Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via  iTunes, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In, Otto Radio, Spotify or Acast.

EPISODE THIRTY-SIX

Episode Thirty-Six: Love, Loss and the Lingering Death of Helen Mary Pickwoad: 27 year old Helen Mary Pickwoad thought she’d fallen in love with the man of her dreams, an Army Captain called Edward Tickell, but on Wednesday 20th May 1942, in Room 365 of the Mount Royal Hotel (now called Amba Hotel) at 508/540 Oxford Street, she died a very slow, painful and lingering death, and her boyfriend wasn't even in the room.

• Date: Wednesday 13th to 20th May 1942
• Location: Room 365, Mount Royal Hotel, 508/540 Oxford Street, W1
• Victims: 1 (Helen Mary Pickwoad)
• Culprit: Captain Edward Tickell * & George Frederic Montagu de Fossard

* Note: Captain Edward Jerrard Tickell was found not guilty of manslaughter and procuring an abortion, so the inclusion in this section is only for clarity in the story and does not imply guilt

CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it now by clicking the green PLAY button on the embedded media player below. All transcribed versions are available in here - "Podcast Transcripts

THE LOCATION

As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram

Ep36 – Love, Loss and the Lingering Death of Helen Mary Pickwoad

Thank you for downloading episode thirty-six of the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast.

Each week on Murder Mile, there’s a free competition to win exclusive Murder Mile merchandise, such as Murder Mile badges, stickers and fridge magnets (which aren’t available to buy) as well as a personal thank you from me. To enter the competition, join us on the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast (Discussion Group) on Facebook, or click on the link in the show-notes.

SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, set within one square mile of the West End.

Today’s episode is about Helen Mary Pickwoad; a lovely lady looking for love, who fell for the man of her dreams - a dashing Army Captain - but owing to arrogance, incompetence and a grossly unfair law, this love affair led to her slow and agonising death.

Murder Mile contains harrowing details which may make the uneasy quite queasy, as well as realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there.

My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile.

Episode 36: Love, Loss and the Lingering Death of Helen Mary Pickwoad.

Today I’m standing outside of the Amba Hotel on the east-side of the West End’s infamous shopping district; two streets south of 35 Bryanston Square where former Iraqi Prime Minister Abd al-Naif wasn’t shot dead by two incompetent assassins, one street east of the Intercontinental Hotel on Park Lane where he was, and two streets south of 112 Bryanston Court where Derek Thayer Lees-Smith murdered his own mother over a matter of just a few pounds - coming soon to Murder Mile.

Situated at 508/540 Oxford Street, the four-star Amba Hotel is a colossal, eight storey, art-deco hotel from the mid-1930’s, covering half a square block, with brown brick walls, white metal windows and a stylish curved corner which looks down the length of Oxford Street. Originally called Mount Royal Hotel, its exterior has barely changed since its glory days, situated as it was, at the back of the infamous corner house tearoom (Maison Lyonese) where (it is said) The Blackout Ripper met his first victim.

The Mount Royal Hotel was (and still is) a hugely popular and highly respectable West End hotel, and (as with most hotels) what happens behind the doors of its 684 rooms is none of our business; whether they’re full of randy couples rutting away, dodgy drug-dealers divvying up dope, a horny teen bobbing his one-eyed warrior over three minutes of semi-sexy stroke teasers, a seedy Saudi businessmen who (each night) has a new “girlfriend” who only stays for 58 minutes, or two pooped-out parents sodding the shopping-trip and savouring a whole weekend of child-free silence. Ah bliss.

But one room has a very sordid history; as it was here, on Wednesday 20th May 1942, in Room 365 of the Royal Mount Hotel, that Helen Mary Pickwoad died a slow and agonising death. (Interstitial)

Being born on 25th June 1914, barely five weeks before the outbreak of the First World War - a brutal and bloody conflict which left millions destitute, disabled and dead – by contrast, the early life of Helen Pickwoad had no hunger, horror or hardship, as being raised in an affluent middle-class family with two servants, the very worst that her upbringing could be described as was delightful, but dull.

As the youngest of five children, all born to Alice (a devoutly Christian housewife) and Walter (a stern Scottish doctor), Helen was strong-willed and belligerent; but with her father’s respectable profession being at stake, as much as their three-storey townhouse at 103 Manchester Road in Southport was an extension of his prestige, so too were his children, and (as a necessary appendage to his status) at all times he demanded that they were well-dressed, well-educated and well-mannered.

And so, although they had food, clothes and warmth; life was full of rules and routines, but being busy posing as the perfect family, what they lacked was love, and so, Helen descended into day-dreaming.
As a pretty petite brunette with a big heart, brown almond-like eyes and a sweet smile; being a true romantic – as much as her parents ushered her towards the dreary life of a housewife and mother married to a dull loveless man - although she dreaded the stigma of bringing shame on her family, Helen dreamed not of wedding bells and babies, but of love, romance and passion.

By March 1940, aged 25, and still being seen as a sinfully single woman with no husband, ring or offspring, as with the word “spinster” being unflatteringly bandied about in a cruel ruse to shame her into being trapped by tradition, Helen clung to the dream that one day her prince would come. And one day, he did, and his name… was Captain Tickell. (Interstitial)

Following the outbreak of the Second World War on 1st September 1939, as a well-educated young lady from a respectable middle-class family, Helen was conscripted into the war effort, as a censor.

As swarms of Nazi bombers obliterated Britain’s cities as they rained down fire from the skies, being based at the Postal Censorship Office in Liverpool, Helen was one of 120 censors whose job it was to intercept any letters, parcels or postcards; steam them open, assess the contents, and black-out any political, illegal or morally dubious sections which may prove detrimental to the war effort.

For Helen, life was great; she had a good job, a solid wage and a lived in a three storey, four bedroomed Georgian terraced house at 20 Canning Street in Liverpool. One room of which was rented out to a tall, dashing and elegant Army captain named Edward Tickell… who would change her life forever.

Born on St Valentine’s Day on 14th February 1905, in the Irish capital of Dublin, Edward Jerrard Tickell was a natural born charmer, whose chiselled good looks could lure in any lovely lady and whose cheeky chatter could talk his way out of any trouble. Being loved and loathed in equal measure, Edward was an enigma; a man who some saw as either confident or cocky, appealing or arrogant, sweet or selfish. And no matter which, being born into wealth and privilege, Edward Tickell was raised with a high sense of self-worth, a desire to take what he felt was his, and all without any conscience or consequence.

Having being privately educated at the prestigious Highgate School; after graduation, Edward began an apprenticeship at Lever Brothers and stayed for three whole years. But being a trust-fund baby, and having no real reason to work, Edward jacked in the job, and piddled off to Hungary to become a sheep-farmer. Only to return to England two years later to set-up his own advertising agency. By the outbreak of World War Two, having enlisted in the Royal Army Service Corps, he was swiftly promoted from 2nd Lieutenant to Staff Captain in just six months and was seconded into the rather cushy position of an examiner at the Postal Censorship Office in Liverpool, where he met Helen Pickwoad.

Based miles away from the prying eyes of her prudish parents, the longer Helen shared the same house with Edward, the more their love blossomed. But with Edward being an enigma, who was loved and loathed in equal measure; as much as Helen was besotted by him, and her best-friends (Neil & Mary Barkla) were still undecided, Helen’s parents disapproved, as beyond his confidence and his crisp Captain’s uniform, there was an arrogance they just didn’t like, and the same was said by his employer.

One year into their relationship; on 31st January 1941, Edward’s superior submitted a report – marked file 2646E - to MI5 (the British Secret Service) stating that Captain Edward Tickell had staunch political opinions (possibly fostered during those two-years living in a Hungarian Communist kibbutz), that his right-wing rhetoric had proved unpopular by colleagues and that he required close observation.

By March 1941, with Helen in floods of tears, Edward packed-up his personal items, moved-out of 20 Canning Street and was transferred to the Postal Censorship Office, 225 miles away in London.

Although distraught, Helen knew that true-love knew no distance, that they were meant to be together and that – one day – she would be Mrs Edward Tickell. But what she didn’t know about her beloved boyfriend was the truth; as although he was a German-speaking Communist and a possible threat to national security, one detail had passed her by - Captain Edward Tickell was married.

In 1929, thirteen years before Helen and Edward had met, Edward Tickell had married Renee Oriana Haynes in St Martin’s in the Field church in London; they had two lovely children and lived happily at Mill Cottage, in the quaint Oxfordshire village of Burford. But Helen knew none of this.

To Edward, she was just a “bit of fun”, but being so besotted, Helen travelled from Liverpool to London, every two weeks, and yet - every time – Edward ignored her; choosing instead to boast to his army buddies about the many affairs he was having behind his wife’s back, as drenched in tears, Helen sobbed her way home, so that once again, Neil & Mary Barkla could picked up the pieces.

Throughout their relationship, Helen kept a diary; sometimes she loved him, sometimes she loathed him, sometimes they’d break-up and other times she’d woo him back. But on Wednesday 25th June 1941, there was just one entry in her diary, it simply read: “my birthday – nothing from Edward”.

On Saturday 17th January 1942, eager to re-ignite the dying embers of their on/off dalliance, Helen caught a train from Liverpool to Leeds to London – a deliberately confusing route designed to hide her clandestine affair from her disapproving parents – and with freshly coiffured hair, a poof of perfume and wearing a pretty dress, she headed into the West End for a romantic weekend away with Edward.

Having booked into the modestly-priced Westway Hotel on Endsleigh Street, conveniently located just opposite Euston Station, Edward & Helen signed in as Mr & Mrs Tickell, stayed in Room 70, and both departed the very next morning. That moment marked the start of one life and the end of another.

Over the next three months, Helen wrote the following entries in her diary: Friday 6th February 1942: “no curse”, Friday 6th March 1942: “no curse” and Monday 6th April 1942: “no curse”. With her body swelling, a small bump in her belly and having missed three periods, when Dr Holmes confirmed that Helen was pregnant, she should have been jumping for joy, but she wasn’t.

As she looked down at her stomach, all she saw was sin, as inside her belly a baby grew who was conceived in secret, fathered by a married man and would be born illegitimate. And as much as child-birth would hurt, the greater pain she felt was the shame she’d bring on her family, and – right then - Helen swore, if ever her parents found out, she’d stick her head in the gas oven.

Confiding in her closest friends, Neil & Mary Barkla were a rock during this turbulent time, providing Helen with a safe place to stay, and in the warmth of their home, she could have her baby in secret.

In 1942, a pregnant woman had just two options; have the baby and keep it, or have the baby and don’t. Of course, there was always the third option, but that was both illegal and dangerous.

Helen tried several times to notify Captain Tickell of the swelling in her belly, but choosing to ignore her calls, letters and telegrams, of the two replies she received, both were jokey and dismissive. When told of her missed periods, Tickell brushed it off by writing back “oi, oi, oi, what a to-do, that’s the Censorship office getting you down”, but when told of her confirmed pregnancy, he cut their affair short by replying “Anyhow, we had a good run for our money, we can’t complain”.

Edward Tickell had had his fun, and now this whole pregnancy hullaballoo was becoming a drag, so wanting nothing more with to do with the baby, or Helen (for that matter), as a privileged man with no conscience or consequence, Edward did what he always did, and threw money at the problem.

Wracked with guilt at the shame that her sinful shenanigans would bring upon her beloved family, on Tuesday 12th May 1942, Helen boarded a train from Liverpool to London. And against Neil & Mary’s advice, Edward introduced her to a doctor, whose name was George de Fossard. (INTERSTITIAL).

On the evening of Wednesday 13th May 1942, in the Denmark Public House in Kensington, Helen Pickwoad met the impressively titled George Frederic Montagu de Fossard over a few light ales with Edward. To any outsider, nothing seemed untoward, they were just three friends chatting over a drink.

Although initially suspicious of George de Fossard; an unusual little fellow with a low whispering voice, a nervous shake and blinking eyes which never met hers; as a 44 year old German who’d studied medicine at King’s College and served in the British Army, although such a “sordid business” wasn’t his usual profession, Edward assured her that de Fossard was highly recommended as an abortionist.

Having pocketed £15, George de Fossard and Helen Pickwoad popped off for a few minutes as Captain Tickell watched their drinks. To anyone else, it looked as if they’d scooted off to buy some ciggies, but as Helen casually stood and inhaled the smoke, a different deadly poison swirled about the four-month foetus in her belly, having just ingested eight grams of Ergotin. And now, the termination had begun.

That night, although a little bit anxious, Helen felt fine.

Having performed an abortion many times before, de Fossard warned her of the risks and side-effects, and assured her that the termination would take four days. Having swallowed the pills, by Thursday, she would feel nauseous; by Friday, the deceased foetus would be removed, and with two days of bed-rest as a precautionary measure, by Sunday she would be home, with her family none the wiser.

To aide her recovery, Captain Tickell booked Helen into Room 365 of the Mount Royal Hotel on Oxford Street. Obviously, he didn’t book the room himself, he said he was far too busy, so he got a friend to do it. And although he paid for the room, in cash, he didn’t want his good name sullied by such a sordid thing, so he had it booked in Helen’s name. And, of course, wanting nothing more to do with the baby or Helen, he didn’t bother to visit. He just threw money at the problem, and hoped it would go away.

And although it can’t be proved whether Captain Tickell arranged the abortion, even though the man he’d booked, had performed abortions many times before, and had been arrested and imprisoned twice prior, George Frederic Montagu de Fossard wasn’t a real doctor. In fact, he wasn’t doctor at all.

Born on 16th March 1898 in Bueckenberg (Germany) to a British mother and a Russian father, it’s true that George de Fossard trained in medicine at King’s College, but being broke, having quit after just nine months, he set himself up as plastic surgeon and an abortionist, having gained no qualifications.

On Friday 15th May 1942, in Room 365 of the Mount Royal Hotel, with her life in his hands and dressed in nothing but a light pink nightie, Helen lay back on the dark green double bed; its colour coordinated to match the carpet, the curtains, the sink and the walls, in a shade about as subtle as surgical scrubs.

Aided by little more than a handful of basic medical items; towels, hot water, a glass funnel, forceps and a length of rubber tubing; although the operation was done without anaesthetic, Helen felt only an odd twinge, as between her trembling legs - with no tears, no cries and no squeals - she caught a brief glimpse of a little baby boy; barely the size of the doctor’s hand but fully formed in every way. And although her baby was perfect, already he was dead.

With two days food in the cupboard of the kitchenette, a bottle of painkillers on the bedside table and a stash of sanitary towels to stem the blood-flow, de Fossard left Helen to rest. And there she lay, feeling alone and empty in the echoing silence of Room 365 of the Royal Mount Hotel. Her parents unaware, her boyfriend absent and – somewhere, in London – the perfect little body of her supposedly shameful sin was being disposed of in a bin. And for the next two days, she cried…

…but not in grief.

On Saturday 16th May 1942 at 8:40pm, a full thirty-two hours after the abortion, Neil Barkla received a phone-call. Neil: “Hello?”, after a short silence the caller’s voice cracked with tears at the reassuring sound of her friend; Helen: “Neil?”, Neil: “Helen? Is everything okay?”, Helen: “No, the baby’s out, but… something went wrong”. And that’s all the words he needed to hear. As a loyal friend, as his wife Mary watched the kids, Neil caught the midnight train to London, and at 9:15am on Sunday 17th May 1942, Neil arrived at the Royal Mount Hotel. As all the while, Captain Tickell slept soundly in his bed.

Inside Room 365, the first thing Neil saw on Helen’s sweat-soaked face was her sweet-smile which somehow beamed through all of her pain, and as he clutched her hand and gave her a hug, she knew everything was going to be okay. But as he looked around her, the room told a different story.

Everywhere, on every surface, lay a chaotic mix of syringes, swabs and small glass bottles, as if in a feverish panic, an incompetent medic had wheeled his whole surgery in, and injected her with drug after drug in the hope that one would work. And even though the overpowering aroma of methylated spirit stung his eyes, it wasn’t this medical smell which would forever be burned into his brain.

A foul stench of rotten meat hung in the air; a feted and putrid smell so repulsive, it made Neil recoil and retch, as amongst the sea of bloodied sanitary towels and clumps of matted cotton rolls which littered the floor, a swarm of flies swirled, making it look as if the carpet was crawling to escape.

On the previously green bedspread lay Helen; her flushed face a ghostly white and her brown eyes all blood-shot and red, as with a gas mask covering her mouth she gulped great gasps of oxygen from a large metal cylinder. And although her baby was gone, still she writhed in pain, groaning and panting, her stomach all distended and swollen, as her exhausted body sat slumped amongst a sea of sweat, vomit and brown vaginal discharge; some new and fresh, some old and congealed. Neil tried his best to hide his horror behind a mask of hopefulness, but Helen knew the truth.

To her side, stood George de Fossard; whatever he’d done, he’d done wrong; and whatever he was doing, it wasn’t working, as he scrawled down her fluctuating temperature on the back of a fag packet. And although he was unqualified, one thing he knew for certain, although the baby was out, parts of the placenta were not, and of those bloody ruptured pieces which remained within her, all had gone rotten, rancid and septic.

Helen was in serious danger, but unwilling to call an ambulance (for fear of arrest) and believing he knew best, the unqualified doctor gave her more insulin, and for the next four hours, he did nothing.

By 6pm, being drenched in sweat, Helen’s heart-rate erratically peaked at 200 beats per minute, twice its normal pulse, and with her body temperature being too high to record, suspecting that her death was literally hours away, de Fossard finally bit the bullet and called a professional.

By 8pm, with Neil holding Helen up, her scalding skin too hot to touch, she was taken to 15 King’s Court in Chelsea, the surgery of Doctor Ernst Blumberg, a widely respected and highly qualified doctor.

Seeing her obvious distress, weakened state and a stinking brown liquid oozing from between her legs, Dr Blumberg examined Helen in his sterilised operating room; noted a jagged tear on the anterior wall of her cervix – the tell-tale sign of a botched abortion – and with her body being poisoned to death by acute peritonitis, the doctor administered a strong antibiotic, a safe anaesthetic, he carefully removed every piece of putrefying placenta and flushed out her cervix with two pints of strong detergent.

By 10pm, with her pulse calmer, her temperature down and her swelling subsiding, being pain-free, Helen’s sweet smile had returned, and although Dr Blumberg couldn’t prove that it was the de Fossard who had incompetently performed this illegal abortion, he recommended that (as a precaution) Helen be taken to the nearest hospital. By 10:15pm, Helen walked out of the surgery unaided…

…by 11pm, being too afraid of arrest, de Fossard had driven her back to Room 365 at the Mount Royal Hotel. And with the airless room being stiflingly hot and the windows shut, the congealed vomit and caked blood had turned into a feeding frenzy of bacteria, flies and maggots.

On Monday 18th May, after a restful night’s sleep, Helen was feeling weak but well. On Tuesday 19th May, being restless and sore, Helen’s swelling had returned, along with a feted stench of rotting flesh, and as she thrashed about, sweating and screaming, the brown liquid oozed from her nostrils. By 6:30, the next morning, having lapsed into a coma, 27 year old Helen Mary Pickwoad was dead.

When informed of Helen’s death, although Captain Tickell claimed to be upset, he shed no tears, said no prayers, and even though he was only a few doors away at Maison Lyonese in the Cumberland Hotel, he never entered the Mount Royal Hotel, or Room 365, where his girlfriend was dead.

Unlike so many deaths in London’s West End, for the Police, there was no real mystery here. With his fingerprints found on the bloody forceps, George de Fossard was arrested for the murder of Helen Mary Pickwoad. Six days later, on Tuesday 26th May 1942, they arrested Captain Edward Tickell.

In a lengthy trial, lasting almost a month, beginning on 4th June 1942, at The Old Bailey, with both men charged with manslaughter and conspiring to perform an illegal abortion, they pleaded not guilty.

On Friday 2nd July 1942, 44 year old German national, George Frederic Montagu de Fossard; with his low whispering voice, his nervous shake, his suspiciously blinking eyes and two prior convictions as an abortionist, was found guilty of manslaughter and was sentenced to five years in prison.

And 37 year old Captain Edward Jerrard Tickell; the natural born charmer with chiselled good looks which could lure in any lovely lady and a cheeky chatter that could talk his way out of any trouble?

Although his guilt was obvious to the Police, with Tickell having not booked the hotel himself, paid for the abortion in cash, written nothing on paper and with no witnesses to confirm whether he was anywhere near Room 365 of the Mount Royal Hotel, at any time, during Helen’s life or death, And with no evidence against him, Captain Edward Tickell was found not guilty and released. And once again, being born into wealth and privilege, he walked away, without any conscience or consequence.

OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.

Don’t forget to stay tuned to Extra Mile after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week, which are Cult of Domesticity and Colour Me Dead. (PLAY PROMOS)

A big thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who get exclusive access to lots of secret and often sexy Murder Mile stuff as well as a personal thank you from me; they are Susan Atkins and Gary Lante. Thank you guys, you are super dooper.

Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name.

Thank you for listening and sleep well.

*** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***
The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, therefore mistakes will be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken. It is not a full representation of the case, the people or the investigation in its entirety, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity and drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, therefore it will contain a certain level of bias to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated.
*** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***

Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. ​​Additional music was written and performed by various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here

Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, 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 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk

Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via  iTunes, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In, Otto Radio, Spotify or Acast.

EPISODE THIRTY-FIVE

On Thursday 18th February 1972, outside of flat 21 at 35 Bryanston Square in London's West End, a group of hired killers attempted to murder the exiled Iraqi General Abd ar-Razzaq Said al-Naif. Four men escaped, one was accused, but no-one was found guilty. So what happened?

• Date: Thursday 18th February 1972
• Location: Flat 21, 35 Bryanston Square W1
• Victims: 2 (Abd & Lamya al-Naif)
• Culprits: Unknown

CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it now by clicking the PLAY button on the embedded media player below. For transcripts of each episode? Click "Podcast Transcripts".

THE LOCATION

As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram

ARCHIVAL RESEARCH

This podcast was researched using the original declassified investigation files, as conducted by the Metropolitan Police, evidence which was used in the trial at the Old Bailey. This includes a chronology of the events, a detailed back-history of the events, as well as many victim and eye-witness statements by the following people, taken immediately after the attempted assassination:

• Abd & Lamia ar-Razzar Said al-Naif, target and unintended target
• Millicent Harris, resident of flat 8 of 35 Bryanston Square
• Ernest Taylor, the caretaker of 35 Bryanston Square
• Police Sergeant Main, interviewed Yahya on scene
• Detective Sergeant Cass, first detective on scene
• Detective Chief Inspector Chalk, in charge of the investigation

What follows is a summary of the case (as created by the detectives of the Metropolitan Police's Serious Crime Organisation), the original statements of both victims, the eye-witnesses and the detectives who headed up the case and handed it to the Director of Public Prosecutions for trial.

Note: owing to Covid-19, London is in a tier 4 lockdown, therefore I am currentlty unable to make photographic copies of these statements and summaries, but they will be uploaded, in full, and will be used as per Government licence 3.0, proving the authenticity of the events depicted.

What follows are extracts from British newspapers The Guardian, The Birmingham Post and the Mirror who attended the trial, as held at the Old Bailey and reported on the trial as it unfolded.

Mr Worsley said that the question for the jury was whether Mr Qassim was one of the four men, or whether he was an innocent bystander, an unwilling spectator. Mr Worsley said it was not suggested that Mr Qassim held a gun, or had bullets. He said that when the general saw the would-be assassins he ran to another part of his home. His wife came out of the kitchen into the firing line and was wounded.

Mr Worsley said the general led a bloodless coup on July 17 1968, but two weeks after becoming prime minister he was arrested at the president’s house. He was later appointed ambassador to Geneva but left there for security for himself and his family. He changed their passports and moved to Germany, coming to London on September 12th 1969and moving into the flat.

Mr Worsley said Mr Qassim asked the general about his movements. He was obviously trying to find a place where the general would be assassinated, said Mr Worsley. Mr Qassim told the general he had something important to discuss with him and although the general did not want to see him, agreed to do so.

Mr Worsley said the general would say he opened the door to his flat and saw the defendant take one step from the lift and stop. He gave no kind of greeting or signal. Two men jumped from the lift with pistols and started firing at the general. He shut the door but his wife passed in front of the door and was shot in the right shoulder. She cried “my husband is killed” and the men ran away.

Mr Taylor, the caretaker said he saw three men who looked young and looked Arabian. They started to run up the stairs towards him and he asked what they were doing. Mr Worsley said that they had been part of the way down to the basement and one of them had disposed of a weapon. A policeman with a dog later found a Browning automatic pistol, which was cocked and loaded, a magazine containing bullets and a black mask.

When Police Sergeant Main arrived, he saw Qassim standing very calm and still. Asked what he was doing, he merely shrugged. Detective Sergeant Cass went up to the general’s flat and saw his wife.

Mr Worsley said that when he was seen at Paddington Station by Detective Chief Inspector Chalk, Mr Qassim said “this was political and nothing to do with me”. He said he heard the General’s wife shouting that her husband was dead, so he left.

When told that the general had not in fact been killed,  Mr Qassim became very excited and screamed in a language the officer could not understand. When he calmed down, he was asked what was the matter and replied “you wouldn’t understand. This is terrible. I am a dead man”. The trial continues.

The general said that since his arrival in London he had been careful to see whom he opened his door to. “There were very few people I trusted”, he said.

He said he first saw Mr Qassim in London in 1970, when he was introduced to him at another flat. Thereafter he had met Mr Qassim by appointment fairly regularly. The general said Mr Qassim had asked him for a job and on the day before the shooting had phoned him saying he had an urgent matter to discuss. The general said a meeting was arranged and on February 18 the bell outside of the building rang and Mr Qassim announced over the security phone to the flat that he was alone. But when the lift arrived, the two gunmen were on each side of Mr Qassim.

Cross-examined by Mr John Hazan QC, defending, the general said he feared that agents of the Ba’athist party might try to kill him. He had been sentenced to death in his absence.

Mrs al-Naif told the court that when she had been shot she cried out in Arabic “my husband is killed” and the men left. About five minutes later Mr Qassim phoned and asked her what had happened? She told him “you killed me and you killed my husband”.

Mr Qassim said in evidence that he had nothing to do with the shooting and that when he arrived in the building a woman was getting into the lift followed by three men whom he had never seen before.

He said that when he got out of the lift the general smiled and said something in “a low voice” and the shut the flat door. Then the shooting started. He continued “after the shooting had started I went back to the wall by the lift. The firing seemed to come from the left and behind. I said “please I am just a guest” in English. After the shooting stopped, they fled.

“I then knocked on the door of General al-Naif and asked in Arabic whether anyone was hurt, but I heard nothing at first. Later I heard people talking to each other. He said he asked the caretaker to call the police and the caretaker said they were already coming. “I never tried to run away” he said “I had nothing to fear”.

Cross-examined by Mr Michael Worsley, Mr Qassim said that he had arranged to meet the general because he wanted to say goodbye to him before he left for America on a business trip”.

The shots missed him and wounded his wife in the shoulder. Mr Worsley said that it was not suggested that Mr Qassim fired any shots, or that he had any pistols or ammunition on him, but that he was party to the attempted assassination. Mr Worsley said that the general led a bloodless coup in Iraq un July 1968. Two weeks after becoming Prime Minister, he himself was arrested at the President’s house. After being sent to Morocco, he eventually went to live in London in September 1969, moving into the block of flats in Bryanston Square.

According to Mr Qassim, the general had been condemned to death in his absence by the regime if the day in Iraq, the Ba’athist Party. Mr Qassim said in evidence that he had no quarrel with the general who as a good friend. Mr Qassim said he hated the Ba’athist Party as mucha s the party hated him. He had no motive to kill the general. The jury was out for two and a half hours considering its verdict.

Transcript: THE MIRROR – 28th June 1972, titled Can You Tell An Assassin By His Face?

How do you recognise a potential assassin? This was the question a judge put to an Old Bailey jury yesterday. It came at the end of the trial of a writer accused of attempted murder. And Mr Justice Bean went on to say that there was no way of telling a would-be-killer by his appearance. Referring to the defence’s statement that the accused, Iraqi Yahya Qassim did not look like an assassin, the judge said “I wonder how many assassins you have met in your time. How many of you woud have recognised as killers many of the more infamous assassins?”

Qassim, 56, of Hyde Park Place, Bayswater, who is also a lawyer was found not guilty of attempting to murder Genral Abdul Razzak Al-Naif, 38, a former Prime Minister of Iraq. He was also acquitted of wounding the general’s wife Lania and unlawfully possessing two pistols with intend to endanger life.

The prosecution said that four men including Qassim went to the general’s flat in Bryanston Square on February 18 and tried to kill him. They opened fire but missed the general. His wife was wounded in the shoulder. The prosecution said that it was not suggested that Qassim had fired any shots but that he was party to the attempted murder.

Yesterday the judge said that Qassim had described the general, who led a short-lived coup in Iraq, as a friend whom he loved. But in cross-examination, he had accused him of being a “torturer, a murderer and a rapist”. And he said the general had been condemned to death in his absence.

The story was set against a background of Iraqi politics, said the judge. “That is a country where it seems, when you are up you are up and when you are down you are in danger”. The judge added “in the web of intrigue that concerns Iraqi affairs, you would lose your way in a search for a motive”. He said that the general who had been Iraq’s director of intelligence for five years “could not have failed to make enemies”.

The jury were out for two and a half hours before returning their verdict.

Other articles used included:

• The Guardian - 21st March 1972
• Liverpool Echo - 21st February 1972
• Daily Mirror - 20th June 1972
  
• Daily Mirror - 15th June 1972
• Marylebone Mercury - 24th June 1972
• The Boston Globe - 21st March 1972
• The LA Times - 20th June 1972
• The Evening Sun - 21st March 1972

To name but a few reliable sources, external to the investigation files. This episode has also been praised as "a very accurate description of events" by Duraid, eldest son of Abd & Lamia al_Naif.

Transcript of Episode 35: The Several Assassination of the Exiled Iraqi.

(Judge’s gavel) “Order! Order!” From the 15th to the 28th June 1972, a trial was held at The Old Bailey before the Judge, Mr Justice Bean. The crime? The attempted assassination of the former Iraqi Prime Minister General Abd al-Naif and the wounding of his wife, Lamia. The evidence stated that three men had entered the lift, arrived at the sixth floor and exited at the same time that the shots were fired. Two of the men were disguised and brandishing guns, the other was unarmed and casually dressed. With the unidentified gunmen having fled, remaining behind, a third man was arrested and tried with the “attempted shooting of ex-prime minister General al-Naif”. But if he was an assassin or co-conspirator, he was certainly an unlikely choice.

The accused was Yahya Qassim, a fellow Iraqi and a respected writer and lawyer, who was a recent friend and business acquaintance to the general. The trial was unusual, as with the prosecution stating “there was no suggestion that Mr Qassim fired any shots, or that he had any pistols or ammunition on him, but that he was party to the attempted assassination”, leaving the judge to ask “how do you recognise an assassin?” and the jury with a very unusual quandary; to decide if Mr Qassim “was one of the three men... or whether he was an innocent bystander”?

What follows is a dramatization of the events based on the declassified police investigation files and the eye-witness testimony of those who were there that day. 

SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, set within one square mile of the West End.

Today’s episode is about Abd ar-Razzaq Said al-Naif (Abd ar-Razzak Sayheed al-Nay-eef); an exiled Iraqi national, living in the West End, who found himself the target of several assassinations. And yet, as high up as the orders to have him killed came, his death may have been left in the hands of a most unlikely man.

Murder Mile contains grisly details which may disturb any delicate poppets, as well as realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there.
My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile.

Episode 35: The Several Assassinations of the Exiled Iraqi.

Today I’m standing in Bryanston Square, W1; two streets north of Oxford Street, two streets east of Edgware Road and two tube stops west of Soho. If this sounds familiar, that’s because situated on the north side of the square, at the junction of Wyndham Place and Montagu Place, there once stood an air-raid shelter, where Evelyn Margaret Hamilton became the first victim of The Blackout Ripper.

With its private garden surrounded by several seven-story Edwardian mansion houses, so anonymous they can only differentiated by subtle changes in their brown bricks, white windows and black wrought iron gates; this square is so exclusive and yet deliberately discrete; with so many embassies nearby, it’s highly likely that the bin-men are bugged, the street-sweeper’s a secret sniper, each concierge has top secret clearance, the milkman’s been knighted, the homeless are only here by royal appointment, and even a posh poodle doing a doggy poo-doodle on the path is protected by diplomatic immunity.

And with me not being an oily oligarch, a Saudi slime-ball, a disgraced duke, or an aristocratic bit of hoity-toity who’s under house-arrest as the judge deemed him too posh for prison; the second I even think of setting foot in their private garden; alarms will wail, flood-lights will flash and six black-suited men with Uzis will hurl me into a holding cell, I’ll be frisked, stripped and water-boarded; tortured, strangled and chopped into a rather fancy pate, as (in their eyes) anyone who doesn’t have a diamond-encrusted Rolex, a Beamer painted by Picasso, an aversion to paying tax, a dubious human rights record and isn’t a regular donor to the Tory party is clearly suspicious.
And although this was the home of socialite Wallace Simpson (the American divorcee who caused King Edward VIII to abdicate) and Osmond Barnes, the man who gave the whole of India to Queen Victoria as a gift, it was here, outside Flat 21 of 35 Bryanston Square, that Abd al-Naif, an exiled Iraqi national with a death sentence on his head faced a very unlikely firing squad. (INTERSTITIAL).

On Friday 18th February 1972 at a little after 2pm; a sweetly-smiling, smartly-dressed and deeply-caring middle-class Iraqi couple were shopping amongst Edgware Road’s noisy, excitable and chaotic Middle Eastern bustle of shawarma bars, shisha cafes, deli’s, tailors and coffee-houses. Being home to many Arabian immigrants since the late 19th century; regardless of where their roots lay (whether in the Lebanon, Syria, Iran, Iraq, Israel or Egypt), although this half mile stretch of Edgware Road is often dubbed “Little Beirut”, it’s always been a place of peace, safety and anonymity.

Being five foot nine inches tall with black wavy hair, thin brown eyes and a lantern jaw, 38 year old Abd was the epitome of an Iraqi businessmen; as dressed in a tailored suit and shiny shoes with a crisp shirt and tie, although he had the heft of a man with a military background, with a thin uneasy grimace about his lips, he had the face of a politician. But by those who knew him, he was widely respected.

Side-by-side, Abd walked with 34-year-old Lamya, his beloved wife of sixteen years and mother to their five children (the youngest of which – Ali – they’d dropped off at a local nursery). And although she was an unassuming little lady with long dark hair, beautiful eyes and an intoxicating smile, having followed her husband through thick-and-thin, she was his strength, his confidante and his soul-mate.

And as much as they resembled an average middle-class Iraqi couple who’d relocated to London in the early 1970’s, they were anything but, and very few people knew who he truly was.

Born in the Iraqi city of Fallujah (43 miles west of Baghdad) on 18th June 1934, Abd ar-Razzaq Said al-Naif was raised in an affluent middle-class family, the second oldest of six siblings, and educated with traditional values, religious upbringing and a passionate patriotism for his country.

As a confident, polite and driven young man; aged 16, Abd enrolled in the Iraqi Military Academy. Being eager to rise through the ranks of the Army, after three years of intensive training, Abd was promoted to 2nd Lieutenant, graduated with a degree from the State College of Baghdad and being both a successful soldier and a political thinker, with Iraq being our ally in the years after World War Two, Abd was trained by British intelligence at an undisclosed military base in Uckfield (Sussex).

By 1964, Abd was appointed Deputy Head of Iraqi Military Intelligence. By 1965, he was Advisor to the Iraqi President (Abdul Salam Arif). And by 1968, Abd was promoted to General, all by the age of 34.

But by 1968, with the Cold War heating up as the US and the USSR battled for supremacy in both the Space Race and the Arms Race, with the government of Iraqi leaning towards Communism, on 17th July 1968, Abd initiated a “bloodless coup”, seized control of the state and appointed General Ahmed Hassan al-Bakr of the Ba’ath Party as President, and himself as the 39th Prime Minister of Iraq.

Dubbed “The White Revolution”; this bloodless coup was seen as indicative of the peaceful coalition government Abd had created with al-Bakr as an Arab Socialist and himself as an independent, but after just 15 days as Prime Minister, President al-Bakr and several Ba’ath Party conspirators - one of whom was the future Iraqi President Saddam Hussein – had Abd arrested.

Eager to keep-up the pretence of a peaceful transition, al-Bakr had Abd ejected from Iraq, exiled to Rambat and (fearing for his life) was forced to take-up the powerless position as the Iraqi Ambassador to Morocco. One month later, having been shipped-off to Switzerland to act as the Iraqi Minister for Swiss Foreign Affairs, Abd was warned that the Ba’ath Party were plotting to have him killed.

As the authorities in Switzerland were unable to offer him protection, with his escape bankrolled by a wealthy Iraqi ally - Sheik Mulalhal Balasim al-Yassin – Abd, Lamya and their five children fled to London on 15th September 1969 and moved into the safety of Flat 21 at 35 Bryanston Square.
It was here they hoped to live a normal life, far from al-Bakr, the Ba’ath Party and Iraqi politics. But living in a city surrounded by strangers, with a death sentence hanging over his head, he would never be sure who he could trust when he opened the door... and his faith would soon be tested (INTERSTITIAL).  

Born in the Iraqi city of Mosul on 10th October 1914, 56-year-old Yahya QASSIM (Yiy-yah Cazim) was bright, erudite and political. In 1934, aged 20, Qassim graduated from Baghdad Law Faculty with a law degree, set-up his own legal practice, and later became Assistant Secretary to the Baghdad Council of Ministers, Legal Adviser to the Iraqi Railway, editor of his own left-wing Arab newspaper - ‘Ash-Sha’b’ and was a fervent opponent of the Ba’arth Party.

After the coup d'etat on 14th July 1958, Qassim was arrested by the new Ba’arthist regime and his newspaper was confiscated and ordered to produce the newspaper Al-Gamhouriya, a Baathist newspaper whose editor was a leading Baathist.

Seeking a better and safer life for his family, by 1971, as a writer, a lawyer and a married man with two grown-up sons, Qassim lived at 4 Hyde Park Place, a nine-minute walk from Bryanston Square.

Abd’s trusted friend - Sheik al-Yassin – the Arab businessman who had bankrolled Abd’s escape, exile and had even financed the education of his five kids, introduced Abd to Qassim one year prior, it was later said that this was regarding the production of a book on the modern history of Iraq.

Being a polite and patient man, burdened by a desire to never cause offence, Abd agreed to a brief meeting with Qassim in the safety of Sheikk al-Yassin’s Kensington office, and then they said goodbye.

What happened over the next few weeks and months can only be speculated at, as being deeply suspicious of anyone he didn’t trust, living under the constant fear of a death sentence, the General knew that the he was an obvious target for assassins, that the smartest way to lure him out was by using a friend as bait, and he could never be sure if his “friends” had ulterior motives. What follows is based the various eye-witness statements, as used in evidence at The Old Bailey.
It started with phone-calls; sometimes weekly, sometimes daily, sometimes nightly, and always on the end of the phone was Qassim, pestering Abd for more meetings to discuss the eventual overthrow of the Ba’ath Party regime and the exiled General’s glorious return to power as the rightful Prime Minister of Iraq. None of which Abd even wanted, but still Qassim droned on, and on, and on.

Note: on balance, these phone calls and the following meetings could have been about the book on a history of modern Iraq, therefore Yahya Qassim may (rightfully) have been excited to research and write such a prestigious book, although no such book is ever mentioned in any part of the investigation files or in any of the witness statements.

And then came the meetings, endless meetings with a never-ending slew of nameless people, as Qassim waffled on about Abd’s impending rise to power as the leader of an anti-Ba’ath Party revolution, which Qassim had claimed to have already mustered the support of powerful allies - such as the Jordanian Prime Minister, the Shah of Persia, the Iranian Minister for Foreign Affairs and King Feisal of Saudi Arabia – and yet, as much as Abd politely tried to persuade the nervous little lawyer that he had no plans, at all, to re-ignite the Iraqi revolution, to destabilise the Ba’ath party, and that he only cared about  his family’s safety, Qassim remained persistent and droned on, and on, and on.

A few weeks prior to the assassination plot, Abd had grown deeply suspicious of Qassim’s questioning, as what began as polite pleasantries before a tedious barrage of business talk, soon felt more like he was deliberately fishing for information about the minutiae of Abd’s daily routine. Although maybe, Yahya was simply excited to begin writing and researching the book?

Early December 1971: Abd received a series of strange and silent calls from public phone-boxes to his home phone, but – on every occasion - the second he’d pick-up, they’d hang-up. Was this a coincidence, or were they connected to the upcoming events?

Late December 1971: Abd would later state that Qassim had organised a meeting between Abd and Saddig El Bassam, a (supposedly) high-profile Iraqi merchant and staunch opponent of the Ba’ath Party, and yet, as urgent as their meeting was, very little was said, the details were vague, and the next day, the merchant had vanished.

January 1972: Having bumped into Qassim on George Street (a residential road one street south of Bryanston Square), Qassim told Abd of the rumour that he was protected by Persian bodyguards and carried a gun. In a momentary lapse in judgement, being desperate to leave, Abd denied both and opened his jacket to prove it.

February 1972: Abd would later state that Qassim had organised yet another urgent meeting, only this time with Aga Jaffar; an Iraqi businessman who Abd had already met, and yet, as pointless as this meeting was, Qassim’s mind wasn’t on business, or politics, or even Iraq. Instead he steered the conversation towards more trivial matters about Abd’s life.

As a solid judge of character, Lamya (Abd’s wife) instantly took a dislike to Qassim, and being desperate never to share the same space as such a devious and weasily little man, she asked Abd never to invite him to their home, or if he did, she would need to be elsewhere.

That afternoon, as if the city’s decrepit old sewers had been blocked by a steamy stinking cesspool of human waste, a bad smell returned to 35 Bryanston Square. And dressed in a crumpled grey raincoat, a tatty brown suit and a battered grey trilby, Qassim slinked up the stone stairs, hung by the mansion block’s black front door and buzzed the intercom of flat 21.

With a crackle of static, Abd answered “hello?”, but with this being the early 1970’s, an era long before video intercoms, this call was strictly audio only, and having no idea who it was, the General let out an audible groan when he heard the nasal whine of “Abd? It’s Qassim”. Abd was too tired for this, too fed-up, too bored and too frustrated. In essence, their conversation broke down like this:

Qassim: “Abd? It’s Qassim”, Abd: “Yes?”, Qassim: “We must have a meeting, it’s urgent”, Abd: “About what?”, Qassim: “Things. Come on down, we’ll go to the Portman Hotel, have coffee, tea, my treat”, Abd: “We? Who’s this we?”, Qassim: “We? You? Me? And… some people. You must come”. At which, feeling uncomfortable by the vagueness of the details and with his patience tested, Abd replied “no”.

A long silence ensued, and although Abd couldn’t be certain, he swore he heard the scuffle of feet and the mutter of frustrated voices, as Qassim piped up with “come down here then, we can talk here”, as persistent as ever. But even from all the way up on the sixth floor, Aba smelled a rat.

“No” Abd replied, “No, I think I won’t, I’m busy, maybe next week, okay?”, but Qassim said nothing. There was another crackle of static, another mutter, another scuffle, followed by a series of stuttering statements as Qassim insisted that what he had to tell Abd was vital, urgent and too secret to be said over an intercom. And knowing that this persistent pest would buzz about his ear like a blood-hungry mosquito – with Lamya (his wife) being out – and with an air of reluctance, Abd invited him up.

For an interminably long minute, through the spy-hole of flat 21, Abd hesitantly watched as the needle of the sixth floor lift slowly crept up; from ground floor, to first, to second, to third, then it stopped, then it restarted, to fourth, to fifth, and then (ping) to sixth. Behind his thick wooden door, as the art-deco gates of the lift spread aside, into the hall, Abd spied the solitary shambling mess of Qassim. His wrinkled face grimacing an awkward grin as his wizened old hand knocked on the door, which Abd cautiously (and reluctantly) opened, and – once again - Qassim had invited himself into the flat of the exiled Iraqi Prime Minister, unaware that his presence was rarely (if ever) welcome.

For fifteen minutes, they sat, sipped tea and chatted; nothing urgent cropped up, nothing important was discussed, and - once again - Abd denied he has any political plans, any revolutionary ambitions, and simply wanted to live with his family in peace. And with that, Qassim wished him well and left.

Having lived in a constant fear of being killed for the last four years, maybe the stress had got the better of him, Abd had thought? Maybe he was seeing threats where there weren’t any? As if the Iraqi Ba’ath Party were going to send an assassin, why would they send Qassim? The idea was ludicrous.

(Phone rings) Thursday 17th February 1972 at 7pm, Abd received a phone-call. Qassim: “Abd? It’s Qassim”, Abd: “Yes?”, Qassim: “We must have a meeting, it’s urgent”, Abd: “About what?”, Qassim: “Things”, Abd: “What things?”, Qassim: “Just things… too secret to say over the phone”. And so it was agreed that they’d meet, the next day, at 4pm, in Abd’s flat. (Phone hangs up).

On Friday 18th February 1972, at a little after 2pm; a sweetly-smiling, smartly-dressed and deeply-caring middle-class Iraqi couple – known locally as Abd & Lamya – strolled along the chaotic bustle of “Little Beirut” on the Edgware Road; their senses tantalised by the sharp tang of freshly brewed coffee, the fruity waft of shisha pipes and the spitting spice of lamb shawarma, as excitable café owners lured prospective patrons in with the promise of falafel, baklava, kofta, manakeesh, grilled halloumi, fattoush and - a delicacy of Iraq - Masgouf (a slowly cooked carp seasoned with lemon and pickles).

And as much as Lamya inhaled those beautiful familiar smells from her homeland, Abd’s eyes and ears were elsewhere. Was it his imagination, or was he being watched, was he being followed, were there a lot of Iraqi men milling about on Edgware Road, or was he seeing threats where there weren’t any? He looked at his watch, it was 3pm, he’d have to head home for his meeting with that irritant Qassim.

(Phone rings) Thursday 18th February 1972 at 3:30pm; Qassim: “Abd? It’s Qassim”, Abd: “Yes?”, Qassim: “Our meeting…?”, Abd: “4pm, in my flat, I haven’t forgotten”, and then there was a pause, Qassim: “Hmm, let’s meet on the ground-floor, you come down”, Abd: “Down? Why?”, Qassim: “I’m worried about the lift. What if there’s a power-cut?”, Abd: “There’s no power-cut”, Qassim: “What if it’s broken?”, Abd: “I just used it, it’s not broken”, Qassim: “What if it breaks?”, Abd: “Use the stairs”. And with his patience wearing very thin, Abd said something to the effect of “here, 4pm, be there, or don’t” (phone hangs up).

At 3:40pm, Qassim exited 4 Hyde Park Place and took a brisk nine-minute walk over Edgware Road to Bryanston. At ten minutes to four on Friday 18th February 1972, Qassim slinked up the stone stairs, hung by the mansion block’s black front door and buzzed the intercom of flat 21.

With a sharp crackle of static, Abd answered “hello?”, Qassim: “Abd? It’s Qassim”, hearing a slight scuffle Abd asked “Are you alone?”, with a nervous stutter Qassim replied “Yes… alone”, and with an electric buzz and a metal thung, the black front door of 35 Bryanston Square opened.

As Qassim entered the lift, beside him stood two men, described as of Middle-Eastern appearance, early twenties, wearing raincoats with collars up and hats covering their eyes.

Which was most convenient for 72 year old Millicent Harris, resident of flat 8 on the second floor, as with her arms weighted down with shopping bags, one of the nice young men held the door open for her, and – with a sense of good manners, often absent with today’s youth – they let the lady into the lift, as they stood side-by-side; Qassim, Millicent and two highly trained Iraqi assassins, in one hand they held black balaclavas and in the other 9mm Browning revolvers.

With all four squeezed into the slightly compact lift, as the mysterious man nearest the panel prodded the button to the sixth floor, Millicent politely asked “second floor please”, but the man ignored her. She asked again “second floor please”, but once again he ignored her, they all did (which was odd as Qassim was fluent in English), so believing these reprobates were either foreign, ignorant or rude, she jabbed at the button herself, and scowled at the naughty men with her most withering look.

On the sixth floor, Abd watched as the lift’s needle stalled four floors below. Behind him, busy in her kitchen, Lamya prepared dinner. With Qassim closing in, normally she’d be out, but having finished her chores and with no reason to leave, she stayed, as Abd promised to keep the meeting brief.

Suddenly, the needle of the sixth-floor lift restarted, and slowly crept up from second floor, to third, to fourth, to fifth and finally (ping) to sixth, but Abd had no sense of trepidation. Qassim was more of an ass than an assassin and only thing he was likely to kill was time, air and brain-cells. But as the lift’s art-deco gates opened wide and the solitary shambling mess of Qassim stepped out… he froze in fear.

There was no awkward grin on Qassim’s wrinkled old face and no wizened old hand knocking on the door. As (unlike ever time prior) the ever-cautious Abd wasn’t peeping through the spy-hole, waiting for the very last second to open his heavy wooden door. Instead, he was standing in front of it.

As Qassim exited the lift, with their black balaclavas off and their revolvers not cocked, sensing his immediate danger, Abd bolted backwards and slammed the door shut, as a volley of 9mm shots ripped through the wood.

Behind the splintered door of flat 21; amongst the shrill screams and the choking tears, Lamya could be heard sobbing “my husband is killed, my husband is killed”, as the assassins fled, their booted feet thundering down the stairs, but gripped with fear, Qassim simply stood motionless and stared.

Hearing the shots, Ernest Taylor, the caretaker of 35 Bryanston Square, bravely attempted to grapple with the fleeing assassins, but with both men being young, fit and swift, they easily dodged passed the elderly gent, dashed into the quiet residential street and disappeared forever.
Qassim (always being a bastion of tact) telephoned and calmly asked “Lamya? It’s Qassim, what has happened?” To which (seeing blood pour from a bullet-hole in her body and her husband slumped on the floor) she screamed “you have killed my husband, you have killed me”, and then, he promptly hung up.

But the assassins were so inept, that nobody had died.

With the door slammed shut and unable to see their target, of those five shots fired; one hit the hall skirting board, one hit the bedroom doorframe, two hit the door, and with all five shots entirely missing Abd - who’s military training had told him to drop to the deck and stay low – one bullet had hit Lamya in the right shoulder. But after just two weeks in hospital, Lamya had made a full recovery.

Questioned by the Police Sergeant Main a few moments after the shooting, with Qassim’s demeanour calm, he stated he only wanted to say goodbye to the General before he left for America on a business trip – who he would describe in court as a good friend who he loved, but also as “torturer, a murderer and a rapist” - and that he didn’t have any reason to run as he had nothing to fear. But when he told that the General wasn’t dead, he became excited, screaming in Iraqi and (when asked why) to the Police, he replied “you wouldn’t understand. This is terrible. I am a dead man”.

At the trial, Mr Justice Bean stated “in the web of intrigue that concerns Iraqi affairs, you would lose your way in a search for a motive... there was no way of telling a would-be-killer by his appearance”. Even asking the jury “I wonder how many assassins you have met in your time. How many of you would have recognised as killers many of the more infamous assassins?”

Yahya Qassim was tried at the Old Bailey on 19th June 1972 and charged with the attempted murder of Abd al-Naif and with intent to cause grievous bodily harm to Lamya al-Naif. He pleaded not guilty to all charges and the jury (unanimously) found him… not guilty. With no gun on his person, no bullets in his pocket, no mask on his face, no fingerprints anywhere at the scene and no witnesses able to confirm whether Qassim had fired (let alone held) a gun, he was found not guilty and walked free.

Six years later, on Sunday 9th July 1978, outside of the five-star Intercontinental Hotel on London’s Park Lane, as the exiled Iraqi General hopped in a taxi and headed home to his beloved wife, he was cut down by a hail of bullets, one of which blasted a hole in the back of his head, and he died the very next day. This time, his Iraqi assassins were professionals, and his death sentence having been (reportedly) ordered by the ambitious Vice-President of Iraq, whose name was Saddam Hussein.

OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.

Don’t forget to stay tuned to Extra Mile after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week, which are Killafornia Dreaming and Targeted. (PLAY PROMOS)

A big thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who get exclusive access to lots of secret and often sexy Murder Mile stuff as well as a personal thank you from me; they are Susie Brace, Lina Cho, Roger M, The Quiet One and Gunga-Dun. With a special well done to the winners of the exclusive Murder Mile stickers, badges and fridge magnets on my latest competition, only available via the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast Discussion Group on Facebook.

Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name.

Thank you for listening and sleep well.


*** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***
The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, therefore mistakes will be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken. It is not a full representation of the case, the people or the investigation in its entirety, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity and drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, therefore it will contain a certain level of bias to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated.
*** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***

Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. ​​Additional music was written and performed by various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here

Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, 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 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk

Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via  iTunes, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In, Otto Radio, Spotify or Acast.

EPISODE THIRTY-FOUR

Episode Thirty-Four: Brian Alexander Robinson, a 19 year old part-time DJ who murdered a man he had never met before, for no financial gain nor personal malice. And yet, although he was found guilty, Brian should never have been tried for murder.

• Date: Friday 29th August 1964
• Location: The Limbo Club, 11b Wardour Mews, Soho
• Victims: 1 (John "Johnny" Howard)
• Culprit: Brian Alexander Robinson

CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it now by clicking the green PLAY button on the embedded media player below. All transcribed versions are available in here - "Podcast Transcripts"

THE LOCATIONS

As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram

Episode 34 – Brian Alexander Robinson and the D’Arblay Street Death

INTRO: Thank you for downloading episode thirty-four of the Murder Mile true-crime podcast.

Nominated one of the Best British True-Crime Podcasts of 2018 (yes, I plan to mention that until at least 2019, or maybe 2020), Murder Mile is based on my five-star rated guided walk, researched using the original declassified police investigation files, recorded using authentic sounds taken from the murder location, and comes complete with crime scene photos, location videos and a murder map to show you how close these murder truly are.

As always, Murder Mile is a lot like a hot date with a Thai hooker, as it features a quick thrill upfront, a mystery in the middle and a shock at the end, as well as lots of head-scratching and references to sausage, so stay tuned to the end for Extra Mile. Thank you for listening and enjoy the episode.

SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, set within one square mile of the West End.

Today’s episode is about Brian Alexander Robinson, a 19 year old part-time DJ who murdered a man he had never met before, for no financial gain nor personal malice. And yet, although he was found guilty, Brian should never have been tried for murder.

Murder Mile contains grisly details which may upset the fluffy-bunny brigade, as well as realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there.

My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile.

Episode 34: Brian Alexander Robinson and the D’Arblay Street Death.

Today I’m standing on D’Arblay Street, smack bang in Soho’s centre; two streets west of the murder scene of Canadian masturbator Richard Rhodes Henley, one street north of The Blackout Ripper’s second victim Evelyn Oatley and one street north-east of sweet-natured sex-worker Ginger Rae.

Speckled with a messy mix of eighties eyesores, sixties shitpits and 18th century slum-houses, although D’Arblay Street is curiously quiet, bafflingly broken and painfully pug-ugly (owing to a teeny tiny hole in the road which – even after one and a half years - Westminster Council still hasn’t fixed), after a sizable injection of cash, this stumpy little side-street is finally being given a second lease of life, as… yes, you’ve guessed it… yet another haven for half-witted hipsters. Urgh!

And although, like a hipster’s head, it’s always half empty, except for vague hints of humus and falafel, the unsubtle sounds of bongos and digeridoos, and the sight of top-hatted twats supping micro-brewed beers made from liberated lentils, terrapin tears and ethically sourced breast-milk; if you’re idea of heaven is having a hat so tiny it looks like a boil on your bonce, jeans so tight that the world knows your religion, or a mush so hideously hairy it resembles an unkempt sailor’s anus (yes Marco, I mean you), give it a year, and D’Arblay Street may become your very own personal paradise.

And yet, today, on the south side of D’Arblay Street, by the dark and brooding archway of Wardour Mews, where a long-line of over-excited and easily-duped tourists, queue-up for two-to-three hours, simply so they can say that they’ve sat in a very specific if underwhelming café? It was right here, that Brian Robinson was forced to make a decision which would change two lives forever. (INTERSTITIAL)

On 22nd June 1948, a British troop-carrier docked in the Essex port of Tilbury having first made a detour to Kingston (Jamaica). On-board were 802 servicemen from the Commonwealth colony of the West Indies, who (as loyal subjects of His Majesty the King) had bravely fought in the Second World War, and now (with the Britain in an economic depression and suffering a severe labour shortage) these brave men were once again coming to our aid, but not as warriors, as workers. The ship would be known as The Windrush, and for many, it marked the birth of modern multiculturalism in Britain.

Having left behind their families, their homes and their lives, upon arrival at Tilbury Dock, with many men clutching a single suitcase, wearing their one good suit, a porkpie hat and a confused look as they wondered who stole the sun, hide all the fruit, covered everything in concrete and widdled in the water, some men stayed for just a few years, but most remained, later followed by their families.

And as immigration continued through the 1950’s, by the mid-1960’s, with the West Indian workers rarely (if ever) being thanked and habitually being branded the “bogie-man” by the uneducated whites and even by Britain’s other immigrants who’d quickly forgotten their own hardship and adopted a “we were here first” attitude to the new invaders, Britain in the 1960’s was a powder-keg of racial tension.

Sparked by far-right fascists such as Oswald Mosley's Union Movement who fought to “Keep Britain White”, inflamed by British Prime Minister Sir David Lloyd George who referred to Jamaica as “the slum of the Empire” and fanned by a Government who saw the West Indian emigres, no longer as help but as a hindrance, and not as a people but as a problem, almost a decade before the 1976 Race Relations Act (which made it illegal to refuse homes, jobs or services to anyone based on their ethnic heritage), it must have seemed like lunacy for any West Indian to want to come to Britain. But on 16th August 1961, a 16 year old boy did just that, and his name was Brian Robinson. (INTERSTITIAL).

Brian Alexander Robinson was born on 11th November 1944 in the Jamaican capital of Kingston. With stout little legs, podgy round cheeks and a pot-belly, Brian was the first-born son of two doting parents - Mary and Alexander. He was healthy, happy, loved and he would also be their last.

When Brian was just a one year old, his father died of cancer, leaving his distraught mother in the grip of depression. Being desperate for her attention, Brian became hyper-active and hot-tempered, but with him being the spitting image of her dear-departed husband, his love went unreturned.

Aged seven, being eager to be seen rather than smacked, whilst playing in the garden, Brian fell from a tree. And yet, as much as he screamed, cried and clutched his arm, with his mother having remarried and busy cuddling her new boy, neither Brian nor his injured arm received the attention they so badly needed. With his left humerus fractured, chronic inflammation having set in and with the bone going untreated, as Brian grew, his left arm didn’t, and the pain would plague him for the rest of his life.

Aged nine, Brian’s mother uprooted with her new family to Brooklyn (New York), leaving her first-born son behind in Kingston, the responsibility of relatives. Although studious, if a little easily upset, Brian studied hard at St Alison’s School and later at Grove College, but being of below-average intelligence and gaining no qualifications, aged just 16, Brian left the sunshine behind to seek a better life in Britain.

On the 16th August 1961, a five foot five inch man with square shoulders, an ambling gait and a little pot belly strutted down the gangplank at Southampton dock, his broad plump face beaming, as unlike the land he’d left behind; there was no sun, trees or sky, just a noisy cacophony of ships, trains, cars and cranes, as the air hung thick with smog. In his right hand, Brian held a small battered suitcase, and in his left hand, a hat, the arm of his brown suit having been re-stitched a few inches shorter.

Like most West Indians, raised on a diet of fruits, meats, vegetables and spice, the British cuisine was (at best) disappointing and (at worst) disgusting; a bland tepid over-boiled mush made from animal entrails, topped with an unpalatable pastry and – to combat the blandness – it would be slathered in salt, coated in ketchup or drowned in gravy, but for Brian, this was a symbol of his new life.

Sadly, 13 years after the first arrivals on the Windrush, the tide had turned, and with the West Indian emigres - who’d been invited to help rebuild Britain – now regarded by a thankless state as a burden, even highly workers struggled to find jobs – with doctors working as dishwashers, barristers as brickies and office clerks as cleaners – and being forced to live in slum-housing, their rights ignored and faced with a barrage of threats, hostility and violence, life for the British West-Indians was tough.

Having moved into a first-floor flat at 9 Elm Park in the West Indian enclave of Brixton (South London), although Brian briefly worked as a warehouseman and his work record was regarded as “satisfactory”, being easily riled, highly strung and hot-tempered, each job rarely lasted more than a few months. And always feeling like a stranger in a strange land, what Brian craved most for - was family.

Being hungry, desperate and broke, on 28th December 1962, Brian was fined 20 shillings for the theft of one loaf, four rolls and three pints of milk. On 17th January 1963, he was sentenced to three months in prison for handling forged money. And on 18th January 1964, he served five months for obtaining a stolen chequebook. And although he was hardly a career criminal; being a black man with a prison record in 1960s Britain, Brian struggled to find employment and after an endless slog of mind-numbing jobs (as a shop assistant, radio repair man and a laundry worker), in June 1964, Brian started work as a part-time DJ at the Limbo Club. Six weeks later, he would be charged with murder. (INTERSTITIAL)

Today, down the dark and brooding archway of Wardour Mews, just off D’Arblay Street, hidden in the basement of number 11b is D M Buttons; a bespoke embroiderers which monograms and personalises buttons for most of the exclusive tailors on Savile Row, but back in 1964, this was The Limbo Club.

With the eastern-side of Wardour Mews having been bombed during the blitz of World War Two, this thin, dark, Edwardian dead-end was once a no-go-zone for any sensible citizen, being packed (as it was) with derelict buildings, burned-out cars and broken glass. But amongst the debris, a series of illegal gambling dens, brothels, coffee-houses and nightclubs sprung up.

Hidden in the damp dark squalor of the rat-infested basement at 11b Wardour Mews, The Limbo Club was an illegal nightspot; notorious for its raids and run-in with the Police, frequent fights, racial tension and was predominantly frequented by black men keen to dance with white women, and visa-versa.

Being barely sixty feet wide by forty-feet deep with a low-slung ceiling, The Limbo Club was lined with threadbare benches along the bare peeling walls, with a brick stairs at one end, a badly painted mural of a Tuscan vineyard on the other, as well as a fag-machine, a few lights and a bar in the middle which served bottled beers and spirits. It was grubby, grimy and grim… but for Brian, this was home.

Perched in a corner cubby-hole, to the right of the brick stairs, with a hi-fi system, a vinyl turntable, a wooden chair and two stereo speakers, each evening, as the resident DJ, Brian spun a soulful mix of rocksteady, reggae and ska records, including Bob Marley and the Wailers, Toots and the Maytals, Prince Buster, Desmond Dekker and The Aces, Lord Tanamo and The Skatalites. And with many of the West Indian regulars drinking rum, smoking weed and chatting in a thick patois, although The Limbo Club was in a dingy basement in a bombed-out London slum, for Brian, it was a little piece of heaven

Ran by his best-friend Oliver (whose real name was Leon Winchester Williams), Oliver was 26 year old thin-faced Rasta with high cheekbones, tight dreads, a goatee beard and a thick Jamaican accent, who being a few years older and a few inches taller, Brian regarded as the brother he never had.

And with the Limbo Club being where Brian had met his 18 year old girlfriend Jacqueline Edwards, known as “Jackie”, a white girl from a Catholic family, who he planned to marry the following year? This wasn’t just a nightclub, this was his home and his family. And would do anything to protect them.

On the evening of Thursday 28th August 1964, one night before the murder, Brian – who was liked by everyone and had no known enemies – was DJ’ing in his corner cubby-hole. Sat near him on one of the threadbare benches was a large, white, ape-like bruiser from Deptford known as “Big Jim”; all knuckles, muscles and menace, his tree-trunk legs spread wide like he owned the place and a gruff scowl on his gormless face, as he necked back one too many beers.

Having stood up and stooped to pick-up a fallen vinyl record, Big Jim popped his paint-splattered boot on Brian’s chair. Being polite Brian asked “Excuse me, sorry can I have my chair” – as this thin wooden seat wasn’t just somewhere to park his bum, as with his fractured arm often caused him pain in the cold as well as the heat, Brian needed a place to rest it - but Big Jim grunted “no”.

Maybe he was genuinely tired? Maybe (like Brian) he was physically disabled? Or maybe, as a racist, Big Jim simply disliked a black man forcing black music into his white ears, but having asked politely twice, Brian shoved Big Jim’s foot and took the seat back. Without provocation, Big Jim pulled a flick-knife and drunkenly slashed at Brian’s torso, but missed and sliced a small hole in his jacket.

Enraged, Big Jim yanked the seat back, tossing the five-foot five-inch black youth to the floor, and as the white brute stood there, nostrils flared and knuckles gripped, towering over the small, chubby and physically disabled teen, with the shimmering blade of the flick-knife bared, Big Jim attacked again.

Suddenly, all Big Jim saw was bricks, as his snarling face was pinned to the wall by Eddie Cassar (the club’s burly bouncer) who disarmed him in an arm-lock. And as Big Jim yelled and frothed like a rabid dog, fearing a bloody aftermath, as Eddie held the drunken lout back, Oliver told Brian to run.
They’d had trouble in the Limbo Club before, not just because it was a club for black men, ran by black men and frequented by black men who danced with white women, and visa-versa, but because the Teddy Boys were always looking for a fight, and they’d travel into town to find it.
And – as senseless as it was - that’s how it started.

Friday 29th August 1964 was hot and sticky as the summer sun burned through the cloudless sky. For Brian, the heat and humidity was a welcome reminder of his Jamaican roots, as he sat shirtless on his sofa with Jackie, kissing and cuddling with the woman he loved. And as much as their lips lingered, little did they know, that this would be the last kiss they’d ever share.

At roughly 9pm, as the sun slowly set over the London skyline, his best-buddy Oliver, accompanied by his new girlfriend, Evelyn; a feisty Irish redhead who he’d met at the club just weeks before, called at Brian’s first floor flat at 9 Elm Park in Brixton. This was part of their usual routine.

As they fixed some cold drinks, Oliver cautioned his mate that the word on the street was that Big Jim would be back. Being no dummy, Brian knew this, and as much as he knew that a short tubby cripple didn’t stand a chance against a six foot oaf with a flick-knife, he knew he needed to even the odds.

From inside his blue jacket, Brian pulled a knife. Not a small knife, like the pathetic fish-slice that Big Jim had drunkenly waved about like a furious prude wafting away an unpleasant fart, but a real knife, with a thick steel blade, two inches wide by nine-inches long. Oliver’s wide eyes said it all, it truly was a terrifying piece, but that was the point. Brian wasn’t an idiot; he knew he was too crippled to fight, too small to run and had no experience of knives what-so-ever, so when Big Jim saw the big knife, it would be less of a lethal killing machine and more of a terrifying threat.

Again, Oliver warned Brian not to carry the knife, but his mind was made up. What if Big Jim attacked him? What if he attacked Oliver, Evelyn or Jackie? These weren’t just his friends, this was his family and (as a young boy with no real next-of-kin) these were the people he loved.

At 10pm; Oliver, Jackie, Evelyn and Brian – who was dressed in a blue corduroy jacket, crisp white shirt and blue jeans - caught the number 50 bus from Brixton to Charing Cross Road, and headed into Soho.

Although the sweltering sun had turned The Limbo Club into a stinking skunk-pit, as with having no windows, one door and being based in a damp basement, the feted stench of sweat, smoke and spilled spirits made the smell unbearable as the overheated patrons swigged back warm beers. With Big Jim nowhere to be seen, Brian’s seat staying under his bum and Oliver grooving with Evelyn on the dancefloor as Brian needle-dropped from ska track to reggae funk, apart from the usual blokey banter and argy-bargy from the local lads letting off steam, by all accounts, the night was uneventful.

In fact, the only fracas which preceded the murder was an unrecorded bit of verbal abuse between one group of local Teddy Boys, all of whom were white.

For whatever reason, a labourer called Peter Richardson Smith took umbrage with five local lads stood by the brick stairs; they were Johnny Howard, Victor Lazenby, Terry Marshall, Terry Kelly, Johnny’s brother David and Carole Anne Fisher, mother to Johnny’s four month old baby-daughter. But as fast as it flared up, the fury fizzed out, and – shortly afterwards - the lads left. It was just a regular night.

By 2am, with high-jinx over and everyone dancing, the nine-inch knife that Brian had stashed by his decks, ready to grab should Big Jim come cruising for a bruising, seemed pretty pointless. But the night was about to turn bad and that knife would change two lives forever.

Moments later, Oliver burst down the brick-stairs shouting “Brian! They’re here” and having barged passed the bulk of Eddie the bouncer, he hastily dashed into the bombed-out mess of Wardour Mews, his swift exit followed by a series of deafening thuds, smashed glass and muffled screams.

Eager to eavesdrop on the ensuing melee, the club’s patrons surged forward, causing a bottle-neck of sweaty bodies on the stairs, and being keen to keep the chaos outside, Eddie bolted the door shut.

Outside, a volley of hurled house-bricks and broken beer bottles bounced off the steel reinforced door, as a brutal cacophony of yells and screams echoed. As inside, Brian shouted “let me out, Oliver’s out there”, fearful of the unimaginable horror his best-friend was facing, as the missiles rained down.

(SILENCE) But the intended target was neither Oliver nor Brian; seeing a snarling gang of angry white youths, armed with bricks and bottles, Oliver thought these were Big Jim’s boys sent to bust Brian up. But huddled by the door, on the floor, he saw the bloody mess of Peter Richardson Smith, the labourer who’d had a brief verbal outburst with the local lads moments before, and as Oliver had exited the club, he’d accidentally been caught in the crossfire. Of course, Brian didn’t see any of this. (RETURN).

As the hail of homemade missiles died down and the fiery Jamaican forced his way out of The Limbo Club into the derelict bomb-sight of Wardour Mews, he didn’t see Peter Smith, he didn’t see anything, all he saw was Oliver; his friend, his brother and his family, slumped in sea of shattered debris, as pouring from his head was a steady stream of blood. Furiously, Brian demanded “who did this?”, and with a groggy trembling hand, Oliver said “those white boys” and pointed to a group of snarling yobs, dashing up the dark and brooding archway and out onto D’Arblay Street.

Seeing red as his seething blood boiled, as Brian charged up Wardour Mews, hurling a volley of abuse and bottles, as he dashed into the bright lights of D’Arblay Street, he very quickly realised his mistake. As being stood, smack-bang in the middle of the street, alone and exposed, Brian was surrounded by those fourteen white men, all armed, drunk and angry, as they slowly circled him. Most of whom had been in the club that night, one of whom was 25 year old local Teddy Boy - Johnny Howard.

As far as we know, neither Brian nor Johnny had ever met, talked or fought before. They were just two total strangers who’d come face-to-face. One was black, one was white, but both were hot-tempered.

Still steaming having seen his best-friend battered with bricks, fearing for the safety of his wife-to-be Jackie and believing that Big Jim had sent these angry white yobs to kill him, combined with the lethal mix of this being a racially volatile period in 1960’s London, Brian being a Jamaican Rasta, Johnny being a British Teddy-Boy and Jackie being Brian’s white girlfriend, that is all the moment took.

Being terrified, tiny and totally outnumbered, Brian pulled from his blue corduroy jacket the over-sized knife that he’d hidden by the hi-fi should Big Jim return. Although a threatening piece, now the realisation of Oliver’s words hit home; he was right, with Brian being short, crippled and not a born-fighter, he had no idea how to use the knife, and looking like a frightened zebra about to be pounced on by a wild pack of hungry hyenas, being desperate to escape, Brian began swinging and slashing indiscriminately with the sharp nine-inch piece of steel, mostly missing, until one of them hit.

Johnny Howard was stabbed just below his left nipple, the sharp blade piercing his crisp white shirt and khaki cardigan, sinking four inches long and three inches deep into his chest, skewering his left lung, severing his aorta and splitting his main artery. Johnny didn’t stand a chance.

As Brian and Jackie fled, having dived into a taxi on nearby Wardour Street, they didn’t see the horror unfolding behind them, as with steady spurts of hot red blood squirting from his severed heart, Johnny staggered towards his friends car, but having stumbled barely fifty feet, he suddenly stopped, just shy of Berwick Street, said “I’ve had it” and died in the street. He had a four month old baby daughter.

Brian was arrested in his first floor flat at 9 Elm Park (Brixton), just a few hours later, as he lay asleep with his girlfriend Jackie. Sitting on the bed, dressed in nothing but a pair of pants and a white vest, Brian professed his innocence, knowing his friends would back him up.

With the trial being held at The Old Bailey on 13th October 1964, less than six weeks later, with much of the eye-witness testimonies either being conflicted, convoluted or statements by hardly credible witnesses who (at the time of the murder) were either biased, drunk or drugged, even with the nine-inch knife and his bloodied shirt being found in his flat, Brian pleaded not guilty.

But having been implicated in the crime and fearful of receiving a lengthy prison sentence, one person colluded with the Police, became the star witness for the prosecution and testified that Brian alone was the murderer – it was his best-friend, Oliver. At his trial, an exasperated Brian stated “What a friend. He gets up in the box and says he saw me do it. When I get out, I’m never going to help anyone ever again”.  A few months later, just as he was starting a life term in prison, Jackie dumped him.

Brian Alexander Robinson, the 19 year old Jamaican youth, with a deceased father, an absent mother and a disabled arm, who’d travelled from the sun-kissed isles of the West Indies into the English gloom and racial turbulence of the early 1960’s to seek a better life, a steady job and – he hoped – a family, spent the next fifteen years of his life trapped in a cold grey cell in Brixton Prison, with no sunlight, no music, no love and no chance of acquittal or an early release.  

And as a black man in 1960’s Britain, who went to rescue his friend, was set-upon by an angry mob of white men and feared for his life, Brian appealed his life sentence on 24th May 1965, reasonably stating that he was threatened, provoked and (rightfully) he pleaded self-defence. His appeal was denied.

OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.

Stay tuned to Extra Mile after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week, which are the Getting Off Podcast and Felon. (PLAY PROMOS)

A big thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who get exclusive access to lots of secret and often sexy Murder Mile stuff as well as a personal thank you from me; they are Lara Ingbordottir, Jay J, Stevie P, Mark Robotham, The Mysterious One and my lovely Eva, who’s paying me in kind. With a special well done to the winners of the exclusive Murder Mile stickers, badges and fridge magnets on my latest competition, only available via the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast Discussion Group on Facebook.

Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name.

Thank you for listening and sleep well.

*** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***
The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, therefore mistakes will be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken. It is not a full representation of the case, the people or the investigation in its entirety, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity and drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, therefore it will contain a certain level of bias to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated.
*** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***

Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. ​​Additional music was written and performed by various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here

Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, 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 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk

Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via  iTunes, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In, Otto Radio, Spotify or Acast.

EPISODE THIRTY-THREE

Episode Thirty-Three: At the Lyon's Corner House Tearoom on Oxford Street, on the 20th April 1945, Jacques Adrian Tratsart decided to shoot to death his father, sister, brother and himself, but what drove this hardworking, well educated man to believe he was doing the right thing?

• Date: Friday 20th April 1945
  
• Location: Lyon's Corner House (14/16 Oxford Street, W1)
  
• Victims: 3 (Jean-Baptiste, Claire and Hugh Tratsart)
  
• Culprit: Jacques Adrian Tratsart
  

CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it now by clicking the PLAY button on the embedded media player below. For transcripts of each episode? Click "Podcast Transcripts".

THE LOCATION

As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram

Ep33 - Jacques Adrian Tratsart: The Corner House Killer

INTRO: Thank you for downloading episode thirty-three of the Murder Mile true-crime podcast.

And we’re back, with season two of Murder Mile, which was nominated the Best True-Crime Podcast at the British Podcast Awards 2018. Ooh exciting. So, if you love listening to new murder cases for the first time, old cases through a fresh pair of eyes, or classic cases with a twist, all researched using the original declassified police investigation files, then the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast is just for you.

As always, Murder Mile is layered like a bad 1980’s mullet, with the excitement upfront, the business at the back and occasional bangs, laughs and rude-words, so stay tuned to the end for Extra Mile.

Thank you for listening and enjoy the episode.

SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within one square mile of the West End.

Today’s episode is about Jacques Tratsart; a strange and deluded man who was so hell-bent on saving the world from tyranny and injustice, that he started by slaughtering his family over a delightful dinner.

Murder Mile contains grisly details which may unnerve the easily perturbed, as well as realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there.

My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile.

Episode 33: Jacques Adrian Tratsart: The Corner House Killer.

Today I’m standing outside of Tottenham Court Road tube station (exit 1), on the north-east corner of Soho. Once it was a moneyed mecca for famished families, theatre tossers and ferocious females who would reduce whole stores to rubble simply to snatch one of seventy-six pointlessly pretty yet fashionably painful pairs of almost identical black shoes, and yet now, it’s a shithole.

Surrounded by a non-stop slew of construction crews, all digging holes, smoking ciggies and flashing a stack of sweaty bum-cracks, this side of Soho has truly lost its identity. As being burdened by budget eateries, a billion buskers all playing Hey Jude, paths lined with zonked-out hobos having been booted out of Centre Point homeless refuge so the tower-block can be converted into new posh flats, and the Dominion Theatre, which - without any irony at all - hosts Hillsong Church in the mornings, all under a 100 foot banner for the evening’s entertainment, a musical of Meat Loaf’s Bat Out Of Hell, featuring a giant demonic image of a leather-clad Satan riding his hell-bound Harley straight into the fiery abyss. But once, the pinnacle of Oxford Street was the Lyon’s Corner House.

Built in 1926 by J Lyons & Co, purveyors of female-friendly and family-orientated tearooms, the Corner House at 14-16 Oxford Street was the epitome of traditional values, speedy-service and affordability, set in an ornate four-storey neo-classical façade, consisting of white marble columns, stylish stone friezes and elegant steelwork, with stunning art-deco interiors. Sadly, having gone out of fashion in the 1960’s, the Lyon’s Corner House on Oxford Street later became the Virgin Megastore. Today it hosts Primark; a budget clothing store, where you too can purchase a ten t-shirts for two-quid, a pack of pants for a pound and six socks for a sixpence, as well as novelty items like a Tigger onesie, some Eeyore plus-fours and Winnie the Pooh mu-mu, and (for the men) a small selection of ripped jeans, hoodies, and cheap suits for funerals and court appearances, as well as a wide selection of grey terry-towelling tracksuits so that - you too - can look like a Bulgarian rapist.

But it was here, on the ground-floor of 14-16 Oxford Street, in the Corner House Tearoom of J Lyons & Co, that 27 year old Jacques Tratsart brutally slaughtered his family. (INTERTSTITIAL).

Born on 18th October 1917 in Epping (Essex), Jacques Adrian Tratast affectionately known as “Jack” was the second oldest of six children born to Belgian parents; Adrienne, a doting mother who raised her family in a devoutly Roman Catholic way full of love, hope and morals; and Jean-Baptiste, a hard-working shoe-stylist who - being small, slim and sickly - battled through frequent bouts of emphysema and bronchitis to provide for his beloved family.

Being the oldest boy, burdened a great sense of responsibility, Jack cared deeply for his siblings; Anne, the youngest and who dreamt of becoming a pianist; and Monica and Mary, two strong and studious girls keen to pursue careers in medicine. But mostly, he cared for Claire and Hugh.

Although the oldest, being cursed by epilepsy, Claire was often struck down by violent seizures as her body shook fiercely and electrical storms battered her brain, leaving her shaking and exhausted. And although a happy boy, with Hugh being born with Cerebral Palsy, his body refused to listen to his brain which left him immobile and helpless. Thankfully they both coped well, being cared for by a loving family, but in an era of medical ignorance, they would otherwise be institutionalised.

And yet, through it all, none of the family were drinkers or druggies; they didn’t steal, swear or keep secrets; and there was no physical, sexual or mental abuse. They were just a very normal, very happy, very loving middle-class family struggling to make-ends-meet whilst living through two World Wars.

They were neat, polite and happy; their life revolved around family meals, the church, the children, their home and their education, and at the centre of it all was their beloved mother – Adrienne.

Being a bookish young man, who by his mid-teens was the mirror image of his father (Jean-Baptiste), albeit nine inches taller; often dressed in a practical grey suit which hung awkwardly off his weedy frame, Jack was slim, slight and bespectacled, with a pencil-thin moustache, a receding crop of fair hair which hung around his ears like a slipped halo, and always in his hand was a book.

Although insular, quiet and reflective, Jack (just like his siblings) was keen to make his mother proud. But being a solitary figure, who was more at ease dealing with paper than people, Jack channelled his energy into engineering, where he dreamed of making the world a better place for all of mankind, and especially for those whose lives would be hard, like his older sister Claire and his little brother Hugh.

By 1936, with the British economy in recovery having survived World War One and Jean-Baptiste’s shoe business on the up, all eight members of the Tratsart family moved into 27 The Chase in Norbury (South London); a lovely two-storey semi-detached house in a leafy middle-class neighbourhood. The children were well, their parents were happily married and life couldn’t get any better. And from this point onwards, it wouldn’t. In fact it would only get worse. (INTERSTITIAL).

Shortly after the New Year celebrations in the bitter winter of 1936, 45 year old Adrienne; the beloved wife, caring mother and emotional core of the Tratsart family died, after a short and sudden battle with cancer, leaving behind six children, the youngest of whom was just five.

Being distraught, with their lives upturned and their whole world shattered, the family were wracked with grief as Adrienne’s casket was closed and buried in Norbury Cemetery. But being besotted by his mother, Jack took her death worst and as he retreated further into isolation, he questioned his Roman Catholic faith and cursed this spiteful God who had ripped a good woman from her loving family,

Desperate to provide at least some semblance of maternal support, Jean-Baptiste hired a house-keeper called Francis Eugenie Chamberlain to cook and clean for his family as they grieved, and as much as they liked her, she filled a small piece of a big hole in their lives, but for Jack it wasn’t enough.

Aged 18, being fuelled by bitterness, confusion and hatred, Jack went to live with relatives in Belgium where – having enrolled in the Institute Technique de Charleroi to train as a draftsman and toolmaker – it was hoped that an intense period of technical study and intellectual reflection would distract Jack from his pain. But with his anger unresolved, his feelings bottled-up and his faith smashed, by the time Jack returned to England, one year later, he was little more than an unemotional husk of a man.

The second Jack’s suitcase thumped onto the hall floor of his family home in Norbury, something just didn’t seem right. His mother was gone, his father was there and also were his siblings, and yet in his home was someone else. A stranger, a woman, who looked exactly like the Francis, the house-keeper his father had hired, but for some inexplicable reason she was cooking in his dead mother’s kitchen, she was sitting in his dead mother’s chair, she was cuddling his dead mother’s children and she was sleeping in his dead mother’s bed, lying next to his traitorous father who kissed and cavorted with “the help” and soon enough, whether he liked it or not, his father and this woman would be married.

By every account, all of Jack’s siblings – whether Claire, Hugh, Monica, Mary or Anne – loved Francis to bits, having realised that; to their widowed father she brought love, to their shattered family she brought hope, to their religious beliefs she restored faith, and that as a single-woman, with no children of her own, who was suddenly thrust into a bright spotlight as the step-mother to six siblings, one of whom was epileptic and another who was physically handicapped, they all loved her… except Jack.

Jack felt betrayed; by his father, by his mother, by his faith, and most of all by God.

Francis and Jean-Baptiste were married on 10th March 1938, just one year before the start of World War Two but the biggest battle was being fought in their family home.

Being insolent, argumentative and deeply anti-social, Jack could easily turn a trivial matter into a full-scale fight simply to prove himself right and his father and Francis wrong; whether that concerned Claire’s epilepsy (which – Jack was certain – limited her chance of leading a happy life whether as a worker, a married woman or a mother), whether that concerned Hugh’s Cerebral Palsy (which – Jack was positive – meant that his helpless, hopeless and drooling baby-brother had zero chance of ever living a full life) and yet, a bigger concern for the Tratsart family was Jack’s own mental decline.

In August 1938, shortly after his mother’s death, with Jack being struck down with a fit of depression and gripped by lengthy bouts of insomnia, Claire had suggested that Jack see a psychologist. To please her, he did, but after just one session with Dr Kenney of Harley Street, Jack stopped, believing it wouldn’t accomplish anything and having felt a sense of superiority over the so-called specialist.

Being angry right down to his very bones at the spiteful God who had murdered his beloved mother, Jack’s main point of contention with his devout Roman Catholic father and Francis was religion.

At first, Jack refused to attend Mass, which as a petty immature man in his early twenties, his father put down as a belated teenage tantrum. Next, having denied the existence of God, Jack tried to turn Claire and Hugh (his physically impaired siblings who God had denied a good life) against Catholicism much to his father’s chagrin. And having purposely purchased any book that the church had deemed too blasphemous, solely to antagonise his father, with their relationship already strained, although they lived in the same house, they soon descended only to communicating by written letter.

A typical diatribe in a letter from Jack to his father would include: “Hitler teaches Germans that they and they alone are the super race. Catholics teach that they and they alone have the right religion, and they are the chosen people. There is no difference between them. They are both dictatorships. They are both intolerant, selfish, abusive and ignorant”.

But it was the inclusion of derogatory remarks made against Francis which finally tipped his father over the edge, and – although he was a truly patient and caring man – he asked Jack to leave.

By the outbreak of World War Two, as London was engulfed in flames as Nazi bombers rained down fire from the skies, and the rest of the Tratsart family were evacuated to the safety of Northampton, Jack moved into a solitary bedsit at 1265b London Road, not far from the family home in Norbury.

By day, he worked in silent contemplation as a draftsman at Tickle & Veniard Precision Toolmakers; sketching and muttering, as his concerned colleagues shunned this strange young man. But by night, he retreated further into solitude, sleeping very little, eating even less, as his body was consumed by a lethal mix of insomnia, depression and insanity. And here he stayed for five long years.

Although cramped and sparse, over those years, when Jack wasn’t dragging his bed across the floor and slamming doors at ungodly hours, either he could be found cowering inside his homemade air-raid shelter which covered half of his tiny room, as he scrawled on scraps of paper the secrets of how to rebuilt the world, or he’d be ensconced in the cupboard he’d converted into his own personal workshop, as he concocted hair-brained schemes to help him survive the impending Armageddon.

In 1939, when Jack moved into the bedsit, he was polite, quiet and neat. But by the end of 1944, after years of isolation and no medication, Jack had become a ragged rambling mess whose mental decline was so acute, even the sound of his own violin caused him to hurl himself out of a third storey window in what would be the first of many ill-fated suicide attempts. Two months later, Jack bought a gun.

In November 1944, fearing for her safety, with Jack having been arrested and briefly institutionalised in a local mental hospital for smashing up his workplace at Tickle & Veniard, his landlady (Ms Winifred May Shrubsall) politely asked her wild-eyed lodger to move out, and with that, Jack returned to the broken and boarded-up shell of his childhood home at number 27 The Chase in Norbury.

1945 was a year of hope; the German forces were in retreat, the Nazi high-command was in total disarray and slowly British families were returning to the bombed-out remnants of their cities, to salvage what was left of their homes, their lives and their loved-ones. One of whom was Jean-Baptiste.

For the first time in six years, 27 year old Jack and his father 58 year old Jean-Baptiste were in the same room together, but 1945 truly was a time of peace, and with his step-mother Francis wanting nothing to do with Jack what-so-ever, this gave the two men a chance to talk. And as they painted the walls, unclogged the pipes and sanded the floors - so that once again the house would become a family home - although they said very little, they never fought.

Sensing a need for family unity, and with Francis unwilling to join them, Jean-Baptiste suggested that he and his children all meet for a delightful meal at Lyon’s Corner-House on Oxford Street. Jack agreed, but for him, this wasn’t just a dinner, this was his destiny. (INTERSTITIAL)

Two days prior, Jack sold off his personal possessions to Cecil Reginald Smith, a co-worker at Tickell & Veniard, including all of his clothes, his books, his furniture and the tools from workshop, everything except a drab grey suit, a notebook and a gun. Jack never gave a reason why, and Cecil never asked.

Friday 20th April 1945 should have been a time for celebration, the Soviet Army had surrounded Berlin, Göring and Himmler had fled, Mussolini’s neck was being fitted for a noose and Adolf Hitler was just ten days away from suicide. And soon, the war would be over, the blackout would be cancelled, peace would return and the jubilant bell known as Big Ben would ring across the smouldering city of London for the first time in almost 2000 days. But before that, there would be death.

By 5pm, six members of the Tratsart family were all seated around a white linen table amidst the art-deco splendour of the ground-floor tearoom of the Lyon’s Corner House. With their step-mother Francis back in Northampton, and sisters - Monica and Mary - still serving overseas, the family chatted excitedly as an endless procession of cakes, biscuits and buns flashed before their wide eyes as the super-speedy waitresses (known as Nippies) zipped by in a rush of sweet air, a blur of black and white pinnies and the long forgotten smell of fruit, ham and marzipan.

Sat on one side of the table; to the left was 29 year old eldest sister Claire (who’d gone three months without a seizure and her life was looking up having found work as an orderly at University College Hospital); in the middle was 13 year old Anne (youngest of six and an eager scholar at the local convent) and to the right; “Auntie Claire”, sister to their dear-departed mother. On the other side sat their father Jean-Baptiste (excited to have his babies back together), in the middle was 17 year old Hugh (confined to a wheelchair but eternally happy in his own little world) and to the right was Jack.

With his drab grey suit all ruffled, his halo of hair unkempt and a deep dark set of bags underscoring his bloodshot eyes, Jack sat with his back deliberately to the wall, saying nothing and eating nothing, just fiddling with the small black Smith & Wesson revolver in his lap, trying to decide who to kill first.

The gun’s chamber held eight bullets. Without reloading, he could shoot them all. But then again, he had no beef with “Auntie Claire” who he loved like he loved his own mother, and with Anne being so young, his one regret was that she would live to see them all die, but if he was going to bring an eternal peace to his family, it was now or never. Two for Claire, two for dad, two for Hugh and two for Jack.

So, his sweet sister Claire (who God had cursed) was first.

Amidst the noisy chatter as his excited family caught up on lost time, gripping the flat black revolver in his right hand, at eye-height, Jack aimed the barrel across the white linen table, his sights lined-up to hit Claire squarely in her epileptic head, and as he slowly squeezed the trigger…
…nothing. No bang, no scream, no death.

Confused, he tried again. Nothing. And again. Still nothing. Luckily nobody had noticed, except Hugh, who sat there, aimlessly grinning, as if the gun was a toy and this was playtime. Hiding it in his lap, his family oblivious, Jack sat there, cursing the Canadian sailor who’d sold him this piece of shit.

Ten minutes later, he tried again. Nothing. No smoke, no blood, no brains. Only this time, everybody saw Jack with a gun in his hand, feverishly clicking the trigger, the sights aimed at his sister’s head, but believing it was just one of Hugh’s water-pistols, Jack was lightly warned against squirting his family with tea during the meal, and with that, he popped the lethal weapon back under table.
Again, Jack fumed, his meticulous plan having gone to pot having been sold a shitty shooter by some salty seadog who’d slinked off with his fiver. Under the linen cloth, he discretely fiddled with the faulty firearm, yanking this and tugging that, unsure what he was doing having never held or even fired it before. But it was then that he heard the hammer click.

With this being his third and last chance, Jack lined the revolver’s sights at his sister’s eyes, squeezed the trigger tight and (BANG) with a muzzle flash, a puff of smoke and a deafening bang, Claire spun 90 degrees in her seat, as a .38 calibre bullet burst a penny-sized hole in her forehead, burrowing a deep channel through her soft grey brain and blasting out the base of her skull with a bloody thump. Being slumped in her seat, Jack fired again (BANG); a single shot ripped open the back of her head, coating the cake and tea covered table in brain matter and blood, as the bullet embedded into her left ear.

The café was in chaos, as a bottle-neck of terrified patrons scrambled to dash out of double-doors into Oxford Street; but Jack heard none of this and he saw none of this. Instead, as Claire’s lifeless body lay sprawled across the table and her open skull oozed down the white linen table cloth, as Jack pointed the smoking gun at his father’s face, Jean-Baptiste raised his hand in defence.

(BANG) A blistering hot bullet split the middle fingers of his right hand, and with the lightening quick lead still having enough velocity to rip apart his left cheek, it smashed his left jawbone, burst out his neck, slashed his jugular vein and embedded itself deep into his shoulder bone. Slumping backwards in his seat, Jack fired again (BANG) splitting open a gaping wound behind his father’s right ear, which blasted out of the top of his head and showered everyone within ten feet in a fine mist of hot sticky mess, and in his last few moments alive, his father said nothing, he simply rattled and rasped as he breathed.

And then there was Hugh; dear sweet innocent Hugh, his smiling face, his cheeky grin and his oblivious eyes, as – eager to send his beloved but broken brother to a happier place – Jack swung the gun at Hugh’s befuddled face, and at point blank range, he fired twice. (BANG/BANG)
With Auntie Claire safely huddling under the blood-soaked table with his terrified sister Anne, and his mission accomplished, being eager to finally find his own peace, Jack placed the hot steel barrel of the gun to his temple, shut his eyes, and with a quick tug of the trigger… nothing.

He tried again. Nothing.

He slammed the revovler on the table. Still nothing.

And – realising the chamber was empty – Jack hurled the hapless handgun up into a glass chandelier, only to spy, about the crimson pool of blood at his feet, two tiny silver objects glinting. As having previously feverishly fumbled with the faulty firearm under the table, in his anger, he’d accidentally ejected two of the eight .38 calibre bullets. But by then, it was too late.

Being unarmed and barely nine stone, Jack was rushed by a stout but sturdy soldier as well as several waiters. And as they bundled the surprisingly silent and serene spree-killer into a side-parlour to await the Police, as Jack turned to witness the bloody aftermath of his violent massacre, amongst a bloody mess of skin, hair and teeth, in the briefest of moments, he swore he saw his brother’s eyes blink.

58 year old widower and father of six, Jean-Baptiste, was admitted to Middlesex Hospital but died five minutes later. 29 year old Claire died at the scene as a Catholic priest prayed for her life. And Hugh? Dear sweet innocent Hugh, the ever smiling, ever happy 17 year old boy cursed with Cerebral Palsy, who’d been blasted twice in the face, at point blank range, with .38 calibre bullets? He survived.

Maybe it was fate? Maybe it was luck? Or maybe, having shattered his jaw-bone and his right cheek, that same God - who had plagued Jack’s baby-brother with wobbly limbs and an incomplete brain – had guided both bullets to miraculously miss every vital nerve, vein and artery, so that, after a short stay in hospital, Hugh went home. He lived a good life and died in July 1988, he was 61 years old.

Anne escaped unscathed, and to the best of my knowledge, she’s still alive, aged 82 years old. Francis remained a devoted step-mother to Anne, Hugh, Mary and Monica, she died in 1966, aged 71.

And Jack? On 28th May 1945, Jacques Adrian Tratsart was tried at The Old Bailey on two counts of murder, one count of attempted murder and one count of attempted suicide. And although he’d pleaded not guilty, Jack was deemed unfit to stand trial, found guilty by reason of insanity, and was detained at Broadmoor Psychiatric Hospital at His Majesty’s Pleasure. On the 30th May 1947, just two years later, the ever-restless, ever-angry and ever-anxious Jack finally found peace… with a vein and shard of glass.

OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.

Stay tuned to Extra Mile after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week, which are Extraordinary Stories Podcast and Southern Gone. (PLAY PROMOS)

A big thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who get exclusive access to secret Murder Mile content and a personal thank you from me; they are Christian Deas, Jessica Gore, Anita Finlayson, Jennifer Swieter, Nichola Battalana, Shane Bradwell, and Catrina Hennessey. With a special thank you this week to Lizzie and Sophie at Acast. Thank you
guys, you are ace. God I sound so 80’s.

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.

Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. ​​Additional music was written and performed by various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here

*** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***
The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, therefore mistakes will be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken. It is not a full representation of the case, the people or the investigation in its entirety, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity and drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, therefore it will contain a certain level of bias to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated.
*** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***

Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime  podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile wal