BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-EIGHT:
In the second week of February 1942, six women were attacked on consequecutive days across London's West End; two were violently assaulted and four were brutally tortured and murdered. All were attributed to Gordon Frederick Cummins, who would later be dubbed 'The Blackout Ripper'. But was he a one-off spree-killer, or did this sadistic maniac have two more victims in his past?
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 Edith's murder is marked with a purple cross near the word Camden Town. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: As this case was researched using some of the sources below.
https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257978 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257977 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257976 http://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257976 http://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257978
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: The defining features of the Blackout Ripper’s murders were his sadism. This wasn’t the work of a mindless buffoon who bashed heads in with bricks, or a crazed loon who haphazardly hacked at limbs to feed his fantasy – this was different. As with calculated glee, he calmly and cruelly fileted the flesh as these ladies lay dead or dying, grinning as - through barely conscious slits - they watched with terrified eyes as he relished every slash and insertion, making their last seconds alive of pure terror. The pathologist Sir Bernard Spilsbury would state that the wounds he inflicted were not committed in a state of homicidal frenzy, as each cut was cold, deliberate and calculated. He wasn’t skilled with a knife or had a specific biological agenda, but he had clearly taken his time and savoured the moment. But was he a sadist? As if Mabel Church and Edith Humphries were his two earliest victims, of those he murdered, he only mutilated those in the latter half of his spree. So, were the first three interrupted before being defiled, was he yet to explore his sadism, or were these omissions a conscious choice? Psychologically, Gordon Frederick Cummins was a complicated man, who could be both kind and cruel, sociable and sociopathic. And although the police decried these attacks as the work of a “mad man” in whom the pathologist expected to find evidence of “sexual sadism” and/or “sexual abnormalities” - in Cummins, they found none. In fact, in court, Sir Bernard Spilsbury stated his opinion that “some of the wounds to the victims were deliberately made to look like the work of a sexual sadist”. If Cummins was truly fuelled by pathological sadism, we would expect to find clues in his past which hint at a disturbed mind where the seeds domination and mutilation were beginning to bloom; whether rapes, assaults or murders; peeping, peeing or perversions; knives, fetishes or strange habits. My name is Michael. I am your tour-guide. This is Murder Mile. And I present to you, the conclusion to Murder Mile’s original eight-part series. This is the final part of The Blackout Ripper: First Blood. The trial of Gordon Frederick Cummins was unusual, as although the evidence would point towards a sadist streak, his personality was more akin to a narcissist. Arrogance was often cited as his defining characteristic, as Cummins believed that he was smarter than the police, which made him complacent; he left fingerprints, clues and the souvenirs he stole from his victims were often found in plain sight. If he hadn’t been so careless, having left behind his gas mask and belt, he may never have been caught. Which begs the question; did he want to be caught? Some experts have suggested that he was seeking fame and notoriety; hence his sadism, his lack of disguise and being so easily arrested. But if this was true, why did he plead ‘not guilty’? Was it arrogance, or a desire to turn the trial into a media circus? Either way, it was not to be. Having been re-started owing to the prosecutions error, this half-day trial which was wrapped up by 4pm was at best perfunctory, even though he had professed his innocence. Which was not to say that an innocent man was executed – he wasn’t – but what was so fascinating about the trial was how vehemently his friends and family professed his innocence – which you would expect – but they couldn’t believe that Gordon and this spree-killer could possibly be the same man. In their eyes, the man they knew was not a sadist; he had no criminal record, no history of violence and no known mental illness; he worked hard, he was good fun and – although unfaithful – he loved his wife and was looking forward to becoming a father. Throughout his life, he had many girlfriends, affairs and frequented sex-workers, none of whom told tales of sadism, strangulation or cruelty. Lodged by his family, an appeal was submitted to the Home Secretary, with Gordon’s father John stating “my son has shown no tendencies (of sadism) and the fact that he has been happily married for years... he is known to be most patient, gentle and even-tempered, and has refuted any such idea”. John Robert Cummins and Gordon’s pregnant wife Marjorie both held to the belief that the police had planted evidence to frame him; including fingerprints on cups, bottles, razors, souvenirs and weapons. Accusations of which were investigated by the police and no evidence of corruption were found. They even accused the murders on a fellow cadet based in the same Regent’s Park billet, who was found with a bloodstained towel – but this was later attributed to a miscarriage or abortion by his girlfriend. On 29th April 1942, just days after his conviction, Cummins sent a letter from Brixton Prison to Dot & Laurie Williams, a Corporal and his close-friend who was stationed with Cummins at RAF Predannack. In this letter, one of a series, Cummins would state “…the past few days have been a dreadful ordeal and I am glad it is all over. Now that I am here, my father and legal counsel are, I hope, redoubling their efforts to find the guilty man and prove my innocence before it is too late...”. Giving us a hint at his sordid past in known brothels, he would go on to say “Jerry does seem to have made a mess of Bath, doesn’t he? I wonder if the Christopher has been touched? Or the Hole in the Wall? Perhaps not – dens of iniquity always escape unscathed”. And being a man who often rubbed people up the wrong way or relished that thin line in humour between being amusing and inappropriate, he ended this letter with a really creepy line: “My love to you, Dot and niece Sally. If there’s any justice in the world, I’ll be seeing you all again. If not, tell Gwen I’ll come and haunt her. Yours optimistically. Gordon”. And that is what makes this case so fascinating. How did this seemingly ordinary chap with no criminal record nor obvious trauma which could have triggered these attacks, go on to commit one of the most heinous spree-killing in British history, all whilst living his life and working a regular nine-to-five job? The Police would later state, he was a “viable suspect” in two earlier murders – those of Mabel Church and Edith Humphries; two strangers murdered in similar circumstances which occurred just five days and half a mile apart, almost as if these two were a rehearsal for the Blackout Ripper’s killing-spree. It’s possible that Mabel was... but was Edith one of his earlier murders? Very little was reported about Edith’s murder; as it was war-time, deaths were ten-a-penny and hers occurred at the end of a spate of unconnected murders which the Met Police were struggling to solve. Born in 1891, Edith Eleanora Humphries was on the cusp of her fifties by autumn 1941, making her the oldest (but not by much) of the Blackout Ripper’s potential victims. With no photo, it’s impossible to describe her, but - as we know - Cummins did not have a type. Edith’s life was as unremarkable as any other, full of high and lows, but mostly of steady respectability. For more than two decades, she was married to her loving but hard-working husband who – it is said – rose from the rank of a humble cab-driver to owing his own taxi-firm, but this cannot be clarified. She was educated, either through schooling or years of self-betterment, as she earned a decent living as a qualified accountant and – to do-her-bit for King and Country – she volunteered as a canteen cook and book-keeper at the Auxiliary Fire Service at the Islington station on the nearby Caledonian Road. Being widowed and left to raise her step-son Roy, it is unclear whether Edith inherited the family home - a three-storey semi-detached house at 1 Gloucester Crescent, just off Regent’s Park - and was either the landlady to several lodgers, or lived in a two-roomed ground-floor flat at the back of the property. Either way, she was comfortably off and with Roy having moved out, she lived there alone. Sadly, in the same way that Mabel’s virtue was besmirched before her body was even cold, it became open-season for any loon to cast aspersions against Edith’s life, all of which whiffed of victim shaming. With many drawing red rings around her “twenty possible men-friends” and a supposed torrid affair with a fireman –implying that it was her sexual appetite and therefore her fault which led to her death. But this was untrue. In her bedside drawer, two letters were found, both accusing and retracting the fireman’s wife statement as a “misunderstanding”. Of her “twenty men friends”; most were cabbies and pals of her late husband who were both ‘men’ and ‘friends’. And across that last year of her life, at different times, she had dated several men, but being a lonely widower, she was looking for love. She was pleasant, she didn’t cause problems and she was well-liked. She wasn’t much of a drinker; she didn’t live a salacious life and her only real issue was a boyfriend who was described as ‘persistent’. And that’s it. Her connections to Mabel Church were coincidental, being canteen staff who lived near Regent’s Park. She didn’t seem to frequent the same places as Gordon Cummins. And she was only as connected to those murdered during the Blackout Ripper’s four-day killing-spree, as anyone else in the West End. All that seemed to connect Mabel and Edith were the methods of their murders... ...as if they were a rehearsal by a fledgling serial-killer. Sir Bernard Spilsbury would state in court “some of the wounds to the victims were deliberately made to look like the work of a sexual sadist”. But were they? To answer that, set aside the shocking sight of each wound and ask the question “why did he inflict that wound at that point and for what reason?” On the night of Sunday 8th to Monday 9th February 1942, Evelyn Hamilton was attacked in an air-raid shelter on Montague Place. She had a two-inch bruise to her right cheek (this was his initial attack), a small cut to her left eye (possibly sustained during her fall) and around her neck, bruises in the shape of four fingers and a thumb - consistent with strangulation by a left-hander like the Blackout Ripper. With a few blood specks in her vagina, but no sperm nor contraceptives found, it was unlikely that she had been raped (as none of the others were), but she may have been violated with an unknown object. Partially stripped, with her legs spread and her exposed genitals facing the shelter’s entrance, she was posed to illicit shock. But it was not suggested that she was mutilated, as the only unexplained wounds to her body was a two-inch cut to her leg and several small abrasions to her right breast; none of which were confirmed as inflicted by a weapon, and could have been part of her struggle or his clawing. Evelyn Hamilton, as with Mabel and Edith lacked any of the typically sadistic wounds found on his later victims, but he may have been disturbed mid-attack, or was yet to explore this level of sadism? On the night of Monday 9th to Tuesday 10th February 1942, Evelyn Oatley was attacked in her Wardour Street flat. Again, with bruises to her sides (trapping her arms), a bruise to right cheek and left-handed bruises to her throat - with none of her long fingernails broken – this indicated there was no struggle. His initial attack was there to render her unconscious, but each wound after this point was a calculated ploy designed to maximise the horror of those who would find her and report their shock to the press. Again, stripped semi-naked, with breasts and genitals exposed, her body was positioned diagonally across the bed, facing the only entrance to this room. When found, she had twelve jagged rips to her flesh in and around her thighs and vagina, and spilling in thick pools from the bed to the door, her last drops of blood had pumped from a 5 ½ inch long gash to her neck – a truly shocking sight for anyone? But what is most fascinating are not the wounds, but the weapons he used and what he did with them. Having violated her with a six-inch metal torch, he left it poking out of her vagina, as if he was bragging: “look, this is what I did, and this is what I used”. Likewise; between her thighs lay a metal can-opener and a set of heated curling tongs, and beside her neck, a single bloodstained Ever Ready razor blade. This wasn’t a frenzied assault, it took time, it took thought and it took patience. In his eyes, he wasn’t a crazed maniac mutilating woman, he was a skilled artist perfecting his bloody masterpiece. The same sadistic performance art was inflicted on the bodies of his next two victims - Margaret Lowe and Doris Jouanett. Again, his initial attack was swift; they were trapped, punched and strangled. But once they were unconscious or dying, it was only then that his shocking new art-work could begin. With a six-inch candle poking out of her genitals, around Margaret’s body he proudly placed the tools of his talent; a bread knife, two table knifes and a potato knife. To many, these were nothing but humble household implements, but to him, they were like his brushes; inflicting a ten-inch-long three-inch-deep slice up her right thigh, and a clean and perfectly-straight five-inch gash along her abdomen, severing her uterus and exposing her intestines - all of which he finished off with stabs to her vagina. With Doris, he sliced-up her left breast, almost severing the nipple. He inflicted a series of deep slashes, between 2 ½ and 6 ½ inches long across her abdomen, and the only possible reason he didn’t insert anything inside of her vagina was that – in her last terrifying moments alive - she had wet herself. This time, he had removed the weapon (possibly a razor blade) that he’d used to inflict these wounds, but he had posed Doris; with her right hand by her genitals, as if she was drawing attention to her violation, and her left hand outstretched towards the door, as if she had died crying out for help. As a sexual sadist, there was no denying that he always took great relish in torturing these women; he assaulted them, he inflicted pain, he posed them and he watched them slowly die by his hand. To Cummins, this was his work. But being a narcissist, he seemed less concerned about how petrified these women felt as they died, and more focussed on his image, his art and his reputation as a ‘ripper’. So, was the murder of Edith Eleonora Humphries a rehearsal for his four-day masterpiece? On Friday 17th October 1941 at 6:45am, Jill Steele who lived on the first-floor of 1 Gloucester Crescent was awoken by the frantic yapping of a little black terrier. Edith had been dog-sitting this usually quiet pooch for a tenant in the top floor flat, but with its barks growing more perturbed, Jill went to check. Descending the stairs, Jill cooed “Edith?”, but got no reply. Approaching slowly, she saw the door was wide open, but inside it was dark owing to the blackout-blinds. “Edith?”, again she got no reply. She flicked the light switch, but nothing happened as the meter had run out. So, always carrying her trusty torch as the area was prone to power-cuts, she shone its beam inside and was shocked by the sight. Found sprawled across her bed, Edith’s face had been beaten with such force that her jaw was broken in several places. Pummelling her head into a purple swollen pulp, he had strangled her until she was rendered unconscious. Then, as if her torture wasn’t cruel enough, he had slit open her throat so when she breathed, blood bubbled from its frothing gash. And then, with sadistic relish and in a swift single blow, he had stabbed her in the head, the cold blade splitting apart her skull and penetrating her brain. When the Police arrived, they found no witnesses to her attack. But with the terrier having been locked in her cupboard, it’s likely her assailant was disturbed by its barking and he had cut-short his assault. The investigation concluded; Edith had willingly let her attacker in, they had shared a cup of tea, she was wearing her nightdress (so either she or they had headed to bed), several items were stolen such as a gold ring and some costume jewellery, and – whoever he was – he had left behind his fingerprints. None of the neighbours heard a single sound or saw the man who Edith had invited home. All of her “men friends” were questioned and they all had alibis, including her very “persistent” boyfriend. But what shocked the Police most was this? Six hours after she was attacked... Edith was still alive. Rushed to the National Temperance Hospital at 126 Hampstead Road, Edith was taken straight into surgery to be operated upon by eminent brain surgeon Dr Guy Rugby Jones. She was barely alive, and her chance of surviving he thought was “one in a million”, but he felt she deserved that chance. Sadly, she died in surgery and - having never named her attacker - the case remains unsolved. So, were the murders of Mabel Church and Edith Humphries the work of the Blackout Ripper? They had similarities and differences, so maybe their deaths show a logical escalation in violence? Maybe in these murders he was exploring the sadistic techniques which would later become part of his tried and tested method, and those which would not? And maybe, if Edith and Mabel were a rehearsal, then there must be clues in his past which hint at him either being a spree-killer in the making... ...or a wannabe serial killer? Gordon Frederick Cummins joined the Royal Air Force on 11th November 1935, as a flight Rigger at Henlow in Bedfordshire. From 1936 to the outbreak of war in September 1939, he was billeted at RAF Felixstowe. And until January 1941 he was based at RAF Helensburgh in Dunbartonshire, Scotland. Based on-site, his job was as a mechanic repairing military aircraft, but as Britain entered the war and he worked on classified experimental planes, his timings and movements prove hard to pin down. From the 3rd February 1942 to his arrest at the end of his four-day killing-spree ten days later, Cummins was based at No3 Air-Crew Receiving Centre and was billeted in Flat 27 St James Close, all on the edge of Regent’s Park. But investigators were unable to verify his precise timings during these murders, as the RAF logbook held at Abbey Lodge had entries missing and soldiers often signed in for each other. During the murders of Mabel and Edith between 12th and 17th October 1941, his timings are impossible to verify. As having spent six months at RAF Fighter Command at Colerne in Wiltshire, although from the 6th October 1941 he was posted to 600 Squadron at RAF Predannack in Cornwall, he wasn’t billeted on-site. Instead, he would remain as a private lodger at the family home of Elisabeth Mary Field at Hall Farm, Thickwood Lane in Colherne until early November - where he could come and go as he pleased. Unfortunately, there is no record of Cummins being in London during the murders of Mabel or Edith. That said, with his wife living in London and regularly visiting the West End, he often travelled the 80 miles from Colerne and the 200 miles from Predannack, either by train or having hitch-hiked a ride. But what about his character? A man can disguise his movements, but he can never hide his true self. His landlady at Hall Farm would later state “he was an intellectual man, but prone to exaggeration, he was even-tempered and a very likeable person, but he had no extreme views”. A description backed-up by Sidney Butler, landlord of one of Gordon’s local pubs at the White Hart in Ford, Wiltshire, who said “he had childish mannerisms, I considered him to be mentally abnormal, he would drink to excess and would often run out of money, but was never objectionable and would never quarrel or fight”. Fuelled by a belief that he was not achieving greatness, Gordon was prone to lying and was nicknamed ‘The Count’ and ‘The Honourable Gordon Cummins’ having professed to being the black sheep of an aristocratic family. This mirrors what his family would state, that he was a dreamer but not a maniac. In his letter to Corporal Laurie Williams, his pal at RAF Predannack, it read “Jerry does seem to have made a mess of Bath, doesn’t he? I wonder if the Christopher has been touched? Or the Hole in the Wall? Perhaps not – dens of iniquity always escape unscathed”. Way beyond his killing spree, he had a history of visiting sex-workers, which was not something he was ashamed of; these included Quiet Street (a known pick-up place for prostitutes), The Hole in the Wall, the Christopher Hotel, the Francis Hotel and the Royal Hotel in Bath, all of which were deemed out-of-bounds to all military personnel. His sexual appetite was notorious, and yet he didn’t have a criminal record. So, either he was never caught, never charged, or the courts were unlikely to convict a war-time soldier for a minor offence? That said, none of the sex-workers he frequented complained of his behaviour. His sexual preferences were normal, he treated them well and he made no sadistic requests. His girlfriends said the same; there were no known incidents of assault, rape or strangulation, he was charming if a little immature. His main vice was theft. Being unable to maintain a lavish lifestyle on a mechanic’s wage, in November 1941, at the Blue Peter Club in Mullion, it was alleged that he stole £35 worth of jewellery from a flat above the club. The matter was dealt with privately and no formal complaint was made to the Police. That same month, Bath Police investigated reports of “an airman stealing handbags at the Hole in the Wall”, which – like tights and lipsticks – were low-cost but high-value items he was known to steal and would gift to his secret girlfriends. Police later tracked some of these ladies down, but no items were found relating to the victims of his four-day killing-spree, or Mabel Church and Edith Humphries. In fact, the only hint of violence prior these murders were two reports of women being assaulted by “an airman” on Quiet Street in Bath and in the village of Ford near Colerne. Sadly, they were unable to identify their attacker and therefore he was neither named or charged. But was this him? (End) So, did the Blackout Ripper murder Mabel Church and Edith Humphries? It’s possible, as they fit the profile of a fledgling spree-killer finding his feet, but they could easily match any of other murderer (whether deliberate or accidental) who was stalking the unlit streets of London during war-time. If they were him, this confirms he was not a spree-killer, but a serial killer; a man who was calm, callous and controlled, who could come across like an ordinary chap, and a sadistic killer in the very next beat. As of today, the police investigation files remain closed and will certainly be pushed back further. But whether the name Gordon Frederick Cummins appears in either of those case-files is debatable, as I can find no conclusive proof that the police ever publicly stated that he was a “viable suspect” in either of those first two murders. It was only stated by the press several decades after the murders. It also impossible to tell whether Cummins was a sadist, or whether – having never achieved greatness - he merely wanted the notoriety that a case such as this should get... but didn’t, as being war-time, the world had bigger issues. And as he died claiming his innocence, we shall never know his motives. The speed of his trial, his lack of confession and the gaps in his history leaves us with a lot of holes, as with his life riddled with lies and his crimes full of theories, we have very little in terms of a conclusion. So, maybe he did snap and go on a killing-spree? Maybe Edith and Mabel were a test-run? Maybe he did commit a string of rapes and assaults prior to this date, all of which went unreported? Or maybe, he didn’t only murder four women in the West End, and potentially two more over four months? Maybe - as a soldier who lived in untraceable accommodations, who frequented different locations and worked in a several classified military bases across the UK; from Cornwall to Wiltshire, London to Northumberland, Hampshire to Yorkshire, and several bases in Scotland from 1935 to 1942, as well as being posted to Regent’s Park five days prior to his killing-spree – it is likely there are other attacks and murders possibly committed by Gordon Frederick Cummins, which are yet to be unearthed? So, for now, this is not the end. The Blackout Ripper: First Blood will return. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. That was concluding part of this section of the Blackout Ripper: First Blood. The next part will take months if not years to research, as this has never been done before, so don’t expect it any time soon. This is the last official episode of Murder Mile for this year. The new season will begin on Thursday 24th February 2022. But if you would like to keep up to date with all of the research for the new season, as well as the book and enjoy a whole back catalogue of photos, videos and the exclusive podcast series – Walk With Me – which will be available for all subscribers over January and February. You can treat yourself to that by subscribing to Patreon for as little as £2, and help support this podcast. After the break is Extra Mile, which includes the usual non-compulsory nonsense by a fat bald man who is yet to demolish his Christmas treats, as well as extra details on this case and a little quiz. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
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Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast - #157: The Blackout Ripper: First Blood - Part 1 (Mabel Church)22/12/2021
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-SEVEN:
In the second week of February 1942, six women were attacked on consequecutive days across London's West End; two were violently assaulted and four were brutally tortured and murdered. All were attributed to Gordon Frederick Cummins, who would later be dubbed 'The Blackout Ripper'. But was he a one-off spree-killer, or did this sadistic maniac have two more victims in his past?
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 attack on Mabel Church is located with a black cross up near the words Summers Town near the top left of the map. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: As this case was researched using some of the sources below. https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257978 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257977 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257976 http://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257976 http://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257978
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-SIX:
Today’s episode is about Charlotte Flanagan, a trainee-nurse and a part-time barmaid who was always there for those who needed her most. But when someone she trusted needed her to be more than just a friend, their close bond ended in murder.
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 Charlotte's murder is marked with a lime green cross near the word Mayfair. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: As this case was researched using some of the sources below. http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/2237917.stm https://webarchive.nationalarchives.gov.uk/ukgwa/20110204013636/http://www.hmcourts-service.gov.uk/cms/144_10853.htm https://www.lancashiretelegraph.co.uk/news/5992723.boyfriend-murder-charge/ https://www.lancashiretelegraph.co.uk/news/5968926.date-fixed-murder-trial/ http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/2237917.stm https://www.lancashiretelegraph.co.uk/news/5943722.saved-killers-life/ https://www.lancashiretelegraph.co.uk/news/1082151.reclusive-giant-will-stay-jail-2014/ https://www.theboltonnews.co.uk/news/5943153.murder-case-man-may-have-flipped/ https://www.theboltonnews.co.uk/news/5943497.obsessed-loner-killed-woman-22/ https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/1409830/Obsessed-man-killed-woman-after-fancy-dress-party.html https://www.lancashiretelegraph.co.uk/news/1236902.darwen-mans-murder-conviction-upheld/ http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/2317285.stm MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is about Charlotte Flanagan, a trainee-nurse and a part-time barmaid who was always there for those who needed her most. But when someone she trusted needed her to be more than just a friend, their close bond ended in murder. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 156: The “Old Acquaintance” of Charlotte Flanagan. Today I’m standing on Duke Street in Mayfair, W1; one street south of the stalker Joseph King, one street north of the assassination of Alexander Litvinenko, twenty feet south-east of the terrorist attack of flight El-Al 016, and a few doors from the unfortunate Evelyn Hatton - coming soon to Murder Mile. On the corner of George Yard, at 82 Duke Street once sat the Barley Mow public house; a five storey, corner-building built of brown brick and pale Portland stone with black wrought-iron detailing. Built in 1851 at 40 Duke Street, it was entirely renumbered in 1896 and rebuilt where it remains today. With an open-plan pub on the ground-floor, a kitchen and dining on the first, with an office and a small flat above – given how pretentious Mayfair can be – the Barley Mow was actually a proper pub where you could enjoy a good pint, a hearty meal and some friendly banter. Admittedly, when the rugby was on, it was chock-full of London’s unhealthiest, stretching their sweaty sports tops to the max, glugging back fifty pints, all while wheezing about how - having watched six slow-motion replays on Sky Sports– these “so-called professional sportsmen” are “lazy useless idiots, and other such insights by red-faced pundits whose only body parts they’ve exercised since Thatcher’s era was their gobs and arses. Sadly, like every other pub, it’s being turned into posh flats. The scaffolding is up, a tarp’ covers the crime and a sales sign is there to lure in any overpaid MP looking for a third home to house his mistress. Back on the New Year’s Eve 2001, a private party was in full swing here at the Barley Mow, the beer was flowing and the mood was festive. Seeking to say ‘goodbye’ to the old year and welcome in the new, everyone was dressed as either vicars or tarts. Behind the bar, 22-year-old Charlotte Flanagan was serving drinks and earning an honest wage before she began her new life - training to be a nurse. As midnight passed and Auld Lang Syne was sung, it should have been a moment of hope, and although this infamous but often misunderstood song asks that old acquaintances should never be forgotten, maybe the man who had come to visit Charlotte was a friend who should have been left in the past? As it was here, on the New Year’s Day of 2002, in the top floor-flat above the Barley Mow pub, that the kindness of Charlotte Flanagan became the cruellest excuse for her tragic death. (Interstitial) (Play audio of Auld Lang Syne) “Should auld acquaintance be forgot. And never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot. And days of auld lang syne? For auld lang syne, my dear. For auld lang syne. We'll take a cup o' kindness yet. For days of auld lang syne”. Traditionally sung to welcome in the New Year, Auld Lang Syne began life as an old folk song collected and scribed by poet Robert Burns in 1788, having heard the words spoken by an old man on his travels. It tells the story of two friends, catching-up over a drink and their memories of times long gone. Few of us understand it, but often these are the first words many of us utter as the clock strikes twelve... ...they were also some of the last words uttered by Charlotte Flanagan. 22-year-old Charlotte Flanagan was born in 1979 in Darwen, a market town in Lancashire, just south of Blackburn. Described as bubbly, big-hearted and full of life, it was no surprise that Charlotte would enter the ‘caring profession’. Educated at St Cuthbert's primary school in Darwen and later at St Wilfrid's in Blackburn, she was raised locally, she had many friends and her upbringing was good. Raised in a pleasant family home, although Darwen was a former industrial town built on cotton mills and heavy industry, Melville Gardens was a quiet spot which overlooked miles of heathered moorland and peaceful walks. With her mum also being the local practice nurse, there was little doubt that this warm and nurturing environment was a big reason why Charlotte became such a decent person. Which is not to say that, during her life, she hadn’t been plagued by moments of anxiety or depression, but find a teenage girl who hasn’t. And if anything, battling brief bouts of mental illness wasn’t a thing she saw as a weakness, as it only made her more understanding of those who were also suffering. Having left school with a good education, Charlotte worked at the Trinity Partnership in Clitheroe, as a mentor for young children, believing that any future problems could be curtailed through care, compassion and giving a lost child a sense of hope, knowing that they are good, strong and loved. In 1999, aged twenty, Charlotte began working for Blackburn & Darwen Council in their social services department, gaining invaluable training and experience, but always with an eye on becoming a nurse. Life wasn’t particularly hard for Charlotte, as she was raised well, she had a kind soul and – although the most essential jobs are never properly paid - being a hard-worker with an astute head on her shoulders, she got a mortgage on a nice two-storey sandstone terraced-house in Walmsley Street, an eight-minute walk from the centre of Darwen near her workplace, her friends and her family. That year, working in the same department, Charlotte met a social worker called Gary and the two became friends. It was an unlikely relationship but beneficial for both; as needing help to pay her mortgage, Gary became Charlotte’s lodger; and being a little shy, she helped bring him out of his shell. Being a whopping six-foot-eight inches tall and weighing a hefty twenty-stone - looking like a dark-haired Honey Monster - Gareth Richard Horton always eclipsed Charlotte wherever they went and – like chalk and cheese - the two always stood out. And as bubbly as Charlotte was, Gary was a gentle giant, who kept-to-himself, rarely spoke up and - as friends - the two clearly cared for each other. ...but sometimes, even the simplest of friendships can be doomed from the start. In his own words, 29-year-old Gary Horton described himself as a "rather miserable personality”. Being a loner, he had suffered with feelings of rejection, self-doubt and anxiety around others. Spending much of his spare-time by himself; he had very few friends, he had never had a girlfriend and he was incredibly close to his mum Eileen, calling her daily as she was the one person who he truly trusted. Since his childhood and especially through puberty, Gary had gone from being a sweet little boy to a silent shell of his former self. Emotionally, his mental health had sharply declined, but nothing sinister, as he was too shy to be any trouble, too meek to be violent and the only person he hated was himself. His depression had stemmed from his school days when this mini ‘man mountain’ in the making was mercilessly bullied owing to his size, by dickheads too thick to see the real hurt they were inflicting. Riddled with low self-esteem, he under-achieved academically, he struggled to form close bonds and he found it difficult to express his feelings with others. Later diagnosed with clinical depression, across his life, this silent sensitive hulk required psychiatric help, but wasn’t a danger to anyone but himself. Being Charlotte’s friend was the best thing that ever happened to Gary; where-as he was quiet and insular, she was fun and bubbly, and although this match could have made for an unhealthy mix which made him worse, she hoped that by making him part of her world, he would re-find his confidence. Across the three years they were friends, colleagues and house-mates; they often went out in Darwen for a nice meal, a few cheeky drinks and a bit of a dance, as many friends would... ...but when he had been drinking, Gary’s feelings of self-loathing got the worst of him. In June 2001, after a night-out in Darwen’s Market Square, feeling a little bit tipsy after several drinks, Charlotte and Gary were making their way home by foot. As per usual, this eight-minute walk from Market Square to Walmsley Street took them north up a partially-lit semi-empty street. What they had spoken about that night remains between them; maybe she had spoken about her ex-boyfriends, maybe he had spoken of having never had a girlfriend, or maybe he told her how he felt? But whatever it was, maybe this boozy heart-to-heart had ignited something dark inside Gary’s mind? It was shortly after chucking-out time, when Charlotte and Gary stumbled up Atlas Road. Home was only a quick totter away, so they had no need to hail a taxi or a bus. But as they passed Darwen station, Gary ran up the concrete stairs and - from the platform edge– hurled himself onto the train tracks. Chasing after Gary, Charlotte pleaded with him to stop fooling about, but he refused to move. Instead, he just lay there, crying, with his head and body sprawled across the hard metal lines, as he awaited the swift slash of a passing train which would sever his body into bits with a fast clean slice. “Gary, stop being a dick”, Charlotte barked “this isn’t funny anymore”, but still he refused to budge. As the tracks rumbled, in the distance, she could hear the Rochdale train approaching - speeding like the grim reaper clutching a lamp - as its burning light drew ever nearer. But still, Gary remained still. Knowing they had just seconds to spare before her pal was pulverised, Charlotte grabbed his oversized hand and tried to pull him up off the tracks. But being over two metres tall and weighing 280 pounds, even with help she would have struggled to shift him, but – right there and then – Charlotte was alone. Only, as the train sped ever nearer, having grabbed hold of his hand to save his life, now he wouldn’t let go of hers. His grip was tight, her hand was held and the only thing she could do to save them both from a certain death was to make him see sense. (Noise silences) “Gary, come on now, let’s go home”. Because he liked her, he listened to her, and so – if only for that reason - he did as she had said. We can never be certain if Gary really wanted to die that night... ...but some had said he did it because he loved her. Around that time, barely six months before her murder, Gary had sought-out psychiatric help for his anxiety and depression. Again, he was not considered a threat to anyone but himself, and although Charlotte was a truly caring person who knew how to listen and to get the best out of those who needed her help, living and working with Gary had proven to be impossible. The terraced-house on Walmsley Street was hers, but now her little home felt like the kind of place where she didn’t feel happy or comfortable. Spending more time at her parents in Melville Gardens, her brother Luke once asked her why she wasn’t at home, Charlotte’s reply was simple - “he’s there”. She could have found anyone to be her lodger, but more out of kindness than need, she had welcomed him into her life, her home and her world, but now he was acting as if they were husband and wife. Whenever they went out, he always insisted on paying for the drinks. He squandered most of his life-savings on her, he even considered buying a car for them both, even though he didn’t have a driving licence. He once bragged to a mutual friend “we’ve got engaged”, only to claim it was just a lame joke moments later. But becoming possessive of who Charlotte saw and where she went, having booked a week’s holiday in Ibiza with a few girl pals, Gary pestered her with calls pleading with her not to go. She had made it abundantly clear – in the nicest way possible - that she was not attracted to him. But whether Gary’s obsession with her was less about sex, and more about the fact that he had never had a close friend and didn’t want to lose her is hard to fathom, as Gary kept his feelings to himself... ...but just four months before her murder, his life would be upended by chaos. In September 2001, Charlotte moved to West London. It was the break she needed being her first time away from her home-town of Darwen, seeking a fresh start with a promising new career training to be a nurse. To save money, she worked as a bar-maid at the Barley Mow pub in Mayfair and had begun seeing the step-son of one of the pub’s regular, a teacher from Nottingham called David Ivmey. Life was going well for Charlotte... but mentally, Gary was struggling. Without his only friend, he had regressed back to his old miserable self, sitting in isolation and brooding over the failings in his life. Seeing his decline and worried about her pal’s mental health spending Christmas by himself, Charlotte invited Gary down to London from Christmas Eve to New Year’s Day. Only, having already planned to take his own life, he regarded this trip less with festive cheer... and more as a farewell to a cruel world. On Christmas Eve 2001, Gary travelled three-hours from Darwen to London, staying for one week in a single room at the County Hotel, situated close to Euston station. Owing to the late hours she worked, he was unable to share with Charlotte, as she lived in the top-floor flat above the Barley Mow pub. It is uncertain if – at any point across the Christmas week – Gary either met, or was made aware of Charlotte’s new boyfriend, David Ivmey, but except for his usual gloom, nothing untoward happened. On Christmas Day, with the pub open, Charlotte worked and saw Gary when she was free. When she wasn’t, he kept himself amused watching the festive fare on the BBC, with such delights as; the original Mary Poppins featuring Dick Van Dyke’s god-awful cockney accent, the TV premiere of Sliding Doors and after the Queen’s Speech was Rolf’s Merry Christmas, starring convicted sex-offender Rolf Harris. On Boxing Day, she met Gary and then went out on a date with David at TGI Fridays in Leicester Square. And on Thursday 27th December, at King’s Cross station, Charlotte and David shared a kiss as he caught a train back home. She had planned to come up and stay with him in Nottingham on New Year’s Day... ...and although their kiss was only meant as a ‘see you soon’ smooch... ...for both, it was actually a ‘last goodbye’. The New Year’s Eve of 2001 began like an ordinary day for most. It drizzled, the sky was gloomy, the fireworks would be a wash-out as always, and the West End shops were full of idiots believing they were buying bargains, when in fact, they were paying over the odds for old tat the shop couldn’t shift. To get a few days off, Charlotte had worked Friday 28th, Saturday 29th and Sunday 30th December, and with David away, this gave her more time to spend with Gary. As far as we know, they hadn’t argued, Gary didn’t seem unusually depressed, and he hadn’t told her that he had thoughts of killing himself. At 4pm, having finished her afternoon shift at the pub, Charlotte and Gary went out for a meal, during which she told Gary about her boyfriend. What he said is unknown, but he gave no emotional reaction; there was no anger, no cross words and no tears, but neither were their congratulations, best wishes or kisses. He would later describe his mood that night as being his “normal rather-miserable self”. At 6pm, Gary phoned his mum (Eileen) to say he was “having a good time”. At 8pm, they returned to the Barley Mow where a private party was taking place. To ring in the New Year, everyone had dressed-up in costumes, with the theme of the party being ‘Vicars and Tarts’. Not being one to let the side down, Charlotte dressed as a sexy French Maid wearing a short black dress with white frills and black stockings. And although, even the simplest of vicar’s costumes would be nothing more than a suit and a cardboard dog-collar, Gary didn’t dress-up as he wasn’t in the mood. At 9:30pm, once again Gary called his mum, and again, (for him) he sounded in good spirits. At 11:30pm, Gary texted his friend, stating he was at the party, that he was enjoying himself, and that he was dressed in a skirt and that he had shaved his legs. Why he lied about this? We don’t know. And at the stroke of midnight, Big Ben rang out and fireworks erupted, as across the small bar-room of the Barley Mow, fifty-or-so merry regulars reverberated the room with that most-famous of songs. “Should auld acquaintance be forgot. And never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot. And days of auld lang syne? For auld lang syne, my dear. For auld lang syne. We'll take a cup o' kindness yet. For days of auld lang syne” (continue underneath). Being personable, Charlotte kissed and hugged her regulars, as everyone else had done, and she wished a “happy new year” to her friend and house-mate, Gary. 2002 would mark a fresh start, with a new boyfriend and a bright future in nursing ahead. Only, for Charlotte, her future was to be a lot shorter than she could ever imagine... ...and although she had done so much to help her friend when he needed her most, maybe Gary Horton was an “old acquaintance” who should have been forgotten? Simply to save her life. A few minutes after the rousing reverie of Auld Lang Syne had quietened and the party-goers had sunk back a few more slugs of cheap champagne, Gary and Charlotte were seen at a table by the bar, having what many described as “a few minor words”. Something not unusual in a pub, post-midnight. At 12:15am, feeling a little drained after a long day with a tiring friend, she told the two barmen she was taking a break and headed up to her bedroom at the top-floor of the pub, leaving Gary in the bar. That is where he stayed; by himself, saying nothing, dressed in his own clothes and nursing a drink. At 1am, as Charlotte had failed to return from her break, Gary had said he would go and check if she was okay. The barmen didn’t need her as the party was dying down, but still, Gary seemed concerned. From the bar, he ascended the stairs to the first floor, and although her bedroom was still three floors higher (whether by chance encounter or deliberate choice), he made a brief stop at the empty kitchen. In court, the prosecution described this action as a “significant degree of planning or pre-meditation”, but the defence would argue that - owing to mental disorder – in that very moment, Gary had flipped. Opening a ‘staff only’ door, he climbed the stairs to the upper floors until he got to Charlotte’s room. And there she lay, curled-up peacefully on top of her bed, her head on a pillow. Still in her French Maid’s outfit, as if she had only planned to shut her eyes for a moment, but had drifted off to sleep. With her eyes shut, her breathing soft and her mind miles away in a land of dreams, she had no idea of what was about to happen, no way to defend herself and no idea that her friend wished her dead. Clutching a ten-inch knife stolen from the kitchen, with a fast single blow, Gary stabbed the blade with such force that it penetrated through the full width of her neck. With her jugular vein severed, her windpipe slit and being partially paralysed; she awoke and saw, but she could not move. And as every pint of blood spewed from the gaping wound in her neck, within the minute, Charlotte was dead. Why he did it, we don’t know? Maybe it was love? Maybe it was jealousy? Maybe it happened in a moment of madness? Or maybe the thought of losing his only real friend was too much pain to bear? And yet, the pathologist would state, he had intentionally cut part of her costume leaving her genitals exposed, but there was no obvious sexual motive and she had not been sexually interfered with. At 1:30am, Gary calmly left the pub, saying he needed “some fresh air”. Two hours later, from a public phone-box by Embankment tube, he rang his mother and confessed “Mum, I've killed Charlotte". With nothing left to live for, the man-mountain tried to drown himself by wading into the icy muddy silt of the River Thames, but failing miserably, at 4am, he called his mum, and she phoned the police. Thirty minutes later, at 4:30am, the body of Charlotte Flanagan was found and she pronounced dead. (End) Examined by a police doctor at Walworth Police Station, Gary was described as “orientated, but not confused”. In the presence of a solicitor and a social worker, he refused to answer any questions about the murder, but he gave a statement about his mental health. Interviewed for a second time, at 1:12am on 2nd January 2002, Gary Horton was charged with murder at Bow Street Magistrates Court. Tried at the Old Bailey between the 1st and the 11th October 2002, he pleaded guilty to manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility, but he denied murder. The prosecution stated his actions “showed he had an obsession with Charlotte that was both sexual and emotional. The thought of Charlotte going out with another man was too much for him". And although both sides agreed he had a genetic pre-disposition to depression, exacerbated by “low self-esteem probably caused by years of bullying at school” over his height and weight, Gary denied that he was motivated by jealousy. After deliberation, the jury returned a verdict of guilty of murder by an 11 to 1 majority. Judge Brian Barker stated: "This was a horrendous crime which has resulted in the senseless waste of a woman who had everything to look forward to. You took the life of the most important person in the world to you, a person who you thought might be moving on". Gary Horton was sentenced to life in prison, with a minimum of 12 years to be served, after which he can only be released if the parole board feels he no longer poses a danger. And even then, he will remain on licence for the rest of his natural life. 22-year-old Charlotte Flanagan was returned to Darwen, where she was buried, near her family. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, for those of you who take great pleasure in hearing a bloated baldy stuff a lethal number of cakes into his face, whilst he waffles on about rain, wind, Eva and coots. Stay tuned after the break for a non-compulsory bit of fun, with a little quiz and some extra details in Extra Mile. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, who are K Reid and Cheryl Lyon. A big thank you to both of you, I thank you for supporting the show and a thank you to everyone who continues to listen to the show, and leaves kind reviews of Murder Mile. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-FIVE:
Today’s episode is the final part about 19-year-old Michael Douglas Dowdall; a baby-faced killer who had brutally bludgeoned a woman to death, and although this could have been dismissed as an isolated drunken mistake, this murder may mark the beginning of a serial-killer in the making.
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 attack is located with a red cross at the middle near the words Fulham and Swedish Wharf. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: As this case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is the final part about 19-year-old Michael Douglas Dowdall; a baby-faced killer who had brutally bludgeoned a woman to death, and although this could have been dismissed as an isolated drunken mistake, this murder may mark the beginning of a serial-killer in the making. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 155: The Sadistic Little Drummer Boy – Part Two. Today I’m standing on the corner of De Morgan Road and Townmead Road in Fulham, SW10; a few roads south of Jane Andrew’s attack on her sleeping boyfriend Tommy Cressman, a ten-minute stroll from the home invasion by the Devil’s Child, and a few feet from the spot on the River Thames where an infamous murderer supposedly disposed of an unrecorded victim - coming soon to Murder Mile. Being typical of the hotch-potch way that most of London is built, this street is a mish-mash of styles from the last two centuries; there’s a long row of identical Victorian terraces, an old wharf refashioned as office space and posh flats, a 1970’s tower block with a recent lick of paint, an ugly Sainsbury’s, and - of course – near to what used to be Ismailia Road sits a set of flats imaginatively called Ismailia House. Like most new builds, Ismailia House was constructed in the time-old British tradition of whack it up fast, bish-bash-bosh and claim it’s for locals, only to flog-off 90% to a Saudi before a single brick is set. With the worst three flats reserved for council tenants and the obligatory 10% set aside for “local amenities” which means a few bins, a dentist’s, a Tesco Express and bookies – oh yes, all the essentials. Behind these flats once sat Ismailia Road, a small road connecting to Wandsworth Bridge Road, but - long since demolished - it is now just a bridle-way. On the ground-floor of number 5 lived Mabel Jean Hill, a 34-year-old divorced mother-of-three who had provided a safe place for herself and her family. By sheer misfortune, whilst travelling home from a nice night-out, she had struck-up a conversation with a small baby-faced youth who looked harmless enough. His name was Michael Douglas Dowdall. And it was here, on Saturday 10th October 1959, that Mabel would meet this fledgling serial-killer who had already murdered one woman, and – it looked likely – that Mabel would be his next. (Interstitial). (Michael) “I picked up a prostitute in Trafalgar Square. She called a taxi and I remember she gave an address as somewhere in Kilburn... I had sex with her and went to sleep”. (snoring). When questioned, her attacker would claim it was an accident and that was also what the evidence would suggest. On Friday 19th December 1958 at roughly 6pm, the body of 31-year-old sex-worker Veronica Murray was found in her first-floor bedsit at 58 Charteris Road in Kilburn. With no signs of forced entry and two sets of fingerprints on a tea-cup, this suggested she had let her attacker in and had sex with him. Naked, except for her brown pullover pulled-up over her head, Veronica had been brutally bludgeoned to death, with her skull smashed using ornamental cast-iron dumbbell taken from her mantlepiece. This suggested her attack was not pre-meditated, but was most likely a provoked act of aggression. With no items of any obvious value known to have been stolen from her room - except for a bottle of whiskey - the motive was unlikely to be a robbery, but more of an opportunist theft by drunken punter. So far, for the police, this case hadn’t any of the hallmarks of a fledgling serial-killer in their midst. If anything, it resembled any number of attacks on lone sex-workers in their own homes across the last several decades... although this one did have one or two unusual details which made it stand-out. Around her abdomen three identical circular abrasions in a V-shape marked her flesh. Inflicted post-mortem, they had been made using “a manufactured item” of unknown origin. They’re meaning was baffling, but as any sex worker will tell you, everyone has a strange sexual perversion; whether pain, pee or poo; tickling, smearing or strangling; some like feet, food, feathers and some like to inflict scars. It was an odd quirk, possibly accidental, which didn’t match any other cases the police had ever seen. Found with her legs splayed, it was difficult to determine if sex had taken place, but the pathologist had hypothesised that her attacker may have raped her using a wooden coat-hanger. Potentially being impotent, it is not uncommon for rapists to only become aroused by pain, strangulation and death. And having fled without reporting his offence, again this wasn’t unusual among pimps and punters. The police investigation was headed up by Detective Superintendent Evan Davies who found more dead-ends than fresh-clues. With no witnesses, they had no description of the assailant or an accurate timeline leading up to her murder. They had fingerprints, but it matched no known felon in their files. The taxi-driver was found, but remembered little of this unremarkable fare. And being such a private woman who very few people knew, they interviewed her friends, canvassed her haunts and made a public appeal on the front page of Britain’s most prominent tabloid... but no-one came forward. Having exhausted every possible avenue of enquiry, the case stalled and ground to a halt. Given the evidence, there was a high possibility that this was a one-off; a random attack by a drunk who got violent with a prostitute over something as simple as money. And given the clandestine nature of sex-work, the likelihood is that the man who murdered Veronica would never be caught. No-one suspected that this was the first flattering step of a potential serial-killer. And why would they? That night, having headed back to the Union Jack Club at Waterloo Station (a hostel for servicemen), Michael destroyed his bloodstained suit and shirt, erasing key evidence, and although the murder had briefly appeared in the newspapers, by the time that New Year had passed, it had been forgotten. Even Michael Douglas Dowdall thought that he had got away with murder... ...but this motive which caused him to kill would be awakened once again. The little drummer boy had served in the 1st Battalion of the Welsh Guards for almost four years. Being one of the lowest ranks, the boy was mercilessly bullied for being little, weak and Welsh. Michael: “my Army mates think I’m queer. So, I have a drink, and then I feel better and more important”. To prove his manhood; he drank, smoked and shagged to excess and unconsciousness. It was a fruitless mission which only made him look foolish and - far exceeding his pitiful wage - he needed another scheme. It seemed innocent enough – to pay his fellow soldiers to scrub his shirts and bull his boots to a high mirror shine for a few shillings a time – and the more the squaddies earned, the quicker Michael’s bullying ceased. No-one knew where he was getting the money from and nobody bothered to ask... ...but this money-making scheme helped to sow the seeds of a potential serial-killer. Many times, Michael went AWOL from the barracks at Pirbright and Chelsea, but this wasn’t just to sink some suds or dip his dirty wick inside a prozzie - this was part of his second career as a burglar. It seems almost unconceivable when you look at him; given his head shaped like a doughy little egg, popped with two dim dots for eyes and a set of ears like a crashed mini-cab with the doors wide open. And being too big for his weasily little body, at best he resembled a mixing-bowl spoon. It’s laughable that this boy was even considered a soldier, and being so unthreatening, he didn’t look like a burglar. But maybe that was it? Being small and weak, no-one suspected him. As the mark of every successful serial-killer isn’t the sadistic nature of their crimes, but how – in ordinary life – they seem to blend in. Across 1958 and 1959, this teenage tearaway committed a spree of at least twenty brazen burglaries in the more affluent parts of London, including Mayfair, Chelsea, Knightsbridge and Fulham. On Saturday 10th October 1959, at the exclusive Westbury Hotel at 37 Conduit Street in Mayfair, having wandered the corridors, he gained access to the penthouse suite, costing a whopping £35 per night. It’s occupant, who was in Paris that day with his wife Benita was the Hollywood actor George Sanders. Michael “I did not know it was the Hartnell Suite until I came out and saw it written across the door”. Having ransacked the drawers, he stole an undetermined stash of ladies’ jewels, a bottle of whiskey, a tube of toothpaste “I liked the taste of it... it belonged to George Sanders”, and having stolen a pair of George’s shoes, he left behind a pair of his own size sevens outside the door, which – seeing that “they looked like they had been through a mangle” – the service staff promptly had them polished. Having fled - feeling either a sense of guilt or knowing that one item in particular was too hot to handle - “I was going to send a bracelet back, but I threw it in the river”. As far as we know, it’s still there. When police investigated the scene, they had no witnesses to the crime and no description of the burglar, but his fingerprints did match those of a known sneak-thief who operated in the local area. His actions may seem harmless, even comical, but it was lucky that George & Benita were not there that night, as although petty theft was Michael’s motive, when confronted, he also had a sadistic side. One week later, on Sunday 18th October 1959, he broke in via a small window at the rear of 4 Skinner Place, at the back of Sloane Square. It was a small Victorian brown-bricked terrace sat in a dark unlit alley and was the home of 71-year-old seamstress Annie Belcher, who was fast asleep in her bed. As he ransacked every drawer and cupboard for valuables, the noise startled Annie and she began to scream, hollering so loud that it startled her neighbours Eric & Joyce Christmas at house number 1. Panicked and angered at his plans being thwarted, Michael repeatedly beat the defenceless old lady over her head with a cast-iron fire-poker, leaving her for dead. Rushed to St George’s hospital with a fractured skull, a broken wrist and her face so swollen she risked losing her eye, Annie returned home one week later to stay with her daughter, and – at least physically – she would make a good recovery. As before, although he had stolen nothing, he had left behind fingerprints matching the sneak thief. On Wednesday 21st November 1959, one month later, Michael broke into the home of William Sloane, an Australian businessman living on Markham Street in Chelsea. Thankfully, neither he nor his family were in, so no-one got hurt, but – as before – the burglar had left behind his fingerprints; stealing a clock, a pair of gloves, several bottles of gin and vermouth worth £10, several packs of cigarettes, and a distinctive red-and-white lighter emblazoned with the words and logo of ‘Texas Gulf Sulphur Co’. The police had no idea who this prolific burglar was. Having heard that his name was possibly ‘Mick’ and that he was either a local labourer or a West End musician, they canvassed the building sites and nightclubs and interviewed hundreds of men, but drew a blank. His description was vague; he was aged between mid-twenties to mid-thirties, he was slim to slightly-built, his height was “not short, but not tall”, and – possibly owing to political upset – many said he was Irish, when actually he was Welsh. In fact, the only detail they got right was that ‘Mick’ had a long scar down the right side of his nose. But who was he? The fingerprints found in almost all of the twenty-or-so burglaries he committed, matched those found at the murder scene of Veronica Murray, but they didn’t match any known felon in the police’s files. His MO was often similar; he stole saleable items like jewels, cigarettes and alcohol; when disturbed he would inflict a high level of violence whether by bludgeoning or strangulation, and in some cases, he marked their thighs and abdomens with three circles in a V-shape using “a item” of unknown origin. By November 1959, eleven months after the unsolved murder of Veronica Murray, having attributed at least twenty known burglaries and assaults to the man known only as ‘Scarface Mick’, Scotland Yard would launch “one of the largest man hunts” since 10 Rillington Place killer - John Reginald Christie. Police knew he had murdered one woman, and believed he had also killed five more... ...but uncertain of his exact description, Michael Douglas Dowdall was free to attack again. The date was Saturday 10th October 1959, barely a few hours after the burglary of George Sanders’ hotel room. The location was four-and-a-half-miles south-west in Fulham. And the victim’s name was Mabel Jean Hill; a 34-year-old divorced mother-of-three living in a ground-floor flat at 5 Ismailia Road. As a busy single-parent to Alan, Leslie and Jean, all aged between six and twelve, once in a blue-moon she rightfully felt she deserved a night-off, especially as that night was her birthday. As planned, she met her friends for drinks in Streatham, she went shopping with her mother in the West End, she had dinner in a good pub, went to the cinema, and caught the last tube out of Leicester Square station. Carrying bags of presents, as she stood on the southbound platform of the Piccadilly line tube, a young man with a babyish face asked her for a light. Given his slight slurring, it was clear he had been drinking and although his white overcoat was a little tatty, his shoes were unmistakably shiny and expensive. “Where you going?”, he asked, beaming a smile to this lady almost twice his age. “Home”, she politely piped, wisely giving him nothing more, but for him that was enough. Joining her in the carriage, for the rest of the journey he spoke about his Army career, the band and he said his name was Mick. And although she spotted the scar on his nose, his description was still days away from being in the papers. Hoping to lose her unwelcome admirer, Mabel changed at Earl’s Court, bidding him a polite goodbye. Only he continued his conversation, following her onto the southbound District Line train to Fulham. Again, she tried to shake off this little pest at Fulham Broadway, but he followed her out of the station and onto the deserted street, all the while rambling on about how he should come back to hers for “a coffee, or something”. It was 1am, the last bus had gone and with no taxis in sight, he persistently matched her step-for-step; south down Waterford Road and Harwood Road, west along New King’s Road, dog-licking onto Wandsworth Bridge Road and – after 25 minutes, during which he had tried to kiss her twice – she turned onto the unlit gloom of Ismailia Road, with Michael a few feet behind her. Opening the door to her ground-floor flat at 5 Ismailia Road, Mabel “I went in. He came in too. I said I did not want him in because it was late. He said he just wanted a cup of coffee and then he would go”. Wanting him to leave, to Mabel, a quick cuppa must have seemed like a harmless solution... ...but then again, everybody makes mistakes. Having seated her unwelcome guest at the kitchen table, she put on the kettle and popped into the bedroom to check on her three children, who were all fast asleep. For what must have seemed like an interminably long time; they sat, he talked and she waited for the coffee in his cup to be finished. But barely a few minutes in - without any provocation from Mabel - he removed his shirt and his jumper. Mabel “I told him to put the things on and go home... that’s the last thing I can remember”. It’s unlikely that this was a planned robbery or a premeditated murder, but as often happened in the sadistic mind of this fledgling serial-killer was that - with the sexual advances having been rejected – maybe his tears welled, his lips quivered, a tantrum sparked and his hate-fuelled violence erupted? Having grabbed a pair of stockings off the radiator, wrapping them both around her thin white neck, with his knuckles tight he pulled both ends, and – before she could even emit a decent scream to call out for help – Michael strangled Mabel on the floor, straining until she drifted into unconsciousness. Fixing the knot behind her head, as the nylons twisted about her crucifix, the sadistic maniac savagely ripped at her clothes until her pale white thighs and abdomen were exposed. And just as he had done with Veronica Murray, he could do something truly unimaginable to her body, which was now all his. Only, in his mission to mutilate Mabel, Michael had forgotten about three little things... ...her children. Disturbed by a brief but blood-curdling scream, dressed in just their pyjamas, 12-year-old Alan tiptoed from the bedroom followed by 11-year-old Joan and 7-year-old Leslie. Having fled, her assailant was nowhere to be seen and – thankfully - no danger to the children. But seeing their half-naked mother lying on the kitchen floor, her legs splayed and her head swollen and purple – terrified and unsure what to do – they ran into the Ismailia Street screaming “come quickly, we can’t wake up mummy”. Patrick Mahoney, their next-door neighbour cut the stockings, called the Police, Mabel was taken by ambulance to St Stephen’s Hospital, and being - saved by her children – she made a good recovery. The investigation was headed-up by Detective Inspector Peter Vibart of Chelsea Police Station. Questioning Mabel from her hospital bed, she bravely gave a solid description of a five-foot-seven-inch baby-faced Irish or Welshman called Mick, who was a heavy-drinking chain-smoking drummer in an Army band in the West End. She even remembered the long-scar down the right side of his nose. Robbery was ruled-out as a motive, as the only item he stole was a half-bottle of whiskey, but forensics did find several sets of fingerprints on a blue-patterned coffee cup, a cigarette tin and two milk bottles. Although (in this case at least) they could never determine why he had touched a wooden coat-hanger. Examined in hospital, the most startling aspect of the case were the marks on Mabel’s body. Made by a “manufactured item” of unknown origin, in several places were found a set of circular abrasions in a strange ‘V-shape’, as well as similar marks on her stomach, her chest and her feet. What they meant? He didn’t know, and not being part of the original investigation one year earlier at 58 Charteris Road, he had never seen anything like this before. But having contacted Kilburn Police, now he had a match. The notorious sneak-thief known only as ‘Scarface Mick’ was – without any doubt – the same sadistic maniac who had murdered Veronica Murray and had attempted to kill Annie Belcher and Mabel Hill. One of London’s largest man-hunts had been launched with Police working in shifts, but who he was remained a mystery? They had fingerprints and witnesses, but what they didn’t have was a name. So, who was he? Trawling through an extensive history on ‘Scarface Mick’, DI Vibart noted that = after 21st November 1959 - several assault victims had stated that ‘Mick’, who was a heavy-smoker, had used a distinctive red-and-white lighter emblazoned with ‘Texas Gulf Sulphur Co’, as stolen from William Sloane’s home. It seemed a long-shot, but desperate for any fresh-clues, a photo of the lighter was published in the newspapers. Having been sold for five shillings to a guardsman at the Welsh Guards Camp, on the 24th November 1959, just two days after Mabel’s attack, Michael Douglas Dowdall was arrested. (End) Interviewed at Chelsea Police Station, Michael came across as cocky and arrogant; a remorseless thief who stole to feed a petty addiction to drink and sex, and who was AWOL from his barracks at the time. Without any emotion, he confessed and was charged with several counts of burglary and theft. At that moment, he must have thought he had got away with murder, pleading to few light offences which could – if convicted – lead to a few months in prison. But the burglary charges were just a ploy, as the second he admitted to those robberies, that evidence would directly implicate him elsewhere. That same day, DCI Acott stated "In addition to housebreaking, we are investigating several serious offences I believe you committed in Chelsea, Fulham and Kilburn". At which, Michael’s face dropped and he gave a full confession stating “it is when I drink, I do these things. I am all right when I am sober. It has been worrying me for a long time. I am so glad it is all over ". Assessed by Dr Archibald D Leigh of Bethlehem Hospital, Michael was described as a ‘psychopath’ and a ‘sexual pervert’. In a two-day trial held in Court One of the Old Bailey, he pleaded not guilty to murder, but guilty to manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility. With the death penalty soon to be abolished, on 20th January 1960, Michael Douglas Dowdall was sentenced to life. Having served fifteen years in prison, suffering a lung infection and chronic hepatitis, in July 1975 he was released on licence, but died on 10th November 1976 at the Royal Free Hospital, aged just 36. Outside of Veronica Murray, Annie Belcher and Mabel Hill, he never confessed to any further murders or attempted murders, although the Police believed that he may have killed as many as five. So, was he just fledgling serial-killer in the making... or a fully-fledged sadist with many victims undiscovered? OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, for those of you who enjoy wondering how many cakes a fat bald man can stuff into his mouth without swallowing, join me after the break for a little quiz and some extra details in Extra Mile. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporter, who is Lesley M – ooh, very mysterious. I thank you for supporting the show and a thank you to everyone who continues to listen to and support Murder Mile. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
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Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-FOUR:
Today’s episode is part one of two about 19-year-old Michael Douglas Dowdall. Described as a pathetic little mummy’s boy, his early crimes didn’t just set out to prove his bullies wrong, they also became the first faltering steps of - potentially - a fledgling serial-killer.
THE LOCATION
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SOURCES: As this case was researched using the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode is part one of two about 19-year-old Michael Douglas Dowdall. Described as a pathetic little mummy’s boy, his early crimes didn’t just set out to prove his bullies wrong, they also became the first faltering steps of - potentially - a fledgling serial-killer. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 154: The Sadistic Little Drummer Boy – Part One. Today I’m standing on Charteris Road in Kilburn, NW6; right in the middle of the St John’s Wood home of Teddy Sieff where Carlos the Jackal botched his first assassination, the Harlesden house where 8-year-old Peter Buckingham took his last gasp, the Cricklewood Arms pub where Stephen Holmes met the ‘Kindly Killer’, and an unsolved attack by another potential ‘Ripper’ - coming soon to Murder Mile. Charteris Road is lovely little residential street comprising of two long-lines of two storey terraces from the 1920’s and 30’s. It’s very quiet and very orderly, with a smattering of silver birch trees, the road carefully marked with white lines to denote who parks where and when, with a covered bicycle rack which is almost certainly chock full of Brompton’s. There’s no noise, no kids, no smells and no mess. The worst crimes you could imagine happening on this street might be a yappy little rat incessantly yipping for its millionth morsel that minute of roast-chicken tit-bits, a 90-inch TV briefly blurting too loudly and risking the neighbours knowing that they watch trashy shite like Love Island, something plastic being put in the glass recycling bin, or – scandalously - an Acado delivery replacing their beloved avocadoes with tins of baked beans. And not the good ones but the cheapo own brand. Oh, the shame. But every street has its dark secrets, and this street is no different. At 58 Charteris Road sits a nice two-storey terraced-house; with cream brick walls, white window sills, a thin front garden reserved for three bins, and a UPVC entrance door to the right. It’s currently someone’s home, but back in 1958, this was a lodging house. On the first floor was a bed-sitting room occupied by a new tenant named Veronica Murray, but being new to the area, almost no-one knew her name, her occupation, her history, or anything else about her life. She was a mystery. And yet, her death would become almost as mysterious as her life itself. As it was here, on Friday 19th December 1958 that her body was found. And although it asked more questions than it answered, it also marked the fledgling steps of a potential serial-killer. (Interstitial) (Michael) “My mates think I’m queer, I’ve tried to show them they’re wrong about me, I really have... but they always make me feel like I’m a nobody, a nothing. Well, I’ll show them, won’t I?”. It’s hard to tell what made Michael into a sadistic little monster; maybe it was the bullying, maybe it was the trauma, perhaps his appearance, possibly a crossed-wire in his genetic make-up, or maybe it was a mixture of them all? This is not to excuse his actions, as everybody’s life has challenges, but it’s how we choose to embrace these trials, which either shapes us for the better or for the worse. Michael Douglas Dowdall, known as ‘Mick’ was born on the 12th December 1940; fifteen months into the Second World War and three months into an eight-month-long blitz, a time of trauma and death. Gestated in the terrified womb of a lone woman whose husband was a British Army captain serving overseas, Michael entered this world to the persistent bang of bombs, as the hospital violently shook. Right into his adulthood, Michael would always look like a baby. With a stick-thin body perched above an oversized head, a mop of Charlie Brown hair, a set of sticky out ears and his skin the hue of stale porridge, although for some this youthfulness would be a blessing, for Michael, it was a curse. Raised as the youngest of two sons to a struggling-mother, Michael never knew his father and he never would, as Captain Dowdall was killed-in-action when the boy was barely one. With no memory of the man whose loss made his mother weep, it left a void in his life, but one he could never explain. Uprooted from a nice cottage in Uckfield (Sussex) to a lodging house in Paddington in West London, he was desperate to be the hero his father once was, but Michael was no military man. Being small, weak and prone to outbursts of tears, the little boy spent his early years clinging to his mummy’s leg. Without a father-figure to guide him, to admonish him or to rain him in, although his mother did her very best by herself; he resented his school, his teachers, and – being persistently bullied for looking and acting like a ‘baby’ – by the age of six-and-a-half, he was referred to a child care officer, owing to his volatile outbursts, his hysterical moods, his cruelty to animals and his uncontrollable violence. Mocked for being a mummy’s boy, he always felt he had to prove himself to the bigger boys. And yet, barely held together by a single speck of stability, that was about to vanish forever. In 1948, when he was only eight, his mother died. With both parents’ dead, once again he was uprooted from the big city of London to his aunt’s house in the remote mining village of Llanhilleth, near Abertillery in Wales. Michael was now a foreigner in his own family; surrounded by relatives he barely knew, in a place he had never lived, hearing a language he didn’t understand, and again, at school, this fragile little boy was mercilessly bullied for being an outcast and a nobody. And after a vicious fight where the length of his nose was slashed with a knife, he would forever be given the nickname of ‘Scarface Mick’. But no matter how hard his Aunt Alice tried, it was like Michael was driven to bring misery and pain. During his turbulent teenage years, twice he had tried to burn his aunt’s house to the ground. He often drank himself insensible going drink-for-drink with the men, like he had something to prove. Like a little magpie, he persistently stole anything which wasn’t nailed down, not because he needed it, but because he wanted it. And as his hormones raged – feeling sexually inferior, as a late-bloomer who the girls rightly avoided – as his sexual aggression grew, his desperation led him to pay for sex. In his eyes, a man was defined by how much he drank, fought and fucked... ...but no matter what, Michael would always be a baby. Not just because of his boyish body and a cherubic face, but because of his actions. Always bragging about his conquests, if anyone dared not to believe him? Tears welled, lips quivered, a tantrum sparked and a hate-fuelled violence erupted. In 1955, having left school, 15-year-old Michael Dowdall joined the 3rd Company of the 1st Battalion of Welsh Guards; based out of Pirbrlght in Surrey, and later at the Chelsea Barracks in West London. Having enlisted in the military (as his late father had) this should have been the making of him. Earning an honest wage, learning new skills and being mentored by a flank of disciplined father-figures, this wild little boy could easily have been modelled into a good little man... only the rot had already set in. Being a drummer boy - a role far from the fight of his heroic father and one of the lowest ranks in the battalion’s band - being surrounded by bigger boys, this only increased his anxieties. His commanding officer Lt Col Mansell Miller described him in court as “a bit odd... the boy had delusions of grandeur despite being small and weak”. Few knew him, even less liked him, and because of that, he was bullied. The torment would be so merciless, that in 1956, aged 16, he tried to hang himself in the guardroom. During the three years he spent in the Welsh Guards, he often went AWOL, disappearing from his duty to visit sex-workers in the West End. On his 18th birthday, he convinced three other guardsmen to join him for a few celebratory drinks at a hotel in Guildford, and although they only sunk a few beers to be polite - unable to reign-in his desperation - he sank three pints of gin and had to be carried home. Michael: “my Army mates think I’m queer. So, I have a drink, and then I feel better and more important. Once I started the heavy drinking, I liked it and kept it up. When I was drunk, very drunk, I would try anything. I wasn’t fussy about what I did, or what woman I went with. It made me feel... different”. Routinely mocked by squaddies for being a baby-faced mummy’s boy, he began paying the others to wash his shirts and to clean his boots. No-one knew where he was getting the money from, but seeing him less as a target and more of an extra income, the bullying stopped and it made him feel superior. For Michael, he had finally found a way to prove his masculinity... ...but what the soldiers didn’t know was that they had helped sow the seeds of a potential serial-killer. It’s unlikely that Michael knew much about his first victim, as very few people did. Veronica Murray was born in the Northern Irish town of Londonderry in or about 1927; she was raised a devout Catholic and she was educated at a convent, but – for whatever reason – she didn’t stay. Why she left, we shall never know; maybe she was fleeing an abusive father, maybe she was kicked-out having had sex out of wedlock, or maybe this was an act of rebellion against her strict upbringing? It’s hard to pin down exactly who Veronica was, as she changed her age to suit her needs, and although vivacious and chatty, many people knew her, but not well. She was personable but kept a professional distance, she rarely spoke about her private life, and she was mostly known as Ronnie or Monica. On an unspecified date in 1958, 31-year-old Veronica moved to London, seeking work in West End clubs. Being a fashionable lady with a neatly-coiffured brunette bob, Paris eyebrows and a thick set of red lips - she had a hint of the Hollywood star about her. So, it’s not surprising that she found work as night-club hostess... and yet, she also worked as a sex-worker. Police would later confirm that she had a criminal record for soliciting, but she didn’t turn to prostitution owing to desperation or addiction. Sex-work was a conscious choice; she chose the hours, the places and the punters. She was financially astute enough to spend and save her money well, hence she was always immaculately dressed. But also, she had the foresight to be able to afford her own rented flat at 58 Charteris Road in Kilburn. It was only small, but this first-floor front-facing bedsit was perfect. Perched on a residential street, it was the perfect space for such a private person, but it also afforded her the privacy to her bring clients back home, which is why neither her landlord nor any of the other lodgers knew very much about her. Being far from a shrinking wallflower, life in the big city didn’t scare Veronica, as she had street-smarts, she was savvy and she was cautious. She was chatty enough to make even the most nervous of men feel calm, but also, she had the confidence to stand her own ground when they got rough with her. Veronica was in a dangerous world where she knew how the handle herself... ...but then again, everybody makes mistakes. It was the bitterly cold winter’s night of Monday 15th December 1958. There was no snow, but typically it was cold and wet, as Veronica stood to the side of Trafalgar Square. This was a regular pick-up point for horny punters being conveniently situated near pubs, hotels, a train station and several theatres. Nearby, a Salvation Army band made merry music, the bells of St Martin’s rang, chestnuts (of dubious origin) slowly roasted in an old steel drum as (allegedly) mulled-wine was hocked from a cask, and the city was blessed with a Christmassy feel now that all of the war-time rationing was well-and-truly over. At an unspecified hour, in or near to midnight, Veronica was approached by a punter. He was just a boy, no bigger than Veronica but easily a few stones lighter. With a weak little body and a babyish face, he was barely out of his teen; but was desperate to act like a Billy Big Bollocks bragging about all of his sexual conquests... and yet, experience had told her, it was most likely his first time, Dressed in civvies, although he claimed to be in the Welsh Guards, with his dark suit and starched shirt hanging-off his weasily little frame like a sack of spuds, the best he could be was as a drummer boy. (Michael) “I had been drinking in the West End and I got very drunk”, he would later state. To Veronica, this would have been obvious given his slurred speech and staggering limbs, so perhaps she didn’t see this tipsy little boy with a boner as a threat? Maybe, he was easy money? She had been with pathetic little man-babies many times before, so it’s highly likely – having paid his £1 – he would struggle to raise his pointless little pecker, or as a two-pumps-and-a-squirt-merchant, he’d fart and fall asleep. “I picked up a prostitute in Trafalgar Square. She called a taxi and I remember she gave an address as somewhere in Kilburn”. The journey took 30 minutes, as the cab rode past Hyde Park and up Edgware Road. In his nasal Welsh drone, maybe Michael tried to impress her with a few bullshit tales, at which - being professional - she smiled. But so unmemorable was the journey, that during the investigation it was almost impossible for the Police to track down the driver, as to him, it was just a regular fare. Sometime after midnight, the cab pulled up at 58 Charteris Road. He paid the agreed amount, they entered the house, and both Michael and Veronica were quiet, as neither of the other tenants nor the landlord on the ground-floor heard them. “We got to her house and climbed the stairs to her room”. It was a small clean room with a floral double-bed, a wardrobe brimming with fashionable clothes, a neat dresser covered with curling tongs, brushes and a fine array of cosmetics, with a coin-operated meter for both the lights and the gas-heater, and on the mantelpiece for a fire which no longer existed lay a few personal possessions – some photos, a postcard, a trinket, and a pair of pink ornamental dumb-bells weighing 6lbs each. What they meant to her isn’t known but clearly, they held importance. According to his statement, “I had sex with her and went to sleep”, and that was that. But how much of that was true? When questioned, Michael Dowdall would state “when she woke me up, we had a row over something and she called me a ‘filthy little Welsh bastard’”. Only nobody heard a fight. “I threw a vase at her. I believe it smashed”. Which was true, but no-one knows how it smashed or when. “She came at me and hit me with something on the back of the neck and head, and scratched my nose and eyes”, but by the time he was interviewed, no marks or scars could be seen. So already, his statement had gaps. “I rushed at her, and I knocked her down and then grabbed an ornament off the mantlepiece and hit her on her head or face. I think she was half-getting up, I pulled her onto the bed and I remember chucking some clothes over her. I took a bottle of whiskey and then I left the place”. But why? Did she mock his tiny manhood, did he struggle to sexually perform, was this simply a bungled robbery, or did this man-baby erupt into an uncontrollably violent tantrum, because he couldn’t get his own way? “I went back to the Union Jack Club and went to sleep”. His stay at the serviceman’s hostel at Waterloo Station was proven, although this would suggest he was sober enough to travel back from a place he never knew, and begs the question, how he could have slept having inflicted such a level of violence. “When I woke up, I found blood on my hands, my shirt and suit. I chucked the shirt away in the dustbin having tried to wash it, and I sent the suit to the cleaners. A day or two afterwards, I read in the newspapers that a prostitute had been found murdered in Kilburn, and I knew I had killed the woman”. It seems likely, so perhaps this was an accident? Or maybe - for the most immature reason imaginable – his tears welled, his lips quivered, a tantrum sparked and his hate-fuelled violence erupted... ...marking this as one of the first-fledgling steps of a potential serial-killer? By Friday 19th December 1958, a girl-friend of Veronica’s had grown concerned, as no-one had seen or heard from her for five days, neither at the nightclubs she worked at nor on the Soho sex scene. At 6pm, she phoned the Turkish landlord of 58 Charteris Road – a man named Ratomir Tasic. He assumed that he wasn’t in; as the lights were off, the room was cold and the door was locked from the outside. But using his master key to gain entry, the inside of her room told a very different story. Drawers were opened, contents were scattered, and although the room was in disarray, nothing of any real value had been taken, except maybe a bottle of whiskey, to either be drank, sold or traded? On the bed, partially obscured by sheets lay a woman’s body, all silent and still. Her skin was sickly pale yet mottled with patches of purple, as the excitable buzz of flies and wriggle of maggots formed amidst the sheets caked with blood, and within the impacted recess of her very obvious wounds. Veronica had been dead for five days maybe six, but exactly what time she died - whether as she was going to bed, or just getting up - was impossible to tell, owing to her clothes. Sprawled across the bed, with both legs splayed, she lay naked except for her brown pullover, which had been partially pulled up over her head, as if her killer no-longer wanted to see into the black haemorrhages of her bloodshot eyes, but instead, he dreamed of doing something unimaginable to her body, which was now all his. What the pullover hid was what ultimately ended her life. From the mantlepiece, he had grabbed one of the pair of pink ornamental dumb-bells, made from heavy cast iron and weighing 6lbs a piece. One had remained untouched and clean, but the other lay on the floor, matted with her hair and dripping with her blood, as with the uncontrolled force of a petulant anger, he had bludgeoned her senseless, inflicting six wounds to her forehead and multiple fractures to her cracked and crushed skull. “I knocked her down and hit her on her head or face. She was half-getting up and then I left the place”. As her face swelled, fluid constricted her skull and the pressure forced her eyes to protrude from their sockets, a brain haemorrhage would have taken several agonising minutes for Veronica to die. But had her killer been so panicked at his actions, if this had been merely an accident? He wouldn’t have had the presence of mind to switch off the lights, to lock the door, and do what he did to her next. For this, he was calm, steady and in a state or either arousal or enjoyment. With steady hands, he had inflicted a most unusual wound. Around her thighs and abdomen were three identical marks, a set of circular abrasions on her skin, which formed an intricate v-shape. What it meant? We don’t know. What he had used? That was missing, but noted pathologist Dr Donald Teare concluded that they were not bite marks, but made by “a manufactured item with a flat end”. They made no sense, but one detail was certain. As each mark had occurred post-mortem, her killer hadn’t fled in panic. Instead, he had waited in that room with her body; and calmly inflicted each wound, either after her death, or as she lay dying, as the terrified woman helplessly lay there; her body bleeding, her eyes fixed and unable to breathe or scream – the mark of a true sadist. (End) The investigation was headed up by Detective Superintendent Evan Davies of Scotland Yard. The room was preserved for evidence and a set of fingerprints (other than Veronica’s) had been found; one on a teacup suggesting she had invited her killer in, and one on a bloodied coat-hanger, which was never conclusively proven, but he may have inserted it inside her. The fingerprints were examined, but they did not prove to be match to anyone with a criminal record, and neither did the MO of this murder. With no witnesses to the crime, being a sex-worker who kept herself-to-herself and a Northern Irish woman who was new to the area, Police contacted her friends and family but drew a blank. In the Christmas Eve edition of the Daily Mirror, Police posted her picture on the front-page pleading “did you see this woman?”, but with no witnesses, this produced no suspects and the investigation went cold. 19-year-old Michael Douglas Dowdall was an unlikely suspect, being small, weak and baby-faced. With no prior convictions, this nobody had never come to the attention of the Police, therefore he was not on their radar; not even for theft or assault. But within this little boy lurked the heart of a sadist. (Michael) “My mates think I’m queer, I’ve tried to show them they’re wrong about me, I really have... but they always make me feel like I’m a nobody, a nothing. Well, I’ll show them, won’t I?”. Veronica Murray was his first, but more victims would feel the wrath of the sadistic little drummer boy. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, for those of you who love hearing cake-crumbs fall from a fat man’s mush, while he waffles on about stuff n things, join me after the break for a little quiz and some extra details in Extra Mile. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, who are Barbara Anderson, Zoe Taylor and Julian Barnes. I thank you all for supporting the show and I hope you’ve received your goodies. With a special thank you to Bernadette H and an anonymous friend for your kind donation via the Supporter link. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. Archives
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