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Great Omrond Street Hospital, as it looks today, Tony would have entered via the old entrance to the left
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND NINETEEN
This is Part Four of a four-part series into The Camden Ripper. The truth about may never be known, as it’s hard to understand who he is, as he appeared to be a different person to different people at different times. By viewing this story from his perspective, it is clear that there were four distinct sides to the personality of Anthony Hardy; the alcoholic, the addict, the sadist and the maniac. These are the Four Faces of The Camden Ripper. Part Four – Tony the Maniac.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of Great Ormond Street Hospital where Anthony Hardy was arrested is marked with a mustard colouiuired triangle. The other three locations, his flat at 4 Hartland and the two bins (one at the rear of the College Arms pub and one on Plender Street) where the body parts were found are marked with purple, black and green triangles. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
SOURCES: The main source was the Independent Review into the treatment and care of Anthony Hardy by Camden Council, which also includes detail about the murder investigation, as seen in this PDF. http://nomsintranet.org.uk/roh/official-documents/IndependentReview_AnthonyHardy.pdf MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: (Tony) “I hear they’ve given me a name. They’re calling me... The Ripper”. Within the space of a single year, Anthony John Hardy had murdered his first victim, evaded a lengthy custodial sentence, manipulated his detention in a psychiatric unit and being declared “not a danger to himself or others”, he was released back into the community and to his flat at 4 Hartland. Six weeks later, two more women would be dead with their dismembered bodies scattered across Camden. Once, he was nothing but an anonymous homeless drunk who was ignored, avoided and abandoned, but now, his dark ambition to become a serial-killer was complete. Only, unlike his eponymous East End hero whose moniker is known the world over, Tony’s place in infamy was yet to be cemented. He was a nobody who wanted to be a somebody... but to achieve it, the next step was out of his control. So, who was Anthony Hardy? Was he a depressed alcoholic who was prone to manic episodes? Was his mental health real, imaginary, impossible to diagnose or entirely fabricated to suit his needs? Was he a chancer who grabbed at opportunities, or a cunning manipulator with a long-term goal? Did his addictions make a monster, did his isolation craft a killer, or was sadism always part of his personality? The truth about The Camden Ripper may never be known, even to himself, as he became a different person to different people at different times. But only by viewing this story from his perspective is it possible to see the four sides to the personality of Anthony Hardy; the alcoholic, the addict, the sadist and the maniac. These are the Four Faces of The Camden Ripper. Part Four – Tony the Maniac. Detective Chief Inspector Ken Bell, later said “it was one of the most disturbing cases I have ever been involved with. It has always been the belief of the investigating team that a man in full possession of his mental faculties committed these murders. Hardy is a dangerous, devious and manipulative man”. In the eyes of the Met’ Police, Anthony Hardy was a sadistic murderer, plain and simple. Following the discovery of the naked and posed body of Sally Rose White in his locked spare-room, there was enough evidence of assault, pre-meditation, an attempt to conceal the body, to clean-up the crime scene, and his convenient loss of memory owing to an alcoholic blackout was without merit. Hardy was guilty. But with the murder investigation usurped by the bungling of a Home Office Pathologist, their case collapsed and their only suspect was released... but soon enough, the Police would be proved right. Mid-afternoon on Thursday 2nd January 2003, Tony was sat in an oak-panelled smoking room at Great Ormond Street Hospital, a few streets from King’s Cross Station. Sprawled across a stiff wooden bench, wearing his shin-length coat, black NY cap, loud shirt and amusing socks, Tony smoked a ciggie as he perused the paper. His beard was gone, shaved to a ragged stubble, and although it was bitterly cold outside with a persistently biting drizzle, inside the radiators were reassuringly warm and comforting. One of London’s largest ever man-hunts was underway, the Police were patrolling the streets, his flat was crawling with forensics and Tony’s face was splashed across every tabloid. The papers would state that this “mentally disturbed” and “highly dangerous man” had been “on-the-run” for three days... ...when in truth, he wasn’t running, he was in no rush at all, as all he had to do now... was wait. Seven days earlier, on Friday 27th December 2002, Elizabeth Valad and Brigette MacLennan had served their purpose. Their bodies were rotting, flies were swarming and purge fluid was slowly leaking from their bloated corpses as their internal organs putrefied in the heat of his squalid little flat at 4 Hartland. A total of forty-four sickeningly lurid photos were taken of both ladies; posed on the bed, laying naked with all holes gaping as they fulfilled every facet of his sick disturbing fantasy. Only, with red-headed Brigette three-days dead and her porcelain skin mottled with a livid hue of reds and blues, and Liz’s once slender frame malformed by the warmth of decay into a purple bloated mess with slipping skin, for Tony it was time to dispose of the evidence. Only this wasn’t a race to cut and flush as much human meat as possible before the police burst in, this was slow and methodical for a very specific reason. In an advanced state of decomposition, both bodies were limp and easy-to-handle as he dragged them from the spare-room into the white windowless bathroom. With the cold tap on and the plug out, the fluids were slowly drained and nothing was flushed down the toilet owing to a risk of blockage. The bulk of the Friday he spent dismembering the bodies with a small white hacksaw and three kitchen knives with differing blades; some sharp for skin, some tough for bone, some jagged for sinew. But no bones were snapped in haste, as each cut was clean as if performed by a professional butcher. To become a serial-killer, all it takes is three or more bodies and a gap of at least a month, which any fool with an ounce of self-control or a hectic schedule can attain. But for Tony, this wasn’t only about a sadistic gratification or the full physical control of a woman, here he was creating a myth. There are thousands of serial killers in history; some are famous, some are forgotten, but very few are infamous. Having left these sixteen bits of limbs, torsos and heads to drain in the bath, at 8:04pm, he re-entered Sainsbury’s on Camden Road to buy more bin-bags; where he aroused no suspicion, he didn’t disguise his face from the CCTV and having made a purchase he remembered to collect his Nectar Card points. The next day, with a roll of bin-bags, a set of red handled scissors and a reel of duct tape, each part was bagged and sealed in his more spacious spare-room. He cleaned the bathroom so it was white once again. And then he showered, scrubbed his nails and popped on some fresh clothes. The flat was cold having opened the windows, but it was free of flies and the only smell was bleach and incense. Next-up: disposal. Conveniently the bin-store at Hartland was in-front of his own front door, only this wasn’t about speed, as where and how the bodies were dumped was a key part of his myth-making. At 2:08pm, on the busy corner of Plender Street and Camden Road, Tony dumped a large black bag filled with an upper torso, a right arm, a left arm and a foot into the bin, having stopped, turned and grinned up towards the CCTV camera directly overhead, and calmly walked away. One street up from his home, he slung a second bag bulging with a pair of ladies’ legs. On the floor of his spare-room, he left Liz’s headless and limbless torso, all parcelled-up, having locked the door and blocked up the gap below with her grey tracksuit bottoms. And then, somewhere nearby - maybe in a bush, down a drain or in the nearby Regent’s Canal - he disposed of the rest; three feet, two arms and both heads. On the morning of 30th December 2002, with a large police presence at the back of the College Arms pub, he shaved off his beard, packed-up a small bag, and calmly, he left his flat at 4 Hartland forever. With three women dead, their bodies scattered and his myth-making finally complete, as his infamy could never guaranteed, Tony would have to wait, as the final piece of his legend was yet to be written. So, where did the Camden Ripper begin? Well, his homicidal sadism didn’t start with Sally Rose White, Elizabeth Selina Valad or Brigette Cathy MacLennan. It actually began with his first victim... his wife. Anthony John Hardy was born on 31st May 1951 in Winshill, a coal-mining parish east of Burton-upon-Trent in Staffordshire, to Kathleen a housewife and Cyril a welder at the Swadlincote Colliery. As the fourth youngest alongside Barry, Terry, Christine and Brian, it’s unsurprising that (like most bullies) Tony would unwittingly model himself those he feared the most; as his father was a large stout man with a short fuse, a furious temper and a thirst for drink and women. Raised a Christian, as a boy, the seeds of this serial-killer were sewn, as Tony was quiet, bright and charming, but lacked any empathy. From 1956 to 1970, Tony was schooled at Abbott Beyne Grammar in Winshill, where he fostered a love of girls, a passion for mechanics and a deep desire to flee his working-class roots. And although he could be chatty and pleasant to his fellow pupils, he despised his teachers, often dismissing their questions with a vacant look, very few words and a need to feel superior over these authority figures. Gifted with practical hands and a methodical mind, from 1970-to-73, Tony studied engineering at Imperial College in Kensington, West London, where Tony met and fell in love with 22-year-old Judith Dwight. To Judith – having fallen for a tall, well-built man, who was described as a perfect gentleman – in the spring of 1972, they married at Westminster Registry Office. In 1975, they moved to Bury St Edmonds in Suffolk where Tony worked as a factory engineer for British Sugar, Judith as a secretary, and their four children (Sam, Ben, Emma and Tom) soon followed, with the Hardy’s seen as nothing more than a typical middle-class family living a good life in a nice home. In 1978, with Tony offered a great opportunity, the family uprooted to Hobart in Tasmania. This should have been a stepping-stone to an even brighter future, but struggling to cope with the stresses of life, he smoked, he drank, he womanised and the sadistic seeds of a fledgling serial-killer began to spawn. Described as “like a Dr Jekyll and a Mr Hyde”, for Judith, it was like living with two different husbands. As swinging wildly from high manias to low depressions, violent outbursts to utter blankness, Tony’s mood was unpredictable. To curb it, he drank heavier, had many affairs, used sex-workers and (yet to be diagnosed with onset diabetes) his unruly erections required harder sex to maintain his large libido. Losing his job, for the sake and safety of their marriage and children, Judith got Tony to see a doctor, but as his anger and mania grew, misdiagnosed, he was incorrectly prescribed with anti-depressants. It was then that – being neither drunk, low or elated - Tony would plan and execute his first murder. On 5th April 1982, at 6:30am, as the family slept, Tony opened the fridge. He wasn’t hungry or thirsty, as all he could think about was his wife’s impending death. In his eyes, he had planned it to perfection, as with no murder weapon found, he knew he would evade justice. Having read in a true-crime novel about an assassin’s dagger made of ice, he adapted the idea and froze a plastic water bottle used as a cooler for picnics. After the attack, it would defrost and be indistinguishable from any other rubbish. As he swung the two-litre bottle, almost two kilos of hardened ice smashed Judith repeatedly over the head as she slept, it shot intense pains down her body and rendered her stunned and semi-conscious. Dragging her limp body to the bath, filling it, Tony thrust his wife’s head under the water in an attempt to drown her, but as she fought back; she kicked, she punched and struggled to yank out the plug. The attack abruptly stopped when their six-year-old son Sam saw his dad attacking his mum and screamed. Judith was taken to hospital with cuts, bruises and shock... but thankfully, she survived. The murder had failed, the weapon was found, the victim recovered and the attack had a witness. So, whether Tony’s failure informed his further attacks is unknown. Did the sound of his neighbour’s bath at Hartland trigger a manic flashback? Were his last three victims – Sally, Liz and Brigette – simply him enacting what he wanted to happen to his wife? And was his manipulation of their bodies (in life and death) an act of revenge because he couldn’t obtain hers? That is unknown, but many key elements which shaped the Camden murders and his evasion of justice would stem from this very moment. Upon his arrest, Tony stated “no comment” to the Police’s questions, and only spoke to flag-up his alcoholic blackouts, his depression and his need for psychiatric help, knowing that if he was sectioned, he would be declared “not responsible for his own actions” and would avoid a long custodial sentence. On 6th April 1982, Tony was sectioned at Brisbane’s Park Centre Psychiatric Unit. Like his admission to the Mornington Unit, once inside, with the charges dropped, his suicidal urges ceased and as a model patient, he was declared “not a danger to himself or others” and discharged after just ten days. Tony walked free with a great sense of superiority having beaten the system. But as would happen in the Cardigan Ward, he wasn’t diagnosed with depression or bipolar, but suffering from a cyclothymic reaction, meaning his violent moods weren’t owing to mental illness, but were part of his personality. Two weeks later, in another unprovoked attack, Tony held his wife hostage in a hotel room, but having asked him to let her go for the sake of their kids, she filed divorce papers and moved back to England. And although the Decri-Nisi was served... his violence towards his soon-to-be ex-wife didn’t stop there. In August 1985, as they still lived together owing to their dwindling finances, Tony tortured Judith with his petty torments; he soaked her bed with water, he broke her secretarial typewriter, he stole all her money and for the last three nights before she left, he turned the radio up full so she couldn’t sleep. In November 1986, on the grounds of domestic assault, the divorce was issued and a Restraining Order was put in place meaning that Tony could not contact his ex-wife and children in any way. He broke the terms, served two months in prison and (losing his job) he focussed on making her life a living hell. (Montage). 8th December 1986, he harassed Judith with phone-calls, day and night. 11th December, while the Police were installing alarms in her home, they found microphones hidden in the vents. 14th December, he made more abusive calls. 2nd January 1987, he followed his wife’s car to London. 3rd January, he removed a pane of glass from her front door. 5th to 11th January, more abusive calls. 12th January, within five hours of changing her ex-directory number, more menacing calls. 19th January, she got a postcard, it read “Is there a chink in your armour, I wonder? Tony”. 27th January, he slashed her friend’s car tyres. 28th January, he left a voicemail saying “if you persist in refusing to talk to me, you’ll be sorry”. March to May he called ten times. 8th June, he bricked her window and slashed her tyres. 9th July, he broke into her home at night, leaving a cigarette stub and her tyres slashed. 13th July, another window bricked and a note attached stating “This brick was chosen with care. I hope you like it. T.”. The same day, five cars on the street had their tyres slashed and she received another note stating “To the stars or to hell? The choice is yours”. And on 21st July 1987, he broke in to her home, boarded up the garage, jammed the front door, stole her friend’s car, changed the number plates and used it for a spot of illegal mini-cabbing and to harass and stalk his ex-wife as he tried to live her life. On 16th September 1987, he was sentenced to one year in prison for contempt of court having ignored the Restraining Order. While on remand in Norwich Prison for car-theft, a psychiatrist from the Norvic Clinic assessed Tony and found “no evidence of major mental illness” and that his violence towards his ex-wife resulted from as “intractable personality trait”. He wasn’t mentally ill, this was who he was. Having served his sentence, on 2nd January 1989, he stole the car of his ex-wife’s boyfriend, and while high on alcohol and cannabis, he organised a belated New Year’s Eve party for a group of sex-workers, which ended in a high-speed police chase down the A134 and crashed into a road-block at Thetford. Upon his arrest, he refused to give a specimen, repeatedly stated “no comment”, he caused criminal damage to the cell and was sentenced to a further six-months in prison. (Sounds from Part One). (Tony) “Hello. My name is Tony and I am an alcoholic”. And this was where we began, in the Summer of 1989 as a Tony drove a battered Ford Sierra through the back streets of the King’s Cross. Within a year, he was unemployed, homeless and diabetic. Losing contact with his ex-wife and kids, over the next thirteen years, he was arrested, evicted and sectioned on countless occasions. The few pounds he scraped together fuelled his addictions of drink, drugs and sex. And having nothing of his own, he had learned to manipulate the system to get what he wanted, whether a bed, a meal, an income, a flat, or the freedom to walk free having got away with murder. With three women dead, their bodies scattered and his myth-making finally complete, as his infamy could never guaranteed, Tony would have to wait, as the final piece of his legend was yet to be written. On Monday 30th December 2002, just shy of 3am, as the urban foxes prowled behind the College Arms pub - hungry and shunned, seen as vermin by an uncaring society - another nameless scavenger foraged in the council bins for food. Only what he found shocked him to the core. “I thought they were two big fish, like two big salmon, I opened a bag and there they were, a pair of woman’s legs”. The press would later claim that Tony was only caught because the rubbish collection was a day late, but as anyone who lives in Britain knows, every Christmas it’s late. This discovery wasn’t a mistake, it was deliberate, as how could Tony become an infamous serial-killer if no-one knew about his killings? At 9am, the man carried the reeking bin-bag to the Hospital for Tropical Diseases on Capper Street. At 9:45am, Detective Chief Inspector Ken Ball was alerted to reports of “suspected human remains”. At 10am, the rear of the pub was sealed off. And seeing the commotion from the comfort of his own flat; Tony calmly packed a bag, grabbed his pills, shaved off his beard and left Hartland forever. There was no rush, no panic, no fear, and knowing his moment had come, he probably even stopped to watch. At 11am, at St Pancras Mortuary, an autopsy by Dr Freddy Patel confirmed their worst fears; the legs were human, female, recently dismembered and more than likely belonged to more than one woman. A murder investigation was set-up, the estate was cordoned off, bins were emptied, residents were questioned and rubbish collections were stopped, although tonnes had already been taken to landfill. No other body parts were initially found, but when the neighbours were asked, the same name kept cropping up; “it’s Tony”, “flat 4”, “he’s weird”, “a loner”, “strange man”, “you know about Sally, right?” When the Police arrived, it was as if he had been expecting them, as the front door was open and the hall light was on, but Tony was nowhere to be found. Initially it looked like a false lead, as although clean but cluttered, it resembled the flat of a depressed alcoholic who was blamed for everything. To experienced detectives, these seemingly innocent items rankled their nerves; like the rubber Devil’s mask, the occult symbols, the stack of sickening porn, the creepy childish daubings with hints at other victims, a scattering of scrawled letters written to sex-workers, escorts and S&M magazines alluding to his depraved cravings, and a painted glass jar immortalising that first murder of Sally Rose White. But most of all – beyond the bleach and incense – they were hit by the recognisable and unforgettable festering reek of decaying flesh, so pungent it permeated the grey tracksuit bottoms which blocked the gap and lingered in their nostrils. And once you have smelled death, the stench never leaves you. Having forced the door, the spare-room was as Tony had left it, a treasure trove of irrefutable evidence connecting him to the crime to the victim; on the table were spare bin-bags, a roll of duct-tape, some scissors, a pair of Marigold gloves and carefully positioned on the red rug - neatly wrapped, sealed and with the tools of her dissection placed on top - lay the headless and limbless torso of Elizabeth Valad. The hacksaw held jagged nicks of flesh, the knives were still bloodstained, luminol confirmed the areas of death, dismemberment and disposal and the only fingerprints found were the victims and Tony’s. The next day, the search expanded to the canal, landfill and the neighbouring estate, where in a green council bin on Plender Street, an upper torso, a right arm, a left arm and a foot was found. Brigette MacLennan was identified by her DNA and Elizabeth Valad by the serial-numbers of her breast implants. And although an exhaustive search was conducted, their hands of heads remained missing. Tony was the Police’s prime suspect. With one of London’s largest man-hunts set-up, the newspapers were given his photo and a description, and – knowing his reliance on medication for his depression and diabetes – St Pancras and St Luke’s hospitals were alerted, but they had already missed him. Tony was gone. Having lived for a decade as an invisible vagrant on London’s streets, it wasn’t difficult for him to vanish without trace. He slept rough, ate hot meals in charity-run kitchens, had those forty-four lurid photos of Liz and Brigette’s corpses developed in a local lab, and having shaved off his beard - less to evade the Police and more to avoid a public lynching – his days were spent reading the trashy tabloids who slathered over the grisly details of his murders, dubbing him with a series of luridly salacious names, whether the King’s Cross Killer, the Camden Slasher or the “Bin Bag Maniac”. Tony knew his moment of infamy was soon, very soon... but until then, he would wait. In the mid-afternoon of Thursday 2nd January 2003, Mike Burrowes, an off-duty policeman was sitting with his son in the wood-panelled smoking room at Great Ormond Street hospital, when he spotted a large stout man in a shin-length coat, a black NY cap, a loud shirt and a set of amusing socks, smoking and reading the newspaper. Mike whispered “You see him? Doesn’t that look like the bin-bag man?”. And that was it. Security was alerted, the Police arrived and upon his arrest (although many articles falsely claimed that he fought his way out, with one constable losing an eye and another stabbed, in truth) he was calm and polite. The wait was over, his moment had come and as the officers led him away, Tony grinned and said “I hear they’ve given me a name. They’re calling me... The Ripper”. (End) Taken to Colindale Police Station and questioned by DS Alan Bostock and DCI Ken Ball, their evidence against him was irrefutable but their focus was more humane. When the DCI asked “I want to recover the heads, not for me, for the families. What can you do for me Tony?” Being a sadist with a hatred of authority and a need to furnish his myth, as he did with every question, Tony replied “no comment”. On Tuesday 25th November 2003, at The Old Bailey, 52-year-old Anthony John Hardy pleaded guilty to the brutal murders of Sally Rose White, Elizabeth Selina Valad and Bridgette Cathy MacLennan, and was sentenced to three life sentences. In May 2010, this was extended to a whole life tariff. No-one knows why Tony pleaded guilty. It’s unlikely he did it to spare the families the agony of hearing the evidence. More likely, is that with an insatiable press perched in the gallery, he knew the little they heard, the more a mystique would surround this infamous British serial-killer known as The Camden Ripper, as he entered the notorious pantheon of sickening sadists alongside his own eponymous hero. Very little has been written about his case, a public inquiry requested by Liz’s family was dismissed by the Home Office, and although the supposedly “accidental death” of Sally Rose White was overruled and the pathologist Dr Freddy Patel was dismissed, the most conclusive public review of this case was into the treatment of Anthony Hardy, as a mental health patient under the care of Camden Council. Held at Broadmoor Psychiatric Prison and later transferred to HMP Frankland, he sought a biographer to write his story, he asked Christie’s to auction his macabre souvenirs and he even requested (in the belief that a chilling waxwork of himself would be made) that his clothes should to be sent to Madame Tussauds so his effigy could stand in the Chamber of Horrors, next to Dr Crippen and Reg’ Christie. On 26th November 2020, Anthony John Hardy died of sepsis in prison. His face is hardly known, his crimes are rarely discussed, there are very few biographies or documentaries in his name, and (having died two weeks earlier) his demise was usurped by a vastly more infamous serial-killer, The Yorkshire Ripper. So, as much as he craved infamy, alive or dead, The Camden Ripper has been almost forgotten. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. That was the final part of this four-part series into The Camden Ripper and the final episode of Murder Mile for 2020. Across the next eight to ten weeks I shall be researching the new season and I hope to return at the end of February 2021. But if you’d like to know more about this case, stay tuned for some extra tit-bits, as well as a quiz, a biccie and a final cup of tea with me. Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Nick Ashworth, Dawn Ackrill and Natasha Terner-Swift, I thank you very much, I hope you liked your goodies and that you’ll enjoy the new goodies which all Patreon subscribers will be receiving in January and February. Ooh. Plus a thank you to Lucy Barr and Darren De Rosa for your very kind donations via the Murder Mile eShop, I thank you, I have spent in on booze. And a hello to my boaty neighbour Heather who I bumped into the other day. Only you know where I am currently moored-up for Christmas, so keep it a secret. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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The rear of the former College Arms pub on Royal College Street where Anthony Hardy disposed of vaious pieces of his victims
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTEEN
This is Part Three of a four-part series into The Camden Ripper. The truth about may never be known, as it’s hard to understand who he is, as he appeared to be a different person to different people at different times. By viewing this story from his perspective, it is clear that there were four distinct sides to the personality of Anthony Hardy; the alcoholic, the addict, the sadist and the maniac. These are the Four Faces of The Camden Ripper. Part Three – Tony the Sadist.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
There are two locations here. The lime green triangle is the back of the former College Arms pub and the purple triangle is the corner of Camden Road and Plender Street, there are the locations of the green bins where the body parts were dumped. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, etc, access them by clicking here.
Here's two locations to go with the episode. Left is the corner of Plender Street and Camden Street in the exact location where Anthony John Hardy (The Camden Ripper) dumped the dismembered body parts of Brigette Cathy MacLennan and Elizabeth Selina Valad in the council's green metal bins. The bins have since been relocation but the security camera which captured the footage of Hardy disposing of the bags is still in place. Right is the rear of the former College Arms pub at 1 Royal College Street where some of the body parts of Brigette MacLennan and Elizabeth Valad were dumped by Anthony John Hardy, the Camden Ripper.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable
SOURCES: The main source was the Independent Review into the treatment and care of Anthony Hardy by Camden Council, which also includes detail about the murder investigation, as seen in this PDF. http://nomsintranet.org.uk/roh/official-documents/IndependentReview_AnthonyHardy.pdf
MUSIC:
SOUNDS Salvation Army - https://freesound.org/people/Walter_Odington/sounds/32366/ Café Noise - https://freesound.org/people/alistair.i.macdonald/sounds/156909/ UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: (Tony) “I feel like I’ve wasted the last few years, I’ve wasted my whole life and I’ve achieved nothing”. To the world around him, by the winter of 2002, 51-year-old Anthony John Hardy was little more than a sexually-defunct diabetic with bipolar disorder. He eked out a living on a disability allowance, he had been bounced from hostels to hospitals to prisons, he was dependent on a cocktail of medications, drink and drugs, and the only relationships he maintained was with a series of anonymous sex workers. As a clinically-depressed alcoholic, at best, his life would be an endless circle of therapy sessions, drug tests and relapses. At worst, he would sink into a pit of depression, arrests, sections and homelessness. He was a nameless nobody who had achieved nothing, and would be ignored and avoided by others. Only, deep down in his sadistic little soul, Tony harboured a dark ambition. Feeling a supreme sense of superiority over the system he had manipulated and the experts he had duped, having murdered his first victim, he had evaded justice and a lengthy prison sentence receiving only a few months in hospital. With his second lying dead in his space-room, his evil obsession was just days away from completion, and seeking a third victim, soon he would be as infamous as his hero. The truth about The Camden Ripper may never be known, as his memory and details were deliberately vague and his many illnesses masked a sadistic truth. He was a different person to different people at different times for a very specific reason. And only by viewing this story from his perspective is it possible to see the four sides to the personality of Anthony Hardy; the alcoholic, the addict, the sadist and the maniac. These are the Four Faces of The Camden Ripper. Part Three – Tony the Sadist. (Tony) “The last five years, I could have spent in a job or training at college. Instead I spent it drinking tea in day-centres and alcohol on the streets. Don’t get me wrong, the therapy, the alcohol sessions and the counselling has helped, but with no fixed address, it’s impossible to achieve any real goals”. With phrases such as this, Tony had secured himself the tools he needed to fulfil his life’s ambition; everything from a secluded flat, to the funds to pay for his sex-workers, to the freedom to walk the streets and (left to his own devices) he could satisfy his sadistic obsession... and become a serial-killer. Tuesday 24th December 2002. Christmas Eve. Not a flake of snow fell on the soggy litter-strewn streets of Camden, instead a cold wet drizzle wafted the cheesy chirp of festive hits as it drifted on the breeze. From the window of his brightly-coloured living-room, the big bearded figure of Tony stared out onto Royal College Street, like a demented Santa Claus in a garish Hawaiian shirt and a set of Mr Men socks. With his tree up, his baubles dandling and his greeting cards hanging on a string, there was a real sense of excitement. For everyone, it was about Christmas. But for Tony, it was about infamy. Chosen by Camden Council simply because it was available and suited a single man, it’s ironic that the flat they chose at 4 Hartland would be so perfect for the sickening whims of a prospective serial-killer. From the outside, being situated on the ground-floor corner of a council block, flat 4 had no immediate neighbours. Fully surrounded by a street, two stairwells and a passageway, it sat by itself; with a few frosted windows in the communal areas, a thick front-door facing no others and the four windows to his living-room, bathroom and spare-room were all set six-feet off-the-ground. Above, his neighbour with the leaky-tap still lived, but the matter was resolved and since then, they hadn’t talked. The path was used by residents, the road was thirty feet away and this was not a place for tourists or shoppers. On the ground-floor was a thin grey stairwell, illuminated by a single bulb which infrequently worked, and as it led to nowhere but the other flats, unless you lived there, you had no reason to be there. As the only entrance or exit, opening the black front door which had no glass pane, just a spy-hole and a clumsily chalked ‘four’, should anyone peep inside, they would see nothing but a thin vague hallway. There were no carpets or furniture, just a few childish daubings and the flat fronts of four closed doors. To the left was a white windowless bathroom with a bath, sink and toilet, and nothing but a nailbrush, a mop, the name Sara in red paint and two self-shot snaps of semi-clad ladies sunning it up in the park. Second right was a small messy kitchen with a fridge, a hob and some unwashed plates, which (like all the other rooms) resembled the flat of a depressed alcoholic. So, should the council inspect it, to the uninitiated it needed a good clean and a paint-job, but there would be nothing of concern to report. In the brightly-coloured living-room, besides the cheap Christmas tree and the string of greeting cards, you’d see a stack of books on Jack the Ripper, not an odd fixation with deaths. You’d see three tellies, not a shrine to hard-core porn. A line of blank VHS tapes, not hours of simulated and real rapes. And an assortment of sticky spillages from a clumsy alcoholic, and not the mopped-up bloodstains of his last victim. Perhaps having rejected his generous offer of a spare-room, with sex as payment for rent? Of course, the spare-room was a perfect trap to lure in any vulnerable female lodger, as it was warm, dry and almost free. With a double-bed, a locked door and a single window which opened a few inches, although silenced by brick-walls on all sides, the neighbours were used to the sounds of seedy sex-acts coming from this room, and besides, the lodger wouldn’t be left alone, as Tony had a spare key. Only now, the offer would be off-the-table, as although he had masked the ominous stench of putrid decay with an endless supply of incense and her grey tracksuit bottoms blocked the base of the door, Liz’s body remained. Five days dead and slowly decomposing, she was his to do with as he pleased. A passive woman who would never say no, would never flee and would never mock his unruly erections. On the surface, this was not the home of a crazed psychopath, this was just a stepping stone for one of the council’s most in-need residents. Oddly, although it was filled with art, the walls featured not a single image of nudity, sex, bondage or death. There was no cruelty, no blood and nothing unnerving. But under this childish veneer of fishes, rainbows and smiling faces, everything he had painted was born out of a deeply personal frustration or a dark sadistic secret. Some were spiritual and religious symbols, such as moons, stars and Celtic crosses. Some were aspirational, such as a doodle of a waving Tony cooing “hey little lady”. Many were names like ‘Sara’, ‘Sandra’, ‘Jayne’ or ‘Tracy’. Others were only initials. But others were specific, as beside his bank of tellies was a painting of lady’s face; her nose replaced with a capital A, a single red tear pouring from her eye, and her look unmistakably Sally. His flat was not only his home, it was perfect place to undertake his sadistic crimes in absolute privacy. But should it be taken away and he be forced back into hostels, his dream of infamy would collapse. Released on 14th November 2002, Tony played the part of a typical (if flawed) out-patient perfectly; he attended his therapy sessions but missed a few as many alcoholics do, he was an active and well-behaved participant at the Diorama art group, and (as requested) he enrolled in a photography and IT course at the Milton Skills Centre, with his plan to one day get himself a regular job. ...or so he would say. Barely a month before Sally’s death, Tony had taken a precautionary measure to ensure that no-one would unearth his dark ambition. In an unusual step, he requested that his weekly meetings with his care co-ordinator occur in a café around the corner, rather than in his flat, and given the fact that she was female and he had a history of violent sexual assaults, it seemed a sensible measure for her safety. As seen during his sectioning, his sadism could bubble to the surface at any point without warning. In 1992, Tony was once again evicted from the Arlington House hostel in Camden. Only then, it wasn’t for drunkenness but a particularly savage trick he had a cruel fondness for, which earned him the eery nickname of ‘The Bone Crusher’. Creeping-up behind a resident, he would trap them in a bear-hug and squeeze them tight till they passed out, causing bruises, fractures and asphyxiation. Even back then it was said “he got a kick out of stopping someone breathing”. Every serial-killer has to start somewhere, for some, it’s fire or animal cruelty. For Tony, it was crush asphyxiation. If indeed, this was the start? Tony’s sexual sadism stemmed back into the 1970’s with his increased need for sex-workers. The more he used, the less his addiction was satisfied and the rougher the sex that he craved, all of which led to strangulation, manipulation and the full physical and psychological control of another human-being. Wary of his sadistic desires, many girls refused to see him again no matter how desperate they were, but many later stated that he would brag “you mark my words, one day, I’m going to be famous”. His sense of superiority over authority figures also stemmed back to that same era, after his first brush with death and detention in Australia, only this thrill of controlling others wasn’t sexual but mental. It excited him to cripple the Police investigation with his vagueness “I’d drunk till I could drink no more. I don’t know how much I drank. I blacked out”. To manipulate the courts “Mr Hardy appears downcast, depressed and suffering with suicidal thoughts” which miraculously vanished. To project a sense of grief without ever admitting his guilt, by telling his psychiatrist “thinking of Sally is like waking up in a nightmare... if I did believe I was responsible, I would kill myself”. And even showing a false gratitude to those in charge “I want to thank you for the work you’ve done for me over the years”, having set him up in his own flat and giving him the last piece of the puzzle to complete his perverted purpose. Tony had played everyone, and he had played them well... ...so, it seems strange that (although he was a highly volatile man prone to manic episodes, whose whole plan was almost scuppered owing a leaky tap) that he’d told no-one of his plan. And he hadn’t. The nearest anyone got to the truth was in the casual chats in a café with his old pal Maureen Reeves. Friends for ten years, there was no love or longing, they were just two likeminded people who enjoyed each other’s company and regularly chatted over a cuppa. To Maureen, Tony was charming and smart, with no hint of anger or violence. If anything, he was a gentleman with a big heart and a kind soul. But then, Tony was a different man to different people at different times, like a Dr Jekyll and a Mr Hyde. She enjoyed their chats, but with no knowledge of his past, she was unaware that (being comfortable in her presence) he was unwittingly laying out his plan before her. Being obsessed with the East End serial-killer ‘Jack the Ripper’, Tony could talk for hours about ‘Jack’; about his skills, his methods, his motives, his infamy and his legend. To some, it may seem odd, but everybody has a pastime and many have an obsession with true-crime. Besides, it distracted him from drinking and getting depressed. Only Tony’s plan wasn’t without its mistakes and the biggest wasn’t a body, but his upstairs neighbour. On the night that Sally’s corpse was discovered in his spare-room, sweating and shaking, Tony’s arrest wasn’t the main reason for his nervousness, but that his plan had stalled before it had even begun. In a moment of uncontrolled mania, in which previously he had slashed his neighbour’s tyres, bent her wipers and posted her an abusive note, having attacked her door with spray-paint and acid, a key-issue concerning his discharge from hospital was the risk Tony posed to his neighbour and the other residents at Hartland. Rightfully fearful of their safety, Camden Council started the eviction process. On 4th July 2002, as an in-patient at the Cardigan Ward, Tony received a Notice of Possession informing him of his imminent eviction. Incarcerated and helpless, his model behaviour was not only vital to get himself discharged but also to rally the doctors in his fight to save his flat. When asked, Tony would state “I feel like I’ve wasted the last few years. Don’t get me wrong, the therapy has helped, but with no fixed address, it’s impossible to achieve any real goals”. To allay their fears, he said of his neighbour “I have no ill-feelings towards her. It wasn’t her. It was the drink”. With their permission, he returned to 4 Hartland three times and there was no incident. With the eviction delayed, the doctors stood up for their patient, rightly declaring “Mr Hardy’s accommodation causes great concern... there is nothing at present to convince us that detention in hospital continues to be necessary. He has a natural human right to be treated in the surroundings which encourage and support his own efforts”. Hostels were considered, but it was clear that “Mr Hardy’s stability by living independently cannot be overstated”. With his eviction caught in a legal dispute, on 14th November 2002, Tony returned to his home at 4 Hartland – it was a perfect little flat for a prospective serial-killer – but his future there was uncertain. Whether the threat of homelessness ignited a fire in his belly is unknown. Whether his hospitalisation caused his bottled-up urges to burst is uncertain. Or whether his urgency was owing to a sick sense of unfinished business, a macabre anniversary or as a Christmas gift to himself, no one will ever know... ...but two innocent women would die in the space of a week, with his third of particular significance. On 6th December 2002, from a stall in Camden Market, Tony purchased a set of Mr Men socks featuring the grinning yellow face of Mr Happy. Either this was Christmas shopping, or it was pre-meditation? On 14th at 6:34pm in the Sainsbury’s on Camden Road, he bought a large black roll of heavy-duty bin-bags, the kind used for house-clearances or gardening, only Tony wasn’t moving and he didn’t own a garden. On 18th, he severed his ties with the Alcohol Advisory Service by writing them a Christmas card in which he scrawled “I don’t need you any more, thanks for all your help”. And on the 19th December, at an unspecified time by King’s Cross station, he met Elizabeth Selina Valad... and murdered her. Bludgeoned, strangled, posed and photographed – as no-one had seen, heard or reported her missing – her murder was as perfect as possible. Being on his best behaviour, there was less chance of the police disturbing his sadistic desires. And as if, having cunningly evaded a lengthy custodial sentence, Tony was back exactly where he had been eleven months earlier; in the same room, on the same bed, with the same plan, only – this time - she was his to do with as he pleased... for as long as he pleased. On Friday 20th, the next day, sensing a moment of mania rising inside him and (as before) fearing that it could all be ruined by an angry outburst over something as trivial as a leaky tap, Tony went to church. Telling the Rector that he was at an “emotional rock bottom”, the cleric prayed for his immortal soul and noticed (but never questioned) that around his neck Tony hung a key to a locked room in his flat. Later, he returned to the Cardigan Ward to collect his medication, the mania passed and as he walked among the Christmas shoppers, he headed home to his tree, his cards and his corpse. All the while mulling-over who would be next. It didn’t matter who she was, what was significant was her number. Brigette Cathy MacLennan was born on 31st August 1968, as the youngest of five children to Roderick, a civil servant and their mother, a housewife. Born in the tranquil peace of New Zealand, aged five, the family uprooted to the smoggy rain-sodden streets of London. Cut from hearty Irish stock, Brigette was a flame-haired, pale-skinned and cheeky-faced young girl who loved to laugh and to dance, and being a real beacon of brightness and warmth, she illuminated even the gloomiest of rooms. Only just like her lovely smile, it masked a short life which would be tinged with struggles and sadness. Barely out of her teens, she met a man, she fell in love and together they gave life to a little baby boy, but with deep frictions in their box-fresh relationship, it fell apart and the father left. In 1992, aged 24, she met a Moroccan decorator called Salil Abdel Amzil; one year later they married and two years later another baby boy was born, but by 1998, the marriage had collapsed and Salil had moved out. Gripped with depression and living on benefits with two boys to raise alone, Brigette struggled. To lift her mood, she was prescribed anti-depressants, but when that failed, illicit drugs followed. For a while, she was coping, with friends describing her as lovely, great fun and a really good mum, but infrequent drug-use quickly consumed her life, and being addicted to crack, she sold sex to feed her habit. By the winter of 2002, being evicted from her fifth-floor council-flat in Camden following a drugs-raid by the Police, hopelessly addicted to crack and with convictions as a King’s Cross sex-worker, she had no home, no life and her two little boys had been taken into care. The bright bubbly Brigette was gone. In her place stood a gaunt hollow shell, all rough and ragged, like a faint ghost with a painted-on smile. On the night of Tuesday 24th December 2002, as the world wrapped their presents, Brigette was seen by King’s Cross station. It was Christmas Eve, but to this sullen shivering lady, who was 34 but looked nearer 50, it was another night in need of a fix, with another sex-obsessed stranger, another squalid flat, another thirty quid for an uncomfortable fuck on a grimy bed, and in another doorway she would cook-up those caustic little rocks to forget her sadness and dull her pain... for a short while at least. How they met is unknown, but just like the others, no-one saw or heard her as she entered 4 Hartland. Inside Tony’s flat, the radiators warmth would have been reassuring, as was his Santa-like beard, his twinkling tree and his offerings of mulled-wine and a mince-pie. In the air hung an overpowering smell of incense, which masked the unholy stench of decay, but then the cinnamon suited this festive theme. The oddly obsessive ‘girl-based’ art on the walls, the discarded pair of women’s grey tracksuit bottoms blocking the base of the locked spare-room and even the putrid whiff of Liz’s slowly decomposing body after five days in a warm flat couldn’t have unsettled her, as there were no screams, no signs of struggle and at 8:45pm, a neighbour said they heard the rhythmic sounds of sex... and then nothing. That night, like a sick twisted Christmas treat to himself, Tony fulfilled his sadistic fantasy, as (perhaps with his hefty bulk crushing her tiny chest, at the point of his climax) he strangled Brigette to death. Her name meant nothing to him, unlike her number, as being his third victim, Tony had achieved his grisly goal by graduating from the forgettable level of a ‘murderer’ to the infamous and exclusive rank of a ‘serial-killer’. Only with infamy never guaranteed, he knew that his dark ambition was incomplete. On Christmas Day, within the sweaty recesses of his spare-room, Tony played in his own little toy-box, as on his bed lay two life-size dolls, both stark naked and spread-eagled. One was a pale-skinned red-head with fuller hips, natural boobs, a ligature mark on her neck and a black NY cap to disguise her reddening and irrelevant face. The other was once an olive-skinned beauty with short dark hair, a stunning smile and an expensive boob job, only now her blue mottled legs were topped-off with a set of Mr Men socks and her purple bloated head was hidden behind the red rubber of a devil’s mask. Brigette and Liz were his to do with as he pleased. To dress, to undress, to kiss and to violate. And as Boxing Day passed, he posed both ladies with their heads cocked coyly towards him, snapping his camera to capture a sick souvenir to be tugged-over, as the two luscious but anonymous lesbians now lured their sexual saviour to bed. And once those 44 photos were taken, their purpose was served... ...but his infamy was yet to be cemented. With no hint of mania, on Friday 27th December, Tony collected his meds from the Cardigan Ward, where his mood was described as calm and stable. At 8:04pm, that same night, back at the Sainsbury’s on Camden Road he purchased another large black roll of heavy-duty bin-bags. And returning to the quiet of his Hartland flat, he began the slow and methodical disposal of their bodies. Detective Chief inspector Ken Bell later said “Hardy dismembered his last two victims with considerable skill, whether this was part of his gratification or an attempt to hide his crime, we will never know”. (End) Wearing a pair of yellow Marigold gloves, one-by-one, Tony dragged their bodies into the small white sparseness of his bathroom. With the cold tap running, he used only what was lying around – three kitchen knives and an old rusty hacksaw – as he severed their limbs at the weakest point - the joints. Each cut was clean and unrushed, with no rips, tears or slashes. As if he was filleting a fish, he took his time, slicing through each ball, socket and vertebrae, so when these neat orderly pieces of dissected women were stacked together, it was hard to tell which part belonged to who. With two dismembered heads, four feet, four hands, four arms, eight bits of four legs and two torsos cleanly cut into halves across the rib-cage, in neatly wrapped bundles (like the grisly little gifts of a crazed Santa) Tony placed each part in a black bin-bag and sealed it tight with duct-tape. On Sunday 29th December, wearing his usual long black coat, gaudy shirt and that same black NY cap, acting as casual as anyone else putting out their rubbish over the festive break, in broad daylight, Tony disposed of the lumpy black bin-bags in the council’s green metal dumpsters for public waste. On the corner of Camden Road and Plender Street, just one street from his flat, at 14:08pm, an upper torso, a right arm, a left arm and a foot was dropped in amongst the rat-infested mess of food waste and empty bottles. Shortly afterwards, in a similar dumpster he slung a pair of legs at the back of the College Arms pub, just a few doors down from his home and directly opposite the Mornington Unit. He was once a nameless nobody who had achieved nothing, but now, Anthony Hardy’s dark ambition was finally complete, as with three sex-workers dead and their body-parts scattered about the London streets, just like his hero, he was officially a ‘serial-killer’. But to achieve the true infamy he desired, this next step was beyond his control, and – worse still – to get it, he would need to wait. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. The final part of this four-part series into The Camden Ripper continues next week. But to know more about this case, stay tuned till after the break. Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who Ruth Scannell, Kristen Parrish, Darren Scott, Tom Davies, Donna DeBrino and Erin Howe, I thank you all very much and I hope you enjoyed the special photos and videos which go with this series. Plus a thank you to Selina Dean and Mette Kongsted for your kind donations via the Murder Mile e-Shop. My belly is now full of custard tarts. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein and Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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The xterior of 4 Hartland, Anthony Hardy's former flat
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTEEN
This is Part Two of a four-part series into The Camden Ripper. The truth about may never be known, as it’s hard to understand who he is, as he appeared to be a different person to different people at different times. By viewing this story from his perspective, it is clear that there were four distinct sides to the personality of Anthony Hardy; the alcoholic, the addict, the sadist and the maniac. These are the Four Faces of The Camden Ripper. Part Two – Tony the Addict.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of 4 Hartland where Anthony Hardy lived is marked with a black triangle. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, etc, access them by clicking here.
Here's two little videos of 4 Hartland, taken from different angles, where Anthony Hardy lived in Camden and where his three vcitims were murdered. This video is a link to youtube, so it won't eat up your data.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
Various photos of Anthony Hardy's former flat at 4 Hartland, as taken by myself
SOURCES: The main source was the Independent Review into the treatment and care of Anthony Hardy by Camden Council, which also includes detail about the murder investigation, as seen in this PDF. http://nomsintranet.org.uk/roh/official-documents/IndependentReview_AnthonyHardy.pdf
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: (Tony) “I don’t remember much, I blacked out. We had sex, some bondage, some rough stuff, but with me on top of her, being big, she must have suffocated under my weight. I’ve got nothing else to say”. On Sunday 20th January 2002, the body of 38-year-old sex-worker Sally Rose White was discovered in the locked bedroom of Anthony Hardy’s flat. Found naked with her legs splayed, this petite lady had engaged in rough sex with this nineteen stone man, which some light bruising, a bite mark and a wound to her head had proven. Deemed “a natural death” and “an accident”, a qualified pathologist confirmed that Sally had died of heart failure and thus Tony not “not responsible for her death”. With no witnesses, no murder weapon and no motive, as the Police’s prime suspect had no memory of that night owing to an alcoholic blackout, as was his legal right he would state “no comment” to every question and with a second autopsy returning the same conclusion, the murder case collapsed. Charged only with the criminal damage to his neighbour’s door, being assessed by several doctors as “highly distressed” and “a suicide risk”, as a long-term alcoholic with severe psychological needs, once again Tony was sectioned under the Mental Health Act for fear that he was “a danger to himself”. Only alcohol wasn’t his main addiction and one year later, the press would brand him The Camden Ripper. The truth about The Camden Ripper may never be known, as memories were vague, details were absent and even the evidence by medical experts couldn’t secure a conviction. And besides, it’s hard to understand who he was, as he appeared to be a different person to different people at different times. But by viewing this story from his perspective, it is clear that there were four distinct sides to the personality of Anthony Hardy; the alcoholic, the addict, the sadist and the maniac. These are the Four Faces of The Camden Ripper. Part Two – Tony the Addict. (Tony) “That night, I’d been drinking a lot as I was low. My neighbour’s leaky tap had upset me, but I have no ill-feelings towards her now. It wasn’t her. It was the drink. It makes the world a better place, people are friendly, it’s worth being alive... only I drink too much and I black-out”. But when asked by the psychiatrist about Sally’s death, Tony would only reply “I don’t recall” and “no comment”. Had he been found guilty of murder; he could have faced twenty-years in prison. Had he been declared a ‘danger to the public’, he might have been locked-up in a psychiatric unit for life. But being found innocent by a noted pathologist - and sectioned four times before – Tony knew that his hospitalisation was dependant on his recovery, meaning that he could be held for either days, months or years. On 8th April 2002, Tony was returned to the Mornington Unit at the Huntley Centre: an intensive care psychiatric facility within St Pancras Hospital, behind King’s Cross station and a few doors from his flat. Set within an old Victorian hospital, from the outside this secure unit had all the essentials to keep the in-patients within; like cameras, alarms, key-cards, locks and every exit secured by a series of thick metal doors. But inside, with soft lighting, bright walls, soft sofas and a large telly, like a budget hotel, it was a far cry from the old asylums, with its aim to reflect a more positive and happier mental state. Held under Section 37 of the Mental Health Act, a court order made following his criminal conviction for the damage to his neighbour’s front door, this meant that (unlike a prison sentence) the length of his stay and the date of his discharge wasn’t decided by a judge, but by the hospital itself. Being so close to his home, his frustration was evident as he sat on his hospital bed seeing his old life below; the off-licence on Plender Street, the College Arms pub opposite, the café on Crowndale Road where he’d meet Maureen for a brew and a chat about crime, and the train station where sex-workers were within his grasp, as well as his flat, his bed, his bath, his tellies and his stack of porn videos. He was in, but wanted out, and the only way was to be calm, co-operative and to combat his addiction. Previously deemed a suicide risk by a panel of experts, upon his release from Pentonville Prison to the Mornington Unit, Tony said he was “feeling fine and had no thoughts of self-harm or harm to others”. The staff were right to be wary of this six-foot-one nineteen-stone hulk with a history of assault, abuse, sexual deviance and drunkenness, having been arrested twice prior on that very ward. Only he seemed like a different man now, with the psychiatrist later noting “Mr Hardy remained stable throughout his admission with no evidence of mental illness. He was granted escorted leave and spent a lot of time in bed and watching television”. He was a model patient. On his discharge summary, it even recorded that “Mr Hardy’s suicidal thoughts had stopped when he knew he was moving to hospital”. Listed as “not an immediate risk to himself”, on 29th April 2002, he was transferred to the Cardigan Ward, an acute mental-illness ward at St Luke’s Hospital in Muswell Hill, with a diagnosis of bipolar disorder exacerbated by alcohol. On his first day, given that his illness and addiction were treatable, he appealed his Section Order, asking that he be discharged from hospital, but his request was denied. Fully accepting their decision, once again Tony became a model patient. His mood was lucid and calm, he had no delusions or mania, his mood swings were treated with Lithium, his daily dosage of chlorpromazine (an antipsychotic medication) was reduced, and had a good understanding of bipolar disorder. He was quiet, polite and attended his therapy sessions and alcohol recovery programme. As a long-term alcoholic who abused booze when his mood was low, he had at least thirteen relapses during his stay at St Luke’s. Granted unescorted leave owing to good behaviour, this gave him a few hours to attend his appointments with the Alcohol Advisory Service, to shop for essentials and to visit his flat at 4 Hartland, as the Police had returned the items removed pending the ill-fated murder trial. Like many alcoholics, given a bit of freedom from this strict regime; he lied about his movements, he hid alcohol in his room and sometimes he returned to the ward still drunk. When he was bad, his leave was stopped and when he was good, it was reinstated. Apart from that, he showed no signs of mania or psychosis. He had a treatable mental illness, his problem was alcohol, but he wasn’t an addict. Even Tony admitted “Over the last decade or so, I’ve been prone to binge-drinking, although I wouldn’t really call myself an addict. It’s a crutch I use for when I’m low”. And the hospital agreed. Except for a few slips, Tony was focussed on controlling his usage and he had only one incident when he was abusive to another patient, but overall, he came across as pleasant, settled and compliant. Only Tony’s little show had left many people with an uneasy feeling. A social worker stated “I had the impression that Mr Hardy would tell me what he thought I wanted to hear, that he would give me the information about his drinking that would improve his chances of being released from his section”. Doctors at the Mornington Unit had also expressed their concerns prior to his transfer saying “When talking to him about the events surrounding his arrest, there was a severe lack of empathy and a strong sense that he was not telling the truth, but more than that, he knew we knew he was not telling the truth. I don’t say necessarily he was enjoying it, or that he was manipulating us, but that is unusual”. Some staff even reported that they found him to be “a creep, with a vague sense of evil”. Also, his failure to recall a single detail of Sally’s death was itself questionable. Throughout his life he had blamed his violent outbursts on alcoholic blackouts - “I’d drunk till I could drink no more. I blacked out. All I remember is being in a police cell” – only the officers confirmed that when Tony was arrested “he smelled of drink but wasn’t drunk” and the psychiatrists were equally sceptical. The acid and paint used to deface his neighbour’s door showed pre-meditation, as did the bucket of warm soapy water, the key he had hidden and the posing of Sally’s body. A psychiatrist stated “When I think of it, every time he did something bad, he had an alcoholic blackout and could never remember doing anything”. On 20th June 2002, six months after his arrest, a meeting was held to discuss his section discharge. It was denied, as the doctors felt his mental illness still required treatment and the community services were not fully in place to help him cope with his alcohol problem. In short “the risk of relapse, leading to failure to take the medication is too great in terms of risk to himself and others, given his history”. After three months of hospitalisation, Anthony Hardy could legally be held for another three months. Only the more he relapsed, the more those treating him were convinced that alcohol was the problem, when fact he was hiding the truth. His real addiction which was never diagnosed or treated... was sex. Since the 1970’s, as with alcohol, sex was vital to keep his mood in check, but in 1992, being diagnosed with diabetes, this disorder had left him with severe erectile dysfunction. A psychiatrist later stated “his distress, anger and frustration at his diminished sexual prowess was expressed in sadistic sexual activity, his intoxication with alcohol and his rage at his sexual dysfunction induced by diabetes”. Whilst held at the Cardigan Ward at St Luke’s, he fought to keep his sexual impulses under wraps, but sometimes they came out. In an arts therapy workshop, a female facilitator touched the glass jar he had painted with the words ‘Sally Rose White – R.I.P’, she apologised for leaving fingerprints on his artwork, at which he grinned and said “it’s okay, when I’m in the bath, it will remind me of you”. During his decade as a homeless man, Tony was evicted from countless hostels. Not only owing to his drunkenness, theft and assaults, but when he was manic, he became sexually aroused and uninhibited, often stripping naked, groping residents or staff, and suggesting they make a porno together. All of which he would deny had ever took place, blaming the incidents on high-jinx and alcoholic blackouts. On 24th April 1998, at King’s Cross station, he was arrested on suspicion of rape. Accompanying an 18-year-old sex-worker back to his flat at King’s Terrace, there they got drunk, stoned and whilst she was intoxicated, he inserted his fingers inside her. Unable to disprove her consent, he pled guilty to the lesser charge of indecent assault, but his police file shows that he was a suspect in three more rapes. Having coerced his care-workers into believing that independence was the key to his mental stability, given his own flat at 4 Hartland, in the privacy of his spare-room, Tony indulged his sick sexual cravings; whether domination, bondage, strangulation, or posing semi-conscious girls on the bed and shooting obscene images with his black Chinon camera, like a little treat to himself to masturbate over later. Only Tony wasn’t just a sex-addict, he was also a sexual sadist. In December 2002, having met a masseuse through a contact ad’, at her home, he raped her, taking a sadistic satisfaction in crushing her with his nineteen-stone bulk. She later stated “I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t breathe… it was like he was pushing me down into the bed… his face was pressed to mine, his chest was up to my neck and my head was forced back. He got a kick knowing I couldn’t breathe”. Pathologists call this Homicidal Asphyxiation, as it stops the blood circulating; causing dizziness, a lack of consciousness and finally death, which could easily be mistaken for a heart-attack during rough sex. (Tony) “I don’t remember much, I blacked out. We had sex, some bondage, some rough stuff, but with me on top of her, being big, she must have suffocated under my weight. I’ve got nothing else to say”. Unaware of his supressed sexual sadism, seeking to remedy his bipolar and alcoholism, as the sodium valproate was causing him impotence, the doctors prescribed Apomorphine - a precursor to Viagra. On 14th November 2002, a meeting was held by his psychiatrist, the ward doctor, a care-worker, a social-worker and Camden housing department, as well as Tony’s lawyers, to discuss his section order. Described as being calm and cooperative, they decided to treat Tony as an out-patient, as he “seemed to be dealing with his alcohol problem”. The next day, he packed-up and was discharged from hospital. A report by three psychiatrists with the North London Forensic Service was sent ahead of the meeting, but being misplaced in the mailroom, it arrived two days too late. In it, they expressed their concerns stating; “Mr Hardy poses a risk of violent behaviour even when his illness is controlled and when not intoxicated with alcohol” and “he should not return to his previous address owing to the extremely suspicious circumstances surrounding his arrest”. A doctor at St Luke’s also gave six warnings that Anthony Hardy should not be released, stating “he was vulnerable to relapse and he is a danger to women”. The report concluded “Mr Hardy has an untreatable personality disorder, there is strong risk of reoffending and he is likely to cause serious physical or psychological harm to others”. The report was right. Whilst on day-release for good behaviour, distracted by his alcoholic relapses, the hospital was unaware that he had taken a train out of London, raped a sex-worker and he was back in the Cardigan Ward before his curfew was up. He was breathalysed, but it showed he was sober. On 15th November 2002, Tony returned to his flat at 4 Hartland. Sat within sight of the Mornington Unit where just seven months earlier he had watched as his life slipped by... now he was free. As a stipulation of his discharge, he attended his therapy sessions, alcohol programme and collected his medication, he kept himself-to-himself and had no further incidents with his upstairs neighbour. With his life back to normal, he bought booze from the off-licence on Plender Street, had a few pints at the College Arms pub, picked-up sex-workers at King’s Cross station and chatted with Maureen about how skilfully the Whitechapel murderer had evaded justice. Only to head back to his flat, his bed, his bath, his tellies, his stack of hard-core porn and his coffee table, on which he had placed a new piece of homemade art - a painted glass jar on which he had written ‘Sally Rose White – R.I.P’. Released back into the community and being supervised from a distance, several agencies oversaw his return, but no-one was wholly responsible for his day-to-day living, but Tony. With the stroke of a pen, he had gone from thick walls, locked doors, alarms, cameras, breathalysers and a round-the-clock suicide-watch (if needed), and now, he had become a bullet-point, a scribbled note and a checklist tick. As long as he turned up to therapy sessions and didn’t look drunk, he was left to his own devises. Going from a model in-patient to a model out-patient, Tony took his cocktail of seven different pills for his diabetes, his mobility, his bipolar and he was still self-medicating with large quantities of alcohol and cannabis, but he was on no-form of prescribed medication to control his rampant sexual urges. In fact, it was the exact opposite... Prescribed Apomorphine to combat his erectile dysfunction, having collected his carefully managed dose every Friday from St Luke’s, he secretly secured a second supply from University College Hospital. His libido was in overload having been bottled-up inside a prison and two psychiatric wards for almost a year, but now being free to roam at will and aided by a double-dose of pills to stiffen his stuttering prick, Tony’s sexual desires ran rampant as he trawled the back-streets of Camden looking for ladies. Easily blowing his disability allowance in brothels, for cheap thrills, he snapped covert photos of sexy girls walking alone and he was spotted licking the sofa in a local bar and cooing “I like the leather”. At home, luring back sex-workers with the promise of money and drugs, his perverted sexual needs got ever rougher, harder and riskier, as on his telly, he played sickening porn of simulated and real rapes. In mid-December, he travelled to the Midlands to see a masseuse called ‘Sara’. As before, he raped her. She later said “he was crushing me, stopping me breathing, his chest was pushing down on me, he was getting off on the fact that he was trying to kill me. And at the point of ejaculation, his eyes were like something I cannot describe. I knew that if I didn’t move that second I would be dead”. As if to relive this sick moment every time he bathed or showered, above his bathroom sink, in a childishly bright and cheerily orange daubing with blood red writing, he had immortalised her name – ‘Sara’. And, once again, he had returned to his original plan from one year ago, with his bed in the living room of his small sparse flat, he advertised in a local-newsagent - “spare room for rent, female lodger only”. On Thursday 19th December 2002, eleven months to the day after he had led Sally Rose White from King’s Cross back to his flat at Hartland, Tony would meet another sex-worker... and her name was Liz. Elizabeth Selina Valad, known as Liz, was born on 28th May 1973, to Hassan, an Iranian professor living in America and her English-born mother Jackie. Sadly, their marriage was not-to-be and after only two years, Jackie & Liz returned home to the market-town of Arnold in Nottinghamshire. With a working parent, a nice little home and her mum seeing a new partner called Peter, Liz had a good start in life. But she was as beautiful and talented as she was fiery and volatile. Whereas once she was a little girl who dreamed of living the high life in London’s glittering West End - marrying a rich man, staying in a penthouse and attending posh parties dressed in silks, gems and furs - as a teenager, her rebellious streak had led her to hang-out with a bad crowd, all of which ended in truancy, trouble and theft. Aged 16 and unqualified, Liz left school and headed to London, telling her mother that she was working as a secretary. In truth, she was a hostess in a massage parlour-cum-sauna selling sex for £30 a go. Two years later, Liz met her ‘meal ticket’; a multi-millionaire sugar-daddy in his seventies who plucked her out of this seedy hell-hole, and set her up in an exclusive Chelsea flat, with a Mercedes, a clothing allowance, a tab at designer stores, dinner at The Ritz and even a boob-job. Her dream had come true. Learning the truth and fearing the worst, Jackie pleaded with her daughter to come home, but Liz was living the life she wanted to live, and across the 1990’s, she believed she would always be happy. What happened to her sugar-daddy is unknown? Maybe he got bored, died or ended-up broke? But by the end of 2001 – with no skills, home, job or savings – as her glamourous life turned from disaster to disaster, being booted out of a steady job in a Peter Street brothel, by the bitter winter of 2002, 29-year-old Elizabeth Selina Valad was addicted to crack and feeding her addiction with sex-work. On the night of Thursday 19th December 2002, beside King’s Cross station, feeling thirsty, Liz told her boyfriend Neville that she was popping to the newsagents to buy herself a drink. She never got to the shop, she never bought a drink, she never returned to Neville and she was never seen alive again. At an unspecified hour - just as Sally had - like a sinister rerun to mark this macabre little anniversary, Liz entered the flat of her own accord at 4 Hartland, and as with both girls, neither were seen or heard. Coming in from the bitterly cold drizzle and biting wind, the warmth of the radiators must have felt soothing, and although his flat must have seemed a little odd, they had probably been to worse places. Besides, decorated with his childlike art, a Wombles poster and with a Christmas tree up, as this funny man with a bushy beard, a loud gaudy shirt and a set of amusing socks exuded a fatherly air, there was no reason for fear, as he offered Liz a drink, a smoke, some dope and some quick cash for a good fuck. As before, Tony & Liz were just two addicts fuelling their needs, so for both, it was a win-win situation. Only, with Sally being a simple girl who was naïve and easily-led, where-as she had willingly followed Tony into the spare-room for consensual sex, Liz did not. We will never know why. Maybe the money wasn’t enough? Maybe bondage wasn’t her thing? Maybe the rape porn made her nervous? Or maybe – having knocked Sally unconscious during rough-sex, rendering her perfectly submissive to his whims – this time, Tony didn’t plan to make the same mistakes with such a fierce and fiery woman as Liz? Owing to the blood spatter, it’s clear that Tony had smashed Liz hard across the head with a heavy blunt object. Slumping onto his sofa, he gripped her thin throat with his hands and strangled her until almost every ounce of life was lost. Almost... but not quite. Dragging her limp body into his spare-room, on that same double bed where Sally had died, Liz was his to do with as he pleased. Binding her wrists and ankles tight, he climbed on top of this small slim lady, as this nineteen stone hulk crushed her under his bulk, trapping her blood and slowing her heart as he brutally raped her, again and again. At some point during the assault, she died. But he didn’t care, as to him, she meant nothing. (End) (Tony) “I don’t remember much, I blacked out. We had sex, some bondage, some rough stuff, but with me on top of her, being big, she must have suffocated under my weight. I’ve got nothing else to say”. Eleven months earlier, owing to his own impulsive fury over his neighbour’s leaky tap, unwittingly the Police had disturbed his sick and twisted sex-act with Sally’s still-warm corpse, but having blacked-out he had claimed he couldn’t recall. Only now, being free - thanks to a bit of luck, a bungling pathologist and the manipulation of those there to protect him – Tony was free to finish what he had begun. Popping his black Chinon stills-camera on a sturdy tripod, Tony manoeuvred the lifeless limbs of Liz’s naked body in a series of lewd and disturbing poses. With her legs splayed wide and topped with a set of his ‘Mr Men’ socks on her feet - ironically the beaming yellow grin of ‘Mr Happy’ - inside her gaping vagina a six-inch Rampant Rabbit vibrator had been thrust. Angling her neck with a pillow, so her head was cocked coyly towards his snapping camera as if (from the grave) she was lovingly enticing her lover into bed, although she was a beautiful woman, he covered her face with his black NY baseball cap and (in some photos) a devil’s mask. To Tony, Liz was a nobody, a nothing, it didn’t matter who she was, as with her identity disguised, when he masturbated to the photos, this wantonly submissive woman who fulfilled his every fantasy could literally be anyone. Anyone... or even maybe you? Instead of being in prison, every day that Tony was free to roam, he passed the Mornington Unit, the Police Station and the Coroner’s Court where so many mistakes had been made. And yet, with only one body in his flat, unlike his infamously sadistic hero, this rapist and a murderer wasn’t a real serial-killer yet... but within days, Anthony John Hardy would earn his nickname as The Camden Ripper. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Part three of this four-part series into The Camden Ripper continues next week. But to know more about this case, stay tuned till after the break (which last week featured an advert for vaginal lube – lovely) for some extra details, as well as a little quiz, a big biscuit, no cake, but a nice cuppa. Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Farideh Hartman and Andi Browning, I thank you very much, I hope you are enjoying all the extra crime-scene photos and videos to go with this series, as well as lots of secret goodies from more than one hundred previous episodes. Plus, a thank you to Mike Hughes for your kind donation via Supporter, cakes have been purchased and scoffed. And a well done to the winners of the very exclusive key ring competition via Patreon, who were; Gemma Archer, Selina Dean and Fiona McCulloch. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein and Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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The Manna Society of Melior St where Sally Rose White was last seen
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTEEN
This is Part One of a four-part series into The Camden Ripper. The truth about may never be known, as it’s hard to understand who he is, as he appeared to be a different person to different people at different times. By viewing this story from his perspective, it is clear that there were four distinct sides to the personality of Anthony Hardy; the alcoholic, the addict, the sadist and the maniac. These are the Four Faces of The Camden Ripper. Part One – Tony the Alcoholic.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of The Manna Society at 12 Melior Street in Bermondsey where Sally Rose White was last seen alive is on the far right and is marked with a red triangle. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, etc, access them by clicking here.
Here's two additional videos to go with the series; to the left is St Pancras Coroner's Court where the coroner's trial of Sally Rose White took place and to the right is the former homeless hostel in Argyll Square where Anthony Hardy had his first recorded psychotic episode.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
These are all photos taken this week of the exterior of Hartland where Anthony Hardy lived and 4 Hartland, his former flat... and his front door. Yes, it felt weird.
The Manna Centre (where Sally was last seen), King's Terrace (Hardy's former residence), King's Cross station and St Pancras Coronor's Court.
SOURCES: The main source was the Independent Review into the treatment and care of Anthony Hardy by Camden Council, which also includes detail about the murder investigation, as seen in this PDF. http://nomsintranet.org.uk/roh/official-documents/IndependentReview_AnthonyHardy.pdf
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: (Tony) “Hello. My name is Tony and I am an alcoholic” (appreciative voices and a very light applause). On Tuesday 25th November 2003, at The Old Bailey, 52-year-old Anthony John Hardy pleaded guilty to the brutal murders of Sally Rose White, Elizabeth Selina Valad and Bridgette Cathy MacLennan; three sex-workers whose only connection was the money they needed for the drugs which they used. The barbaric nature of their deaths, the disposal of their bodies and the sadistic callousness with which he abused their corpses shocked a nation to its very core, and (in an instant) this anonymous nobody gained infamy, being dubbed The Camden Ripper. But as fast as he became famous, he was forgotten. It seems strange that so little is written about him, but then again very little is known, as although he craved the cruel limelight which his infamous hero once courted, he could be as cheery and chatty as any civilised member of society one minute, and a blank expressionless wall of nothingness the next, giving nothing to the Police “no comment”, the lawyers “no comment” or psychiatrists “no comment”. The truth about The Camden Ripper may never be known, as the details are vague, the timings may be sketchy and even the most solid pieces of evidence only led to best guesses by experts. So, it’s hard to understand who he is, as he appeared to be a different person to different people at different times. Was he a killer? Was he a victim? Was he mentally ill? Or was he a manipulator? There are very few answers, only questions. But by viewing this story from his perspective, it is clear that there were four distinct sides to the personality of Anthony Hardy; the alcoholic, the addict, the sadist and the maniac. These are the Four Faces of The Camden Ripper. Part One – Tony the Alcoholic. (Tony) “Over the last decade or so, I’ve been prone to binge-drinking - cider, wine, vodka, you name it - although I wouldn’t really call myself an addict. It’s a crutch I use for when I’m low. That night, I’d drunk till I could drink no more. I’d filled the fridge beforehand to make sure it was properly stocked, but I don’t know how much I drank. I blacked out. All I remember after that is being in a police cell”. (Hubbub) Saturday 19th January 2002. The date is correct, the time is unspecified but it’s definitely late and Anthony Hardy (known as Tony) is standing in the borough of Camden, near King’s Cross station; a ceaseless cess-pool of sin bathed in the sickening neon glow of takeaways, taxi ranks, arcades, bars, B&B’s and the dull red glow of sleazy brothels. It’s a transient place where the sensible get out as quick as they get in, but the desperate get stuck, as the lost are lured by the promise of sex, drugs and drink. To some it’s terrifying, but for Tony, each and every street has been his home for the last twelve years, whether under a roof, a doorway or a cardboard box. But now he’s doing okay, not great, just okay. Standing an impressive six-foot and one inch tall and nineteen stone, although larger than most, he is often mistaken for being bigger than he actually is owing to his bold persona, his big bushy grey beard and the mass of thick dark layers which he wears to keep out the incessant drizzle and biting winter wind. Dressed from head-to-toe in black, from his NY baseball cap to his shin-length coat, the only flashes of colour are his white smile, his gaudy Hawaiian shirt and a set of amusing cartoon socks. And although he stands out, he also blends in, as formerly being a man of no-fixed-abode, he’s used to being a nobody to the average person, who only ever converses with the Police and social services. Far from being the man he used to be – educated, married, skilled and employed - over the last two years he’s tried to turn his life around, even going so far as to get his own council flat just a few roads away, but every day has been a daily struggle and being only six days out of detox, he’s relapsed again. He isn’t staggering or slurring as being intoxicated is his normal, so clutching a bag of booze and being single, like most nights, he’s in the seedy recesses of King’s Cross looking for sex. He knows all of the street girls, but he doesn’t have a type and their names to him mean nothing. Just like his drink, an alcoholic doesn’t care what species of apple is pressed to make his cider, as long as it gives him his fix. Tony’s story is a tragically familiar one for many of the lost souls living on the London’s streets. And that night, like any other, he’d be unable to think of anything else... but the fuelling of his addictions. Summer 1989. Just shy of forty, a thinner less-grey Tony drove a slightly battered Ford Sierra through the back streets of the city. Just out of a Norwich prison on his second stint for reckless driving, criminal damage and drunk and disorderly, although disqualified, he used Illegal mini-cabbing to pay his way. Over the last decade, the life of this husband, father-of-four and middle-class engineer had collapsed. Being little more than a washed-up ex-con who lived alone in a cheap squalid bedsit, being divorced, depressed and separated from his teenage kids, he drank heavily and lost what little he still had. His first twenty-five years started well enough, but growing increasingly restless, agitated and angry, Tony was hospitalised for ten days in April 1982 at The Park Centre, a psychiatric facility in Brisbane, where he was diagnosed with depression marked by violent outbursts and exacerbated by drinking. From that day onwards, Tony became a familiar face in London’s detox clinics, help groups, homeless hostels and psychiatric wards, where he was diagnosed with manic depression, a debilitating condition for which he was prescribed Lithium (the first of seven drugs he would take) but he also self-medicated with alcoholic binges and cannabis. Drinking up-to six litres of Frosty Jacks cider a day, being a big man, sometimes the booze just dulled the edges of his anxiety, and other times he drank till he blacked out. In 1992, given his size and alcohol intake, Tony was diagnosed with diabetes; his mobility worsened, his weight increased and it drastically lessened his sexual function, but not his libido. That same year, his younger brother Barry took his own life and Tony hit rock bottom. He was always an angry quick-tempered man, but now he had become more frustrated, isolated and paranoid, and his life got worse. Evicted from a series of hostels for assaults on its residents and staff, and having been booted out of the Arlington House hostel by a court of law, Tony found a bed at the Ferndale Hotel, a homeless refuge at 41 Argyle Square in King’s Cross. But by then, his mental health had severely deteriorated. On 30th April 1995, gripped by the delusion that he was a wanted killer and seeing a Police van parked up outside his window, Tony dived into the back and insisted on being arrested for his crimes; he was rambling, sweating and distressed. Seen by the duty psychiatrist at University College Hospital, he said he was hearing voices, and a urine test concluded he was in the midst of a drug-induced psychosis. It was a major psychotic episode, but his mental collapse would get him the help that he badly needed. From 2nd to 5th May 1995, Tony was a voluntary in-patient at the Huntley Centre at St Pancras Hospital, where he was assessed, diagnosed, medicated and assigned a care-worker from the Focus Team, who helped him register with a GP, find support groups and assisted with temporary accommodation, so his life could return to some kind of normality. But the next four years would be even tougher. Evicted from the Ferndale Hotel, on 30th August 1995 Tony took an overdose and was sectioned under the Mental Health Act. On 3rd October, being arrested for public indecency, Tony was sectioned again and re-admitted to the Huntley Centre, this time for three months, spent on the Mornington Unit. During his hospitalisation, he was arrested twice for drunkenness and criminal damage to the ward. During Tony’s stay, a psychiatrist with the North London Forensic Service wrote two reports about his alcohol abuse, stating “Tony uses alcohol when feeling depressed and to cope with life’s stresses. It does not always indicate early signs of a manic episode”. Only Tony had many outlets for his anger; one was alcohol, one was cannabis and the other was sex, having used pornography and prostitutes since the mid-1970’s and many girls of whom he knew from his time as a cabbie in King’s Cross. Diagnosed as Bipolar in January 1996, Tony was given a long-term bed at Argyle Walk, a hostel for the homeless with mental health needs where he stayed until May 1997, when the Focus Team secured him a supported living space at 34 King’s Terrace. Unlike a hostel, King’s Terrace was a self-contained flat which offered him better support but greater independence, and having stability, he flourished. His care-worker stated “there have been no episodes of psychosis or hospitalisation; his mood has remained fairly constant, if somewhat subdued; he’s doing his own shopping, cooking and is keeping himself active to minimise isolation. Mr Hardy’s stability at Argyle Walk cannot be overstated”. But his alcoholism and mental health would always be a struggle, and still feeling that his life lacked independence, on 10th May 1998 he was arrested for assault, sectioned and on 6th August that same year, he was sectioned again and hospitalised in the Cardigan Ward at St Luke’s Psychiatric Hospital. It was a blip in his recovery, but with a renewed focus to get a home of his own, across the next year he fought to turn his life around. On 3rd June 1999, Camden Council offered him a flat and on 20th January 2000, Tony Hardy became the legal tenant of 4 Hartland on Royal College Street in Camden. To Anthony Hardy this was his home... but to his three victims, it would become a house of horrors. Hartland was a brown-brick and white-walled four-storey council block on the College Place Estate, bordered by College Place, Plender Street and a short walk from the canal and King’s Cross. Cheaply constructed in pre-assembled concrete shells and connected by several stairwells, they’re simple, affordable and to the left of the ground-floor stairwell, behind a black front door sat flat number four. Kept in an orderly state of disarray, it was neither filthy nor stylish, as everything was basic, practical and had its place. Upfront was a multi-coloured living-room dominated by a blue sofa, three tellies, a pile of true-crime books, a coffee table with a neat stack of VHS tapes, and (a few feet behind) sat his double bed. He had a small grubby kitchen, a grimy little bathroom and a spare-room filled with some furniture should he have a friend over to stay, as well as his photographic equipment and his junk. Decorated using a misjudged mix of garish paints and marker pens, almost every wall, ceiling and door was covered in an ad-hoc array of indecipherable art by Tony, but they weren’t the intricate designs of a skilled engineer, but the doodles of a child-like mind. As if to keep his bad thoughts at bay, the walls were a brightly coloured mural of love, happiness and spirituality, consisting of everything from fishes, pets, faces, names, seas and stars to Celtic crosses. It was like a daily reminder to be happy. On 7th August 2001, a full assessment was undertaken and although alcohol was his main risk, he had joined an art class, a support group, he had cut his drinking down to two pints a day, he had maintained a ten-year relationship with his good friend Maureen Reeves who he would regularly meet for a cup of tea (as she listened to his fascinating theories about infamous serial-killer Jack the Ripper) and by September, his care-worker had stated that he was “being effectively managed in the community”. Within his bubble he was blossoming, but out on the estate he was struggling. Seen as a bit of a weirdo, who dressed in black, spoke to no-one, muttered to himself and only socialised with sex-workers, after a decade living on the streets, he was unused to dealing with the simple everyday problems of life. In November 2001, with his neighbour’s bath in the upstairs flat leaking into his, unable to even discuss it with her; he got anxious, depressed and proceeded to binge-drink, and although he couldn’t recall his actions owing to an alcoholic blackout, he bent her car’s windscreen wipers and slashed her tyres. The problem was finally resolved and the leak was fixed, but for the weeks afterwards, he seethed. On 7th January 2002, Tony voluntarily entered Rugby House, an alcohol detox clinic in Bermondsey by London Bridge station, but unable to quit his main addiction, he discharged himself just six days later. (Hubbub) By Saturday 19th January, just shy of midnight, he was standing in King’s Cross. (Tony) “That night, I’d drunk till I could drink no more. I’d filled the fridge beforehand, but I don’t know how much I drank. I blacked out. All I remember after that is being in a police cell”. With a bag of booze in his hand and his flat a few streets away, focussed only on fuelling his addictions, Tony needed sex... ...and the girl he chose was Sally. Born on 23rd September 1963, Sally Rose White was the youngest daughter of Arthur & Muriel, a loving couple who strived to give her all the support she needed, having been born with brain damage. Educated at a special needs school, although a struggle, Sally had an idyllic upbringing, being raised by The Quay in the coastal town of Poole in Dorset, where she thrived and got a job as a shop assistant. But as she entered her twenties, being little more than a child in an adult’s body whose independence was limited to protect her, she became aggressive, repeatedly ran away from home and slept rough. In 1991, aged 28, Sally gave birth to a daughter called Louise, but unable to care for her baby, she was given up for adoption. Relenting to her request to live her life as she wanted, Sally moved to London, as her worried parents supported from a distance, but having refused their help, she began to struggle. She lost her job, her flat and becoming homeless, she funded her crack addiction with sex-work. As a sweet, naïve and easily-led girl, she had no idea how vulnerable she was, being just an innocent little fish who swam in a dark turbulent sea of hungry sharks. In her final months, her father often scoured the many homeless hostels of London seeking to bring his baby home, but Sally always refused. On the cold wet morning of Saturday 19th January 2002 - being a little dot with a sweet smile, twinkly brown eyes and jet-black hair, wearing blue jeans, a blue jacket and a grey hoodie - 38-year-old Sally was last seen at the Manna Society on Melior Street in Bermondsey; a charity by London Bridge station which provides food, beds and support for the city’s most vulnerable. Like so many, Sally was familiar face... as was Tony, who just six days earlier had discharged himself from detox, just one street away. Whether he knew her from the hostels, whether they had first met that day, or whether he had picked her up in King’s Cross (as one of hundreds of sex-workers he had procured across his life) is unknown. All we know is that they were both vulnerable, needy and desperate. For both, this seemed like a win-win situation, as she was sweet and petite, and he was charming and fatherly. So, just shy of midnight and clutching a bag of booze, they both walked back to his warm cosy flat to feed their addictions. It was an ordinary night, as inside the brightly-coloured living-room at 4 Hartland, Sally sat alongside Tony on his blue sofa; where they supped cheap wine, chatted about true-crime, got warm, ate and had a bit of a giggle. Later, as his diabetes made sex a little unpredictable, Tony popped a porno in his VHS player and when that familiar feeling stirred in his loins, he led Sally to bed. Not his bed behind the sofa, as this was his private space and he hated messing-up his neat blue bedsheets, his stack of medications and his space invaders t-shirt drying on the radiator, so instead they used the spare room. Having folded her jacket and jeans neatly on the floor, dressed in a bra, pants and hoodie, Sally lay on the bed. Baring down on top of this small nine-stone girl was the towering naked bulk of a nineteen stone man; with six litres of cider inside him, a temperamental erection and a thirst for rough-sex. At 4am, a neighbour later stated that they had heard a scream, but that could have been anything. (Tony) “That night, I’d drunk till I could drink no more. I don’t know how much I drank. I blacked out”. (DCI) “So, what happened next Tony, what happened?” (Tony pauses) “No comment”. The next morning, although the little issue of his neighbour’s leaky bath had been resolved back in December, Tony was still fuming. Having previously snapped her wipers, slashed her tyres and sent her an abusive letter after she had found him rummaging through her bins - none of which he could recall – being openly hostile and unable to confront her, as she slept, he vandalised her front door. At 6:40am on Sunday 20th January 2002, alerted by the neighbour, Sergeant Nick Spinks arrived at her first-floor flat at 10 Hartland. The damage was obvious. With a plastic cider bottle, a litre of sulphuric acid from an abandoned car battery had been poured through her letterbox, across the white door in black paint was sprayed the words “fuck you slut, you’re a cunt” and – as if there was no denying who had done this cowardly petulant deed - the culprit had signed it with the letter ‘T’ and as the bubbling acid pooled at the base of the door, the prints from his size eleven trainers led from her door to his. Tony was not happy to see the officers, and although he smelled of drink, not being intoxicated, he fully admitted to the charge of criminal damage and asked to be escorted to the Police station. Finding his enthusiasm to be detained elsewhere a little suspicious, with Tony’s consent they searched his flat. Directed by him, they found the cider bottle, the funnel and the can of black spray-paint. Every room was checked except for the spare-room, which Tony stated “was sublet to a lady, I don’t have the key”. So, with him being calm and fully compliant, he was arrested for the minor offence of criminal damage. Before being led outside into the freezing cold morning, sensibly Tony asked if he could pop on a coat, they agreed, and removing the anorak which hung on the back of his door, the officer searched it first. In the lining he found a key. The key fitted the locked door. And suddenly, Tony began to sweat. With the window locked from the inside, the Police knew that no-one had entered or exited that room since they had arrived. To the side of the wardrobe, a set of folded clothes had been stashed, on the floor lay a grey hoodie and tossed onto the red rug, a pair of bra and pants had been cut into pieces. The room was messy and cluttered but no more than the rest of the flat, and nothing looked damaged or broken. Above the pillow, a circle of blood marked the point where a head had impacted with the white wall and leading down to the bed, a dark-haired lady silently lay. Being naked and spread-eagle, with her legs splayed wide, she was still warm to the touch, and although a blue towel masked her face; with her skin pale, her cheeks mottled and her lips a blueish hue, it was clear that Sally was dead. Inside her grey hoodie, a red sticky mess matched the mass of matted hair on her head’s bloody crown, and besides a few small bruises, her only other injury was a bitemark to the inside of her right thigh, which matched Tony’s teeth. By the bed, he had placed a bucket of warm soapy water and a sponge, as being disturbed by the Police, perhaps out of panic, Tony had tried to cover-up this accident? Trembling and pale, Tony was arrested for criminal damage, suspicion of murder and taken to Kentish Town police station. As was his right, he replied “no comment” to every question, had no recollection of the incident and he made the officers aware of his alcoholism, diabetes and mental health issues. That night, Arthur & Muriel White were notified that their daughter Sally had died. For the detectives, it seemed like a pretty solid case of murder or manslaughter with Tony as the only suspect. He had concealed the body, lied about the key, attempted a clean-up and the only DNA or fingerprints (other than hers) found at the scene was his. He had a history of alcoholism, psychosis, delusions and violence, and all of his neighbours described him as a ‘nutter’, a ‘weirdo’ and a ‘loner’. On 22nd January 2002, while on remand pending his trial for murder, Tony was found guilty of criminal damage and assessed by the Psychiatric Diversion Team at Highbury Corner Magistrates’ Court. Being described as “downcast, depressed and on the verge of tears”, they confirmed he was fit to stand trial but stated “Mr Hardy currently presents in a fragile state, he’s still suffering from alcohol withdrawal with depressive and suicidal thoughts consequent to the situation in which he finds himself in”. Transferred to Pentonville Prison and put on suicide watch, on 12th March 2002, in the interest of his wellbeing and safety, Tony was sectioned under the Mental Health Act and re-admitted to the Mornington Psychiatric Unit at the Huntley Centre, where he couldn’t be a danger to himself or others. But for the Police, having completed a thorough investigation, this murder case was a done-deal. (End) Or at least, it should have been. On 15th April 2002 at St Pancras Coroner’s Court, held before the Coroner Dr Stephen Chan, the Home Office pathologist Dr Freddy Patel gave his findings. The autopsy had found no evidence of poisoning or assault. The bite-mark, bruising and abrasions to her skin were not regarded as “marks of violence”. And although her head wound was consistent with a single blunt impact with broad hard surface like a wall, having possibly occurred owing to a stumble or collapse, the wound had not caused her death. Born with a defective heart, Dr Patel stated that her “cardiovascular system showed a severe coronary atheroma with a 40-60% occlusion in proximal anterior branch”. In short, she had died of heart failure during rough sex. Listed as “death by natural causes”, the coroner concluded that “the Police have conducted an investigation and although it is obvious that Mr Hardy is in need of psychiatric treatment, there is no evidence to suggest that he was responsible for the death of Sally Rose White”. The trial took less than fifteen minutes, the Police were not asked to give evidence, and although they took the very rare step of requesting a second autopsy be conducted, Dr Freddy Patel returned with the same conclusion – “heart failure”. The murder case collapsed, the charges were dropped and although he had been committed to a psychiatric unit, Anthony John Hardy was cleared of murder. As stated, the truth about The Camden Ripper may never be known, as the details are vague, some evidence only led to the best guesses of experts, and it’s hard to understand who he is, as he appeared to be a different person to different people at different times. There were very few answers, only questions. But by viewing this story from his perspective, it was clear that there were four distinct sides to the personality of Anthony Hardy; the alcoholic, the addict, the sadist and the maniac. (Tony) “Hello. My name is Tony and I am an alcoholic” (appreciative voices and a very light applause). OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Part two of this four-part series into The Camden Ripper continues next week. But if you’d like to know more about this case, stay tuned for some extra tit-bits, as well as a quiz, a biccie and cuppa with me. Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporter who is Kate Wakefield, I thank you very much, and a thank you to Simon Monks and Mel for your very kind donations via the Supporter link in the show-notes. Shares in McVities and Mr Kipling have gone through the roof as I plunder the shelves and stock up for Christmas. Not that they’ll last till Christmas. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk. |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. 
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