Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018 and iTunes Top 50. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
7 Archer Street (blue facade, now Gelupo) where The Blue Bunny Club was
Welcome to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within one square mile of the West End.
EPISODE FORTY-FIVE
Episode Forty-Five: On Monday 1st March 2004, Camille Gordon; a bubbly student with a beaming smile, a big heart and a bright future, who had no enemies, only friends, was stabbed to death outside of The Blue Bunny Club in Soho. But why?
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.
Ep45 – Who killed Camille Gordon?
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 London’s West End. Today’s episode is about Camille Gordon; a bubbly student with a beaming smile, a big heart and a bright future, who had no enemies, only friends, and yet someone wanted her dead. But why? Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatisation of the real events, it may also features 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 45: Who killed Camille Gordon? Today I’m standing on Archer Street, in Soho; one road south of Brewer Street where George Pickering stabbed Rosa O’Neill to death, five doors down from The White Horse where Larry Winters shot Paddy O’Keefe, and I’m right next door to the top-floor flat where Soho’s most infamous pimp strangled his most valuable sex-worker to death with her own stocking – only available on a Murder Mile Walk. Bookended by the bland back-end of Shaftesbury Avenue’s Apollo Theatre to the left and the infamous Windmill Theatre to the right, Archer Street is a former Victorian slum. And being a thin one-way street, barely 200 feet long, with strangely vague and oddly anonymous four and five storey buildings on either side, even on the brightest of days, Archer Street is cast in shadow. Feeling lifeless, joyless and soulless; although Archer Street is situated smack-bang in the middle of Soho’s sex district, in stark contrast, it’s drab, dark and deathly silent; looking like the kind of dirty hovel where trucks unload, waiters smoke, drunks widdle, crack-addicts puke and a certain bald tour-guide points to scenes of grisly death, all of which happen within a few feet of a primary school. Nice. Today (gasp, shock) Archer Street is being gentrified. And as much as I may lambast those hairy-faced hipsters who dress like a Yeti moonlighting as an Elizabethan chimney sweep, who talk like Danny Dyer quoting Pruste whilst dying of the plague, who’ve uploaded every single second of their miserable little life (even though they have all the personality of an anus) and who’ve over-complicated a simple beverage to such an extent it makes you want to scream “I just want a f**king cup of coffee”, (frothing, then calm) there is one bright spot on this whole street, and that is Gelupo at 7 Archer Street. A joyous and brightly coloured blue and white tiled Italian ice-cream shop, full of rich soft sumptuous scoops of mouth-wateringly inventive flavours such as tropical Eton Mess, blueberry cheesecake, chocolate earl grey and Pimms and lemonade. Oh yummy. (Sigh). And yet, beyond the sweet smell of icy treats, 7 Archer Street hides a deadly secret; as it was here, on Monday 1st March 2004, outside of an infamous Soho clip-joint called The Blue Bunny Club, that an innocent woman called Camille Gordon was stabbed to death. (Interstitial) Why anyone would hate Camille Gordon is a mystery? Camille loved kids, she adored them, and with her life-long dream to become a nursery school teacher, it was obvious to anyone who met her that it was a job she was perfect for. Being described by those who knew her as “beautiful, inside and out”, Camille was warm, caring and loving; a vivacious girl who was instantly likeable, easily approachable and effortlessly patient, who could illuminate a room with a smile and could make any stranger feel welcome. And with silky smooth skin, soft gentle features, warm chestnut eyes and brown shoulder length hair, as a pretty girl with a heart of gold, Camille was the kind of person you couldn’t help but gravitate towards. So given her sweet, warm and generous nature, as a nursery school teacher, Camille would have been absolutely perfect. And yet, she ended up dead in the heart of Soho’s red-light district? Born on the Caribbean island of Jamaica in 1981 and raised in a strong, loving and supportive family, although they struggled financially; Camille had a very normal upbringing. And even though her grades were good, by the turn of the millennium, feeling that the her homeland lacked the opportunities she needed to truly fulfil her dream, with her mother’s blessing, 21 year old Camille waved farewell to the sun-kissed tropics and headed to the bright prospects but miserable drizzle of England. Described by a close friend as “a little bit naïve”, being a young girl in a strange land, although England was an exciting place, Camille was street-smart, and was not about to take any risks. Staying with relatives, Camille lived for two years in the industrial city of Birmingham in the West Midlands; studying at Handsworth College by day, and working as a waitress by night, with additional hours as a nursery assistant at weekends. And although she was stuck in the classic student dilemma of either being too poor to eat, too busy to earn or too tired to learn, she remained totally focussed on her goal. And so, by the summer of 2003, Camille graduated with a teaching certificate. With her dream coming true; being eager to start her career, to pay off her student loan and to earn a modest wage (some of which she would send home to support her mother), Camille moved to the bustling city of London. But times were hard, money was tight and with nursery placements being few-and-far between, temp work being badly paid and waitressing only available at unsociable hours, seeking to supplement her meagre income with a well-paying part-time job whilst she enrolled in further education, Camille struggled to make-ends-meet. So, one night, in the bleak winter of 2003, being a pretty girl with a slim figure, a soft voice and a sweet face; dressed in six inch-heels, black stockings and a tight-fitting dress, Camille sashayed up Rupert Street into the dark heart of Soho’s red-light district. Surrounded by a sea of seedy sex-dens which bathed her silky skin in a gaudy neon haze, as Camille tottered along the puke-splattered urine-soaked street, dodging drunks and leering louts, she was enveloped by the pitch black gloom of Archer Street. As against the dark sinister façade of number 7, in a doorway draped in a purple velvet curtain and under a flashing neon sign which simply read “girls”, Camille stood, as hostess at The Blue Bunny Club, luring horny young men near with a wink, a smile and a come-hither finger, as for just a fiver, she promised them a “good time with a pretty lady”. (Interstitial). But this is not what you think. This is not a story about a vulnerable young girl; who being broke, hungry and hard-up, sinks into drink, falls into drugs, is sold by a gang into the Soho sex-trade, and (in a vicious circle of abuse) is murdered simply for disobeying her pimp. Far from it. This is a story about a bright girl with a big heart, a warm smile and a blossoming dream of becoming a nursery school teacher. And it still is. That was her goal and she was going for it. But she didn’t have a dark side, she wasn’t leading a double-life and she wasn’t starving, desperate or forced. Camille had no criminal record, she rarely drank, she didn’t do drugs and her only debt was a student loan. And although, being a hostess in a notorious Soho clip-joint was outside of her comfort zone; as a part-time job, the hours were short, the pay was good and – with her role requiring no nudity or sex-acts, of any kind, by strict orders of the management - all she had to do was talk and smile. So as a smart, strong and ambitious young woman, the decision to become a hostess at The Blue Bunny Club was one she had made independently… and yet, just a few months later, someone would want her dead. But Camille wasn’t unique; with clip-joints and lap-dancing clubs being on the fringes of the sex-trade, both of which are licenced by the local council; with London being the most expensive city in Europe, given a choice between waitressing for a minimum wage, stacking shelves at night, or bar-work whilst being accosted by drunken louts, many hostesses and lap-dancers aren’t trafficked women, but are actually students, nurses and young mums; all busy girls with big dreams looking for quick (and entirely legal) cash, whilst being protected by strict laws, CCTV and a barrage of burly bouncers. As one lap-dancer said to me, “I only work one night a month; but it pays well, everyone’s very nice and I feel safe, and what I do here (let’s be honest) it’s no different than what I do at hot yoga”. And in the same way that outside of almost every club, bar or restaurant in almost every city, the first person you’ll see is a hostess; a beautiful young woman who is instantly likeable, easily approachable and effortlessly patient, and who can make any stranger feel welcome. So being a hostess at The Blue Bunny Club was merely a well-paying part-time job in a role that Camille was perfect for. By Monday 1st March 2004, Camille had enrolled in further education; her rent was paid, her life was good, she was happy, well and thriving. But that night, a total stranger would be fuelled by so much hatred for Camille that he would end her life forever… and yet, they had only just met. But why? To understand the murder, you have to understand how clip-joints like The Blue Bunny Club operate. And to do that, you’ll need to come with me, on a little walk into Soho. Don’t worry. It’ll be okay. The date is Monday 1st March 2004. It’s 5pm. As you slip out of the rush-hour bustle of Shaftesbury Avenue, you slink onto Rupert Street; a short cobblestoned road strewn with swirling litter, its slight incline stretching up passed a dither of day-time drinkers, a huddle of homeless beggars and a prong of porn-perusing perverts clutching bafflingly indiscrete brown paper bags. But what draws your eye, is that in almost every doorway, on both sides of the street, stand long lines of very pretty girls; all slim, semi-clad and smouldering. Being young, inexperienced and desperate, a smorgasbord of lovely ladies - who’d usually look right through you - beckon you nearer with sultry smiles and ‘come to bed’ eyes. And with every book-shop, brothel, strip-club, S&M store and porn-theatre screaming the word “sex”, as gaudy neon signs flash with unsubtle subliminal messages like ‘girls’, ‘nude’ and ‘triple X’, sex is why you are here. But as any farmer will tell you, just because you’re in a field of cows, it doesn’t mean you can buy a steak. And as a nervous young lad; too shy to watch strippers, too timid to be lap-danced and too terrified to bust your cherry in a brothel; with your heart racing, your mouth dry and walking awkwardly as you struggle to stifle a burgeoning boner, not wanting to be noticed, you’re lured into the shadowy gloom of Archer Street and the dark façade of The Blue Bunny Club. But there’s no need to be scared, it’s not menacing, it’s reassuring. As from the brightly lit doorway, bathed in a pink neon haze (that hints at hidden flesh) and amidst the heart quickening pulse of disco, a stunning young lady with silky smooth skin, soft gentle features and warm chestnut eyes lures you near with a wink, a smile and a come-hither finger. And being the type of girl who could make any stranger feel welcome, everything she says in her soft Jamaican lilt is what you want to hear. As in a swirl of words like “girls”, “drinks” and “erotic show”, being stood next to a large sign which reads ‘£5 entrance fee’; with security cameras on the ceiling, bouncers on the door and the club’s terms and conditions fixed to the wall, thinking “wow, if she’s the lady they put on reception, imagine the bevvy of beauties that await me inside?”, you hand her your crinkled fiver, and as she slides back the purple velvet curtain leading down into the excitement of the basement, in a voice as warm and reassuring as a nursery school teacher, she says “have fun”, as you descend into The Blue Bunny Club. With each step, your mind imagines the world within; a paradise for your swollen penis and a nirvana for your aching nads, as amidst a cavernous expanse of naked flesh, stunners sway on swings, pretty ladies slide on phallic poles and bosomy babes frolic together in a champagne fountain, as a sweaty heaving mass of young men, swarmed in a sea of jiggling boobs and butts, lie exhausted like dribbling wrecks, their bodies trashed by a life-changing orgy of carnality and debauchery. And as you reach the bottom step, your heart racing, your mouth dry and your loins engorged, as you excitedly pull back the plush red curtain of your sexual utopia, the first thing that greets you is… disinfectant, the oddly un-erotic whiff of an anti-bacterial floor cleaner which stings your nostrils. For a few seconds, as your eyes acclimatise to the dark, you wonder if you’ve stumbled into the broom-cupboard, but slowly, across the small gloomy room, you see a tiny wooden bar, an empty stage and several stained sofas, on which sit a handful of single and rather awkward looking men. Realising your mistake, as your Adam’s apple bobs and your sphincter tightens, you quickly turn to leave, but behind you a beef-cake bouncer blocks your only exit, and as you nervously utter “it’s a bit quiet”, with an emotionless yet menacing look, the looming lump growls “it’s still early” (which – no matter what the hour - it always is) as the barrel-chested brute ushers you towards the bar. Needing a stiff drink to steady your nerves, as you sidle up - your shoes struggling to rip free from the un-arousing grip of the sticky lino - you scan the poorly-lit wooden alcove for any tipple which takes your fancy, but with no draft taps, no spirit optics and no branded bottles, you quiz the rather bland-looking barmaid “do you have any beers?” Audibly huffing like she’s unsure how to inflate a balloon, as – for the fiftieth time that hour – her razor sharp talons point to the drinks menu, which has just three options; soft drinks, low-beer and virgin cocktails, as she barks “we don’t serve alcohol”. And it’s true, they don’t. Clip-joints don’t have liquor licences, so legally they can’t sell booze, if they did, they’d be breaking the law. This was scrawled on the club’s Terms & Conditions, by the door, but as your swollen love-trumpet was too busy leading you downstairs, you didn’t bother to read it. So, as you slump onto a tacky red sofa, mottled with a mishmash of dubious stains (which you deduce are most likely to be Vimto, blackcurrant cordial or Rola Cola), you daintily sup the egg-cup’s worth of watered-down fruit-juice, a steal at just £20. And as the several scared men stare expectantly at the empty stage, as the unused pole gleams brightly, you think “maybe I just missed a show” or perhaps “it’s still early” (which – no matter what the hour - it always is)? But the truth is, clip-joints don’t have an entertainment licence, so legally they can’t put on a show, if they did, they’d be breaking the law. And as a mildly attractive yet blatantly disinterested lady sits beside you; her face caked in half an inch of make-up to mask her look of disdain, being semi-sexily dressed in black like she’s keen to cop-off with a funeral corpse and being draped in a feather boa (as nothing says sexy like an itchy scarf made of a dead bird’s plumage), as her vague pleasantries clumsily segue into you buying her a drink (which – as an employee – surely she gets for free), suddenly you realise “it’s a con”. Nothing is going to happen between you and this lady. Nothing. Not a kiss, a hug or a how-do-you-do. This is a clip-joint, they don’t have a sex-establishment licence, so even a legally acceptable sex-act like a striptease or a lap-dance cannot take place, if it did, they’d be breaking the law. Furious that you’ve been duped into blowing £25 to sit alone for several minutes in an empty club swigging fruit cordial, you get up to leave… but beyond the suspiciously mottled red velvet curtain should be a set of dark-lit steps ascending to the club’s only exit, except it’s blocked by two tree-trunk sized apes in tuxedos, one of whose gigantic hairy fists hands you a bill. “What? I already paid”, you mutter “a fiver on the door and twenty quid for the drink?” And as your brain scrambles to fathom how you could possibly have accrued such an extortionate bill in such a short period of time, thinking this could be a prank, their unflinching faces say otherwise. Here, everything costs; from the privilege of talking to the hostess and the honour of buying her a drink, to the pleasure of missing a show, and with the bar having a “two drink minimum” spend and a £300 service charge on top, all of which were clearly in their Terms & Conditions and none of which you bothered to read, so – for now - you’re not going nowhere, until they get their money. And as two oversized brutes loom over you; their colossal callused hands perched upon your trembling shoulders as their hot-breath snorts down you perspiring neck, as you fumble for your wallet, you consider calling the Police? But on what charge? They haven’t broken the law, and - besides – it’s not like you’ve been mugged, face it, you are the mug. Many men feel so ashamed that they pay in full, some are so terrified that they hand over their wallets, some plead poverty only to be frog-marched to the nearest cash-machine, and yet, some men become so enraged that by lashing out this allows the bouncers to use physical force. And feeling humiliated, cheated and robbed, most men chalk this up as a lesson learned and make the wise decision to never go back… but one man? He wanted revenge. On Monday 1st March 2004, at 6:20pm, a customer approached; he was mid-twenties, 5 foot 8 inches tall and dark-skinned, wearing blue jeans, white trainers, a black hat with a white stripe and dark hooded jacket emblazoned with the motif of the Cleveland Indians Major Baseball League. Greeted by Camille and having paid his fiver, he was led downstairs into The Blue Bunny Club. Ten minutes later, being handed a bill for £370, a heated argument ensued, and having being fleeced to the tune of £90, the man was forcibly ejected by the bouncers; spewing curses as he stormed-off down Archer Street. For those at The Blue Bunny Club, this was just an ordinary day. But having been made to feel stupid, forty minutes later… the furious man returned. Camille was standing in the doorway; smiling, chatting and earning a few more pounds to fund her dream of becoming a nursery school teacher, a job which she would have been perfect for, as being a vivacious girl who was instantly likeable, easily approachable and effortlessly patient, she could make any stranger feel welcome. Except this stranger didn’t feel welcome, he felt angry and humiliated. But with the club’s owners elsewhere and the bouncers otherwise engaged, even though Camille was only a part-time hostess who he had briefly met barely moments before, seething with rage and being furious (not at her but) what she represented, he stabbed her once, in the heart. And after a long struggle, as she fought to stay alive, at 8:25pm, 23 year old Camille Gordon was pronounced dead. And even though the Police have his DNA, his fingerprints, his description and clear CCTV footage of the attack and his escape as he fled into Piccadilly Circus tube station and onto a southbound Bakerloo line train, even with a £20000 reward in place, her murderer remains at large. Camille Gordon was a beautiful young girl, with a sweet smile, a kind heart and big dreams; who had no enemies, only friends; who wasn’t hated, only loved, and yet – owing to a legal loop-hole on the fringes by Soho’s sex-trade, to which (for many decades) the council had turned a blind-eye – an innocent young woman was brutally stabbed to death by an angry man, simply because he didn’t bother to read the small print. So who killed Camille Gordon? That we may never know. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Don’t forget, if you’re a murky miler, to stay tuned for extra goodies after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week; Already Gone and Going Postal. (PLAY PROMO) A huge thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who are so desperate to see extra videos of my big fat head that they’ve signed-up for more. So either they use it to frighten their kids, to measure melons or they’re werewolves and my balloon shaped bonce reminds them of the moon? This week’s weirdos are Sisse Skovbakke, Lisa Lebo, Vicki Joseph, Ann Stangroom, Darren James, Katrina Van Der Vliet and Jennifer Yee. Thank you guys, there are more moon-faced vids coming your way. Also a big thank you to Marie, Tracey, Sean, Lorna and Sheryl, who booked into my Murder Mile Walk recently and thank you to Marie for the bakewell tarts… which mysteriously vanished, hence my big fat head. And… etc. But – of course – my biggest thank you is to everyone who listens to Murder Mile. Thank you to you all. 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.
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Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via iTunes, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In or Acast.
Catherine Street (was Brydges Street) where Moir's Bakery once stood
Welcome to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within one square mile of the West End.
EPISODE FORTY-FOUR
Episode Forty-Four: Between Friday 22nd, Saturday 23rd, Sunday 24th and Monday 25th March 1850, at 25 Brydges Street, a baker’s wife called Susan Moir was literally beaten to death. And although this story is almost 170 years old, it remains just as relevant today
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.
Episode 44 – Susan Moir: The Brutal Life of the Baker’s Wife.
Thank you for downloading episode forty-four of the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast. As a word of warning, this episode contains shocking acts of physical, mental and emotional cruelty inflicted by a husband on a wife, and although these upsetting events will be depicted in a dramatized way, every detail of this incident is true, and - for far too many people - this kind of life and death is a daily occurrence. So if you have been subjected to, or have inflicted abuse against a loved one, don’t forget that help is only a phone call away. Thank you for listening and stay safe. 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 London’s West End. Today’s episode is about Susan Moir; an East End pauper who escaped poverty to become a mother to two boys and the wife of a prosperous baker, and yet, her new life was a fate worse than death. Murder Mile is researched using the original court documents. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatization of the real events, it may also features 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 44: Susan Moir: The Brutal Life of the Baker’s Wife. Today I’m standing on Catherine Street, WC2; two streets east of baby-killer James Richardson Mills, two streets south of Dora Freedman (the West End prostitute supposedly slaughtered by the infamous maniac known as Soho Jack) and one street north of Waterloo Bridge where Bulgarian dissident Georgi Markov was assassinated by the KGB, using an umbrella – coming soon to Murder Mile. Wedged between the historic bustle of Covent Garden and the infamous theatre district of Drury Lane, being barely 800 feet long, Catherine Street is a short slightly sloped side-street which begins at the Theatre Royal, ends at The Strand and (with smog permitting) has stunning views of the Thames. Laid out in the 1630’s, Catherine Street (originally called Brydges Street) and its surrounding area was – and still is – a vibrant hub, as being crammed-full of theatres, pubs and posh eateries, it’s here where the play’s patrons swig back a pre-show pint, quaff coffee whilst quoting comedy, guzzle down a swift gin at the show’s interval, or copiously weep over an entirely fictional character’s tragic plight, which (in an easily digestible two-hour instalment) is recreated, on a fake stage, off a script, by badly-paid actors, whilst the wobbly-lipped patron wolfs down a plate full of waffle. Ironically, today it’s a place of happiness, laughter and joy, where loved one’s bond, where fear is a façade, and any tears are only temporary. And yet, there’s one truly heart-wrenching tragedy which played-out right underneath our feet, and it has remained untold, until today. If you’re wondering why this section isn’t filled with my usual mix of wit, jibes and sharp barbs, that’s because – as this is a deeply tragic story about the horrors of domestic abuse - there’s nothing funny to say. And although this murder occurred almost 170 years ago, it’s a story which is just as relevant today. As it was here, at 25 Brydges Street, from Friday 22nd, Saturday 23rd, Sunday 24th to Monday 25th March 1850, that a baker’s wife called Susan Moir… was literally beaten to death. (INTERSTITIAL) The most important moment in Susan Moir’s life was her death; as being a lower working-class woman of no historical importance living in an East London slum in the mid-1800’s, almost nothing is known about her sad and tragic life, except what happened in her final days. Her birth name was Susan Hare. She was born sometime (although we can’t be certain) during the bleak winter months of 1811, somewhere amidst the ragged filth and festering squalor of Stepney (in East London), as one of either six, seven or eight siblings, half of which died before they could walk. Like many off-spring raised to an East London pauper, Susan’s early life was tough, harsh and cruel. Living a hand-to-mouth existence; some days she ate, some days she didn’t. With diseases like cholera and dysentery running rampant, medicine was only for the wealthy. With malnutritian having ravaged her immune system, even a common cold could be deadly. And a sickly child, who played amongst the rats in the faeces-splattered streets with no shoes on her feet, who drank water which lay stagnant near an open cess-pit, and – every day – breathed in the thick soupy air of the choking industrial smog which hung across the city like a looming cloud of death; with a third of all children dying before their fifth birthday, if she didn’t starve, freeze or succumb to disease, the longest that Susan could hope to live for was into her mid-to-late thirties. So her chance of survival was literally just that – chance. And yet, for Susan, life was even worse; not just because she was poor, not just because she was lower working-class, and not just because she was sick, but because she was a woman. Like most young girls; except for two hours a week at Sunday school, she was denied a basic education; except for unskilled peace-work, she was denied any training or trade; and with no vote, very few rights and almost no say in her own future, the best that Susan could hope for, was to escape the poverty of her own ragged family, by being married-off into another. And so, it should have been the happiest day of her life, when in the spring of 1837, with her first baby boy on the way, 26 year old Susan Hare married a 31 year old a Scottish tradesman, with a steady income, an honest job, his own home and a prosperous bakers shop at 25 Brydges Street? He must have seemed like the answer to all of her prayers, as (with everyone needing bread) she’d never be cold, poor or hungry ever again. But her husband’s name was Alexander Moir, and when stated in his marriage vows that they’d be together “till death us do part”, he meant exactly that. (INTERSTITIAL). By 1850, Brydges Street was on its last legs; some of the buildings had rotted away, others had been ransacked by robbers and rats, and what remained was just decades away from being demolished. And as a thick choking smoke drifted east from Bielefeld's papier-mâché works and every bankside furnace and toxic textile factory belched out great plumes of noxious fumes, being just six years before Soho’s deadly cholera outbreak and eight years before The Great Stink which (having no sewer system) saw the city main source of fresh drinking water - the River Thames - turned into a festering pile of floating turds, London was not only dangerous, it was deadly. But for Susan, it was home. At 25 Brydges Street stood Moir’s Bakery; a rickety old two-storey building made of warped timber and crumbling stone. With the roof having caved in years earlier, only the front part of the upper floor was habitable enough to rent out to lodgers, so with the basement taken up by the bake-house ovens, and half of the ground-floor converted to a shop; the Moir family lived in the small back parlour, which comprised of a kitchen (where their children slept) and a simple bed for Alexander and Susan. To the outside world, it looked like perfect family business, with Alexander baking, Susan selling and their sons Alexander Junior (age 13) and Jack (age 7) delivering. And as hordes of hungry punters peered in through the shop’s large sash window, to see shelves lined with golden loaves, baskets of soft buns and trays of biscuits, crumpets and hot cakes, as one of the few pleasant smells on the whole street, Moir’s Bakery must have seemed like a dream? But upon entering the bakery, that delightful image would be shattered by the sight of Susan, the sound of screaming and the smell of fear. According to her autopsy, Susan Moir was 39 years old; she was five foot five inches tall; thin, pale and frail; with wiry brown hair, ruddy cheeks and callused hands. She walked with a stoop, but she wasn’t sick. She looked haggard, but she wasn’t old. She was always exhausted, but she never slept. And with her sunken and bloodshot eyes ringed with dark circles, her uneven cheeks swollen with an unsightly mix of yellow, brown and purple bruises, two broken fingers, several missing teeth, her whole body covered in welts, and her jaw hung open and low so her ghostly white face looked as if it was perpetually stuck in the midst of a scream, even though – by those who knew her – she was a deeply devoted mother who would do anything to protect her boys; she was always scared, tired and broken, and – to combat this, it is said – she would drink. And so, what follows are the last days of Susan Moir. Friday 22nd March 1850 was bleak, wet and cold, as a bitter wind whipped down Brydges Street and washed an inch-thick torrent of rain towards the Thames. Times were hard, money was tight and sales were short, so with good bread going to waste, once again, Alexander tutted. Having worked sixteen hours-a-day for seven days a week since Christmas, it probably never occurred to him that drink wasn’t the reason his wife swayed unsteadily on her feet, that a swollen jaw was why her speech was slurred, or that being bruised was why she moved so slow, but with business being bad, and as she ran the shop, he knew that she was to blame. Alexander Moir was as 44 year old Scottish baker; a blunt brutish bully-boy who was short and squat like a bulldog, with an unkempt beard, unblinking eyes, a humourless grin, and – after a stint in the navy – he had arms like tree-trunks, fists like lump-hammers and a temper as short as his fuse. So why she loved him? Or whether she ever did? That we shall never know. By all accounts it was a regular night; as – at a little after 11pm - Susan kissed goodnight to her two boys who shared a mattress made of horse-hair and straw, which was nestled beside the kitchen fire, and as she stood on the cold stone step by the sink, she washed-up the last of the bakery’s spoons, dockers and earthenware crocks, which were baked black with burned-on crumbs and crusts. With the candles out, the shutters down and the door’s iron bolt slid tight, the shop was shut for the night, but before his bed (which – for most bakers – was just four hours a night, at best) Alexander trudged down into the dark basement. In the bake-house was 14 year old baker’s apprentice John Johnston; and with this being his first week, being eager to please his master, as well as being a little bit scared, John set about making the dough and promised to wake his employer at 3am sharp. But that night, no-one would sleep. It began just shy of midnight, as raised voices echoed through the thick oak beams of the bake-house ceiling; the man’s gruff bellow was furious, the woman’s timid squeak was terrified, as with repeated thumps and thuds, as furniture crashed, crockery smashed and a petrified woman was repeatedly dragged from wall-to-door-to-floor screaming "you'll kill me, you'll kill me", it was then that the man growled "I'll murder you before I am done with you". But fearing for his job, and his life, 14 year old John Johnston did nothing, as the violent beating of Susan Moir continued late into the night. Susan hated her life, so she drank; because she drank, so her husband would beat her; and because he would beat her, so she drank. And yet, for Susan, there was no escape. As a devout Catholic, the Church had denied her any chance of a divorce. As a wife, legally she had no right to separate. As a victim, her only refuge was the dreaded workhouse. As a daughter, she was the responsibility of her spouse to feed, clothe and chastise. And as a woman, having promised before God to “love, honour and obey” her husband, being trapped in a violent marriage, Susan was stuck “till death us do part”. By the crack of dawn, the only sound heard was the roar of the bake-house ovens, as - in a gruff silence - Alexander bundled the freshly baked bread into a wicker basket, and as John readied himself to make the morning’s deliveries, he noticed that his master’s fists were cut, scuffed and caked with blood. Having climbed the stone stairs, the first time John saw Susan that morning was in the shop, as - in his own words - he would state in court “she looked a dreadful sight”. Being barely able to hold herself upright, a sixteen hour day ahead of her, as she unsteadily stumbled, Susan tried to prop herself up against the wooden counter, but every time she did, she would wince in pain, as her fingers, hands and forearms were black and swollen, having tried to protect her face from the onslaught of his fists. But her face was unrecognisable; and being a mismatched puffy mess of lumps, bumps, scrapes and cuts, John could hardly to work-out where her nose stopped and her cheeks began, as with her right eye being too swollen to open, through her tears, Susan saw very little, and said even less. By 3pm, being barely half-way through her working day, Susan’s cousin popped into the shop; and although the sight of black-eyes and the sound of screaming was a common occurrence in the bakery, for Mary Ann Bryant, this turbulent relationship had truly taken a turn for the worst. Whether Susan staggered, stumbled and slurred her words owing to an excess of booze or a volley of beatings is unknown, as - having knocked her so insensible that she’d forgotten one-too-many bread orders that day - with Alexander being furious, as customers fled from the bakery, he pummelled the puffy swollen flesh of Susan’s ruptured face with his hard bloodied fists, and with the timid woman being too shattered to simply raise her blackened hands to shield herself, as roughly a dozen blows rained down, each fist struck her squarely in the face and back, again and again and again. Having demanded that his lazy feckless wife quit her dilly-dallying and refill the window display with fresh stock, Susan tried to arrange a line of two-penny loaves, but as her world spun wildly and everything went black, she lost consciousness and collapsed; there was a hard thud as she landed face first on the hard wooden floor, ripping a one inch gash across her forehead as a trickle of blood wept from her swollen right eye. Shocked by the ferocity of his violence, Mary-Ann cried “get her up, she needs help”, to which Alexander – his sole focus being to bake a fresh batch of York biscuits – snorted “Let the drunken bitch wait there till she comes to herself". And with Mary-Ann being too slight to lift the cataleptic woman up, there Susan stayed, slumped under the buns in the shop’s window, as customers came and went, crusty loaves in hand, chattering and gorping, as a battered and barely conscious woman lay in a crumpled heap. A short while later, Susan slowly regained consciousness, and through bloodied and malformed lips which mumbled barely intelligible words as drool spooled down her chin, she begged Mary-Ann to ask her husband to let her lie down, to rest and to recover from her injuries, but Alexander said no. Eager to aide her semi-comatose cousin - who struggled on, in the shop, for many hours more, serving breads to bemused customers - Mary-Ann set about covering some of Susan’s chores; like washing their clothes, cleaning the parlour and cooking the family’s dinner, as she tended to Susan’s cuts and swellings, but it would all be for nothing. At a little after 8pm, on Saturday 23rd March, as their two boys sat silently at the kitchen table, their heads staring at their laps for fear of incurring their father’s fists, Alexander slapped Susan hard, having found a half-empty bottle of gin hidden in a nook. By now, being so used to his abuse and with her face being a bulging mess of tough puffy welts, she barely felt his hand impact, as her salty sobs mixed with blood making it seem like she wept pink tears, and yet still she screamed, as - to Susan – the misery and the pain of her daily beatings were as commonplace as breathing. Moments later, Mary-Ann served dinner; and having said Grace, the family sat down to mutton chops, potatoes, carrots, peas and gravy. The aggrieved Alexander should have been moderately happy (given the day’s many disturbances) that his dinner was on the table, on time, and that Mary-Ann was actually a good cook, but still he sat there fuming about the failures of his drunken wife. And as Alexander scooped an overloaded fork of food into his bearded gaping mouth, he spat a volley of peas as he shouted "This is more like gravy, not the watery soup you make", but as Susan was too tired to retort (which he took as insolence), he hurled half of a hard-baked loaf at her head, as its rough edges ripped open an old wound. Through sheer agony, with every inch of her exhausted body being bloodied, beaten and bruised, as Susan tried to stand-up, her trembling legs barely held-up by two blackened arms, Alexander slammed her back into her seat, forcing her freshly bruised backside down onto the hard wooden chair, as – with a mashed mouthful of potato – he spat "If you don't finish your meat, I will send for a rolling-pin, and will force it down your throat”. And like a dark shadow of death which loomed over the tiny trembling woman, there he stood; staring, seething and snarling, as her numb fingers struggled to raise the shaking fork to her swollen lips, but seeing her inability to eat, not owing to her injuries but due to her drunkenness and selfish petulance, as Susan’s broken fingers dropped the fork, Alexander exploded with rage. The assault was sustained, vicious and swift as a flurry of heavy fists and booted feet flew into Susan’s legs, back and face. And as the man who had once sworn an oath, in Church and to God that he would always “love, honour and protect her”, as his wife cowered on the hard wooden floor, curled-up like a ruptured ball, as she screamed for him to stop, he savagely beat her until her body went limp. But Susan didn’t die, not then, not yet. As even though her pummelled face was said to be “the colour of sheep’s liver”, her swollen lids had rendered her right eye blind, and her brown wiry hair was matted thick with congealed blood, she struggled on for the sake of her boys. And all the while, as Mary-Ann washed her cousin’s cuts with cool water, Alexander sat by the fire, his feet-up, smoking a pipe. One hour later, as Susan unsteadily slumped against the sink, desperate to complete her nightly chores for fear of upsetting her husband further, as her aching fingers scrubbed the baked-on crusts of the earthenware pots, and as an irregular gush of blood thrummed and thumped through her aching brain, suddenly everything went black and – again - she collapsed. The heavy thud should have alerted Alexander that his wife was in trouble. Her stillness should have rang an alarm bell that all was not well. But it didn’t. As seeing his lazy useless wife, lying down like an unruly mutt, her stupid head slumped against the cold kitchen step like the silly cow was spitefully defying him by taking a little nap, he bellowed “Get up you drunken bitch”, and when she didn’t, wearing hard leather boots, he repeatedly kicked her legs, her body and her head. Susan didn’t fight back, she didn’t scream, and she didn’t even move, as being either so bruised, unconscious or beyond caring, she just lay there. And with Alexander, once again, refusing to pick her up, Susan lay slumped in an insensible mess on the cold kitchen floor, for the next two hours, By Sunday 24th March, with Alexander having denied her the right to rest in her own bed, as her persistent bleeding would have soiled his sheets, Susan was moved to the horsehair and straw mattress that her children slept in, nestled on the floor, next to the kitchen fire, like a dog; and there she lay, silent, still and barely breathing except in low rasps gasps. At 8pm. Mary-Ann returned, when she asked Alexander how Susan was, he huffed that she “was in a very bad state” and that he was “astonished that ‘it’ had lasted as long as it had done”. And when asked if he had sent for a doctor, he said “no, there was no need”, but Mary-Ann insisted. Dr Joshua Watkins of nearby Chandos Street was called for and arrived at 25 Brydges Street just after 11am on the morning of Monday 25th March 1850, by which time, 39 year old Susan Moir was dead. On Monday 6th May 1850, at The Old Bailey, Alexander Moir pleaded not guilty to his wife’s murder. Having heard the testimony, examined the scene and viewed the body, a jury of 15 men assembled to debate the case at the Two Spies public house on Brydges Street. The evidence was overwhelming; every inch of Susan’s skin was covered in a patchwork of lumps, cuts, bruises and breaks; some were old, some were new, but all told a tale of terrified woman fearing for her life. And having removed six ounces of coagulated blood from her brain, the surgeon confirmed that Susan been beaten to death as she lay either unconscious or dying. In his summing-up, Mr Justice Cresswell stated that if the jury felt it was Alexander’s intention to beat his wife to death, then he must be charged with murder. But that if by beating his wife, his intention was only to cause her pain, and that as a result she died, then he must be charged with manslaughter. After a very short deliberation, for the brutal death and the physical, mental and emotional abuse he had inflicted on Susan, over two decades, the jury found Alexander Moir guilty… of manslaughter. Alexander Moir was sentenced to life, but he served just twelve years. And although, as an East End pauper, Susan had escaped poverty, disease and malnutritian by becoming the wife of a prosperous West End baker, being beaten black-and-blue every day of her married life, the one horror she could never escape was her violent husband. Susan Moir was buried in a pauper’s grave, somewhere in East London, but her exact whereabouts are unknown. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Don’t forget, if you’re a murky miler, to stay tuned for extra goodies after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week; Wine & Crime and Affirmative Murder. (PLAY PROMO) A huge thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who (following my previous advert) desperately wanted to have super perky sky-pointing tits and lethally-long dongs which dragged on the floor, and those lucky people are Taya Brendle, Ladislav Eichler, Amanda-Jayne Lamb, Debbie Halliwell, Robert Lee-Floyd Williams, Jason Aberchrombie and Ashley Shannon, although they will be easy to spot. Also a big thank you to Tom who came on my Murder Mile Walk and very kindly became a cash Patreon. And a special thank-you to Stacey Conover who as a mega-patreon not only gets gravity defying boobs for life and a man-trumpet so long it’s a trip-hazard, but also she will receive a very exclusive Murder Mile mug – only one of two currently in existence. Ooh! But – of course – my biggest thank you is to everyone who listens to Murder Mile. Thank you to you all. 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 or Acast.
Bryanston Court today (identical to how it looked in 1942)
Welcome to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within one square mile of the West End.
EPISODE FORTY-THREE
Episode Forty-Three: On 30th December 1942, in 112 Bryanston Court, Marion Lees-Smith was a single mother who was struggling alone to cope with the daily demands of Derek - her deaf and brain-damaged son. And as frustrated and exasperated as Marion would often be, her death would come about, not by exhaustion, but by the hand of her own son.
THE LOCATION
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Ep43 - Murder of Marian Scott Key Lees-Smith by her son Derek Thayer Lees-Smith
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 Marion Lees-Smith; a single mother struggling alone to cope with the daily demands of Derek - her deaf and brain-damaged son. And as frustrated and exasperated as Marion would often be, her death would come about, not by exhaustion, but by the hand of her own son. Murder Mile is researched using the original police investigation files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatisation of the real events, it may also features 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 43: Marion Lees-Smith: The Rich Mum, The Deaf Son and the Paltry Sum. Today I’m standing on George Street, W1. And like most places on Murder Mile, it may sound familiar, because we’ve already been here before; as we’re just one road south of first failed assassination of former Iraqi Prime Minister (Abd ar-Razzaq Said al-Naif), one road north of the badly bungled abortion of Helen Mary Pickwoad, one square west of The Blackout Ripper’s first victim (Evelyn Hamilton), and three blocks south of the terrorist tube bombing at Edgware Road – coming soon to Murder Mile. In front is Bryanston Court at 137 George Street; a seven-storey mansion-house covering half a square block; with brown brick walls, black wrought iron railings, art deco lamps and with four huge Doric columns in chalk stone on either side of a black wooden door, it looks very much like an old bank. Like much of Marylebone, George Street is rather grand, as being named after the most infamous of Britain’s mentally-unwell monarchs - as it’s here that that (the unfairly dubbed) mad King George III ranted, raved and recuperated from the debilitating blood disorder of porphyria - although this sleepy side-street is chock full of five-star hotels, mansion houses, embassies, galleries and lines of posh cars (like a very literal willy measuring contest), oddly - for a major metropolitan city - there’s no people. It’s lifeless, joyless and colourless; bland, dull and beige, like a potato waffle coated with caviar, like a Tory MP in a tux, or like that very white kind of 1980’s poodle poop… only sprinkled with lots of pearls. It’s a place so false, no-one has their original name, nose, voice or spouse; and with so many nips and tucks, anybody you do see is totally unable to sit, smile, stand, talk, walk or jiggle their norks, as they look like they’re staring straight into a force 10 gale. And with many of the flats owned by bankers as a tax dodge; the only life on George Street, are those uptight twats in tweed suits who drive their Bentley’s at half the speed of a bunged-up slug’s bowel movement, and those mummified corpses in mink coats, who stink of moth balls and gin, and walk a £5000 fluffy rat on a very posh piece of string, And although, in Bryanston Court, the three-bedroomed apartment of Wallace Simpson (the American wife of abdicated King Edward VIII) recently sold for £5.35 million, it was also here, on the night of Wednesday 30th December 1942, in flat 112, that a devoted and well-off mother called Marion Lees-Smith was murdered by her son, over a paltry sum of just £2. (INTERSTITIAL) Life was idyllic for Marion Lees-Smith. Raised as a well-mannered, educated and a devoutly religious lady from a wealthy and upstanding family, although a native of Chicago, having married Norman (an executive for the Canadian Pacific Railway), together Marion and her husband would travel the world. By 1920, being berthed in the bustling city of Shanghai (China); as a major international trade port and one of the east’s most important financial centres, Shanghai was in its golden age; and being bathed by bright coloured lights, stunned by the hectic buzz of the city, and knocked-out by the sweet sizzling smell of steamed crab, beggar’s chicken and shredded duck dumplings, Marion was in her element. She lived in a stunning three-storey house on the prosperous Nanking Road; was served by a butler, a housemaid and a chef; wore tailored dresses, fine jewels and handmade shoes; and as a 40 year old globetrotter from a wealthy family, with no commitments or responsibilities just a very active social life, as money was no object, Marion could literally buy anything… except happiness. As a hard-working but always exhausted executive, Norman was rarely home, and on the odd occasion he was, the faint cracks in their fractured relationship would show. Often they’d argue, always they’d fight, and so - with fate being so fickle – this was possibly the worst time to have a baby, but on 21st August 1922, Marion gave birth to a boy, and she named him Derek. Derek was (and would always be) their only child; and as a happy, normal and healthy baby, raised to two loving parents in a wealthy family, although he was an accident, Derek was adored. And with his doting mother smothering her beloved son with endless toys, good food, soft sheets and a nursemaid at his beck-and-call, even as a baby, Derek had a better life than most. But then, even in a truly idyllic setting, sometimes accidents do happen. It was a momentary lapse in concentration, as Amah (the family’s diligent nursemaid) was distracted for little more than a few seconds. With Derek being a restless two-year old; being unable to sit still, desperate to stand and struggling to peep out of his pram, as Amah looked away, the adventurous tot crawled over the pram’s canvas side, and with no sense of distance or danger, he slipped, and fell. The thud was heavy. The cobbles were hard. His head bled. And although motionless, as a pained wail burst from his bloodied lips which cut the chaotic Shanghai streets to silence and reassured Amah that the boy was still breathing, Derek was rushed to hospital, having landed on his head. “He was lucky”, the doctors said, as with no broken bones, only a superficial cut and a few bruises, being given a pill for the pain and a plaster, Marion took her son home and thought nothing more of it. But Derek had been damaged. It started with stutter; a simple tripping of the tongue over some troublesome words. Then he became unnaturally clingy, oddly silent and always cried, as if he was in pain. And as he retreated into his own little world, with his hearing slowly fading, by the age of 12, Derek was totally deaf. With Amah sacked, Marion became Derek’s full-time carer, and with his deafness being manageable, having invested in a hearing aid and lip-reading lessons, Marion was coping. But somewhere, deep inside of Derek’s head, something else had broken. (INTERSTITIAL) Having relocated to London, limited their social life and put their globetrotting days firmly behind them, having made their life stable for their disabled son, Derek’s demands had placed a great strain on his parent’s relationship, and although they stayed in touch, Marion and Norman had split. Part-funded by her family, Marion moved with her son into flat 112 on the sixth floor of Bryanston Court; a modern, well-furnished, two-bedroomed apartment. And as a little family stuck together in a tiny West End flat, with no-one for company but each other, although Marion and Derek were mother and son, to those who knew them, they seemed like an odd mix. With her globetrotting days long gone, 61 year old Marion was a pale, thin and hollow version of her former self, and although she was fastidiously neat and elegantly dressed, lacking any smile or sparkle, it seemed as if, every day, a little piece of her soul had drained away. And as a single woman, struggling alone, with a boy whose injuries she blamed on herself, Marion was the epitome of exasperation. Where-as Derek, always seemed awkward in his own skin, like a 20 year old man trapped in a 70 year old’s body. As with a messy mop of jet black hair perched above his elongated face, a dark crumpled suit which clung to his thin weedy frame, a set of horn-rimmed glasses with lenses like coke-bottle bottoms, so thick, they magnified his tiny eyes to the size of saucers, and – as his little legs walked with oversized strides – being forced to cart-about a clunking great hearing aid with its bulky battery in a carry-case, although he was deaf, delicate and socially-awkward, he was eager for freedom. Not a lot, just some… but with Marion always fussing, huffing and tutting, as a woman wracked with the guilt over her broken boy, believing she was being a good mum, she had encased him in a cocoon. A cocoon that Derek would never escape, even after he had stabbed his mother to death. In 1942, three weeks before Christmas, Marion was at her wits-end. Not from the strict rationing with the country’s food stocks in short supply, the lack of clean water as water pipes burst (limiting each flat to just two buckets a day), or the barrage of Nazi bombers which – night-after-night – rained down death from the skies, but by loving him so much, she had nothing left to give. Every night, they’d fight; and although their little spats were never hurtful, spiteful or physical, the thin walls of their tiny flat echoed with the sharp sounds of screaming and sobbing as an exasperated mother and her frustrated son clashed. When Derek was a little boy, although they’d argue, Marion would always win; as being a strong willed woman and – more importantly - his mother, with just a finger, a look or even a tut, she could easily override the unruly demands of a such small boy, with a slow brain and a stutter, but now, he was a man. And although he resembled a 70 year old man trapped in a 20 year old’s body with a 8 year old’s brain, with Marion being a just little lady; as he grew taller in height, heavier in weight and greater in strength, the more she became older, weaker and more exhausted. Hence the cocoon, but she wasn’t being cruel. Like every loving mother, Marion only wanted the very best for her little boy, and so – with a modest allowance, a good education, love, trust and a hand to hold - she gave him freedom; she wanted him to grow, to bloom and - ultimately - to be free. But as a deaf, delicate and socially awkward boy, in a big city, who was a danger to himself, with his best interests at heart, there had to be limits. Determined that his disability should never hold him back, Derek was educated at some of Britain’s best private schools, but being described by his tutors as distant, erratic, distracted and intellectually deficient, for the third time in the last six months, Derek had dropped out of education. With an interest in animals, Marion arranged for work experience at a farm in the fresh air (and safety) of Saffron Waldon, but – being unable to keep hold of a single thought - Derek had grown bored before the first egg hit the straw. And so it went on. He couldn’t work, he couldn’t earn, he couldn’t learn. Being eager to do his bit for the war-effort, having sucked-up her fears (and a few tears) Marion helped her boy to enlist in the Army, but being rejected on medical grounds, with a warm hug, she reassured him he could help defeat Hitler by doing the Army’s admin, and so, he learned to type. In October 1942, Derek enrolled in a Pitman course on nearby Southampton Row, but by Christmas, he had quit. Marion was exasperated, exhausted and alone. She had tried everything and everything had failed. Even his modest weekly allowance of 12 shillings, which - although not much - was enough to give him some independence. But where-as once, as a boy, he’d spend the lot of sweets, now, as a man, he’d blow the lot on booze, making him deaf, delicate, socially-awkward and also drunk. To Marion - as a devout teetotaller - that was a step too far, and fearing she had lost control, she did the only thing she could do; she stopped his allowance, and – for the last time - the cocoon was shut. And that’s how it all began? Not as a bitter battle over an inheritance. Not as a long-standing feud over love. And not owing to a slow descent into drugs and drink. And even though (it is said) that Derek had been brain-damaged; he didn’t suffer with headaches, visions and never heard voices; he was never violent, cruel or committed a crime. He was just… quiet. It all began as a simple spat over a few pennies, between a loving mother and her slightly unruly son, as she tried to protect him from harm, as he tested the boundaries of his new-found freedom. It was an argument, which every parent, has with their child, every day. And resulted in a very normal murder. Three days before Christmas, like a marvel to the art of multi-tasking, Marion managed to find the time to establish the St George’s Club at 62 Great Cumberland Place; a small social club for members of the armed forces, which - as a proud and patriotic woman – she did as her bit for the war-effort. And although it kept her busy, it also provided her son with a good job, a regular income and allowed her to keep him busy and close. It seemed like the perfect solution to a small problem… but it wasn’t. Wednesday 30th December 1942 was Marion’s last day alive. And yet, like most parents, her morning had begun like any other, as being late for work, she impatiently banged on the bathroom door. It started as a simple squabble over the usual; her son having hogged the hot water, made a mess and failed to flush, that’s all. But somewhere in their war or words, Marion hit a nerve – as having merely mentioned that the club’s nightly takings were a little light – their sparks erupted into a scuffle, and in a truly rare moment of anger (which shocked them both) Derek struck his mother and stormed out. She wasn’t injured, cut or bruised, if anything, she was just disappointed. An hour later, he apologised. If she’d been hit by any other employee, they’d have been sacked. If they’d been as disorganised at their duties, they’d never have been hired. But having kept her boy on the pay-roll for ulterior motives, after one week, Marion’s patience was tested, and as she chatted to the club’s barman about this possible financial error, her face said it all, her trust had been lost. Derek saw this, and stormed out. Between 9pm and 11pm, at the New Inn public house at nearby Marble Arch, Derek sat alone, fuming, as he necked back four pints of mild ale, which was odd, as he hadn’t been paid. At a few minutes after 11pm, with the club closed for the night, Marion returned home. With the blackout blinds drawn and every light off, the flat was inky black, and although (just hours earlier, it was here that Marion and Derek had fought) its silence was eerie, as there was no sign of her son. As was her usual routine, Marion readied herself for bed; on the sofa she dumped her gloves, purse and shopping bags; as it was cold, she slipped on a bathrobe, a nightie, a woollen vest, a set of booties and scarf; to distract her mind, she sat at the kitchen table, her spectacles on, doing the crossword; and then, with slumber looming, she popped the kettle on the hob, and beside it, a hot-water bottle. At 11:20pm, Derek returned. And although their tiny flat was filled with a tense trepidation; no words were said, no tuts were uttered and no looks were exchanged, so seeing that his mother was already dressed and ready for bed, Derek went straight to his bedroom and popped on his pyjamas. On his bed lay her brown attaché case; in it were the club’s cash boxes, which she’d bring home every night. But it wasn’t what it was, what it contained, or where it had been placed which made Derek smile, but what it meant. As still being trusted to count the club’s takings, this wasn’t just her money, it was a symbol of trust, a reconciliation, and one last chance. With his pad and a pencil, Derek set about counting the cash. It didn’t take him long, not just because he was eager to please his mum - whose pale drained face beamed with pride from the doorway - but with the club being new, the takings were only small, and amounted to the paltry sum of just £2. And yet, as she slowly sidled up, to thank her son, she smelled the stale stench of booze on his breath. And that’s all it took; an accusatory sniff, an exasperated sigh and a withering look; the disappointed eye-roll of a frustrated mother whose trust had been lost, but it was enough to make Derek snap. With a vice-like grip, the loose pale skin of her wrinkled neck folded over his forefingers as both of his hands squeezed her throat tightly; his thumbs embedded into her windpipe, so deep, they cut-off her air and her screams, as standing over her, with wide staring eyes, her baby boy loomed large. And as her swollen tongue protruded from her pulsating purple face, with her blue lips agog, like her last ever words were trapped in the midst of a silent scream, as her whole world slowly went black… …Derek let go. Marion gasped for air, gulping down great mouthfuls of oxygen, as her pallid complexion returned. In court, Derek described this as “a moment of temporary insanity”, he just “wanted to frighten” his mother, and frightened she was, but as he stormed out of the bedroom, he knew he’d done wrong. Having taken the wailing kettle off the hob, as a small boy dressed in striped pyjamas, Derek stood in the kitchen; his breathing staggered, his eyes flooded with tears, as being both terrified and ashamed of the truly awful act which he’d done to his mum with his own two hands, hearing her sobs echo from the bedroom, to steady his nerves, Derek decided to fix himself a lime juice and ginger ale. And as he opened the cutlery drawer, his quivering hand hovering near to the bottle-opener, behind him, in the bedroom, he heard the distant crinkle of notes and the faint clink of coins being counted, as his mother checked the cash-box for theft. And in that instant, Derek went from shame to rage. With her back to the bedroom door, she didn’t hear her son return. With her head facing the bed, she couldn’t see him rush up behind her. And being so focussed on counting the club’s nightly takings, Marion did see that in the hand of her baby-boy had he held a four-inch black-handled kitchen knife. The first thing she felt was a hard thump like she’d been punched in the back, the force having shoved her forward into the bed, and feeling a warm trickle as blood ran down her spine, as she turned, and saw her own knife (last used to slice spuds) sunk deep in her back, right up to the handle, as her left lung slowly pooled with blood, Derek retracted the blade, and stabbed his mother again. The second stab wound sliced one inch deep into purple skin of her bruised neck, severing her larynx, and with the pleural cavity of her left lung now collapsed, being unable to breathe as she chocked on her own blood, Marion slipped into shock, frozen in fear, as slowly she began to bleed to death. And having turned to look into the eyes of her killer, the last sight Marion saw was her own son; as with his hand held high, gripping a bloodied knife, with every ounce of hate, spite and hurt, he stabbed her once, in the face, slicing open her lower lip and chin, right down to the jawbone. And moments later, 61 year old Marion Lees-Smith - mother of Derek - was dead. (END) At 9:15am, the next morning, Marion’s body was found by their housekeeper. The crime scene wasn’t difficult for Detective Inspector Clare to deduce; as with one dead body, an empty cash box, a locked door, her son missing, his fingerprints on the knife and his blood splattered pyjamas soaking in the sink, having being seen by the night-porter walking out of Bryanston Court barely minutes after her screams had died, with Derek as the Police’s only suspect, his description was issued to all stations. With £2 in his pocket, Derek finally got the freedom he had dreamed of… but with those few stolen notes adding up to little more than £90 today, by 6:30pm, being broke, sober and totally distraught, he handed himself in, stating in a mumbled stutter “The only thing I can say at my trial is I am guilty”. Except, he didn’t. On 16th March 1943 in a two-day trial at The Old Bailey; a tearful Derek pleaded not guilty to murder, but guilty to manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility. And with neither the defence nor the prosecution protesting the findings, with two doctors having confirmed he had a psychopathic personality disorder, an erratic heartrate and abnormal brain-waves consistent with an undiagnosed brain injury, when he fell from a pram aged two, the jury retired for just 1 hours and 40 minutes before they returned with a unanimous verdict of guilty… but insane. In a statement (spoken by his solicitor) Derek said “I am very sorry I did this awful thing… I have done the greatest of harm by disposing of my best friend in life”. Derek was sentenced to be detained at His Majesty’s Pleasure which he served at Broadmoor Psychiatric Prison. And although the protective cocoon of loving mother was created to shield her deaf, delicate and socially-awkward son from danger, for the sake a paltry sum, this one night of freedom left Marion dead and Derek trapped inside a very different kind of prison… forever. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Don’t forget, if you’re a murky miler, to stay tuned for extra goodies after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week; Outlines and Unseen Podcast. (PLAY PROMO) A huge thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who are Mark Williams and Alison Lee. As a big thank you, I’m donating to both of you, one of my livers, split in two. And it’s up to you what you do with it; either you can sell it, give it to a donor, grill it, fry it, sauté it, or – given that’s it’s only 10% blood but at least 90% neat Jack Daniels – I’d drink it. Go on, treat yourself. 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
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 or Acast.
Ormond Yard; No 6-7 (right) where Abracadabra was and No8 (brown garage) where David West Snr lived
Welcome to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within one square mile of the West End.
EPISODE FORTY-TWO
Episode Forty-Two: On the afternoon of Friday 12th December 2014, in Ormond Yard, a quiet back-street at the back of a garish restaurant called Abracadabra, larger-than-life businessman David West Senior was brutally stabbed to death by his diligent business partner and beloved son – David West Junior. But why?
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.
Ep42 – The Death of David West by David West
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 David West; two David Wests in fact; a father and a son, with Dave Snr being a self-made millionaire and Dave Jnr being the future heir to his empire, and yet, it wasn’t greed which ruined their lives, but a strange (and very familiar) kind of love. Murder Mile contains satire, upsetting details which may make the uneasy go “urgh” 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 42: The Death of David West by David West. Today I’m standing in Ormond Yard, just off Piccadilly Circus, SW1; one road west of St Alban’s Street where Greta Hayward narrowly escaped being the next victim of The Blackout Ripper, one tube stop south of the murder or suicide site of film star and boxer champion Freddie Mills – coming soon to Murder Mile – and (oddly) we’re back in the same street and the same building where the bungling assassins of Russian dissident Alexander Litvinenko left traces of highly radioactive Polonium 210. Situated at the rear of Jermyn Street, a haughty little back-street famed for its pointlessly pretentious art galleries, dusty musty bookshops, expensively bog-standard bistros, and a slew of bespoke tailors who’ll fawn over you if you’re famous, suck up to you if you’re a soap star, with a need to have their lips surgically removed from your anus if you’ve ever been on telly, and yet – with locked doors, alarmed windows and their noses perpetually set to ‘snooty’ – the second you walk in, they’re more likely to call the cops if (like me) you’re a nothing but an unknown cretin. Whereas Ormond Yard is just a yard, an off-street, a dead-end; and being barely 250 feet long by 15 feet wide, with an odd mix of non-descript buildings, it looks more like the service entrance to a chain-store than a posh place to plonk your bot. But that’s the point, as although these multi-million pound pads are full of actors, writers and designers, all hiding in vague anonymity, it was here, in the middle of Ormond Yard, on the evening of Friday 12th December 2014, that a gregarious, loud and garishly dressed self-made millionaire called David West was brutally stabbed to death, by his own son. (INT) Born on 14th March 1944, in the struggling market town of Romford (in Essex), David John West (known as “Dave”) was raised in poverty, as after five years of war-time rationing and with eight years of starvation and malnutritian still to come; back when tap water lacked purity, savings were a rarity and fresh fruit was a scarcity, Dave lived in a drab grey world, devoid of colour, health and wealth. Stuck in a hand-to-mouth existence; weak with hunger, shamed by his threadbare clothes and limited by a basic education, although he came from nothing, Dave was determined never to be poor, ever again. In 1962, as an ambitious but unskilled 18 year old, Dave enlisted in the British Merchant Navy, where he sailed the seas to far-flung regions of the East and West Indies, and although his stint was brief, it peeled open his eyes to a new world of opportunities, lit a raging fire under his feet, and fuelled his desire for travel, money and food, but first… there was fruit. Returning to his roots, for several years, Dave ran two market stalls in Brentford and Romford, and as a larger-than-life character; whose loud shirts were as gaudy as his fruit, who dripped in the tacky gold chains and sovereign rings of a poor man who wore all of his wealth - but had the ever-expending waistline of a rich man who ate well, drank heartily and never let anything go to waste - working every hour, of every day, Dave was a natural born entrepreneur, who was determined to be a success. In 1969, aged 25, being recently married to his pregnant wife (Kathy), Dave opened a small café in the Belgian village of Zeebrugge, serving chip butties and greasy fry-ups to throngs of British day-trippers who flocked to the newly built ferry port with empty-bags and bulging wallets, eager to stock-up on cheap booze and duty-free fags. And although it started small, it was here that an empire was born. Being a business which began in a caravan, by the mid 1980’s, having relocated to a vast warehouse in the larger ferry port of Calais on the French coast, Dave had opened Europe’s largest British owned cash-and-carry called Eastenders, which sold budget booze in bulk, cheap fags by the bag, £1 bottles of wine, and quickly made Dave a multi-millionaire who was hailed as “King of the Booze Cruise”. Life was good; Dave was rich beyond his wildest dreams, with a vast business empire, a £2.5 million house, a Rolls Royce, and a wardrobe full of bright pink suits, crocodile-skin shoes and chunky solid gold chains. He was married, happy and healthy with three lovely children. His first born was a boy, who he named David, after himself, and although he was eager that his son would enter onto greatness having inherited his empire… even though Dave Junior was deeply devoted to his dad, his notoriety would be as his father’s killer. (INTERSTITIAL). Born on 21st August 1970, David West Jnr known as “Little Dave” was the spitting image of his father; squat, sweaty and spud-headed, but a good lad with a big heart. And unlike most millionaire son’s, he wasn’t spoilt, rude or nasty, and never took anything for granted, as with a lot resting on such a tiny set of shoulders, just like his father, Little Dave would learn every nuance of the family business from the ground up, with lots of heavy lifting, long hours and very little pay. As a deliberately difficult and deeply divisive figure, Big Dave was described in a myriad of different ways; to some he was a maverick, a rebel and a trouble-maker, and to others he was brash, flashy and crass, and although some men might take those words as an insult, to Big Dave (who - as a part of his keenly crafted image of a “Essex barrow-boy turned business tycoon” - courted controversy) this was a compliment. And always, at his side, thought thick and thin, stood his beloved son. In 1999, Kathy and Dave’s thirty-year marriage ended in divorce, when the fifty-five year old pink-suited, gold-chained and mullet-haired lothario started an affair with blonde French waitress, thirty-one years his junior and a full four years younger than his own daughter. And although the family were devastated by the break-up, by his side - no matter what - was his son. Big Dave didn’t give a shit what anyone thought of him; he was his own man, a self-made millionaire with no-one to answer to but himself, and as he worked hard and played hard, the richer he got and the less he cared. His lived by this motto “my money, my rules”… and if you didn’t like that, tough shit. In 2001, two years shy of his sixtieth birthday, Big Dave ditched his 23 year old French girlfriend and shacked-up with a 21 year old Polish dancer called Jo. And although he could easily assuage her expensive tastes by lavishing this new “love of his life” with money, jewels and minks; as a sixty-one year old fat, sweaty and unattractive grandfather; with a Del Boy demeanour and a laughably gaudy dress-sense, who puffed, wheezed and cavorted on the dancefloor with a dolly-bird one third his age, before too long, Big Dave was snubbed by most of Mayfair’s exclusive private member’s clubs. The rejection was a bitter blow… but Big Dave was not a quitter, he was fighter. As a starving war-time child, who was shamed by his ragged clothes and his limited education, he’d fought back to become a businessman. As a British barrow-boy who barely spoke one word of French, he’d created a cash-and-carry empire in Calais. And now, being shunned by the London elite, Big Dave was going to stick it to the establishment, and with his ethos of “my money, my rules”, Calais’ very own “King of the Booze Cruise” became “King of the West End”. And as his business expanded, Little Dave became his partner. In May 2005, the father-and-son team opened their first nightclub called HeyJo, in the basement of 91 Jermyn Street with a back entrance at 6-7 Ormond Yard. It was tacky, gaudy and vulgar, a true assault on the senses, an affront to decency and an insult to good taste; with mirrored walls, pink frilly booths, red velvet sofas, urinals shaped like lips, gold-plated taps modelled after his own erect penis, and sexy waitresses dressed as naughty nurses, all serving his own brand of house wine, smuttily titled with labels like ‘The Dog’s Bollocks’ and ‘Ménage et Trois’, HeyJo was just the way Big Dave wanted it. And although the Jo had long-since gone, the new “love of his life” was his club. And as a stiff middle finger to the stuffy stuck-up Mayfair club-scene, it quickly became a success, and was swiftly followed by several more venues, including a lap dancing club called Puss In Boots, a strip bar called Mandy’s, a nightclub called Pigale, and an equally gaudy restaurant, above Hey Jo’s, called Abracadabra. By 2007, heavily aided by his loyal and devoted son, David West Snr had amassed a vast cash-and-carry empire, several West End nightclubs, a personal fortune of £100 million, and being listed in the Sunday Times Rich List as one of Britain’s wealthiest men, Big Dave was on top of the world… …with nowhere to go, but down. In contrast; when Big Dave lived in his luxurious £2.5 million house at 8 Ormond Yard, right next door to HeyJo, when he wasn’t working (which was rare) his son crashed in a modest two-roomed flat above the nightclub, which he rented off his dad; when Dave Snr was worth £100 million, Dave Jnr was paid a paltry wage of £500 per week; and as his father neared retirement age, although his son had dedicated the bulk of his life to their business, Dave Snr saw his thirty-five year old partner, as nothing more than a little boy. Although it is said that he truly loved his son, as a father, Dave Snr was not a big softie full of cuddles, kisses or kind words, or even encouragement, advice or support, but was a firm believer in tough love, and with Junior having never received a “thank you”, a “well done”, or heard “I’m proud of you”, being eager to prove his worth, Little Dave knew that their next venture would be his biggest test yet. Just above HeyJo, on the ground floor of 91 Jermyn Street, with a back entrance at 6-7 Ormond Yard, stood Abracadabra. But this would be more than just a fancy West End restaurant sat amongst several stuffy eateries, this would be another fuck-you by David West to high-society and the establishment. Everything about Abracadabra was deliberately wrong, ludicrous and deeply offensive, and just like HeyJo, this 150 seat restaurant was a monument to bad taste, which revelled in stirring-up a shit-storm and making those uptight hoity-toity talk, as (in Dave’s eyes) there’s no such thing as bad press. Described by one reviewer as like eating “an overpriced McDonald’s in a brothel”, Abracadabra served everything from the finest Russian caviar, Maine oysters and Brazilian lobsters, to cheap slop like pizza, pasta and burgers; swigged down with all kinds of posh plonk from a £29000 bottle of Cristal to a £20 bottle of Blue Nun, which diners digested amongst a décor so gaudy, it was impossible not to puke. Everything was either harlequin themed, mismatched or out-of-place; with an eye-watering mosaic of reds, blues, yellows and greens on every wall, door and floor; with burly doormen dressed as court jesters, chairs spray-painted gold like lavish thrones, table lamps like sexy legs in stockings, a giant Santa Claus carved from chocolate, and every square inch crammed full of images of naked ladies (like there had been an explosion in a teenage boy’s bedroom), as well as love booths, prick taps, lips pissers and tables which flipped-over to reveal kinky S&M bondage gear, just the way Big Dave wanted it. And although unconventional, Abracadabra was a roaring success, and having sweated, wept and bled over the restaurant, Little Dave felt he had done his dad proud… but if his dad was, he didn’t show it. As a man who always got his own way; age, Ill-health and an excess of alcohol had made Big Dave both bitter and belligerent, and where-as (after thirty years of working together) Junior still believed they were a father and son team, but in truth, he was treated less like the heir to the empire and more like the hired-help, who was there to be used, abused, insulted, humiliated and (ultimately) sacked. Big Dave was a drunken bully with a short fuse, a quick temper and a viscous tongue, which could reduce even the toughest of men to tears, and although he was never physically violent, for every hour, of every day, for (what would become) four and a half decades, he belittled his son, branded him a failure, poured scorn on every success, and – most hurtful of all for Little Dave, coming as it did from the man who he loved, his hero, his flesh and blood – his own dad deemed him a disappointment. And after too many years of slogging his guts out, earning a pittance and ending a long day by carrying the bloated twenty-five stone comatose bulk of his paralytic papa to bed, as he was too pissed to climb the stairs; soon enough, the pressure, the pain and the hurt got too much, and Little Dave walked out. One year shy of his seventieth birthday, although he was too proud to admit it, Big Dave was a mess. He was alone, frail and broke; and after half a century of heavy boozing, reckless spending and with the world being five years into an economic recession; Mandy’s was struggling, Puss in Boots had shut, Pigale was sold, his entire cash-and-carry empire had collapsed, and like giant garish leeches, both HeyJo and Abracadabra had brought him to the brink of bankruptcy. And as much as he hated his dad, for the way that he had been treated and for what he had done, his son still loved him, and needing to save his frail and feeble father, one year later, Little Dave returned… …but nothing had changed. Having grown angry with age and bitter with booze, as his devoted son struggled to balance the books, being too stubborn to relinquish any power, Big Dave drank away what little profits they had, and – almost as if he was too terrified of being usurped by his own son – everything they had created, he ran into the ground. And what began as a family business, soon ended with no business and no family. The last bitter battle of the two David Wests occurred on the afternoon of Friday 12th December 2014. Ormond Yard was deathly quiet, which was odd, as being the second-to-last Friday before Christmas, their garish harlequin-themed restaurant should have been abuzz with pissheads at office parties, but the street was ominously empty. And with no lights, no tree and no tinsel, just a depressed doorman dressed as a jester who stood guard outside of the bright pink façade of Abracadabra, although such a striking image was designed to be shocking, bold and silly – as if a six-year-old girl had defaced an old pub with a tin of pink paint in tribute to My Little Pony – now it just looked sad. Inside was no different, as nine years on; with its paint peeling, its décor drab and much of its sparkle gone, although a slew of tacky Christmas tunes played, in this garish eatery there was no festive cheer, seasonal joy or high jinks, in fact the only spirits were those consumed in abundance by both David’s. It began over a set of missing keys. Only they weren’t missing, they’d just been misplaced. And by 4pm, as Big Dave drunkenly scolded his son for something which wasn’t even his fault, a furious row erupted, which ended with the son flinging the keys at his father’s face, and then, he stormed out. For a whole hour they sat apart; alone, drunk and fuming, with Big Dave in Abracadabra and Little Dave in his flat, just one floor above, with neither willing to see eye-to-eye, to back-down or apologise. One hour later, desperate to make-peace with his dad, Little Dave returned to the restaurant. But the old man hadn’t softened, and having necked-back the best part of a bottle of vodka; as the fat bloated man, in a garish pink suit, sat on a gold spray-painted throne, and spat hurtful curses - like “failure”, “leech” and “useless” - in his boy’s tearful face, with never a “thank you”, those forty-five years of hard-work came to a crushing end, as David West Junior, heir to the empire, was sacked by his dad. The last recorded words ever said between the two David West’s was this; in a rare outburst Little Dave shouted “go f**k yourself” as he hurled a glass of vodka, which smashed a mirrored wall behind his father’s head, and as he marched out he shouted “I hope you drink yourself to death”. Being heartbroken, hate-filled and hurt by his hero, as he slugged back several whiskies, Junior began to pack his bags, as - for the very last time - he would leave his flat, his future and his father forever. Just shy of 6pm, Big Dave had drunk himself into a senseless stupor, and as the bitter alcoholic rambled and seethed, being surrounded by a handful of paying patrons, thinking it best that he sleep it off, his assistant (aided by a doorman jester) carried the former “King of the Booze Cruise” home. From a window, one floor above Abracadabra, Little Dave spied a pathetic sight, as the fat stumbling legs of his frail and feeble father buckled under his sweating and wheezing bulk, as - even with two aides - the intoxicated selfish mess (who was once a self-made millionaire) struggled to stagger even a few feet. And seeing his chance, Little Dave decided to have-it-out with his dad once-and-for-all. Strangely, although Abracadabra (at 6-7 Ormond Yard) was a garish pink eyesore, the epitome of its owner’s exuberance, just to the left, at number 8, although this was where Big Dave lived, the house was uncharacteristically bland; all brown-brick, bare wood and a flat-front. And as Little Dave pushed open the stylish dark-green front door, on the bright white carpet, at the foot of the stairs, in a crumpled mess of pink and gold, it looked as if a clumsy drag-queen had dumped a bag of trash, but they hadn’t, that was his dad. And as he stood there, looking down at his once great hero, lying slumped, drunk and comatose in a creased and sweating heap on the floor, although this frail old man was totally defenceless, inside his son stirred a bubbling rage as forty-five years of hate, abuse and humiliation spewed to the surface, as a history of hurtful words like ‘failure’, ‘leech’ and ‘useless’ bounded about his booze-addled brain. Big Dave gasped, his blood-shot eyes popping wide, as a ten inch kitchen knife was plunged deep and hard into the billowing rolls of flab in his thick fat neck, slicing open his caustic throat which (too many times had) scorned his son, and as Little Dave retracted the blade, it severed his jugular vein. And then, Big Dave gasped again, as still being angry, his spurned son stabbed the full length of the stainless steel blade deep into his father’s flabby chest, and (like a shocking piece of garish art in one of his truly tacky nightclubs) he left the handle sticking-out, embedded where once he had a heart. With his last breath, David West Senior crawled into Ormond Yard, and as a pink suited man, with a ghostly white face, lying in a sticky puddle of red, before too long, he was dead. (END) Conflicted by a cocktail of revenge, remorse and regret, Little Dave called the Police and confessed to his crime, stating "I would like to admit to a murder. I've just killed my father". And although, as the tearful man was arrested, being clearly wracked with a mix of guilt and glee, he couldn’t help but admit "I'm glad he's dead, but the thing is, I should have kicked the fuck out of him before I killed him". On the 1st September 2015, nine months later, the trial was held at The Old Bailey. And although, blood was found on his clothes, his fingerprints were on the knife, and 45 year old David West Junior had confessed to the Police, in writing, that he had killed his father, he pleaded not guilty to murder. With the first jury unable to reach a decision, a second trial was held, and the West family keen to put a permanent end to their pain, on Monday 9th November 2015, the prosecution accepted a plea of being guilty of manslaughter on the grounds of loss of control and diminished responsibility. And in a relationship between father-and-son, which was described as “toxic”, the recorder Nicholas Hilliard QC stated “it’s clear you suffered verbal abuse and aggression from your father for many years”. David West Junior was sentenced to thirteen and a half years in prison. He will be out in 2028, if not sooner. And of the £100 million fortune? By the time of his death, David West Snr had just £131,000 left in his bank, and – although he’d began as an Essex barrow-boy who became one of Britain’s wealthiest men – having blown-the lot; his empire, his estate and his son’s inheritance was worth… nothing. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Don’t forget, we’ve got some Extra Mile goodness after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week, which are In Sight and Strictly Homicide. (PLAY PROMO) A huge thank you this week to my new Patreon supporter; only one this week, but it’s about quality, not quantity right? And all Patreon supporters are quality (he says, in a non-arse-licky way). This week’s Patreon is Hayley Clarke. Thank you Hayley. I hope that this week is full of joy, wealth, health and happiness for you, and that – miraculously – your name and probably a question you have on your mind appears in Extra Mile. I don’t know how, maybe I’m psychic? 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
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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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