”, only Maria said “no, I’m fine”, as she ushered her junior away with the waft of her trembling hand and a feeble attempt at a reassuring smile. Only they knew she was not fine; as her white petticoats were stained red, the floor was dotted with thick spots of blood, and laying about her feet were fistfuls of woollen cloth used to stem the flow. Her lips trembled, as again, sat alone, she was unable to scream in pain, for fear of exposing her secret. Fifteen minutes later, the girls returned. Maria was slumped-over, sitting on the side of the bed; her black apron was gone, her nightdress was untied and its cord was missing. Too exhausted to move, she weakly asked “Elizabeth, please remove this”, pointing to the porcelain pot perched upon the locked wooden box. Its pale white shine stained red, as wadded rags floated in a thick red sea. Elizabeth did so, taking the bloody pot to the side room. Sarah knew but spoke cautiously, “Miss Poulton? Cook? Where is the baby?”. Too tired to talk, Maria uttered “no baby, just had a small miscarriage”, and with no energy left, Maria agreed to see a doctor. The doctor’s aide, Charles Thompson arrived from the surgery at 4 Fountain Court. Bedbound, Maria claimed it was just a stomach ache, but the soiled rags and the spattered pot told a different story. If this was a miscarriage, the law stated that the doctor must observe the foetus, as only he could say whether it had lived or died, even if only for the briefest of moments. Only Maria stuck to her story. As the aide left, rightfully Sarah was worried. The law was the law; he could fetch the doctor, he could tell the master, he could summon an officer. If there was a baby, all three could be charged with aiding the concealment of a baby, so side-by-side with Elizabeth, Sarah asked “please Cook, please show us”. Reluctantly nodding, with a sharp wince, Maria bent down beside the bed. With a click, she unlocked the wooden box which recently held the porcelain pot and pried it open. Inside, all the girls spied was some rags and a black apron. But hidden from sight, as she held a set of scissors, something went snip. In Maria’s hand lay the bloodied cord of her nightdress, hanging limply like two ends of a severed loop, as its once-tight cotton noose has been freed from a vice-like grip. “Oh Cook, tell me you didn’t?”, Sarah pleaded, but Maria had, as wrapped in a black bundle lay a small but well-formed baby girl. Naked and helpless, it lay silent and still, its little face all purple, its tiny tongue protruding and its lips the same blue hue as its eyes, as for both their sakes, she had throttled it before it could utter a sound. “Oh Cook, you... you have hanged the baby", Sarah said. To which, Maria implored her "Hush! Please! You will hang me", but with an officer not far behind, it was too late, her secret was out. (End) In the bedroom, Dr Jones examined the cord and a matching mark on the baby’s neck, which Maria couldn’t account for, stating “I don't know anything about it, I have not done it". But by 7pm, with the arrival of Superintendent Sadler of the Covent Garden police, Maria admitted she was pregnant, unmarried, had hidden her pregnancy and admitted to concealing the baby, but nothing more. That night, 27-year-old Maria Poulton was arrested and charged with murder, but she wasn’t placed in custody. Clearly exhausted and hardly a risk to anyone, they left her to sleep, and each day an officer would check on her wellbeing and when she felt strong enough, she presented herself to the Police. An autopsy confirmed that the baby’s lungs had inflated with air; when it was born, it had breathed, and although much of the evidence of its death pointed to a strangulation by its mother, they could not conclusively confirm whether the baby had died by being asphyxiated by its own umbilical cord. Tried in open court at The Old Bailey on 17th May 1832, Maria was charged with the wilful murder and the concealment of a bastard child, a heinous crime (as despised as treason and rape) which – since an Act of Parliament in 1803 - had warranted a death sentence. Only, now the times had changed, and with the act widely considered an unjust law for many mothers, unwed or not, the judge was lenient. As a woman of good character, praised as mild and meek, Mr Justice Littledale took pity on Maria, dismissed the murder charge and found her guilty only of concealment, she was sent to prison for two years. Strangely, John Rhodes, the owner of The Coal Hole, didn’t sully his name by coming into court. Maria lived out her final days as a domestic servant to a nice family in Clerkenwell; she was 46 years-old, she didn’t marry and - although everyone who knew her agreed she would undeniably have made a good mother - having been forced to do the unthinkable, she never had any children. (End) OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. So, what cake do I have this week? What waffle will spurt out of my blather hole? How long can I last until I grumble out by tea being cold? If you can’t wait to know, and want to learn more about this case, find out after the break. But before that, here’s a promo for a true-crime podcast which may be the epitome of the custard bit in a custard slice. Yum. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, who are; Emma Thorpe, Kara Joseph and Sophie Amos, I thank you all, I hope you got your goodies. A thank you to two very kind donations via the supporter link, from MsSuperTech and an anonymous donator, I thank you. Plus a thank you to all new, old and original listeners who continue to share this show with their friends. It’s very much appreciated. But most importantly of all, it’s someone’s birthday. Yes, I’m talking to you Kelly Cook. Yes, that Kelly Cook. You! The great cook, hopefully of cakes. You’ll be delighted to know that a very naughty man you may know called Mattie, has splashed out every single penny he owns (meaning there’s no dosh left to buy a single treat for Snoop or Maisie) and therefore this whole episode is dedicated to you. As a big fan of history, true-crime and horror, I can see why you love Murder Mile so much. So as you’re on your next walk, no doubt doing some serious training to walk an impressive 1000 miles this year – phew, you may even beat me – myself and all the Murder Mile listeners wish you all the very best, and I hope you have a great day and a BIG cake. Obviously. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, 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. 
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