Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, 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.
Falmouth House on the Bayswater Road / Hyde Park Place
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 NINETY-SIX:
This is Part Two of Two of In Too Deep. On Tuesday 12th March 1968, at 11:10am, a gang of incompetant robbers staged a home invasion of the Flat 35 at Falmouth House, the home of a wealthy stockbroker and his pregnant wife. Having badly under-estimated his wealth, they set about trying to sell the last item of his worth anything - his car. But what starts as a simple robbery, ends in a horrific double murder.
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
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 is marked with a bright green raindrop above the words 'The Serpentine'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing outside of Falmouth House, opposite Hyde Park, W2. At 11:10am on Tuesday 12th March 1968, three inexperienced robbers forced their way into Flat 35, a stylish apartment owned by wealthy stockbroker Michael O’Carroll and his pregnant wife Janet. As an ill-conceived heist by an out-of-work dance teacher, swimming instructor and a trainee football coach who hadn’t disguised their identities – with the robbery having backfired – they had no Plan B. Expecting a pay-out of £20-30,000 (quarter of a million pounds today), they had made just £220, of which they had to refund £10 to their increasingly narked fence; the stockbroker was broke, his bank account was deeply in debt, his wife’s Mini was unsellable, and all that was left was a 4-year-old Lancia. Splitting their miniscule haul; Dave paid off his rent, Mike stayed in a hotel and Ray got the brakes on his dodgy car fixed, but now they risked lengthy prison sentences for robbery, fraud and kidnapping. These were not hardened criminals with a masterplan, they were three incompetents without a clue what to do; they had been seen by the porters (“what flat do you want?”, “Flat 35, O’Carroll”), they had earned almost nothing, they had touched almost everything, they were stuck with two hostages who knew their names, and - having barely slept a wink in almost 36 hours - nothing made any sense. At 2:45pm, Dave Bolton got Michael O’Carroll to call his work stating: “I won’t be back today, Jan’s not feeling great”. Therefore, no-one would know the couple were being held hostage for at least a day. Leaving Mike Ellis and Dave ‘the man with the plan’ to work out what to do next, Ray Cohen left at 4pm, got the Lancia, met a girlfriend on King’s Road, he watched Chelsea beat Sheffield Wednesday, and at 10pm, leaving their leader behind, Ray: “Dave suggested that Mike & I took the car to Glasgow”. And as Ray & Mike drove 390 miles to sell the stolen car in Scotland… …these inept hoods left behind a trail of evidence… …and a horrific double murder. The nearly-new Lancia roared up the dark-lit motorway; with Ray driving, Mike napping and these two buddies for barely a few months swapping over between loo-breaks and hot snacks in roadside cafes. Ray struggled a bit with the gears of this Italian sportscar as when he slipped from third to fourth, they crunched, but then again, this sleek shiny chick-magnet was far superior to his rusty old death-trap. This was a 1964 Lancia Flavia two-door convertible; able to do nought to sixty in 10.8 seconds with a top speed of 125mph, it was purchased new four years before for £1900 (£40000 today). Being in mint condition with leather seats, they could flog off this second-hand motor for a third of its price, maybe £600 making them £200-a-piece – which wasn’t great, but then it wasn’t terrible, and neither was it nothing. And unlike Janet’s Mini, they wouldn’t have a problem selling it – as having the car’s log-book, the proof of ownership and Michael’s driving licence – either man could easily pass as the owner. In the early hours of Wednesday 13th March, Ray & Mike arrived in Glasgow. As before, their mission would be simple, but – from the start - their inexperience and their immaturity would shine through. Ray would state: “we arrived and booked in at the Station Hotel facing Old Buchanan Street station. For reasons I did not know, Mike told me to book in as Mr O’Carroll. I can’t recall what name he used”. The pettiness of these squabbling felons is hard to fathom, as without a grown adult to smack the back of the legs and growl “no” when they played up, they acted two puppies who’d sprung the garden gate and were excitably running loose on a busy road, shitting everywhere and blaming the other. So, it’s not surprising that no-one mistook them for two robbers who would be wanted for kidnapping. Upon arrival, having checked-in under the names of ‘Cohen & Ellis’ (their real names) – which, let’s be honest, is equally as bad as using the name of the man they had robbed - although they were technically on-the-run, Ray & Mike treated themselves to a swanky hair-cut and a close shave at the hotel barbers. And as they sat back, neither man would realise till later, that they had dropped a large envelope containing the Lancia’s logbook, on the front of which was written the name ‘O’Carroll’. Thankfully their bacon was saved courtesy of the eagle-eyed receptionist who handed it back. At 11:30am, Ray took the Lancia to W Fraser, a car dealership. Ray: “Mr Fraser said he was interested in buying the car and I left him with the particulars”, which led to another stumbling block – they didn’t know whether Michael O’Carroll actually owned the car, or was paying it off in instalments. So, over the next few hours, Ray proceeded to call them on an hourly basis – as they performed a HP check. As you do when you’re on the run, Ray & Mike were as low-key and discrete as a drag queen drunkenly humping a Christmas tree. Via the hotel switchboard, they made numerous calls to London with Ray even calling his mummy to tell her he was okay. And at 6pm – as if this wasn’t suspicious enough – they checked out of the rather modest Station Hotel and moved into the more exclusive Central Hotel, because “it would look better to potential car buyers if we were in a classier place” – yeah, right. Having moved hotels – leaving a wealth of fingerprints which would later be identified by the Police – while the car-dealer checked the legal status of the Lancia, Ray & Mike went on a little spending spree. Ray later accused Mike of splashing-out: “he had a new suitcase, socks, shirts, ties, shoes and a three-piece suit”. And although it incensed him, he would later admit: “we had a few drinks at the bar… we went out to the cinema. After that, we went gambling at a casino called Chevalier. Mike lost £20 and I won £50”. Of course, when confessing your crime, it’s always good to brag about your Blackjack skills, but – conveniently for his alibi – his winnings matched the money he made by fencing the stolen loot. “We returned to the hotel and slept”, having spent a lot of money… but shed very little remorse. On Thursday 14th March, Ray & Mike went to Frasers and were thrilled to learn that it had passed the HP check. Only “he offered £520 and we wanted over £600”. Hitting a greedy impasse having rejected his offer, they took the Lancia to another Glasgow based car-dealer Ian Farr, who would piss on their plans when he dropped the bombshell “I’m not buying this, it’s a dog, the gearbox is shite”. And again, just like the Mini, they couldn’t sell the Lancia; this nearly-new but badly broken sportscar was now a dead-weight around their necks and it was drawing attention. Ray & Mike were 390 miles from home, and – of the £70 they had each made from the robbery - most of it they’d already spent. The whole thing had been an ill-conceived mess which had gone rotten from the start… …and now, it was about to get even worse. With the stolen car proving to be a bit of a hot potato in Glasgow, having telegrammed Dave with this less-than-glowing news, Ray: “Mike said he would take the car to Ireland, he asked ‘would I come?’ and I said ‘yeah, might as well’”. They had no contacts in the Irish city of Dublin, but having seen it in a holiday pamphlet, it looked nice, so they drove 86 miles south-west to the port of Stranraer. In truth, this half-witted heist had failed six months before it was mooted. Anything so audacious requires planning, but also a gang who have known each other for more than months or even weeks. But it was then – while sat inside of this unsellable Lancia – that Mike would drop another bombshell. Ray: “On arriving at Stranraer, Mike told me there was something I should know”. His face was pale and his eyes were wide. “He went to the boot of the car and he showed me a newspaper” it was a copy of that day’s Scottish Daily Express. It was a lengthy piece featuring a photo of Mr & Mrs O’Carroll; alongside several words he expected, like ‘Bayswater’, ‘Falmouth House’, ‘hostage’ and ‘robbery’… …but one word he did not – ‘murder’. The bodies of Mr & Mrs O’Carroll had been found by the Police in Flat 35; having been tied-up, gagged, stabbed and strangled. Fingerprints had been found and three men had been seen entering the flats. For Ray, he began to shake as he read further knowing his life as a free man was over. Only, one further fact shook him to his very core: “I knew immediately that I was mixed up with two murderers”. Having admitted it was he who had killed Janet Williams, Ray was now sat in the victim’s car alongside one of these slayers – who knew his name, his face, his address and - of their crime - he was an accomplice. Ray: “I was very shocked for quite a while, not knowing what to do. I decided in my own mind that I was going to somehow get back to London. I had to make sure that Mike didn’t know this, and – as he was hungry - we found a Chinese restaurant on the sea front and I tried to eat as calmly as possible”. Trying hard not to tremble as he shovelled chop suey with his chopsticks, although Ray was sat inches from Mike, it was clear that he was no more a cold-blooded killer than he was a criminal mastermind. In his words, they had no choice, as Mike would state: “she had seen everything, I had to strangle her”. That night, as they went to board the ferry at Stranraer, with both being spooked “we noticed that we were getting strange looks so we drove out of town”. Seizing the opportunity, Ray didn’t flee, he asked Mike straight: “I asked him to take me to Prestwick Airport. I was surprised that he had not minded doing this known fully well that I was intending to return to London” …and almost certainly the police. Catching the last flight out of Prestwick, Mike & Ray parted ways, Ray dumped the Lancia (as reported missing in the papers) in the airport car park and he caught a coach to Margate where he laid low. Ray’s return to London had left him with a deadly conundrum… …protect his cohorts by admitting only his part in the robbery but denying any knowledge of them, or their actions? Or, give them up, saving himself from possibly being charged with a double murder, only to risk the two killers hunting him down and harming him or his family for breaking his silence? His movements across Friday 15th March are as baffling as the robbery itself. Being a man who was worried for his safety and who – just one day before – had discovered that he had aided a double murder; “I went to Blazes in South Ken’… to the ABC cinema Fulham Road to see a film called ‘17’… the Villa Casino on Bayswater Road” - barely half a mile from the crime scene - “I played Blackjack and won £50. I went to the 45 Club on Cromwell Road and lost £110. And earlier, I had phoned my mother and she had told me that the police wanted to see me”. When asked why he hadn’t come straight to the police, Ray would state “I needed time to sort myself out and I was worried about Dave finding me”. Which – of course – could have been entirely true, or the mark of someone uncaring and inept? Typically for such a tragic tale of incompetence, Ray actually went to Scotland Yard to hand himself in, but as the desk sergeant didn’t know which station was handling the case, Ray simply walked out. But fearing for his life, Ray handed his old pal – Kuros – a slip of paper: “I wrote down the names ‘Dave Bolton’ & ‘Michael Ellis’, the two men involved in the murder on one of his cards and gave it to him on the understanding that if anything happened to me, he would disclose the names to the police”. On the morning of Saturday 16th March, Ray handed himself in at Paddington Police Station. Having been cautioned, almost everything you have heard – so far – has come from Ray Cohen’s confession. Thankfully, although the crime itself was wholly incompetent… …the investigation was swift and thorough. Barely an hour after it was dumped, a patrolling PC found Michael O’Carroll’s easily-identifiable Lancia at Abbotsinch Airport in Glasgow, containing more than thirty fingerprints of Ray Cohen and Mike Ellis. Of course, they could have torched the car erasing any trace of themselves – but they didn’t. That same day, a postman spotted a rucksack dumped outside of the John Knox Church at 34 Carlton Place in Glasgow, containing documents in the name of O’Carroll and Mike Ellis’s bloodstained suit. Of course, they could have dumped the bag in the Clyde River, barely ten feet away - but they didn’t. And yet, it was all academic, as the most damning evidence had already been discovered. At roughly 6pm on Wednesday 13th March, the phone rang again inside Flat 35, only no-one answered. Missing business calls and personal appointments, concerned colleagues and relatives had asked the porters (Albert Bryant & Joseph Buckley) to knock on the door, but outside the flat it was eerily silent. Oddly left uncollected, at the foot of the door lay a newspaper, a bottle of milk and a dozen eggs. The porters knocked, but got no reply. So, using their pass key, they entered Flat 35. With the heating left on, like in many other flats, the hallway was reassuringly warm as if the occupants were still in. It was as they had expected; shoes by the door, a hat on a stand, the Persian rug unruffled, and soft lights emanating from the lounge, the bathroom and both bedrooms at the end of the hall. But something was not right; as with no television, no radio and no chatter, the flat was devoid of life. As the porters traversed the long thin hallway, the only hint of disarray they saw was a broken mirror. Ahead lay the lounge. Entering this wide-open room, they saw a scene not too dissimilar those they had witnessed many times before in their careers as porters at Falmouth House. A stylish room dotted with seemingly the remnants of a party; several half-empty bottles of spirits, a few discarded glasses, unwashed dinner plates with the remnants of eggs, Rivita and a corn on the cob, and the ashtray full. With the record player on but the music long since finished, it wasn’t wrong to assume that a party had taken place, as being a popular couple, they’d hosted a little drinks soiree barely one week before. But as with all parties, not every detail made sense; as on the coffee table a wallet had been splayed, and on the sofa, a pair of nylon tights had been tied with hard knots and cut with something sharp. Whatever had happened here, the party-goers were long gone and all that remained was a ghost of a memory, as outside of the partially open French windows - overlooking Hyde Park - life carried on. Having followed the light to the bathroom, Joseph entered, but the pristine white room was empty and clean, with no signs of sickness or disturbance, and no sighting of its owners. It was then that – outside of the bathroom door - Albert spotted on the parquetted floor, a six-inch kitchen knife; a stainless-steel blade of the highest quality, glinting bright but with just its tip caked in a dried red goo. What it was? They could not tell, as neither man was a scientist, but it looked familiar and ominous. With soft lights spewing from the two remaining rooms, Albert & Joseph entered the opposing doors. Each stood by the bedroom door, but didn’t need to enter further to understand what had happened. Exiting, the silence of their lips and the wideness of their eyes told each other what was within. It was a sight unlike anything they would ever wish to see again, and something they could never unsee. At 6:45pm, PC’s Gillon & Brown attended an emergency call at Falmouth House, and called CID. The investigation was headed-up by Detective Chief Inspector John Bailey. With no signs of forced entry, the police initially thought the occupants had invited their killers home with them, but – with Michael in a business suit and Janet dressed to stay in – this didn’t seem right. With the drawers ransacked, documents laid out and personal affects clearly missing – for inexplicable reasons - these three robbers had waited inside the flat with their hostages. Unusually, there were no signs of assault in the lounge. In fact, treating them with kindness, their captors had provided drinks, meals and entertainment, even giving the pregnant woman extra cushions and trips to the bathroom. The relationship between the captors and hostages was initially cordial, but something had happened. There were no witnesses to this brutal double murder except for the killers themselves, as Ray had left to find the Lancia, and although the neighbours heard “loud noises” – no-one bothered to check. By 5pm, six hours into this hastily-concocted heist by half-wits, tension began to rise, as Dave realised that the massive pay-out of £20-30,000 was now little more than a pitiful £210, and an unsellable car. Had they made a mint, the risk would have been worth the reward, but as Michael & Janet O’Carroll stared-up at their captor (and former dance instructor); they knew his name, his face and his details. This bumbling fool and his gang of incompetents had no way out… except for the unthinkable. According to Ray: “Mike said it happened when Mr O’Carroll dashed for the service bell in the flat”, to alert the porters, “Dave put his hand round his neck and he had just collapsed. I then asked him what happened to the girl and he said that she had seen everything and that he had strangled her”. Later, Mike would deny killing her, and yet her blood would be found on the suit he had dumped in Glasgow. Only, the evidence would give a very different account of what happened to Michael & Janet. Most likely, being desperate for money, Dave had resorted to torture. With the newly-weds separated and moved to different bedrooms, on the beds both Janet & Michael were hog-tied and gagged with ties and tights. Unable to move and seeing nothing but the pillows below their faces - through the opposing doors of the hall - they could only hear each-others cries slightly muffled by the soft music. Playing his wife’s pain off against her husband’s agony, the more Michael professed that he had nothing else to give – as they had taken everything of value - the more they hurt her to hurt him. From barely twenty-feet away, he would have heard her cries and screams, but he could do nothing. Unable to comprehend that he had risked everything for such a pitiful sum of money, Dave grabbed a sharp carving knife from the kitchen, and – with Janet – face-down on the bed, he pressed the blade into the crook of her neck between her jaw and her left ear, piercing her soft flesh to make her squeal. The tip entered the muscle just one inch deep, but as blood poured down her neck, across her face and pooled about her nose and mouth, across the hallway Michael could hear her muffled screams. The woman he loved was terrified, choking and in agonising pain, and yet, still he could do nothing. Fearing that as a shrewd negotiator this veteran stockbroker would never give up, Dave turned his torture on Michael so that Janet could hear him hurt. She had always been a nice lady, kind and decent, so maybe – if she heard his screams - the lady with the baby in her belly would find a reason to live? Michael bled as Janet had, only the O’Carroll’s had nothing else to give… but their lives. No longer serving a purpose, both Michael & Janet were strangled to death with a scarf, but being left face-down on both beds and unable to move, they suffocated in a pool of their own blood. (End) With their fingerprints on file, a trail of evidence leading to their doors and Ray’s confession given at Paddington police station; Dave Bolton was arrested at his flat in South Tottenham and – although he denied knowing Mr & Mrs O’Carroll or his part in the robbery or murder; police found his notes from the Arthur Murray school in which he mentioned Michael & Janet, the £50 given to his landlord to pay his rent, and even though he had drycleaned the suit he wore that day – as if to mock his incompetence - his own wife had brought it to court for him to wear, and yet, it still had traces of his victim’s blood. One week later, Mike Ellis was arrested, having spent a week at the Butlin’s holiday camp in Margate. Having turned on each other, the police got statements from Ray & Mike, but with Dave acting like the ‘Big I Am’ and described as cocky throughout, all three were formerly charged with murder. Tried at the Old Bailey, it was unsurprising that such an inept gang would plead ‘not guilty’ given the wealth of evidence against them. With the trial split into two; Ray admitted to robbery and with his alibi being that he was at the football during the murder, he was sentenced to two years in prison. Owing to the evidence presented by Raymond Cohen, on the 22nd July 1968, David Bolton & Michael Ellis were found guilty of all charges. Dave Bolton was sentenced to 15 years for robbery, Mike Ellis to 12 years having pleaded guilty, and both were given life sentences for murder, to run concurrently. The robbery of Flat 35 should have been a simple home invasion, but being a half-baked heist by a band of incompetents with a hastily concocted plan to solve an easily rectifiable problem - being so inept and ill-equipped for such a petty crime – their idiocy had led to a brutal double murder… …and yet, even before they had entered the flat, all three men were already in too deep. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
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Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, 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.
Falmouth House as it looks today
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND NINE-ONE:
Back in 1968, Flat 35 on the fifth floor was a stylish two-bedroomed apartment owned by newly-weds; 53-year-old stockbroker Michael O’Carroll and 25-year-old model Janet Williams. Being a secure home, these flats have buzzers, intercoms, cameras, porters and service bells to ensure the residents safety. But on Tuesday 12th March 1968 - as many homes have - Flat 35 was burgled. It had been planned as a simple get in-grab it-and get out caper, so this should have been an easy job for the robbers. But being planned by a gang who were both inept and ill-equipped, their home invasion would turn from a hostage situation into a brutal double murder.
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
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 is marked with a bright green raindrop above the north side of Hyde Park. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on the Bayswater Road, W2; two streets east of the stabbing of Stanley Thurman, three streets south-east of the final night of Emmy Werner, a short walk from the torture of Vincent Keighrey, and three streets west of the dark secrets of Orme Court - coming soon to Murder Mile. Overlooking Hyde Park is Falmouth House; an eight-storey square-block of posh flats for the cash-rich and tax-shy, built in 1960. Made of brown brick with white sills and jutting balconies, it resembles the kind of place a sports pundit would put his feet up having spent ninety whole minutes telling millions what they’ve just seen, where a dodgy politician secretes the secretary he’s not so secretly shagging, and a slew of ‘proud to be British’ bankers who bonk their loot having bet that the Pound will collapse as yet another bafflingly inept Prime Minister of the Week cripples our currency by being utterly shit. Maybe one day we’ll hire an experienced business person to run Britain, rather than a self-obsessed careerist shitbag, who only wants to be leader because their Latin tutor at Eton called them an idiot? Back in 1960, Flat 35 – a two-bedroomed flat on the fifth floor with views of Hyde Park – cost £20000. Today, its selling for £3.3 million. Paying for the location but also to be secure; there are buzzers to let you in, keys to let you out, intercoms to screen any strangers, cameras to watch for weirdoes, a service bell for if you need help, and 24-hour porters who know the names and faces of every resident. In August 1967, two newly-weds, Michael O’Carroll, a stockbroker and Janet Williams, a model moved into Flat 35. This stylish apartment in a secure building in a well-to-do neighbourhood was to be their forever home, where they would nurture their happiness and love having planned to start a family. On Tuesday 12th March 1968 - as many homes have - their flat was burgled. But being a half-baked robbery by a band of incompetents with a hastily concocted plan to solve an easily rectifiable problem - being so inept and ill-equipped for such a petty crime – their idiocy would lead to a double murder. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 195: In Too Deep – Part One. A plan. It doesn’t need to be much to ensure it doesn’t go all arse-about-tit. It’s simple; a little research, some common sense, a dash of patience, a solid leader and a team with experience and skill. It’s not fool-proof, nothing is… but anything is better than three bumbling idiots of mind-numbing stupidity. Michael St John O’Carroll was a 53-year-old partner at Carroll & Co, a successful city stock-brokers. Being smart, confident and a risk-taker, his business was solid but (as the industry is) unpredictable. As a stylish gent’, he wore sharp suits from Saville Row, drove a flash silver Lancia convertible, ate in only the finest restaurants and holidayed on private islands. But unwilling to admit his age, as a shrewd negotiator who never showed weakness, he hid his balding head with a neat brown toupee. With his work having dominated his world, his family-life had suffered. In early 1967, having separated from his wife (Clare); he left behind their two sons aged 16 and 19, their home (a modern detached house in Arthur Road overlooking Wimbledon Park) and the divorce proceedings were pending. As a high-powered businessman with so much to gain or lose in the blink of an eye, few people knew of his problems; as he hid them behind a cheeky grin, a jocular laugh and a light-hearted dig at himself. The biggest secret he harboured though… was that he was lonely. Born in Westhide, seven miles outside of Hereford, Janet Alice Williams was the second youngest of three daughters and two sons who came from humble beginnings. With her dad (George) working at a parcel delivery depot, these hard-working parents ensured their children were well-educated, and therefore Janet (as the school prefect) graduated in 1958 from Bromyard Grammar with six o’levels. Gifted with a maternal nature, it was no surprise that she worked as auxiliary nurse at Hereford County Hospital, and later she retrained as an English and PE teacher at several schools in St John’s Wood, Croydon and East London. She was making a good life for herself, but her ambitions were much bigger. Being blonde, pretty and petite; Janet Williams had been screen-tested at Pinewood Studios with her dream to break into TV and films. And with her agent describing her as “beautiful girl with perfect features and a slim figure”, she was on the way to securing a £10,000 a year contract as a model. It’s uncertain when it happened, but having lost interest in her modelling career, whilst working as an escort girl; 25-year-old Janet Williams met 53-year-old Michael O’Carroll, and the two fell in love. To say it was a whirlwind romance would be an understatement. Everybody knew they planned to marry, but with his divorce petition not due to be heard until 31st March 1968, five months earlier on the 27th October; they had secretly married in Rome, they had honeymooned at his villa on the Mediterranean island of Elba, Janet Williams had changed her name by Deed Poll to Janet O’Carroll (until they could be legally married under English law) and in September 1967, they had moved into a stylish and elegant flat at Falmouth House on the Bayswater Road. Having had them up to his Hereford home a few weeks prior, Janet’s father would later state of Mr & Mrs O’Carroll “I’ve never seen a couple so happy and well suited”. Their lives were going well, and – having been conceived on their honeymoon – soon enough, their first baby together would be born. Although a few months pregnant – wanting their wedding dance to be something special – Michael & Janet took lessons at the Arthur Murray School at 167 Oxford Street, supervised by a Mr David Bolton; an instructor of tango, rumba and the polka who Janet knew from when she was a nightclub hostess. Having enrolled on 29th November, twelve lessons in, Dave the instructor noted “they were a charming couple who were progressing well”, and keen to excel, they had signed up for ten more lessons. It was a romantic dance destined to mark the birth of their wonderful life together… …and yet, it was the seed which sewed the start of their agonising deaths. 30-year-old David Colvan Bolton made a modest living as a dance instructor and he lived with his wife in a small flat above a shop at 79 High Road in South Tottenham. Or, at least he was… until the February of 1968. Having lost his job at the Arthur Murray School for reasons unknown, his landlord had taken him to court for being £50 in rent arrears, and had given 28 days to pay otherwise he would be evicted. As a cocky lad who despised the rich but wanted wealth, who stumbled through life but blamed others for his failings – like so many petty criminals who resorted to stealing rather than working hard – Dave (as he liked to be called) often had ‘get rich quick’ scam on the go, of which he was the mastermind. Sorry, did I say mastermind? I meant moron. Dave was all-mouth no-trousers; a wannabe Mister Big who would bulldoze through his ill-conceived schemes like a cow hijacking a milk-float. Fuelled by anger and jealousy, this bargain basement Buster Edwards only thought of the loot, and - in short - he couldn’t organise an orgy in a busy brothel. Barely six months before the robbery, Dave had (unwittingly) begun recruiting his gang. To ensure his success, he could have browsed the Big Book of London’s Bad Lads to find a few hoods well-versed in breaking and entering. But instead, he opted for two desperate dickheads without a brain-cell-a-piece. Michael David Ellis was a 22-year-old unemployed swimming instructor from Putney, who sometimes fenced stolen items and nicked chequebooks, but if you mentioned his name to the Met Police, they’d be likely to reply “who?”. He dressed like a flashy wanker and blew his cash faster than wrinkling WAG. And just two weeks before the robbery – needing a third man, as possibly they didn’t feel that two dense numpties were enough to bungle a simple burglary – they roped in a pal of Mike’s named Ray. Raymond David Cohen was a 23-year-old unemployed trainee football coach who still lived at home with his dad in Wandsworth. Being a skinny bespectacled lad who was easily led, he dressed well and spoke well, but he had about as much experience of burglary as a blind hermit with agoraphobia. And this was the gang; Dave, Mike and Ray – three instructors of dancing, swimming and football, who thought big but planned little, and probably liked to believe they were the South London version of Ocean’s Eleven, but were more akin to the Paddling Pool Three, or the Festering Canal Water Few. You may think I’m over-emphasising their criminal incompetence for comic effect? But I’m not. On Monday 11th March 1968, Dave, Mike & Ray set-out to burgle a sub post office off the Great West Road, just beside of Brentford football ground. Based on Dave’s precision planning (and yes, I’m being sarcastic); they would break into the house of a sub-postmaster, steal his keys to the safe, swipe all his loot (not only cash, but also stamps, coupons and postal orders - ooh) and speed away unseen. But having blown an hour bumbling around this unoccupied house with the lights off and one torch between them; they couldn’t find the key. So, they left empty handed and drove back to Dave’s flat in Tottenham, having wasted a few shillings on fuel and wrecked Ray’s dodgy brakes and rattling exhaust. At 4am, in the early hours of Tuesday 12th March 1968, Dave, Mike & Ray – being less of a Pink Panther and more of a Moth-Eaten Mauve Moggy – decided they needed a simpler job for their simple brains. Being tired, hungry, high on adrenaline and having barely slept in 24-hours, Dave – the “man with the plan” – suggested a robbery he had mooted a few days before. The target was a wealthy stockbroker who lived with his wife in a stylish Bayswater flat; they had money, jewellery, cash and two new cars. Dave knew this as a fact, as he had already seen inside their flat, as just two weekends prior, Mr & Mrs O’Carroll had a little drinks soiree at Falmouth House, of which their dance instructor was a guest. He hadn’t twigged it at the time, but given access via the side door’s intercom; he had swiftly entered unbothered through the entrance hall, passed the porter, up in the lift to the fifth floor, and with the door to Flat 35 opened without hesitation by Janet (who had seen his face through the spy-hole); he knew that she liked him, she would open the door to him and that during the day she would be alone. The plan was simple: get in, grab the loot and get out. I mean, what could go wrong? Nothing… …except; being sleep-deprived, they had planned to commit their brazen heist in barely seven hours’ time; leaving no space to rehearse, plan or prepare for something they had never done before. They had no tools, no bags, no binds, no gags, no gloves, no overalls and - worse still - no disguises (not even hats), as well as no back-up plan should anything (or everything) go wrong and no escape plan. Apart from that… it was be perfect. Tuesday 12th March began as uneventful as any other for Mr & Mrs O’Carroll. Wearing a grey three-piece suit, Michael left for work at 8am in his silver Lancia. Dressed in mauve slacks and a blue checked shirt, Janet would have a leisurely morning; watching TV, listening to music and resting, as being five-month pregnant she was starting to show. But they would meet at 1pm for lunch, as already planned. At 11:10am, arriving in two cars (for no logical reason), Ray parked his rattly Austin Healey at a parking meter on Clarendon Place, within sight of the side entrance to Falmouth House. Where-as Dave – who knew Janet – parked his discrete canary yellow Consul several streets away. Why? We have no idea. The robbery seemed like a sure-thing, as Ray would later state: “at the front of the flats, we didn’t need to call on the intercom because a man was delivering furniture, hence the front door was open”. Entering, all three were dressed in dark mismatched suits like wartime spivs with nothing to hide their identity; no wigs, no beards, no glasses and – being a bitterly cold morning – not even hats or scarves. Admittedly, they could have worn balaclavas, but they’d probably have carried just one to share. Inside reception, greeted by the porter Joseph Buckley, when he asked “what flat do you want?”, like massive idiots they replied “Flat 35, O’Carroll” - as burglars always tell security who they plan to rob. Having gained entry to the lift, the plan was simple. Ray would state: “we proceeded up to floor 5”, where Dave got out, rang the bell for Flat 35 and was let in (as expected) by Janet. “We intended to go up one floor and come back down again to the fifth, giving Dave enough time”. But bamboozled by its buttons, the lift returned to the ground floor, where they were again greeted by the porter, Jabbing button ‘five’ till the doors shut again, Ray & Mike returned to ‘fifth’ to begin the burglary. Ray: “we rang the bell, Mrs O’Carroll answered it and Mike asked for Dave”. Opening the door, “she looked surprised, before she could say anything, Dave had come up behind her, put his hand around her mouth, dragged her back into the lounge. Thereupon we entered and locked the door behind us”. Their entry should have been swift and silent, but having smashed a glass mirror in the hall, although neighbours described hearing a “unidentified noise and stamping in the flat”, no-one raised the alarm. Inside of Flat 35, this spacious two-bedroomed apartment was elegant, stylish and sparkled with goods they could fence; a colour TV, a deluxe radiogram and an ornate drinks trolley. But knowing they were too big to lug about – with no bags for the swag – their smartest move was to fill their pockets with cash, cards, cheques, car keys – and as Dave had said “her jewellery alone is worth 10 to 15 grand”. With the robbery going okay, as Dave tied Janet’s ankles and wrists with Michael’s ties (as these half-wits hadn’t brought any of their own), as her dance instructor reassured her “sit down and no-one will harm you”; she believed him as she knew him… but from this point on, there was no turning back. Ray: “Mike & I looked around… and found some jewellery, some cash, a Barclaycard, a cheque book, a Harrods card and a set of keys for her Mini. We asked for the cars log books and she told us. She also said she had a lunch appointment with her husband at 1pm” - which gave the robbers an hour at best. Ray: “I noticed a pill bottle in the bedroom and assumed she was pregnant”. Not being monsters, they kept her calm, let her sit in the comfy lounge chair and assured her they’d be in and out in minutes. That was the plan they had agreed to barely a few hours before… …but it was then that the plan changed. All in, Dave thought they could probably nick twenty maybe thirty grands worth, which today would be a quarter of a million quid, about right from a wealthy stockbroker? Only Dave was not a jeweller, he was a ballroom dancer who couldn’t tell a 24-carat diamond from a cracked marble. So, instead of ‘get in, grab it and get out’ as planned, he wanted to wait for the loot to be examined by an expert. At 12:15pm, Ray was sent to see a fence called Harry Rutter at 11 Kenway Road in Earls Court. Ray: “I drove to Harry’s… for a diamond ring, a chequebook, a Barclaycard, a Harrod’s card, a pearl necklace, a dress ring, a pendant watch, a pair of cultured pearl earrings, an Omega watch and a bracelet…”, he expected a sizable wodge of notes, but as most of it was second-hand, fake and the cards and cheques were in Janet’s name – and in the 1960s, few women even had a bank account so that made these items almost impossible to shift – instead of getting tens of thousands in cash, “Harry gave us £220”. Split between three, it sorted out Dave’s debt… but robbers don’t do a heist to clear their overdraft. At 1:30pm, holding an embarrassingly thin stack of tenners, driving his rattly Austin Healey “I took my car over to a garage to get my brakes relined and a new exhaust. Then I took a cab back to the flat”, leaving this dunce-hatted band of desperadoes with only one getaway car for this half-witted heist. Inside Flat 35, with Janet still tied up and gagged, Ray grabbed himself a drink: “I think it was a Scotch”, before he dispensed the bad news and handed his dejected pals a floppy pile of seven tenners each. And that was it… (phone rings) …a burglary which bagged them barely enough cash to last a week. Cutting their loses, they could have left right then, by blackmailing Janet, or threatening to hurt her husband if she went to the police? …but again, Dave changed the plan. Ray: “the phone rang, but nobody answered it. Dave said it had rung before. Five minutes later, it rang again. Dave thought it was Mr O’Carroll phoning because his wife hadn’t met him for lunch. It was then presumed that he would return home, so we took turns watching through the door spy hole”. As a city stockbroker who wore fancy suits, gold watches and drove a silver sportscar, they knew the second he saw his pregnant wife, tied up and gagged, he would give them access to his bulging bank account if they promised to let her go. This slight change would lead to the pay day they demanded. At a little after 2pm, Michael entered Flat 35, “Jan? Jan, you okay love?” Seeing her on the sofa, Dave grabbed him from behind, tied him up with ties and tights (taken from the bedroom), and threatening him with a carving knife (taken from the kitchen), he repeated “stay quiet and no-one will harm you”. Off his wrist, Dave took a Vertex watch, later sold for £10. From his pocket, he took £5 in notes and gave the wallet back. Ray: “Dave then proceeded in asking Mr O’Carroll to give him money”. Access to his cards, his bank accounts, everything, otherwise Janet would be hurt. This threat should have made him white with fear, but all it did was make him red with shame. As a newly-wed, pending a divorce with two mortgages, a new wife, an ex-wife to be, two teenage boys and a baby on the way, he’d got nothing. In fact, he’d got less than nothing, Michael was £3000 in debt (£61000 today). “And in the calm way in which Mr O’Carroll answered this question, Dave believed he was telling the truth”. And so, with everything having gone to shit, their twice-changed plan had to change… again. Needing time, at 2:30pm, Dave got Michael to call his work stating: “I won’t be back today, Jan’s not feeling great”. Having done as they demanded, Michael’s assistant thought he sounded “normal, but concerned”. And therefore, no-one would know they were being held hostage for at least a day. With the bank account inaccessible, the jewels worth little, and the cards and cheques having caused ructions with the fence who now demanded his money back as the police had started sniffing about, all this incompetent gang of slightly sleepy arseholes had left was two almost new cars – a 1966 two-year-old Mini brought for £680, and a 1964 four-year-old Lancia Flavia convertible brought for £1900. The plan was to sell them… but there lied another cock-up. Owing to the city traffic, these dim-witted dingleberries hadn’t twigged that Michael had driven into work in his Lancia, but (keen to get back quick) he had taken the tube back to his Bayswater flat, leaving his car three-and a-half miles away. Taking the Mini’s keys – as well as Janet’s driving licence, proof of ownership and the car’s log-book - at 3:30pm, Mike Ellis drove the Mini around town, to flog it off to some of the car dealers he knew. Anxiously waiting, as their pay-day had been a disaster; Dave & Ray paced the flat, keeping tabs on their hostages and wondering how their half-baked plan concocted a few hours earlier had gone so spectacularly wrong. Being tired and hungry, Ray would state: “I cooked a dinner for Janet and myself. She had a couple of eggs and Ryvita, and I had some corn on the cobb”, and to wile-away the time, the gang had a drink, a smoke and popped on some music – touching everything with their bare hands. Only, that hour spent waiting would be time wasted. Mike couldn’t sell this nearly-new mint-condition Mini for love nor money: “Gordon Guest, a car dealer in Kingston had offered £250, but rejected the offer as “there were too many irregularities”; like Mike Ellis wanted the money in cash, he wanted it today and he couldn’t explain why if this was his wife’s car, why the owner was called Janet O’Carroll. On-route, Mike fenced the Vertex watch to Harry Rutter, but getting into a spat with him about the bank card in Janet’s name: “I had to pay him back a tenner from the £220 he’d already give us”. At roughly 4:30pm - as Ray had done barely three hours earlier - Mike returned empty-handed. This half-witted gang of utter incompetents had risked everything on a half-baked plan… …and it had failed, leaving them with nothing but a missing car and two bored hostages. (End) Over the next few hours – from their miniscule haul of £210 - Dave paid back his landlord, Mike stayed in a few West End hotels and Ray got a tout’s ticket to see Chelsea beat Sheffield Wednesday two-nil. The only piece of luck that Ray had was getting the Lancia, as although it was in a secure car park; the parking ticket was on the dashboard, the doors were unlocked and the keys were in the ignition. With the attendant believing his story that “it’s my uncle’s car”, Ray drove it out, paying the 7 shillings fee. The new plan was to meet later, at Dave’s flat, and to work out where they could sell the Lancia. While Ray watched football, Dave & Mike sat alone in Flat 35, wondering how to get themselves out of this utter mess. With Janet & Michael O’Carroll tied up and gagged, the inexperience of this dance instructor and a trainee football coach shone through – as what can you do with two hostages that you can’t extort for money and can’t blackmail into silence, who know your names and faces? Nothing. At 10pm, as planned, Mike & Ray met at Dave’s flat in Tottenham. Ray would state: “he suggested that Mike & I took the car to Glasgow. We left virtually immediately”. Never questioning why, “we went straight through to Glasgow, stopping a couple of times for snacks and arrived by the morning”. That was the new plan, as having already silenced the hostages, they would sell the Lancia for cash. But unbeknownst to Ray, the plan had already changed without him … …as by that point, this gang of incompetents were in too deep. Part two of In Too Deep continues next week. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
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17 Pembroke Court today
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND NINE-FOUR:
Off Edwardes Square in Kensington, W8 lies Pembroke Court, a six-storey art-deco apartment-block built in the 1920s. Back in 1962, the basement flat at 17 Pembroke Court was owned by George Brinham; a respected trade unionist and chairman of the Labour Party, who was hailed as a Prime Minister in the making. And yet, there is no blue plaque to George Brinham. Some might say this was down to his political affiliations, others might imply it was owing to his love life, but maybe it’s simply down to a scandal which on Saturday 17th November 1962, led to his murder. But why was George Brinham killed, and did a quirk of the law let his murderer go free?
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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. SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. https://discovery.nationxalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C3756355 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C9438404 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C4204182 https://www.britishpathe.com/video/VLVA4503G3IEM7WK6M9MFB5NTUQMW-UK-SCARBOROUGH-OPENING-DAY-OF-THE-LABOUR-PARTY-CONFERENCE/query/Scarborough
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing in Edwardes Square in Kensington, W8; four roads north of the killing of Churchill’s super spy Krystyna Skarbek, a short walk east of the former school of the victim of The Beast (Katerina Koneva), a few streets west of the basement where the McSwan family were dissolved in acid, and just a few doors down from the killer who couldn’t say ‘goodbye’ - coming soon to Murder Mile. Hidden away off Kensington High Street, Edwardes Square is a posh little place; a manicured private garden surrounded by townhouses, mostly owned by stiff starchy chin-stroking twits who dawdle and drone through galleries about a piece’s “exquisite composition”, not realising they’re staring at a bin. Given its long history as the homes of the well-to-do, many buildings have blue plaques. Organised by a committee of old grey men, these plaques often celebrate a tenuous link to someone long dead and forgotten, half of whom make the bemused passers-by think and state “nope, never heard of him”. Off Edwardes Square lies Pembroke Court, a six-storey art-deco apartment-block built in the 1920s. Back in 1962, the basement flat at 17 Pembroke Court was owned by George Brinham; a respected trade unionist and chairman of the Labour Party, who was hailed as a Prime Minister in the making. He was a man who was making waves and a name, and yet, there is no blue plaque to George Brinham. Some might say this was down to his political affiliations, others might imply it was owing to his love life, but maybe it’s simply down to a scandal which on Saturday 17th November 1962, led to his murder. But why was George Brinham killed, and did a quirk of the law let his murderer go free? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 194: The Gay Panic. On 5th July 1967 at 5:50am, the Sexual Offences Act passed in the House of Commons, a bill purported to decriminalise homosexuality and equalise a person’s legal status regardless of sexual orientation. As a gay man, George would die five years before this decriminalisation, and in an era where it was acceptable to use homophobia as a legal defence… …it is referred to as ‘the gay panic’. George Ivor Brinham was born on 31st January 1917 in Brixham, Devon, one of the smallest and most southerly towns in the south-west of England. Raised by Elijah a fisherman, and Annie a housewife, George was one of three siblings raised in a loving family, with his brother Harry and sister Charlotte. From his hard-working parents, at an early age, George learned the value of loyalty and love, but also how even a little lad from the back-end of nowhere could (and should) stand up for the rights of the average person. Unlike his contemporaries who ascended to the political elite having had mummy and daddy board them at posh public schools like Harrow or Eton, George left school aged 14 with a basic education, but bolstered his knowledge with evening classes and a wealth of personal experience. By living his life and learning from those around him, George became the man he would become. As a high-achiever who came from little, George made the most of every opportunity. In 1932, aged 15, he became an apprentice joiner at Bluebeer & Merchant in Brixham, staying for five years, learning new skills, becoming the shop steward and – already being politically active – the senior union rep. In 1933, aged just 16, as a slightly shy boy, he knocked on the door of politician Mrs F M Chudsey and stammered “would it be possible for me to join the Labour Party?”. And thus his political career began. Being well-dressed and softly spoken, he impressed his seniors. But regarded by some as a ‘scrapper’ and by others as ‘a trouble maker’ - mostly by those who never wanted any change to the status quo which benefitted managers and maligned the workers – George was young, smart and hungry. Aged 19, he became honorary secretary of the Torquay Labour Party. During war-time, he represented Torquay at the annual Labour Party conference, he formed the first local committee of Shipbuilding & Engineering unions, he was trade union rep on the Admiralty Shipyard Control Advisory Committee - all in his early-to-mid-twenties – and in 1944, he was appointed Justice of the Peace, the youngest at that time, and elected to Brixham Urban Council, where he served as counsellor for three years. In his spare-time, he studied economics and local government affairs, eventually becoming a tutor and fellow of the Royal Economic Society. In 1952, he was elected to the National Labour Party Executive, becoming its youngest member. In 1955, having joined the Amalgamated Society of Woodworkers, he became its youngest ever chairman and later its president. And by 1959, aged just 42, George Brinham - a young shy lad from a small fishing town – had become the youngest Chairman of the Labour Party. Physically, as a slim neat man with dark well-groomed hair and a sharp suit, he was not a formidable sight. But undeniably, he was a charismatic man who was devoted to the fight for worker’s rights. The stratospheric career of George Brinham was public and well documented. And yet his private life was not. As a gay man, in an era when it was a criminal offence to be gay; his private life was a dirty little secret known by few who kept it hidden including himself and (possibly) by his party… …until a seedy scandal led to his death. On paper, George did not have a criminal record for acts which - in the 1950s & 60s – were illegal. According to declassified police records; in 1956, a Naval Rating claimed he was picked up in Hyde Park and at the Tregaron Hotel in Bayswater, George paid him 10 shillings to engage in masturbation. George was questioned, he denied any indecency and he was released with no charges against him. In 1958, an unnamed guardsman alleged that George had attempted to commit buggery upon him at his flat at 17 Pembroke Court. The incident was investigated by the Special Investigation Branch of the Army, but with no corroborative evidence and George denying it took place, no charges were made. And in December 1961, an unnamed youth who had claimed he was paid £5 on several occasions for sex was arrested having broken into the flat. George denied knowing him and the case was closed. As a gay man, his options on how he could pick up men was limited to those which were illegal. Unlike others, with high-ranking friends in most government departments, it’s likely that these scandals were silenced for fear of ruining his career and the reputation of the party. But being so well-insulated, this protection is likely to have led to George being a lot less cautious about his illegal sexual activities. In May 1958, George moved into 17 Pembroke Court in Edwardes Square, W8. Although he had lived there for four years, few of his neighbours knew this shy quiet man… but they all knew he was gay. Lacking any discretion, often on weekends, George would drive a lew of handsome young men, some in uniform, in his Blue Ford Colsul from Soho and surrounding areas to his secluded flat in Kensington. Witnessing his homosexual shenanigans, Mrs Christina Ansell of Flat 14 gave an account to the Police. (Christina): “He’d not been living there long before I noticed that he was having a number of different young men call upon him in his flat. I remember a Saturday afternoon about 18 months ago, I was sitting in my bedroom with the windows open. I heard a young man’s voice shout “you’re hurting me” It sounded as if the young man was distressed. Then immediately afterwards I heard a struggle”. Informing Mrs Lucy Alcock the caretaker, this suspected assault was reported to the landlords, but as Mr Brinham was a good tenant, they simply asked him to be quieter from that point on. George had an appetite for young men, which was not dissuaded by nosey neighbours or a copper’s questions. Whatever went on in his private little flat – whether rough sex, or saddo masochism – it didn’t dampen his ardour for lusting after young men, he just made it less obvious to the sticky beaks who blabbed to the police. With the windows shut and the curtains closed, Christina would state “when I saw him bringing in young men, shortly after entering the flat, I would hear music being played very loudly”. Lucy recalled “…I heard screaming coming from the flat, and as the screams got louder, the volume of the music was turned up. It was always the same music, which would last about 15 minutes, then all would be quiet again. I would see him and a young man go out and get into his car and drive away”. It happened so often that the neighbours stopped reporting it. As Christina would state: “with all this activity, it was obvious to me that this man was a homosexual… but we just had to put up with it”. And yet, the lacklustre way in which George conducted his secret sex life also made him an easy target. In October 1962 - eleven months after an unnamed rent-boy was released having broken into George’s flat – either a different boy or the same boy had committed a burglary, stealing items from his home. A neighbour saw George repairing the broken window to his rear basement bedroom, and when he asked if he had informed the Police, George replied “no, it’s no good, they won’t do anything”. In 1962, with homosexuality illegal, and gays regarded as little more than sadistic sexual deviants who corrupted decent society with their ungodly ways, George knew he was an easy target; he had money, he was slightly built, and – having a flat filled with erotic art and gay porn – he was easy to blackmail. And as the punishment for homosexuality was more severe than it was for burglary, he knew his sexuality would most likely be used against him, and any public exposure would risk ruining his career. Even as a victim of crime, in this era, George would be seen in a court of law as culpable. And yet, barely three weeks later, he would be murdered in his own flat… …and the culprit’s defence would be ‘the gay panic’. Also known as Homosexual Panic Disorder, Psychiatrist Edward J. Kempf coined the term in 1920 to define "a panic due to the pressure of uncontrollable perverse sexual cravings". Accepted in British courts as a legal strategy, a defendant could claim to have been provoked into committing an act of violence, in self-defence, because of the unwanted sexual advances of a person of the same sex. In the UK, it has been known for decades as the ‘Portsmouth defence’ or the ‘guardsman's defence’. But was this solely a strategy used to defend the murderer of George Brinham… …or was George chosen as a victim of crime because the law made him an easy target? Saturday 17th November 1962 was George’s last day alive. He wouldn’t know that, and neither would his murderer, as both men seemingly went about their ordinary day. At roughly half-past-two, George met a young man called Laurence Somers, outside of a gunsmith near The Strand, by Covent Garden. Laurence would state: “this fellow just started talking to me. I didn’t know who he was. He offered me a cigarette”. George was a 45-year-old unionist, Laurence was a 16-year-old boy from a broken home. For whatever reason – whether kindness, boredom or seeing an opportunity to commit a minor crime – “we went into a few cafes, then he asked me back to his flat for a drink and we both had a couple of bottles of brown ale each”. According to Laurence, both men were strangers and he was not gay. Bottles of brown ale were found in the flat, with fingerprints corroborating his story. “Then we went to the pictures; it was the Coliseum you know”, a grand picture on St Martin's Lane, “Tarzan and Aladdin was on. We came out of the pictures and went round a few pubs. I had a good bit to drink. It would be getting on for ten o’clock at night and we went back to his flat for a drink”. Having heard George’s Blue Ford Consul pull-up on Edwardes Square, the neighbours at Pembroke Court paid no attention, as this middle-aged man led a scruffy young boy into his basement flat. And, as would often happen, the night would follow a very familiar routine of drink, sex and screams. As a predatory male with a penchant for young boys, George wanted Laurence. But why was Laurence there? Laurence Thomas Somers was born in Ireland on the 28th June 1946. As the eldest of five, to a battered mother and an abusive father described as ‘an aggressive psychopath’, his childhood was short and cruel. Being quick-tempered and emotionally cold, he lacked trust in others and struggled to cope. In 1957, five years prior to George’s murder, his parents had separated, his mother had sued his father on the grounds of cruelty, and they moved into a council house on the Hurst Farm Estate in Matlock. Affected by the family’s split, he began a spate of minor crimes; on 2nd January 1958, aged 11, he was discharged from Matlock Juvenile Court for stealing chocolate; on 27th January 1960, aged 13, he was given two years’ probation for stealing a motorbike in Derby, and on 23rd February 1961, aged 14, he received a further two years’ probation for the theft of a National Assistance book and £7 in cash. Laurence was little more than a lost youth lacking love and a male role model. A few months prior; he had moved into a lodging at 41 Winchester Street in Victoria which he shared with his psychotic father, he worked irregular hours as a pub cellarman, and had a rocky relationship with his current girlfriend. And now – for reasons unknown to anyone but him – he was in the flat of a predatory homosexual. But why? At 10pm - with the windows shut, the doors locked and the curtains closed - George began to entertain his young guest, as Laurence removed his coat and gloves. (Laurence): “This chap told me his name was George. We had a few more drinks, we talked and played records” (Music on) As always, with the same tune muffling every sound, the neighbours didn’t complain as they knew it wouldn’t last long. George’s flat was elegantly decorated with stylish furnishings, the radiogram was new and with the sideboard and walls covered in homo-erotic art of naked men wrestling, Laurence must have known that George was gay. Or, either he didn’t know, didn’t care, or just thought he was posh and cultured? From a heavy crystal decanter, George poured them both a few-fingers of finest brandy, as this man and boy sat chatting in the sitting room, supping boozy drinks, as the music enveloped every sound. Laurence: “he asked me to stay the night with him and I said I wouldn’t”. Nearby, a stash of gay porn lay in a drawer; with titles like Beau and Sir Gay, they depicted muscle-bound hunks in posing pouches engaged in passionate homoerotic postures with other naked men - it was clear what this was. Laurence shifted awkwardly on the sofa: “...the man made improper advances. He put his arms around me and said ‘give us a kiss’. Coming from a man, I thought that was improper”. Dressed in just a white vest and black trousers, at some point George loosened his braces, as they were later found undone. Unnerved, Laurence got up and stood across the other side of the room by the sideboard, but George followed him: “anyway he kept on at me, and he tried to take hold of my privates”. Panicked at being sexually assaulted by a male stranger, “I got the bottle from the side”, it was the heavy glass decanter, “I pushed him away”, but George came at him again, “I belted him a number of times over his head”. Smashed over his head three times with a two-kilo decanter, as the glass was intact, his skull fractured taking the full force, as rivers of blood streamed down his face, into his eyes and onto his white shirt. “He ran towards the door in the hall, but as he was trying to unfasten it, he collapsed”. Evidence shows that George was hit over the head, again in the hallway using the glass decanter. “I dragged him back into the living room”, where he lay unconscious, “and left him there on his back. I did not expect that kind of thing from a man. I hit him to get away. I didn’t mean to kill him”, Laurence would state. With the music still on, the neighbours heard nothing. Laurence: “I stood and thought what I was going to do. I was in a bit of a panic. I thought I would make it look like a burglary. I opened drawers and threw everything all over the place. After this I just ran out and slammed the door behind me”. Laurence had escaped a buggering, but it was only after he had left the flat that he remembered – in his panic to escape - he had left his coat and gloves on George’s bed. But by then, it was too late. The next morning, Laurence stole a van and fled to his mothers in Matlock. With the curtains closed, the lights on, the radiogram having silenced and with no witnesses to the murder, George’s flat looked occupied but quiet for the next few days. On Thursday 22nd November 1962, George was due to a meeting at the Amalgamated Society of Woodworkers, but as he didn’t arrive, the caretaker of the TUC alerted the fire-brigade, and at 3:15pm, his body was found. The investigation was simple; with nothing of any obvious value stolen, the flat had been ransacked to look like a burglary. But in his panic, the attacker had left his coat and gloves. Initially arrested for the theft of van stolen in Finchley one day after the murder, 16-year-old Laurence Thomas Somers was questioned, and his fingerprints matched those inside George’s flat and on the glass decanter. He was charged with unlawful killing and made no reply. But would ‘the gay panic’ be used solely a strategy to defend the murderer of George Brinham… …or was George chosen as a victim of crime because the law made him an easy target? The trial began at The Old Bailey on 18th December 1962, two weeks after George’s funeral. Presented before Mr Justice Paull, the timeline and evidence was clear, and neither the defence nor prosecution would query whether Laurence had smashed George over the head with a glass decanter. He had, and he had admitted it. The question was one of provocation – was this a wilful murder, or a manslaughter by self-defence, committed whilst being sexually assaulted by a man and in the grip of a ‘gay panic’? Unlike any other trial, the murderer was depicted as a young innocent boy who had fled an ungodly act, with the victim (now dead and defenceless) described as an old pervert who preyed on the young. With Laurence as the sole witness to the attack – this could have been the truth, a lie or an alibi - and yet, they did not question Laurence’s history, his sexuality or his motive. Four witnesses were called, none of whom seen or heard anything; Christine & Frederick Ansell of Flat 14 and Lucy Alcock of Flat 18 could only testify to the “screams” and the “indecent acts” George had committed upon vulnerable young men in the weeks and months prior. With a fourth witness, whose name was redacted, believed to be the unnamed Naval Rating who George had paid for sex. Disregarded as contradictory evidence of any credence; it wasn’t questioned why Laurence’s coat and gloves were on George’s bed, or why the blood spatter wasn’t predominantly found by the side-board (where he was allegedly hit) but by the door – this was taken as the boy’s confusion caused by panic. If provocation could be proven, then the judge decreed that murder had to be ruled out. Presented before the Judge were four key pieces of evidence; the glass decanter, the coat and gloves, and the two statements of Laurence Somers – as you would expect. But the other exhibits accepted into evidence were there to prove that the murder victim was a predatory homosexual. Many of the crime scene photos focussed – not on the body or the blood – but the homoerotic art and gay porn, which was listed in court of law - where everyone is innocent until proven guilty - as “a male pervert’s literature”. The magazines were called into evidence, but it could not be proven if they were used that night. In Laurence’s defence, Edward Clarke QC would state “there is still a plea of not guilty to manslaughter, because there is a defence that you are entitled to kill a man, if he is committing an atrocious crime against you” – suggesting that murder is acceptable if you deem a gay man’s advances as a threat. And yet, the worst evidence was presented by respected pathologist Dr Donald Teare. In his autopsy report, he would state “his genitals were rather small” (which served no purpose but to humiliate), “his anus admitted three fingers” (proving that George had been engaged in the illegal act of buggery), and – most bafflingly of all for a man of science – he stated it wasn’t the decanters toughness which fractured George’s skull, but that “death was due to a thinning skull and in my opinion, the condition was consistent with long-practiced homosexuality or self-inflicted perversion”. There was no medical examination of Laurence, to prove if he had defensive wounds, or had engaged in anal sex. (End) On the 21st January 1963, Mr Justice Paull directed the jury to ignore the charge of murder and said “I cannot see how any jury, properly directed on the evidence can fail to find there was provocation. There is the statement of the lad which shows quite clearly that this man attempted to make homosexual advances, and that in consequence Laurence Somers picked up a decanter and hit him on the head. I should think that is about a clear a case of provocation as it is possible to have”. Found not guilty of manslaughter, the Judge ordered Laurence Somers to be discharged and said to his mother “if possible, find him work in Matlock and take him home. There are dangers in London”. Declared an innocent man, he left The Old Bailey, and – as far as we know - never returned to London. Given the evidence, it’s easy to accept the facts that George’s death occurred they way it has been presented – as it’s likely that it was – but with so much focus on George’s “indecent sexual appetite”, there are a wealth of unanswered questions which weren’t answered. Most importantly; why did a young heterosexual boy agree to visit the secluded flat of a middle-aged homosexual stranger? Was he innocent of sex, of danger, and of gay men? Or was his age a convenient excuse? And if the ‘the gay panic’ was used as a useful alibi - knowing that George would never go to the police, even if he was attacked or burgled - did this failure of the law make him an easy target for a young thief? Laurence Thomas Somers died in Derby in 1999, taking the (possible) truth to his grave. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. 
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