Nominated 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, iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
THE LOCATIONS
For your enjoyment, I've posted photos of the locations discussed in this episode. They're all in chronological order. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile).
This list goes from top left to bottom right:
If you would like to follow the journey, simply use this handy Googlemaps Streetview link above. This is the start position and you can follow the directions (above) while you listen to the podcast.
Credits: Murder Mile was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. The music featured in this episode include:
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tor of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
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Nominated 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, iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
THE LOCATIONS
For your enjoyment, I've posted photos of the locations discussed in this episode. They're all in chronological order. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile).
If you would like to follow the journey, simply use this handy Googlemaps Streetview link above. This is the start position and you can follow the directions (above) while you listen to the podcast.
Credits: Murder Mile was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name.
The music featured in this episode include:
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tor of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 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.
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 THIRTY-THREE:
Today’s episode is about one of the most disturbing acts of terrorism to be perpetrated in London’s West End. So shocking and violent, it was unlike anything we had seen before. And yet, outside of the victim’s loved ones, this tragedy is entirely forgotten.
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.
This is the location of the London Marriot Hotel on Duke Street in Mayfair, formerly known as The Europa Hotel, where the attack on the flight crew of El-Al 016 took place. It is marked with a dark blue cross near the words 'Bond Street'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
This is the location of the London Marriot Hotel on Duke Street in Mayfair, formerly known as The Europa Hotel, where the attack on the flight crew of El-Al 016 took place, with a few extra videos below. This is just a link to YouTube, so don't worry, it won't eat up your data.
SOURCES: The bulk of the information was taken from news sources of that era, as well as the following information where possible.
https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C11691153 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C11495107 https://reuters.screenocean.com/record/1057996 https://movie-discovery.com/movie/my-terrorist/166 http://news.bbc.co.uk/onthisday/hi/dates/stories/august/20/newsid_2546000/2546593.stm https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4x9MknNxlwM https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AdGrPeGZBIc https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aXxbdyjp9VM https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eJDXB3RFViw https://jewishjournal.com/culture/arts/7962/ 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 one of the most disturbing acts of terrorism to be perpetrated in London’s West End. So shocking and violent, it was unlike anything we had seen before. But outside of the victim’s loved ones, this tragedy is practically forgotten. 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 133: The Termination of El-Al Flight 016. Today I’m standing on Duke Street in Mayfair, W1; three streets east of the Hyde Park bombing, one street east of the assassination of Alexander Litvinenko, one street south of Elsie Goldsmith’s electrical abortion, and one street north of the slaughtered family of Joseph King – coming soon to Murder Mile. Interconnecting with the bustling shopping splurge of Oxford Street and running parallel with the over-priced hotels of Park Lane, Duke Street is one of those posh little places which is unremittingly vague. Unlike Bond Street – a haven for pouty pointless puppets so socially vapid they wear their personality – Duke Street has nothing but an okay café, a generic pizzeria, a nondescript newsagent, a dull coffee-chain, a few pubs and a five-star hotel. It’s almost as if it doesn’t want to be remembered for anything. Look up any wall in Mayfair and you’ll see a series of plaques commemorating all manner of historical nonsense. Reading like the city’s footnotes, their connection is often a little bit tenuous. As with stately pomp, they proudly declare ‘here a famous composer lived... for a bit’, ‘a science boffin did some stuff upstairs... just not their best stuff’, ‘here an author sneezed’, ‘an actor breathed’ and ‘a businessman did a thing good for the poor... so please ignore their sex-crimes, fraud and history as a slave trader’. On the corner of Grosvenor Square and Duke Street sits the London Marriott Hotel, a colossal seven-storey five-star hotel, formerly known as the Europa. With fine-dining, soft sheets and its staff trained to cater to our every whim, for many it’s the perfect place to unwind after a long flight to London. Outside on the brick lined drive is often sat a flank of silver Mercedes shuttling guests from the airport to the hotel. To make their stay more pleasurable, the second a guest sets foot in the grand entrance, they’re greeted by the concierge, given keys by reception and their bags are whisked away by porters. For the crew of El-Al Flight 016, the Europa was a regular stop-over between Heathrow and New York. It was familiar and welcoming, and being tired, they looked forward to a lovely meal and a good night’s sleep... but before they could even reach the door, nine lives would be changed forever. The termination of El-Al Flight 016 was one of the bloodiest acts of terrorism in London’s dark history, but there are no memorials to the fallen, no plaques to the survivors and no statues to the dead. As it was here, on Sunday 20th August 1978 at 1:34pm, that this peaceful hotel entrance was turned into a bloodbath. But just as quickly as this atrocity had ended... it was forgotten forever. (Interstitial) Of the twenty-one strong crew of El-Al 016, not one of them was the true target of the terrorists... but when there’s a war of words between governments and groups, it’s always the innocent who are hurt. On the 28th September 1948, the inaugural flight of El-Al Airlines, Israel’s flagship carrier began in very inauspicious circumstances. With Israel's first president, Chaim Weizmann, due to attend a conference in Switzerland but blockaded by a travel embargo imposed on the country’s military aircraft, an Israeli C-54 transport carrier was repainted with a fake logo and a made-up name, and flown non-stop from Tel Aviv to Geneva and back again the next day, where it was repainted and returned to military duties. Two weeks later, El-Al Israel Airlines was formed, with the bulk of its acquisition funded by the Israeli government - just like Air Canada, Air France, Qantas and British Airways who were all once state-owned. Since the mid-1950s, El-Al has expanded to serve more than fifty domestic, commercial and cargo destinations across Europe, the Middle East, the Americas, Africa, Australia and the Far East. Originating from a country of 74% Jews and 21% Arabs, El Al only offers kosher in-flight meals and its planes do not fly on the Shabbat and Jewish holidays, therefore this inequality is often representative of Israel’s ongoing conflict, being a region blighted by war, bloodshed and persecution. As a symbol of the Israeli government, since the late-60’s, El-Al Airlines has had many acts of terrorism perpetrated upon it by the PFLP (Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine), an anti-Zionist terror group who do not recognise the State of Israel, oppose any negotiations with the government and draw attention to the plight of their occupied lands through hijackings, bombings and assassinations.
Because of these acts of terror, El-Al is regarded as one of the world’s most secure airlines; being one of the first to introduce compulsory bag-searches, metal detectors and x-ray scanners. El-Al are also the only commercial airliners equipped with the ‘Flight-Guard’ anti-missile-defence system to protect its planes against surface-to-air missiles. And to ensure the safety of its flight crews abroad, El-Al even provides a flank of armed escorts on their transfer-buses to-and-from the airports and the hotels. For the crew of El-Al 016, Sunday 20th August 1978 would mark the end of a very ordinary day. For the pilot, the co-pilot, the engineer, the stewards and the stewardesses, the political upheaval and conflict of their homeland was far from their minds, as all that mattered - at that very moment - was a hot meal, a warm bath, a cool drink and a good night’s sleep, before their flight home back to Israel. Every crew-member was an innocent... ...and yet, they were targeted because they worked for El-Al. (Airliner sounds / Bing / Intercom) “Ladies and gentlemen. This is your captain speaking. Welcome on board El-Al Flight 016, a Boeing 747 out of Newark. The weather is good and with a flight time of six-and-a-half hours, we will arrive into London Heathrow at 11:35am. Onboard are our attendants - Michel Unger, Yehudit Arnon, Yulie Cohen and Irit Gidron – and on behalf of myself and the rest of the crew, I would like to wish you all a good flight and thank you for flying El-Al Airlines”. (take-off) With most of the flight-crew in their twenties, many were new but all were proud to be part of Israel’s premier airline. It was a pride reflected in their uniforms, with each stewardess looking resplendent in an orange striped blouse, cream-coloured heels, a bright orange skirt and a silk scarf which matched the airline’s livery. For many of the crew onboard El-Al 016, this marked the start of a bright future... ...but for some, this flight would be their last. (jet flies away) By the 1970’s, the unrest in Israel had intensified, but many foreign governments still saw this ‘little war’ as “there problem, not ours”. Having aligned with the PLO (Palestinian Liberation Organisation), the PFLP and rival terror groups sought to bring their campaign of terror to foreign soil, as wave-after-wave of bomb-blasts brought fear and bloodshed to city-after-city, until the foreign powers sat up and took notice. One of which was the British Government, with a key target for terrorism being London.
The attacks were deliberately random. Sometimes they gave warnings to minimise the casualties but maximise the fear. Other-times, they didn’t. Some targets were high-profile, others were unknown. By the mid-to-late 1970’s, the PFLP had begun firing rocket-propelled grenades at El-Al airliners, they had escalated their arsenal of atrocities, the innocent casualties were seen as forgettable loss in their fight to free the Holy Land, and the hijacking and the bombing of airliners had become commonplace. (Airliner / Bing / Intercom) “Ladies and gentlemen. This is your captain speaking. The time is 11:35am and we have arrived on schedule at London Heathrow. Once again, on behalf of myself and the flight crew of El-Al 016, we would like the thank you for flying with El-Al Airlines”. (engine shuts down) For the passengers, it was an uneventful flight; they ate, slept and the worst they would experience was a lost bag or a bit of jetlag, being six-hours behind their body-clock. The Boeing 747 was cleaned, refuelled and a new crew boarded this return flight to Newark, as El-AL Flight 016 terminated. For its exhausted crew of twenty-one men and women, this would be a regular stopover, in a familiar city, at a hotel their company had a long-standing contract with. With their next flight scheduled for early the next morning, the turn-around would be tight, but there would still be a little time for fun. At 12:40pm, on Sunday 20th August 1978, they boarded a transfer bus at Terminal Three. (bus departs) Security at UK airports by the late 1970’s was lax; x-ray scanners weren’t mandatory, passengers weren’t routinely checked with a magnetometer (a low-level detector capable of sensing only large metal objects), and it wasn’t until 1986 that passengers were first questioned on their bag’s contents. In the first week of August 1978, 22-year-old Fahad Mihyi flew into Heathrow from Tel Aviv. With big bushy hair, a tight brown beard, an intense stare and a demeanour described as “ice cool”, although little is known about his history, his passport was clean and his entry into the country was approved. Waved through security, Fahad collected his suitcase from the carousel, which contained a set of non-descript casual clothes including green corduroy trousers, a multicoloured sweat shirt, a pair of green trainers and a black canvas sack, as well as the tools of this trade; two submachine guns – believed to be ‘The Carlo’, an inferior replica of the Israeli-made Uzi 9mm, compact enough to hide inside a jacket and capable of firing 400 rounds-a-minute – and a nest of M26 grenades fitted with a 4.4 second fuse, with a kill radius of 5 to 15 metres and shrapnel able to inflict serious damage up-to 230 metres away. Packing a deadly arsenal - capable of causing a maximum quota of casualties in the quickest possible time - Fahad and his accomplice caught the recently-extended Piccadilly Line tube into town and in an unknown flat, somewhere in London, over the next two weeks, they laid low and awaited their orders. His accomplice was never identified; he was late 20’s, 5ft 6ins, with protruding front teeth, a Mexican style moustache and a sallow complexion. And although some witnesses claimed there were two more assailants, we know it was these two who unleashed one of the bloodiest acts of terrorism in London’s dark history, because one of them was sent to a prison and the other was sent to a morgue. (Bus sounds / intercom) “Ladies and gentleman, welcome on board this Gold Eagle Coach to Mayfair. My name is Ron Stagg, I will be driving you in a K-reg Bedford VAL, but only because your Boeing 747 is too wide for Duke Street and the Europa hotel aren’t best pleased having a jet parked on the drive. The weather is currently fine, but being Britain, it’ll probably be piddling down by the time we get anywhere nice. Thank you for flying with Gold Eagle Coaches... not that you had much choice”. (laughs) Across the next fifty-minutes, the half-full 55-seater bus drove along the A4 from Heathrow to Victoria. As a relatively new coach, the full-aspect windows were large and clear, the metalwork gleamed brightly in the sunlight and down the length of it sides were stylish red flashes and wood panelling. Inside, although tired, the flight-crew of El-Al 016 were upbeat, with their chat concerning their plans for the evening; what type of food to eat, where to go for a drink, and whether they could catch Annie or Evita at the theatre, or Saturday Night Fever or Close Encounters of the Third Kind at the cinema. And although, over the last decade, atrocities against Israeli targets had surged on London’s streets, onboard were an El-Al security escort to provide protection - even if ‘legally’ they couldn’t be armed. At 1:32pm precisely, the coach pulled onto Park Lane on the eastern edge of Hyde Park. Turning left onto Upper Brook Street, the engine growled as it gently cruised passed the US Embassy, its indicator clicked as the wheels steered left, and rounding the corner, the coach crawled onto Duke Street. Being too big to fit on the drive of the Europa - which was already busy as a black cab idled awaiting a fare and an excitable wedding party milled around reception - the bus parked-up parallel to the hotel; with the front passenger door facing George Yard and the rear luggage bay facing Grosvenor Square. Inside, the crew collected their hand luggage, and although they were off-duty, as representatives of their airline, they straightened their caps, adjusted their ties and brushed away any creases to exit the coach with a sense of elegance and pride. The pilot, co-pilot and engineer in neat blue suits, crisp white shirts and blue peaked caps, and – like bright orange rays of sunlight – four flight attendants of El-Al 016 - Michel Unger, Yehudit Arnon, Yulie Cohen and Irit Gidron. Watched by the wedding guests, the cab-driver and the drinkers of a summer’s pint at the Barley Mow pub, just twenty feet away, the crew were something to behold, as there’s always something impressive about a person in uniform. As the crew disembarked, the engine was cut and the driver opened the rear boot where the aircrew’s luggage was stored. Like a well-oiled machine, the concierge greeted his guests, reception prepared their room keys and a ready line of porters pushing baggage carts stood ready to do their duty. For the flight crew of El-Al 016, this was the end of another day... ...but for one of the crew, it would be the end of her life. The time was 1:34pm. As Yulie Cohen stood-by, she spotted two men approach the front and rear of the coach. To her right, on the corner of Grosvenor Square was an Arab with a Mexican moustache and protruding teeth. To her left, on George Yard, a second with fuzzy dark hair who glared at the flight-crew with hateful rage. Sensing the danger, Yulie stuttered to her supervisor “I think he’s going to start shooting at us”... ...but by then, it was too late. Just as Irit Gidron pulled her bag from the boot, the assassins unleashed hell. Like fast hard cracks of thunder, gun-fire echoed off the walls, as fierce flashes of fire erupted from their submachine guns, as the two men sprayed the coach and its human cargo with bullets. With 32 rounds in each magazine, having emptied the first clip in five second flat, they loaded a second, then a third, and then a fourth. In panic, terrified wedding guests dived inside the hotel lobby, pub guests ducked for cover and the air-crew scattered, as a hot black rain sprayed far and wide, smashing glass and ricocheting off walls. Richard Oldridge, a chauffeur later stated "suddenly a man ran alongside the coach. Somebody inside closed the doors and the man started firing. All hell broke loose. It was terrifying”. Shouting in Arabic, their words were lost, but three letters were audible – PLO (the Palestinian Liberation Organisation). Bullets riddled every door, wall or window; guests, air-crew and passers-by alike. It didn’t matter who as this was a number game. The target was Israel, but the more they could kill, the greater their glory. Thinking fast, Yulie ran for cover behind a parked car as she dragged Yehudit to safety. A volley of fiery bullets had ripped through the stewardess’ pale legs – snapping her bones like toothpicks - and as she drifted in and out of consciousness, a river of blood pooled, as her orange skirt spread with red. Yulie called out to her colleagues; some had got to safety, some had not, and one was entirely still. Julian Harris who lived across the street later stated “there were bodies and blood everywhere”... ...and although the casualty list was climbing, the assassins were far from finished. With their submachine guns spent, from the black canvas sacks strung across their chests, they pulled a nest of M26 fragmentation grenades. With a kill radius of up-to 15 metres and its shrapnel able to maim as far as 230 metres away, accuracy wasn’t essential, as this was a maximum casualty weapon. Harry Kaye, a porter said “I saw one bomb land under the taxi and explode”. Having hid inside his cab when the shooting began, although bullets had peppered its black panels, the grenade blast blew the taxi-driver clear out of his seat, as the bloodied man slumped onto the drive in a crumpled heap. Witnesses stated “the grenades seemed to fall everywhere”. A second hit the glass door of the Europa, spraying the staff with shards of flying glass and the wedding guests were hit with hard steel splinters. Jim Murray, pub manager, later said of Fahad “he stood pulling grenades from a haversack and lobbing them at the bus. He was just taking them out and throwing it. God, he was ice-cool. He was so calm”. As a third grenade exploded, shrapnel struck Yulie in the arm. Johann Duplesis, a guest stated “one of the hostesses had been blasted. I tried to help her as she lay there, but already she looked dead”. And although Yulie was hurt, Yehudit was bleeding to death, as a bullet had struck her in the head. Where-as the last grenade remains a mystery; maybe Fahad caught his cohort in its crossfire, maybe it went off mistake, maybe he was shot by the supposedly unarmed El-Al escort, or perhaps having mistimed its 4.4 second fuse, the maniac with the Mexican moustache failed to throw it fast enough and felt the full force of the blast in the face. Either way, as Fahad fled, his unknown assailant lay dead. Three police officers wrestled Fahad to the ground and he was swiftly arrested. In total, the assassin’s bullets and bombs had wounded nine and killed one in an attack which lasted less than two minutes. Of the four flight-crew of El-Al 016 who were hit; Michel Unger’s injuries were listed as “not serious”, Yulie Cohen escaped with a shrapnel scar, and 23-year-old Yehudit Arnon - who was weeks away from getting married - was listed as critical, had a bullet removed from her brain and amazingly she survived. But one of the crew had not. Having left the coach to collect her bag, 29-year-old Irit Gidron was hit by the first wave of bullets. Turning to face the gun-fire coming from Grosvenor Square, it’s likely that she died before she even knew what was happening, as an eye-witness would later recall “she was lying at the rear of the coach, all still and silent, with the back of her head entirely blown out”. (End) As always, the British Government expressed its “deepest sympathy”, the Israeli Prime Minister called it a “a barbarous crime”, the PFLP took full credit, and the next day Israeli fighter-jets bombed a Palestinian camp south of Beirut; killing 3 and injuring 14, in a pointless tit-for-tat of violent retaliation. Fahad Mihyi was tried at the Old Bailey on 28th February 1979 under heavy police guard, as on that same day, the assassins of Abda Al-Razzak Said-Al Naif, the ex-Iraqi Prime Minister, were on trial too. Defended by Henry Pownall QC, even against overwhelming evidence, he pleaded not guilty. On the 8th June 1979, he was found guilty of murder, attempted murder and explosive and weapons charges, and was given four life sentences. He is currently 65-years-old and is an inmate at Dartmoor Prison. Two days after the attack, the body of Irit Gidron was flown back to Israel. As a mark of respect, she was buried near to the eleven Israeli athletes who were killed in the 1972 Munich Olympics massacre. And although a memorial service in held in Haifa every year, Yulie still finds it too painful to attend. The crew of El-Al Flight 016 were just good people, doing their jobs and living their lives, who were used as pawns in a political tug-of-war. Caught-up in one of the bloodiest acts of terrorism in London’s history, forty years on, there are still no memorials to the dead and the events are mostly forgotten. But why? Perhaps it could be blamed on politics, on the deluge of devastation that the 1970’s brought, on our desensitisation to the violence we consume in the media, or maybe it’s as simple as this? A plaque might have been put in place had the victims of the attack been British? But as this tragedy is all but forgotten, for now, this episode will have to stand as their memorial to the crew of El-Al 016. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. If you enjoyed that, and you enjoy cake-chat, tea-twaddle and extra details about this case. But I warn you now, it is waffly bullshit, so if that’s not your thing, switch off now. But before that, here’s a true-crime podcast which might be the equivalent of a handy megaphone for a mouthy coot. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, who are; Kaley Groom, Sharon Bennett, Lydia Pappas and Rachel Tester, I thank you all, you are now part of a very exclusive club, and unlike half of the member’s clubs in Soho, it’s not full of arseholes. With a thanks you to two very kind anonymous donations which came in via the Supporter link, I thank you. And, as always, a big thank you to you. Yes, you. Your continued audio appreciation of the podcast is 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.
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 THIRTY-TWO:
Today’s episode is the conclusion of a two-part series about the murder of Chelsea stockbroker John Monckton by convicted criminals Elliot White and Damian Hanson. But what drove these two men to rob, to kill, and who else is to blame for John's murder... along with the Devil's Child?
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 Via Venise, the designer shoe-shop where (it is alleged) that Damian Hanson spotted Homeyra Monckton and followed her home to 30 Upper Cheyne Row is marked with a light brown cross. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
Here's a little video of the former location of Via Venise at 163 King's Road in Chelsea. This is just a link to YouTube, so don't worry, it won't eat up your data. 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.justiceinspectorates.gov.uk/probation/wp-content/uploads/sites/5/2014/03/hansonandwhitereview-rps.pdf https://www.standard.co.uk/hp/front/stabbed-wife-told-children-of-father-s-murder-7205556.html https://citywire.co.uk/wealth-manager/news/landgs-john-monckton-murdered/a262169 http://www.blackkalendar.nl/c/2746/Damien%20Hanson https://www.thesteepletimes.com/movers-shakers/moving-on/ http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/6180424.stm http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/4676898.stm http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/4757414.stm http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/5013372.stm https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2004/dec/01/ukcrime.rosiecowan1 https://www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/mum--dad-got-stabbed-i-saw-566299 Irish Independent, 16th December 2005 Irish Independent, Thursday 24th November 2005 Sunday Independent (Dublin) - Sunday 19 December 2004 Irish Independent -9th December 2004, Irish Independent - Sunday 18 December 2004 Irish Independent - Friday 16 December 2005 Irish Independent, 19th December 2005, Irish Independent - Wednesday 23 November 2005 https://www.independent.ie/world-news/europe/murdered-mans-widow-relives-nightmare-25958200.html https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2005/dec/16/ukcrime.hughmuir http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/4533876.stm http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/4533182.stm https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-369403/Financiers-widow-They-destroyed-lives.html https://www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/the-devils-child-569587 https://www.independent.co.uk/voices/commentators/dominic-lawson-the-woman-who-should-be-resigning-this-week-is-the-head-of-the-parole-board-6107861.html Hammersmith & Shepherds Bush Gazette - Friday 22 August 1997 Aberdeen Press and Journal - Monday 11 August 1997 Daily Mirror - Monday 11 August 1997 Hammersmith & Shepherds Bush Gazette - Friday 22 August 1997 https://www.thisislocallondon.co.uk/news/996032.eastenders-alibi-for-monckton-killer-lands-sister-in-jail/ https://core.ac.uk/download/pdf/288218765.pdf https://www.yourlocalguardian.co.uk/news/656007.alleged-murderer-treatment-mayday/ https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/crime/man-accused-of-financier-s-death-reveals-drug-habit-517807.html https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/crime/widow-of-murdered-businessman-tells-court-of-sheer-panic-as-armed-robbers-burst-into-home-516554.html https://www.scie-socialcareonline.org.uk/an-independent-review-of-a-serious-further-offence-case-damien-hanson-and-elliot-white/r/a11G000000182y5IAA https://www.standard.co.uk/hp/front/robber-shot-by-police-may-sue-scotland-yard-7183795.html HMP Inspectorate of Probation, An Independent Review of a Serious Further Offence case, Damien Hanson & Elliot White, February 2006 https://www.thisislocallondon.co.uk/news/663261.monckton-murder-the-evidence-by-police/ 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. (Radio sounds) Today’s episode is the final part about the murder of John Monckton; a devoted father and loving husband brutally stabbed to death during an attack on his own home (fades/other music). Monday 29th November 2004 at 7:29pm. An R-reg Ford Mondeo idled on Glebe Place, a quiet unlit side-street alongside the Monckton’s family home. 23-year-old Elliot White was sat in the driver’s seat. This was his car but not his plan. Wearing a black woolly hat, a florescent jacket and a postal sack, he giggled at the stupidity of his disguise - “ah man, I look like Postman Pat” – but that was the point. It’s inherently racist, but a black youth knocking on doors in a posh white part of Chelsea will always arouse suspicion, unless he looks like a tradesman. And as all burglars know, the difference between a locked door and an open one can be something as a subtle as an ID, a uniform, or a parcel. So, being blessed with a baby-face and a cheeky grin, Elliot could unlock any latch with a few words and a smile... ...but Damian could not. Nicknamed the Devil’s Child, Damian White was a scrawny scowl-faced youth, dressed from head to foot in black as his envious eyes glared through the jagged slits of a balaclava. This robbery at 30 Upper Cheyne Row would be simple; get in, grab, get out and no-one gets hurt. At least, that was the plan. (Radio back in) ...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. (Engine off/radio off) Episode 132: The Trader and the Devil’s Child – Part Two. (Doorbell) Elliot was typical of the type of burglar known as a Chancer; a non-violent opportunist driven by need. Born on 15th March 1981, Elliot didn’t have the best start in life. But then, it wasn’t the worst. Raised by a good mother in the basement flat of a three-storey terrace at 22a Richmond Way in Shepherd's Bush, he was smart, a little unruly but with a burning desire to succeed. Aged 16, he achieved 10 GCSEs and went on to study art at college. Age 18, described as ‘immature and easily led’, and unsure what he wanted to do next, he drifted into recreational drug-use, became a dealer to fund his habit and in one stupid mistake, he ruined his life. In 17th October 2001, aged 20, convicted of intent to supply heroin and cocaine, he was sentenced to 18 months; with 13 spent at HMP Dover prison and 5 months on a HDC (a Home Detention Curfew), where he was electronically tagged and required to stay at his mum’s home between 7pm and 7am. On 15th July 2003, convicted of two further counts of intent to supply Class A drugs, the justice system aimed to change his criminal behaviour through work, education and counselling, so he was placed on a twelve-month CRO (Community Rehabilitation Order). Again, he was tagged, again he was curfewed, and again he would be monitored... with any breach resulting in his immediate return to prison. ...but just like his HDC, the CRO would lead to a catalogue of systemic failures. His CRO started on 15th July, with a rule that he must meet “every week for the first twelve weeks with his Youth Offending Team Officer”, but the London Probation Team failed to contact him till 7th August. On the 11th, he missed his first appointment, ignored their warning letters and by 16th December, four months later, he hadn’t been returned to prison and the breach was blamed on administrative errors. In February 2004, he was convicted of two counts of intent to supply, and should have been sent back to HMP Dover, but he wasn’t. As his HDC and CRO had failed, they put him on a DTTO (Drug Treatment and Testing Order). Again, he was tagged and curfewed, but this time he was required to attend a drug treatment centre five-days-a-week... with any breach resulting in his immediate return to prison. ...but again, it didn’t. On 29th September 2004, he missed his first DTTO assessment, he failed to attend a further five and his swab-tests were positive for cocaine, morphine and cannabis. On 5th November, three weeks before John Monckton’s murder, he was on bail awaiting sentence for drugs offences. His case workers would describe him as “calm, polite and neatly groomed”, he was a little boy “who wanted to be seen as successful”, and who had no history of robbery, burglary or assault. So, what drove Elliot White to play his part in the brutal murder of John Monckton? Simple, they were two different types of burglars; Elliot was a Chancer and Damian was a Confronter. Born on the 17th December 1980, Damian Hanson had very few positive influences in his life. Described in court as a boy “with low self-esteem or self-confidence”, he was anxious to seek the approval of others but burdened by few skills and “an aura of evil”, he used violence to get what he wanted. Being gruff, angry and (being 5 foot 4 inches high) as short as Elliot, the two boys met at primary school and became pals. But Elliot’s mother never liked Damian, hence she nicknamed him the Devil’s Child. Aged 10, he was expelled from school. By 16, he had six criminal convictions; including theft and the indecent assault of a girl when he was only 12-years-old, for this he was put on a Supervision Order. At 14, he was convicted of ABH and assault, but being so young, instead of prison he was ordered to pay compensation and was sent to an attendance centre. That same year, he burgled Fulham home, but wasn’t imprisoned. Instead, he was given a conditional discharge, meaning he wouldn’t be charged and the offence would be removed from his record if he didn’t re-offend over the next twelve months. Ten months later, alongside his accomplice (Aston Tew) he was convicted of stabbing 17-year-old Kevin Jones whilst robbing him of just £20. Damian was sentenced to 18 months in a Young Offender’s Institute, where a psychological assessment concluded “Hanson’s offences were not committed when he had lost control, rather he employed violence as a strategy to get what he wanted”. And finally, three months before his 17th birthday, he was charged with attempted murder, following a bungled robbery on Erconwald Street in East Acton, which left a 16-year-old boy alive but seriously wounded. On 1st April 1998, Damian was sentenced to 12-years for attempted murder, with the judge insisting “he must not be released until he has served at least two thirds of his sentence”. In his first year, he faced eight disciplinary hearings for assaults on prisoners and staff, and was moved six times. As with Elliot, the system was designed not just to protect the public by incarcerating the prisoners, but by educating and rehabilitating the offenders to change their ways and hopefully lead a good life. But again, an overworked system led to gross incompetence and a catalogue of administrative errors. In May 2003, barely half-way through his sentence, a Parole Board rejected his application when he failed to show any remorse or guilt, stating “it's not me that’s done anything on any of my offences". On 19th July 2004, his parole was re-assessed. Only this time, he wasn’t interviewed in person, his probation officer hadn’t met him in over a year, and - even though the Offender Group Reconviction Scale had stated that Damian had a 91% probability of violent re-offending, with 75% regarded as high risk and requiring his release must be monitored by multi-agency support (including social services, the probation service and the police) - the board didn't believe he had a "predilection for violence". On 27th August 2004, Damian Hanson was released on bail... but the mistakes didn’t end there. Although convicted of attempted murder, Damian was placed on the lowest supervision level, he was held to a light curfew of 11pm to 6am and he was banned from entering the borough of Hammersmith & Fulham (although – unless he was arrested – the agencies had no way to disprove this). Having repeatedly breached his parole, this should have resulted in his immediate recall to prison... but it didn’t. Elliot White and Damian Hanson, a petty drug-dealer and a remorseless thief were tagged, curfewed and (supposedly) monitored by a series of overworked agencies whose aim was to rehabilitate them and to protect us. And yet, under their very noses, both men returned to a life of crime... ...and ultimately a murder. Released from HMP Highpoint, Damian’s new life as a free man was spent in Room 2 of the Hestia Bail Hostel in Streatham, South London - an assisted living space which helped him cook a meal, clean his clothes, pay his rent and learn the value of an honest day’s work. Unlike prison, he could leave as he pleased (curfew permitting), but as part of his bail conditions, his room was routinely searched by staff for drugs, weapons and pornography... with any breach resulting in his immediate recall to prison. During these three months, he acquired two balaclavas, a six-inch-knife and a gun, as well as compiling a scrapbook of potential targets; including their routines, registration plates, habits, haunts and home addresses. He researched locks, alarms and the value of diamonds. And courtesy of the Sunday Times Rich List and the Mail on Sunday’s Rich Report, he had profiles of some of Britain’s wealthiest men. On an unspecified date in November 2004, Damian prowled the supposedly fashionable streets of King’s Road in Chelsea on the hunt for easy prey. In the past - being a coward who was small and slight - he had always attacked boys or those weaker than himself, and this time would be no different. From the sophistication of Via Venise, a designer shoe-shop at 163 King’s Road, (it is alleged that) he spotted a wealthy banker’s wife, who was rich, petite and defenceless. To his untrained eye, she was elegantly dressed, sparkling with expensive gems and dripping in so much gold, he would become rich. Following her back to 30 Upper Cheyne Row, he could have robbed her right there and then, as there were no cars, no people, no cameras and few windows overlooking the quiet little street. But he didn’t. It’s inherently racist, but a black youth walking down a posh white part of Chelsea will always arouse suspicion, especially if he had “an aura of evil” like Damian. He knew if he could somehow get inside her four-storey townhouse, quickly and quietly, without raising any alarms, he could rob her in private. But this left him with a big problem, Damian Hanson was hardly the sort of person a stranger would willingly open a door to. What he needed was a plan, a uniform, a parcel and a baby-faced accomplice. Monday 29th November 2004 at 7:29pm. An R-reg Ford Mondeo idled on Glebe Place, a quiet unlit side-street beside the Monckton’s family home. 23-year-old Elliot White was sat in the driving seat, “ah man, I look like Postman Pat” – and beside him, all dressed in black was sat the Devil’s Child. The plan was simple; get in, grab, get out and no-one gets hurt. Owing a drug-dealer £2000, burglary wasn’t Elliot’s thing, but as all he had to do was get a woman to open a door, it was a no-brainer. At least, that’s what he thought. As although the two men shared the same plan, Elliot and Damian were two very different types of burglars; an opportunist Chancer and a violent Confronter. (Engine /radio off) Silently, the two men sidled up to the doorway of the home of Homeyra Monckton. In the basement kitchen a meal was cooking, in the first-floor lounge the TV was on, and somewhere on the two floors above, a lone defenceless female had finished bathing her nine-year-old daughter. At 7:30pm, the doorbell rang and an intercom crackled into life, “Hello, who is it?” a woman enquired. Putting on his calmest and friendliest voice, Elliot said “postman, I’ve got a parcel here for a Mr John V Monckton”. She didn’t query it, and why should she? As we all know burglars don’t ring doorbells. Elliot patiently stood on top of the steep stone steps, unable to hear anything from within; except the owner descend the stairs, an inner door open and the spy-hole darken briefly as a cautious eye peered through its fish-eye lens into the dark unlit street beyond. Given the steepness of the steps, all she would see was smiling postman, as hidden behind his back, a maniac was crouched, ready to attack. With a thick security chain on, the white door opened. Only this was not Homeyra Monckton. As through the slightest of cracks, Elliot craned his neck-up to see a man easily a foot taller than himself. “Hello?” the man enquired. He wasn’t expecting a parcel, just as they weren’t expecting a man. For a second, as the two traded glances, Elliot grinned “parcel for Mr Monckton”, as the man’s eyes went from the postman, to his uniform and to the parcel, unable to see the Devil’s Child bathed in black. In court, Elliot would claim that he didn’t know Damian was armed with a gun and a knife, so having said “You’ll need to sign for it”, the man nodded. And as we all would, he undid the chain, unclicked the lock and (as his last line of defence) John Monckton opened the door... ...and let the evil in. (Fade between “No, no, no”, “John! I’ve been stabbed”, two pairs of feet running, "ah man, you're the business", a house alarm, door slams, a car pulls away and it all fades out to long silence). Unlike the probation and parole service who had systematically failed to protect the public - thanks in large part to the incompetence of the two assailants - the police investigation was swift and thorough. Headed-up by Detective Superintendent Mark Jackson, as part of protocol, the scene was sealed-off, eye-witnesses were canvassed and a fingertip search was conducted of the surrounding streets. Descriptions of the assailants were typically vague; two skinny black youths in their late teens to early twenties, 5 foot 3 to 6 inches tall, with their faces hidden by black balaclavas, one was dressed like a postman, the other wore only black, and neither man was known to the family or neighbours. In terms of evidence, the walls and floor of the hallway and stairs were soaked with the blood of both John and Homeyra Monckton, but among this spattered mess of red, a third blood group was found. As so violent was the attack, the crazed knifeman had stabbed his accomplice in the left hand and arm, leaving a bloody trail from the doorway, down the stone steps, and vanishing half-way up Glebe Place. Sadly, the murder weapon was missing, but on the hallway floor, the bungling assailants had dropped a crumpled cardboard box complete with a sample of their handwriting and a set of fingerprints. And although they thought they had cunningly disguised their features; one witness had seen everything. Interviewed by specially-trained officers, although this nine-year-old girl was still deeply traumatised by the horror she had seen, as she sat cradling her toy rabbit, she described the attack in detail. How she peeped through the banister rails, and from the top-floor, watched helplessly as a masked maniac stabbed her screaming mummy, left her daddy dying in bloody heap and fled from her home laughing. There was no doubt, that by keeping quiet and still, she saved her own life and that of her mother too. But also, she was able to recall a key-detail which no-one else knew. The knifeman wasn’t dressed entirely in black... as on the back of his jacket was a very unique motif, which she drew for the Police. (Engine sounds) Vanishing amidst the evening traffic, Elliot’s black Ford Mondeo weaved its way seven miles south-east and roared-up to a patch of wasteland off Lunham Road in Upper Norwood. Opposite a line of occupied homes, they stuffed the postal sack full of their blood-stained clothes, soaked it in petrol and set it alight, as witnessed by at least twelve people. At 8:55pm, London Fire Brigade were alerted to a small suspicious fire, they extinguished it, and - as was protocol - they informed the police. Forensics bagged-up the remnants. Still recognisable were pieces of balaclava, postal sack, a florescent coat, a trainer sole and a black jacket made by Akademiks A9, which was spattered with both John & Homeyra Monckton’s blood, and on the back was a very unique motif which matched Isobel’s drawing. The petrol-can was traced to a BP Garage in Wandsworth five nights earlier, where CCTV showed Elliot White’s black Ford Mondeo (registration plate R987 GTM) enter the forecourt, the two men get out, and a facial mapping expert concluded that the man who paid for the petrol was Damian Hanson. From the crime itself to their actual arrest, it would take the Police roughly two weeks... ...sadly, not every organisation was as thorough and diligent with their duties. Being tagged, curfewed and (supposedly) monitored, strict bail conditions were repeatedly breached, as they entered Hammersmith & Fulham, carried offensive weapons, communicated with offenders, and committed a series of criminal acts including burglary, theft, ABH, attempted murder and murder. But so uncaring were these little thugs - having destroyed a family - that just shy of 10pm, they caught a taxi to Shepherd’s Bush and stopped off at the Best West Caribbean Take-Away to fill their bellies. Again, it took a few good citizens doing the decent thing to bring a murderer to justice, as when the staff saw blood running down Elliot’s arm, they contacted the police and handed over the footage. At 11:09pm, breaking his curfew, Damian entered his hostel, but this breach was not reported. The next morning, Elliot went to the Mayday Hospital near Croydon to have his knife wounds stitched. To cover this breach of his DTTO, he had his GP write the following note: “This is to confirm that the above man was stabbed in his left hand and arm on Monday 29th November 2004 at about 6pm. Unfortunately, due to this he has been unable to attend the substance misuse programme this week”. This letter should have rung alarms bells for the probation team, but it didn’t. Fingerprints, DNA and blood stains found at the scene and burn-site led the Police to Elliot White. He was arrested on 14th December 2004 at his mother’s home at 22a Richmond Way in Shepherd’s Bush. Interviewed by CID, he initially denied everything, then confessed to just the robbery, denied knowing about the weapons, stated he and the Monckton’s were “stabbed by another knifeman” (a mystery villain who no-one can recall) and he finally pled guilty to robbery, but blamed Damian for the attack. Checking his GPS and phone records, Police linked Elliot to Damian on those exact date and places, and on 16th December, Damian White was arrested at his bail hostel... and finally recalled to prison. The trial was held at The Old Bailey before Mr Justice Calvert-Smith. In court, the two childhood friends blamed each other and repeatedly told a “litany of lies” which were easily picked apart. Damian even coerced his half-sister, Laura Campbell, into giving him an alibi for the night of the murder, and he claimed that his dossier of wealthy targets was actually “a project to inspire children to stay in school”. The evidence was overwhelming, it included; bloodstains, DNA, fingerprints, a petrol can, the parcel, CCTV footage, the dossier, a business card from Via Venise, and the burned fragments of a postman’s outfit as worn by Elliot and Damian’s black jacket with a very unique ‘Akademiks A9’ emblem. But most compelling of all, were the witness statements by Isobel and Homeyra Monckton. On video, the jury watched, as a deeply traumatised nine-year-old girl sat clutching her toy rabbit and wept “my daddy had been hurt in the heart”. And still partially paralysed and aided by a cane, Homerya bravely told the jury in person how they were attacked by a “pure evil...” who “destroyed our lives”. Their criminal history was used in evidence, as well as the Offender Group Reconviction Scale which warned that Damian had a 91% chance of reoffending and his psychological assessment which stated “he employed violence as a strategy to get what he wanted”. Even Damian’s own defence council had to admit “I cannot explain why a robber should force his way into a house and immediately attack his victims with a knife. There are no mitigating factors here which are worthy of consideration”. (End) On Friday 3rd February 2006, Elliot White was found guilty of manslaughter. He was sentenced to 18 years in prison, but with only three years left to serve, it is likely that he is already out of parole, having been tagged and curfewed... with any breach (supposedly) resulting in his immediate return to prison. Damian Hanson was found guilty of robbery, attempted murder and murder. Mr Justice Calvert-Smith recommended that he serve a minimum of 36 years before parole is considered, by which time he will be 61-years-old. That is one of the longest minimum terms ever handed down in British legal history. An inquiry was ordered by the Home Secretary Charles Clarke into the actions of the probation service and the parole board. They admitted there had "been mistakes at all levels...”, that “...the system went wrong" and it was implementing a "root-and-branch overhaul" of the way it manages offenders. Four probation officers were temporarily suspended while a review was carried out, but their lack of supervision of Damian Hanson and Elliot White was not directly blamed for the murder. John Monckton was a devoted father and a loyal husband who – as everyone would - provided a safe and loving home for his family. And although every security system has it faults, what he didn’t expect was to be failed by the agencies whose job it was to monitor prisoners and to protect the public. Had they done their job properly, he would never have opened his door to The Devil’s Child. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. That was the final part of The Trader and the Devil’s Child. If you enjoyed that, stay tuned for some additional details and lots of pointless twaddle after the break. Or don’t, that is entirely your choice. But before that, here’s a true-crime podcast which may very well be the last tequila shot in Eva’s bevvy of last night cocktails, just before her kebab. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, who are; Hannah Swinson and Katie Olliver, I thank you all, I hope you’re enjoying all the goodies you won’t find anywhere else in the whole world. And a thank you to Sara Wiggins for your very kind donation, it’s 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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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 THIRTY-ONE:
Today’s episode is a two-part series about the brutal murder of John Monckton; a devoted father and loyal husband who provided a safe and loving home for his family. But what began as a simple burglary, left a family destroyed, having been confronted by the Devil’s Child.
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 John Monckton's former home at 30 Upper Cheyne Row is marked with a lime green 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.justiceinspectorates.gov.uk/probation/wp-content/uploads/sites/5/2014/03/hansonandwhitereview-rps.pdf https://www.standard.co.uk/hp/front/stabbed-wife-told-children-of-father-s-murder-7205556.html https://citywire.co.uk/wealth-manager/news/landgs-john-monckton-murdered/a262169 http://www.blackkalendar.nl/c/2746/Damien%20Hanson https://www.thesteepletimes.com/movers-shakers/moving-on/ http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/6180424.stm http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/4676898.stm http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/4757414.stm http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/5013372.stm https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2004/dec/01/ukcrime.rosiecowan1 https://www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/mum--dad-got-stabbed-i-saw-566299 Irish Independent, 16th December 2005 Irish Independent, Thursday 24th November 2005 Sunday Independent (Dublin) - Sunday 19 December 2004 Irish Independent -9th December 2004, Irish Independent - Sunday 18 December 2004 Irish Independent - Friday 16 December 2005 Irish Independent, 19th December 2005, Irish Independent - Wednesday 23 November 2005 https://www.independent.ie/world-news/europe/murdered-mans-widow-relives-nightmare-25958200.html https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2005/dec/16/ukcrime.hughmuir http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/4533876.stm http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/4533182.stm https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-369403/Financiers-widow-They-destroyed-lives.html https://www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/the-devils-child-569587 https://www.independent.co.uk/voices/commentators/dominic-lawson-the-woman-who-should-be-resigning-this-week-is-the-head-of-the-parole-board-6107861.html Hammersmith & Shepherds Bush Gazette - Friday 22 August 1997 Aberdeen Press and Journal - Monday 11 August 1997 Daily Mirror - Monday 11 August 1997 Hammersmith & Shepherds Bush Gazette - Friday 22 August 1997 https://www.thisislocallondon.co.uk/news/996032.eastenders-alibi-for-monckton-killer-lands-sister-in-jail/ https://core.ac.uk/download/pdf/288218765.pdf https://www.yourlocalguardian.co.uk/news/656007.alleged-murderer-treatment-mayday/ https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/crime/man-accused-of-financier-s-death-reveals-drug-habit-517807.html https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/crime/widow-of-murdered-businessman-tells-court-of-sheer-panic-as-armed-robbers-burst-into-home-516554.html https://www.scie-socialcareonline.org.uk/an-independent-review-of-a-serious-further-offence-case-damien-hanson-and-elliot-white/r/a11G000000182y5IAA https://www.standard.co.uk/hp/front/robber-shot-by-police-may-sue-scotland-yard-7183795.html HMP Inspectorate of Probation, An Independent Review of a Serious Further Offence case, Damien Hanson & Elliot White, February 2006 https://www.thisislocallondon.co.uk/news/663261.monckton-murder-the-evidence-by-police/ 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 a two-part series about the brutal murder of John Monckton; a devoted father and loyal husband who provided a safe and loving home for his family. But what began as a simple burglary, left a family destroyed, having been confronted by the Devil’s Child. 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 131: The Trader and the Devil’s Child – Part One. Today I’m standing on Upper Cheyne Row in Chelsea, SW3; three roads south of John George Haigh’s acid-soaked basement, one road south-west of the abortionist of Helen Mary Wickwoad, a short hop from Battersea Park where Freddie Mills loaned a rifle to end his life, and a few feet from the viscous attack which left sexton Robin McCarthy brain-damaged forever - coming soon to Murder Mile. This is in an exclusive part of Chelsea between the River Thames and the supposedly fashionable King’s Road. In the sixties it was hip, but now it’s a flop, as any hint of originality has been diluted by an influx of self-obsessed tosspots with money but no style; so, expect to see fur-coats and facelifts, pompous turds in red trousers waffling on about portfolios and over-coiffured rats carried in designer handbags. In stark contrast, one road south is Upper Cheyne Row; a very posh but oddly silent residential street full of family cars, a few trees and four-storey terraces costing £3-6 million a-piece. Unlike the flashier parts of this city - where lavish drives and ornate gates adorn the tacky tasteless mansions of half-wits who wear their wealth - these homes are simple and understated, with nothing ostentatious outside, as anything of value is on the inside, hidden behind solid windows, locked doors and discrete alarms. Admittedly, someone like me – a bearded Brummy in mucky boots and Primark shorts, who didn’t go to Eton and doesn’t winter in St Maritz with Jolyon - sticks-out like a sore thumb, hence my movements here were closely monitored by hidden cameras and a security patrol. But not everyone is a resident, and it’s fascinating to see who we allow in or near our homes, and who we don’t? As the difference between an open door and a locked one can be something as subtle as an ID, a uniform, or a parcel. At 30 Upper Cheyne Row, on the corner of Cheyne Row and Glebe Place sits a five-bedroomed, four-storey brown-brick townhouse. Back in 2004, this was the home of John Monckton, his wife and their two daughters, and - as any family should – inside, they felt protected from any danger. And yet, it was here, on Monday 29th November 2004, that all of their security became fruitless, when an innocent mistake (the kind we all make) would destroy a family forever. (Interstitial) Above everything else, all John ever wanted was for his family to be happy and safe. On the 13th October 1955, John Victor Monckton was born into a long prestigious line of aristocrats; his cousin being Viscountess Monckton of Brenchley and his great-uncle was legal counsel to Edward VIII who drafted the King’s abdication statement having chosen to marry Wallace Simpson. As the eldest son of Emily and John Monckton, a respected lawyer from a legal lineage who held the office of Bencher at Lincoln's Inn, John followed in his father’s footsteps. Blessed with all the benefits of a privileged upbringing, he was educated at Downside (a fee-paying boarding school in Somerset) and he graduated from Oxford University with a first-class degree in classics and modern languages. But what set John apart from many of the ‘so-called elite’ wasn’t his wealth but his humanity. Goodness was in his blood and kindness was in his bones. Physically he was striking man, exceptionally tall but so slender he looked as if a stiff breeze might blow him over. Being bespectacled with parted brown hair and thick arched eyebrows, he resembled the whip-smart man-of-maths - which he was. But what exuded most was his warmth, as among a big brain and deep pockets was a huge heart. Everyone described John the same way; he was gentle, thoughtful, loving and loyal. A man with a dry wit and a great intellect, who genuinely cared for his fellow humans, whether he knew them or not. In 1979, having graduated, instead of going into law, he was drawn into high-finance. Across the 1980s - as yuppies in red braces reigned, waving phones as big as house bricks and quaffing cocaine by the kilo – as a Catholic, John was the opposite; a moral man who was old-fashioned but effective. Having headed-up the fixed income teams at Foreign & Colonial and Barclays de Zoete Wedd, in 1996, he joined Legal & General and later became its Managing Director of Bonds, where his award-winning team managed £34bn of assets and John was regarded as one of Britain’s most influential investors. Being raised to be successful yet humble, neither fame nor money would ever change John; he dressed practically, he spoke in a quiet whisper, he never discussed his private life, and although he was not averse to the odd luxury purchase (which was always tasteful and discrete), you could easily pass him in the street unaware that The Sunday Times had listed him as one of Britain’s wealthiest men. In his spare-time, John had two passions; the church and his charity work. Praised as a "man of deep Christian convictions", he was a devout parishioner at the Catholic Church of Our Most Holy Redeemer and trustee of the Orders of St John Care Trust (a non-profit charity providing care-for the elderly). But as busy as he was, his work always came second to the most important thing in his life - his family. In the late 1980s, having met through work, John fell in love with Homeyra Taslimi; an Iranian lady who exuded both style and sophistication, and whose name in Persian fittingly translates as a “woman with beautiful eyes”. Being born in Tehran, educated in Washington and having spent much of her life in France - with both being keen to settle down - on 16th July 1988, John & Homerya were married. In 1992, their daughter Sabrina was born, followed three years later by Isobel. John’s life was idyllic, he had a perfect family, and - keen to keep his loved ones safe - in 1994, they moved into the affluent seclusion of 30 Upper Cheyne Row, far from any traffic or strangers, where they lived without worry. Hailed as an "extraordinarily devoted family”, it was the little things in life that John loved most, as although rich, above it all he was a father and a husband; who always made time for meals, bathing his kids, reading bedtime stories and wrapping his arms around his little girls with kisses and cuddles. John Monckton would do anything to protect his family... ...even if it meant giving his life. (Interstitial) The most powerful word in the English language is home. A home isn’t just building, it’s a sanctuary, it’s the one place where every person has the right to feel safe, shielded from any dangers outside and cocooned in a bubble within. But what every homeowner fears the most is burglary. Insurance can cover the cost of many items lost, but it can never repair that uneasy feeling that once a home had been invaded, space violated and possessions touched, that our loved one’s lives are in jeopardy. In 2005, a UK Home Office study questioned 82 burglars about their methods and motives. The average burglar is male, aged 27, although many are under the age of 17. Younger burglars tend to steal through boredom or peer-pressure, but the majority do so to feed a drink or drug habit. They steal from their own neighbourhoods, they rarely travel and they work in spurts, committing as many as twenty burglaries-a-week when their funds are low and their addiction is high. Many criminals see burglary as relatively low-risk, as less than 20% of all burglaries lead to an offender being prosecuted. As for choosing a home to break into; half of all burglars return to a home they’ve broken into before, leaving a few weeks gap to allow the insurance to pay-out and the items they’ve stolen to be replaced. A home’s contents are easy for a burglar to value, as owners often leave their curtains open and dump the boxes of any expensive electrical items outside for the binmen to collect. Per burglary, the average value of goods stolen per house is £500-700, excluding any damage to the home, which is much higher. Most burglaries occur on a weekday, between 3 and 4pm, when the owners are at work, at the shops or on a school-run; with an unoccupied house made obvious by the car gone and the curtains closed. The biggest help to any burglar is a broken light, a high hedge and a dirty window, as these shield their criminal activities. Locks can be broken, windows can be smashed and alarms aren’t a deterrent, as (although loud) mostly we all ignore them, and they do indicate that the home has items of high value. In fact, the biggest fear a burglar has isn’t being caught, but confronted. Key to their success is to enter and leave a home, unseen and unheard, so they will often avoid any bright lights, gravel paths, squeaky gates, barking dogs and (best of all) any home which looks occupied, with its lights and TV on. Burglars fit into three distinct types, a Chancer (who sees an easy opportunity and steals items to be sold quickly), a Creeper (who is skilled in housebreaking, has the patience to seek out high value items, but – like a Chancer – avoids being seen at all costs), and a Confronter (a truly dangerous criminal with no fear of being caught and who will do anything to defend themselves and to get what they want). In 1994, when the Monckton’s moved into 30 Upper Cheyne Row, they undertook a lot of renovations, including their home’s security. It was already a safe area, as being a rabbit’s warren of dead-ends and one-way streets, strangers rarely drive through and no-one can park-up without a resident’s permit. It was a very peaceful place, but there wasn’t a single house of this street which hadn't been burgled. To provide protection without instilling fear into his family, the security was strong but discrete. As a Victorian townhouse, it naturally had good defences; the windows were above head-height, the walls were hard to scale and weren’t accessible without a ladder. It had only two doors; one at the back which was well-lit and alarmed, and one at the front; with a door sat atop of an awkwardly steep set of stone steps, fitted with locks, dead-bolts, a chain and a spy-hole, as well as a burglar alarm, a panic alarm and an intercom in several rooms so they could answer the door without opening it. John had invested in the very latest security to defend his home and his family... ...but even the best protection is embedded with a fatal flaw – people. John Monckton was a private man who did his job, loved his family and never courted the limelight. Among a niche circle of bankers, priests and charities, he was a ‘celebrity’ of sorts, but even to those living on his own street, he was neither a name nor a face. And yet, he came to one man’s attention. The tabloids are obsessed with wealth and fame, so much so that a celeb can’t walk the streets without being papped by a sleazy snapper, as a dead-eyed excuse for a journalist pesters the poor soul with questions, only to dig up some dirt and spin it into something scandalous, like it’s actually newsworthy. Sadly, being wealthy, sometimes fame found him. In 2003 and 2004, he appeared in the Sunday Times Rich List and the Mail on Sunday’s Rich Report, with a photo of his face and a profile on his life featured alongside famous actors, pop stars, sports legends, royalty, millionaires and billionaires. For some, it’s an ego-trip, for John it was a security risk, but for a very desperate criminal - with a history of violence and an obsession with wealthy, who was sat amidst the squalor of his bail hostel in Streatham, barely a few months out of prison - this was the perfect way to compile a dossier on his potential targets. Only, John was not his chosen victim. Like all cowards, this particular robber would pick-on easy targets; someone older, weaker or smaller than himself, as he prowled the streets of Chelsea, not in search of a banker, but of a banker’s wife; who dressed in designer outfits, with a handbag full of cash and cards and dripped in precious gems. All he would have to do is find her, follow her home and wait until she was alone. In court, he denied that he kept surveillance on Via Venise, a designer shoe-store at 163 King's Road that Homeyra Monckton frequented. That he followed this lone lady on a seven-minute walk back to her home at 30 Upper Cheyne Row. Or that he watched her routines; shopping and shuttling her nine-year-old daughter between school, friends and an often-empty house. But there was no denying one simple fact: being a rich petite woman, Homeyra Monckton was an easy-target for the Devil’s Child. Monday 29th November 2004 began like any ordinary day for John Monckton. An early start, few breaks and long hours in the cutthroat world of high finance, where a dog-eat-dog deal can be the difference between wealth or death, as a slew of savage rivals are wrestled and slain. It’s an aggressive arena where only the bravest, quickest and strongest will survive, but the only splash of red which is spilled is the flush of shame and the stain of debt. As a Bonds trader for L&G Investment Group in the City’s financial district, John’s true strength was never his knuckles, it was his numbers. For John, business was good, but his home was where he wanted to be. So, at 6pm, he left. At 7pm, the suited and bespectacled man strolled onto Upper Cheyne Row; a dark but soothingly silent street, lined with familiar cars, a few trees, and no strangers or dangers. Just the shadow of his church, the soft glow of an old streetlamp and (on the corner of Glebe Place) his home for the last decade. Through the curtains, he saw the familiar joy of his night ahead; in the basement kitchen a meal was cooking, in the first-floor lounge the TV was on, and somewhere on the two floors above, maybe in the bedrooms, the playroom or the bathrooms were his wife and daughter. As always, his long-legs easily managed the steep Victorian steps up-to white front door, and only able to enter with keys, as the toughened door closed behind him with a reliable thud, its solid locks gave a reassuring click. With 12-year-old Sabrina at boarding school, it was just the three of them, so although he missed her dearly, his home still radiated with the little things he loved; the smell of a homecooked dinner, the warmth of a fire and the gentle splash as Homeyra gave Isobel her bath before bedtime. Isobel’s face beamed with delight, “Daddy”, as like Roald Dahl’s BFG, her very own ‘big friendly giant’ had returned and planted a big kiss on their cheeks - finally he was happy to be home. And as Isobel bathed and Homerya finished cooking, John changed out of his suit, ready for a relaxing evening. Behind their windows, doors, alarms and locks, the Monckton family were safe and secure... ...or so they thought. At 7:30pm, the doorbell rang. They weren’t expecting a caller, especially not this late, so from the safety of the bedroom two floors above, Homeyra spoke to the guest via the intercom. (Buzz) “Hello, who is it?” and a calm voice replied “postman, I’ve got a parcel here for a Mr John V Monckton”. Which was odd but not unusual, as although most people know that burglaries often occur between 3 and 4pm, for couriers the work never stops, and although his arrival was unexpected, a locked door will always be opened to total stranger who carries something as subtle as an ID, a uniform, or a parcel. Homeyra called down “John, there’s a parcel for you”. As anyone would, he replied “okay, I’ll deal with it”, but as he walked to the door, he was rightfully cautious, and his security was there for a reason. Through the spy-hole, John peeped. It’s fish-eye lens showed the obvious features of a delivery driver; as being dressed in a black woolly hat, an orange and blue florescent jacket and a postal sack over his shoulders, this young black youth with a baby-face and a big smile held in his hand a brown parcel. He said he was a postman, and it looked like he was. Besides, most people know that burglars don’t ring doorbells. But still, John was vigilant, so as he unlocked the door, he kept the security chain on. “Hello?”, John inquired, as the postman smiled “parcel for Mr Monckton”. John wasn’t expecting one, but the name and address was right. And besides, most people know that the majority of burglars avoid entering an occupied home. So, as the stranger coolly said “you’ll need to sign for it” – as we all would - John undid the chain, unclicked the lock and (as his last line of defence) he opened the door. ...but the postman was not alone. The second the door opened, John tried to slam it shut, screaming “no, no, no”, as hidden behind the postman’s legs, a dark shadow was crouched; dressed in black, a dark set of envious eyes peered through the jagged slits of a black balaclava, with a gun in his left hand and a six-inch blade in his right. Hearing the terror in her husband’s voice, as he battled to force the front door shut to protect his wife and child, Homeyra joined John’s struggle as pure evil invaded their home. And although the tall man and tiny lady pushed with all their might, they were no match for a fake postman and the Devil’s Child. Overwhelmed, as the door flew open, the postman grabbed John, and although not a fighter, being a foot taller with longer-arms, he did his best to keep his attacker at bay. But John was not the target. With John distracted, like a coward, the Devil’s Child went after the object of this robbery - his wife. Homeyra turned, as in her bedroom, lay a panic alarm (one button which when pressed would activate the home’s alarm and call the police), but as she ran up the stairs, without saying a word, this seed of Satan stabbed the blade twice in her back and side. Struggling, she made it to the first floor, but feeling a dampness in her back and no movement in her legs, she slumped onto the stairs, as John fought on. In a voice as calm as Death himself, the Devil’s Child (whose real name was Damian) demanded “give me your rings and your watch”, which she did. And although they were rich and she dressed well, the pieces he took from her only looked expensive, so having also taken her purse, it totalled barely £4000. Beginning to black-out as blood poured from her back, Homeyra screamed “John! I’ve been stabbed”, as he wrestled Elliot, the baby-faced postman. Looking up the stairs, he didn’t see the epitome of pure evil coming towards him, all he saw was his beloved wife ghostly white and drenched in red, and one floor above - alerted by her mother’s screams and peering through the bannister - was Isobel. With two violent and dangerous men in his home, who would stop at nothing to get what they wanted, although he wasn’t a fighter, John would do anything to protect them... even if it meant his life. With his face beaten, as Elliot gripped him from behind in an immovable bear-hug, John’s fight to force both men out of his home and away from his family was failing. And yet it was then - without warning – that the Devil’s Child lashed out in a volley of frenzied stabs against an unarmed outnumbered man. John’s hands were slashed and bloodied as he valiantly fought off his attacker; as the stained six-inch blade sunk into his shoulder, his right arm and his pelvis. So ferocious was this assault, that having mistakenly stabbed Elliot, with the full length of the blade he buried the knife deep in John’s chest, as one wound ripped through his right lung, and the last, fatally skewered though this good man’s heart. John slumped to the floor in the doorway of his lounge, and as the robbers fled up Glebe Place, Elliot whooped "ah man, you're the business" and Damian giddily fingered his haul of a few hundred pounds and some inexpensive costume jewellery, as the two cowards left John & Homeyra to die. (End) ...which they would have done, had it not been for Isobel, who was only nine-years-old. Doing as her mother said, Isobel locked the door, called the police and set off the panic alarm, alerting the street. Sat amongst the blood-spattered room, with Homeyra feeling weak, pale and partially paralysed, there was no denying that the quick-thinking of this little girl had saved her mother’s life. But with John lying motionless, his eyes closed and his moans barely a whisper, even the paramedics couldn’t save him. Isobel later said “I knew my daddy was hurt in the heart” - a heart which had made him good, honest and loved - but having no pulse and gone into cardiac arrest, although 49-year-old John Monckton arrived at Chelsea & Westminster Hospital at 8.10pm, twenty minutes later, he was pronounced dead. The next day, after hours of emergency surgery to save her life and having lost seven of her ten pints of blood, although still in a critical condition, from her bedside at St Thomas’ Hospital, Homeyra had the heart-breaking task of telling Isobel (and her 12-year-old sister, Sabrina) that their father was dead. With the hardest question for any mother to answer being “Why did my daddy die?” John Monckton was a good man, a loving father and a doting husband who had done – as we all would - everything to protect his family; with a nice house and solid security. But criminals are cunning, and knowing how we think and seeing our weaknesses, he was duped by the simple mistake we all make. And although there’s no mystery why the Monckton’s were burgled? A few big questions remain. Who were the burglars? What drove them to steal? Why was Elliot actually there? And – most importantly of all - who else was to blame for this murder of John Monckton, except for the Devil’s Child? OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Part Two and the final part of The Trader and the Devil’s Child continues next week. If you enjoyed that, stay tuned for some extra titbits and some aimless waffle, after the break. Unless you don’t want to. But before that, here’s a true-crime podcast which may very well be the equivalent of a KitKat but with the wafer missing, and all that’s left is the chocolatey bit. Mmm. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, who are; Kylie Clark, Stephen Beeston, Karen Price and Mads S Olsen, I thank you all, I hope you’re enjoying your new and exclusive Murder Mile goodies, as well as getting first dibs on the new exclusive Murder Mugs, featuring Reg Christie and Police Constable Arsenal Guinness. And a thank you to Kaley, Nadine and Peter Holloway, who sent a very kind donations via the Murder Mile eShop and the Supporter link, which Eva has already spent on a little butler’s bowtie for me to wear when I’m serving her three o’clock cocktail. Plus a thank you to everyone who continues to listen to and enjoy Murder Mile. 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.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY:
Today’s episode is about the investigation into the death of Joseph Wootton. Was it an accident, or was it a murder? As although his peculiar death was resolved in a court of law and the culprit caught, the question which stumped the Police wasn’t how did he die, but why?
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The former location of the Sardinia Buildings and the back of Wild Court, where the body of Joseph Wootton was found, is marked with a lime green 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: The Old Bailey archive, trial of Michael Joseph Holland 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 the investigation into the death of Joseph Wootton. Was it an accident, or was it a murder? As although his peculiar death was resolved in a court of law and the culprit caught, the question which stumped the Police wasn’t how did he die, but why? 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 130: The Falling Man. Today I’m standing in Wild Court, WC2; two roads north of the brutal baker Alexander Moir, one road south of the First Date Killer’s home, one road west of where Mary Ann Moriarty dispatched her boozy beau, and a short walk south from the strange case of Annie Poke – coming soon to Murder Mile. Squirreled away from the hectic bustle of Covent Garden market, and squeezed amidst the forgotten grey gloom of Wild Street, Kemble Street and Kingsway sits Wild Court; a thin dark alley snuck between the backs of the Freemason’s Hall and CityLit, like a cruel after-thought by the town-planners. Being barely ten feet wide and with only a crack of sky peeping through the concrete monsters above, Wild Court is so depressing that the rats can’t be arsed, the fleas have resigned, any wee-wee stains have widdled-away and even Covid is claiming sick-pay. It truly is the epitome of a dead-end. Demolished to make way for the Kingsway Tramline – the 20th century’s very own CrossRail, seen back then as a wasteful folly which lacked value, purpose and only lined the pockets of CEO’s, any MPs on-the-take and a line which was later mothballed (coughs) – it looked identical in the 1890’s. With an entrance on Little Wild Street, Wild Court was the back of the Sardinia Buildings; a gigantic lodging house, five-storeys high, half-a-block wide and crammed-full of 150 little rooms for the city’s poorest. As a dark and squalid hell-hole for only for the most desperate; fights were frequent, screams were common and (drinking to dull the pain of their pitiful lives) violent assaults were a fact-of-life. But when a half-naked man was found slumped in the alley below - with cracked ribs, a broken back, deep cuts and rough dirty scuffs to his knees, hands and feet – it was clear to the Police that he had slipped, struggled and plummeted to his death. And yet, the real question was why did he have to die? As it was here, on the night of Friday 3rd March 1899, that Joseph Wootton fell to his death. But was this an accident, a murder, a mistake, or was an odd little friendship taken too far? (Interstitial) The mystery of the falling man began with very little mystery... “Friday 3rd March 1899, at roughly 12:30am, residents of the Sardinia Building at 19 to 21 Little Wild Street, a lodging house off Covent Garden, reported the sounds of shouting in the vicinity of Wild Court. The investigation was headed up by myself, Police Inspector William Crossman of Bow Street Station”. “Constable Francis Sale (PC142) and Constable Frederick Whittle (PC208), both of E Division were first on the scene. They met Mr Andrew Hutton, deputy manager of the lodging house and were brought to the rear of the building, a small back-alley known as Wild Court; it was unlit, dirty and unoccupied”. Initially, it looked like a false-lead, as too dark to see anything but the shifting shadows without a night-light, Wild Court was desolate, there was no man to be seen nor incident to be sensed. All the PCs could hear was a cascade of opening windows and the rhubarb of idle chatter echoing above, as a long line of eager fingers pointed down into the filthy hole below. Surrounded by iron railings - too thick to bend and too tall to climb - the PC spied a flash of white slumped on a dark jagged bed of broken bricks and rubbish. Accessed only by a key, there was no way to enter this recess, except from above. “PC Sale stated “on or about 12:45am, I saw a man lying where the occupants dump their waste. There was a great deal of blood pouring from his mouth, back and legs. He was alive, but only just, and he could not speak”. In fact, in the last moments he lived, he would barely utter a single word or syllable. Mugging was ruled-out, as if he had been attacked in the alley, why would anyone waste time lugging a fifteen-stone man over ten feet of railings to hide him on top of a bin? Burglary was discounted as only an idiot would scale a few flights of brick wall to enter a building, when the stairs were nearby. It may have been an accident, but no-one knew where he had fallen from. Suicide looked unlikely. And being a stranger, he had no reason to be there. But most baffling of all was his clothing... or lack of. “All he had on about his person was his shirt, nothing else, a white shirt ripped from his left armpit to the waist, and a few feet away was a pair of black trousers, dirty and bloodied, it was the right size to be his”. Although PC Sale would later state “I cannot say if they were there when I first saw the man”.” His lack of any underwear was not seen as suspicious, as this was an era before underpants were commonplace among the masses. But still, what was he doing there given that he was basically naked? “At a little before 1am, Dr Percy Levick, Police Surgeon escorted the unidentified man to King’s College Hospital. I arrived at 3am, and although insensible, 52-year-old Joseph Wootton of 13 Little George Street in Marylebone was able to impart his details to me, but very little else. He died at 7:45am”. The autopsy would prove what the Police had suspected. With his breath reeking of drink, his liver full and scratches on his knuckles, a drunken fight had occurred before the fall. With rough cuts scraping upwards on his chest, and long slashes from the underside of his biceps to his very tips of his fingers, - in staggered sections - he had fought to retain his grip of a window-sill, but inch-by-inch, he had lost. Struggling to clamber back inside the building, his bare feet had several layers of skin grated away by the wall’s rough bricks, the red-raw flesh of his heels had been peeled back and folded upwards, two toe-nails had been ripped-out by the root and the skin of his right big toe was entirely degloved. Based on his injuries, he had fallen forty-to-fifty feet, roughly four stories. And although, a sovereign-sized wound had resulted in a skull fracture and unconsciousness, this was not the cause of his death. Having landed in a seated position, and hit the hard bricks with a dead-stop, the jagged bed of rubble had pierced his buttocks and thighs, as the bulk of his body slammed-down upon it. So, in a swift fast smack; six ribs had snapped, one of which had skewered his right lung, but even that hadn’t killed him. With all of the fall’s energy focussed on a single spot, slamming down hard, it shattered his 12th dorsal vertebra, crushed his spine, ruptured his spinal cord and exploded sharp fragments of bone out of his broken back, leaving him paralysed from the chest down and haemorrhaging internally. Even if they could have saved him – which they couldn’t - the second his body had hit the bricks, his life was over. But before the autopsy taken place, the investigation had proven to be relatively straight forward: “Upon arrival, officers questioned the neighbours. Mrs Elizabeth Bowman of Room 85, on the fourth floor, overlooking Wild Court, stated “at 11pm, we heard two men quarrelling, I heard one call the other a bastard”. Other witnesses corroborated this, and Mrs Ruth Serle of 3 Sardinia Place, said “from my kitchen, I heard the two men yelling, it was coming from Room 84, the nearest window to mine”.” Within minutes, the investigation had identified a time and a place for the moments leading up to the death of Joseph Wootton, all of which pointed to a logical conclusion – two drunken men had a fight. “Just shy of 12:30am, Miss Caroline Frood of Room 79, across the corridor from Room 84, heard what she described as “shouting from inside the room, I opened my door and I heard a man cry out ‘I am bested’, I then heard a sort of pained cry of despair”. Other neighbours confirm this. Shortly after, Annie & Thomas Rich of Room 32, three floors below, heard “shouting, then a great thud, I got my lamp, looked down, and saw a man lying in the basement, he was vomiting and covered in blood”.” With everyone pointing to Room 84 as the fight’s point of origin - a room four stories high with a window that overlooked Wild Court and the basement below - even though the falling man had no known reason to be there, behind that locked door lay either a key-witness or a potential perpetrator. But who was the occupant, what happened that night, and why did he want this man dead? Given the era, there was nothing particularly remarkable about Joseph Wootton. Joe was born in 1847 in the parish of St Giles, in or near Covent Garden. Described as a general dealer, he sold whatever sold to feed his family. He had five children with his first wife - Joseph, Helen, Maria, Henry and William – but being widowed, he remarried Emily, a woman half his age, and together they had a one-month-old son called Charles and at the time of his death, she was expecting their seventh. With money tight, all nine shared a small bed in a single room at 13 Little George Street in Marylebone, and on top of her hectic life as a full-time mum, Emily supplemented their meagre income as a cleaner. As a 52-year-old man, who was short and squat but powerfully-built, Joe’s age was against him, as he could no longer cart the goods as quick as the younger fellas. The couple had no savings, no home of their own, and what little money they had left, he squandered on drink. Wasn’t the best husband or father, but he wasn’t the worst, and he had a few minor convictions for being drunk and disorderly. In court, his widow Emily would state these three facts; “my husband is addicted to drink”, “I am aware of Michael Joseph Holland, they have been friends for fifteen years” and “I know of no reason why he should be sleeping at the Sardinia Buildings”, as his home was only a short walk away. But he was? As for Michael Joseph Holland? The two seemed like kindred spirits. Born in 1867, 32-year-old Michael was a Covent Garden porter with a wife called Ann, a 3-year-old called Thomas and a 1-year-old also called Ann. Likewise, he went where the work was, his family lived in a crowded lodging in Lambeth, he had a few convictions for drinking and fighting, and he squandered their savings. But for whatever reason - whether work or a marital split - he had rented a lodging at Room 84 of the Sardinia Buildings. The two men were old pals, similar in so many ways; who had no debts, rivalry or jealousy together. Thursday 2nd March 1899 began as an ordinary day. “The deceased’s wife, Emily Wootton stated “he left home about midday and did not return”, which was not uncommon, he finished his work in the fruit market about 7pm, therefore these timings are based on the sightings by potmen and publicans”. “Alfred Ashwell of The Grapes pub at 42 Sardinia Street, served both the prisoner (Michael Holland) and the deceased (Joseph Wootton) between 7 and 9pm. Being a hot-headed pair, they often drank to excess and engaged in fisticuffs, but such incidents were always resolved with neither man holding a grudge. At 9pm, a news-lad called Laurie Donovan saw both at The Hart on Drury Lane, stating “both were on good terms”. 10:30pm, both returned to The Grapes, had two glasses of ale and a penny worth of tobacco. They left at 10:45pm. Both were very drunk, but again, they left together as “good pals”. Just shy of 11pm, they entered the Sardinia Buildings on Little Wild Street, where (for the two weeks prior) Michael had rented a room. That was the last sighting of Joseph Wootton. 90 minutes later, his half-naked body would be found on a jagged pile of bricks with his limbs ripped and his back broken. “Witnesses corroborate that an argument began after 11pm. Mrs Bowman in Room 85, “I didn’t think much of it, it was very slight, one called the other a bastard”. Mrs Serle in the window opposite heard loud voices at 12pm but couldn’t make out the word. Miss Frood across the corridor heard a cry “I am bested” from inside Room 84, and Mr & Mrs Rich in 32 heard a thud and saw a body in the basement”. Illuminating the thin alley with his lantern, PC Whittle searched the length of Wild Court, but he found nothing; no weapons, no money and no clothes, just a smashed semi-clad man in a ripped white shirt. “My officers searched from top to bottom. I went to the roof to check if he had jumped, but the door was firmly locked, as was the basement. Immediately above the spot where the deceased was found, the prisoner's window was lighted, and corroborated by witnesses, that brought myself to Room 84”. First to approach the sturdy wooden door of Room 84 were PC’s Frederick Whittle and Francis Sale. They knocked, but got no reply. They knocked again, but again nothing. So, knocking hard, a gruff voice barked “who is it?”, Whittle replied “Police! Open up!”, at which the prisoner replied “F**k you!”. It was only when the officer threatened to force the door, that it was opened. Which begs the question, with his old pal Joseph smashed and dying four stories below, why was Michael so reluctant to help? Before the PCs stood Michael Holland; five foot seven inches tall, 32-years-old and well-built. Like Joseph, he was naked except for a white shirt, and his knuckles were scuffed with old blood and new. From the door, the PCs engaged the prisoner in the following conversation: PC “A man’s been found in the alley, without any clothes”, Holland: “I know nothing about him”, PC: “Have you seen a strange man, or any clothes lying about?”, Holland: “No! This is my trousers, if you wanna see ‘em?”, at which he jabbed his finger at a jacket, waistcoat, trousers, socks and boots piled on a chair, all black, all dirty. The prisoner was then asked “Who lives here with you?”, he replied “no-one, there’s no bastard living here, only me”. The room was small, the bed was unmade, the light was on and the window was open. With no evidence to directly link Joseph Wootton to Michael Holland or the argument in Room 84, the PCs continued a search of the building and reported their findings to inspector William Crossman. “The officers and myself accompanied Mr Hutton, the deputy of the lodging house, and examined by lantern light the water-closets and sinks. There is one on each floor and half-landing, but we found nothing in any of them”. But while the officers were occupied, Michael was engaged in skulduggery. At about the same time, James Hewitt, a portmanteau-maker who lived in Room 19, saw Michael stagger unsteadily down the stairs between the third and fourth floors. “I said "What are you doing here in only your shirt? If they’re your trousers you’ve got under your arm, why don't you put them on? You’ll have the women out on you, and then there will be a fine-to-do". But the prisoner gave no reply and staggered away, with the dirty-looking bundle looking much larger than a pair of trousers. Moments later, 14-year-old William, son of Elizabeth Bowman saw Michael return to his room, minus a large bundle. The officers were informed and a second search of the water-closets were conducted. This time, behind a third-floor sink, they found a set of threadbare socks and some scuffed black boots. On a half-landing, behind a toilet door (which earlier had opened with ease but now seemed to be stuck) they spied a waistcoat and a black jacket. And four stories below, slumped in a crumpled heap beside the bloodied and barely-breathing body of the fallen man lay a pair of black trousers. Although PC Sale would later state “I cannot say if they were there when I first saw the man”.” Only they weren’t. Which begs more questions, why hide the clothes and why deny that Joseph was there? No-one had seen either man in the room, so an alibi of an accident or self-defence could never be disproved. At 4:30am, Inspector Crossman knocked on the door to Room 84. Being sleepy but still a little worse for wear, Michael let the Police Inspector in. “I stated to the prisoner that a man named Joseph Wootton had been found on the brick rubbish below this window, and when asked to explain why, again he repeated that he knew nothing about the man or the incident”, which I knew to be untrue”. The evidence that a fight of some description had taken place was relatively clear. Across the rough hairy knuckles of Michael’s right-hand lay a series of welts and cuts from a fist-fight he claimed had occurred two weeks earlier. And although repeatedly he would lie, his body wouldn’t, so with his skin still swelling and the bruises still new, this particular fight was barely a few hours old. Likewise, a scratch on his forehead had struggled to heal, as every time his brow furrowed, the skin crinkled and ripped the slim red gash wider, sending a tiny drop of blood oozing from this fresh cut. And with stains spattering his shirt sleeve and the bed marked in a red pool which the Inspector stated was sticky, “when I made the prisoner aware that the blood on the sheet was damp”, he gave no reply”. Again, he denied a fight had been fought, that another man had slept in his bed, he shrugged off any knowledge of a second man, and he refuted any claim that the clothes were Joseph’s. Even though of the two low-crowned hats discovered in his room; one fitted his head perfectly, but the other did not. The cramped room was simple; it had a small bed, two wooden chairs, a window and a door. On inspection, the door was undamaged, but by the window, it was clear that a struggle had taken place. Beside the bed, a picture-frame lay face-down on the floor, its glass smashed. His bushel-baskets for hauling fruit to the market were tipped over. The curtain’s draw-string had snapped, as a weight had yanked the right curtain off its rail, leaving the left one trapped outside of the recently closed window. When asked why, he gave no answer. So, why did he hide the clothes, but didn’t clean up the room? Inspector Crossman examined the window: “I raised the sash; in the dust were fresh finger-marks on the woodwork, which scraped outwards and down along the stone. A stain ran along the centre of the sill, as if a heavy weight of flesh had been dragged over it. And on the outside wall, three feet below the sill were bloodied scratches in the brickwork, as if a bare-footed man had struggled to hold on”. A measurement proved that (as the pathologist had stated) Joseph would have fallen 40 to 50 feet to sustain the injuries he did. Directly below Michael’s window was the basement where he had landed, and from sill to bricks, the distance was exactly 41 feet. “I drew the prisoner’s attention towards the basement and the bloodied foot marks, but he gave no reply. In fact, he became quite sullen”. Which begs another question, what was the argument about and why didn’t Michael try to save his friend? At 6am, Joseph’s wife, Emily Wootton was brought to the Sardinia Buildings, where she identified the jacket, waistcoat, trousers, socks, boots and even the hat Michael said was his, as that of her husband. Michael Holland was taken to Bow Street Police Station, where he stated “I don’t know anything about it at all; I was drunk at the time” and charged with assault and causing injury to Joseph Wootton, but having died of his injuries at 7:45am, Michael was subsequently charged with his murder (End). An inquest into the murder of Joseph Wootton took place on the 13th March 1899 at St Clement Danes Vestry Hall, and after a committal hearing at Bow Street, he was tried at The Old Bailey on 10th April. The prosecution argued that Michael had pushed Joseph out of the window and left him dangling, but being too exhausted to hold his grip, he fell. But the defence denied this, arguing that the evidence was purely circumstantial and – more importantly – that there was no motive for the murder. Michael pleaded ‘not guilty’ but refused to provide any witnesses or evidence to prove this, which put Mr Justice Grantham in a quandary: he stated “the evidence is entirely circumstantial, but the prisoner has not assisted the jury by giving any reason for the disturbance. Instead, he has told lie after lie from the moment the police arrived, right across the investigation and until he was arrested”. But even when he was asked if he had anything further to say, Michael simply barked “no!” in a loud gruff voice. The jury retired for just thirty minutes, and having returned with a unanimous verdict of guilty, Michael Joseph Holland was sentenced to death. One hour before his execution, his sentence was reduced to life, which he served in Parkhurst Prison. But even up to that very moment, as death dangled, he remained totally silent as to what had happened between the two men, that night, in Room 84. But why? Why lie about a fight? Why hide his clothes? Why deny that his friend was there? And why, after fifteen years side-by-side, did he choose to watch Joseph die, rather than save his life? It’s a deadly secret that both men took to their graves, so the mystery of the falling men will never be solved. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. If you enjoyed that, stay tuned for tea slurping and utter waffle after the break. It’s not essential, so if you don’t like pointless rambling, switch off now. But before that, here’s a true-crime podcast which may very well be the icing on an iced bun. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, who are; Aaron French and Rae Kennedy, I thank you both, I hope you’re enjoying your new and exclusive Murder Mile goodies. And a thank you to Aimee Graham, Anne Marie Cummings, Kim Calve and Leah Hawkins who sent a very kind donations via the Murder Mile eShop, which will be spent (not on Eva’s rather lethal cocktail collection) but on cake for me, so I thank you. Plus a thank you to everyone who shared this podcast with their friends. 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. Archives
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