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.
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 SEVENTY-THREE:
On Tuesday 11th August 1936, at roughly noon, in the basement flat of 7 Roseford Gardens in Shepherd’s Bush, 66-year-old widow Elizabeth Fortescue was smothered to death, as her attacker ransacked her flat. Given the violence used against her, the Police suspected “she had died at the hands of a violent man”. But how true was that?
THE LOCATION:
The location is marked with a bright yellow symbol of a bin just by the words 'Shepherd's Bush' kin the west of the map. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: (a selection)
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing by Roseford Court in Shepherd’s Bush, W12; three streets east of the savaged prince, opposite the Shoebox Killer’s last attack, next door to the petrol station where the First Date killer had a body in a boot, and three streets north of the bongo basher - coming soon to Murder Mile. Built in 1968, on the south side of Shepherd’s Bush Green stands a block of flats called Roseford Court. Named after the road demolished to make way for it, Roseford Gardens was a quaint set of Victorian terraces where everybody probably suffered from TB, rickets, typhoid and had a tooth between them. In 1936, the basement flat of 7 Roseford Gardens was home to 66-year-old widow Elizabeth Fortescue, an unassuming woman who went about her life without grumbling or causing a fuss. She did right by those she lived with and deserved to live and long and happy life. And yet, by opening her door to a person of pure evil, it was said “she died at the hands of a violent man”. But how true was that? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 273: A ‘Bad’ Man. Elizabeth Fortescue was born Elizabeth Ada Coker on the Hallow’s Eve of October 1869 as one of two sisters to working-class couple, William & Sarah Coker. Raised in Marylebone and living local most her life, she was a Londoner through and through and rarely saw beyond the same streets in her early days. Her life wasn’t tragic or sad, as although far from well-off, she was rich in spirit, as all she craved was the simple comforts in life; like a roaring fire, a homecooked meal, her bills paid and a neat house. As a woman who took pride in her appearance, although some suggested she looked a little frumpy, she always blacked the ironwork of her fire, and proudly washed her doorstep every Saturday without fail. Burdened by a stern expression and the stout frame of a woman who wasn’t to be messed with, her ‘no nonsense’ exterior belied her truth about Elizabeth. She wasn’t tough but hardened by a lifetime of hard graft. She wasn’t grumpy, but (rightly) only let into her life those she trusted. And although a woman of solitude with few friends, she was full of kindness, love and would do anything for anyone. In 1894, aged 25, she met and fell in love with Alfred Cecil Fortschunk, a Londoner whose work often took him to Ireland, and as his new bride, she followed him to Dublin and later to Pontypridd in Wales. Little is known of their life together, but by 1917, with the First World War having ravaged Europe and with Britain rife with anti-German sentiment, the royal family changed their name from the Germanic Saxe-Coburg-Gotha to Windsor as did Albert & Elizabeth Fortschunk who became Mr & Mrs Fortescue. Married for 26 years, in December 1920 when Albert died, Elizabeth was left with no home, no savings, and with no children to look after her in her later years, she had to make do with a widow’s pension of just 10s a week (about £25 today), but being frugal and hardworking, she ploughed on with her life. Into her sixties, whereas many woman had retired, unable to do so, she travelled the breadth of the country earning an honest wage as a food demonstrator, as blessed with a pleasant demeanour, she bestowed upon the housewives of Britain’s towns and cities the value of canned and powdered goods. It was long hours and hard work, but as a single woman on a pitiful pension, it kept her alive and well. By 1928, she moved into a two-roomed basement flat at 7 Roseford Gardens in a three storey Victorian terrace which (having seen better days) was cheap. To make it affordable, she split the rent with her sister, but with Louise moving out in 1932 owing to a falling out, Elizabeth took in a series of lodgers. She was a good woman who never did wrong… …and yet it was a good deed she did for a friend which left her for dead. From 2nd of July to 19th of August 1936, the landlady Anna Blades was on holiday. Needing someone reliable and honest, she asked Elizabeth to collect the rent on her behalf, having done it before. On Sunday 9th August 1936, two days before her death, she had collected £4 18s in rent from Celia Rowe on the second floor, Alexander Wills on the first, she (of course) paid her own, and as was standard, she placed the money in an envelope, popped it in a portmanteau case, and stashed it under the table. It was hardly Fort Knox, but who would break into a flat in the hope a few quid hidden in a box? Being broke, but a nice lady, Elizabeth gave her new lodgers - Alfred Stratford and his girlfriend – a day’s grace to pay 11 shillings having rented out her front room, and she went about her day. Monday was as uneventful, as was the Tuesday. That morning, she woke early as she always did, she made a cuppa, she cleaned her small single room, she shook and beat the rugs in the garden, and she began washing a mountain of laundry, only to be interrupted by Leslie Windmill, an engineer of the Gas, Light & Coke Company who at 11:20am installed a water boiler and was done in 20 minutes. That was the last time she was seen alive, but she was heard returning to her washing. As a solitary woman who kept to herself, it wasn’t uncommon not to see or hear her for hours or days. By the Thursday though, with milk bottles piling up outside of her door, and getting no reply from the flat, Mrs Rowe’s husband peeped in through her bedroom window, and was shocked by what he saw. The investigation was headed up by Detective Inspector Rawlings. The motive was obvious from the outset, it was a simple case with a likely suspect. The flat consisted of the lodger’s room, a passage and a scullery, all of which were untouched. Yet her tiny room, barely 8 feet square with just a sofa bed, a table, a dresser and a fireplace had been ransacked and trashed. Every drawer had been searched, every cupboard had been opened and with the culprit clearly looking for something specific, everything was in disorder. On the small side table, two handbags and a purse were open, their contents spread. On the sofa bed, a suitcase had been forced and emptied. And on the main table, the portmanteau case was broken open and the envelopes of rent money missing. Elizabeth didn’t have jewellery or heirlooms, all she had was a cash tin in her dresser with £3 and 17s, almost as much as the rent itself, which the culprit missed. But they might not have known about it? What was stolen was barely enough money to last one person a week, yet it was worth killing her for. In front of the door lay what looked like a bundle of old clothes still to be washed, only its shape was akin to an Egyptian mummy wrapped in all of its bandages from the day it had been entombed. Police Surgeon Dr Ernest Travers would state “the body was trussed up from head to foot with various articles of clothing, dusters, rags, etc”, with the top half of a pyjama suit still in the scullery sink, damp. “Her ankles were bound with sheets, also her knees, wrists and elbows tight to her sides” as someone had strived to keep this short but stoutly built woman still as she struggled to fight herself free. Underneath, her face was a bloody swollen mess, as keen to keep her silent, her brutal assailant had slammed their fist hard into her face, breaking her nose and rupturing the left eye till the pupil blew. Knocking her to the floor, and leaving her back, legs and arms a patchwork of thick black bruises, at least one of those punches had dislodged her dentures, and caused her to bite down on her tongue. But as scared and overpowered as she was, this proud and resolute woman never gave up the fight. Wrapped so tight she was immovable, as overkill, her attacker had wrapped her pyjama trousers about her face and neck to silence her, cutting a deep groove in her skin the more she struggled. Over that was wrapped a thick duster, over that a large cotton sheet, and over that a blue woollen jumper; an inch of several layers of material, and with some wet or damp, it was akin to being waterboarded. Dr Travers said “she couldn’t have breathed for very long with those things tied over her mouth”. And although bound, as she struggled to emit a muffled scream for help, unable to render her unconscious with a heavy blow, several times her head was slammed against the hard wooden floor with so much force and violence that the pathologist couldn’t tell if she had been beaten to death with a hammer. Unable to move, scream and barely breathe, it took a full 30 minutes for Elizabeth to die, as every pained breath got shallower and weaker, and with no-one having heard her, she died alone and afraid. Her death was tragic… …but for the police, the suspect was obvious. Given the violence against her, they were looking for a man. Having searched her room for the rent money, it was likely that he knew her. With no signs of a break-in, he was believed to be a resident. And with the front room untouched and only one set of fingerprints found on the ransacked items (her handbag, purse, suitcase and the portmanteau case), with her new lodger missing since the day of her murder, a manhunt was on to arrest Alfred Stratford. Warnings were issued at every station and port that he was violent and dangerous. But who was this ‘bad man’? Born on the 3rd of October 1895 in East London, Alfred was the eldest son of George & Ruth Stratford, and bar a brief stint in Saskatchewan aged 3, his life was mostly spent in Dalston or Bethnal Green. When assessed following his arrest, his psychiatric report states “he is poorly educated and struggles to read being of below average intelligence”, when in truth, his low IQ and his mental (and sometimes) physical slowness was attributed to a 13-year bout of epilepsy exacerbated by a dog attack as a child. Deemed fit and strong, he earned a good living as a labourer, and having married his sweetheart Emily Wheeler when he was aged just 20, across their marriage he fathered seven children with her, but like so many parents in that era, two died too early, with James aged 9, and George barely even a toddler. By 1914, with the outbreak of the First World War, Alfred was enlisted as a Private in the Royal Sussex Regiment – to do his bit and earn a good wage for his family - and although not a leader, as a soldier who was fit, brave and could take simple orders and undertake them to the fullest, he flourished. On 11th of November 1918, the last day of the war, Alfred fought in the brutal Battle of Mons, a bloody fight to liberate the Belgian town from the Germans. Deemed a success which led to this hero awarded the British War and Victory medals, having been shelled, the next 11 years of his life were spent in and out of hospital, as even after many operations and bone grafts, his left forearm was badly deformed. Shipped home to Dalston, being unable to continue working as a labourer, he was forced to support his family on the few pounds he could make, and a pitiful disability pension of just 16 shillings a week. Later assessed as a ‘desperate criminal’, who having been trained to kill was ruthless and aggressive, his motive was money. But although mentally slow, he showed no signs of insanity or trauma and with no criminal record, it didn’t seem like he had gone bad. Besides, he wasn’t a leader… but a follower. So what was his motive? In 1933, while living at 191 Quinn Square in Bethnal Green with his wife and children, 38-year-old Alfred caught the eye of his neighbour, 16-year-old factory-hand Mary-Ann Flynn. As an attractive girl with a short black hair, bright red lipstick and a mesmerising smile, Alfred was instantly smitten. It was wrong, and he knew it, and although his family needed him, in 1936, when she was 19, they eloped. Whether it was love, we shall never know, but whereas he was mentally slow and some say easily led, as a girl who wanted more than life was willing to give her, others say she was manipulative and cruel. On Sunday 2nd of August 1936, just nine days before, Alfred & Mary-Ann committed a violent attack on a lone woman, which has some haunting similarities to the brutal murder of Elizabeth Fortescue. For a few months, Mary-Ann was the maid to Florence Gaze, affluent heir to the Gaze Drapery empire who lived with her siblings at 13 Middleton Road in Golders Green. With their modest house full of silk sheets and jewellery, 24 hours earlier, Mary-Ann had loaded up a suitcase, swiped £6, and fled with the plan to elope with her lover. But needing more money, she returned with a different plan. Florence Gaze later recalled, “I went to the door and the caller was Mary-Ann”, standing there without an ounce of remorse for the theft. “She said she had come for her clothes, so I asked her in”. Florence saw this as a chance not to accuse her, only to ask why, but what she didn’t see was this was a ploy. “I was talking to her in the hall when the bell rang again”, only she was expecting no-one. “I opened the door and saw a shabbily dressed young man. Before I had time to say anything, he seized me with both hands, and threw me to the floor”, badly bruising her back, arms and legs. Fighting to hold her down with his deformed left arm, “he tried to gag me with a blouse. I called out to Mary-Ann who I thought was helping me”, only she wasn’t, “instead, I discovered she was the one holding my wrists”. Florence was overpowered by Mary-Ann, as Alfred started to ransack the room. “For a time, I lay on the floor with a cloth in my mouth”, gagged and struggling to breath. “Somehow, I managed to get to my feet and ran along the second passage towards the kitchen. I got the cloth out of my mouth and I began talking to Mary-Ann. She said ‘I met this man and he made me do it’. I asked him to let me sit up but he struck me a blow which sent my head against the wall, but although I was very frightened, before I lost consciousness, I ran out of the house”, fleeing over the fence and alerting the police. Florence Gaze was lucky to be alive, as although this gruesome twosome frequently shifted the blame between each other, and sometimes took the blame exonerating their lover, with the police having set up a man hunt for this “bad man and his accomplice”, the couple had headed to Shepherd’s Bush. That day, seeing an advert in the newsagent’s window for a room to let at 7 Roseford Gardens, Alfred paid a small deposit, and the couple moved in, with the latest victim in their spree in the next room. Elizabeth had no idea about their crimes, she thought they were a couple in love. And seeing that they had no luggage and were short of a few bob, she would do her best to help them as best she could. But was her killing really the fault of this ‘bad’ man? When arrested, Mary-Ann confessed in full. She said “towards the end of the week, we didn’t have any money. Alfred said we may as well go to the police station and give ourselves up for leaving home”, as he knew he would be arrested for deserting his family, as well as the assault on Florence Gaze. That night, on Sunday 9th of August 1936, Elizabeth sat in her room supping tea with her friend, Mrs Gould, as Mary-Ann passed the slightly ajar scullery door, “when I went to the sink I saw her with some envelopes of money on the table”. And although just a passing glance, this evil seed grew a cruel oak. “I told Alfred what I’d seen, and I suggested we take it. He said ‘no’, he didn’t like the idea”, but by the Tuesday, when Elizabeth’s boiler was fitted, he was onboard, having either been pestered or smitten. “I put the idea to Alf that we should attack her as she was at the sink washing”, as with her back turned she wouldn’t be unnerved by a petite young girl with a sweet voice and rosebud lips. “I said I should speak to her, then he should come out with a duster and tie it around her mouth”, which he did. Only the plan went wrong from the very start, as she was an over-eager girl with greed on her mind, and the gag slipped off as he was a slow-witted veteran who fumbled owing to a badly deformed arm. “All the time she was screaming”, fighting to get free and terrified for her life. “I sent him to get some more cloths to gag her” and grabbing a stack from the sink, many were damp having just been washed. “I was holding her down with my hand over her mouth and a cloth to keep her quiet, she was struggling with me, trying to pull the cloths from her mouth and she bit my fingers terribly”, so with a violent rage mistakenly attributed to brutal man, not a seemingly feeble girl, “I hit her in the face and banged her head on the floor”, as they trussed her up like a mummy, so she couldn’t move, speak or breathe. “As I was holding her down. I said to him ‘leave me with her, you look for the money’”, which is why the police never found any of her fingerprints in Elizabeth’s room, as like her loyal servant, he went looking for the loot, ransacking the room, as Mary-Ann stopped this suffocating woman from fleeing. “I shouted to Alf ‘have you got it yet?”, directing his hand to the portmanteau case, and grabbing the cash, they had brief moment of conscience, asking (Mary-Ann) “what shall we do, leave her like this?”, (Alfred) “is she all right?”, (Mary-Ann) “yes, we’ll get caught if we stay”. And later confessing, “she was still struggling when we left her. We shut both doors to her flat, went upstairs and out the front door”, knowing that she was alive and breathing, but that no-one would find her until it was too late. “We went to Shepherd’s Bush”, by which time Elizabeth’s strength had begun to fail her, “and we got a bus to Fenchurch Street Station”. And as the giggling lovers counted their haul of £5 and 10s (£600 today), Elizabeth breathed her last, as muffled by a mountain of cloths, she uttered her death rattle. “Then we got a train and went to Southend”, where they stayed for two weeks, enjoying the sun, the sea, the sand, and not eloping (as being married, Alfred couldn’t), but seeing this as their honeymoon. As the two lovers frolicked and guffawed, the police were already on the hunt for a ‘bad’ man, but no-one had suspected that the killer could be a ‘bad’ woman, and this bias would dog the investigation. Their capture and arrest was simple, as being creatures of habit, they returned to East London. Dubbed ‘a danger’, on the 3rd of October at 1:15pm, Alfred was spotted by DCI Rawlings at a bus stop by the corner of Kingsland Road and Dalston Lane. Asking “is your name Stratford?’, replying “yes”, before he could be arrested, he interjected “alright, I know”, and was taken to Dalston Police station. Deemed less important, as in court they would paint her as a stupid little girl who was obsessed with a ‘bad’ man – asking Albert who wasn’t the sharpest, “have you the slightest doubt that this girl worships the ground you walk on… and would willingly have lay down her life to save you?” – Mary-Ann was found in their new lodging at 106 Greenwood Road in Hackney and made a full confession. And yet, although Albert was bundled into a van and roughly manhandled, Mary-Ann was given time to wash, dress, and while prettying herself before the ogling constables, possibly she crafted her story. Mary-Ann gave a lengthy statement covering several pages, claiming “I want to make a clean breast of the whole thing to get it off my mind”, which formed most of what you’ve just heard. When handed it, Alfred apologised, saying “it might take a while, I read very slowly” and eventually added “it is all true, absolutely true what she says. It’s no good me saying anything, she’s said all that’s true”. And that was the bulk of his statement, he had nothing to add, edit, and it’s likely he didn’t understand it. Tried at the Old Bailey on the 19th of November 1936, with Mary-Ann’s statement declared as invalid, as the police had failed to correctly caution her, the testimony of both culprits became invaluable. And yet, as he changed his story to protect her, she denied any violence against the victim, and said her confession was made “to shield him and take the blame. He is the only man I have ever loved”. But was this the truth to save him, or a lie to save herself? With the judge declaring “the jury took a merciful view of her. There was no doubt that she was aiding Stratford, and but for her assistance, it is probable that Mrs Fortescue wouldn’t have been killed”, Alfred was sentenced to death for his crime, while Mary-Ann was sentenced to just 8 years in prison. So sympathetic were they to her, that when Alfred was condemned to death, Mary-Ann was ushered out of the court to spare her this “terrible ordeal… as for the rest of her life, she will have the sorrow that she will never again in life see the man she loved”, treating her as if she was the real victim. But some sympathy did fall on Alfred. With the jury recommending mercy, his sentence was reduced to life, and serving nine years in Maidstone Prison, released in 1945, he died in 1971 at the age 75. The press said that “justice was served”, and yet, there would be one more death before the year was out. Sent to Holloway, on 14th May 1937, five months into her sentence, Mary-Ann died in the prison hospital. Conceived on their honeymoon, she had carried Alfred’s child to full-term, but with her too weak to survive this painful birth, she died when her baby daughter was only 32 hours old. Said to have been adopted, somewhere a woman exists, hopefully having lived a good life and blissfully unaware that her birth was owing to a brief but bloody union between a ‘bad’ man and a ‘bad’ woman. 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.
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 SEVENTY-TWO:
On Sunday 31st July 1949, just before midnight, Michael Martin unleashed a violent attack on a defenceless 53-year-old prostitute known locally as ‘Mona’. To the press, it seemed like an all-too-familiar story of a destitute woman who was brutally murdered by a horny drunken punter, but with time and infirmity catching up with all of us, this anonymous streetwalker’s death marked the end of an amazing criminal.
THE LOCATION:
The location is marked with a sickly green symbol of a bin just south of the words 'Baker Street'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: (a selection)
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Manchester Street in Marylebone, W1; a short walk south of the brutal slaying of Sharon Pickles, two roads east of the killing of William Raven, a few doors down from the failed lobotomy of Gabrielle De Wolfe, and the same house as the ‘tragic rags’ - coming soon to Murder Mile. At 45 Manchester Street currently sits a four-storey brown-bricked Grade II listed townhouse from the 1780’s. Being renovated into pricy flats for society’s elite, its brochure is probably filled with beautiful people lounging in pristine rooms on shiny metal chairs while sipping a swanky cocktail. So it might as well say “no fatties, no foreigners, no dole scum, and if you didn’t go to Eton, holiday at Monty, or have eaten a Pringle, this is not the place for you, thank you and good day. I said GOOD DAY!” (door slam) Back in 1949, this was a 14-roomed lodging house occupied by manual labourers and impoverished families, many of whom worked in the local factories. In Room 12 on the third floor, a quiet young man who assisted at the local theatre had recently moved in, and by all accounts, he was no trouble at all. But on Sunday 31st July 1949, just before midnight, he would unleash a violent attack on a defenceless 53-year-old prostitute known locally as ‘Mona’. To the press, it seemed like an all-too-familiar story of a destitute woman who was brutally murdered by a horny drunken punter, but with time and infirmity catching up with all of us, this anonymous streetwalker’s death marked the end of an amazing criminal. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 272: Red Mist. On an unspecified date in August 1949, in an undisclosed cemetery in Wandsworth, a priest gave a by-the-book eulogy as two gravediggers piled six pine coffins into a lonely hole. With no mourners or pallbearers, they stood with resigned silence as this job encroached on a tea-break, being unbothered as they buried a baby who died of croup, a malnourished pensioner, an unnamed tramp, a stack of unidentified remains left over from the blitz, and another prostitute murdered in London’s West End. With no flowers nor headstones on this council-funded grave, the only way to tell who they once were was by the cheap brass plaque on the lid, bearing only their name. One was etched ‘Margaret Reid’ and although no-one knew who she was, and no-one could be certain if this was even her real name… …she lived a life which was truly fascinating, and yet, ultimately heartbreaking. Margaret lived a life of lies, so unearthing her truth has been a labour of love for long time. Born in Dublin in 1897, or possibly 1894, her age is impossible to tell, as later in life she wasn’t averse to shave a few years off and even a decade when it suited her, and having gone under several aliases like ‘Maggie Reid’, ‘Elsie Brown’ and ‘Monica Reeves’, it likely that her real name was Annie Beamish. Being a mystery, we know nothing about her parents, her siblings, her childhood or her circumstances, so what drove her to lead a life of crime will never be known. What is certain is that Annie Beamish wasn’t just a prostitute and a thief, she was a one-woman crime wave, and the scourge of the city. To many, Annie looked like nothing but a little slip of a girl, being just 5-foot 1-inches tall with a fair physique, her hair was always neat, her make-up was subtle, and she wore pretty dresses and fancy bonnets. With her perfume smelling delicately of lavender and her jewellery affordable but never showy, she neither stood out as a social climber, a gold-digger, or a con artist - as that was the point. Aged just 20, where-as as many women in her position either worked for a pittance, sold their bodies for sex or resorted to pinching, Annie was a gifted thief who was cunning and devious. Being young, pretty and with the voice and demeanour of a middle-class assistant, having trawled the classified ads, she would be invited - by appointment - to view a wealth of respectable homes. Stating “I am seeking apartments for two gentlemen coming from America”, all it would take would be a swift slight-of-hand or being left alone for longer than it takes to blink, and Annie would have swiped something special. On the 28th of January 1914, Annie Beamish was tried at Southern Police Court in Dublin, Described as an “industrious thief”, in a 10-week-period, this one-woman-crimewave had stolen a set of furs, a lady’s golf coat, several silver watches, numerous silver chains, a brooch, a mink stole, several purses, a leather handbag and a fountain pen from at least 30 houses in Dublin’s more respectable districts. No-one knew she had swiped these expensive trinkets or cherished heirlooms until hours or days later, and although sentenced to three months hard labour, it was hardly a deterrent for this skilful crook. It was a scam Annie had perfected, but having gone from an anonymous thief to an infamous scourge, a few years later, she fled Dublin and headed somewhere where her face and methods were unknown. In 1917, Annie moved to London, and having adopted the airs and graces of a Sergeant Major’s wife, under the alias of ‘Mrs Monica Reeves’, several homes were looted in Croydon using the same tactics, and as a supposed first-time offender (in this country at least) she was bound over for just 12 months. In her teens and twenties, Annie had a knack for theft… …but as she approached her thirties, it somehow left. On 8th July 1919, under the alias of ‘Mona Reeves’, Annie was sentenced to three months hard labour at West London Police Court. Having lost her fast hand and her ability to blend in, she’d tried to swipe a purse on a bus, but being seen, although she pitifully threw herself at her victim’s mercy by claiming to be a war widow and the mother of a gravely sick child, unable to disprove her lies, she was arrested. It’s odd, but as her aliases changed, the backstory she invented for herself seemed to both mask and mirror what was lacking in her life; a nice home, a respectable husband, children, money and stability. Over ten years, she’d gone from a young and nimble con-artist who ate well and slept in fine hotels, but getting older, slower and shabbier, now she couldn’t escape the mistakes of her own making. Arrested again, having stolen a gold watch and a leather trunk from a lodging house in Hammersmith, she received three further months hard labour, and her Irish criminal record was sent to England, along with her fingerprints, her mugshots, her past convictions, her methods and all of her many aliases. By 1920, looking a little too tatty to charm her way into a rich man’s home, but still being pretty enough to catch the eye of a horny young man, Annie began using her fading looks as the bait in a honeytrap. On the 4th of August 1920, having picked up a punter called Benno Weiss in Piccadilly Circus, she lured him back to his Pimlico flat with the promise of sex, but before any ‘sweaty bumpy-rumpy’ took place, she robbed him of £11 (about £600 today) and fled. It wasn’t subtle or cunning, but she was desperate. February the next year, she tried the same trick again with two other girls, but failing to spot that their mark was that same man, by 1921, when another robbed punter saw her in a pub and swung a punch at her, although a man called James Robert Syrett came to her defence, this was in fact her pimp. When arrested, Annie was given the choice; pay a fine or spend eight days in prison. She chose hard labour, stating “I’d rather do the time than go back with him”, as her life had turned to hell. By 1921, with her face bruised, her nose broken and her cheeks flushed red, Annie was arrested again, this time for “using insulting words and drunken behaviour”. With police records describing her as ‘low class’ and ‘common’, the master criminal was gone, replaced by “a hard-living, hard-drinking whore”. In 1925, James Syrett, her ‘husband’ and pimp was convicted of ‘living off her immoral earnings’ for the last three years. Having punched her black and blue, and leaving her with fractured ribs, a fractured eye socket and a face so swollen she was unable to testify against him having almost killed her, he was sentenced to three months hard labour – the same length of time she spent inside for stealing a purse. She finally escaped him the following year as he was persistently imprisoned for pimping and violent assault, but with her being a shambling drunk who sold sex to buy booze and (if she was lucky) a hearty meal and a warm bed, the next decade of her life was spent as a nobody… … to everyone except a few punters and the police. The 1930s were hard on women. Being unmarried, childless and entering her forties, Annie was seen as an outcast, with no husband to provide for her and no children to look after her in her old age. With her brain clouded by drink, she no longer had the cunning to pull off a daring heist, so instead, she resorted to stealing notes from a punter’s wallet, which often ended in her being arrested or beaten. Seen as ‘damaged goods’, the only man this ragged mess could hope to get the ‘eye’ from was a pimp, a drunk or an abuser. Her looks had gone, her charm was forgotten, the weight had piled on, and she was slow, malnourished and miserable as the stresses of her failing life were etched across her face. By the late 1940s, having been a prostitute for two decades and a criminal for two-thirds of her life, all she knew was deception. She couldn’t do an honest day’s work if she tried, and she couldn’t help but lie. She was a thief to her core, and all she had left was drink, theft and sex, and that was now an issue. Possibly during wartime, off a punter, Annie had contracted Venereal Disease. With penicillin yet to become commonplace as a cure and the National Health Service in its infancy, she couldn’t afford to eradicate this disease, so – although her life revolved around what money she could make by selling sex – left with an itchy, swollen and bloody vagina with an infected discharge, sex was often too painful. The fascinating life of Annie Beamish the one-women crime wave was almost over. It could have ended in any number of ways; a glorious shoot out like Bonnie Parker or in the electric chair like Martha Place. Only Annie wasn’t at the peak of her powers, or an infamous femme fatale who haunted the headlines, she was just a shambling shadow of her former self, whose body had given up in so many ways… …and yet, her tragic end came at the chance encounter with an ordinary boy. Born in Dublin in 1927, unlike Annie, Michael Joseph Martin was an unremarkable young man; he was said to be calm, kind and even tempered. Coming from a working-class family, he hadn’t experienced the finer things in life, so he never coveted them. He knew his place in life and was content with that. Said to be of an average build and an average height, with an average look and an average intelligence, Michael was average. He didn’t stand out and he didn’t do anything to draw attention to himself. He wasn’t loud, timid or attention-seeking, and (until that moment) he hadn’t committed a criminal act. Aged seven, his mother died, and although his father remarried, it left a gaping hole in his heart. With her love, cuddles and soothing songs absent from his life, he always felt like something was missing, as on the rare occasions that he sought out a girlfriend, she couldn’t replace the love he was longing. As an average student, he left school aged 14, but he struggled to find work, as not being a burly guy, he lacked the physical strength for manual labour, and the intelligence for a desk job. In 1945, with the war over and seeing the city reopening after six years of darkness, Michael came to London, and even though the Labour Exchange found him several jobs as a garage hand, a builder’s boy and several delivery jobs, aged 22, he found his calling as a theatre attendant in the West End. The hours were long and late, but it wasn’t demanding work, which was lucky as he was not a well man. Three years earlier, he’d begun vomiting. At first it was intermittent, then daily, then every time he ate. In March 1947, admitted to Harefield Hospital, he was diagnosed with an ‘oesophageal spasm’, an ailment he’d had since childhood meaning that any food or liquid couldn’t pass fully into the stomach. Exacerbated in adulthood, his sickness had made him painfully thin, ghostly pale and always tired. One year before, surgeons at the Harefield Thoracic Surgical Unit had attempted to rectify this fault by crushing his spasming nerve, but as this failed, a fortnight later, he underwent a major operation which resulted in his left chest wall ripped open, the muscles fused and his eighth and ninth ribs removed. Whilst in recovery, he got a tubercular infection of the upper part of both lungs, which left him wheezy, and although the surgery meant he was able to swallow some solids, even touching the scar down his chest made him wince, any knocks caused him distress, and any punches or falls left him in agony. Never one to give up, still he worked, still he earned, and still he tried to live his life as best he could. Michael was lonely, he wanted a girlfriend but being too shy to ask, instead he got acquainted with a solitary prostitute who plied her trade outside of his theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue. He knew her only as ‘Elsie’, as long forgotten was Monica Reeves, Margaret Reid, as well as the real Annie Beamish. He later admitted, “I met her about eight months ago. We used to step out and that, go to the pictures and places to eat, then I’d go to bed with her”. He wasn’t a deviant or a sadist, he was just a bit sad. To see them walking hand-in-hand through Soho, it was clear they were an odd match. A painfully pale and skinny 22-year-old theatre attendant who wheezed and often walked with a slight stoop, and a 53-year-old slightly ragged sex-worker, who still tried to look as pretty as she once did when this superior con-women was at the top of her game, but now bloated with drink, she resembled a bad drag act. He never said why he picked her; maybe she was the cheapest, maybe hearing her Dublin accent made him feel closer to home, or given her age, as a boy who liked to hug, maybe he was missing his mum? If he’d wanted a mother-figure, he could have done better, as having been a criminal for more than 30 years, all Annie knew was theft, deception and cunning, she always stole and she couldn’t help but lie. “When we got going, she started to make a pest of herself. She started annoying me for money and I hadn’t any to give her”, Michael said, “I wanted to give it up. She got nasty”, often getting violent, “and she threatened me with the police. She’d say ‘I used to ponce on her’” – suggesting he was her pimp. Being too ragged to con her way into a rich man’s home, having lost her fast hand which could swipe a wallet in a heartbeat, and unwilling to engage in sex owing to her infected vagina, Annie had resorted to blackmailing her regular clients for a few quid. His life could be ruined by being charged with ‘living off immoral earnings’, and with it almost impossible to disprove, it would be his word against hers. Exasperated by her pestering, he stopped seeing her, and previously lodged at 38 Blomfield Villas, not far from Paddington station, he moved almost two miles east to 45 Manchester Street in Marylebone. He’d been there barely a week… …when on Saturday 30th of July 1949, (Michael) “I was coming home about 11:30pm”, Michael told the police, “I was walking along Baker Street, I heard someone give me a whistle”. The street was dark-lit but busy, as the pubs kicked out and passing punters sidled up to sex-workers for a nice night of nookie. “I walked on and took no notice”, he said, “I heard another whistle, turned and there she was. I know her as Elsie Brown. She was standing on the corner of Paddington Street”. Maybe it was his politeness or his loneliness, but “I got chatting to her”. Annie, now known as Elsie was selling herself, “she insisted on coming with me… and because she had started to make a scene, I agreed to take her back to my digs”. At least, that was his excuse, having had a few pints after work to ease his pain. Dressed in a blue beret, a black dress, black woollen coat and blue suede shoes, Annie still tried to look as appealing as possible, but the ravages of her life had peppered her with a tinge of sadness and loss, as she followed Michael up three flights of stairs to Room 12 – a place she would never leave. (door) His bedsit was small, barely big enough for a single bed, an armchair, a wash basin, a wardrobe and as a young lad who worked part-time as his chest was still causing him misery, he didn’t have anything for her to steal; except a shaving brush, a kitchen knife, a bible, a clock, two tatty suits and a floral tie. Michael’s statement was riddled with inconsistencies. Having invited her up, “I told her she wouldn’t be staying the night. So I started to get undressed. I said she was getting no money out of me. So, when she wouldn’t go, I opened the door, but there was no sign of her movement”. The night was warm, but with no money to get a bed in a doss house, leaving now meant she’d end up sleeping in a doorway. “She kept on aggravating me”, as having lost her charm, all she could do was pester. “She drove me crackers with her tongue and called me an Irish fuckpig” which was odd as they both came from Dublin. “She was swearing all the time”, her screaming echoing off the walls, “and she made a wallop at me”. With a single blow, she struck him hard in the chest, right over his scar. To anyone else, her limp slap would have been like a gnat headbutting cotton bud, but still being bandaged, scarred and very tender, it buckled him to his knees, and as pain ripped across his face, this usually placid man saw a red mist. “I was in a raging temper… I cannot bear anyone to thump me on the chest. So I gave her one or two across the chops with my fist. I don’t know what came over me. I hit her again and went to the floor”. The lodgers heard her screams, “I heard a woman saying ‘don’t Danny, you must be mad’” as another herd “a succession of six or seven heavy bangs on the floor followed by two of three thuds, one of which was especially heavy, shaking the entire building. I heard a groan from the room above”. Racing from the basement, Dorothy Green the housekeeper banged on the door, shouting “leave her alone”, and having unlocked it, “I put a light on as the room was in darkness. I saw him, stripped to the waist and bending over a woman on the floor, his hands were covered in blood, right up to his elbows”. All she saw was Annie’s legs, but fearing a further attack, “I locked the door and sent for the police”. 15 minutes later, PC Duddy arrived from Marylebone Lane Police Station. “As I entered the room, I saw the man, half naked, both hands bloodied, he did not run, struggle or flee, he seemed to be in shock”, all he could hear him say was ‘oh my god, oh my god’”, as he started down at what he had done. On the floor lay Annie, alive but broken, barely able to speak but her words inaudible as she choked on her own blood. Michael said he remembered slapping her once or twice, but her lips were puffy and split, her nose had twisted like a snapped twig, her teeth waggled loosely in her bloodied mess of a mouth, and although her arms and hands fought off his frenzied attack, her face had been crushed. The pathologist said “at some point she had lost consciousness… whilst on the ground she sustained some crushing facial injuries... attributed to either kicking or even stamping on the body with the foot”. Rushed to St Mary’s Hospital, Annie died the next day, as these were not the worst of her injuries. Michael confessed “I made sure she wouldn’t nag me again” and grabbing a 12-inch kitchen knife from his dresser, “I stabbed her. I think I did it more than once. I think that’s all”, only he did much more. When PC Duddy arrived, he said “she was choking, blood was spurting from her mouth”, as along with her crush injuries, she had 13 slashes to her skin and 10 stab wounds to her face, neck, chest, and with the knife protruding between the 2nd and 3rd ribs, it had penetrated 2 ¾ inches into the left lung. As she breathed, bloodied air bubbles popped by the side of the blade, which had bent through force. A few days later, Annie Beamish, the forgotten one-woman crime wave was mistakenly buried under the alias of ‘Margaret Reid’ in a council-funded coffin at an undisclosed cemetery with no mourners. Some said that this career criminal who had brought misery to Dublin had got her comeuppance for all the bad she had done. But did she really reserve to die in such a horrific and tragic way? (End) Taken to Marylebone Lane Police Station, drenched in blood, still in shock and too drunk to answer any questions, Michael was left in a cell to sober up, and later confessed to stabbing her. A psychiatric report at Brixton Prison confirmed he was mentally and physically fit to stand trial, and on 11th of September 1949, the one-day trial was held at the Old Bailey before Justice Steathfield. Pleading ‘not guilty’ to murder, Michael was asked “did you mean to kill this woman?”, he replied “no. it was in temper. I couldn’t help myself. I did not realise what I was doing”, at which Mr Hawke for the Prosecution prodded “did you mean to stab her?”, at which he replied “yes, but not mean to kill her”. Later that day, with the jury finding enough grounds, Michael Joseph Martin was sentenced to 10 years in prison on the charge of manslaughter by provocation, and as a first offender, he was out in 7. Michael Martin was an ordinary man who was pushed to the limits of his pain by a set of unfortunate circumstances. By chance he met Annie Beamish, and through poverty and desperation, she punched him in the one place which led to his blind rage and red mist, and ultimately to her brutal murder. Annie Beamish was a criminal, a habitual thief and a brilliant con woman who – although the scourge of an entire city - made the best of a bad life through her deviousness and her cunning. But criminals rarely live long or even profitable lives, its mostly a myth focussed around the period when they’re at the top of their game, and then as her powers waned, the real Annie Beamish was lost and forgotten. Who she was, we shall never know, and the whereabout of her grave is currently unknown. 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.
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.
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 SEVENTY-ONE:
On Wednesday 18th and Thursday 19th of August 2021, having recently been released from prison, Lee Peacock brutally murdered his ex-partner Sharon Pickles and her partner Clinton Ashmore. But was this due to jealousy, or a drug-induced paranoia, or jealousy, being stuck inside their own ‘vicious circles’.
THE LOCATION:
The locations are marked with bight green symbols of a bin on the west of London near the words 'Regent's Park'. 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 Sussex Gardens in Paddington, W2; a place synonymous with prostitution, as we’re just a few doors down from Doris Jouanette the Blackout Ripper’s last victim, Agnes Walsh who was brutalised by the ‘sad faced killer’, as well as being a familiar pick-up place for Ruby Bolton, and Amanda Walker who was mutilated by the sadistic ‘Honey Monster’ - coming soon to Murder Mile. It’s around this point in the podcast that I make a witty remark about our location to defuse the horrors of its heinous crime, only there’s nothing amusing about Sussex Gardens. As one of London’s busiest red-light districts for almost two centuries, this tree-lined street looks sweet, but two long lines of cheap and sleazy hotels mask a truly dark side, being doss holes for the destitute, half-way houses for homeless ex-cons, and – for a small fee – rented rancid mattresses paid for hourly for sex-workers. With sex being its business, we could giggle about sounds of bedsprings and the stench of salty stains, but every seedy transaction by a drunk horny punter only leads back to the misery of a once innocent young girl who had dreams of a normal life, until it was ruined by a bad parent, a pimp or a predator. So many tales go unreported as the culprit is often the system itself and our unwillingness to deal with the issue, and although this begins as a story about two lovers, whereas once their hearts belonged to each other – trapped by a need to feed their master – their bodies and brains belonged to drugs. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 271: Vicious Circles. The early years of Sharon Pickles’ life was as ordinary as anyone else’s. Born in 1976 and raised in Yorkshire, she was blessed with everything she needed to make a good life and bright future for herself; she had a father, a mother and a brother who loved her; she had a home, she had friends, she had dreams, and – unlike many children – she had food, a bed, all the essentials. In 1984, an article in the Yorkshire Post stated that Sharon was one of seven girls at Todmorden High who raised £50 by doing a sponsored swim for the Pennine Animal Liberation League, as even at such a tender age, she was full of kindness and love. Like us all, she had plans to become someone good… …as no-one sets out to become an addict, but that is what she became. It can happen to anyone, as all it takes is a taste and they’re hooked. It was never said what led Sharon to drugs – maybe a dare, trauma, depression or peer pressure - but soon her life wasn’t her own. An addict isn’t a person when they’re gripped by an addiction, they’re merely a slave to the drug itself. No longer able to function as a human being, like many, Sharon became a subordinate to her cravings, who couldn’t work, eat or sleep as a persistent taunting gnawed at her brain. It consumed her days, it haunted her dreams, it knew her weaknesses and fears, and as it ravaged her ever-weakening body with an endless stream of ticks, tremors, cramps and sickness – unable to escape its vice-like grip – it eternally prodded her to “feed me, feed me”, but even when she did, her addiction wanted more. Hers was not a unique story, as many drug addicts face that fate daily, and even when those she loved tried to intervene - like an abusive partner whispering to his battered and bruised spouse “you know it only me that loves you, right?” - the chemicals made her paranoid and told her who to trust. Drugs isn’t a habit, its slavery, with the user’s body usurped as a host for the drug itself. It was during her late teens that Sharon became an addict, and once hooked, it turned this sweet blonde girl with a petite frame and an elfin-like face into a gaunt and pathetic shadow of herself for the next 25 years. Drugs are expensive and all-consuming, with most addicts needing about £100,000 a year to feed their habit, and unable to work, most turn to crime. Sharon was a prostitute, and as a slave to her addiction, she sold sex to buy drugs, and when the drugs wore off, she sold more sex to buy more drugs. She was trapped in a vicious circle from which she would never escape. Her first conviction for prostitution was aged 21. A decade later, described as “a persistent offender” and a “blight on society”, she had been convicted 122 times, unable to stop. On the 22nd of November 2006, Sharon Pickles and her friend, Gail Bennett appeared at Marylebone Magistrates Court. Said to be “so out of it, they could barely stand”, they were sentenced to an Anti-Social Behaviour Order (known as an ASBO), meaning they were banned from setting foot in Sussex Gardens for five years. Gail and Sharon (nicknamed ‘blondie’ by the locals) were the two most prolific prostitutes in Sussex Gardens. Residents complained “they’re out of control… one morning we were woken by the two women having sex with clients against my window, they drank and took drugs on my steps” with many families complaining of used condoms, bloody syringes and faeces on pavements and in playgrounds”. The drug-addled twosome made their lives a living hell, by brawling, vomiting and screaming. One neighbour even threw water over Sharon as she lay sprawled and unconscious on his step, “I used a camera flash to scare them, but they were too high to notice”. Nobody cared or wanted them there, what they wanted was the courts to lock them up, but the law was inadequate. Arrested, they’d be fined £40, they’d then earn £30 for sex with each client, they’d pay the fine and carry on undeterred. And although their ASBO banned them from Sussex Gardens, in a box-ticking exercise they were also “banned from soliciting for sex anywhere in Westminster”, even though street soliciting is illegal, and if they broke their ASBO, that would only result in two months in prison, which they’d serve just one. The law was a joke, the courts were toothless, rehabilitation didn’t work, and although the drugs, the dealers and the users were to blame, so were some of the sleezy and cheap hotels in Sussex Gardens. As a neighbour stepped over Sharon who had collapsed comatose on his step, he barked “why don’t you do this somewhere else”, at which she slurred “give me the money, we’ll go to a hotel”. That was an option, as part of the problem was the slew of unscrupulous hoteliers who charged £20 an hour to rent what was said to be “a claustrophobic cubical no bigger than a prison cell, with a rancid pink sheet on a mouldy mattress, with bare bulbs, filthy walls, and the worst part was the smell of stale sweat”. But if the punter was too skint, she’d have sex in a doorway, the backseat of a car, or behind a bin. This was her life, and this was her vicious circle. Aged 20, Sharon tried to lead a normal life by marrying and later giving birth to a daughter. But with her husband said to be “her pimp”, that relationship collapsed and with her child taken into care, when trauma ravaged her life, the warm comfortable blanket she always returned to… was her drugs. Sharon wasn’t bad, she was just lost, but what she craved most was love. In her ground-floor council flat at Alpha House on 1 Ashbridge Street in Marylebone’s impoverished Lisson Grove, she lived with Stephen Coggin, an old friend who was bedbound with multiple sclerosis. Described by residents as a “ticking time bomb”, although they had accused Sharon of cuckooing this “vulnerable tenant” - by allegedly forcing herself into his flat and living rent-free as this prolific drunk and drug abuser bought clients back for sex - the truth was that she cooked and cared for him. He wasn’t her boyfriend, but with no husband or child, she needed to love someone and feel normal just once. In 2008, 15 years earlier, a new love had entered her life, and his name was Lee. Like Sharon, Lee’s upbringing was ordinary and unremarkable. Born in the West London district of Brent in 1972, Lee Christopher Peacock had everything a boy could ever need; a good home, loving parents, a supportive sister, and raised in leafy Hertfordshire, he was schooled in St Albans. Said to be handy, he trained as a carpenter. So where did it all go wrong? Aged 14, desperate to be part of the in-crowd, like many teenagers do, he dabbled in cannabis. As a relatively harmless drug, he got stoned for fun, but seeking a stronger high, he got into skunk, and experimenting with LSD, Ecstasy, MDMA and cocaine, he eventually became a slave to crack cocaine. Cooked into small brown rocks, when smoked, crack gives a fast euphoric high, causing dopamine to flood the bloodstream, and giving the user a feeling of power and confidence, but only for 15 minutes. And the bigger the high, the greater the fall, so with the lows only supressed by another high, the user is assaulted by debilitating sicknesses, like tremors, fatigue, depression, hallucinations and paranoia. Like Sharon, Lee was a slave to his addiction, he burgled homes to buy drugs, and once the drugs had worn off, he burgled more homes to buy more drugs. That was his life, and that was his vicious circle. By 2019, Lee & Sharon had been a couple for a decade, two addicts feeding their need through crime and unable to flee. Said to be loving, they had many ups and downs as most couples do, but although the law only punished Sharon with small fines and toothless threats, Lee was repeatedly put away for long stretches inside, and in May 2019, he was sent down for 40-months for aggravated burglary. Stuck inside a cramped prison cell 23 hours a day, his body was assaulted by the horrors of withdrawal from his two drugs of choice - Crack and Sharon. Struggling to cope without the chemicals he was enslaved to, his mind became a mess of emotions as paranoia plagued him day and night. But being apart from Sharon for what seemed like an eternity, via a smuggled-in phone, he texted her his fears. (texts) “I miss you”, “I love you”, “don’t leave me”, “who you seeing”, “what’s his name”, “so I know him”, “where’s he live”, “why aren’t you taking to me”, “you ain’t replying, why?”, “what’s wrong”, “don’t you love me no more”, “Why?”, “Sharon?”, “Sharon?!”, “SHARON?!”, “Why? Why?” (Silence) Reaching a peak of paranoia and delusions, on Friday 4th of June 2021, half-way through his sentence, Lee Peacock was automatically released from prison under the supervision of the probation service. He later stated, “I wasn't violent in the 15 years I'd been with her. Obviously for chunks I was in jail, but she was my princess, not a hair on her head would ever get hurt by me”. He claimed he loved her, he claimed he would never hurt her, but unable to tell the difference between reality and delusions… …six weeks later, he would murder her. So many organisations were built to convict and protect them, but the system failed as it was underfunded and overworked, with its laws applied like a ‘one size fits all’ plaster. Being out on licence, Lee was ankle-tagged, made to work and assessed by a probation supervisor, and with his addiction on the road to recovery having ‘gone into withdrawal’, his vicious circle should have been broken. Only unlike heroin, there is no methadone for crack, so forced to go ‘cold turkey’, this shambling wreck of raw emotions rattled with a cocktail of other chemicals to pacify his anxiety, seizures and insomnia. Crack addiction is bad, but withdrawal is worse, it’s like suffering all the side effects of a bad drug for days, weeks, and even months on end, so with any drug abuse resulting in his instant recall to prison, his shivering body and sleep-starved brain was awash in a haze of headaches, paranoia and delusions. By mid-August, said to be seeing Clinton Ashmore known as ‘Cliff’, after weeks of obsessive texts from Lee, Sharon finally broke it off, replying “I'm done with you... leave me alone... we both know it's over”. Only Lee couldn’t believe it was ‘him’ she was angry at, or ‘him’ she was leaving, and - maybe through the paranoia of his drug withdrawal, or simply his own fragile inadequacy – he’d claim in court he thought she was being coerced by someone else, maybe a pimp, a dealer, or her new boyfriend, Cliff. But the last text she sent him was irrevocably blunt and with no hidden meanings: it read; “Do not come in this house, put the key on the table outside and leave me alone you two-faced piece of s**t”. Their relationship was over, but legally, there was nothing to stop him going to see her. On Wednesday 18th of August 2021, six weeks after his release, 45-year-old Sharon Pickles returned home as the dawn-light broke. Having been a sex-worker for quarter of a century, like clockwork, a CCTV camera captured her stumbling down Ashbridge Street at 6:01am having illegally had sex with 10 or more men on Sussex Gardens – her ASBO having long expired, its effect having changed nothing. As a familiar sight, dressed casually in a black leather jacket, light blue jeans and a pink t-shirt, Sharon’s eyes were hollow, her stomach was empty, and several men’s feted stench hung on her lips, but at least her veins were finally full of heroin, as her vicious circle led her to bed, to sleep, and to repeat. At 7:31am, the same camera on a building site opposite captured a Boris bike approaching. Riding it with urgency was Lee, like a stubbly Uncle Fester, his pale bald head was in contrast against his black jeans and jumper, as he dumped it outside of Alpha House. He didn’t ring the communal doorbell to be buzzed in, as still having his own key to the ground-floor flat they’d shared, he just let himself in. Like his mind, his motive was confused, as claiming he wanted to ‘win her back’, in his rucksack he had Sharon’s kitten, and if things didn’t go according to plan, a Stanley knife with a razor-sharp 4cm blade. In that state, or some say any state, Lee wasn’t a rational man, he couldn’t be reasoned with, and even though saying he loved her and claiming his motive was “to kill those four people who he felt had ‘taken advantage’ of her while he was in prison” – especially a dealer nicknamed Skrilla, and ‘Cliff’ her boyfriend – it may simply be because Sharon had moved on with her life while Lee was in prison. Entering either Flat 13 or 14, it was said, he unlocked the door, and ignoring the hall, the kitchen, the living room, and even the room of her sleeping bedbound flat-mate Stephen, with her either asleep or in a semi-comatose state, he got on the bed and quietly roused her, as the two addicts sat alone. In court, Lee assured the jury, “I’m not a monster… I never meant to harm anyone”, or so he claimed. As he tried to talk her round - whether through jealousy, drug withdrawal or a last hit of crack to give him the confidence to do the unthinkable so she could never see anyone else, ever again - the prosecution would later state “you intended nothing less than to kill each of them, didn’t you?” Lee denied it was premeditated, only the knife suggested otherwise. Lee said it was a freak accident, only her horrific injuries incurred in a sustained frenzied attack didn’t back up his lies. And although he himself denied killing her, his own hand would prove his guilt having left behind a full confession. Sharon had no-one to protect her, and with Lee seething at her daring to love anyone but him, in a fit of rage, he attacked. Slashing her neck with the 4cm blade, it severed her windpipe, cutting off her air supply, as blood seeped into her trachea causing her to choke, as her hands clutched her open throat. Attacking again, each of the nine wounds ripped open a vein or artery, and unable to scream, as blood spattered up the walls, door and floor, running in panic to her one place of safety, she collapsed in the bathroom floor and died; her mouth agog, her eyes open, her ghostly face above a red seeping hole. “She was my princess, not a hair on her head would ever get hurt by me”, Lee had claimed, but having wrapped her body in a duvet and unceremoniously shoved her under the bed, at 8:49am, a CCTV camera captured him riding away on a Boris bike, like he was a man taking in the crisp morning air. Sharon was dead, but Lee knew it was also his life which was over. That day, he texted his family, stating “I’m in serious trouble… my time on this earth is very limited. After this conversation, you will never hear from me again... I will never be released from prison. My hand has been forced after what I did”, as the next night, he visited his estranged father. He hadn’t seen his father, Terry for three years, then out-of-the-blue, he arrived in North Wembley on his doorstep with a kitten in his rucksack, and an odd tale to tell, stating “I killed three people, one was my girlfriend, as well as two black bastards”, which was either a lie, an alibi, or a paranoid delusion. Having fled, rightfully, Terry called the police, and having entered her flat at 10:42pm, officers were confronted by a bloodbath, and they only became aware of the body in the room when they spotted under the bed a pair of red-stained hands, still clutching her throat, as Sharon lay pale and lifeless. A manhunt began that day… …but Lee was conducting his own manhunt. Nicknamed ‘Skrilla’ which is slang for money, Lee claimed (and maybe believed) that ‘Cliff’ either was Skrilla, knew Skrilla, or as part of Skrilla’s gang had coerced her to leave him, even though Skrilla may not have even existed, and at about midnight - as the Police sealed off Sharon’s Flat – Lee was seen on CCTV entering a rundown estate on Jerome Crescent in Lisson Grove with 58-year-old ‘Cliff’. Unlike with Sharon, there was no confusing his motive, as although he would claim “he moved in on my woman and then told me that he did with a rain of punches” – from the backpack still containing Sharon’s kitten – he pulled the same bloodstained Stanley knife and unleashed a savage brutal attack. Like Sharon, Cliff was defenceless and alone. Like Sharon, he tried to flee in fear – with blood dripped and sprayed from room-to-room as in panic the bleeding man ran from the hallway to the bedroom, the bathroom and the living room, leaving a petrified trail of red across almost every wall, door, floor and even the ceiling - only to collapse with massive blood-loss beside the bed. And when dead, Lee didn’t leave a confession, or even try to hide the body, as in just 15 minutes, he was done and gone. Two hours later, at 2:15am, found by a female friend with a 14.5cm wound to his neck, and nine deep slices to his face, neck and left arm, Police were alerted, and a double murder inquiry was established. Across the entire city, the news was plastered with his mugshot and signs which read “have you seen Lee Peacock?”, and even though it was only stated “the Police just talk to him about the murders", Detective Chief Inspector Wayne Jolley later said: “Peacock is a violent and murderous individual who has taken the lives of two people for no better reason than satisfying his own craving for violence”. Considered armed, dangerous and unpredictable, his manhunt was swift but cautious… …and yet, Lee had one more death on his mind. (kitten sound) One week after Sharon’s murder, on Wednesday 25th of August, a man fitting Lee’s very unique look was spotted entering an abandoned houseboat near Marnham Fields in Ealing, on an isolated part of the Grand Union Canal. With no engine, no electrics and no water, it had been used as a crack-den and dumped. Lee had broken in, and lying low, with no food, a crack pipe and only the kitten to play with, it was at 6pm, that hearing armed police surround this flimsy wooden shack, that he grabbed the Stanley knife. “Lee Peacock? This is the Police. You’re surrounded. Come out with your hands up”, the officer barked, only Lee didn’t. With the same knife, as officers broke down the door, he slashed his own throat, and although his blood spattered across the three fresh confessions he had written, the swift intervention of the paramedics saved his life, and meant he would face justice for a brutal double murder (end) With the two-day trial beginning on Monday 30th of January 2023 at the Old Bailey before Mr Justice Murray, Lee Peacock admitted killing Sharon & Cliff, but having denied it was murder, that meant that both victim’s families had to endure a horrific trial where all of the evidence was examined in detail. In his defence, Lee told the jury “I'm not a monster. I never wanted to harm Sharon”, later arrogantly adding about Cliff, “I'm sorry but he caused it”. Only there was no denying that Lee’s actions were “cold-blooded” and “determined”. Prosecutor Edward Brown KC said “the evidence shows without doubt… that the killings were no accident… the defendant can have intended nothing less than to kill”. With clear pre-mediation and several confessions, an insanity plea and diminished responsibility could not be considered, and as he was going through withdrawal, blame couldn’t be placed on the drugs. Having deliberated for two hours and twenty minutes, Lee Peacock was found guilty of two counts of murder, and was sentenced to life for a minimum of 39 years, meaning he will most likely die in prison. Tragedy had struck three times for three people and three families. It began innocently enough with two lovers using drugs as an escape from the pain of their lives, and although Sharon was demonised by the residents of Sussex Gardens - and for good reason – drug addiction is an issue which we (as a society) refuse to take seriously, preferring instead to administer pointless fines and toothless threats. Both Sharon & Lee could have been saved, if only we’d given them a way to escape their vicious circles. 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.
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.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND SIXTY-NINE & SEVENTY:
On Thursday 18th of October 1945, the bloodied body of veteran taxi-driver Frank Everitt was found wedged on the bridge in a hole at the pump house on Lambeth Bridge, which he could hardly fit into. At first, it seemed like he was either stuck or sleeping, but was this just a crude attempt to conceal a corpse, or a meticulously planned execution?
THE LOCATION:
The location is marked with a yellow symbol of a bin in the south by the words 'Lambeth'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: (a selection)
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF PART ONE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on Lambeth Bridge, SW1; four streets west of the Campanile where Maggie Davey and her daughters plunged to their deaths, three streets south of Sir Michael O’Dwyer’s assassination, and two roads east of the last days of the dodgy flannel-dodger - coming soon to Murder Mile. Situated downstream of tourist traps like Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament, Lambeth Bridge is a more peaceful way to cross the River Thames, as there’s no attention seeking turds posing for selfies with their lips pouting like a constipated duck, no hot dog carts selling mashed-up horse anuses for a quid, and no dayglo rickshaws full of squealing hen-do’s high on Lambrini and dreaming of cock. It’s a convenient cut-through from north London to south for any vehicle not wanting to get snarled up. Opened in 1932, being 828 feet long, Lambeth Bridge is a five-span steel arch complete with a three-lane road, a dual walkway and it still has its original gas lamps and parapets. With no obstructions or hiding place on any part of the bridge, it’s an unlikely spot to dump a dead body… but someone did. On Thursday 18th of October 1945, the bloodied body of veteran taxi-driver Frank Everitt was found wedged on the bridge in a hole he could hardly fit into. At first, it seemed like he was either stuck or sleeping, but was this just a crude attempt to conceal a corpse, or a meticulously planned execution? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 269: The ‘Taxi Driver’ Murders – Part One. Frank was an unusual victim for a very unusual crime. Born 1889 in Bedingham, a small rural village south of Norwich in the county of Norfolk, Frank Everitt was the eldest son of Alfred & Selina, a working-class family for whom hard-work was their bread and butter. Swiftly growing to be a strong and sturdy lad – 5 foot 11 inches tall, 150lbs or 13 ½ stone - aged 13, he left school and trained to be a horseman in the tough and rugged wilds of his father’s farm. Described as reliable and honest, being solidly built and slightly stern, Frank wasn’t the kind of man to be pushed around. Burdened by accusatory eyes and a flattened nose (as if it’d been broken in a fight) although an intimidating presence, he would defend his family and friends with his last breath. Upon his death, a police report stated “he was an honest man of a strong character who had no enemies”. A big part of Frank’s life was his family. Married on 23rd of November 1913 to Lilian Baldwin, they had three children – Mabel, Arthur and Joan – and although the horrors of the First World War took him away from his home for months on end being a gunner in the Grenadier Guards, he was always seen as a solid earner for his family, giving them a good life, even if his sacrifice meant he’d live in squalor. Frank loved his wife, he always had, and he always would. In 1920, the pain of losing 7-year-old Mabel ultimately led to them separating, and although distant, as a man of honour, he remained faithful and devoted to his wife and children, and continued to provide them with a good life until his dying day. Medically discharged from the Army owing to Phlebitis (an inflammation which caused blood clots in his lower legs), as a no-nonsense disciplinarian, on 8th of February 1915, he joined the Metropolitan Police in Wood Green and later at Harrow Road in West London. Rising to the rank of Sergeant, as a strict but fair by-the-book officer who loved his job, he was described by his superiors as ‘exemplary’. Being a beat copper, he knew the streets, the criminals, their ways and their faces. It was said ‘he had a good nose for sniffing out bad men’, his copper’s hunch was rarely wrong and unlike some corrupt officers who took a bribe to turn a blind eye to a crime, he wasn’t afraid to dob a pal in, if needs be. On 20th of October 1931, aged 42, seeking work which was less punishing on his aching legs, Sergeant Frank Everitt was discharged from the police on a modest pension, but keen to keep his family living in a nice little bungalow at Longthorpe in Gloucestershire, Frank began a career as a taxi-driver. It was an honest job from which he would earn the nickname of ‘The Duke’. As he had been as a copper, as a cabdriver, Frank was punctual and officious. Described by his bosses as “one of the firm’s best employees with a consistent record of milage and takings per duty”, he may not have been the most popular driver, but he was always reliable, a man of routine with no surprises. In 1937, he joined the London General Taxicab Company at 1-3 Brixton Road, and on most nights drove the same dark blue Austin saloon, registration place CLT138. Wearing an affordable and slightly worn plain brown suit, a shirt and tie, a flat cap, and on his coat, he had pinned his cabbie’s badge (number 36749) as was the rules, and each day left at 5:30pm, and returned to the garage from 2:30am to 3am. As was his job, he shuttled all manner of strangers with parcels and suitcases across the dark-lit city, and still having a copper’s nose for crime, anything suspicious, he fed back to his pals in the police. Being an ex-cop with no criminal record, Frank was the epitome of honest. He didn’t drive more than he needed, especially during wartime when tyres and fuel were rationed. And his taximeter, which logged how many trips and paid or unpaid miles he had done each shift - as indicated by the meter’s flag being down and the ‘for hire’ light off when he had a customer – his record was said to be accurate. But some said that ‘The Duke’ lived a life beyond his modest means. Every two weeks, he headed off to his bungalow in the country which he referred to as ‘my estate’, but was this bragging? It was said he earned more than the other drivers and often took his estranged wife on holiday twice a year. It was only after his death that the tabloid press and those who claimed to know him suggested that his larger-than-average income was supplemented by ‘means other than being a humble cabdriver’. Having kept his connections in Harrow Road and Wood Green, it was said he was an informer and a private detective who tipped off the police to criminal activities in the West End. On 22nd of October 1945, four days after his death, The Daily Herald reported “police are searching for his black notebook which could smash the case wide open… it is thought to contain details of a Soho gang and the stuff they dealt in… in it, he had a secret list of names”, which he marked down with a blue mottled pencil. Some also suggested he was earning a dishonest income by tipping off the criminals, playing both sides of the law, and reaping the profits from a lorry full of contraband whiskey which was destined for West End nightclubs, where Frank was known to frequent, as well as drop customers from and to. And yet, there was nothing in the police files suggesting his income came from corruption; he didn’t drink, he didn’t gamble, he didn’t wear flashy clothes, the only jewellery he owned was an eight-sided silver watch which his wife gave to him but it no-longer worked, and he lived in a cheap little bedsit at 81 Babington Road in Streatham. He worked hard and almost everything he earned went to his wife. But was ‘The Duke’ an honest ex-copper, a corrupt cabbie, and did someone want him dead? Wednesday 17th of October 1945 was a day like any other for 56-year-old Frank Everitt. He washed, he shaved, he popped on a fresh shirt, and having eaten a meat stew in a café, at 5:30pm, he picked up his usual dark blue Austin saloon at the London General Taxicab Company. In his pockets was an old brown Morocco-leather wallet, his black notebook, his blue pencil, a tobacco pouch, his pipe made of cherry wood, and two packs of ‘Punch’ matches – everything was cheap but practical. As always, his shift was predictable, as across the next 9-hours, he’d ferry a slew of strangers – whether soldiers, sadists, partygoers or pimps - from high-end clubs to seedy S & M sex dungeons, from cafes for a pre-booze buttie to dodgy pubs flogging off counterfeit whiskey under the counter. He wasn’t a serving policeman anymore, so it wasn’t his job to arrest anyone, just to drive and to be discrete. Like all cabbies, his movements were logged by his taximeter and witnessed by his passengers. We know that at 12:17am, he picked up two well-dressed men by Big Ben and dropped them at Marble Arch. At 12:45am, he drove an American soldier to Hans Crescent at the back of Harrods. And at 1:15am, he picked up a woman on Walworth Road in Elephant & Castle. All were identified and had alibis for the night, and his taximeter corroborated the times and the distances he had travelled. It was an unremarkable night, with no incidents, no accidents, and no unscheduled trips or stops. At 2:15am, nearing the end of his shift, Frank was parked outside of the Milroy Club on Stratton Street in Mayfair. As a member’s club and casino, a line of cabs waited outside as its wealthy clients paid well and gave good tips. Said to be in good spirits, at 2:30am, he was here to pick up his regular passenger (an unnamed waitress) who he would drive back to the garage near to where she lived. He would then head home, and after a good sleep, he’d catch the morning train to see his wife in Gloucestershire. And although he had assured his friend “I’ll see you back at the garage at 3am”, he did neither. Moments later, the taxi had vanished, and so had Frank. Chief Inspector Chapman who headed up the investigation later described it as “one of the cleverest murders in criminal history”, as for the next three and a half hours, Frank and his cab had disappeared. Nobody saw them, nobody heard them, and nobody hired them, he didn’t go home, or anywhere else. At 6:30am, four and a half miles west in Notting Hill, his taxi was found in St Helen’s Gardens, a place he had no reason to be. As a bomb-damaged cul-de-sac with no streetlights and no occupied homes as it was being demolished, it was dark, isolated and chosen so the crime itself could never be seen. The engine was off, the handbrake was up, and the keys were still in the ignition. It didn’t make sense that someone would steal a nearly new Austin saloon taxi, only to then dump it just a few hours later. The car hadn’t been crashed, in fact, it was in perfect working order. The only damage was the interior light whose leads were torn away possibly to disguise what had happened within. If the motive wasn’t car theft, then it must have been robbery, but with no money found, that was impossible to prove. But three things were missing; the black notebook, the blue mottled pencil, and the driver - Frank. But where was he? In the luggage platform to the left of the driver’s seat lay Frank’s handkerchief, having either fallen out as he fled the car via the wrong door, or as he was dragged out. On the backseat’s floor lay his broken pipe and his cabbie’s badge which had been ripped from his jacket which rested in a pool of blood. It was clear that, curled up on that floor, Frank had profusely bled as his pockets were emptied of cash. Only he hadn’t been injured there, as by the time he was dragged inside, he was already dead. But how did he get there, when did he die, and – more bafflingly - where was he now? Oddly, they’d already found him, but with his cabbie’s badge missing, they didn’t know it at the time. It was at 5:56am, as the first rays of dawn-light pierced the thick fog which had shrouded the city, that an unnamed woman heading to work crossed on the eastern walkway of Lambeth Bridge. To her right, against the parapet was a six-foot high, three-foot wide and two-foot-deep brick-built pump-house as used by the London fire brigade to draw water from the river during the blitz, only now it lay defunct. To the side, being big enough to fit the brigade’s hose, a 12-inch hole lay a few inches off the ground. As she passed it, she later said “I saw a set of boots sticking out”, but thinking it was a homeless man silently sleeping, she walked on, as many passersby did as the morning rush-hour began to ramp up. It wasn’t until three hours later, at 9:04am, that PC Denys was alerted to this unusual sight, and unable to get any reaction as he waggled the boots, unlocking the door to the pump house, he saw the body. Its interior was cramped as the pump engine took up most of the space. Lying beside it was a man whose face couldn’t be seen, as every inch of his pale white flesh was splashed with deep red blood. It was clear that with his pockets turned inside out, that someone had searched his body for something specific. Later speaking to his grieving wife, she said several items were missing; his cap, his pipe, his broken watch, a black notepad, a blue pencil and two packs of ‘Punch’ matches - nothing of any value. Based on his usual takings, it’s likely that roughly £9 was stolen, about £500 today, but in his waistcoat pocket there was still £1 and 30 shillings (or another £70). So was this made to look like a robbery? Stripped from his person was any form of ID; his wallet containing his driving licence and a letter from the Police Commissioner, and with a tear to his suit’s breast pocket, they suspected that he was taxi-driver, as that’s where most cabbie’s badges were hung. But why hide the identity of a robbery victim? When Dr Larkin arrived, he later said “lying on his back with blood all over face, his cause of death was hard to ascertain owing to the position of the body”, so they removed him to Southwark Mortuary. Every detail of the murder seemed to have been considered to stall the investigation, possibly to give the assailants more time to flee. But what baffled the police most was where the body was dumped. Why hide him in a pump house? Why leave his feet hanging out? And why didn’t they break down the door, instead of stuffing a 5-foot 11-inch and 13 ½ stone man wearing a full suit and thick winter coat through a 12-inch hole in the wall, which was barely big enough for his shoulders, chest, or boots. Given the effort, after a little experimentation using a similarly sized officer, detectives surmised that this could only have been accomplished by two men, not one. But why would two murderers waste so much valuable time trying to jam a big man through a small hole on a busy bridge? And how did they know about the hole, as the police would state “this isn’t the kind of place you stumble across”. It was that three-and-a-half-hour gap between 2:15am when Frank was last seen alive, and at 5:56am, when the dead man’s boots were first seen, which proved most perplexing. With his abdomen warm and rigor mortis fully established, the pathologist determined his time of death from 3am to 5am. The evidence proved that he didn’t die on Lambeth Bridge where his body was dumped, in St Helen’s Gardens where the taxi was later found, and with his blood pooling and congealing while he lay on the backseat floor and it smeared suggesting the cab was driven, they were certain he was shot elsewhere. But where was he murdered? Not a single witness had seen this ordinary looking taxi driving around the familiar streets of the West End on this dark and foggy night, and why should they? Examining the taximeter, it showed that Frank had driven 101 miles over his 9-hour shift; 63 miles were paid fares across 40 trips and 23 miles were unpaid distances (which was about average for a jobbing cabbie, 3 of which were from the garage). But 15 miles were ‘disengaged’ meaning the taximeter recorded the distance, but not the timings. This could only have been done by the driver himself, or someone who knew how a taximeter works. Detectives knew it was 7 miles from Lambeth Bridge to St Helen’s Gardens, 5 miles to Scotland Yard where they had the taxi forensically examined, and with 3 miles remaining, as he was last seen by the Milroy Club, it had to have occurred somewhere between Mayfair and Lambeth Bridge, 2 miles south. When and where Frank Everitt was murdered will remain a mystery forever, as with it unlikely he was killed near Lambeth Bridge - as why move his body from the driver’s seat into the back, only to dump him in the pump house – every street from Piccadilly, St James Street, The Mall, Pall Mall, St James’ Park, Birdcage Walk, Parliament Square and to Millbank are all busy and populated, even at 3am. For no known reason, before 2:30am, he left Stratton Street. It’s unlikely he picked up his killers there as no fare was recorded, and as a veteran cabbie, once the journey began, he’d have pulled down the taximeter’s flag, turning out the ‘for hire’ light on the roof, and the fare would have been logged - only the flag was up, the light’s wires were torn out, and whoever had disengaged it knew how to do it. So did they pull a gun on him and get him to drive? It’s possible, but nobody saw it. They may have had him drive to a quiet secluded spot like nearby Hyde Park and pull up, as nobody saw him kidnapped and nobody heard the shot, which could have been mistaken for a car backfiring. And with Frank’s hands on the steering wheel and his foot on the accelerator, would a trained killer really risk shooting the driver while the taxi is still in transit? This seemed the most logical solution. According to the lead investigator, Chief Inspector Chapman who described it as “one of the cleverest murders in criminal history”, he concluded “this was an execution, planned carefully to the smallest detail” by two men who knew what they were doing, and they knew how to confuse the investigation. With no obvious struggle, and being an ex-copper who could handle himself, Frank’s death was swift. From the backseat, his killer pulled a .32 calibre automatic, maybe a Walther or a Luger. With the muzzle placed at an upwards angle at the nape of Frank’s neck, the shooter fired a single shot. Leaving a powder burn under his left ear, the bullet ripped through his neck, his jaw, the frontal lobe of his brain, and exited two inches above his eye, blowing off his right ear, and embedding in the cab’s roof. Slumping forward, Frank was alive but paralysed, and so horrific were his injuries that the when the pathologist first saw him in the pump house, he thought he’d been beaten to death with a hammer. Moving his body to the back, his assailants tore out the interior lights, emptied his pockets, stripped him of any ID, and having disengaged the taximeter, amidst the fog, they headed south to Lambeth Bridge, shoved his body in a hole in a disused pump house and dumped the taxi in an isolated spot. By the time the body was found, both assailants had vanished into thin air. For Chief Inspector Chapman, Superintendent Greeno & Detective Inspector Morris, most ‘execution style’ killings are professional, with the perpetrators aware of how to leave no evidence of their crime. Police searched every pawnshop for Frank’s silver watch, but never found it. Several passengers early into his shift, they struggled to find. And although several sets of fingerprints were lifted, as the cab hadn’t been valeted for at least a week, it was uncertain if any of them belonged to the two culprits. On Monday the 22nd of October 1945, 4 days after the murder, a .32 calibre German Lugar wrapped in the blue bloodstained shirt of either a British or Allied soldier was found in a pig swill bin on Kenton Street, not far from Piccadilly, as well as a pair of military issue socks, two keys and a padlock. Police questioned hundreds British and Allied deserters, especially Polish servicemen, as with the war over but their country under Russian control, too fearful to return home, many remained in the UK. But although the investigation was thorough, with no suspects, it quickly stalled. (End) A £1000 reward was offered by the Taxi Fleet Federation for any information leading to Frank’s killers, but as the tabloids sullied this mysterious case with their own theories, soon the facts were lost in the myths. One theory was that Frank was an informer helping to bring down an extortion racket, but the Police denied this. Another said his executioners were after his notebook, and although it was never found, there was no proof that he even had “a secret list of Soho gangsters”. And although the Evening Standard reported “The Duke’s cab may have been used by a blackmailing gang in the West End”, with him being an ex-policeman with a supposedly large income, there was no evidence to back this up. To many, Frank’s alleged ‘execution’ seemed like a one-off murder by a criminal gang who had killed either a cabbie, a crook or an ex-copper for an unknown reason and fled. The chance of finding them was slim, and as the days turned into weeks, it seemed as if this would be another unsolved murder. But on Thursday 1st of November 1945, exactly two weeks later, at roughly the same time of night and in an isolated and unlit location in Notting Hill barely 1 ½ miles from where the taxi was dumped, a black marketer and some say “a police informer” known as ‘Russian Robert’ was murdered. Said to be driving a taxi, his death was described as an execution, having been shot from the backseat by a Lugar. There were so many similarities that, with the suspects arrested and later convicted of murder, Chief Inspector Chapman visited them in prison. What he uncovered was a story of money, jewels, a truck full of counterfeit booze and two Polish deserters who would stop at nothing to get what they wanted. They murdered for profit, but if that was the case, why did they execute ‘The Duke’? The concluding part continues next week. UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF PART TWO: At about 4am, two hours before dawn, the dark blue Austin saloon skidded to a halt in the foggy gloom of St Helen’s Gardens. Inside this unlit taxi, two men sprang at speed, and fled swiftly into the night. From the driver’s seat ran a tall and skinny beanpole of a man in a bloodstained grey suit and matching felt hat, as from the backseat, still clutching a 32 calibre German Lugar pistol, dashed short and squat chap in the black uniform of a Seaman in the Polish Navy. Said to have been executed with precision, the body of Frank Everitt had been stuffed into a cramped hole on Lambeth Bridge, a few miles south. But why did two polish deserters kill ‘The Duke’? The Police didn’t think it was a robbery as they only took £9, a black notebook, a blue mottled pencil, and two new packs of ‘Punch’ matches. The Press suggested this ex-copper turned informer was executed over a “secret list of Soho gangsters”, or that they had brutally shot dead a black marketeer over a truck full of contraband whiskey as a message. Heading up the investigation, Chief Inspector Chapman described it as “one of the cleverest murders in criminal history”, as within days, their detective work had hit a brick wall and stalled. Frank’s killers would never be caught, and their motives would never be known. Or so the Police thought… …as exactly two weeks later, two killers would strike again in an almost identical execution. Unlike ‘The Duke’, the second victim was a criminal to the core. ‘Russian Robert’ was the alias of Reuben Martirosoff. Born in Tbilisi in the ex-Soviet state of Georgia on 22nd of December 1905, as the eldest child to Georg & Sonja Danieloff, his true identity is unknown. Raised in a prosperous family of Armenian Jews, his upbringing was privileged, living in a palatial home, wearing handstitched clothes and dining on chef cooked meals. But amidst a violent civil war, with the peasants looting, its monarchy overthrown and replaced by an authoritarian government, aristocrats like the Danieloff’s lost everything, and fleeing for his life, aged 15 Reuben never saw his parents again. Being homeless and penniless, as he had no papers to prove his identity, between both wars Reuben drifted across Europe surviving on his wits. He was only a boy, but blessed with a sharp brain and quick tongue, he became fluent in nine languages including French, German and Arabic. As an immaculately dressed playboy with “flashing eyes and a gambler’s smile”, he blended-in like a rug by a roaring fire. But as a stateless alien, being illegal in every country he entered; to make a penny, he became a thief. As an invisible man, the only records we have that he existed are his convictions and his deportations. Under many aliases such as ‘Robert Martirosoff’, he arrived in the UK on a fake Swiss passport in 1928, but convicted of theft, in 1929 he fled to Paris and was imprisoned again. The same happened in 1930 in Berlin, and being deported in 1931, in 1932 the Germans re-arrested him, and was expelled again. Reuben was a criminal boomerang with a broad smile for whom the law was no deterrent. By the mid-1930s, he’d been expelled from England, France, Germany, Argentina and Uruguay, with convictions also in Austria and Czechoslovakia. Having been re-arrested in Paris, he was forced to join the French foreign legion, only having already broken out of prison in Buenos Aires, going AWOL wasn’t difficult. By 1936, having served 4 months hard labour for the theft of £2000 worth of jewellery in London, he couldn’t be deported as he was stateless, and later being convicted in Istanbul, Vienna, and (cheekily) back in Buenos Aires in 1937, with a cloud of war looming over Europe, he made London his home. With goods in short supply and rationing in full force, someone was bound to earn a crust out of this crisis, and that person was Reuben. Keen not to be deported back to Russia, on 30th of June 1940, he married Yetta Slotsky, a British citizen, having lived together for just two weeks. Arrested that day for theft, having served nine months in prison, he moved in with his true love – Auriel, a waitress with whom he had two children – an 8-month-old girl called Sonia, and a 5-year-old boy called Stalin – only he couldn’t marry her, as although he dodged the law like a crusty dodges baths, she was already wed. Reuben was now a British citizen, protected by the law that he flouted galore… …but how he made his money would lead to his downfall. A friend of his said “one day he’d be broke, the next, he’s carrying thousands of pounds”. His suits were expensive, his shoes handmade, and his cigarettes imported. On the surface, he ran a legitimate betting shop at 80 Brewer Street in Soho, but behind closed doors, he was a black marketeer who could get anything, and an expert jeweller who acted as a go-between among many gangs of criminals. He loved living an extravagant life, a life he felt he deserved before the Communists destroyed it all. But he was cursed. As a reckless gambler, he won big but also lost heavily. As a playboy, he had a wife, a girlfriend and mistresses dotted about the city, all of whom he kept in luxury. And yet, as a successful criminal with no allegiance to anyone but himself and his money, he was as loved as he was hated. Across 1940 to 45, as London was blitzed by Nazi bombs, the more his empire grew, the less he seemed to be arrested. He had fines for a few minor offences, but no detective ever nailed him. A friend said, “it was because he used anonymous taxi-drivers to courier his contraband goods across the city”, and although another said “I think he was an informer for the police” - which of course they denied - as an illegal alien who lived by his own rules, why wouldn’t he accept a copper’s coin to rat out his rivals? But was this why Reuben Martirosoff alias ‘Russian Robert’ was murdered? Was he a police informer who fed titbits to an ex-Sergeant called Frank Everitt? On Wednesday 31st of October 1945, 12 days after ‘The Duke’s murder, Rueben was at Jerry’s Club at 7 Archer Street in Soho, when he got a call from his girlfriend. She said “a Polish naval officer wants to meet you at Edgware Road tube at 11:30pm”, and although cryptic, he understood it and acted on it. Heading home to Earls Court, said to be “a bit drunk”, at 11:05pm he collected his car - a maroon Opel four-seater saloon, registration plate DXR388 – and he sped towards the destination. Why he did so is unknown, but his girlfriend said he always had on him; a gold watch, a signet ring with the initial ‘R’, his bookmaker’s book, and two wallets with at least “£400 to £800” (roughly £22000 to £44000 today). As arranged, at 11:30pm, Rueben picked up two Polish men at Edgware Road tube. In the passenger’s seat sat the tall skinny beanpole of a man in a freshly cleaned grey suit and a matching felt hat, and in the back, sat the short squat chap in the black uniform and cap of a Leading Seaman in the Polish Navy. At the Quebec Club in Marble Arch, Rueben bought them several drinks, as seen by the club’s owners, and their conversation and mood was said to be friendly and calm. They stayed till 12:30am, then left. But who were they, and had they already planned to ‘execute’ him? The tall man was Marian Grondkowski. Born in Cobryn, Poland on 29th of April 1913, like his father, Marian had a practical brain and trained as an architectural engineer, but as the Nazis spread across Europe like a plague, he was enlisted in the Army. With Poland destroyed and its people enslaved or imprisoned, being shipped to England, he became a Sergeant Major in the Special Sabotage Company. Like Churchill’s Special Operations Executive, the SSC trained soldiers in the art of dastardly cunning, where their true weapon was in the planning, having been taught to cheat, steal, destroy and kill, to disrupt the enemy’s plans and to evade capture without being seen or leaving any hint of their crime. Part of his battalion was Henryk Malinowski. Born in Warsaw, although he was short and squat with a walk like a moody bulldog, having never had a career or much of an education, when the Nazis stormed through his city, Henryk was imprisoned in Stalag 12G, a concentration camp in Luxembourg. But as a tough little bruiser, as well as a private in Special Sabotage Company, he broke out and fled to England. Marian & Henryk were trained in weapons, deception, theft and espionage. Described as bright and loyal, the Army gave them the tools, but what they hated was the Army. Having punched his senior officer, Marian was briefly imprisoned, and despising their regiment, the war and any authority - said to be selfish and undisciplined when drunk – separately in and March and June 1945, they went AWOL. Like Rueben, they lived by their wits as criminals in this war-torn city, but what they lacked was his charm and sophistication. As an educated, cultured, ex-Russian aristocrat who spoke nine languages, he could seamlessly blend in among the city’s elite and royally rinse them dry. But these two were half-cut squaddies who could steal a car, pick a pocket, or give a guy a good kicking. But that’s it. So, while Reuben was living the high life, hobnobbing at the Ritz and smoking Havana cigars, they were living in a filthy squat on Elgin Crescent making fake handbags, and they were so short on cash that in the days prior, they had sold their radio, their sewing machine, their beds and even their mattresses. They had nothing. As the saying goes, “they hadn’t a pot to piss in, nor a window to throw it out of”. On the day of Frank’s murder, Marian & Henryk had planned an armed robbery of engineering firm at 21 Athlone House in Kentish Town. Having staked out their target, these experts in sabotage knew that the boss paid the staff’s wages every Wednesday and carried at least £250 (or £13000 today). It was to be a simple smash and grab on an unarmed civilian… but having got plastered on vodka, and with them both suffering the after-effects of a course of treatment for Venereal Disease, the second Henryk pulled out his Lugar and shouted ‘hands up’, an apprentice snatched the gun and pushed Marian on top of him like a scene from the Keystone Cops, and they ran off, minus at least one pistol. That evening, hours before Frank’s killing, still woozy after their injections for VD, they pecked at a cheap meal at a Czech Restaurant on Edgware Road, and stated they could remember very little else. But was this the truth or a useful alibi, as who could prove otherwise? Having investigated Frank Everitt’s ‘supposed execution’, on the surface, it’s easy to see why the Chief Inspector said it was “one of the cleverest murders in criminal history”. But as half of success is luck, if had he seen their previous crimes and their bumbling ineptitude, he’d have taken his words back. This became the calling card of these two clumsy clods, as on the afternoon before Reuben’s murder, Marian and another Polish deserter called Jozef Howak-Halioz had planned to burgle the home of a Greek waiter and part-time jewel thief called Charlie at 19 Hillmorton Road in Holloway. Jozef said “as Charlie worked till midnight, it woulda been easy”, but with Marian still sick owing to more injections to cure his weeping winkle, “they set about doing a job in Caledonian Road, but that too was a bust”. They were as hapless as they were hopeless, but being broke, they had nothing to lose. What they also lacked was discretion. Jozef said “on Tuesday 30th October about 4pm, the three of us walked down Marble Arch. I heard Henryk mention ‘Russian Robert’. He said ‘I will tell him I have some business with him. Then when he comes, we will shoot him and take his wallets too”. He had only known Reuben for barely a month, so he said “it wasn’t anything personal, it was just about money”. In court, Marian & Henryk bickered like squabbling schoolgirls, blaming each other, claiming they liked Reuben, and admitting they were there, but denying that they were the one who fired the fatal shot. So, what we know is based on the evidence and the facts they blathered out to save their own skins. Having left the Quebec Club at 12:30am, Reuben drove them in his maroon Opel saloon to Kensington Park Road, as spotted by a constable at 1:20am. Henryk said “I had a truck full of contraband whiskey being delivered”. For some reason it didn’t happen. Reuben was supposed to receive a cut, but did they kill him to get a bigger slice, did he renege on the deal, or had he blabbed his rivals to an informer? The detectives never found the truck, or the whiskey, or any proof that any of it even existed. Roughly 10 minutes later, Reuben’s car drove into Chepstow Place, Bayswater, not far from St Helen’s Gardens. Outside, this residential street was dark and thick, as a dense fog slowed the car to a crawl. Inside, with the interior light on, it was clear that the mood was sour, but with no arguing, it was silent. Reuben was driving, and although both denied being the shooter, Marian was in the front passenger’s seat, and Henryk was in the back, with their last 32 calibre Lugar hidden in a holster inside his jacket. Given Reuben’s seating position, his lack of defensive wounds and Marian’s witness statement, it was as Henryk seethed that the shot rang out. (BANG) Marian said “I saw a flash”, as with the gun’s muzzle etching a circle of acrid powder under Reuben’s left ear at the nap of the neck (as it had with Frank), it smashed his jaw, skewered his cerebellum, and exited via his right eye later found in the footwell. Slumping forward, a smashed steaming slice of Reuben’s skull lay on the dashboard, the hole in his head still smoking, as spattered across the windscreen lay the gooey dripping fragments of his brain. As before, the bullet had embedded in the roof, but the evidence left behind wasn’t their biggest issue. Being a hot-tempered thug, Henryk was too furious to wait for the car to stop, and as the blinded and paralysed body of a barely alive Reuben slumped forwards, his foot slammed into the accelerator, his torso swung the steering wheel right, and although Marian’s hands and feet scrambled to save them, the car careened into the kerb, bounced off an iron bollard, a brick wall and crashed outside 12 Chepstow Place. As an occupied street, dogs barked and curtains twitched as its residents roused. Mistaking the shot for ‘a car’s exhaust backfiring’ and a crash owing to drunks, no-one got involved, but the killers had to act fast. Marian wanted no part of this, but with Reuben slowly dying, he was already in too deep. Smashing the interior light with the butt of his gun, in the foggy darkness, Henryk & Marian moved the body into the backseat and, like vultures over a carcass, proceeded to strip it of anything valuable; a gold watch, a signet ring, and two wallets, which Reuben’s girlfriend claimed contained as much as £800 (£44000 today), but they disputed this saying “in it was six £1 notes and 10 shillings”, about £60. Not being the brightest, they missed £20 he had in his pocket, and not knowing the difference between shit or Shinola, they took his handkerchiefs, his last cigarette, and his notebook and pen which had the names of those who owned him sums of money, but being too thick to realise it, they binned it. Keen to make a getaway, these highly trained experts in deception, theft and sabotage hopped in the car to sprit it away, and – to evade capture and subvert the investigation through their devious cunning - dump it in a remote part of town, doctor the evidence and the shove the body somewhere baffling. Having overthought the evidence, the police (aided by a ravenous press on the hunt for scandal) would assume it was an execution, rather than it simply being a feeble robbery by two hopeless halfwits who were still half-cut from a night drinking contraband whiskey, and VD injections for their drippy dicks. But having crashed the car and jarred something loose, as the bugger wouldn’t start, they propped the corpse upright, covered him in a rug, popped his hat over the remains of his shattered head, and like a 1940s remake of Weekend at Bernie’s, they made it look like he was taking a nap, and they fled. As they say, planning is everything, but luck is half the battle. When Frank was murdered, luck was on the killer’s side, but when these two tried to rob Reuben, the luck they encountered was mostly bad. Only their bad luck would continue long after the murder. As the saying goes “there is no honour among thieves”, so when detectives were questioning Polish deserters in connection with the murder of Frank Everitt, with ‘Russian Robert’s murder plastered all over the papers and a death sentence being mooted, Jozef was more than willing to rat out his rivals. Under a shady ruse, on Saturday 3rd of November, three days later, as a Police informer himself, Jozef led detectives to Marian’s hideout at 17 Mansfield Road. Finding Reuben’s wallet and lighter in his flat, Marian was arrested for murder, and keen to lay the blame on Henryk, he dobbed him in as well. At his lodging at 42 Belgrave Road, Police found a wealth of irrefutable evidence, including Henryk’s Naval uniform and Marian’s grey suit, both bloodstained, Reuben’s other wallet, his signet ring, a black notebook, a blue mottled pencil, two packs of ‘Punch’ matches, a magazine containing six 32 calibre bullets, and a Lugar automatic pistol which was still spattered with blood which matched Reuben’s. The Met’s gun expert tested it, and confirmed “it is in good condition, and did not go off accidentally”. It was 6:30am, an hour after dawn as a few faint cracks of light pierced the gloom of Chepstow Road, that Reuben’s body was found. As with Frank, many people had passed him thinking he was sleeping, but seeing the damage to the car, it was then that PC George Larkins of F division decided to check. “I thought the car was abandoned. Inside I saw a man, fully dressed, lying in the back seat. I spoke but got no response. I felt his pulse, but got nothing. I removed his hat, and saw his face covered in blood”. Their subterfuge was weak, as even to a beat bobby “it was obvious he’d been shot in the head”, as cold sticky blood pooled about the seats, flies buzzed feverishly, bits of brain speckled the windscreen, and with a bullet hole in the roof, coins on the floor, as well as the smell of cordite - this was a murder. The Met Police’s Scientific Unit scoured the car, matching the bullet to the gun, and eventually finding two sets of fingerprints amidst the sea of red ooze, Superintendent Cherill of Scotland Yard’s infamous print bureau confirmed “these are the same prints”, which matched those of Marian & Henryk. It was a cut and dried case of robbery and murder, and although investigated by a different division, Chief Inspector Chapman whose own detection of Frank Everitt’s supposed ‘execution ‘had stalled, he’d spotted too many similarities for both cases to be a coincidence. Occurring just two weeks apart, their wounds, weapons and positions were the same, both men were possibly killed while driving, both had a broken inside light, an attempt at a robbery, the bodies were searched in the backseat, evidence was tampered with, and they were then dumped and disguised like they were sleeping giving the killers time to flee. Both crimes required two men with experience, and both victims lead possibly mysterious lives; with one being a criminal, and one an ex-copper. With no witnesses or fingerprints found at Frank’s murder, the evidence was circumstantial, and with Frank’s notebook - of supposedly “a list of Soho gangsters” involved in the sale of contraband whiskey – never being found, when they were searched, Marian had two packs of ‘Punch’ matches (like Frank used to us) and a blue mottled pencil (last seen in his notebook). Even the detectives admitted “the evidence was slim”. But who had killed Frank, was it both of them, neither, or was this just a coincidence? (End) Tried at the Old Bailey in Court One on the Tuesday 12th of February 1946, as Frank’s killing didn’t pass the evidential test, both men pleaded ‘not guilty’ to the robbery and murder of Reuben Martirosoff. Having turned on each other, they admitted being there when Reuben was shot, but both denied they fired the fatal shot. But it was all academic. Summing up, Justice Croom-Johnston stated “the evidence indicates these two men were on a common purpose - getting money unlawfully and by violence of a man who was killed, and with this deemed as joint venture, I find you both responsible of his murder”. On Wednesday 13th of February, after 70 minutes of deliberation, Henryk & Marian were found guilty of Reuben’s murder and sentenced to death. They appealed their conviction, but this was rejected. Interviewed prior to their trial, although Marian said that on the night of Frank’s murder they were in Ilford, and Henryk said “I did not kill The Duke”, Chief Inspector Chapman visited them in Wandsworth Prison on the eve of their execution. “I hoped that faced with few hours to live, they would make a confession”. Hanged at 9am, both men went to their graves taking the truth about the murder. Who killed Frank and why will remain a secret forever, and although mysteries often remain a mystery, it’s unlikely that Frank was corrupt or an informer. Said to be a loyal and loving husband and father, he earned more than most to provide for his family, having worked hard every day and lived in squalor. Wrongly described as “one of the cleverest murders in criminal history”, his supposed ‘execution’ was simply a robbery by two desperate men who (that day) had luck on their side, and the only reason he was targeted wasn’t revenge or a hired hit, he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. 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. Archives
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