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'PLay 2 Win' at 23 Gerrard Street in Chinatown, formerly known as 'Leisure Amusements Limited' where Victor Castigador and his gang perpetrated a robbery and one of London's worst mass-murders
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE NINETY-EIGHT:
At just before midnight on Sunday 2nd April 1989, Victor Castigador and his small gang of cohorts robbed the Leisure Investments amusement arcade at 23 Gerrard Street in Chinatown, but owing to a very petty grudge, Victor would turn a simply robbery for a few thousand pounds into one of London's worst and most horrific mass-murders.
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 Leisure Investment amusement arcade, now known as 'Play 2 Win' at 23 Gerrard Street in Chinatown is where the orange triangle is. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as West London, King's Cross, etc, access them by clicking here.
Here's a little video shownig you 23 Gerrard Street in Chinatown, where the robbery and mass murder took place.It hasn't changed since that day back in 1989. I've also posted a link to the song - 'Burn It Up' by the Beat Masters, this was the song that Victor and his gang were singing to celebrate the robbery and the arson attack on their victims. This video is a link to youtube, so it won't eat up your data.
Credits: The Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
SOURCES: Sadly, the original police investigation files is held in the National Archives until 1st January 2096, so I've had to use other sources and filter out the tabloid shite:
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 Victor Castigador; a liar, a thief and a deluded fantasist who held such a petty grudge having been rejected for a promotion in a West End arcade, that his simple plan for some quick cash would leave two innocents fighting for the lives and two others dead. 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 98: The Petty Grudge of Victor Castigador. Today I’m standing in Gerrard Street, W1; one street north of the charred remains of Reginald Gordon West, two streets west of the shooting Michael Barry Porter in the Rose n Dale club, a few doors north of the stabbing of David Knight in the Latin Quarter, and two hundred feet west of James McDonald, the bank robber who may not have known that he was robbing a bank – coming soon to Murder Mile. To most visitors, Gerrard Street is commonly known as Chinatown, as although this area also consists of Rupert Street, Newport Place, Newport Court, Lisle Street, Coventry Street and a bit of Shaftesbury Avenue and Wardour Street, as the most central and decorated part, it’s also the most visited. After the blitz bombing by the German Luftwaffe of the city’s largest Chinese enclave in East London’s Limehouse Docks, by the early 1970’s, a few seedy side-streets south of Soho had spawned into a new Chinatown. Looking less like a real street and more like a tacky theme-park ride designed by a colour-blind architect who was obsessed with dragons, lanterns and pagodas, this pedestrianised street is full of the staples of Chinese life – such as restaurants, supermarkets and betting shops – but as if this oriental experience isn’t confusing enough, a demented ex-Disneyland designer has added a few weird flourishes; like a slew of non-Asian buskers – such as an Elvis, a Bee-Gee and an Edith Pief – and several characters in dirty threadbare costumes – including a Spiderman, a Pikachu and two Mickey Mouses. On the corner of Wardour Street at 23 Gerrard Street sits a four-storey wedge-shaped building with three non-descript white-fronted offices above and on the ground-floor an amusement arcade called Play 2 Win. With large frosted windows plastered with gambling symbols on both sides and illuminated by flashing neon signs, through the red Doric pillars of the corner door echoes the moan of cheesy pop music, the tinny tunes of slot-machines and the occasional machine-gun thrum as a few pound coins are excitedly pooped-out, only to be ploughed back-in before the supposed winner can crack a smile. All this colour and sound suggests ‘fun’, but this is also a place of loss; not just of money, but of life. As it was here, on Sunday 2nd April 1989 that Victor Castigador, a small security guard with a big grudge would turn a very simple robbery into one of West London’s most horrific mass-murders. (Interstitial) Open any trashy tabloid newspaper or turgid true-crime book and you will see the same lazy phrases trotted-out again-and-again to describe Victor Castigador – “he was mad”, “he was bad”, he was pure evil”, “the man was a maniac”. Many sources will gleefully tell you that the Spanish translation of his surname means the ‘punisher’ or the ‘enforcer’, as if a killing-spree was part of his birth rite. And even though, many writers still regurgitate the same tired facts that this so-called ‘Killer from Manilla’ was a violent and ruthless assassin for either the Philippine commandos, the President’s death squad or regime’s secret police – even though not a single shred of his sinister-history can be proven, every lie which emanated from his mouth is still rehashed even years after his incarceration and his death. So, why do we accept it? Firstly, it makes for a more exciting story. Secondly, as he’s dead, almost anything can be written about his life without legal ramifications. Thirdly, most readers believe that if it’s in a book then it must be true. And finally, because no-one wants to believe that a person so ordinary could perpetuate such a brutal and horrifying crime over a grudge so petty. But he did. The rage, resentment and rejection had built-up for decades, and yet sometimes all it takes is a single spark to turn a tiny flame into an inferno. So, who was Victor Castigador and why did he kill? Born in 1954, Victor Morales Castigador was raised in Quezon City, a densely populated metropolis in the south-east Asian country of the Philippines. As an archipelago of more than seven thousand islands between Japan, Taiwan and Indonesia, being surrounded by some of the world’s most active volcanos, infamously known as the ‘ring of fire’, the Philippines is also prone to earthquakes and typhoons. But as the fifth most populous country, it’s not just geologically unstable, but financially and politically. As spoils of the Spanish empire, the Philippines has been fought over by countless invaders for the last hundred years, from the Spanish to the Americans to the Japanese, and although the Treaty of Manilla saw this newly independent country become a democracy, like so many, it soon slid into a dictatorship. Raised in a period of political upheaval, as a poor boy from an impoverished background, very little is known about Victor’s family, his upbringing and therefore almost nothing has been documented. Being small and skinny, Victor was pushed around and bullied by the bigger boys; seen as insignificant in a world where men and boys needed be physically strong to succeed, this little sprat was easily forgotten, often neglected and readily angered and hurt by the constant rejection. To stand his ground and gain the respect he craved, Victor would assert his dominance over those who dared to say “no”. By the mid-1960’s - as President Ferdinand Marcos and his wife Imelda espoused to the cash-strapped country their hopes and dreams of a better future for everyone, only to embezzle billions of dollars of public funds to live a lavish lifestyle - being in his early teens, Victor dreamed of a better life. As a small kid keen to flee his bullies, Victor worked-out, hoping to make-up for his lack of height with width, and although he bulked-up to become a thickly-set teen, he wasn’t physically imposing, as this short squat guy with a boyish face, long black hair and a feeble goatee beard was barely five-foot-tall. Following the state of martial law declared by President Marcos in 1972, as imposed by his brutal army and sinister secret police - being an adult with the dreams of respect, control and the authority which comes with a rank, a title and a crisp black uniform - aged 21, Victor applied to both forces… …but was rejected. Having claimed to anyone who would listen to his lies that he had joined the Army, the Police and a “quasi-military death squad”, given that the minimum height requirement for a Filipino soldier in the 1970’s was five-foot-four and for a Policeman it was five-foot-two - as he was too short, partially deaf owing to a childhood infection, had only ever worked as a diver and he lacked the basic literacy skills for an administrative role - it’s more than likely that his “career in uniform” was as a security guard. But who would know any different and who could prove otherwise in such an unstable region? By 1983 - the year that the political rival of President Marcos was ‘conveniently’ assassinated – 29-year-old Victor, who described himself as a “part-time diver” and a “sort of Policeman” befriended Michael & Jacqueline Haddon, two ex-pats living in the Philippines whose seven-year marriage was at an end. Beguiled by his charm and mystery, Jacqueline and Victor began an affair, they fell in love, and having returned to England in 1984, they set-up home in the coastal village of Middleton-on-Sea. In October 1984, their son Adam was born. In August 1985, Victor & Jacqueline married. In October 1986 – as the Philippines erupted in a People’s Revolution after the corrupt election and subsequent death of Ferdinand Marcos - their daughter Robyn was born. But being a short-tempered and jealous man who beat Jacqueline and ill-treated their two toddlers, she told him to leave and they divorced. As a UK Citizen with a passport and a legal right-to-remain, by the winter of 1986 Victor had moved into a relative’s flat at Coventry Cross, a council estate in Bow, East London. Being too small for a career in the British military or the Police, he headed into the West End in search of a job. Victor Castigador - a short stocky bully with a patchy work record, no known convictions and a habit of lying to mask his inadequacies – had found work as a security guard in a low-rent amusement arcade at the edge of Chinatown. He was solid, prompt and ambitious. But four years later, in that basement, all because of a very petty grudge, this so-called assassin would kill. (Interstitial) Life was uneventful at the Leisure Investments amusement arcade at 23 Gerrard Street. Open from midday to midnight, Monday to Sunday, with a strict over 18’s only policy, the arcade consisted of two ground-floor rooms crammed full of the flashing lights and tinny tunes of thirty pinball, penny-drop, videos games and slot-machines. And although this alluring cacophony of sights and sounds suggested fun, excitement and possible riches, you would never see a smiling face here, as being a cash-cow for the owners only, the customers were guaranteed to lose more than they could ever hope to win. Overseen by the duty manager - 24-year-old Yurev Alejandro Gomez from Chile, known to his friends as Yuri - the average day in the arcade was often routine, dull and predictable. At 11am, escorted by one of two security guards, Yuri would deposit the night’s takings at Lloyds Bank in Piccadilly, while the second guard secured the arcade, as the cashier – 26-year-old Kenyan, Deborah Bernadine Alvarez, known as Debbi – ensured the slot-machines had enough coins for any pay-outs. At 12pm, as a simple security feature, the arcade’s only entrance or exit (situated on the corner of the ground-floor) was opened and every customer was watched by security and filmed by a CCTV system. The cash box on each slot machine was alarmed, the door to the strong-room below was locked (with the key held by Yuri) and the only other money was doled-out in denominations of 10, 20 and 50 pees by Debbi, up to a limit of £500 (£1500 today), whilst she was sat behind a secure metal cage. In the event of a robbery, all monies were kept to a minimum and the owners had told their staff to offer no resistance to the robbers and to surrender to their requests, as all losses were insured. With a high turnover of cash on the premises, Victor was one of three security guards who worked in shifts, with two on duty at all times. It was a simple job with regular hours, nice staff and an adequate wage, but as much as this barrel-chested boaster loved to strut-about in his crisp black uniform, using his rank to assert a modicum of authority, the hardest part of the job was the boredom. Being stuck in two small rooms, twelve-hours-a-day, seeing the same sights, the same faces and the same routines - as a little man with big dreams and even bolder lies – his days had become dull. Every midnight, with the customers gone and the slot machines shut down, as one guard kept an eye on the arcade floor, a second guard would escort Yuri and Debbi down into the basement. Behind a thick steel door stood the strong-room, a reinforced concrete hold with no windows, no vents and no way of breaking in. Inside of which was six-foot-square wire-cage where the takings were stored in a safe till the morning and - as no-one but Yuri had the key - this messy basement also worked as a makeshift storeroom stacked with cleaning products, newspapers and paints for any general repairs. By 12:30am, with the doors locked, the lights off and the alarms set, all of the staff would head home, only to start the whole process again, the very next day. By March 1989, after three years at the arcade, Victor had developed a reputation as a bit of a bulldog; he was short but strong, fun but fiery and was prone to snap when pushed too far, and although the staff had all been regaled with his fanciful stories – of how, as a commando, a secret police agent and an assassin to President Marcos’ personal death squad he had shot, drowned and burned alive twenty people – nobody believed his lies. He was just a little guy who liked playing tough, and had a very vivid imagination and a sadistic streak having watched too many video nasties. So, although he considered himself good at his job, superior to the other two guards – 21-year-old Ambikalpahan Anapayan known as ‘Pan’ and 28-year-old Kandiahkanapathy Vinayagamoorthy known as “Moorthy” – and felt that he deserved a promotion to deputy manager; owing to his lack of literacy, his short-fuse and his abundance of lies, he was denied the leg-up into a minor management role. Feeling spurned and angry at this rejection, Victor became lazy, abusive and unreliable, so much so that by the end of March 1989, he was dismissed as a security guard at the amusement arcade. Anyone else would have found themselves another job, but Victor harboured a very petty grudge. On Sunday 2nd April 1989, just shy of midnight, the tiny shadowy figure of Victor Castigador sculked behind a brick wall in Rupert Court; a thin unlit alley sixty-feet south of Gerrard Street. With Chinatown shutting down after a busy day trading, across the desolate street he had a perfect view of the arcade. His plan was simple; with the customers gone, the door unlocked and the staff cashing-up two day’s takings as the bank was shut on Saturdays, ordered to offer no resistance to robbers, he would raid the safe, lock the staff in the strong-room and escape; in short, get in, get out, in three minutes flat. Had Victor been a commando as he claimed, he would have known that an oversized hood, a slipping scarf and no gloves wasn’t a great disguise - but he didn’t. Had he been in the Secret Police, he would have known how to get a real gun rather than a child’s plastic toy – but he didn’t. And had he actually been a death-squad assassin, he could easily have robbed the arcade single-handed – but he didn’t. Instead, he roped-in four useless youths who he knew; 17-year-old Calvin Graham Nelson, 19-year-old Paul Stephen Clinton and – tagging along for the ride, the excitement and some easy money to be split five ways - their girlfriends, 17-year-old Karen Dunn and 20-year-old Allison Linda Woodside. But this robbery would be a breeze, as he knew the layout, the routine and the rules. As per usual, at 11:58pm, with both security guards on the arcade floor, as Pan got into position to lock the main door and Moorthy stood guard over Debbi and Yuri as they counted-up the cash, dashing across the unlit street five dark figures (four slight and thin, one short and stocky) stormed the arcade. Swinging open the frosted door, in an instant, the hard-fisted Victor punched Pan, knocking him to the floor, as Nelson and himself pulled pistols on the startled staff. Caught by surprise, overpowered by numbers and aiming toys guns which looked real enough in the neon-bathed arcade, Yuri and his team offered no resistance as the bulldog-shaped man and his excitable gang of accomplices - who towered over their tiny leader - herded the trembling staff down the stairs into the concrete basement. With the money insured, the well-trained staff knew it wasn’t worth risking their lives, so instead they were silent, they listened, they obeyed and memorised everything about the gang and the robbery. Standing at the heavy steel door of the strong-room, surrounded by the office supplies and paint pots of this badly-used space, as Victor pressed the gun’s muzzle against Yuri’s neck - in his thick Filipino accent - the five-foot-tall stockily-built bully-boy with the slipping disguise and the very familiar eyes, curtly ordered Yuri to unlock it, which he did, as the staff were ushered inside. The strong-room was cold and dusty. It was little more than a four-sided concrete shell, with a single metal door, no windows, no vents and to one-side, a six-foot square wire-cage, which housed the safe. Again, ordered by the miniature masked marauder to unlock it, the second that Yuri unveiled the stash of cash within, Victor thumped his former-employer hard across the back, flooring him, as the gang bundled £8,685 worth of used and untraceable notes into an anonymous black rucksack. Two minutes in; with the robbery over, to allow ample time for a clean getaway, knowing that the cleaners weren’t due until 8am, the next part of the plan would give them an eight-hour head-start. Inside the wire-cage, Victor ordered his ex-colleagues to their knees, he bound their hands behind their backs and – to ensure that they couldn’t escape till the morning – he would tightly wind the wire-cage’s lock with a metal coat-hanger and lock the steel door of the strong-room. By dawn, they would be cold, hungry and tired, but ultimately fine. And that would take the third of three minutes. It wasn’t a great robbery, one which was devised by a military or criminal mastermind, but it was more akin to a thug nicking of some easy-pickings having coerced some poor kids with a bullshit history and the promise of pocket-money which may have seemed like a fortune, but it was littered with mistakes. The slot-machines were full of cash and yet he ignored them. The CCTV had recorded it all, and yet he didn’t switch it off or remove the tape. With no gloves, his gang had left fingerprints everywhere. With no getaway car, they were forced to hop in a taxi. Having stolen the equivalent of £21,700 today – if evenly split between five – that was barely £4,500 each. And – worst of all - even though their disguises were truly awful, it was practically impossible to hide the fact that their short, stocky, foul-tempered Filipino gang-leader was a recently-sacked security-guard at the arcade called Victor Castigador. This was the moment that Victor should have fled, but he didn’t. We know what happened next wasn’t pre-planned as he hadn’t come prepared. Whether he did this to protect his identity, or as part of a petty grudge over the failed promotion is unknown. But seeing his old colleagues tied-up, helpless and kneeling - from a waste bin - he scattered piles of dry discarded paper around him. Down a drain, he emptied the only fire extinguisher until it was nothing but a dribble of water. And from a store-cupboard full of cleaning products and paints, he produced a one litre squeezy bottle of white spirit. The staff screamed as Victor soaked all four from head-to-foot in the highly flammable fluid. Yuri yelled “How can you do this? These are people just like you”, but his pleas fell on deaf-ears, even as his old work chum – Pan – begged for his life, screaming “Don't light it. I would rather you shoot me”. Besides, even if the gun had been real, Victor had no plans to give any of them a merciful death, as with gleeful cackles, he and Nelson fired a volley of flaming matches at the tinder-dry paper and volatile fluid. Getting to his feet, Moorthy tried to stamp the matches out, but there were too many. And as Victor secured the cage with a coat-hanger and slammed the heavy steel-door shut, being saturated in a lethal accelerant and igniting in a fog of explosive vapours, the abandoned staff were left to burn alive. (Street sounds, screams fade). This wasn’t the work of a professional assassin; this was the vengeful act of a petty-minded little man with serious psychological issues. Trapped in an airless basement with no vents to expel the smoke, or for their screams to be heard by neighbours, four good people were subjected to a slow and painful death; as their lungs choked on the toxic fumes, their hair was scorched by the licking flames, and the intense heat stripped the searing flesh from their bodies. But if he had been a real assassin, knowing he had enough time, he would have stayed behind to make sure that the job was done and that all the witnesses were dead - but he didn’t. (Screams fade back in). The charred bodies of Pan and Moorthy lay at the back of the wire-cage - smoking, collapsed and horrifically burned - as in their last moments alive, the two Tamil refugees who had fled the Sri-Lankan civil war to begin a new life for their families, uttered a final prayer, exhaled and expired. In the pitch-black basement, having freed his hands from behind his back, Yuri had used his rubber-soled shoes to kick open the scorching heat of the wire-cage. Describing the strong-room as like an oven, each time he rolled on the floor to extinguish the hot blue flames which enveloped his clothes that melted onto his skin, the searing heat re-ignited the fire, as he felt his whole body disintegrate. Blinded, chocking and exhausted, as Yuri dragged himself along the concrete floor, under a thick blanket of swirling flames and towards the impenetrable steel-door, he tried to push the blistering hot handle, but with no key, he knew he was trapped. And yet, this door would be their salvation. Having dragged Debbi to his side, barely able to breathe amid the acrid smoke and poisonous fumes, a small but vital supply of air was seeping through the key-hole and the thin gap under the steel-door. And although the hot metal blistered their lips, it was all they had left to save them from death. That night, as two people died and two more baked alive, Victor and his four compassionless cohorts - Calvin, Paul, Karen and Allison - celebrated their audacious robbery with a nice meal, a boogie at a nightclub and the next day they headed to Torquay for a holiday. There they drank, laughed and – as a private joke – they regaled their taxi-driver with a rendition of the Beat Masters tune ‘Burn It Up’. At 7:55am, eight hours later, smelling smoke, the cleaners called 999, and within minutes, fire fighters from Shaftesbury Avenue station were on-scene and heading towards the basement. As they unlocked the steel-door, everything was a smouldering black mess; all warped, charred and smoking; no-one could tell a wall from a door, or a box from a bench, but over the familiar smell of accelerant, they could also smell the overpowering and unforgettable stench of roasted flesh. Inside, amidst the darkness, on the scorched floor, lay the dark and lumpen shapes of four bodies – all black, silent and featureless. All four should have died, but somehow, two had survived. And although both were in critical condition, Yuri was able to utter three simple words - “Victor did it”. (End) All five were arrested a few days later in Torquay and in a joint operation between the Devon and Met Police, they were escorted back to Cannon Row police station, where – under questioning – Victor remained indifferent to the robbery, the injuries to the witnesses and the callousness of his crime. On 14th April 1989, he was charged with one count of robbery, two counts of murder and two counts of attempted murder at Bow Street Magistrates Court, with a full trial at the Old Bailey, one year later. At both trials, having sustained horrifying injuries – with Yuri suffering 30% burns to his left arm, chest, right arm and losing a lung having inhaled the scorching hot smoke, and Debbi with 28% burns to her arms, hands, back, thighs, lungs, and losing almost all of her face – through unquestionable strength, Yuri and Debbi testified against the accused and on 28th February 1990, all five were found guilty. Calvin Nelson and Paul Clinton were convicted of robbery, murder and attempted murder, with Calvin sent to a young offender’s institute for life, Paul was held in detention under Her Majesty’s pleasure, and both of their girlfriends - Karen Dunn and Allison Woodside - were found guilty of robbery. So cruel were Victor’s crimes, that James Mulcahy, Victor’s own defence said to the jury “it would be very surprising had you not come to the conclusion that he was a ruthless, callous and inhuman monster”. The Judge, Mr Justice Rougier concluded “I find it almost impossible to understand a mind as evil as yours”, and sentenced him to life in prison, to which Victor cockily crowed “fair enough”. Extended to a whole life tariff meaning that he would never be released, on the 21st March 2017, having served twenty-seven years, 62-year-old Victor Castigador died of a stroke. He was mourned by nobody. So, as much as trashy tabloids love to trot-out the same tired story about ‘the Killer from Manilla’ who was (supposedly) a hired assassin for President Marcos, if you really feel the need to share his tawdry tale to impress your true-crime chums, don’t glorify his actions, his exploits, or perpetuate the same unproven twaddle which only spewed from his lying lips. Instead, remember him for who he was – a small, pathetic, mentally unstable liar, who ruined four lives, and all because of a petty grudge. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. After the break, I shall do some of this, a bit of that, some additional of the other, just as I did last time, only some of the words will be in a different order – and that I will call Extra Mile. Oooh. Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Annette Milsom, David Evans and Mandy Belshaw, I thank you all. I hope you enjoy all the extra goodies which come with being a Patron, like locations videos, exclusive crime-scene photos and special discounts off Murder Mile merch. Oh yes, the list of benefits is endless. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, 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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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.
Piccadilly Circus, seen from Coventry Street
Every-so-often I will be rolling out a new style of episode called Meander Mile, where I take you on a guided walk through a single street in London; I'll show you streets and murder cases you're already familiar with and others as yet untold. This week's episode focuses on Piccadilly Circus.
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). 
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.
Gerrard Street in Chinatown, W1
Every-so-often I will be rolling out a new style of episode called Meander Mile, where I take you on a guided walk through a single street in London; I'll show you streets you're already familiar with and some you aren't, pointing out locations you'll recognise from the podcast, and introducing you to new true-crime tales, as yet untold.
This week's episode focuses on Gerrard Street, W1 (in the heart of Chinatown). You can listen to the episode via the link below, or if you fancy viewing the locations via photos, or via GoogleMaps there's a link to this below. 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).
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 tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards 2018", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast #97: "Christine Granville" - The Fall of a Forgotten Hero9/6/2020
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
EPISODE NINETY-SEVEN:
On the evening of Sunday 15th June 1952, just inside the front-door of the Shelbourne Hotel at 1 Lexham Gardens, a 44-year-old lady known as 'Christine Granville' was murdered. She looked like a nobody, and yet, living under an assumed name, she was actually a hero, a soldier, a secret-agent and one of the most amazing women who has ever lived. Her exploits were the stuff of legend, but being cast aside by a government who no longer needed her skills, her cruel death marked a sad demise for “Churchill’s favourite spy”.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of the former Shelbourne Hotel is where the mustard coloured triangle is. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as West London, King's Cross, Paddington, etc, access them by clicking here.
Here's two little videos; one of myself showing you the location at 1 Lexhamn Gardens and another (shot a long while ago) showing you the former heaadquarters of the Special Opertion Executive (SOE) who 'Christine Granville' worked for, based at 64 Baker Street. These videos are a link to youtube, so it won't eat up your data.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable. 
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Russell Square, as seen from Bedford Place (where Zakaria was arrested), looking towards Southampton Row where the last four attacks happened
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE NINETY-SIX:
On the evening of Wednesday 3rd August 2016, a young Muslim man ran amok in Russell Square, he was armed with a knife and had killed one person and injured five, but as the press jumped to lazy conclusions and branded him as a ‘terrorist’, they missed the fact that he was (literally) fighting demons of his own.
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 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 Russell Square is where the pinky/purple triangle is. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as West London, King's Cross, Paddington, etc, access them by clicking here.
Here's two little videos; one of myself showing you Russell Square / Bedford Place where the attacks took place, and another video via Reuters of the aftermath of the attacks. This video is a link to youtube, so it won't eat up your data.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable. 
Views: top left to bottom right; Russell Square facing the Imperial Hotel (where Darlene Horton was murdered), Bedford Place (where Zakaria was arrested and the last three attacks took place), a different view of Russell Square (where the first two attacks took place) and the road leading from Russell Square to Bedford Place.
Credits: The Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. SOURCES: As there isn't a police investigation file in the National Archives I had to use news and court sources to compile the research, these include:
MUSIC:
TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: ZAKARIA BULHAN - THE "TERRORIRST" WHO NEVER WAS 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 a city is a state of panic as with a young Muslim man running amok, armed with a knife, who had killed one person and injured five, as the press jumped to lazy conclusions and demonised him as a ‘terrorist’, they missed the fact that he was (literally) fighting demons of his own. 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 96: Zakaria Bulhan – The Terrorist Who Never Was. Today I’m standing on Russell Square, in Bloomsbury, WC1; three roads east of the Charlotte Street robbery, two roads west of the unusual death of Vera Crawford, two roads north-east of the Denmark Place Fire and one street east of the deadly Meaux Brewery explosion - coming soon to Murder Mile. On the opposite side of Soho, just over Tottenham Court Road and surrounded by the familiar districts of Fitzrovia, Covent Garden, Holborn and St Pancras is Bloomsbury - a pricey residential area full of second homes for politicians, a huge university campus and very little else except the British Museum; where overseas visitors all flock to see the treasures we pinched from them many moons ago, like the Elgin Marbles (“cheers mate, I’ll have that”), The Rosetta Stone (“lovely jubbly, chuck it in the van”), Egypt’s famous Cat Mummies (“nah mate, we’re not nicking it, we’re liberating it”), and the Easter Island statue (“yeah, I’ll write you a receipt for it when I get home. Ha-ha-ha. Bye suckers”). Bloomsbury is a great place for tourists to find a hotel with a truly awful name reflecting very English things, such as The Windsor, The Churchill, The Dickens, The Battle of Britain, the 1966 World Cup, the Fry-up, the Fit Princess, the Racist Prince and the Pizza Express Paedo, all the way down to appallingly named motels like ‘The AAA’, ‘The A1’ and the ‘E Z Hotel’ (dating back to when being on page one of a phone directory actually meant something) and those with names to suit an internet search like ‘the London-England-UK, top-best-great-stay, happy-cheapy-creepy, hotel-motel-B&B-brothel’. Tourists also flock here is it’s local, peaceful and safe. But during the summer of 2016, with the city on high-alert and the Police presence high, Russell Square was rocked by a murder and five attempted murders, all in the space of a few minutes. The grinning killer was described as a radicalised terrorist hell-bent on death, when in fact, he was just a terrified boy who believed he was fighting for his life. As it was here, on 3rd August 2016, having armed himself with a large knife, that nineteen-year-old Zakaria Bulhan came with the intent to kill… but those he attacked were not his targets. (Interstitial) (Distortion/Mixed) “At 10:33pm, Police responded to reports of a stabbing in Russell Square, just yards from the 7/7 tube bombing…”, “…we can confirm that one woman is dead and several are critically injured…”, “…eye-witnesses said the killer was grinning…”, “…he was skipping…”, “…in a frenzied knife attack…”, “…armed Police Tazered a young black man…”, “…an Asian male …”, “….described as either of Iraqi or Somali descent…”, “… Police are investigating links to terrorism and radicalisation…”, “…once again, we ask the question, how safe are we (the people) in our own city?” (Fades out) In the years after the 9/11 attacks, the tensions of the western world were set on a knife-edge, as no longer did a terrorist originate as an unscrupulous stranger from a foreign land, many were now born and raised inside the society they sought to destroy. But their targets wouldn’t be military or political, as seeking to pummel the people into a state of absolute fear, they opted for soft civilian targets and indiscriminately killed as many bodies as possible, as these innocents went about their everyday lives. On the 7th July 2005, suicide bombers exploded four devices on London’s bus and tube network, killing 56 people, injuring 784 and inspiring a copy-cat attack two weeks later. On the 26, 27 & 28th November 2008, in Mumbai, India, terrorists shot and killed 174 people, wounding at least 300. 22nd May 2013, Royal Fusilier Lee Rigby was hacked-to-death in broad daylight by recent Islamic converts. 7th January 2015, satirical newspaper Charlie Hebdo is attacked, 12 are shot dead, 11 are injured. 13th November 2015 in Paris, bomb attacks and mass-shootings kill 130 people, 413 are injured. 14th July 2015, Bastille Day in Nice, a 19-tonne truck is used by its radicalised driver as a weapon, 86 people are dead and 458 are injured. And on 22nd March 2016, in Brussels, three suicide bombers kill 35 and injure at least 300. And that was just a small sample, as by 2016, attacks by home-grown terrorists seemed to be hitting home-soil on an almost weekly basis, and the perpetrators were almost always identical; mostly Asian or black youths with shaved heads, bushy beards and innocent faces who came from good families, but being bored, disillusioned and deluded, they were radicalised into committing Jihad. They were young, impressionable and dangerous, but – worst of all – they came from out of nowhere. By the summer of 2016, the UK treat level has been increased to ‘severe’, meaning a terrorist attack was ‘highly likely’. Armed officers patrolled the streets, London Mayor Sadiq Khan called for the public to remain “calm but vigilant”, and – ironically - on the 3rd August 2016, Scotland Yard had announced that an extra 600 officers would be deployed in the city following the recent terror attacks. That night, in Russell Square, a young man of Somali origin went on a bloody killing spree, armed with a large knife and his victims were white and Western. As always happens, we had to blame someone or something; whether drugs, music, films, bad parenting or computer games, but in this case, our gut reaction was to blame it on his “possible” radicalisation by a terrorist group, based on his colour. In truth, it was us who were to blame, we just couldn’t see it, or wouldn’t see it. Zakaria Bulhan wasn’t a crazed terrorist on a mission from God, he was just a frightened young boy who needed our help. Zakaria’s parents were born and raised in Somalia, an East African country bordered by Ethiopia, Kenya and the Gulf of Aden. As an unstable region steeped in poverty, corruption and ethnic tension - as war lords, armed militias and government forces fiercely ripped the impoverished nation apart – in 1991, when it’s British rulers unceremoniously dumped yet another dirt-poor country it had stripped of its assets and couldn’t be bothered to clean-up the mess, the second we “graciously” granted Somalia its independence, it descended into a bloody civil war. So violent were the clashes, that in December 1992, the United Nations peace-keeping force intervened, and the civil war remains in place to this day. In 1994, seeking a better life, Zakaria’s parents fled war-ravaged Somalia to join their relatives in the calmer, cooler and more-peaceful country of Norway. Three years later, with an older sister Segal and later followed by a younger brother Salah, Zakaria was born, and he was healthy, happy and bright. In 2002, having emigrated to Britain, the five-strong Bulhan family moved into a small council flat on the second floor of Robertson House in Tooting, South London. They worked hard, they lived well and they raised their children to be good decent people, with a smile on their faces and love in their hearts. It was an unremarkable upbringing typical of many families, they had their ups and downs, struggles and successes, and although Zakaria’s parents would eventually split, for the sake of their children, his mother remarried, his step-father moved in and Zakaria remained in-contact with his father. So, it’s no surprise that the other tenants described them as the “best neighbours you could hope to have”. Zakaria, nicknamed “Zaky” was a perfect example of a good upbringing by devoted parents who gave him love and support. Raised by a lady who everyone said was “delightful”, Zakaria modelled himself on his mother and - although shy and socially-awkward - being described as a “little gentleman”, he was always polite, helpful and charming, having been blessed with a baby-face and a big bright smile. In fact, there are no traumatic incidents in his life which would foreshadow the horrifying violence he would bring to the streets of Russell Square, as the sweet-faced killer skipped, grinned and danced, silently slicing, slashing and stabbing a series of innocent people he had never seen or met before. Zakaria was quite ordinary; he loved football, basketball and music; he had a loving family, a good group of friends and he was never in any trouble; he had no interest in gangs, knives or violence, he had never committed any kind of crime; he liked reading but he wasn’t political, he was proud but he didn’t get into fights, and he didn’t drink, do drugs and he wasn’t keen on social media Educated at Graveney School in Tooting, as a quiet bookish-boy he was teased for being a “teacher’s pet” simply because he was good at maths, and although he was bullied, he didn’t let it get him down. So, having resat his GCSE’s at sixth form, he went on to study a B-Tech in IT at South Thames College. Obviously, once the tabloid press discovered that he was young, black and Muslim, the lazy suspicion of radicalisation reared its ugly head, as an easy scape-goat for the horrors which would unfold, but Zakaria was never subverted or coerced. Being too intelligent, loved and open-minded to have his mind poisoned, he was always a moderate Muslim raised to use his faith as a guide to live his life right. Zakaria didn’t have a bad bone in his body or an evil thought in his heart… …but by the end of 2015, just six months before the attack, things had started to go wrong. 19-year-old Zakaria had struggled with mental illness for the last four years. What began with anxiety and depression was brushed aside by his GP as a phase that many teenagers experience and grow out of, but as he aged – being cursed by a stigma surrounding mental illness in Somali culture which makes them less likely to seek treatment – his symptoms only escalated the more he sought to supress it. Becoming more isolated, Zakaria stopped going out, ceased seeing his friends and he quit his college course. Withdrawing within his own mind, his cheeky-face became sullen, his beaming smile was erased and replaced by a terrified grin, and his once eager-eyes were etched red - as with the boy too frightened to fall sleep - over the next six months, Zakaria would try to kill himself three times. On 20th April 2016, as an out-patient at the National Hospital for Neurology on Queen Square, just one street over from Russell Square, Zakaria was initially diagnosed with anxiety and a depressive disorder. His symptoms were a perfect fit – sleeplessness, irritability, isolation, depression, lack of motivation and concentration – and given that he had no history of violence to anyone but himself, he was deemed a low-risk, prescribed anti-psychotic drugs and was monitored by the mental health team. But as a science still in its infancy, it is often said that a person’s mental illness isn’t correctly diagnosed for the first ten years, as many symptoms can be suppressed, masked and can even incubate until they are triggered, and Zakaria’s diagnosis was no exception. Many aspects of this sweet-natured boy may actually have been a symptom, which begs the question; why was he shy, why was he quiet, why could he never speak up, and why could he never look a person in the eye? Was this him, or his illness? By May, as he withdrew further from the routine of an ordinary life and hid in his bedroom, his hygiene was poor, his thoughts were muddy and he struggled to see where reality began and ended. Out-of-character, an unusually volatile anger rose within him causing his mother to hide the kitchen knives as she worried what he may do, but it wasn’t a hatred that fuelled his fury, but a fear. No longer could Zakaria tell the difference between spoken words and imaginary ones, as a ceaseless cacophony of voices tortured him day-and-night, convincing the terrified boy that he was possessed by a devil. Only able to trust his brain to tell him the difference between right and wrong, even his senses colluded against him; as in his head he heard voices, in his eyes he saw demons, and on his tongue, he tasted sulphur. After his arrest, Zakaria would finally be diagnosed with Paranoid Schizophrenia and all the warning signs were there that he was about to enter a full-sensory schizophrenic psychosis… …but this diagnosis would come too late. Deemed a low-risk, prescribed a mild-drug and with his psychiatric help on a strictly voluntary basis, by the summer of 2016, he wasn’t a powder-keg of religious anger and anti-West hatred, what was bottled-up inside him was absolute terror, as the demons inside his mind conspired to kill him. And yet, it was all hidden behind the smile of a sweet-faced angel who would never harm a fly. (Distortion/Mixed) In a statement, the Met’ Police’s Assistant Commissioner said “The UK’s terrorism threat level remains at severe, meaning an attack is considered to be highly likely. As a precautionary measure, Londoners will wake up this morning to notice an increased presence on the streets of armed officers. We would urge the public to remain calm, alert and vigilant”. (Underneath add in different voices) “Russell Square, 56 dead”, “Mumbai, 174 dead”, “car bombs”, “mass shootings”, “trucks as weapons”, “airplanes hijacked”, “Lee Rigby”, “Charlie Hebdo, 12 dead”, “Paris, 130 dead”, “Nice, 86 dead”, “Brussels, 35 dead”, “a killer in our midst”, “a young black male”, “a young Asian male”, “born in this city”, “heard screaming ‘Allah Akbar’”, “raised just around the corner”, “a good Muslim”, “terrorists”, “a Muslim family”, “death to the West”, “Muslim parents”, “burka”, “hajib”, “jihad”, “Koran”, “attended a local mosque”, “possible links to radical Islam”, “radical Muslims”, “radical views”, “extremists”, “ISIS”, “ISIL”, “radicalisation”. (Build to a crescendo / fade). Wednesday 3rd August 2016 began as an unremarkable day; there were highs of 25 degrees, blue skies and a cool breeze; the summer had started, the city was busy and as the public holiday had begun, so Mrs Bulhan and her youngest son went to visit her family in Holland, as Zakaria stayed with his dad. But just hours later, the West End would be rocked to the sounds of screams and sirens, as in a six-minute bloody rampage, five people would be stabbed and one person would be dead. (Call to prayer) Three miles from Russell Square in Whitechapel, Zakaria and his father walked into the East London Mosque for their late afternoon prayer. Being devout Muslims, this was the third of five Salats for the day and to aid Zakaria’s recovery, they prayed to Allah and were counselled by the Imam. Stigmatised by a cultural shame of mental health, a distrust of modern medicine and a belief that their faith can conquer all, they did what they thought was right. But paranoid schizophrenia doesn’t adhere to the seven pillars of Islam, it barely complies to the laws of medical science and when psychiatric counselling is left at the patient’s discretion, it’s as good as useless, especially when the only voices he could trust were the ones inside his head. (Voices – “don’t listen to them”, “they’re spies”, “it’s not a drug, it’s a bug”, “they talking about you”, “they’re out to get you”, “to harm you”, “to kill you”. Somewhere in the Mosque, a telephone rang (as it had many times before), but gripped in a paranoia that everyone was conspiring to kill him, Zakaria panicked, ran and - moments later - he had vanished. That night, fearing for his life, Zakaria couldn’t remember where he ran, who he saw, or what he did. Terrified that his mobile phone was bugged, he threw it into a bush. Fearing that the plain white robe he had worn to the mosque was poisoned, he stripped down to a white t-shirt, black tracksuit trousers and a pair of trainers. And as the people were spies, their eyes were cameras and their spit cast cruel spells upon him - as The Devil closed in - to protect himself, he stole an eight-inch kitchen knife. Zakaria was alone and terrified. Security footage briefly captured the boy wandering aimlessly, but his movements were confused and chaotic. Everyone was a threat and a danger, and although he fled as the demons chased him, he was unaware that they weren’t behind him, but inside him. Somehow, maybe as an automatic impulse to seek a safe place, he ended up at the National Hospital for Neurology on Queen Square, where his illness was first diagnosed. But as a non-emergency service, it was shut. So, unsure what do to, the lost and frightened boy wandered the dark foreboding city - with a voice in his head, a demon on his back and a knife in his hand - one street from Russell Square. At 10:27pm, as the theatres emptied, the restaurants refilled and the pubs readied for last orders, entirely by chance six strangers converged on Russell Square. They were all of different ages and they were all from different places; they were just six people chosen at random who were enjoying life. They had never met before, but across the next six minutes, their lives would be fatally intertwined. They were 67-year-old Bernard Hepplewhite, a conservation volunteer from Kent who’d been to the theatre with a friend. 23-year-old Lillie Sellentin, an Australian primary school teacher who was yards from her hotel. 64-year-old Darlene Horton, a retired special-needs teacher who had enjoyed a final meal with her husband before their flight back to Florida, as well as 59-year-old US national Martin Hoenisch, 40-year-old Australian David Imber and 18-year-old Israeli Yovel Lewkowski. Only Zakaria wouldn’t see them as people, as in his eyes, every one of them was a demon. As the baby-faced boy weaved about the busy pavement, to his first victim – Bernard – Zakaria didn’t look like a threat, as the small cherubic lad skipped along silently, swinging his arms like he was playing in a park. As the boy banged into him, Bernard uttered an “ouch”, only then did he realise he hadn’t been punched in the stomach, he had been stabbed. And as Zakaria joyously skipped on, grinning wildly - after years of terror - the petrified boy had finally slayed his first beast. (dying demonic growl) Yards behind him, it all happened so fast that – before Bernard even knew he was bleeding – as the emotionless prancing lad approached his next victim, Lillie Sellentin felt a sharp pain in the right of her ribs, as with no shouts of triumph and no cries of relief through his gritted teeth, Zakaria skipped on silently, as a second beast was slain (dying growl). From out-of-nowhere, screams began, someone shouted “he’s got a knife”, and although two people lay bleeding, as this wasn’t a TV fiction but a reality in life, no-one was quite sure what was happening. As Zakaria darted over the road, approaching a couple silently from behind, with a single fast blade he stabbed Darlene Horton in the back. Unaware of her injuries, her husband gave chase, only for the small-framed lady to slump against the garden gates, as an odd dark pattern formed down her back. By now, everyone was watching, people were screaming and as distant sirens grew closer, with a seizure of flashing blue-lights illuminating the entire square as the patrol cars of armed officers flooded the streets, Zakaria ploughed on, as a third beast was down and dying. (dying growl) In quick succession - as Zakaria ran past the Imperial Hotel and dashed up Russell Square towards Bedford Place – he stabbed three more innocents; Martin Hoenisch in the armpit (growl), David Imber in the chest (growl) and Yovel Lewkowski in the right arm (growl). But as the screams echoed, the sirens wailed and the people scattered, suddenly Zakaria was all alone, with no more beasts to slay. Within minutes of the attack having begun, armed officers had Tazered, subdued and arrested Zakaria. Six people were injured, two seriously and – having been stabbed in the lung and the heart – Darlene Horton was later pronounced dead. But for once, the demons in Zakaria’s head had ceased. (Distortion/Short) “At 10:33pm, Police responded to reports of a stabbing in Russell Square, just yards from the 7/7 tube bombing…”, “…we can confirm that one woman is dead and several are critically injured…”, “…eye-witnesses said the killer was grinning…”, “…he was skipping…”, “…in a frenzied knife attack…”, “…armed Police Tazered a young black man…”, “…an Asian male …”, “….described as either of Iraqi or Somali descent…”, “… Police are investigating links to terrorism and radicalisation…”, “…once again, we ask the question, how safe (the people) are we in our own city?” (End) As happens during any moments of panic, misinformation had spread in those crucial few minutes, as some eye-witnesses claimed he had shouted “Allah, Allah”, where-as others said he was silent, and although we may all say that we’re not inherently biased, if a white person goes on a killing-spree we usually call it a mass-murder, but if the perpetrator is dark-skinned, often we assume it’s terrorism. To quash any rumours by the trashy tabloids (who – by that point - were too distracted by the sexy Instagram photos of 18-year-old Yovel Lewkowski in a skimpy bikini to bother to report the truth), the Met’ Police Commissioner, Sir Bernard Hogan-Howe said: “Mental health remains a substantial focus for our investigation” and reiterated they were “keeping an open mind as to the motive”. Zakaria Bulhan was arrested, charged and having been sectioned under the mental health act, he was sent to Broadmoor Psychiatric Prison where he was finally diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic. On 7th February 2017, Zakaria Bulhan was tried at the Old Bailey, and although he had no memory of the attack, he pleaded guilty to one count of manslaughter by diminished responsibility and five counts of wounding with the intent to cause grievous bodily harm - which should warrant a life sentence - but as it was universally accepted by the defence and the prosecution that he had suffered a psychotic episode, was detained at Broadmoor, where he would remain for the rest of his life. One person was dead, five people were injured and a young boy’s life was destroyed forever. Had he got the help he needed, had we seen the warning signs and had (not just his culture, but ours) not been blighted by a stigma surrounding mental illness, then a good boy who was polite, shy and decent would be living a good life today. And although we are all terrified by the spectre of terrorism, often the biggest demons we all need to fight aren’t on the outside, but are the ones inside our minds. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. After the break, I shall be discretely slurping a tea, crinkling a cake wrapper (but not actually eating it), droning on endlessly about something or other, and then I shall press stop. Thank God. Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Bernard Airlie and Steven Walker, I thank you. Plus a thank you for all the new five-star reviews you’ve been leaving on your favourite podcast app. They’re very much appreciated and really do mean a lot to me. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards 2018", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. 
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