BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
The entrance to 80 Park Lane where the fight broke out
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY-THREE:
Today’s episode is about Tudor Simionov; a good moral man and a protector, who earned an honest wage as a bouncer. But when his colleagues came under attack from a group of selfish thugs, his new life in Britain was destroyed in the blink of an eye.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of 80 Park Lane where the murder of Tudor Simionov took place is marked with a mustard yellow cross and is under the word MAYFAIR. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
Here's a video to go with this week's episode, showing you the private entrance to 80 Park Lane where the attack on Tudor Simionov took place. These videos are links to YouTube so they won't eat up your data.
SOURCES: As there is no police file available, as this is a very recent case, I've used press sources, so I can't whole-heartedly attest to the validity of every source / details, but I do try.
Footage - https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-8159905/Chief-suspect-run-trio-jailed-total-24-years-knife-murder-bouncer.html#v-5520951722443782618 Footage – Partner giving statement - https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-8159905/Chief-suspect-run-trio-jailed-total-24-years-knife-murder-bouncer.html#v-3741379285176860086 FOOTAGE – final moments of the attack - https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-8159905/Chief-suspect-run-trio-jailed-total-24-years-knife-murder-bouncer.html#v-3719151298850475158 A friend of Tudor gives trinute - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ZH0YG696zc https://www.standard.co.uk/news/crime/park-lane-stabbing-hero-security-guard-died-fighting-off-attackers-who-were-trying-to-gatecrash-a4028506.html https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-52064448 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-49552377 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-49087363 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-49097785 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-49576744 https://www.ilfordrecorder.co.uk/news/crime/three-jailed-over-manslaughter-of-tudor-simionov-3254690 https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-8159905/Chief-suspect-run-trio-jailed-total-24-years-knife-murder-bouncer.html https://www.kilburntimes.co.uk/news/crime/brent-men-jailed-for-manslaughter-of-tudor-simionov-3836488 https://www.standard.co.uk/news/crime/tudor-simionov-fiancee-of-bouncer-fatally-stabbed-outside-exclusive-mayfair-mansion-party-appeals-for-help-to-catch-suspected-killer-a4228306.html https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2020/mar/27/three-men-jailed-fatal-stabbing-london-doorman-bouncer-tudor-simionov https://www.shropshirestar.com/news/uk-news/2020/03/27/party-gatecrashers-jailed-over-park-lane-bouncers-death/ https://metro.co.uk/2019/01/04/shocking-moment-bouncer-took-thugs-just-stabbed-mayfair-party-8310869/ https://www.countytimes.co.uk/news/national-news/18339595.party-gatecrashers-jailed-park-lane-bouncers-death/ https://www.thesun.co.uk/news/8120841/mayfair-club-bouncer-stabbed-death-abu-hamza-son-arrested/ https://londonnewsonline.co.uk/three-jailed-for-manslaughter-of-bouncer-on-new-years-day/ https://news.sky.com/story/fiancee-of-bouncer-stabbed-to-death-at-private-party-appeals-for-help-to-find-suspected-killer-11801745 http://neighbournet.com/server/common/hfcrime294.htm https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-7276749/Gatecrashers-stabbed-bouncer-death-bid-New-Years-Eve-party.html MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY-TWO:
This episode is about Ghodratollah Barani and Mark Morrison. Today’s episode is about two homeless men; both strangers, both forgotten, who were forced to live on London’s streets for two very different reasons. And although their stories were both tragic, you won’t have heard of their plight, as nobody cared.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The benches at Marble Arch where Mark Morrison was murdered is marked with a teal cross and is on the far left under the word Marble Arch. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES:
This was created using several sources, https://www.scotsman.com/news/uk-news/man-told-psychiatrist-i-will-kill-murder-1532880 https://www.thestar.co.uk/news/missing-man-psychotic-disorder-has-links-sheffield-444513 https://www.standard.co.uk/news/crime/police-searching-for-missing-killer-who-strangled-man-before-trying-to-break-into-buckingham-palace-to-see-the-queen-a3543581.html https://www.yourlocalguardian.co.uk/news/15297069.dangerous-man-reported-missing-from-south-croydon-care-home-ghodratollah-barani-strangled-rough-sleeper-to-death-in-marble-arch-to-become-king-of-england/ https://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/2013/03/01/schizophrenia-ghodratolla-barani-queen_n_2788450.html https://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/2013/03/01/schizophrenia-ghodratolla-barani-queen_n_2788450.html https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-4634940/Mentally-ill-killer-strangled-homeless-man-flees-France.html https://www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/convicted-killer-who-tried-meet-10453958 http://www.edenbridge-chronicle.co.uk/article.cfm?id=113936&headline=Missing%20Ghodratollah%20Barani%20killed%20a%20man%20in%202013§ionIs=news&searchyear=2017 https://www.express.co.uk/news/royal/806958/manhunt-killer-attempted-break-in-buckingham-palace-king-of-england-afghan https://www.sheffieldtelegraph.co.uk/news/public-warned-not-approach-missing-former-sheffield-man-receiving-treatment-psychotic-disorder-470867 https://www.thepavement.org.uk/stories/1601 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-18563132 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-18531157 https://www.yorkshirepost.co.uk/news/asylum-seeker-detained-killing-stranger-1870944 https://www.dailyrecord.co.uk/news/uk-world-news/man-strangled-homeless-scot-after-1738019 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-21631567 https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-18660711 https://www.thorntonheathchronicle.co.uk/missing-killer-may-have-been-spotted-in-thornton-heath/ https://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/2012/07/01/ghodratollah-barani-charged-murder-mark-morrison_n_1640969.html https://www.gulf-times.com/content/pdf/Dailynewspaper/Main2017_5_21173478.PDF https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-18563132 Boris on a Wire - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3hRwnXmdRCo Queen & Bond (tell your face) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1AS-dCdYZbo Missiles on Roof - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SXZXqltbnZI Complete Opening Ceremony (plus sheep) - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4As0e4de-rI Operation Poncho in operation - https://youtu.be/Wxh2fPjn6pY MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about two homeless men; both strangers, both forgotten, who were forced to live on London’s streets for two very different reasons. And although their stories were both tragic, you won’t have heard of their plight, as nobody cared. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 142: The Invisible Men of Marble Arch. Today I’m standing in Marble Arch, W1; one street north of the Hyde Park Bombing, three streets west of Annie Sutton’s sadistic stalker, one street east of the murder of Police Constable Jack Avery, and one street south of strange revenge attack at the Victory Café – coming soon to Murder Mile. Situated on a traffic island between Edgware Road, Park Lane, Oxford Street and Bayswater, Marble Arch (formerly known as Tyburnia) is named after the infamous white-marble arch designed by John Nash in 1827. Inspired by Paris’ Arc du Triumph, this 45-foot-high, 60-foot-wide and 30-foot-deep monument was originally the state entrance to Buckingham Palace, but was relocated here in 1851. Since then, it has had no purpose. Having been requisitioned as an army barracks in the forties and a police station in the sixties, it is now used for storage, and there are plans-a-foot to re-site it again. Being a bafflingly pointless landmark, Marble Arch is often used as a place of protest where the furious give impassioned speeches to small but likeminded crowds of nodding heads, where tourists take selfies whilst quaffing that quintessentially English delicacy - fish n chips (which actually originated in Israel) and if you’re lucky, you’ll see a fist-fight between three floating Yodas, all called Yurgi. At night, Marble Arch becomes a different world; a makeshift shanty-town of cardboard boxes where London’s forgotten bed-down and vanish. Oddly, for a group of people so invisible and forgotten, too many are frequently abused, beaten, robbed and persecuted simply because they have no home. Two such homeless men were Ghodratollah Barani and Mark Morrison; they didn’t know each other, they had never met, and they had nothing in common except that they lived on the streets. Both were shunned by the wider world, and yet a cruel series of circumstances would force them together. As it was here, on Friday 22nd June 2012 at about 3am, that Ghodratollah Barani strangled Mark Morrison to death. And although this incident would highlight the failures in our overworked mental health and immigration systems, because of who they were, it was barely reported. (Interstitial) Homelessness is very much an invisible issue... From a population of 66.5 million, it is estimated there are 280,000 homeless people living in the UK. That’s one in every 250. But homelessness is a word which is often misused and misconstrued, as it doesn’t just mean someone who sleeps rough, it refers to anyone without a permanent place to live. But where-as any home - no matter how provisional – can provide some safety and stability, for many their only option is to live where-ever they can find shelter; on the street, in a doorway, or on a bench. It’s impossible to accurately assess the true scale of rough-sleepers, but different organisations have estimated it’s anywhere between 2500 and 9000 people sleeping rough, in the UK, every night. Left to the elements, they live without life’s basics; like fresh water, clean clothes, heat, safety and food. And yet their stories remain forgotten or go unheard, as – let’s be honest - with all of us unwilling to fully engage with the problem, except to toss these nameless souls a few coins in their pot just so we can feel better about ourselves, we often assume they are homeless for two reasons - drink or drugs. But there are many reasons a person can become homeless. Some have no option; forced-out owing to a family break-up, a divorce, loss of work or income, cut benefits, or a conviction. Some are fleeing abuse, violence, persecution, politics, or are actively escaping life’s stresses. Some are mentally unwell having slipped through the cracks. And others are veterans abandoned by the country they fought for. Sadly, it’s still a criminal offence to sleep rough, under Section 4 of the Vagrancy Act of 1824, and with no fully-functional system in place to provide an alternative, many homeless are arrested and bounced between a wealth of grossly under-funded agencies, only to be turfed-out once a box has been ticked. Life on the streets is dangerous. Over the last five years, 650 homeless people died on London’s streets with 770 dying each year in England and Wales; owing to hunger, assault, hypothermia and murder. Although, you’ll never hear their stories, as ‘dead tramp’ doesn’t sell newspapers, ‘asylum seeker kills UK vagrant’ only sells in trashy racist tabloids and as many outlets are more about making money than disclosing facts, too many churn-out a puke of predictable pap about unfaithful footballers, two-faced politicians, or minor celeb’s weeping over a meaningless woe, just in time for the release of their book. And even though the old press adage is “if it bleeds, it leads”, we all know the true criteria when it comes to reporting crime; that a drug-death is usually the victim’s fault, that the death of a black man is “probably” gang-related, that a dead sex-worker is only “of interest” if her killer is given a salacious nickname like ‘The Ripper’, and that a missing child is only a tragedy if they’re white, blonde and pretty. The ugly, the poor, the unknown and the marginalised aren’t worth the ink. And if they’re homeless or immigrants? People care even less. Two such men who shielded by the shadow of Marble Arch in the summer of 2012 were Ghodratollah Barani and Mark Morrison; two very different men on the same street for two very different reasons. 46-year-old Mark Morrison originated from the Dunblane area of Stirling in Scotland, and later he lived in Glasgow. Described as a polite and pleasant man, Mark had a successful career as a chef, but owing to ‘personal problems’, he travelled to London in the spring of 2012 and became homeless. Living on the street; he stayed out of trouble, he kept to a regular routine and he was easy-to-spot owing to his oval sun-bleached face, his tangled salt-and-pepper hair and a ragged goatee beard. Sleeping rough, his favourite spot was on a wooden bench beside Marble Arch. We don’t know why. But maybe the endless roar of traffic lulled him to sleep, the posh hotels on Park Lane reminded him of his old life, or surrounded by other homeless people pitched in tents, he found safety in numbers? And that’s all the press could be bothered to report. It wasn’t worth their time digging into his past to ask why he had run away, why he was sleeping rough, or what we could have been done to help? If he had been famous, on that spot there would now be a plaque... ...but as he was a nobody, Mark was entirely forgotten... ...just like Ghodratollah. Ghodratollah Barani was either 26, 27, 29 or 32 years-old, depending on which source you trust. Some said he was born in Afghanistan or Iran, as if the two are interchangeable, but given that a basic search confirms that his name was Persian and that he spoke Farsi, we can safely assume that he was Iranian. But you’ll soon see where this lazy journalism came from, as for too many tabloids, foreign is foreign. Speaking limited English, Ghodratollah previously lived in Sheffield before coming to London. Being little and round, he was 5 foot 6 inches tall, medium build and had a broad babyish face. And just like Mark, the details of his life weren’t worth the press bothering to get right; so, we’ve no idea why he fled, how he travelled, who he was, what he did, or anything about his family, his history or his life. And as one of 35,000 applications submitted every year, the life of Ghodratollah Barani was forgotten, and his existence and his status were boiled down to two highly contentious words – asylum seeker. But for both men, more than any other year, 2012 would be a bad year to be homeless. (Soundbite) “The host city for the 2012 Olympic Games will be... London”. On 6th July 2005, London won the bid to host the 2012 Olympic Games. At a cost of $14.8 billion dollars, it would convert a 500-acre site of toxic wasteland in one of London’s most deprived boroughs into an Olympic Park; developing a wealth of new homes, jobs, roads, facilities and a legacy which lasts today. Still reeling from the economic collapse of 2008, the opening ceremony was a spectacle like no other (even if the Queen had forgotten to tell her face) and it was a vital moment of pride for Great Britain. But not everything about the 2012 Olympics was as glorious as it seemed. Anticipating a huge influx of tourists bringing a much-needed revenue to the city - with the Tottenham riots of one year earlier still fresh in the world’s mind - London needed to be seen as “clean and safe”. In 2009, London Mayor Boris Johnson pledged to clean up the city and to end homelessness for good, but the methods employed were rough, heavy-handed and just a smoke-screen. ‘Operation Poncho’ directly targeted the homeless by establishing ‘No Sleep’ and ‘Dispersal’ zones in tourist hot-spots, it increased Police stop-and-search powers to tackle smoking, drinking and sleeping in public, any haunts favoured by rough-sleepers were continually ‘wet-down’ with high-pressure hoses, and any bench or ledge was fitted with steel railings and dulled spikes to make anything but sitting-upright impossible. Near to tourist spots, cycle-ways and Olympics highways, any temporary shelters were removed and – as happens before every royal wedding – many ‘undesirables’ were forcibly bagged-up and bussed-out to neighbouring towns like Brighton, Reading and Slough. Operation Poncho’s ethos wasn’t to solve the problem of homelessness, but to push these ‘unfortunates’ out-of-sight and out-of-mind. So, as if their lives weren’t stressful enough, rough-sleepers were marginalised even more than usual. For Mark, who kept-to-himself, it was an inconvenience. But for Ghodratollah - with immigration and mental health services under even greater strain - his homelessness made him even less of a priority... ...and even more invisible. In Autumn 2011, Ghodratollah was being held at Brigstock House, a dispersal unit in Thornton Heath used as long-term accommodation for asylum seekers until their applications have been decided. But after six months of waiting, with his application rejected, his accommodation was withdrawn. Guidelines were followed, boxes were ticked, papers were filed and somewhere in an office, a faceless official crossed-off yet another number from their list. “Next?” But while Ghodratollah would appeal this decision, he would live rough. With no home, this made any application harder, as with vagrancy being illegal and hindering his immigration status, into the system and the city, he would vanish. Six years earlier, Britain was riding high, having won the Olympic bid. We don’t like winning, as it gives us nothing to grumble about, but again, we don’t like losing, especially to the French. “Zut alors”. But following the financial crash of 2008, being cash-strapped, the British tax-payer balked at the initial budget pitched at £2.8 billion, which ballooned to a whopping £8.7 billion. Behind schedule, the city became a building site, as the run-up to the Olympics were beset by a series of embarrassing blunders. Described as “a predictably British clusterf**k”; Wenlock & Mandeville, our mascots who looked like brightly-coloured flaccid penises were quickly ditched. BoJo, our flag-waving mayor and (dare I say it) current Prime Minister got stuck on a zipwire. The ticket system was so farcical it left thousands with either no tickets, or an unpayable bill, being forced to watch crap like ‘horse dancing’. Local businesses were banned from the site, as the only official food-outlet was the world’s largest McDonald’s. G4S had ballsed-up so badly, the British Army was called in. And everyone’s expectations were low, as (a) we’re British, and (b) the opening ceremony had been announced as featuring “fifty REAL sheep”. Of course, we’ve all forgotten about the crappy build-up to London 2012, having replaced it with the triumphs of Olympic heroes like Usain Bolt, Michael Phelps, Jessica Ennis, Chris Hoy, Mo Farah, Nicola Adams, Laura Kenny, Gabby Douglas, Bradley Wiggins and David Weir, to name but a few. As well as Tom Daley’s awesome dive, Stefan Feck’s belly-flop, and even Oscar Pistorius before the... you know. The Queen and Bond parachuted in, Mr Bean played Chariots of Fire, the Paralympics was an absolute triumph, and the Danny Boyle’s opening ceremony was (pardon my French) “f**king brilliant”. That shift in mood started the moment the ceremony began on Friday 27th July, but in the weeks prior, as Union Jack bunting adorned the streets, London 2012 was considered a “waste of money”. But for Ghodratollah, the Olympics meant nothing. As being stressed by his failed immigration status, his imminent risk of deportation and his new homelessness, they all impacted on his mental health. In the early hours of Sunday 17th June 2012, Ghodratollah was seen banging on the Privy Purse Gate of Buckingham Palace. He demanded to see the Queen, as only she could help him, and he claimed he was the King of Afghanistan – which is why so many lazy journalists got his nationality wrong. Stopped by the Police, even though their powers had been increased under Operation Poncho, as he hadn’t broken in, caused damage or a disturbance, he wasn’t an immediate threat to himself or others and - more importantly – he wasn’t making London look messy to the tourists, he was sent on his way. It is said that one-in-three asylum-seekers suffer some form of depression, anxiety or PTSD. But was he suffering from a mental collapse... ...or was this simply a cunning ploy to progress his asylum? The next day, on Monday 18th June, he did it again, banging on the gates of Buckingham Palace and claiming to be a King. Believing he was mentally unwell, under Section 136 of the Mental Health Act, the Police were authorised to “take him to a place of safety”, in this case, a hospital. But what can you do, if you’re in a foreign country and you don’t know that you’re mentally unwell? Ghodratollah was assessed that day at St Thomas’ hospital; first by junior psychiatrist, Dr Nancy Butler, and later by Dr Neeraj Kabra, a senior psychiatrist, with his words translated by a Farsi interpreter. But then, mental illness isn’t like a broken leg; it’s not immediately obvious, it can easily be faked, the symptoms can be confused, and are often caused-by intoxicants, stress, injury and other illnesses. So often a specialist can only take the patient’s word about what they claim they have seen or heard. In both assessments, he said that three times he had attempted to kill himself; once by setting himself on fire, once by stabbing himself, and once by asphyxiating himself with gas. None of which needed medical assistance afterwards, and left no physical scars. In both assessments, he said he heard voices telling him he needed to “kill someone, within three days, to become to King of England”, but he had no known history of violence, showed no signs of aggression and Police detained him without issue. In this case, it was decided that he was “suffering from situational crisis because he was homeless and was waiting any adjudication of his asylum claim". But Ghodratollah didn’t help his own assessment? Throughout, he appeared anxious and agitated, owing to an appointment with the UK Border Agency at 11am, and believing this was his “last chance” he asked the doctors to write a letter to support his asylum application. Unsurprisingly, the doctors believed he was faking his symptoms of schizophrenia. It was never reported whether he attended the meeting, but on Tuesday 19th June, he returned to St Thomas’ complaining of back pain. He didn’t claim to hear voices or mention that he was the King. On Wednesday 20th, he returned to St Thomas’ with a new issue, but being fit and well, he was discharged. And on Thursday 21st, he returned to Buckingham Palace, but this time, refused to let go of the gate. Being even more agitated and determined to see the Queen, he was restrained, escorted to safety and his case was referred to social services, who requested that – again - he be mentally-assessed. At the Gordon Hospital, an adult psychiatric centre on Bloomberg Street in Pimlico, over several hours, a number of doctors assessed him, but found “no grounds to admit him”. He couldn’t be committed and it wasn’t worth arresting him, so being issued with an exclusion order banning him from entering the Royal Parks (including Buckingham Palace), that evening, Ghodratollah Barani was released. As a homeless asylum-seeker, he was little, harmless and invisible... ... but a few hours later, he would do the unthinkable. Five weeks before the start of London 2012, the city pulsed with tension and stress. The bunting was up and the tourists were out, but businesses were rightfully grumbling as a £13bn boost to the local economy had failed to materialise. The unfinished Olympics highway was a national embarrassment which would leave exhausted athletes stuck on hot coaches. Terrorists were being dicks, so in parks and on tower-blocks sat batteries of surface-to-air missiles to shoot down any hijacked airliners. But – for once, like a drizzly-little miracle - the typically inclement British weather was actually okay. The Olympics was upon us, nothing else existed and – with many having been bussed to neighbouring towns, whose homeless population had doubled - the rough-sleepers of Marble Arch were invisible. By day, tourists flocked to take selfiesof this purposeless monument. By dusk, any possible sleeping spots had been wet-down with high-pressure hoses. But by night, some of the homeless had returned. Neither were aware of the other, and that was just how the British government wanted it. Friday 22nd June 2012 was no-different to any other night. Being clear, dry and warm; for this 46-year-old ex-chef from Sterling, even at 3am, it was nice enough to leave his tent and to sleep on a bench. Being his favourite spot, Mark Morrison snuggled-up in his sleeping-bag, gazing at the yellowy haze of the sky, as the soothing hum of traffic circled him. The night was calm, with the tube shut he wouldn’t be bothered, and as always – keeping out of trouble – he was polite and pleasant to everyone. As far as we know, the two men had never met. Fluent in different languages, it’s unlikely they spoke. And being relatively passive men, nobody heard any screams or saw a struggle. But at a little after 3am, an engineer working at Marble Arch tube station saw a man stooping over Mark, who lay slumped by the foot of the bench. Being confronted, Ghodratollah ran off and the Police were called, but it was too late. Mark had been strangled to death with green piece of tent cord. His life snuffed-out for no reason by a man he didn’t know. But was this murder caused by a ‘situational crisis’ as the doctor had said, a part of Ghodratollah’s deluded plan to become King of England... or simply a ploy to get his British citizenship? (Interstitial) The next day and the following Sunday, Ghodratollah was arrested for breaching the exclusion order by banging on the gates of Buckingham Palace, and again he was later released. But with CCTV footage identifying him as the killer of Mark Morrison, using his fingerprints which had been kept by the Home Office, on Friday 29th June 2012 he calmly presented himself at Horseguard’s Parade and was arrested. On Saturday 30th June 2012 at Westminster Coroner’s Court, Ghodratollah Barani was charged with murder. Remanded at the hospital wing of Belmarsh Prison, he was diagnosed with schizophrenia. On 1st March 2013, having pleaded guilty to manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility, he was given an indefinite hospital order. As of November 2015, he has lived at the Evergreen Lodge care home in South Croydon, a facility for men with complex mental health issues; he has improved under medication and counselling, and - although limited - he has found work and a social life (of sorts). It is unclear whether his asylum has since been approved, or if he will be deported upon release. So, was this a situational crisis, a cunning ploy, or was it really schizophrenia? We don’t know. What we do know is that homelessness is a big problem we refuse to resolve, as any reporting of crimes against our city’s rough-sleepers often go unreported, or in this case, badly reported. But homelessness is solvable and none of it requires a human being bussed-out and hidden elsewhere. As seen at the start of the pandemic, within in a single week, almost every rough sleeper was given a bed; a place of safety, where they could wash, eat and sleep, with a chance to resolve their problems and get back on their feet? But with ‘our crisis’ almost over? The homeless are back on the street. Where they remain nameless, faceless and invisible. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, a non-compulsory chatty mcchatface follows after the break, where you can learn a few extra details about this case, if you want, but if it’s not your thing, I won’t be offended if you don’t. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Jo Fulton, Harry Morrell-Hall, Kelly Jackson, Epona 2 and Alex Kolb, I thank you all. I hope that the new Cake of the Week feature isn’t proving too delicious for you all, and that you haven’t coated your Murder Mile goodies in chocolate and scoffed them. Plus, a thank you to an anonymous donator via the Supporter Link (I’m guessing it was Audrey Tautou, trying to get my affection, without Eva knowing, as Eva does get very jealous) and a special thank you to Amanda Harris for your kind donation via the Murder Mile website. I spent it on a coot shaped cake. Obviously. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Brown Hart Gardens in Mayfair, formerly known as the Duke Street Gardens.
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY-ONE:
Today’s episode is about Annie Sutton, a lone single mother who lived in a shared lodging with a series of strangers; all were friendly and liked her, but one lodger loved her a little too much. But what do you do when you live with your very own stalker?
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of the former lodging house at 19 Hart Street in Mayfair is marked with a rum & raison cross and is under the word MAYFAIR. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
Here's a video to go with this week's episode, showing you the view from the elevated platform on Brown Hart Gardens and the lodging hours at 19 Hart Street where Annie & Henry Sutton were murdered by Joseph King. These videos are links to YouTube so they won't eat up your data.
SOURCES: This was created using several sources, including the court record from the Old Bailey Archive, London Metro' and church records, as well as several news sources (not all included below).
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about Annie Sutton, a lone single mother who lived in a shared lodging with a series of strangers. All were friendly and liked her, except one who loved her a little too much. But how would she cope living with her own stalker? Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 141: Annie Sutton and the Stalker Within. Today I’m standing in Brown Hart Gardens in Mayfair, W1; one street east of the electro-convulsive abortion of Elsie Goldsmith, three streets north of radioactive poisoning of Alexander Litvinenko, one street south of the Europa Hotel where the flight-crew of El-Al 016 were massacred, and four streets north-east of the last brave fight of Tudor Simionov – coming soon to Murder Mile. Originally called the Duke Street Gardens, Brown Hart Gardens is one of those architectural anomalies that the average pedestrian walks-by every day, knowing it looks out-of-place, but never asking why. Surrounded on all sides by mansion blocks (the posh word for flats), Brown Hart Gardens is an oblong-shaped walled garden with very ornate features; like a baroque domed pavilion of Portland stone, paved Italian greenery and a quaint little café, but what’s it’s hiding is a large electricity substation. And that epitomises Mayfair; rich and poor, arty and ugly, two opposites living side-by-side with one on show for the world and the other hidden in shame. Here you will see; red-trousered numpties next to a shambling mess in filthy rags, a snoot of hoity-toities living it large as life’s forgotten few hunker in flappy boxes, and arseholes who begin every sentence with ‘I’, quaffing fizzy-wine which costs an annual-salary per bottle, next to a homeless man heated only by a damp sleeping bag and a hit of scag. It has pretty much been erased, but 150 years ago, this part of Mayfair was a place of abject poverty. Comprising of Brown Street and Hart Street, this used to be a series of working-class dwellings for the city’s poorest, before it’s demolition in 1888. Situated at 19 Hart Street was a four-storey lodging full of thirty people; with many so broke, they were forced to share a room and even a bed with strangers. Living hand-to-mouth, they could never choose neighbours; so many simply they made the best of it, some found new pals, but others were left living side-by-side with someone who would do them harm. As it was here, on Thursday 20th January 1887, that Annie Sutton would last interact with her fellow lodger - Joseph King; a stalker who lived for her touch, but loved her to death. (Interstitial) (Croaky/stroke-ish) "I love Annie. I am very fond of her. But if I don't have her... no one else shall". Annie Sutton was typical of many working-class women living in London in the late 1800’s. With a cruel unjust society burdening her with little more than a limited education and a few basic skills, she was reliant on others simply to live, and doomed to a sad relentless existence of poverty and failure. Like many people, she was a nobody, hence very little was deemed worthy enough to document her life. Even in court, at her own trial about her own death; she was listed as Sutton, Button and Burton. Born in a small village near Exeter in 1847, Annie did everything right according to the rules of the day, as with women banned from keeping savings or owning a home, she married to ensure her survival. Life was hard, but she made-do with what little she had. In August 1885, at the St George’s parish workhouse in Mount Street, Annie gave birth to a baby boy called Henry; a small pale sprat named after her husband. Together this little family of three lived an existence with no certainties – they shared a small cramped room with another family, scraped-by on an unsustainable pittance, struggled to pay the weeks rent or risk eviction, and ate a meagre ration only if and when they worked - and although the chance of little Henry living into adulthood was slim, with a hard-working labourer father and a devoted mother, his odds were no better than fifty/fifty. But as cruel as life was for a working-class woman, fate would be even crueller. In the bitter winter of 1885, Annie’s husband died. Left bereft and heartbroken, this 40-year-old recent-widow and newly single-mother was bequeathed nothing but his last wage; a paltry sum, part of which paid for his funeral. But with no savings, no policies, no pension, no goods of any value, no family to fall back on, and no benefits doled-out by a welfare state to provide a small but vital safety-net - once those 27 shillings were spent, she was out. Annie had two choices; cry or fight. To put a roof over her head, food in her belly and to stop her one-year-old son being sent to the workhouse - like hundreds of other women within a single square mile - she became a washer woman, scrubbing the soiled filthy clothes of strangers for pennies. Of course, she could always remarry? But still being in the grip of grief, love had long escaped her heart. By July 1886, Annie and baby Henry had moved to 19 Hart Street in Mayfair, a series of four-and-five storey lodging houses which surrounded the Duke Street Gardens. Number 19 was a simple brown-brick block comprised of eight small rooms on four thin floors, with a basement wash-room for bathing and laundry, and being in an era before the luxury of plumbed-in gas, water or electricity, it was heated and lit by fires. But it wasn’t an unpleasant place to live. On the ground-floor lived the landlady Harriet Pearson, an elderly widow who kept a good house for nice people who looked out for one another. It had a homely atmosphere and lacking any communal areas except for the stairwell, she would welcome lodgers into her kitchen to cook and share a meal. The top two floors were housed by four families, but (as was standard in any lodging-house) the others were occupied by singletons. In the front first-floor room, Harriet’s adoptive son William Jewell shared with a burly omnibus driver called Charles Stanfield. Behind them, in a small back-room, two domestic servants - Lizzie Coten and Emily Sharp – shared a tatty horsehair mattress, as beside them Annie and her baby slept in a small lumpy bed. And in the back-room behind Harriet’s kitchen, a slightly-deaf elderly servant called Richard Bartholomew shared with a 41-year-old labourer called Joseph King. It was an odd mix of strangers, but everyone seemed friendly... ...only Joseph wanted Annie to be more than his friend. (Croaky/stroke-ish) “I will have her as my wife. If not, I will break her neck”. The history of Joseph King is a bit of a mystery. Born in Thurston, a Suffolk parish near Bury St Edmonds in 1846, he was the eldest of two brothers, but – since his teenage years – he’d had no further contact with his parents. Being pretty-much a loner, he was childless, unmarried and having only ever been in love with two women, his hopes at romance ended in disaster, as in his words “they betrayed me”. Being a thinly-built man, with a tangled mess of dark brown hair like an abandoned rat’s nest, sunken yellow eyes like two discarded pots of piss and a stick-like body punctuated by a beer-filled pot-belly, although Annie would have lived a slightly better life as a wife than a spinster, he wasn’t her type. With hands scuffed, his head scarred, moods which swung from ominously distant to uncomfortably close, and – having fallen from a horse aged 17 – his tongue rasped with a croaky lisp, his leg dragged and limped, his face unevenly drooped, and the right-side of his skull was soft to the touch. But according to those who knew him, he wasn’t a bad man. He was odd, but no real bother. Burdened by a partial paralysis down the right-hand side of his body, he still earned a modest 27 shillings-a-week as a bricklayer for Patman & Co, building a house at nearby 10 South Audley Street. He moved into 19 Hart Street six months earlier and always paid his 3 shillings rent on time. He drank in the evenings but he wasn’t abusive. And he cheekily (if creepily) called his elderly half-deaf bunkmate ‘daddy’. Times were tough, so with Annie & Joseph both being single, perhaps this was a love-match? Sadly not. As in Annie’s eyes, Joseph wasn’t right... ...but in his eyes, it was love at first sight. During his first month, she rarely saw him, as while she slaved away over hot piles of laundry, he lived up top. But when a cheaper bed became available on the ground-floor, suddenly as she would descend the stairs, she began to sense a creaking and a silence, as a sallow set of hollow eyes closely eyed her. As the weeks passed, all-too-often Annie found the uncomfortably tight stairwell conveniently blocked by Joseph, who greeted her with a raspy “oh, good day... again”, and yet he seemed to be going nowhere for no reason. Each time, she was polite, but she never stopped to talk, as the useful excuse of armfuls of unwashed clothes or a screaming baby at her breast always seemed to hasten her step. And as weeks turned into months, his escalating attention turned from small talk to little gifts; often he’d give her bread, milk, a brooch, baby shoes, or money to help her get by. Being broke, struggling to save three shillings for the week’s rent and keep the workhouse at bay, she knew she shouldn’t say yes, so often she didn’t, but as a singleton with a hungry child, sometimes “no” was impossible to say. On Saturday 5th January 1887, two weeks before her death, Joseph knocked on Annie’s door. Opening it a crack, he couldn’t see his beloved hidden by a mountain of sodden clothes and thick steamy clouds which rose from her scorching iron, so Emily Sharp relayed their words. Joseph: “Oh, I’ve come for my washing”, Annie: “It’s not ready, go back down”. But before the door was even shut, Joseph was in. Inside her room, he grinned at Annie... only being too busy, Annie ignored him. Abruptly, Emily asked him to leave, as the landlady didn’t approve of men inside a ladies’ room. But Joseph didn’t hear her, as his focus was fixed firmly on Annie – her head-down and shrouded by mist. At his feet, he saw eighteen-month-old Henry playing on the wooden floor. Scooping the little tot up, Joseph gently stroked his head with a palsied hand, as on his forehead he planted a kiss with wonky lips muttering “love him, love this boy” - his love seemed genuine, like he was destined to be his daddy. A little weirded-out, Emily snatched the boy back and shoved Joseph out. But before this odd-ball was ousted, he said these words; "I love Annie Sutton, I am very fond of her...” – ten words which Annie ignored – only to utter “...but if I don't have her, no one else shall". Annie Sutton was trapped in her own home with her own stalker... ...but as ‘being in love’ isn’t a crime, all she could do was keep her distance. Joseph was not shy about airing his deepest feelings of love among the lodgers - “he’d talk about her most nights”, “he loved her, he said”, "the boy too, he treated it as if he was its father", “he said he’d marry her on Whitsuntide” - but there is a very fine line between love-sick, besotted and obsessed. “He said once or twice, when he was cross and swearing, that if he could not have her, nobody else should”, “I heard him say, if she would not have him for his wife, then he would snap her neck”. His words (often spat while sozzled) seemed like a load of hot-air, but Annie was stuck. She couldn’t move-on and she couldn’t move-out, so wisely she kept busy, and she did nothing to encourage him. Only her silence simply added fuel to his resolve and his jealousy, as fate cruelly intervened. On Saturday 15th January, six days before, Joseph was sacked from his job. “I discharged him because he was a very inefficient and clumsy workman” said the foreman. Later adding in court “he used to do everything wrong. He was a bit looney, a general butt of the jokes, he was not right in his mind”. With no job to do and nothing to fill his time, Joseph drank and festered. No matter where Annie went, he was there, watching intently as she went about her life; ascending the stairs and descending the stairs; as she cooked, she washed, she walked and she slept; seeing who she talked to, who she ate with, what she said and what she did; he followed her to the shops, the church and the bathhouse. On Sunday 16th, between five and six pm, a former-lodger and frequent customer called Mr Rolf came calling at Annie’s door. As always, he knocked, she greeted him “hello Mr Rolf, here you go”; she handed him his bundle of clean clothes, he paid his money and left, “thank you my dear, good day”. To Annie, it meant nothing, as it did to everyone else who lodged at 19 Hart Street... ...except one. Ten minutes after Mr Rolf had left, Joseph was still seething. As she sat in her room, softly soothing her son to sleep, Annie’s ears rumbled to a heavy stamping up the stairs and a hard banging on her door. “Annie! Annie!”. Without thinking, she opened it, fearing a fire or an accident, but what she saw was a tearful Joseph fuming with jealousy, as a long dribble of drool spooled down his droopy lip. "You would have been on the floor with that man Rolf”, believing that in that brief window between being handed his laundry and saying “goodbye” the couple had sex. “You are my sweetheart”, he cried, “I put on my coat, and put my tobacco and pipes in my pocket ready to be locked up for you”, like this was to be the last stand of a desperate man. Of what? We don’t know. But with slow deliberate words, he expressed his undying love for her, and rasped “I would go up to my knees in blood for you”. And he would... but who’s blood? Having witnessed his strange declaration of adoration, the landlady ushered Joseph back down the thin stairwell and calmly he returned to his room. He was agitated and emotional, but perfectly sober. One hour later, he asked Annie if she could wash his shirts, as if nothing odd had happened. Two hours later, he softly knocked on her door and romantically cooed "Goodnight my darling; I am going out"... ...but wisely she had bolted the door shut. Annie didn’t have any other option; in the eyes of the law, he hadn’t done anything criminal, he was simply a love-sick fool talking silly. In the eyes of the doctors, he wasn’t mad, so nothing could be done. But inside of his obsessive little mind, Joseph believed that he and Annie were already lovers. On the evening of Wednesday 19th January 1887, one night before, Joseph lay in his bed; he was calm, sober and slept soundly. Beside him, Richard was restless as somehow, he had misplaced his razor – and although half-deaf – he would later confirm that Joseph hadn’t left their room, at all, that night. Likewise, in the room above, Emily had bolted the door shut, and with baby Henry exhausted from a cold, the four occupants slept well. So, no-one came into or went from their room until the morning. Only Joseph would deny this. Joseph: “the woman was in the habit of coming to my bed, or I to hers, often two or three times a week, for two or three hours at a time. The landlady disliked fraternisation, so it was our little secret”. An affair so secret, that no-one heard a thing; not a bolt unlock, a creaky step, a baby cry, or the moan of its mother in sexual ecstasy. The night was silent. And although Richard may have been half-deaf, he wasn’t blind, so the last sounds he heard before Joseph snored was him saying “goodnight daddy”. Joseph would never become Annie’s new husband... ...and Annie would never again find love. The morning of Thursday 20th January 1887 was bitter, as a cold biting wind pierced the icy streets of Mayfair. At a little after 8:15am - with her baby still fast-asleep in her bed - Annie smoothly unbolted her door, crept down the creaking stairs and (so as not to disturb the snoozing lodgers) she left the silence of the house to pick-up a jug of milk and a loaf of bread from a grocer’s cart on Duke Street. Oddly, it was there-and-then, after five days of swigging and sloth, that Joseph decided that he needed a job; he shot out of bed, popped on a shirt, his greatcoat and wide-brimmed hat called a wide-awake, and (with drive and vigour) he left the room, stating " I am going out for a little while, daddy". But in truth, he wouldn’t visit any building sites that morning, as he would only walk as far as Duke Street. At 8:45am, Joseph returned to 19 Hart Street, all dejected and depressed - or so he said. Being rejected for two jobs in as many minutes and – just the night before - having fiercely quarrelled with his beloved barely six weeks before their supposed marriage, he would claim that “enough was enough”. So, with Richard’s own razor gripped in his hand, he said he planned to cut his own throat and end his torment. But once again, no-one heard any of this, so it’s likely that none of it ever happened. And besides, when he returned to his room, Richard said he seemed okay, as he uttered “no joy daddy, oh well”. And although he wouldn’t take his own life, a tragic death definitely plagued his mind. At 8:50am, Annie returned. Her cheeks were flushed red from a foul wind, but the simple pleasure of freshly-baked bread warmed her body, as a cool jug of milk soothed her heat-blistered hands. That day would be like any other; a baby to feed, a few shillings to earn and a mountain of clothes to wash. Entering the hallway, it was as quiet as when she had left it. No-one stirred and mercifully her baby was silent as she softly ascended the stairs. But what happened next was heard but not seen. Annie barked three phrases “get off the stairs”, “let me pass” and “keep your hands off me". Abruptly, a milk-jug smashed, as a blood-curdling scream ripped through all four-floors of the lodging house. Bleary-eyed and half-dressed, the lodgers peered-out into the thin dark stairwell. All they saw was Annie and Joseph; him with a bloody razor gripped in his tight fist, and her with the pale flesh of her neck ripped apart and spewing meat like a burst sausage, as a crimson river flowed down her chest. Clutching her silenced throat which bubbled as she breathed, stumbling down each step and bouncing off every wall to escape the maniac above, Annie staggered into the safety of the landlady’s kitchen. Surrounded by friends, here she was safe, as lodgers locked the door, stemmed the flow of blood with a towel and gave her a brandy to steady her nerves... only Joseph hadn’t followed her. He had hurt her just as he had intended, a long slow slit to stem her words. But upon this woman who had betrayed his love, he would inflict a real pain - the kind she had never felt before and would never feel again. Joseph ran upstairs. He broke open the back-room door. And with the bloodied razor balled tight in his fist, as her little child slept sweetly, he began sawing at its neck with the sharp blade; slicing deeper and faster. And unable to cry with its wind pipe severed, as veins split and arteries spewed, he slit the child’s throat all the way down to its tiny spine. So, by the time that the razor was wrestled out of his hand, baby Henry’s little head was almost cut clean off. Barely minutes later, a police officer had arrived, but he was too late to do anything but gasp at the horror before him; as a distraught Annie bled to death, and her baby boy was already dead. (End) His trial was held on the 28th February 1887 at the Old Bailey, to debate if Joseph King was insane. A doctor declared he was of ‘low-intellect’ but ‘fit to stand trial’, and yet, his defence drew attention to his actions, an old scar on his forehead, and a softness to his skull, having fallen from a horse aged 17. Upon his arrest, Joseph was taken to Marlborough Street Police Station, where he confessed “I have killed the woman whom I loved, also her dear child", whilst he calmly sat and smoked his pipe. He also said they had sex that night, quarrelled later, and that she jilted him, but said the child’s murder was her idea, having pled: “If you do end me? Kill the child. Don't leave it to the mercy of the world”. In his cell, while awaiting his committal hearing, Joseph was given a meal of potatoes, meat and bread, which he apparently ate with “great lividity”, cutting and ripping at his food with blood-stained hands. Often remarking on how the marks remained - “yes, there it is... it is still there” - as he licked his fingers clean, and refused a towel or soap - "I won't have them washed, these were the hands that did it". On 21st March 1887, Joseph King was executed at Newgate Prison. Annie Sutton bravely fought back her tears and pain, as this recent widow and newly grieving mother was taken to St George’s hospital. For three days doctors battled to save her life, but having lost too much blood and all hope of ever finding happiness, she died at 1am and was buried with her baby. And the tragedy is, being so poor, this only occurred as she was forced to live with her stalker. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, a non-compulsory chin-wag over a tea and a cake follows after the break, where you can learn a few extra details about this case, but feel free to switch-off now if you don’t like waffle. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Bridget Cooper, Alexis Kilday, Amanda Lamb and Anna Bellingham, I thank you all. Your physical goodies should be with you now, and I hope you’ve enjoyed the exclusive goodies online. Plus, a thank you to Nicola Smyth for sending me a very kind parcel of chocolatey treats in the post, which actually lasted a whole three days. I know! Miracle! Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of the fabulous Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY
Today’s episode is about Joe Gynane, an addict, it’s hard to say more as drugs were his life. But when this junkie took a life, the law would ask a valid question: “was he to blame for the murder, or was it the drugs, and did they diminish his responsibility?”
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
This is the location of The Coach & Horses public house on the corner of Greek Street and Romilly Street where Joe Gynane stabbed Mohammed Elmi to death. It is marked with a blue cross just under the words 'Tottenham Court Road' on the west end of Soho. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
Here's a little video showing you the location of The Coach & Horses public house in Soho, where the murder of Mohammed Elmi by Joe Gynane took place. This is a link to YouTube, so it won't eat up your data.
SOURCES: to name but a few.
https://www.bailii.org/ew/cases/EWCA/Crim/2020/1348.html https://www.strath.ac.uk/humanities/lawschool/blog/lifeexperienceandjurorbiasincriminaltrials/ https://insidetime.org/an-odour-was-all-it-took-star-poem-of-the-month/ https://insidetime.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/01/Inside-Time-January-2020-LOW-RES.pdf https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-7570929/Evil-killer-34-jailed-30-years.html https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-49993168 https://www.expressandstar.com/news/uk-news/2019/10/09/addict-found-guilty-of-stabbing-man-to-death-in-pub-doorway/ https://www.belfasttelegraph.co.uk/news/uk/addict-found-guilty-of-stabbing-man-to-death-in-pub-doorway-38579088.html https://londonnewsonline.co.uk/drug-addict-is-jailed-for-30-years-for-soho-murder/ https://www.mylondon.news/news/zone-1-news/remorseless-killer-stabbed-man-death-17060524 https://metro.co.uk/2019/09/23/alleged-killer-stabbed-boy-16-hours-after-murdering-man-with-same-knife-10794375/ https://www.yourlocalguardian.co.uk/news/17959299.wimbledon-addict-found-guilty-stabbing-man-death-pub-doorway/ https://www.wimbledonguardian.co.uk/news/17922809.wimbledon-man-allegedly-taking-drugs-victim-stabbing-death-court-told/ https://www.thisislocallondon.co.uk/news/17959299.wimbledon-addict-found-guilty-stabbing-man-death-pub-doorway/ https://www.standard.co.uk/news/crime/soho-stabbing-man-charged-after-knife-attacks-in-london-s-west-end-and-camden-a4082631.html https://old-bailey.com/2019/10/03/whats-on-at-the-old-bailey-oct-4/ https://www.thesun.co.uk/news/8550555/stabbing-soho-london-man-dies/ https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/crime/soho-stabbing-london-suspect-victim-romilly-street-a8805276.html https://metro.co.uk/2019/03/07/murder-investigation-launched-after-man-repeatedly-stabbed-in-soho-dies-in-hospital-8856572/ https://www.standard.co.uk/news/crime/soho-stabbing-man-dies-days-after-being-repeatedly-knifed-in-london-s-west-end-a4085711.html https://www.enfieldindependent.co.uk/news/national/17958068.addict-found-guilty-stabbing-man-death-pub-doorway/ https://uknip.co.uk/breaking/news-207210/man-found-guilty-of-stabbing-in-central-london/ MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about Joe Gynane, a drug-addict, it’s hard to say more as drugs consumed his world. But when this hopeless junkie took a life, the law would ask a valid question: “who was responsible for the murder; was it Joe’s fault or his drugs?” Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 140: The Diminished Responsibility of Joe Gynane. Today I’m standing on the corner of Greek Street and Romilly Street, in Soho, W1; one street south-east of the bombing of the Admiral Duncan pub, one street north of the epileptic bank-robber Jack Murphy, and two streets south-east of the collapse of a porn king – coming soon to Murder Mile. At 29 Greek Street sits The Coach & Horses, one of my favourite pubs. With a boozer situated on this site since the 1700’s, it has kept its traditional aesthetic; being a four-storey grade-II Victorian corner house with white walls, an ironic red flash, and the ground-floor chock full of original features; like red steel pillars, tobacco-stained tiles, heavy wooden doors and the old Taylor Walker lanterns. Made famous by the play ‘Jeffrey Bernard is Unwell’, Norman “one of London’s rudest landlords” and - it is said – the inspiration for Robert Louis Stephenson to write The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, The Coach & Horses is a wonderfully honest old-man’s boozer where you can sup a decent pint, over a good old sing-song on the piano, all under a portrait of the Queen Mum. And yet, if you ask nicely, you can be led upstairs to one of the city’s best (and most secret) vegan restaurants. Ssshhh. Recently acquired by a pub chain, thankfully they haven’t ripped its guts out. But they have stripped-out the sticky carpet and even fixed the toilets, so – when weeing – no-longer do you have to stare into a dank abyss of leaky pipes, stale piddle, possibly the plague and mould so old it’s gone a bit racist. Like most pubs, outside you may see the odd fight, mugging, flasher and even the occasional murder. One such murder occurred recently, it made the papers but few people paid attention to it – as I didn’t – as being a tawdry tale about a junkie who killed a possible dealer over some drugs, nobody cared. In the public’s eyes, they were two blights on society who had made their own decisions – one took drugs, one sold drugs and they both chose to live a life of crime and to make fast money the easy way. But the trial would pose an interesting conundrum – if the attacker was high on drugs at the time of the murder, was he fully responsible for his own actions, or were the drugs (he took) partly to blame? As it was here, just before dawn, on Sunday 3rd March 2019, that Joe Gynane stabbed Mohamed Elmi to death. But when did his rational decision-making stop and the drugs take over? (Interstitial) The legal definition of ‘diminished responsibility’ is “an unbalanced mental state which makes a person less answerable for a crime and grounds for a reduced charge, but it does not classify them as insane”. There are three factors to determine a person’s diminished responsibility; if they couldn’t understand the nature of their conduct, couldn’t form a rational judgement and couldn’t exercise self-control. All of which could be affected by learning difficulties, disability, trauma, disease, drink or drugs. But who was Joe Gynane? Joe Derek Gynane was born on an unspecified date in February 1985, to a mother whose surname was May and an unidentified father in the South London borough of Lambeth. And that’s as far as the press would delve into his past. Described as ‘evil’, on paper, this 34-year-old was the epitome of a drug-addict; dark-ringed eyes, a broken nose, messy brown hair and a tired pasty face dotted with spots. As expected, his childhood was a dark depressing muddle of abandonment, isolation, fear, rejection and hopelessness, and although a lethal cocktail of drugs was his one-constant to escape from the horror of his life and erase the pain of his past, he wasn’t uneducated or unintelligent. Far from it. Seven months after his arrest, whilst incarcerated at HMP Whitemoor, a category A prison, Joe’s poem titled ‘An Odour Was All It Took’ – a brutally honest insight into his life - won Poem of the Month in Inside Time, a prison magazine, and later won the 2020 Pinter Poem Award, a prize for poets in prison. And this is it: “The smell of cut grass stained the air, evoking memories of a bittersweet childhood; a time before care, before care, drug despair - oh how I wish I was there. School in the morning, football in the afternoon, painted circles adorned the walls of my room. Two cats and an apple tree in the garden, I struggle to place my memories. My memories have made my emotions harden. Self-reflection, soul inspection, toilet, spoon, injection, adolescent withdrawals, a bought erection. An outpouring of pain, shame, all aboard the thought train. The smell of cut grass stained the air, evoking memories of a bittersweet childhood; a time before care, before prison, a colourless prism. Memories out of synch, anachronism, football stickers, foil, pipe, light flickers, Soho bound city slickers; dark days, bright nights, a young moth down to Piccadilly’s lights. A corner cuddled, seeking oblivion, memories muddled, a fruitless pursuit trying to clasp a puddle that bubbled. An outpouring of pain, shame, all aboard the thought train. The smell of cut grass stained the air, evoking memories of a bittersweet childhood; a time before care, before I made my mother cry, earthbound yet seeking the sky, my passage resides in a cling-filmed package, emotions, memories, abandoned baggage. Blackheath firework displays, fairies sprinkling dust on the school plays, the good old days, before me and innocence parted ways, waifs, strays, a cup in the hand, homelessness pays. An outpouring of pain, shame, all aboard the thought train. The smell of cut grass stained the air, evoking memories of a bittersweet childhood; a time before care, before fear, despair, a shed tear, stealing from those I hold dear, near. My breaking point, suicide, life, what’s the point? Institutionalised. At home in the joint, at home with a joint, freedom, bound to disappoint. My core’s rotten, I should be forgotten. An outpouring of pain, shame, last stop for the thought train”. By the age of 13, when most boys were playing with their PlayStations, Joe’s home-life had fractured, he was living in care, he had been abused, and was addicted to heroin and crack. Living on the streets and surviving off hand-outs, the only constants in his depressing little existence was drugs and prison. With a criminal history of sixteen counts of theft, robbery and violent assault, all drug-related, Joe was in-and-out of prison throughout parts of his adult life, and although incarceration would provide him with a bed, clean clothes and three meals-a-day, it posed a problem for someone so reliant on drugs. Joe was addicted to three drugs – heroin, crack and spice Heroin enveloped him with feelings of euphoria, with a hit like being wrapped in a cotton-wool cocoon where nothing can harm him. But the pleasure would be short-lived and followed by a toxic mix of short and long-term symptoms; like nausea, vomiting, itching, abscesses, insomnia, confusion, cramp, constipation, collapsed veins, organ failure, mental illness, anxiety, depression, sexual dysfunction and irrational thoughts. With the only way to suppress the side-effects being to inject more heroin. Like many addicts, Joe also used crack cocaine to counteract the effects of heroin, it gave him a quick high, hyper-alertness, increased strength and energy, but only for thirty minutes. Like heroin, the side-effects were severe; including insomnia, confusion, aggression, anxiety, paranoia and hyperexcitability (which clouded his rational thoughts), as well as ‘coke bugs’ (a vivid hallucination that insects were burrowing into his skin). With the only way to suppress the side-effects of crack, being to smoke spice. As a psychoactive cannabinoid, spice relaxed him, but again being a short-lived high; it led to sweating, palpitations, vomiting, irritability, extreme violence, suicidal thoughts, an irrational distrust of other people, and auditory and visual hallucinations so vivid he couldn’t tell reality from fiction. To suppress the side-effects of spice, he took heroin and so the vicious circle began again, and it would never end. Only prison and drugs are not a good mix, as unable to regularly acquire a steady supply of heroin or crack in prison, Joe was moved onto methadone to help combat the withdrawal. But since the Smoking Ban was introduced in 2007, with no tobacco to dilute the spice, many prisoners smoked it neat. On Friday 1st March 2019, whilst on remand in police custody and awaiting trial on a charge of robbery at Highbury Magistrates Court, although he had made-up with his mother and could have gone to stay with her in Plumstead? He didn’t. Although he could have collected his prescription for methadone to assuage his drug-addiction? He didn’t. And although he should have gone to his bail hostel? He didn’t. As Judge Richard Foster would state: “you made a conscious decision, a bad decision to go to Soho”. Joe Gynane had been an addict for more than twenty years, almost two thirds of his life. As a homeless man used to being attacked (and stabbed) by strangers, he carried a large kitchen knife. As a junkie just out of prison, he was suffering from withdrawal, as he headed into Soho in search of a fix. And although many of the bad decisions were entirely his, one was outside of his control... ...as just thirty-six hours before the murder, Joe was released on conditional bail. On the evening of his release, CCTV cameras would record Joe in and around Old Compton Street; a vibrant frenetic place of fun festooned with a kaleidoscope of clubs, bars and cabarets. But seen by some as a series of squalid streets of sin, Soho also has a very dark side courtesy of drugs and poverty. Whether day or night, it’s a regular occurrence to see shambling drunks stumbling towards their next swig, heroin addicts collapsed in matted heap, constipated crack-addicts relieving their rotten guts in a doorway, and – sometimes – it’s impossible to sup a pint without being accosted by the deluded. Drug-deals aren’t even hidden, they happen in plain sight, in broad daylight and in front of children. For the jury at Joe’s trial, it was very simple; he made the decision to go to Soho in search of drugs. He knew the risks, he took the chance and over the next thirty-six hours, he binged on heroin, crack and spice. Trapped in an all-too-familiar vicious circle of depleting highs and bigger hits – with his body so used to this abuse – he staggered from fix-to-fix, losing the fight to counteract the side-effects. And so, a familiar tragedy unfurled; score, euphoria, dip, stumble, collapse, inject... and repeat. On the wet and windy night of Saturday 2nd to the morning of Sunday 3rd March, cameras witnessed Joe Gynane taking drugs alone and in the company of others, including 37-year-old Mohammed Elmi. In court, Mohammed’s family described him as a “kind, jovial and cheeky son”, who as the eldest of four siblings “paved the way for us in our new environment”; a protector in a new country and life. As a devoted father of two boys aged seven and nine, who he adored, he provided as best he could, given that his options were cut short following a traumatic brain injury in an unprovoked assault. It remains unproven whether Mohammed was just a user or a supplier, a fact his family dispute, stating “he was not a drug dealer, he had qualified as a plumber”. But in court, Joe grew increasingly unhappy, barking “the geezer's making it up as he goes along. Just sentence me now, I'm sick of him”. Joe’s erratic paranoid behaviour did him no favours, even as his own defence, Edward Henry QC tried to put across that Joe was “a broken, bewildered and also deeply troubled individual, unaware of Mr Elmi's vulnerability”. But when Joe’s poem - ‘An Odour Was All It Took’ - was read out aloud in court to give context to his drug-taking and troubled past, Joe stormed out cursing “I don't need to listen to this bollocks”, he spat at a dock officer, and shouted “that's what I think of your court”. After two decades exposure to illicit drugs, a life-long history of abuse, homelessness, hunger, assault, mental illness and a default emotional setting which was stuck at paranoid, Joe trusted no-one... ...not just the law, but also other addicts... ...as well as himself. In the early hours of Sunday 3rd March 2019, thirty-six hours into a drug-fuelled binge, Joe unsteadily staggered through the dark-lit back-streets of Soho, his stumbling feet were as unbalanced as his mind. Shortly before dawn, a nasty drizzle engulfed the air, a fine thick mist which soaked everything as a chilly wind made Joe’s jacket as wet as it was heavy, but still he didn’t go home, as he wasn’t done. Several times, Joe and Mohammed were seen together; meeting for minutes or seconds. Both were easy-to-spot, so – if this murder had been pre-planned – Joe wouldn’t have chosen to wear blue jeans and a cream jumper, or attack a man in a black puffa jacket and a blue top with red and white stripes. But then again, who was in control by that point – Joe or his addiction? At any time, Joe could have decided that enough was enough... but he didn’t. He could have dumped the large kitchen knife stashed in his jacket... but he didn’t. And having ran out of money for drugs, he could have left for his hostel, perhaps to pick-up his prescription for methadone... but again, he didn’t. Joe Gynane had just one motive in his confused little mind – more drugs. But how? This short fix of euphoria was long-since a distant joy, as a catalogue of symptoms swept through his ravaged body, fighting against each other like a junkie gauntlet to the death; shivers, cramps, spasms, sweats, exhaustion, insomnia, high fevers, low chills, vomiting, confusion, palpitations and nausea. Spiralling-out of control, the grim misery of addiction had taught him that ‘no more drugs’ was not an option. He couldn’t just quit, as withdrawal was worse than death. A sickness worse than any sickness as his symptoms would never die, only duplicate... unless he got one more hit of heroin, crack or spice. One more hit... until the next one... and then the next... and then the next... At about 5:45am, twenty minutes before dawn, the streets were deathly quiet; except for the howl of amorous cats, the rumble of emptying bins and the soft shush as street-sweepers wipe away any trace of piss and glass as the night’s revellers slept soundly in their beds... but still the junkies crept. Under the shadow of the Palace Theatre on Romilly Street, hunkered in the unlit doorway of The Coach & Horses pub stood Mohammed Elmi; dodging the drizzle and cold, as again, Joe Gynane approached. Neither was a friend nor enemy, as with one needing the other, the two men remained on good terms. There was no falling-out, no sore looks, no cruel words, no money owed and no punches thrown. It was just as it had been for the last thirty-six hours. Without warning, Joe plunged the twelve-inch kitchen knife through the jacket, two thick layers and inflicted five separate two-inch-wide wounds to Mohammed’s stomach, hip and thigh. With no defensive cuts, the stabbing came silent and frenzied, not out of hatred, but out of sheer desperation. As Mohammed slumped on the rain-soaked floor – focussed only on a quick fix - Joe rifled the pockets of the dying man’s Puffa jacket, his feverish hands staining red as blood gushed from the failing organs and pooled about his greying frame. As Joe fled, he left Mohammed to die in the dirty sodden gutter. Their brief history together was erased in an instant, over a short-lived hit and some easy cash. Mohammed was treated at the scene by London Ambulance Service and transferred to hospital, but being listed as critical for the next three days, he died on Wednesday 6th March at 7.42pm. The investigation was straight forward, as having secured the scene, although the rain had erased any fingerprints, this partially-lit back-street was well-covered from all angles by at least ten cameras. But who was the assailant, the Police would ask? Well, that would be answered by Joe... ...or maybe by his addiction. By 11:35am, with his new high having worn off and his ill-gotten gains spent, Joe stabbed a 16-year-old drug-dealer called (REDACTED) in an alley on University Street, just a few streets north. Again, he stole drugs and money, but he didn’t flee. When Police arrived - spotted acting suspiciously - he was challenged, he ran, he ditched the blood-stained knife and was swiftly detained. He confessed to both attacks and gave evidence in remorseless detail, crying “how many times have I got to do this? I’ve stabbed loads of people, they won't die. I have stabbed him fifteen to twenty times. I don't want to be out there anymore. I don't care if I murder someone. Everything I’m saying is gospel, it's all true”. That day, 34-year-old Joe Gynane was charged with two counts of attempted murder, two counts of assaulting an emergency worker and the possession in public of an offensive weapon. But who was responsible for these attacks? Was it Joe, or his addiction? The trial of Joe Gynane began at the Old Bailey on 23rd September 2019, before Judge Richard Foster. Faced with all four charges; he admitted his guilt to the two lesser offences, he pleaded guilty to GBH with intent on 16-year-old (REDACTED), but pleaded ‘not guilty’ to Mohamed Elmi’s murder. Instead, he would plead guilty to his manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility. The evidence was self-explanatory, as without a shadow of a doubt, the prosecution and the defence agreed that Joe had plunged a knife five times into Mohammed. Both sides agreed that Joe was an addict who suffered from a personality disorder. But where-as Dr Farnham for the defence said that; (owing to his addiction) his drug-use was involuntary, at the time of the killing he was suffering from “polysubstance dependence syndrome and cocaine psychosis”, thus his responsibility was diminished. Conversely, Dr Blackwood for the prosecution disagreed with how severe his disorder was and how dependent Joe was on drugs, thus his motive for murder (being robbery) was a conscious decision. This was the core of the jury’s debate; what was a rational decision by Joe, an irrational decision by his addiction, and where did his decision-making deviate from voluntary to involuntary, or did they? What was rational? Not staying with his mum, not sleeping at his bail hostel, rejecting his methadone, breaching his bail conditions, going into Soho, seeking out drugs, or meeting-up with fellow users? Was the nausea, the mistrust, the paranoia, the anxiety, the sweats, the cramps and the seizures, as well as his skewed perspective and the auditory and visual hallucinations all voluntary, given the fact that he had taken the drugs and he knew the risks? Was the abuse he suffered as a child, his time spent in a care-home, his undiagnosed mental illness, and his life as an abandoned boy struggling and starving on the London streets, did that diminish his responsibility and mitigate the severity of his crimes? Was the robbery and the murder merely a logical step for a hopeless addict with sixteen prior offences for theft and assault? Or was his mind simply mangled by a life-long addiction to drugs? (End) So complex was the case, that the trial would take two-and-a-half weeks to complete, with the judge directing the jury “do not reach a conclusion until you had heard all of the evidence, in particular those by the psychiatrists” ... and yet, so confused would the jury become over exactly what constituted diminished responsibility, that it almost derailed the case and led to a mistrial. Having heard Joe’s own testimony, his poem, statements by Mohammed’s family and waded through a mountain of medical paperwork, after three-and-a-half-hours of deliberation, on the 9th October 2019 the jury returned with a unanimous verdict – Joe Gynane was found guilty of murder. Nothing less, with no lesser charge of manslaughter and not on the grounds of diminished responsibility. He was sentenced to life with a minimum term of thirty-years in prison, meaning he will not be eligible for parole until November 2049. By then he will be 64-years-old - not that heroin addicts live that long. He is currently serving his sentence at HMP Whitemoor in Cambridgeshire, where he wrote his award-winning poem, a poignant piece which mourned his past and predicted his future: “My core’s rotten, I should be forgotten. An outpouring of pain, shame, last stop for the thought train”. As stated at the start, diminished responsibility is determined by three key factors; an inability to understand the nature of your conduct, to form a rational judgement and to exercise self-control. But isn’t that what drugs do and isn’t that why we take drugs? To erase the horrors of our real-life, to flee from the trappings of a rational world, and enter the embrace of a place free from responsibility? Was Joe guilty? You decide. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, if you liked listening to this podcast, there is some non-essential extra stuff after the break, where we sup tea, maybe have a cake and dive into some extra stuff about this case. It’s not essential listening and it might not be for you, so feel free to switch off now if you’re not a fan of waffle. If you fancy treating yourself to some seriously good stuff, like a handwritten thank-you card from me, a goodie pack of stickers, badges, fridge magnets and (maybe) even a posh key-ring, early ad-free episodes of Murder Mile, rarely seen crime-scene photos, location videos, a weekly ebook, a secret podcast series called Walk With Me, back issues of Deadly Thoughts, exclusive merch’ (oh yes, I’ve got more Reg Christie, Blackout Ripper and Police Constable Arsenal Guinness mugs on the way), as well as a new treat - a weekly video series called Cake of the Week. Oooh, it’s the dirtiest kind of porn, where I share a video of a tasty cakey treat. You can access this by subscribing to the Patreon account for Murder Mile via a link in the show-notes, and your subscription will help support this handmade podcast. Of course, you can also help support us by leaving lovely reviews and sharing the show with your friends, which defeats the haters. Boo! Thank you. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of the fabulous Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk. |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. 
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