Nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST, 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Channel's Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
52 Coverdale Road, Shepherd's Bush, W12 (copyright @Googlemaps 2024, June 2022)
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND SIXTY-EIGHT:
On the evening of Monday 18th of September 1989, 40-year-old Christoph Schliack, an eccentric German who many only knew as 'The Prince' left the White Horse pub with two men. 30 minutes later, he would be brutally stabbed to death. But why? Was it political, personal, was it a robbery, or was it a known homosexual?
Note: the press mistakenly list Christoph's house as 150 Coverdale Road, it was in fact 52, according to his probate report, and that the road only goes up to number 60 - it always has done
THE LOCATION:
The location is marked with a forest green symbol of a bin on the west of London near the words 'Shepherd's Bush'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: (some, not all)
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on Coverdale Road in Shepherd’s Bush, W12; two streets east of the child rapist known as The Beast, one street south of the First Date killer’s last takeaway, three streets west of the crazed Shoe Box Killer, and two streets north of the bad booze bandit - coming soon to Murder Mile. Situated opposite the old Shepherd’s Bush police station, Coverdale Road is a quiet residential street lined with four-storey terraced houses from the mid-1800s. Seemingly crime-free, it’s the kind of place which claims to have no drunks just “passionate wine connoisseurs”, no pornographers only everyone is an “expert in arty lithographs”, and no drug addicts, although every yummy mummy spends all day pie-eyed on lithium, and injects wheatgrass up their jacksies as Gwyneth Paltrow says it’s fashionable. But this is a street with a mystery about a murder, which starts with a mystery itself. Every article written about this case states it occurred at 150 Coverdale Road, but the street only goes up to 60, it always has. The real murder house was 52 Coverdale Road, in the first floor flat, where in 1989, a 40-year-old eccentric homosexual and German-exile nicknamed ‘The Prince’ was murdered. It was an odd case which almost collapsed owing to a lack of witnesses, a dearth of evidence, a victim who was more myth than man, and although finally resolved, the killer’s motive remains a mystery. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 268: The Savaged ‘Prince’. As a man who kept himself-to-himself, many myths surrounded ‘The Prince of Shepherd’s Bush’. Christoph Schliack was born on the 22nd of July 1949 in Germany, as one of two sons to Renate & Hans, a middle-class couple who had fled the burnt-out shell of Berlin for the comparative safety of Hanover. It truly was a postcode lottery which decided their fate, as with Germany split into two by the Berlin wall, being West Germans, they lived a better post-war life than those under the Soviets in the East. With both parents being educated and modestly well-off but not wealthy, Christoph was raised with a good brain and an insatiable appetite for books, and being a proud German who hoped his heritage could escape the horrors of the Nazis, he embraced everything about his culture and his history. But it wasn’t the spectre of Hitler which led him to flee his homeland. Christoph was gay, and although Germany had decriminalised homosexuality for both sexes in 1968/69 (a year after England & Wales), with its fascist ideals illegal but still prevalent, he came to London seeking “a more tolerant society”. That’s what he sought, but was that what he found? Being intellectual, Christoph won a scholarship to Leeds University to study Classical Chinese, and as a man ‘who rode his own road’; he shunned jeans for a stiff gown and a monocle; he fought to become President of the Student Union only to stir up a hornet’s nest in 1974 by calling it “one enormous con-trick”, and he was openly gay at a time when many were (and still are) terrified to hold hands in public. Christoph was a character, he was unique, yet as his flamboyance followed him into his professional life, although qualified, it wasn’t appreciated in the higher echelons of starchy British society. Across the five years from 1975 to 80, Christoph trained as a barrister, but – for no known reason - he wasn’t allowed to practice; either because he was eccentric, opinionated, a German, or because he was gay. In 1980, Christoph began working as a sub editor for Butterworths, a publisher of law books at 1-3 The Strand in Central London where he sub-edited Halsbury’s Law of England, and although his work didn’t light a fire in his belly, it gave him a comfortable lifestyle in a small, rented flat at 52 Coverdale Road. Christoph Schliack was an eccentric living his life the way he wanted to live; he wasn’t political, he had no secret past, he had no debts, no drug habit, and he wasn’t disliked by those who knew him… …but being so private, this began the legend of the ‘Prince of Shepherd’s Bush’. So many myths about Christoph occurred in the nine years that he lived there. As a working-class area, riddled with poverty, bubbling with intolerance and populated by labourers and market traders but also musicians and artists, still reeling from an era where door signs read “no blacks, no dogs, no Irish”, he stood out as someone who not only embraced that he was different, but he also accentuated it. Christoph was articulate, polite and friendly, he’d talk to anyone regardless of race or status, but was as happy sitting alone with book on Belgian philosophy as having a pint with a soot-sodden labourer. Walking down Shepherd’s Bush Green, among the throng of goths in black, punks sporting safety pins, pop fans wearing ‘Frankie says Relax’ t-shirts and breakdancers in nylon tracksuits, ‘the Prince’ stuck out as one-of-a-kind. As a short, slightly rotund relic from a bygone era, he had a shiny bald head and a neat little beard with a moustache twisted at both ends, which he accentuated with a monocle. To proudly highlight his heritage, his German accent was thick, his mannerisms were stiff, and he wore the outfit of a Bavarian country gentleman; brown brogue shoes, a tweed suit, a colourful tie, a green waistcoat with a fob-watch hanging from a gold chain, and a green Trilby hat with feathers in the brim. As a passive man who had few issues or arguments with anyone, he lived a life of contrasts; he liked fine dining, but also ate chips from the wrapper. He was openly gay but didn’t advertise it. He was educated but could converse with the ‘great unwashed’ about football. And although he came across as a wealthy aristocrat, he liked to slum-it with any rough-looking dole-dosser in the dirtiest of dives. The ‘Prince’ of Shepherd’s Bush was a local legend who was also known as ‘the kaiser’ and ‘the baron’. Some said that he was exiled German nobility, some said he was the grandson of Kaiser Wilhelm, and others said he was a high-ranking Nazi on the run with a belly full of guilt and a trunkful of Jewish gold. All of it was wrong, but for many, it was more fun to believe the myth than the truth about the ‘Prince’. Monday 18th of September 1989 was no different than any other day for Christoph. He spent the morning at Butterworths, the legal publishers, cross-checking the latest documents with his usual proficiency and skill, but said to be looking a little peaky, he asked his boss for the afternoon off. This wasn’t an uncommon excuse that he gave, as many suspected that he was a closet alcoholic. At a little after 1pm, he left The Strand, headed to Charing Cross station (as he often did), he took the Bakerloo line north to Oxford Circus, where – being a very identifiable character – many witnesses spotted this monocled German gentleman on the tube reading a copy of Oblermov by Ivan Goncharov the Russian author, he then hopped on the Central Line and arrived at Shepherd’s Bush at 1:40pm. He was alone, he wasn’t followed, and he didn’t look harassed, only he didn’t go home to sleep off his supposed sickness. As suspected, he crossed Shepherd’s Bush Green, and headed to the nearest pub. At 1:45pm, he entered The Bush Hotel, a pub he regularly frequented, he ordered his usual drink, a pint of Lowenbrau, he was joined by a female friend called Ms Gallagher, they chatted, his mood was good and at 5pm, a witness saw Christoph leave the pub with two men, but he couldn’t describe them. One street east of his flat, this time alone, he popped into the White Horse pub at 31 Uxbridge Road, and being local and a creature of habit, he sat by himself in his usual seat by the fruit machine, supping a pint, eating a steak sandwich, and reading poetry; he was chatty, but as always, he kept to himself. With it no secret that he was gay, later Christoph was seen buying several rounds of drinks – a vodka & coke, a Guinness and a pint of German lager - for two men seated at his table, which wasn’t unusual. They drank, they got on well, and not being locals, none of the regulars recalled seeing them before. Witnesses described the younger man, as “mid-20s, medium build, brown collar length hair, a ruddy complexion” and – with being a pub frequented by Irishmen – “he had a Dublin accent”. His face was spotty, he had a faint moustache, a threadbare leather jacket and a once-white shirt with a filthy collar. The older man was “50s, medium build, grey hair, and a Dublin accent”, and although they looked odd seated next to this posh little German, they were the type of men he liked - rough, dirty and uncouth. The night was relatively uneventful in this packed little pub, as gangs of merry men got steadily more sozzled and the sounds were muffed by a juke box bashing out putrid pop hits and Gaelic golden oldies. But at 8pm, amidst the cacophony, Christoph was heard to shout “that’s an outrageous remark, and I am totally disgusted by it”, followed by a silence, as several witnesses stopped and glared at the group. But what did the man say, why was Christoph shocked, and did it lead to his death? Moments later, the trio had calmed, all three men laughed, and the night went on. At 9:20pm, Christoph had left the pub, leaving behind his bag and book. Directly opposite, he was seen at the Premier Food & Wine store buying a large bottle of Olde English cider, a pack of 20 Rothman’s cigarettes (even though he only smoked a pipe) and he headed in the direction of his flat accompanied by “two scruffy Irishmen”. Beside the Parish of St Stephen & St Thomas church, being a little worse for wear, he accidentally bumped into two men leaving a trade union meeting. Christoph apologised, he wished them both a goodnight, he and his two new pals entered his flat at 52 Coverdale Road… …and that last time he was seen alive. The ground-floor neighbour heard the door open, men’s voices which were loud but friendly, and no more than 20-to-30 minutes later, “I heard a thud, but I thought Christoph was drunk again”. Having nodded off to sleep, he didn’t hear a crude attempt to clean up, he didn’t see a man flee via the front door, he didn’t witness the bloodstained clothes being dumped, or the knife tossed into some bushes. The night was quiet, the neighbours were asleep, and by the morning, the killer had fled overseas. But was this a planned attack due to Christoph’s heritage, homosexuality or because he was different? As a private man with few friends, no lover and his family abroad, no-one had reported him missing, no-one knew that he was dead, and with no screams, there was nothing to rouse anyone’s suspicions. Later that morning, Peter Tollhurst, a resident on nearby Thornfield Road went into his garden, having been awoken the night before by a noise at 10pm. A pane of glass in his greenhouse had been broken by a binbag thrown from the street, and although its culprit was long gone and there was no chance of a prosecution for criminal damage, it was a chance peek inside which led him to contact the police. At Shepherd’s Bush Police Station, he showed the duty sergeant a dirty white shirt with a filthy collar, buttons missing and an odd motif, and an expensive tweed jacket, both of which were bloodstained. It could have been due to an assault, an accident or a bad nosebleed, but spotting a letter in the jacket pocket, the police did a welfare check, and having got no reply from the first-floor flat at 52 Coverdale Road, officers used a ladder to peek through the window, and saw a scene of unimaginable brutality. The room was dark and unlit as someone had turned the light off after they’d left. On the table, a half-drunk bottle of Olde English cider sat beside two glasses and an ashtray with a single cigarette butt. And on the sofa lay Christoph; naked except for a pair of black socks, his rotund body stiff, and his skin pale white and a purply blue, but only in the body parts which weren’t bruised, slashed or stabbed. The room was in chaos, as in the midst of a frenzied attack by a savage assailant with a swinging blade, the blood spatter from his severed jugular vein showed he had bounced off several pieces of furniture as he tried to flee, with his escape via the only exit thwarted until he slumped with a heavy thump. Dragged onto the sofa, which became saturated with his blood, Christoph’s jaw had been crushed by a fist or a foot, and he’d been stabbed 23 times in the chest, neck and face. With pathologist, Dr Chris Price stating “the attack took a considerable time. From the widespread bloodstaining on the walls and door, it’s consistent with a violent sustained assault using a 13cm knife”, missing from the kitchen. Someone had wanted Christoph dead, but why? The flat was a mess, but it didn’t look. The victim was naked, but there was no sign of sexual assault. Forensics spent five days searching but even on the bottles and glasses, they didn’t find a fingerprint. And so frenzied was the attack that the assailant’s bloodied hand had slipped off the handle of the knife (which Christoph owned), down the blade, slicing open his palm as he kept on stabbing, and as he fled, a single drop of his blood dripped on an envelope. It was a brutal attack on a defenceless man for no obvious reason… …but was it planned, was it political, or was it an act of sheer hatred? Headed-up by Detective Inspector Colin Wright, the investigation instantly hit a brick wall, as although Christoph was well liked, no-one actually knew him. He was less of a man and more of myth, and with many locals only knowing him as the baron, the kaiser or the prince, few people knew his real name. Appealing for witnesses, the problem was that being a truly unique man who it was impossible not to spot, Christoph’s appearance and personality drew the eyes of the pub regulars and trade unionists from the two suspects, and although they all gave good descriptions, no-one could identify them. One stroke of luck did come from an off-duty constable who had an odd encounter with the young suspect. At 10:15pm that night, opposite Coverdale Road, WPC Jackie Jones saw a slim ruddy-faced man in his mid-20s walking at a fair old lick down Uxbridge Road. His shirt and face was badly bloodied, but as he was heading in the direction of the police station, she decided not to intervene. That was Christoph’s killer heading home, where he burned his clothes, destroyed any evidence and fled the country. With no fingerprints, no names, no witnesses, a blood spot which was useless in an era before a DNA database, and only one possible suspect - who the Irish Romany community said “wasn’t from Dublin but Mullengar” and was “an armed robber nicknamed ‘Hopper’” who had apparently “busted out of Mountjoy Prison and was on the run”, there were as many myths about the assailant, as the victim. Within three months, with every suspect questioned and every strand exhausted, the case collapsed. With Christoph’s life, especially his personal life, being so private; with him being as much a myth as a man who (for whatever reason) kept others at arms-length; who often sat alone and bothered no-one, his killing remained motiveless, and no-one knew who killed ‘the Prince of Shepherd’s Bush’… …until a chance encounter between an informant, a TV show, and an Irish detective on a tea-break. As a mix of ‘Police 5’ and German television import ‘File Reference XY… Unsolved’, Crimewatch began in 1984 as an experiment using TV audiences to solve real crimes. It led to more than 150 convictions in five years, and although a big success among viewers, a friction had developed between old-school detectives who felt “too much police work was being wasted on reconstructions rather than ‘actual detective work’”, and they had branded this new breed of media-friendly officers as “luvvie cops”. Detective Inspector Colin Wright knew the value of media exposure, but with Christoph’s case lacking the sensationalist prestige that the tabloids fed off, and with his murder being cruelly dubbed as simply ‘gay bashing’, as a German eccentric, Crimewatch was the investigation’s last chance to catch his killer. On Thursday 7th of December 1989 at 9:35pm, live from Studio Five in BBC TV Centre just a few streets from Christoph’s murder; the Crimewatch reconstruction played out, the detectives fielded the calls which came in, and although they got a few interesting leads, no-one gave a name for their suspects. Again, it seemed like the investigation had hit a brick wall… but somewhere a cup of tea was brewing. 370 miles west in the Irish city of Dublin, Garda Sergent Mick Carroll was making a brew at the Garda Station while Crimewatch was on, when a nugget of information nibbled at his synapses. It seemed irrelevant at the time, but an informant had told him “a Dubliner called Kenneth Hamilton”, who was known as “a vicious criminal” and “a mad man” had boasted “I killed a German fella in London”. Arrested on a charge of the unlawful possession of a gun on 1st of May 1989, he’d fled to London, lived in Acton with his family, and drank with his estranged step-father Daniel in Shepherd’s Bush. He matched the description and although the Romany’s story about ‘Hopper’ was right, it was littered with myths. Unlike Christoph who kept-to-himself, rarely spoke about his private life, and became a legend owing to his personality, Kenneth Hamiton was a blather mouth, or as the Irish would call him, a Gob shite, who couldn’t keep his mouth shut for a second, even when the police were hunting him for murder. To his informant, his brother and his step-father Daniel Hogan who was the older suspect seen with him in the White Horse pub, he blabbed “I went home with this drunk German queer. I thought I could take him for a few quid”, having swallowed the myth about this ‘Prince’, ‘Baron’ or ‘Kaiser’s grandson’. Hamilton expected to find the ‘Prince’s West End flat full of artworks and antiques, befitting an upper-class gentleman who dressed like aristocracy and spoke like a Bohemian King, but what he found was a hovel; the pokey old hole of a shambolic drunk, littered with empty bottles, takeaways and tatty old books. He had no money, no jewellery and no antiques, as most of what he earned, he spent on drink. He claimed “it was something I’d done before”, although he never said whether he meant robbing a drunk, or using himself as youthful bait for an older gay man’s ardour, but that’s when his alibi split. In one recollection, Hamilton claimed “I fell sleep, when I woke up, the German poof came in with no clothes on. I saw a knife and I just went for him. So what, he was just a queer, he tried it on you know?” But in another, this time recounted in court, he said, the second they got in “the German stripped off his clothes and began making advances. I threatened him with a kitchen knife and feared I was going to be the victim of a homosexual rape”, as well as claiming that Christoph had used the knife to force him into sex, “and as I wrestled the knife from his hand, then I began stabbing him in self-defence”. Police knew it was him as they’d kept the detail that Christoph was naked out of the press, but what didn’t make sense was the timings; the neighbour said they’d come in at 9:30pm and he’d left at 10pm, but given that Hamilton said he had planned to “take this drunk German queer for a few quid”, why did this alleged robber fall asleep on a strange man’s sofa (who he knew was gay), why didn’t he leave when he saw that his target had no money, and if Christoph had stripped-off the second they got in, when did they drink half a bottle of cider as the neighbour heard the thud just before the suspect fled. So, what was the truth? A bungled robbery, a homosexual attack, or did Christoph try to seduce him? After seven months, Kenneth Hamilton was extradited from Dublin. Handcuffed to a British officer at Dunleary harbour, he refused to speak, even when - being seasick - he vomited next to the detective. At Shepherd’s Bush police station, although no fingerprints were found and he had burned his clothes, having agreed to give a head hair sample, his DNA matched that single blood spot found amongst the splatter in Christoph’s flat, and as a final piece of luck which had peppered the investigation, inside his pocket, Hamilton had photograph of himself wearing the same shirt he had murdered Christoph in. Tried at The Old Bailey on 13th of May 1991, Kenneth Hamilton pleaded “not guilty”, with his defence being that “Kenneth was a naïve young man who was shocked to learn that his new friend was gay”, blaming the attack “on some sort of homosexual approach by Mr Schliack. But the defendant reacted to that approach, if that was the cause, partly in temper and partly in drink”. And although, Judge Michael Coombe said it was far from proven that Hamilton had been threatened with a knife, “once you had the knife, there is not the slightest doubt that what happened was no longer self-defence”. With the jury deciding that “the first stab killed him, but the other twenty-two were irrelevant”, having accepted a plea of provocation even though it couldn’t be proven, having also considered his acquittal, Hamilton was found guilty of manslaughter and sentenced to just six years and three months. Detective Inspector Colin Wright slammed the jury’s decision, stating “I was astounded, that the jury believed the defence’s arguments that Christoph Schliak was killed in self-defence. In fact, as proven, it was a frenzied attack”, but the jury accepted that “Hamilton had never intended to kill him”. Kenneth Hamilton was released in 1994, having served just four years in prison. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
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Nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST, 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Channel's Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
Shakira's flat and the bike shed (@Googlemaps Sept2023)
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND SIXTY-FIVE & SIXTY-SEVEN:
Shakira Spencer was a loving mother-of-two, who lived to be loved and gave it back in spades. But when her “best friend” became her worst enemy, her life no longer became her own, she was reduced to being little more than a slave, and across the weekend Friday 9th to Monday 12th of September 2022 – out of boredom or spite - her so-called friends subjected her to what the judge described as “sadistic cruelty”.
THE LOCATION:
The location is marked with a purple symbol of a bin in the west by the words 'Ealing'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: (a selection)
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on Holbeck Road in West Ealing, W13; four streets west of Latvian child killer Arnis Zalkins, three roads north of the last attack by the failed serial-killer known as ‘Jack the Shitter’, and two roads east of the troubled barman with the ravenous dog - coming soon to Murder Mile. Off Uxbridge Road and Northfields Avenue in a discrete side street called Holbeck Road sits Lambert House, a four-storey sandstone-bricked block of flats, built in 2019 for council tenants and keyworkers. Like most new builds, the occupants must abide by strict rules – no littering, no loitering and no late-night noise – so this nice neighbourhood for families doesn’t descend into a wild west of bag snatchers, glue sniffers, granny bashers and rude-boys grabbing their crotches like they’ve all got genital crabs. I know this building well, as my old flat looks right across it, and being situated just off Dean Gardens where the local kids play, it’s a nice place where you wouldn’t expect to find a story as horrific as this. It began with a young mother living an ordinary life in a new flat and looking forward to a bright future, and it ended in what the judge described as “a sadistic campaign of pain and suffering on a vulnerable woman”. I warn you now, this is a sickening true story about deceit, bullying and unbearable misery. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 267: Sadistic Cruelty. All she ever wanted was to be loved. Born on the 13th of June 1987, Shakira was raised in West London as one of the beloved daughters of Lloyd & Merjia Spencer. Shakira in Arabic means ‘thankful’, and her parents and sisters certainly were to receive into their world this small bundle of joy who would blossom into a sweet and caring girl. For Shakira, her family was her world, her everything, and being raised with love in her heart and an unwavering dedication to those she held close, she was easy to love and impossible to dislike, as being ‘beautiful, happy and smiling’, she always went out of her way to make others loved, before herself. Her mother said “she was lovable and trusting, but vulnerable and needed support”, as being born with some learning difficulties, Shakira was registered disabled, but this never stopped her living her life, as blessed with a bubbly spirit, she approached each hurdle life threw at her with a beaming smile. And keen not to stifle her but to give this young woman a chance at independence, her family gave her the space to step beyond the confines of her disability, and in her new life, she would flourish. Leaving school, Shakira worked at a nursery as she loved children, she later became a sales assistant as although on disability benefits, she wanted to give something back. And always dressing well in fashions which proudly accentuated her ‘curves’ and ‘voluptuous’ size 16 frame, she aided her sister by selling cosmetics online and she had the confidence to post make-up tutorials on YouTube. With grit, guts and a beaming smile, although quiet and shy around those she didn’t know, she succeed in living an independent life thanks to her infectious confidence, her wonderful warmth, her boundless energy, and a ‘can do’ attitude which those without her difficulties could have done with learning. In her twenties, Shakira found love, together with her partner, they had two wonderful children who she adored, and in 2013, her perfect little family moved into Flat 35 of Forest House in Ealing - just off Northfields Avenue and one street from Holbeck Road, where her new flat was yet to be built. Shakira loved people. Her mother said “she loved having friends, she always wanted to be liked, which made her keen to please people”, and although her family gave her the space she needed to live her life right, seen as innocent and trusting, “a calculated person could easily exploit her vulnerability”. That person came in the guise of a friend… and her name was Ashana. Formerly of Edinburgh, Ashana Kirsty Studholme was three years her senior, and although said to be harsh and hard faced, in 2015, also as a mother living in the same block at Forest House, Ashana was someone that Shakira looked up to, and the two became firm friends who were inseparable. Ashana, known as Shan or Shanti was a bad influence on Shakira. Described as “cruel, aggressive and manipulative”, she had many convictions for shoplifting, she’d served time for the violent assaults on women, she had a caution for neglecting her child who fell from a roof, and at least one child in care. Shakira’s partner knew it and disliked her, but with their relationship breaking down, Shakira wouldn’t listen, as like so many of us, she refused to see the glaring truth about her friend and had taken a side. In 2015, Shakira and her unnamed partner separated owing to the direction her life was going under the coercion of Ashana, with the court later told “once he was out of the flat, that left the way clear for her to move in on Shakira even more, until Ashana persuaded her to oust him all together”. With that love and companionship missing from her life, Shakira grew closer to her best friend; Ashana encouraged her to drink, to party late, to take drugs (although a toxicology report couldn’t verify this), and in 2017, even after Ashana was convicted of racially aggravated common assault in which she was jailed for kicking and punching a woman unconscious in the middle of a street, Shakira stood by her. “Shakira wanted to be liked”, her mother said, “this made her vulnerable”, especially to Ashana, who Detective Chief Inspector Brian Howie described as " cruel, manipulative, coercive and… a vile person". Only, it wasn’t just one vile person who would destroy Shakira’s life, but three. 26-year-old Shaun Pendlebury was Ashana’s boyfriend, who had prior convictions for supplying heroin and cocaine, handling stolen goods and the violent assault of two police officers; and 45-year-old Lisa Richardson whose flat was described as a ‘hive of anti-social behaviour’, she had one conviction for cultivating cannabis, and of her four children, two were in care, with two more suffering her neglect. The Crown Prosecution Service described all three as “weak separately” but Ashana was the leader of this band of truly damaged reprobates, with Ashana, Lisa & Shaun all angry at the world for their own failings and looking for someone weak, trusting and vulnerable who they could blame, beat, abuse… …and torture to death. In 2019, as a lone mother with learning difficulties who was caring for two young children, Shakira was moved out of the old, dilapidated flats at Forest House, and into the brand-new flats at Lambert House on nearby Holbeck Road, with two-bedrooms, a living room, a bathroom, storage space and a fitted kitchen. It was exactly the kind of support her family had fought for, while ensuring her independence. And although Ashana had moved to 7 miles north to a crappy flat in a two storey, semi-detached house at 29 Greenhill Road just at the back of Harrow on the Hill tube station, the two stayed firm friends. Initially, their isolation of Shakira was slow and subtle, as like all manipulators, the cruel trio wanted Shakira to like them and trust them, while they eroded her faith in those who truly loved her - her own family. It was done in a way which (at first) even Shakira wouldn’t see as abuse, but then, on the 23rd March 2020, something happened which made it impossible to protect this vulnerable women. (Boris quote, “stay at home”). With Covid sweeping across the world, like most countries, Britain went into lockdown with the shops shut, the transport siloed, and families and friends separated for months on end. Many law-abiding citizens stuck to the rules, but with this trio intent on bleeding Shakira dry, they began holding parties in her new flat, and being too timid to speak up, Shakira said nothing as she didn’t want to upset them. Neither Ashana, Lisa nor Shaun were her friends, as in their phones they saved Shakira’s number under ‘gully’, which is slang for ‘gutter’ and ‘John Doe’, names which showed how little they thought of her. Over time, they made ever increasing demands on her, knowing she was desperate to please her “best friends”; every day they ordered her off to the shops to run errands, she made their meals on demand, and they’d wake her up early to clean their homes from top-to-bottom, as more and more, this vulnerable mother-of-two became little more than a live-in servant to three bullies who mocked her. She meant nothing to them, she was a nobody, and seeing her possessions as theirs, with Shaun being booted out of his mother’s house for smoking weed, having first slept on Shakira’s sofa and then taking her bed, showing nothing but utter contempt for their slave, often she was forced to sleep under newspapers in Ashana’s hallway, and other times, in the cold and damp bike-shed beside her own flat. Every day, they maliciously humiliated, degraded and dehumanized her, by breaking her spirit, erasing her smile, and making her feel as if she was no longer a bright and bubbly woman, but their plaything. Over a year, they not only broke her mentally but physically, as although for months she had made their meals, they insisted that she live only on a diet of sachets of tomato ketchup. In March 2021, she was Size 16 and 74kgs (or 11 stone 9 lbs), but barely a year later, she was Size 6 and not even 6 stone. “She was just skin and bone, gaunt and skeletal, bruised from head to foot, with hollowed black eyes”. Shakira, who just 15 months before, was described as ‘curvy and ‘voluptuous’, now looked as if she had been rescued from a Nazi concentration camp, “she became like a ghost and aged 30 years”. Her neighbour texted her to ask if she needed help, but she said no. Her dad tried to take her home, but she rejected him. And although the police did a welfare check at her flat, being so broken down all she thought of was protecting her abusers, she denied anything was wrong, and no-one could be charged. The nearest she got to escaping was when she went to her local surgery to seek medical assistance to her swollen and bloodied ear. But she never said how it had happened, and nothing could be done. In July 2022, with the lockdowns over, as we all enjoyed our first summer without any restrictions, Shakira’s physical abuse continued unabated, with the trio cataloguing their assaults in text messages. On the 14th July to an unnamed friend who (like others) was invited to participate in the abuse, Ashana wrote “I’ve just f**ked this b**** up, she ain’t going nowhere. I’m going smash her up, nah joke”, bragging “I’m gonna mash her”. The next day, another text read “she got everything she deserved… I didn’t beat her much, just a few tappy-tappy”, as if her torture was a silly game. And by the week’s end, Lisa sent a photo of Shakira lying on her bed - either asleep or unconscious - with a smashed nose, her face badly beaten, her eyes black and swollen, with a cruel message which read ‘look who I got’. That was a regular week for Shakira, being beaten, starved and tortured, as a pack of jackals laughed as they took turns to assaulted her, and – seeing her as little more than an outlet for their own sadistic fun – they filmed the abuse on their phones and sent it to each other, like this was a competition to see who could hurt her the worst. But by then, she was too weak to scream, and too numb to cry. By the end of August 2022, Ashana had full control over Shakira’s body, brain and life, having taken her bank book and disability allowance, and with her emaciated hostage reduced to a shuffling zombie who did as they said, to make some extra cash for themselves, they had her sell her body for sex. In a voice note to Ashana, Lisa laughed “oh yeah, shit, I beat her up and made her prostitute herself”. Shakira was a broken shell of a woman, with nothing to look forward to, but her death. Only her end wouldn’t be mercifully swift, but the epitome of sadistic cruelty. The morning of Friday 9th of September 2022 began like any other, as Ashana texted Lisa in a typically illiterate and self-serving way, it read; "I buss up her head, I need you here, I will go to jail". Like a clarion call to her callous cohorts, being a pack of hungry jackals who smelled blood, Lisa & Shaun arrived in Ashana’s squalid little flat at 29 Greenhill Road in Harrow, and that’s exactly what they saw. Out of spite or boredom, she had beaten Shakira over the head with a bottle, severely lacerating her scalp and spattering her blood up the bedroom wall, as the scrawny woman lay weak and dazed. If any of them had even an ounce of compassion, they could have got her help and she’d be alive today, but no longer seeing her as human - just an object to be humiliated, spat at and hit - instead this trio would subject Shakira to a long weekend of violence and torture, which continued for four whole days. As their slave, regardless of her head hurting, her hair matted with blood and her limbs trembling with exhaustion, still she had to cook and clean, and as she got slower at her chores, the more they hit her. To demean her further, they forced her to strip. Initially down to her bra and knickers for the first two days, then completely naked, as they mocked the sagging skin which hung off her emaciated bones. We know this, because they filmed it on their phones like a sadistic souvenir to savour later, but also, being the epitome of a bad mother, like many times before, Lisa had brought her kids with her, and the young impressionable minds of Child A aged 12 and Child B aged 10 would witness this abuse. Using crayons, one drawing shows Shakira in the kitchen, her face sad, as an angry Ashana makes her cheeks and mouth bleed. Another shows Shaun “whacking” her with his bare hands as bloodied saliva drools from her slack mouth. And a third shows Lisa “squishing her head like it was a banana”, as she was repeatedly beaten with fists, belt and an electrical massager, taking her to the brink of death. And then, possibly exhausted from the violence they’d inflicted upon her, they had Shakira make their dinner, as they sat like a normal family gorging on chips and pizza, as Shakira lay naked and broken in the hallway, their hunger giving her a brief respite from their brutality… but only for a short while. The last sighting of Shakira was that evening as they’d sent her on an errand, and a CCTV camera had captured her crossing Greenhill Way; with her hood up, her head down, and her walk slow and pained, as she dejectedly returned to the scene of her unimaginable cruelty, where there would be no escape. In court, they all denied their part and blamed each other; whether slapping, kicking or dragging her by the hair, but it was futile as every video told the cruel truth, as did the words of their child witnesses. Three days after it had begun, her slow and painful death would culminate on Monday 12th, in what was described as “frenzied climax”. To trained officers, Child A said the torture began in the kitchen, they were laughing and cussing her, as Shaun told Shakira to kneel. Smacking her hard over the head with a bottle, he kicked her so she fell, and as all three circled her, they pounced, kicking her as she howled in pain, pleading for them to stop. But still they kept kicking, her tears only goading them on. Child A then told the court about the “blowtorch”. Grabbing an aerosol can and a lighter, Child B said “it made a whooshing noise, as the fire hit her face”; torching her skin, singing her lashes, brows and hair, and causing painful welts and blisters to form, as she crumpled in a shaking ball of bare flesh. They only stopped when their fingers hurt from holding the red-hot lighter, and when the gas ran out. But the torture wasn’t over. Far from it. Child A was ordered to boil a kettle. With her held down, as steam spewed, Shakira screamed as the boiling water was poured over her feet, the pain so intense that she passed out, her injuries so severe that the pathologist said “her feet had been almost entirely degloved”. And having dragged her into the hall, there she slept in her own urine, and what Child A described as “the smell of burnt dead skin”. By the night, she was alive, in pain, but unable to speak. Treated like a sack of rubbish, they loaded her into the boot of a red Honda Civic, and at 9:28pm, instead of leaving her somewhere she could be found like a hospital, CCTV captured her stumbling and falling as Shaun led her to her flat, where he dumped her in her hallway cupboard, and locked it. She was too weak to scream, too exhausted to cry, in too much pain to move, and no-one could hear her, and with her burned, broken body dehydrated and emaciated, at some point, her heart gave up. Aged just 35, Shakira died alone, in the dark, her children left without a mum. After, Ashana & Shaun bought kebabs, she texted Lisa bragging “I’m knackered babe”, as Lisa joked “we got a babysitter and a rat sitter. lol”, as they cared about her less in death than they did in life. 11 days later, Ashana texted “just had fucking Shakira’s mum ring to abuse me about where Shakira is… she’s a fucking horrible bitch… a pure cunt. I’ve done everything for Shakira, but no-one sees that”, as she continued fleecing her bank account, stating of her torture “she deserved it”, and realising she was dead, they moved her body onto her son’s bunkbed and tried to make it look like natural causes. Arrogant and selfish to the core, as they used bleach to wiped away whatever evidence of their crimes they found, Ashana was heard shouting "I can't go back to prison", but it as where they all belonged. On Sunday 25th of September 2022 at 4.38pm, almost two weeks after her disappearance, neighbours noticed a foul smell, they spotted maggots crawling under her flat’s front door and called the police. Even for a qualified pathologist, it proved impossible to identify her cause of death owing to the extent of her decomposition, “she had extensive degloving to the hands and feet, six full thickness lacerations to the skull, numerous wounds to her arms, legs, buttocks and chest, a fractured left eye socket, her left ear had been crushed having been stamped on”, and she could only be identified by her teeth. The investigation headed up by Detective Chief Inspector Brian Howie was simple but thorough. Suspicion instantly fell on Ashana, Shaun and Lisa, and although a trail of evidence would convict them, with Shaun having confessed to his uncle, on Monday 26th September at 10am, all three were arrested, and being arrogant and self-serving to the last, they turned against each other and the trio collapsed. Like cowards, they stuck to their half-baked alibis to squirm out of their crimes; Shaun denied any part in her death suggesting that with his “low IQ and anxiety” that he was merely Ashana’s patsy, Lisa said “I haven’t seen her in weeks” and that Shakira’s black eyes “was cos she prostituted herself out”, but most callous of all was Ashana, who had the audacity to blame Shakira for her own death, stating “I’d been her friend for nine years… she’d got into sex work and had been assaulted by punters. I last saw her on 10th or 11th September, I knocked on her door, she was fine… I would do anything for Shakira”. Anything, except treating her like a friend, a mother, a daughter, or even a human being. As much as they lied, the evidence spoke the truth. In Ashana’s flat, they found Shakira’s bank account and benefits books, hidden under a mattress and in a bag emblazoned with the words: 'It wasn't me'. Although they’d destroyed their phones, specialists recovered texts, call logs and many distressing images which catalogued their systematic brutality of Shakira over the years, and they pieced together an accurate timeline using CCTV and more than 50,000 10-second clips from the Ring doorbell camera at the flat in Harrow, as well as statements from the children who had witnessed her torture. (End) Tried in Court One of the Old Bailey, on the 4th of October 2023, all three pleaded ‘not guilty’ to the charges of preventing a burial and murder. Described as "a pack of feral savages", across the 12-week trial, so shocking was the evidence that the judge excused the jurors from jury service for the rest of their lives, and on 11th December 2023, after 18 hours of deliberation, all three were found guilty. Sentenced on the 1st of March 2024, Judge Angela Rafferty KC told Ashana Studholme, Lisa Richardson and Shaun Pendlebury, “you have shown no remorse for our actions, your only concern was for yourselves… the levels of brutality were wholly exceptional, and Shakira’s suffering was extreme. As I have said it was proved beyond doubt that this was a sadistic murder. Therefore your sentence is life imprisonment”, with the minimum term before the parole can be considered being 34 years. The earliest they could ever hope to get out would be 25th of March 2056, when Shaun Pendlebury is 59, Ashana Studholme is 72, and Lisa Richardson is 77, although it’s unlikely they will ever see freedom. At the trial, Shakira’s son read an impact statement, he said “I’ve suffered with daily nightmares and anxiety over what happened to mum. I can’t get the horrible image of her looking skinny and unwell out of my head. I cannot believe people she thought were her friends would ever do this to her. I hope that every day they feel bad for the choices they have made. These people are cruel and evil, they do not deserve to live a normal happy life again”. And luckily, they won’t, as their lives are over, for good. Shaun Pendlebury was imprisoned at HMP Wandsworth in South London although it’s likely he’s been moved on, with Ashana Studholme and Lisa Richardson at HMP Bronzefield in Surrey, where prisoners have described her as “nasty and unpleasant”. Being so hated, we can only hope that such despicable scabs on society spend the next 34 years of their lives being treated as Shakira Spencer was by them; being abused, beaten and bullied, unable to escape, and suffering a daily diet of sadistic cruelty. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
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The Joiner's Arms in Woodside, as it looks today
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND SIXTY-FIVE & SIXTY-SIX:
On Monday 4th of November 1985, a three-week spree of rape and murder culminated, as at 9:50pm, a silvery-blue Montego sped north up Park Lane towards Marble Arch, zigzagging like a crazed loon across both lanes at a suicidal 80mph. Inside, two terrified women screamed, as John Steed, the M4 Rapist shot one of his hostages dead. But why did it end this way?
THE LOCATION:
The location is marked with a yellow symbol of a bin on teh eastern edge of Hyde Park by the words 'Marble Arch'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here. SOURCES
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: (PART ONE) Welcome to Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on Park Lane in Mayfair, W1; a short walk from the invisible men of Marble Arch, a few doors down from the last stand of doorman Tudor Simionov, opposite the brutal stabbings on Hyde Park’s lover’s walk, and two streets from the taxi driver murders - coming soon to Murder Mile. Set on the western edge of Mayfair, Park Lane is a street of extremes, where Sheikhs soundly sleep on satin sheets as 100 feet away a hobo dies on an icy bench of hypothermia, where a war hero begs for a few coins to survive having lost his legs, his livelihood and his sanity to protect a patch of land an oil baron would later “make a killing off”, and with one of the highest concentrations of prostitutes and predators in the city, it’s a place where sex is sold, life is cheap, and although money can buy silence… …silence can also be bought for nothing, as all it takes is fear. On Monday 4th of November 1985, a three-week spree of rape and murder culminated, as at 9:50pm, a silvery-blue MG Montego sped north up Park Lane towards Marble Arch, zigzagging and weaving like a crazed loon across both lanes at a suicidal 80mph. Inside, two terrified women screamed, their cries barely audible over the fiery engine, as they fought for their lives as a maniacal predator aimed a loaded shotgun at his terrified passenger, until suddenly… (a shotgun blasts and car tyres screech). A serial rapist was on the loose, out of control and nobody knew his identity, except for the one woman who he shared every detail of his crimes with. She could have ended his spree with a single word, and saved many women and girls from being kidnapped, raped and even murdered. So why didn’t she? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 265: The Fearmonger – Part One. It’s no surprise given his upbringing that John Steed would become a serial sexual predator. Born in Croydon, South London on the 11th of May 1963, John Alan Gilbert was the son of Sheila & William, a working mum and a car mechanic. Raised in a two-storey terraced house on Stroud Road, the residential district of Woodside would become his world, as well as his sickness and his downfall. Often seen playing alone on Woodside Green, he went to school at Woodside Infants two streets from his house, his parents drank at a nearby pub called the Joiner’s Arms, and in an unlit alley off Anthony Road, his dad repaired cars in an isolated wooden garage that few people knew was even there. His life was a microcosm consisting of just a few streets in a small district hidden far from the city, and although those details may seem unimportant, the smallest detail of his little world would save a life. Conceived by accident, hence the timing of his parent’s wedding, John was said to be ‘a loner, distant and emotionless’ who even his mother said “would never allow me to cuddle him when he was a boy”. Described as scrawny, in his early years he felt worthless and was seen as ugly, weak and forgettable, but there may have been a reason for his coldness, his self-loathing and his attitude towards women. When he was aged just 5, it is said that - having heard her screams - he saw his dad raping his mum. Traumatised by the abuse he witnessed and experienced firsthand, he said this cataclysmic event led to his mother trying to kill herself three times, rejecting him (as maybe he was an unwelcome reminder of one of those rapes), and - with the family separating - his mother left for Norfolk leaving him to be raised by his grandparents just a short walk away in Addiscombe, only to end up in care aged just 13. His upbringing was a litany of self-loathing, abuse and abandonment. But surely having witnessed his mother’s rape, this should have driven him to become a protector of women, and not their attacker? In court, his dad gave a different spin on John’s childhood. Bill denied beating his son, said his marriage was tempestuous. “I’d slap her and she’d hit me”, he’d claim “she never tried to kill herself, we never went without as we’d both got jobs and an au-pair for the kids”. But the sex, he said, was an issue. Bill denied that he raped his wife, stating “that’s a terrible lie, Shiela liked noisy love making. She often screamed. I can understand why a young boy would think he saw a rape”. But the sex wasn’t his doing, he said, it was hers. “You name it, she was into it”, Bill said, “she liked kinky sex games with a string of male and female lovers. I’m sure her perverted games poisoned my son’s mind… making him think he was superior to women and there to be used… but when her affairs started, that’s when we split”. Everybody has their own truths, lies and alibis, and with all of this happening behind closed doors, we will never know the facts, only the side of the story that some have told, and others choose to believe. But with nothing solid in his life… …all he had was fantasy. John Gilbert was born one year after the release of the first James Bond film – Dr No, and as a child of the 1970s, he was raised on a diet of action films; where gun-toting men of muscles bash in the brains of the bad guys without recourse, drive fast cars at high speed, wear flashy suits, beam pure white smiles, and then he’d charm his way into every lady’s bed, or more often, he’d just takes her by force. His heroes were James Bond, Dirty Harry, The A-Team, and later changing his name to John Steed, he said it after the hero from the British TV series Avengers, only it was really his mother’s maiden name. But even into his teens, as much as he wanted to be a mean muscle-bound hunk, he was just a weedy little Herbert who was shunned by the boys and rejected by the girls, and whose highlight was a pint in the Joiner’s Arms pub having fixed a car he could never hope to own in his dad’s crappy little garage. In 1976, aged 13, he was taken into care for three years being described by a local kid as a ‘nasty piece of work’. Booted out aged 16, as a true loner, he drifted from town-to-town committing petty thefts, burglaries and - desperate to live a fast and exciting life – he wore masks, brandished replica guns and was convicted of stealing expensive cars like Jaguar’s, BMW’s and Audi’s across most of the country. What he wanted, he took… and that included women. He said he had his “first sexual experience aged 11”, but giving no details, it’s uncertain whether this was abuse, consensual or assault. He was charged with indecent exposure, and it is suspected that – while he was living in Scotland – he raped several women. But having taken their details and threatened to come back, many may have remained silent. In 1980, aged 17, being released again from a Young Offender’s Institute, his girlfriend dumped him. Steed told a friend “I had a bird once that I loved. I was good to her”, so he would claim, but also added “I’m convinced they don’t want treating nice. The more horrible you are, the more they like it”. Later, he would blame her rejection as the moment he became a monster, that would also become a key feature of this case, where the women in his life would be blamed for the monster he already was. The next unfortunate woman who became his girlfriend would also be his last. Two years his junior, 18-year-old Sharon Bovill - who the tabloid press described as “blonde and leggy” - was a local girl from a good family. It was in 1983 that they first met, when her older sister Shirley was dating Steed and she fell for his charm and charisma. It may seem odd to describe a violent sexual predator like so, but everyone has two sides, and gifted with something which lured the ladies in, his grandparents said “he was a good boy”, his neighbour described him as “quiet and very pleasant”, and yet, the detectives who would soon hunt him said “he was intelligent, articulate but very dangerous”. Sharon should have been everything he wanted in a woman; attractive, loving and loyal. She worked hard as a driver for FCS Printers in South Norwood, and together they shared a small upstairs bedsit on Croydon Road in Penge, just two miles north of his family home and his dad’s garage in Woodside. She knew about his past; about the thefts, burglaries and carjackings having visited him in prison. She knew he had a dark side, she knew he was damaged goods, and she knew he was obsessed with sex. Sharon would be the one woman who could have ended it all. But why didn’t she? It was on a stint in prison that his life changed, and it could have changed him for the better. Inside, he read up on Buddhism, he began to meditate, and quitting alcohol, his body was his temple. Said to have found his inner peace, he developed mental tranquillity, spontaneity and a sense of fearlessness. In a blessing to his newfound religion, he adorned his arms, legs, back and chest with Buddhist icons, such as dragons, snakes, eagles, tigers and a panther, but as an arrogant man who was selfish to the core, he bastardised his faith to increase his ego, his self-belief and destroy any humanity or empathy. In 1982, the year that Sylvester Stallone played muscley war-veteran John Rambo, as a weedy 11 stone weakling, John Steed hit the prison gym, and started a workout regime which would dominate his life. Hitting the weights to build up muscle, he had the look of an action star (being six foot tall with blue eyes and a brooding smile), and with the dark hair and the square jaw of Rambo, in the gym’s mirror, every day he watched the small shy boy he once was, disappear, and would bulk up to a 16 stone hulk. Again, upon his release from prison, this could have been a new start for Steed by becoming a personal trainer, as three times a day every day he went to the Valhalla Gym in 49 Clifton Road, South Norwood. Only he didn’t care about others, he only cared about was himself; and believing he was “handsome” and “God’s gift to women”, living on a diet of 3lbs of bananas and 8 pints of milk a day to increase his mass, his thighs became so grossly overdeveloped, his walk had an odd gait, like a constipated gorilla. His body became so ridiculously engorged, the men in the gym nicknamed him ‘the incredible hulk’. But being big wasn’t enough, he wanted to be bigger. Whether this was used as an alibi by his family to defend him, we shall never know, but both his granddad and dad agreed “he was a nice boy before all this… he took double the amount of steroids, they took over his mind and he was out of control”. Steroids made him larger and stronger, but they also increased his irritability, anxiety and aggression; they would cause mood swings, mania and paranoia, and as a particularly brutal side-effect for a man for whom his masculinity was key to his persona – it increased his libido, but often made him impotent. Everything he abused to get what he wanted, from his body to his religion, but seeing any woman as a sex object, many at the gym said “something wasn’t right about him. We felt uneasy around him”. Women feared him, and for good reason. Together, he lived a seemingly quiet and contented life with Sharon in their Croydon Road bedsit. His girlfriend was aware of his crimes, and at night, as they sat watching an action movie, he told her about his fantasy – of raping women. He liked to dominate them, he liked to humiliate them, he liked to make them beg for their lives, he often knocked them out, and he revelled in overpowering them. It was never stated whether he abused, assaulted or raped Sharon, if he treated her as he said his dad did to his mum, but across the months they lived together, as a lone woman who lived in a bedsit and shared a bed with a serial rapist, soon she would know every detail of every rape he would commit. Sharon would be the one woman who could have ended his spree. But why didn’t she? Was she afraid, or was she besotted? It was Sunday 13th October 1985, when 23-year-old John Steed went to Wimbledon with one intention. In his eyes, he had everything he needed to lure in a girl; he had the looks, the charm, the muscles, the chat, the sharp suit, and having dabbed on a splash of Brut, all he needed was a flashy sports car. Whatever he wanted, he took… and that included a white Audi GT Coupe he stole at knife point under the ruse of a test drive, and back at his dad’s isolated garage, he popped on a set of false licence plates. Three days later, dressed like he was on a date, Steed crawled the stolen car along North End in the busy shopping district of Croydon - the window down, the music on and fixing his hair in the mirror – when he spied a small girl standing alone at a bus stop. In court, she would be known only as Miss A. “Hey, how you doing?”, he purred, perving over the 20-year-old girl who being very petite looked a lot younger. His ploy was simple; slather on the charm, give her attention, tell her she was pretty and ask her out for a drink, and having been chatted up by a handsome hunk in a stylish car, she agreed. Later, he picked her up from her home in Banstead, her hopes high that this hunk was her ‘Mr Right’. Only they never made it to a bar, as having driven her 3 miles west to a dark isolated spot at Epsom racecourse, grabbing her hair and holding a screwdriver to her throat, in the back seat, he raped her. Like many rapists, it wasn’t the sex which excited him, but the fear he elicited from his petrified victim, as relishing her tears and her trembling, he ‘soliloquised’ about whether he should let her live or die. That was his thrill, a big man making a small girl plead for her life, as the longer he dragged out her pain and terror, the more she shook, sobbed and (maybe even) wet herself, the more it excited him. ‘Miss A’ would live, but only because as the dead feel no fear and he wanted her to feel his fear even when he wasn’t there. So, hours after the attack, he phoned her. Days later, he sat in that same Audi GT outside her house and watched her, and being so terrified, it would take her weeks to tell anyone. Only three people knew about the rape: ‘Miss A’, John Steed, and his girlfriend, Sharon. That night, he told her every sordid detail of his brutal rape on a defenceless girl. At his trial, Sharon confided in a friend “people can’t believe I still feel something for someone who’s done what John has. Well, that’s the way it is. I can’t help it. If you love someone, you don’t stop loving them because they’ve done something horrible. I love him and I hate him. I love the John I knew, the ordinary man who was my boyfriend for years. But I hate the part of him that committed the crimes”. But still she stayed by him… …and her silence would lead another young girl to be traumatised. On Saturday 19th, a 19-year-old girl known in court as ‘Miss B’ was walking along the A24 Epsom Road passed Greville Primary School, when a white Audi GT Coupe pulled up. Steed’s ploy was the same; a smile, a chat and a compliment, but this time his demeanour was different. Lacking his Buddhist calm and sweating profusely, with his urges unsated from that last attack just three days before, beside the road, he pushed her over a wall, grabbed her hair, put a screwdriver to her neck, and he raped her. The rape was over quickly, but the terror was torturously slow, as with Steed having ‘soliloquised’ over whether to let this trembling girl live, he took her library ticket as a souvenir, he made her write down her details, and having promised to kill her if she went to the police, he made a date to meet her again and being too terrified to say no or to speak of what he’d done, she met him, and again he raped her. That night, Steed told his girlfriend everything about his latest attack. Only now, Sharon wasn’t to call him John, as he insisted that she call him “God”. He was the boss, he was in control, and fearing that the same thing could happen to her, police said “she had been so terrified of him that she kept silent”. There are many reasons why someone in an abusive relationship doesn’t or can’t leave; commitment, children or coercion; a lack of money, family or options; intimidation, shame or low self-esteem; they may believe (no matter how misguided) that their abuser actually loves them, that the violence doled out is somehow warranted, or that each attack has become normalised, but the biggest reason is fear. Fear kept her silent, as that’s what he fed off - making girls fear him. On Saturday 2nd of November 1985, two weeks later, Steed drove the white Audi GT to Wales. Said to be “jittery and twitchy”, on-route he had purchased a set of handcuffs, as with his addiction unsated having left two girls traumatised, he didn’t just want to rape a woman, he wanted to own her for good. That day, he pulled up at Cloygin Mill at Pontantwn in south-west Wales. This wasn’t a target though, but a visit, being the home of his mother Shiela, stepfather Ken and his stepsiblings Michael & Penny. For this family, it was an ordinary day in this remote Welsh idyll; they went for a walk, they had lunch, in the afternoon Ken taught him how to shoot a 12-bore 5-shot pump action shotgun (that he legally owned being a farmer) and having shot up some cans, a tree and an old water tank, they watched TV. The afternoon’s entertainment was typical mid 1980s television on LWT; with Blockbusters hosted by Bob Holness, Game for a Laugh with Jeremy Beadle, 3-2-1 with Ted Rogers, followed by action-drama Dempsey & Makepeace topping off the night before the news, but first, at 5:35pm was The A Team. With just four channels on the box, they didn’t need to look elsewhere for fun, as while tucking into a plate of fish n chips, mushy peas and a stack of buttered white bread, they giggled at Murdoch’s crazy antics, BA not “getting on no damn airplane”, Face looking perplexed at a Cylon, Hannibal loving it “when a plan comes together”, and although the family were all gripped by its family friendly action… …Steed was engrossed, but his smile had dropped, and his eyes were fixed on the screen. The episode was season 3, episode 6, titled ‘Double Heat’, in which a young girl named Jenny Olson is kidnapped. Her fictional abductor was a handsome, dark-haired, muscley hunk with tree trunk-like thighs, just like Steed, and she would be held hostage for ransom. In real life, Steed was inspired not just to kidnap a girl and rape her, what he wanted was to own her as his terrified little plaything in a prison of his own. Given the timings, it’s unlikely he watched the whole episode, as having stolen the shotgun from the boot of his stepfather’s van, he shortened the barrel, popped it in a small bag, and abruptly left. He never said why he was leaving, just that he had to go, and with that, by 6:15pm, he was gone. The third woman he attacked would be known in court only as ‘Mrs C’, a 39-year-old widowed mother of three and social worker from Hertfordshire, who bravely told of her trauma under the name ‘Sarah’. “It had been a gloriously romantic day in Bath”, Sarah recalled, “Harry & I were wonderfully happy. It was the first time we had met since I discovered I was pregnant. We had known each other for a long time and over the years since my husband died, our friendship had turned to love. We lived in different counties, and sometimes arranged to spend time in places we wanted to visit”, just like that day. After a last drink together, in separate cars they drove to the M4 motorway, in a layby they kissed, said goodbye, and “with no other traffic on the road, I tootled along at about 50”. It was the best her little yellow Citroen 2CV could do, as with just a 9bhp, its top speed was 68mph and 0-60 in 90 seconds. But with the road being icy, Sarah was in no rush to get home… at least not yet. It was roughly 8:45pm, when on this unlit and isolated stretch between Dauntsey and Royal Wooton Bassett just outside of Swindon, “I’d been driving for 15 minutes, when I was aware of a white Audi behind me”. It overtook, the driver looked across, he slowed down and being forced to overtake him… …(tyres squeal) “I heard a loud crash on the rear off-side and realised he had hit me”. At the distance marker 140.4, “I pulled over to the hard shoulder, and went to find my bag and my insurance details”. But something wasn’t right, she knew it, but by then, it was too late. “He yanked open the passenger door, jumped in, pulled a big knife and said ‘don’t do anything silly’”. But Sarah was already gone. Fleeing for her life down the empty motorway with no-one hearing her screams, after 100 yards “he grabbed me around the neck, dragged me back to his car and shoved me into the passenger seat”. As a mother who wanted to see her children again, Sarah was unwilling to give up her fight, and although he pulled his 6-inch Commando knife on her, the blade slashed her fingers as she grappling with it. She fought as best she could, but with Steed being twice her size, it was a fight only he could win. “He hit my face six or seven times with his clenched fist – like a boxer at a punchbag - and I crumpled like a puppet. I can still remember the blows on the forehead, cheeks, temples, nose, my bottom lip burst, and the blood spurted out”, and as she lay there, “I was dazed, quite literally seeing stars and in pain”. With the handcuffs purchased for this purpose, “he twisted my arms behind my back, squeezed them on tightly, forced me onto the floor and made me curl up”, out of sight and silent. His hostage now his to do with as he pleased, as unseen, he drove her into the darkness and to a fate worse than death. The concluding part of The Fearmonger continues next week. UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: (PART TWO) A cold winter wind howled across the unlit stretch of the M4 motorway outside of Swindon, as a patrol car pulled up behind a yellow Citroen 2CV. With the keys still in the ignition, its hazard lights on, but no driver inside, having been neatly parked with the handbrake up, police surmised that with a dent to the rear off-side following a minor collision, the owner had been driven to the nearest phone-box. Its details were logged, the owner hadn’t been reported missing, and nothing raised their suspicions. In truth though, ‘Sarah’ was alive, but in fear for her life. (car speeding) Curled-up in the cramped footwell of the passenger’s seat, 39-year-old ‘Sarah’ - a widowed mother of three who was three months pregnant – lay silently and still, as her powerfully-built abductor sped her from where she was safe to somewhere unknown, as the stolen Audi GT roared into the night. Having been threatened with a knife, handcuffed with her hands behind her back, her legs having gone numb, and his huge fists having made of mess of her face and rendered her dazed, she knew she didn’t stand a chance if she ran – and even though she didn’t know where she was - if she did, she’d be dead. As far as she knew, she was still on the M4 and heading east, but unable to see her watch or to judge the distance, all she knew was that she’d been kidnapped by a very violent man, and she was terrified. ‘Sarah’ was chosen by him simply because she was driving alone on an isolated road with no-one nearby to protect her from a serial rapist and a soon-to-be murderer. And yet, there was one woman who knew every detail of his crimes and could have ended his sadistic spree of terror in a single word… …only she didn’t. During the trial, when word leaked to the press about what she knew, the Sunday People branded her “shameless Sharon” stating that her decision to sell her story to (I should point out) ‘a rival newspaper’ was little more than “cashing in” and calling him “a repulsive rapist” and her as his “frightful floozie”. In the Liverpool Echo, it read “there is not the slightest sign that she is troubled by her conscience. She says she still loves him and that she wants to marry him. Her picture and story have appeared across the pages of a Sunday newspaper, and as she poses like a glamour girl, the blonde Sharon tells how she willingly submitted to Steed’s perverted practices. Far from facing any prosecution, she is now almost certainly cashing in on his infamy and her complicity. What a sick society we have become!”. But regardless of what the press published, and the public were willing to believe, as a witness for the prosecution, the police’s opinion of Sharon was very different, saying “she was no different from his victims. She was in stark terror of him. She knew she could spill the beans, but it was too dangerous”. Whether she was liked or loathed, his victims all knew that John Steed was a man to be feared. ‘Sarah’ was scared, as anyone in her position would be, having no idea who he was, but he had already proven that he meant to do her harm. In a moment of terror such as that, we all might have cried, pleaded or wanted to die, but ‘Sarah’ was different, very different. As an experienced social worker trained in psychiatry, she’d been in many dangerous situations with violent men, and knowing never to give into his fear or to antagonise him, her training kicked in and she remained calm and focussed. “My face was bleeding badly”, ‘Sarah’ said, and being in an almost-new Audi, “I pointed out that it was marking his seats”. It wasn’t his car, but in his eyes, he owned it, and not wanting to bloody the trim, “he allowed me to lie face-down with the seat reclined low, below window level. This was a start”. She did nothing to make him think she was going to run or scream, as any false move would be futile, could end in a knife to the back, and she would be dead. Inside, as they sped further from safety, amid the silence, ‘Sarah’ tried to forget her fear and to remember every detail, just in case she made it through this alive: the car, the colour, the seats, his voice, his tattoos, his build and his odd walk. “Then I started to talk to him”, it was a bold move to break to silence, “I told him I was old enough to be his mother, and I had three children. I wanted him to respond”, and then he began to talk. He spoke about his muscles, looks and success with girls - mostly it was bragging – but he also spoke of his time in prison, his religion, his life, and how he took calculated risks and had full control of his emotions. As they drove, ‘Sarah’ made sure she memorised as much as possible about what he said, but also, now lying flat on the passenger seat, although limited “I lifted my head up to try and spot landmarks” along this 118-mile journey, seeing only brief flashes of lights, houses, bridges, statues and signposts. After two hours, which seemed like ten, getting off the M4 and entering the city, the car slowed to a crawl being snarled by traffic lights, construction work and a police van. “I thought of trying to escape”, ‘Sarah’ recalled, but from the back seat “he pulled a sawn-off shotgun, laid it on his knees and told me ‘I’ll kill you, if you try and get out, and anyone else who gets in my way’. But in the end, I bottled out”. With the car driving slower and its turns ever tighter, ‘Sarah’ knew their final destination was near, “all I could do was try to notice landmarks just in case I ever made it out alive”, and as they stopped at a junction with the car indicating left, “the last thing I noticed was the Joiner’s Arms pub and its sign with gold lettering. It was about 10:30pm and it was still open… we turned a few corners and drove into a very quiet, dark garage, where he switched off the engine and bundled me into the boot”. It was dark and cramped, and with two pubs on either side of the garage celebrating bonfire night, amid a cacophony of drunken revellers having fun, over their own, no-one heard her bangs or screams. “I thought of my three sons waiting for me at home. They had already lost their father, and I was damned if they were going to be made orphans by this man”. She knew she couldn’t fight him off… …but somehow, she would need to win. At his trial, Sharon Bovill, Steed’s girlfriend told a friend “everyone is saying I must have known what was going on, but I didn’t”, as her culpability in his crimes was swept aside as the prosecution needed her as a witness against him. She knew what details he told her, but being there, every day of the trial, she came face to face with the women he had raped, whose bodies he had violated, whose minds he had traumatised, and whose lives she could have saved with just a word, one of whom was ‘Sarah’. “I had had vision of him killing me”, ‘Sarah’ recalled, “I knew I could not beat him physically, but I knew he could not beat my mind”. She was locked in the Audi’s boot for roughly 20 minutes, when she heard the garage door open, he unlocked the boot and (with her legs cramped) he led her to the backseat. “I knew what was coming next”, ‘Sarah’ said, “I knew in my heart it was a sex attack”, as he sat beside her, his imposing bulk blocking the door, and the isolated garage locked from within. “I tried to delay it by talking”, only he wasn’t listening, “he kept saying ‘take your trousers off’. I told him I couldn’t with my handcuffs on”, but he didn’t care, he liked her that way. “I told him I was pregnant”, ‘Sarah’ said, hoping to illicit some sympathy from him, “he said he always wanted to rape a pregnant woman”. I’d like to tell you she fought him off, that she broke free and that he didn’t rape her… …but I can’t. That rape could have broken ‘Sarah’, it could have seen the breaking of her body and the unravelling of her mind, as everything she had lived for was destroyed. But she was different, very different, and setting aside the trauma of being kidnapped, beaten, handcuffed, raped, and possibly – having seen his face – that the next step of this serial sexual predator was to kill her, she remained calm. “The act itself was over very quickly”, ‘Sarah’ said, “I remember thinking for him the rape was the least important part of the attack. What he really enjoyed was having another human under his control”. For a while, they sat silently on the backseat. “After the rape, he went quiet, playing with the shotgun. I knew this was the most dangerous time of all. I knew he wanted me to grovel, to plead, to scream and to panic, so that he would have to shoot me… and I told him that would have to be his decision”. She wasn’t angry, she didn’t curse him, she just brought this fantasist back down to reality. “My fight for survival started there. I noticed he had beads of sweat on his cheeks. He was nervous. He had a weak spot. There was some humanity underneath his cold calculation. The only way was to talk to him – the way I did as a psychiatrist trying to help people just like him. I was his prisoner, but I was still a professional… and without my training, I am convinced I would not be alive today”. The night was long, longer than any night she had lived before, and as he sat there with a perturbed look on his face, quaffing banana after banana, he handed her a carton on milk to drink, and began to talk. “He started to pour his heart out”, about the abuse, being in care and his mum’s rape. “He said he wanted to rape me again, but he couldn’t manage it”, possibly being down to steroids, his emotions or maybe sympathy, “I don’t know how I got through the whole night, but I did, talking all the time”. This had never happened to Steed before, as he was always the one who was in control, and having raped his victim, he’d ‘soliloquise’ about whether to let them live or die, as they trembled and wept. But this time he didn’t. The fireworks had long since ceased, the pub’s revellers were fast asleep, and as the milkman’s cart drove into Anthony Road, ‘Sarah’ and Steed had been sat there for almost five hours, just chatting. At about 4:15am, Steed got into the driver’s seat with ‘Sarah’ sat upright in the passenger’s seat, “and at dawn, he drove me to Victoria Station”. Parking up, he unlocked her handcuffs, gave her back her handbag, and having taken her child benefit’s books with her name and address inside, she threatened “if you don’t tell the police, you will be safe. But I have got your book, and I know where to find you”. And as the car drove away, her nine-hour ordeal of terror was over. “I couldn’t believe I wasn’t dead”, ‘Sarah’ said. But dead was how she looked, as she limped into the Victoria police station. The divisional doctor who examined her said “she was subjected to an almost fatal violent assault. In my 30 years’ experience, I have rarely seen such an attack where the victim has survived”, and yet, she had. ‘Sarah’ had not only survived physically but mentally, as although bloodied, swollen and shaking, she was a sharp as a pin. Hailed by the police as “cool, calm and courageous”, given everything she had been through, seasoned detectives were “astounded at her astonishing ability to recall even the most minute details… despite suffering numerous injuries to her face and barely being able to open her mouth from severe bruising”. She gave a detailed description of the car and her attacker, as well as his look, his size, his tattoos, his job, his girlfriend, his religion, his family, his upbringing, his unusual gait owing to his over-developed thighs, and his diet consisting only of bananas and milk, as well as a full psychiatric profile. She also logged her journey from when she was kidnapped to where she was raped, telling the Police of the last thing she saw before she was locked in a garage – the colourful sign of the Joiner’s Arms pub. There were just five Joiner’s Arms pubs in London; Hackney, Denmark Hill, Camberwell, Lewisham and Woodside, and although in shock, she willing went with the police to find it. Turning onto Woodside Green on the corner of Anthony Road, the Police knew this was the right place, as without saying a word - having seen the gold lettering on the pub’s sign - ‘Sarah’ broke down and began to shake. Her fight was over, the garage was found, and the hunt for her attacker had begun. Forensics swarmed over the abandoned garage, which was owned by William Gilbert, a mechanic who had an alibi for the night itself. Inside, the white Audi GT Coupe was gone, and although it was too oily to find a fingerprint, a half-drunk carton of full-fat milk confirmed that ‘Sarah’ had been there. But with the garage being so well hidden, the Police knew that her attacker must have been a local man. But who was he? Like most newspapers, the Evening Standard lambasted Sharon and her unwillingness to stop Steed’s crimes, stating “she knew what she was doing and kept her mouth shut until a newspaper paid her to open it. The police say she can’t be charged as she wasn’t properly cautioned. One phone call after his first confession could have saved the devastation of several lives, and although a passive party to his crimes, she was quick to sell her story to a Sunday newspaper”. But was it for love, fear, or money? With the details of ‘Sarah’s abduction shared across the Police’s network, having identified two rapes with glaring similarities – being 20-year-old ‘Miss A’ in Croydon and 19-year-old ‘Miss B’ in Banstead – a joint-operation was established over four counties - Surrey, Wiltshire, South Wales and the Met – which they codenamed Operation Joiner, headed up by Detective Chief inspector Lex Bell, known as ‘Dinger’. All three women gave similar descriptions - 6 foot tall, 16 stone, stocky build, brown hair, blue eyes, pale skin and heavily tattooed – but that aside, his odd gait owing to his over-developed thighs and his strange diet of milk and bananas led the police to believe it could only be one man. And with his photofit released, several people walked into Croydon police station and stated “that’s John Steed”. But where was he, as he wasn’t in his bedsit, and neither was Sharon. Having bragged about ‘Sarah’s rape, finally seeing sense (or perhaps spotting a moment to flee as with him being hunted, Steed was on the run) Sharon went to live with her parents. “His confession”, a friend said “caused her so much turmoil she didn’t know whether to kill herself”. But with his heinous crimes splashed across every paper, it didn’t take long for those who knew him to piece together his unique description, and “a white Audi GT Coupe with a cracked rear window and a bloodstained seat”. Reading about the man, the car and the timings, putting it all together, his mother Shiela was already running for the phone to give up his name, when armed police swooped and surrounded their farm. Every house he had lived at, every gym he was known to haunt, and every possible hide-out the Police watched, but this man who had rarely lived beyond a few streets of his childhood home was missing. Having ditched the Audi and stolen a silvery-blue MG Montego in West Dulwich, for several days, the car’s backseat had been his home. He knew he needed to lay-low as his infamous face was in every newspaper, but with his sexual urges and his need to be feared by women bubbling up inside of him… …John Steed was now out of control. On the night of Monday 4th of November 1985, just one day after ‘Sarah’s rape, in his customary blunt arrogance, Steed bragged “I went up to Soho and then to Park lane and picked up a couple of dimbos”. Outside of the Grosvenor House Hotel, he crawled the car up to the curb and started chatting to two sex-workers - Jaqueline Murray, aged 23 & Judy Burnham aged 28 – and having agreed a price of £30 each, they both got in. He didn’t ask for two girls, but with his car reeking of bruised bananas and old milk, and his face dripping in sweat on a cold night, something didn’t look right, but money was money. With Judy on the backseat and Jacqui upfront, Steed said very little as he circled Wellington Arch, and headed southbound on Park Lane. Usually, he’d have waited till he had got the girl in an isolated spot, but unable to control his lust, he grabbed a bag from the backseat, he pointed a 12-bore sawn-off shotgun at Jacqui’s head, “I told her to put on the handcuffs”, Steed said “and they freaked out”. Both women screamed, “I told them to shut up or I’d kill her”. But being imprisoned as he’d activated the car’s central locking, with Steed driving faster, zigzagging down Park Lane and forcing Jacqui’s head towards the dashboard demanding that she put on the handcuffs, Judy kicked out a back window and she screamed for help as the car sped at a suicidal 80mph, but there was nothing anyone could do. With the wheels squealing as the car approached Marble Arch, taking a sharp left, Steed later bragged “I told the one in front to shut up or I’d kill her. She didn’t, so I did”. From six inches away, a hot blast of shotgun pellets ripped into her chest, and as he skidded to a halt off Cumberland Gate, Judy jumped through the broken window, he dumped Jacqui’s bleeding body in the gutter, and like coward, he fled. Jacqui fought for the life, but losing blood rapidly, 90 minutes later, she died of her injuries. Steed was an armed and dangerous man who had to be stopped, and although he’d set fire to the car and had gone into hiding, looking and walking the way he did, how long could he really stay hidden? His apprehension was a mix of intelligence and chance. Wednesday 6th of November, two days later, police got a tip-off that Steed sometimes parked a car at Fairfield Halls car park in Croydon, one street from the police station where Operation Joiner was based, and hundreds of officers were hunting him. It seemed too silly to be true, but never one to ignore a hunch, DCI Lex Bell sent the only Constable he had free to check it out. PC Saeed, a rookie, searched all eleven floors of the car park, and on the 7th, he spotted a red Renault 25GTX which had been stolen by an armed man matching Steed’s description. Having called it in, armed officers lay in wait, and without a single shot being fired, Steed was arrested. In the boot was the shotgun used to kill Jacqui, strapped to his back was the 6-inch Commando knife, in the glovebox was the vital evidence they needed to link him to all three rapes - the library ticket, the benefit’s book and the names and addresses of each women, and two floors below, having already stolen a new Toyota and loaded it with milk and bananas, he was hours away from another attack. Remanded to Wandsworth Prison, while awaiting trial, he spent most his time in the gym sculping his muscles, and although his crimes were heinous, he was regularly visited by his girlfriend, Sharon (End) Starting on Thursday 6th of November 1986, 24-year-old John Allan Steed was tried at the Old Bailey before Justice Miskin. Pleading guilty to 18 charges including abduction and rape, in a quiet inaudible voice, the big man he pretended to be was replaced by the small sullen boy he once was, as he pleaded “not guilty” to Jacqui’s murder, but guilty to manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility. Three psychiatrists for the defence and the prosecution examined him, and with varying degrees over what drove him to rape and kill – whether his upbringing, childhood trauma, delusions or the steroids - all agreed that he was suffering from a psychopathic disorder, possibly some form of schizophrenia, but with him not deemed sick enough to be given a hospital order, he was to be incarcerated in prison. On 10th November 1986, he was given four life sentences; three for rape, one for manslaughter, with 20 years for stealing a car, possessing a shotgun, and just 7 years for abduction. But with no minimum sentence set and to be served concurrently, with good behaviour, he could have been out in 9 years. As Steed was led to the cells, Sharon wept, later telling a friend “it would be easier if John had died. That would be something I could cope with and in time recover. But the memory will drag on forever”. In 1998, with his parole review imminent, appealing his sentence, the then-Home Secretary Jack Straw - who was insistent that Britain’s most violent offenders should never be released - gave Steed a ‘whole life tariff’. Knowing he would never be free and unable to cope in a terrifying world where he had no control, on Friday 20th of November 1998 at HMP Full Sutton, having told an orderly his duty was “to escape hell”, 35-year-old John Steed tied his bedsheets to the bars and was found hanging. With an inquest reporting his death as ‘suicide’, it can only be hoped that his victims found comfort in the fact that he’d taken his own life, and that with the fearmonger dead, other women would be safe. But could others have been saved if just a single word had been spoken? The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. |
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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