Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via iTunes, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In, Otto Radio or Acast.
12 Brewer Street (with Rosa O'Neill's former flat above on the first floor)
Welcome to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within one square mile of the West End.
EPISODE THIRTY-NINE
Episode Thirty-Nine: On Monday 8th October 1963, George Thomas Pickering; a hard-working husband and doting father-of three, who was the epitome of a Jekyll & Hyde character and whose mania led him to brutally slay a Soho sex-worker called Rosa O’Neill. And yet, why he killed her remains the real mystery.
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it now by clicking the PLAY button on the embedded media player below. For transcripts of each episode? Click "Podcast Transcripts".
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram
Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed by various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here
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 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk
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Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast #39 - George Thomas Pickering: The Silent Killer - TRANSCRIPT15/8/2018 
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In, Otto Radio or Acast.
Full Transcript - Episode #39 - George Thomas Pickering: The Silent Killer - TRANSCRIPT
Thank you for downloading episode thirty-nine of the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast. Before we begin, here’s a brief charity appeal on behalf of Murder Mile.
(Sad music) This is Michael. He’s a 42 year old podcaster; he’s fat, bald and is very very single. Chained to a laptop 12 hours a day, 7 days a week, Michael is forced to make exquisite true-crime podcasts, for no money, no food and very few five star reviews. But with a small donation of just $3 a month, you can keep this fat bald loser alive, help him cover his exorbitant costs of producing award-nominated podcasts, allow him a little bit of a social life and provide him with some of life’s essentials, like beer, curry, Bakewell tarts and many many photos of Eva Green. Mmm. Subscribe to Patreon today and don’t let a podcaster needlessly die… unless their death is grisly, funny and you can make a podcast series out of it… obviously. Thank you for your support and enjoy 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 one square mile of the West End. Today’s episode is about George Thomas Pickering; a hard-working husband and doting father-of three, who was the epitome of a Jekyll & Hyde character and whose mania led him to brutally slay a Soho sex-worker called Rosa O’Neill. And yet, why he killed her remains the real mystery. Murder Mile contains upsetting details which may cause the easily startled to spew, as well as 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 39: George Thomas Pickering – The Silent Killer. Today I’m standing on Brewer Street in Soho, W1; one road north of the White Horse pub where Larry Winters gunned down Paddy O’Keefe, one road west of the bombing of the Admiral Duncan and two roads north of the unsolved killing of Police informer Black Rita – coming soon to Murder Mile. Originally called Welles Street, although this single-lane side-street (stretching from Regent Street to Wardour Street) is barely 1200 feet long, as home to the now-defunct and demolished Aryes and Davis breweries, in the late 1900’s, Welles Street was renamed Brewer Street. But for at least the last century, being crammed full of seedy sex-shops and sweaty strip joints, all occupied by spunky-handed willy-fiddlers in dirty flashing mack’s, surely it’s time to rename this mucky Soho backstreet with a more appropriate moniker, like Pervert’s Parade, Wanker’s Way, Spooge Street or Jizzy Junction? Initially called Doc’ Johnson’s Hollywood Love Shop & Cinema, today 12 Brewer Street is called Soho’s Original Book Shop. And as a deeply dull three storey brown brick building, instantly your eyes are drawn to its dark green wooden façade on the ground-floor and its garish neon signs which flash forth with words like “sex-shop” and “triple X”. Featuring a wealth of arty erotica for the more discerning pervert, downstairs is a veritable pornucopia of mucky mags, dirty DVDs, pep pills for your percy ponker, va-va-voom juice for your vajayjay and chocolate mousse for your rusty bullet-hole, as well as all manner of strange shit like spikes, crazy crap with clamps, and - if you’ve got £150 to spare - even a life-sized and very realistic rubber bum-hole… apparently. And yet, as much as this building is synonymous with sex, it’s also the home of death. As it was here, on Monday 7th October 1963, in the first floor flat of 12 Brewer Street, that Rosa O’Neill was savagely slaughtered by a silent killer. (INTERSTITIAL) On Tuesday 19th November 1963, in the cold sterile surgery of Brixton Prison, dressed in over-sized prison fatigues and a pair of slip-on shoes, sat 26 year old George Thomas Pickering. With short curly brown hair, a cheeky grin and arched eyebrows which gave his impish little face an eternally surprised expression, being barely five foot six inches tall, George didn’t look like a major criminal, and yet, as a Category A prisoner, amongst all these thieves, rapists and thugs, he was considered one of the worst. “George?”, Dr F H Brisby, the medical officer asked, but as the prisoner’s bloodshot eyes glared down at his guilt-ridden hands, he ignored him. Not owing to ignorance or the arrogance of a hardened con who refused to spill the beans to a screw, but because George was trapped in world of silence, as being both deaf and mute, George heard no words and could say nothing to reply. “George?” Dr Brisby asked, as he softly tapped the tearful prisoner’s shoulder, stirring this broken man from those bloody visions forever burned into his retina. “George? That day. Did you know what you were doing?” he asked, but George didn’t reply. Not as a false ruse to secure an insanity plea; a ploy which his lawyer had toyed with, and the prison warden had taken seriously, having confiscated his belt, his tie, his shoe-laces and placed him (for the last six weeks) on suicide watch, but the delay was solely so his interpreter could translate the words that he could neither hear nor speak. But being polite and prompt, Dr Brisby got the reply he expected, as George simply nodded “yes”. “George, did you know it was wrong?” Dr Brisby asked, as being eight days away from his murder trial at The Old Bailey, the doctor’s question would be the difference between life and a death sentence, and again George simply nodded “yes”. And yet, in a Police investigation which was short, swift and thrift, although George’s guilt was guaranteed, one question remained unanswered. “George?”, Dr Brisby asked “…if you knew all that, then why did you murder Rosa O’Neill?” In the ungodly hours of 21st February 1937, a high-pitched scream wailed down the maternity ward at Stanmore Hospital; an ear-splitting sound so sharp and shrill, the patients felt as if knitting needles were being stabbed into their brains, but this was not a cry of death but of birth. And with his vocal chords set to loud and two fully functional ears which heard his beloved mother slowly soothe her baby boy to sleep, into the world came George Thomas Pickering, and he was perfect in every way. Hailing from the seaside town of Scarborough (in Yorkshire), Margaret & Reginald Pickering were two doting parents to their beloved son George; and with no history of disability, criminality or mental illness in the family, these were good people; solid, proud and stoic, who battled through the tough times and together they triumphed, but for the Pickering family, a major test was yet to come. After days of stiffness, dizziness, insomnia and vomiting, four year old George was rushed to hospital, gripped in a fit of fever, as (once again) his high-pitched shrill echoed the walls, but not in a cry of birth but of intense pain, as bacterial meningitis strangled his spinal cord and (like a halo of death) slowly crushed his brain. And although, his young life was saved by antibiotics, by the time he’d left hospital, the damage had been done, and being left deaf, mute and crippled by chronic headaches, the last sound that George ever uttered or heard were his own tears, as his world descended into silence. Eager to ensure their son wasn’t hindered by his disabilities and that he’d retain his confidence, pride and independence, Margaret & Reginald enrolled George at the Royal Deaf & Dumb School in Margate (on England’s south coast), where he learned to sign, made new friends, never got into fights, and as a better than average student, he left school, aged 16, with a lust for life and a passion for wood work. And as a solid young man who did his parents proud, George lived a very normal, happy and productive life. Having graduated, George trained as a carpenter for Kodak in north-west London, earning £12 a week and accruing a satisfactory work record. But as a recently married man and a father to twin daughters and (soon) a son, eager to be nearer his family, George uprooted and found new employment at Humphreys (a furniture makers) in nearby 161 Kingston Road in New Malden. Life was good. He had an honest job, three healthy children, an active social life with his old school friends from Margate, and lived in a delightful little terraced house on a pleasant tree-lined street at 15 Oxford Avenue in Merton Park (South London), with his wife Beryl (who was also deaf and mute). And although he’d cheated death and coped with disability, the meningitis had done its damage and being crippled by headaches, the older he got, the worse they became, and as his painkillers proved pointless, it was quickly replaced by alcohol to quell the pain. But like all drugs, drink had its downside. On 20th February 1957, on the eve of his twentieth birthday, having partied heartily with his pals, George was arrested for being drunk and disorderly, causing wilful damage and inflicting grievous bodily harm in an unprovoked attack. He was bound-over by the courts for two years. On 15th August 1961, in another unprovoked attack, George smashed up his furniture, at work, with an axe and was committed to Shenley psychiatric hospital, where even though he was tearful, tense and complained of being wracked with deep bouts of depression, suicidal thoughts and unnaturally violent urges, he was discharged after just 24 hours, and the incident was blamed on drink. Four weeks later, on 12th September 1961, whilst heavily intoxicated, George was arrested for inflicting grievous bodily harm in an unprovoked attack on a West End prostitute. He was sentenced to two months in prison, but – owing to good behaviour – he served only one. Later that year, whilst carving-up the Christmas turkey, George had to be physically restrained by his family as – in an unprovoked fit of depression and rage - he tried to slit open his wrists. Prior to his murder trial, George said to Dr F H Brisby of Brixton Prison that he felt like Jekyll & Hyde; part man and part monster; with one side of him as a good father and a loyal husband who was decent, passive and polite, and the other side was a violent, drunken, homicidal maniac. Desperate to quell his uncontrollably violent urges, George quit drinking and (for almost a year) life returned to normal. But without a steady hit of booze to dull the incessant throbbing in his head, his insomnia increased, his depression darkened and suicide seemed a better prospect than living. Two years later, being at his wit’s end, George Thomas Pickering made the unfortunate decision to take his own life… but strangely, it wasn’t he who would ultimately end up dead. (INTERSTITIAL) The following is based on the original police investigation files, autopsy report, witness statements and George’s own hazy and confused recollection of the events that day, so some details are patchy. By the morning of Monday 7th October 1963, George hadn’t slept for three whole days, and although his kids cried, with wide cracked eyes which glared vacantly at the ceiling, the only sound he heard was dull thud as blood erratically pumped from his fluctuating heart to his throbbing head. Feeling like his body was a deadweight; with his head like lead, his feet like they were stuck in peat and his limp arms like they were anchored to the bed, George lay prostrate, an empty hollow man devoid of hope. But as a good dad, with bills to pay and mouths to feed, like a pre-programmed automaton with one basic function – to earn, as George crawled out of bed and his lifeless legs thudded to the floor, he didn’t feel like he normally did, he felt… strange. It started like any ordinary day, only slower and less certain, as all he could think of was his own death. Off the hard wooden floor, George dragged on last night’s clothes - a blue corduroy jacket, a dark blue shirt, a brown jersey, light brown trousers and black boots – all splattered in yesterday’s stains, which (he surmised) no-one would spy when the corduroy which covered his corpse was bathed in his blood. For the last time, he hugged his kids; their voices he had never heard before and their sweet faces he would never see again. And as his soundless lips softly kissed Beryl’s cheek, as he signed his wife a sweet “goodbye”, he left his home for the very last time, never to return. At 7:30am, George walked out of 15 Oxford Avenue and trudged south to Kingston Road; the sky was dull, grey and full of foreboding as dark ominous clouds loomed large. And as the interminable British drizzle soaked him to the bone, on any other day he’d have turned right and headed off to work at Humphrey’s, but (in a rash decision which would ruin his life forever) he turned left. At 7:45am, as he stood alone on the packed platform of Raynes Park station - isolated and trapped in a solitary silent world – feeling the violent rumble under his feet as the train thundered near, as he stared at the bare track, he pictured 200 tonnes of roaring steel wheels slicing over his soft neck, severing his head and leaving behind a lifeless bloody stump… but his feet wouldn’t budge. By 8:10am, as his train sidled into Waterloo station, George lumbered aimlessly towards The Strand, on the south-side of the West End, but with his full focus being on what way was best to meet his death, as the hard heavy thump of his boots sent a dull throbbing pain into his brain, with his every movement making him even more nauseous, although he’d been teetotal for weeks, his only thought was the pain-free lure of liquor. And then, for the next three hours, George disappeared; no-one knows where he went, or what he did, not even he, but with every pub and off-licence closed till lunch, at 11am, by the time he had stumbled into Soho, George was drunk. And being part man and part monster; as the meek, mild and timid man within him slunk into shadows, the other side of his Jekyll & Hyde took over. With an unquenchable thirst, at a little after 11:30am, having staggered passed The White Horse pub and stumbled into Edward Roche & Co, an off-licence at 33 Shaftesbury Avenue, as its young assistant eyed with suspicion this strangely silent man, having handed over 17 shillings, the only sound that George heard was the heavy gulping as he necked great glugs of 66 per cent proof vodka. Being deaf, dumb and (now) blind drunk; stuck in a deep dull depression which booze couldn’t shift and eager to give his spirits a lift, George stumbled into the garish neon haze of the nearby Cameo Moulin Cinema, to watch ‘Women by Night’; a tawdry sexploitation film full of tits, tush and tassels. But as his glazed-over eyes gazed at the soundless screen, ogling bums and boobs, amongst a salty sea of sad bastards, whose hands all bobbed about their pants like they’d all lost their last pound; George hated what he saw, where he was, and who he had become. And as his suicidal thoughts stewed, so too were his unnatural urges and strange stirrings within; as bubbling to the surface came a hatred, a rage and an uncontrollable desire for violence. Desperate to die, at a little after 1pm, George staggered into Cutlers Tool Makers at 52 Brewer Street, pointed to a shiny stainless-steel blade, and having handed over 10 shillings, he stumbled out, into the bustle of Brewer Street, brandishing a six inch filleting knife, one step nearer to slitting his wrists. What happened next is debatable, as with no slashes to his arms, cuts to his neck or puncture wounds on his body, whether he sobered-up, cooled off or got cold feet, George suddenly decided to forgo his suicide and – instead – headed east to 12 Brewer Street (where Soho’s Original Book Shop now sits) and where George would fulfil a very different and uncontrollable urge. The time was 1:15pm. On the ground floor, to the left of the store, was a black wooden door. Instinctively, although he would never hear it, George rung the bell, and waited in the doorway, as he swayed unsteadily on his feet. Opened by the housekeeper (Sophie Georgina Willis), although he was obviously arseholed, without a sound, just a smile, she ushered him up to the first-floor, with a wave which said ‘you know the way’. Having visited her several times prior, George had always liked Rosa. And even though he never knew her name, age, history, or (because he was deaf) he never heard that this well-rounded woman in her early forties, with an obvious Irish surname like O’Neill, had a Polish accent; none of those details mattered, as being one of the few Soho sex-workers who didn’t mock, pity or shun him, he liked Rosa. And with no heirs, no graces and no pretense - to many young men - she was just a nice lady. As George drunkenly stumbled up the white wooden staircase, bouncing off the floral wallpaper and almost tripping-up over the soft green carpeting underfoot, at the top of the stairs stood Rosa O’Neill. Being five foot four at a push, fourteen stone at her lightest, and with a motherly yet matronly face, dressed in a pink quilted dressing gown and slippers, although George was drunk (as he always was), she smiled and welcomed him in, like a loving aunt who’s first words would be “you fancy a cuppa?” But being part man and part monster; with the meek, mild and timid man having shifted into the shadows, and the other side of his Jekyll & Hyde now making strange stirrings within; as from his heart to his head his blood heavily thumped, inside pumped a dark and hollow rage. George would later state “I don’t know what happened, I just went berserk”. With his eyes wild and his knuckles white, from inside of his blue corduroy jacket, George pulled the filleting knife. With his left hand having roughly grabbed the scruff of her bathrobe to steady his terrified target, having raised the blade high, he plunged the full length of the six inch steel deep into the left of Rosa’s chest, and – using all of his force, anger, hatred and rage – he repeatedly stabbed the sliver of stainless steel into her torso, slashing at her flailing arms and slicing her splayed fingers, as the bloodied blade sunk four inches deep, into her right lung, her liver and gut. Desperate to fight off her frenzied attacker, as Rosa shoved her short assassin, over the soft green carpeting underneath, George stumbled, and as his sticky red hands left thick bloody smears over the white wood, Rosa slammed the door shut, and George fled. As her housekeeper rang the alarm, feeling queasy, Rosa lay face-up on her bed, a damp flannel on her forehead to cool her sweaty brow, as wrapped in a duvet, she was suddenly gripped with the icy cold chill as slowly her body drained of blood. And although they had called for a doctor, by the time he’d had arrived, just seven minutes later, Rosa O’Neill was dead. The next morning, although the previous day was a booze-soaked blur, seeing his clothes crumpled on the floor, his dirty corduroy caked in crusted blood, as he slowly sobered-up, George realised he’d done something truly awful. And being wracked with guilt, having unsuccessfully tried to kill himself by swallowing 300 aspirins, George handed himself in a Wimbledon Police Station. The Police investigation was swift. Having fully confessed to the crime, with a wealth of evidence and having been identified by the three witnesses, in a trial which barely lasted a day, on 27th November 1963, at The Old Bailey, George Thomas Pickering was found guilty of manslaughter by reason of diminished responsibility owing to insanity or illness, and was sentenced to life in prison. Four years later, eager to quell his thundering headaches which had haunted his every waking moment since the spinal meningitis had robbed him of all speech and sound, on Tuesday 8th May 1967, in the D Wing rec’ room of Wormwood Scrubs prison, having no access to alcohol to halt the incessant hammering in his head, George drank a homemade cocktail made from orange juice and copier fluid. And as the mix of acetone and methylated spirits inflamed his stomach, drowned his lungs, and as he drifted into a coma, having already been rendered deaf and mute by illness, (in a sad twist of irony) the booze which blocked the throbbing in his brain, had robbed him of another sense and rendered him blind. And after a slow and agonising death, which lasted almost a week, on Sunday 14th May 1967, George Thomas Pickering died of alcohol poisoning, and (once again) his whole world was silent. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Don’t forget to stay tuned to Extra Mile after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcast of the week, which is Redhanded (PLAY PROMO) And if you’ve ever in London, why not book a ticket onto my five-star rated Murder Mile Walks; it’s a guided walk of Soho’s most infamous murder, and you get to see my big fat bald head, and you get to say “oh, is that what he looks like? Ah, that’s a shame”. And on Saturday 8th September 2018 at The Salisbury pub, at 90 St Martin’s Lane in London, Murder Mile will be attending the True-Crime Meet-Up, along with many of your favourite British true-crime podcaters. Join us! Murder Mile was researched, written & 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.
Sources: This episode of Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast was researched various sources such as Larry's prison diary and various news articles as the original declassified police investigation files which are held by the National Archives at Kew, are not accessible until 2063.
Music: Additional music was used (in the case of Cult With No Name) with their kind permission and all other artists under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution) via Free Music Archive. A full track listing follows:
Sounds: With additional sounds courtesy of the Free Sound Project, used under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution).
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 Best True-Crime Podcast at the British Podcast Awards 2018 and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk 
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via iTunes, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In, Otto Radio, Spotify or Acast.
EPISODE THIRTY-EIGHT
Episode Thirty-Eight: Justice for Martine Vik Magnussen: On the morning of Sunday 16th March 2008, the body of 23 year old Martine Vik Magnussen was found raped and strangled in the basement of 222 Great Portland Street, London. And although the Police know who her killer is, where he is and can prove he was guilty, he has never been arrested. Why?
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it now by clicking the PLAY button on the embedded media player below. All transcribed versions are available in here - "Podcast Transcripts"
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram
Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed by various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here
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 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In, Otto Radio or Acast
222 Great Portland Street today, where Martine was murdered
As part of the Murder Mile Podcast - a true-crime podcast of 300+ untold, unsolved and often forgotten murders, all set within one square mile of London's West End - I have uploaded the full unedited transcript of each episode, containing all of the information, histories and backstories which I was unable to provide in the podcast episode owing to time-constraints or last-minute changes to the script.
You can DOWNLOAD episode #38 of the Murder Mile true-crime podcast via iTunes, or you can listen to it now, by clicking the play button on the media player below. Full Transcript - Episode #38 - Justice for Martine Vik Magnussen - TRANSCRIPT
Thank you for downloading episode thirty-eight of the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast.
If you enjoy listening Murder Mile and want to support the show, please do leave a review on iTunes or even on the podcast app you’re using right now, as it brings the show to a wider audience, ensures its future and recently your five star reviews rocketed Murder Mile into iTunes top 50 podcasts, so your support is truly appreciated. Thank you for listening and enjoy 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 one square mile of the West End. Today’s episode is about Martine Vik Magnussen; a bright, loving and vivacious student, who travelled from Norway to study in London, but was murdered at the hands of a friend, and although her brutal death has been solved, more than ten years on, her killer has never been brought to justice. Murder Mile contains unsettling details which may make the timid tremble, as well as 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 38: Justice for Martine Vik Magnussen. Today I’m standing outside of Seaford Court at 222 Great Portland Street; one road west of Gosfield Street, where the West End’s most infamous strangler murdered his third victim, one street south of Regent’s Park where the Provisional IRA exploded two bombs killing 11 people and injuring 50, and a few streets south of Hampstead Road and Gloucester Crescent where two more possible victims of The Blackout Ripper were murdered - coming soon to Murder Mile. Situated just north of Oxford Circus; where-as Soho is the home of every hobo, homo, hipster, ponce, pervert and deeply desperate extrovert; being its bastard little brother, Fitzrovia is little more than a half-way house for those moody, vague, ashen faced arseholes who aren’t as rich, hip and famous as they think, hence they live on a street where every building looks like an accountants. Being a place where no-one bothers to stop, situated in the west end of Fitzrovia, Great Portland Street is a pretentiously hideous concrete jungle, unaware of how truly shit it really is. As outside of its endless uptight eateries sits a slew of grumpy gits and frumpy sows, all dressed in fur coats, fedoras and painfully tight facelifts, who sip blinis on its kerb-side tables (like they’re sunning it up on the French Riviera) when actually, every time they chug back an oyster, they choke on a caustic mouthful of dust, truck fumes and the whiff of poodle plop. Yup, Great Portland Street truly is an awful place. Now renamed The Armitage, Seaford Court at 222 Great Portland Street is a semi-exclusive set of serviced apartments; and with a stark black and glass fronted façade on the ground floor (which makes it look like a funeral directors), a storage vault in the basement (which, again, is ironic, given its history), and with a five-storey red brick mansion block above, built in a faux Parisian style, here you can rent out a flat once owned by a minor celebrity, a failed pop-star, and maybe even a murderer. As it was here on Friday 14th March 2008, that 23 year old Martine Vik Magnussen was lured back to the flat of a close friend… and murdered. (INTERSTITIAL) As a bitter Norwegian wind blew across the icy frozen tundra, in the early hours of Wednesday 6th February 1985, the deathly silence was cut short by the sharp squeal of tyres and the roar of a high-revving engine, as a set of Saab headlights ripped along the pitch black coastal road from Nesoya to Oslo. To the left, darkness; to the right, the sea, eerily still and black like blood in the moonlight. Behind the steering wheel, fighting the grip, as the speeding weaving car blew through every stop sign, red light and road-block, was 25 year old (Aad) Odd Petter Magnussen. Being a tall slim man with wavy blonde hair and a kindly yet concerned face, although (for the first time in his life) he’d broken several traffic violations, Petter wasn’t a criminal, a fugitive or a maniac, but a loving father. And as a series of pained screams echoed from the backseat, between the legs of his heavily pregnant wife (Kristin), a tiny blonde crown of hair peeped out, as their excitable second child got bored of waiting and with a new world to explore and no time to waste, out she popped, just inside the doors of Oslo hospital. With wide hazel-green eyes, soft blonde hair and a bright beaming smile, as Petter held his perfect little girl in his arms, he promised to love and protect her. The childhood of Martine Vik Magnussen could easily be described as idyllic, and as the beloved middle child of two loving parents, who was adored by her older brother Magnus and younger sister Mathilda, she grew-up surrounded by love, joy and happiness. On the small beautiful island of Nesoya, 25 miles south-east of Oslo, the Magnussen family lived in a little wooden cottage on the brow of a hill overlooking a stunning snowy fjord. And with the air being fresh, the water being clean and the streets being safe, as an active child, here Martine could run, swim and play, all day. But being an inquisitive girl with a thirst for knowledge and an adventurous spirit, coming from a remote island, her family knew that one day she would leave to see the world. As a popular, generous and honest girl with a heart so big it’s amazing it managed to fit into her 5 foot 4 inch frame - being bright, kind and bubbly - Martine was beautiful inside and out. Every summer, when the Norwegian snow had melted into crystal clear streams and crisp blue lakes, in a little wooden hut nestled on the shoreline at the bottom of the family garden, Martine would host parties for her nearest and dearest; singing, dancing and cooking treats. And as an instantly likable young lady with no enemies, only friends, Petter described his daughter as "pure sunshine". (Silence) So, I guess you’re probably expecting to hear about a horrific incident in her idyllic childhood – maybe involving drugs, death, debt or disaster - where everything she ever loved fell apart and her life was changed forever? But it didn’t. In fact, the worst thing that happened was the divorce of her parents when Martine was 15, but as a loving couple, deeply committed to their children, they amicably split and remained close, spending birthdays, Christmases and holidays together. (End silence) Encouraged by her doting father to be confident, independent and ambitious; having once dreamed of being a prima ballerina, a showjumper and a professional netballer, after graduation from Kristelig Gymnasium (a private Christian school in Oslo), in February 2007, Martine moved to London and later enrolled in an International Business Relations degree at Regents Business School, barely a 15 minute walk from Seaford Court - the five-storey red brick mansion block at 222 Great Portland Street. As a dynamic girl in a bustling city, 23 year old Martine academically thrived, emotionally blossomed and socially flourished, and although she was over a thousand miles from home; she lived well, stayed safe and made many new friends. One of whom was Farouk Abdulhak (INTERSTITIAL) Born in Sana’a, the capital city of the Arab sovereign state of Yemen, on the 18th February 1987, Farouk Abdulhak was the eldest son of Egyptian and Yemeni parents. And although the Yemen is the poorest country in the Arabian Peninsula, with half the population living on less than £1 a day and with limited access to fresh food and clean drinking water, the life of Farouk Abdulhak was very different. Raised in opulence, wealth and privilege, Farouk was the first-born son of billionaire Shaher Abdulhak; dubbed the ‘King of Sugar’ owing to his business interests in Coca-Cola, as a powerful man with many influential allies, Farouk’s father was a close personal friend of the Yemani president and his personal net worth of $9 billion was the equivalent of 1/10th of his country’s annual GDP. As future heir to his father’s fortune, Farouk attended Azal Hadda primary school in Sala’a, was educated in the traditional core values of Islam - tolerance, abstinence and compassion – and although a lot rested on such a small set of shoulders, Farouk was friendly, respectful, pleasant, polite and shy. The kind of guy his school friends said “wouldn’t hurt a fly”. Being 5 foot 7 inches tall; slim and toned with chestnut eyes, cropped dark hair, a chiselled face and a neatly trimmed designer beard, being dressed in the latest brands, gold chains and snazzy trainers, although slightly vain, 21 year old Farouk was an unremarkable young man, who looked like almost any other wealthy Arab’s son raised in the West on an excess of money, freedom and privilege. Eager for the offspring to his ever-expanding empire to be well-educated and develop solid experience in both Arab and Western cultures, Farouk’s father sent his son to some of Britain’s top boarding schools, and - although Farouk rebelled against his strict Islamic father by drinking, smoking and professing to be agnostic - in September 2007, he enrolled in an International Business Relations degree at Regents Business School in London, where he met Martine Vik Magnussen. (Silence) So, I guess you’re probably expecting to hear about a horrific incident in his idyllic childhood – maybe involving drink and drugs, guns and gangsters, massacres and mental illness – of how a shy boy became a psychopath and his life was changed forever? But it didn’t. Farouk was a billionaire’s son, living in London, studying by day, partying by night and although he was 4500 miles from his home, the worst thing that happened to Farouk was the pressure of having to uphold his family’s honour. So, as far as we know, Farouk had no reason to kill Martine… but he did. (End silence) In June 2007, Martine moved into a modest four-bedroomed flat just off Chelsea Bridge Road, in a safe, local and well-lit part of town, that she shared with three Norwegian friends, and which she funded by working a part-time job at Mulberry clothing store in Mayfair. And as a confident girl who liked the nightlife, hailing from a small island and living in a big city, Martine never took risks with her safety, she was street-smart, careful and cautious. She didn’t walk home at night, she didn’t hitchhike, she never accepted lifts from strangers and if any of her flatmates decided not to come home, the rule was "always text, always stay in touch”… and Martine always did. Her female friends would often joke that there were no men left in London as they were all in love with Martine, and being a mesmerising woman who had an innate ability to make everyone feel special, warm and loved, some men fancied Martine, where-as others were besotted. Farouk and Martine had known each other for eight months; and (to the best of our knowledge) they never dated, fought, kissed or fornicated; they had no debts, lies or secrets; and often being seen together, although it was obvious that Farouk fancied her, he never asked Martine out and she never rejected him. They were just two good friends… one of whom would end up dead The murder of Martine Vik Magnussen is part of an on-going investigation, so the following details are based on the limited information available, therefore there will be gaps, lapses and loose-threads. Thursday 13th March 2008 was a night for celebration, as not only was this the end of term for the students of the Regents Business School, but in her exams, Martine had come top of her class. Being eager to drink, dance and let off steam; Martine, Farouk and some school friends headed out to a boutique nightclub called Maddox at 3-4 Mill Street in fashionable Mayfair; where the guest-list is by invite, membership is by referral and being secreted beneath an unassumingly bland office building, with no neon sign or flashing lights, the Maddox Club is only for those who know. Stylishly dressed in skinny blue designer jeans, a fawn coloured vest-top and brown snakeskin shoes, which she’d accessorised with Christian Dior earrings, a silver Guess watch and a black leather Marc Jacobs handbag, and with her trademark blonde hair, pink lipstick and silver eye-shadow, as Martine slinked down the spiral staircase, into the club’s pseudo-futuristic back-lit façade, she seamlessly blended in midst a sea of student and socialites; singing, dancing, mingling and laughing. By all accounts, a fabulous night was had by all, and nothing out of the ordinary happened. There were no fights, spats, strops, huffs, tuts, tears or bad-blood spilled. It was an evening perfectly summed up by one of the many photos taken that night; it shows Martine and Farouk, two friends in a gentle embrace, her arm draped over his shoulder, and both are happy, smiling and relaxed. At 3:20am, with her pooped-out friends’ eager to sleep and a full-of-beans Martine desperate to dance till dawn, outside of the Maddox Club, they parted ways. And having misplaced her mobile phone one week prior, her flat mates knew not to expect a text, and besides, she was with Farouk, so they knew she’d be safe. A few moments later, Martine and Farouk hopped in a black cab on Mill Street and headed north into Fitzrovia. That was the last time anyone (but her killer) saw her alive ever again. On the morning of Friday 14th March 2008, her bleary-eyed flat-mates spotted that Martine’s bed hadn’t been slept-in, her snake-skin shoes weren’t scattered on the floor, her Marc Jacobs handbag wasn’t slung over the door, and although she didn’t have her phone, she knew the rules and (no matter what) she would find a way to say she was safe… but she hadn’t. They messaged her via Facebook – no reply. They called all of her friends – no sighting. They called Farouk – no answer. And growing even more concerned, as day turned to night, they retraced her last known steps, handing out flyers adorned with her photograph – but no-one had seen her. Having been missing for 24 hours, Martine’s disappearance was reported to the Police, but being a popular foreign student, in London, on a bank holiday weekend, it was assumed she was partying and no search was done. But then again, Martine wasn’t the only person who had gone missing that night. Unusually, for such a media savvy man, shortly after his arrival home, Farouk switched his mobile off. Strangely, for such a social climber, the door to his flat remained firmly shut. And – in a sinister twist - at roughly 4am, barely forty minutes after he and Martine had hopped in a black cab, Farouk updated his Facebook status, it read “Farouk is home alone”. One day later, he deleted his profile completely. Knowing their friend and fearing the worst, Martine’s flat-mates approached the Police with their findings and pestered them to call on Farouk. And seeing the clues before them leading to something unseemly, PC James Tauber was dispatched to Seaford Court at 222 Great Portland Street. Farouk wasn’t home. He hadn’t been for more than a day, and with his clothes, his phone, his wallet, his bag and his passport missing, it looked like, wherever he’d gone, he’d left in a hurry. And although she was nowhere to be seen, the officer instinctively knew that Martine had been there, and that something bad had happened to her, as sprawled across the flush white carpet, in a crumpled messy heap, lay her fawn coloured vest-top, and - like a grisly version of Hansel & Gretel – pointing towards the flat’s front door, in an ominous spotted line, were rivulets of little red dots. As PC Tauber traced the sporadic speckles of concealed blood down the cold stone stairs, as his booted feet echoed off the hard walls, his ghastly treasure hunt ended, as the crimson spots came to a dead stop at a basement door, its padlock dotted with dried and crusted blood. At 10:20am, on Sunday 16th March 2008, in the damp, dark and unlit basement of 222 Great Portland Street, the semi-clad body of 23 year old Martine Vik Magnussen was found, hastily dumped under a pile of builder’s rubble, as her left arm protruded from a mess of sand and cement, in a rushed attempt by her killer to conceal his crime. Martine had been raped and strangled. The next day, Odd Petter Magnussen, Martine’s doting father (who just 23 years earlier had raced through the icy Norwegian tundra, from Nesoya to Oslo, to ensure the safe birth of his beautiful baby) had flown from Oslo to London, to undertake a duty which no father should ever have to do. In the sterile coldness of the mortuary, on an aluminium gurney, draped in a blue plastic sheet, lay the body of Martine Magnussen. And although the Police told Petter everything to prepare him for the sight he was about to see – that she’d been strangled, that she’d been raped and that she’d fought for her life – it would never be enough, as lying in front of him, was his daughter, all cold and lifeless. And although her flawless skin was mottled with a mix of yellow, brown and purple bruises; with her face swollen, her tongue protruding and her neck etched with an odd mark, it was the little details which brought the most pain for Petter. He would say of that day, “she looked like Martine, she still had her eyeshadow on”. And as she lay there, and his trembling hand stroked her cold face, even as an unemotional man, Petter was reduced to tears, at the sight of his beautiful baby - dead. And of all the harrowing details he had heard that day of his daughter’s demise, the worst he would have to live with was this; as an illuminous young woman who had brought so much happiness to the world, her last moments alive weren’t spent in love, or joy, or delight, but in pain, fear and dread. Forensic pathologist Dr Nathaniel Carey confirmed that Martine had 43 substantial injuries to her head, neck and body. And although toxicology tests confirmed she had consumed 130mg (milligrams) of alcohol and a small amount of cocaine (consistent with any weekend drinker and recreational user); she was fully conscious at the time she was raped, and that the unusual mark across her neck was consistent with compression, as if she’d been pinned to the floor by an object, a hand, or a foot. Almost ten years on, the murder of Martine Vik Magnussen remains unresolved, but not unsolved. After a short Police investigation, although they only had one suspect; they knew who he was, where he was, and they knew (and could prove) that he was guilty. His name was Farouk Abdulhak. The problem was, they couldn’t arrest him. On the afternoon of Friday 14th March 2008, having erased his Facebook profile, packed his bags and pocketed his passport, Farouk boarded a flight from London Heathrow to the Egyptian capital of Cairo, where he was spirited out of the country, to Sanaa in Yemen, in his billionaire father’s private jet. Protected by armed guards, iron gates and a vast wealth, although his whereabouts cannot be verified, it is said that Farouk is hidden in the remote village of Thaba Abous in southern Yemen; he’s grown a beard to blend in with the strict Islamic culture, he studied Arabic at the local university, he recently married a divorced Yemeni woman, and – although a European warrant was issued for his arrest - as neither Britain nor Norway have an extradition treaty with the Yemen, it is unlikely that Farouk Abdulhak will ever be arrested, imprisoned or convicted, and (as of today) he remains the one and only suspect in the murder of Martine Vik Magnussen. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Don’t forget to stay tuned to Extra Mile after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcast of the week, which is Bloody Murder (PLAY PROMO) A big thank you goes out to my amazing Patreon supporters, who get treated to some very exclusive content but also they get a big load of love from me: this week’s star Patreons are Kate from the fabulous Ignorance Was Bliss podcast, Steve Stadalink who, like a blumming hero, increased his pledge to mega proportions, and a new patreon – the lovely Ambar from Phoenix (Arizona), who I met on my weekly Murder Mile walk, and she gave me £30 in cash to support Murder Mile. So to all of my Patreo-fans, I give you big kisses, from the bottom of my heart, the bottom of my liver, but not from the bottom of my bottom, because nobody wants a kiss from there, except real weirdos. Murder Mile was researched, written & 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.
Sources: As this case is an on-going murder investigation, there are very few official sources (and no file at the National Archives) so some of the sources I have used are listed below:
Music: Additional music was used (in the case of Cult With No Name) with their kind permission and all other artists under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution) via Free Music Archive. A full track listing follows:
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 Best True-Crime Podcast at the British Podcast Awards 2018 and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via iTunes, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In, Otto Radio or Acast.
The White Horse public house
Welcome to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within one square mile of the West End.
EPISODE THIRTY-SEVEN
Episode Thirty-Seven: On Sunday 14th June 1964, in the bar-room of The White Horse public house on Rupert Street in Soho, 21 year old Larry Winters shot 44 year old barman Paddy O'Keefe to death, having never met him before. But why?
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THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram
Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed by various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here
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 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In, Otto Radio or Acast.
Full Transcript - Episode #37 - The Wasted Life of Larry Winters) - TRANSCRIPT
Thank you for downloading episode thirty-seven of the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast.
If you enjoy Murder Mile, listening to the authentic sounds, imagining the sights and wishing you were actually there? Well, if you’re ever in London, why not join me on my 5 star rated guided walk of Soho’s most infamous murders, and absorb the sights, sounds and smells of Soho for real. Tours are every Sunday at 11am, and feature many stories you will never hear on the podcast. Ooh. For tickets, click on the link in the show-notes. Thank you for listening and enjoy 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 one square mile of the West End. Today’s episode is about Larry Winters; a loving son, a soldier and a violently disturbed psychopath, who never got the help he so badly needed and (in a moment of madness) destroyed two lives forever. Murder Mile contains shocking details which may make the delicate go doolally, as well as 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 37: The Wasted Life of Larry Winters. Today I’m standing outside of The White Horse public house on Rupert Street in Soho, W1; one road west of the Old Compton Street death-bed of Dutch Leah, one road east of the Salted Almond cocktail bar where Greta Haywood met the notorious The Blackout Ripper, and one road south of Brewer Street, where Soho sex-workers (Ginger Rae and Margaret Cook) were last seen alive, and where Rosa O’Neill was viscously stabbed to death by a deaf and mute murderer – coming soon to Murder Mile. Originally built in the 1720’s and rebuilt in the 1930’s, The White Horse has stood on the cobblestoned corner of Rupert Street for almost three hundred years. And being a four-storey building of sandstone brick; with a dark-wood facade, frosted glass, brass fittings, black double-doors and a defunct Victorian gas-light above, as much as Soho may change, this pub has remained traditional inside and out. With no creaky old bikes hanging from the ceiling, no rusty old signs nailed to the walls and no brass plaque dangling on the door etched with the words “ye olde English pub”, having avoided the urge to scatter several skip’s worth of battered books, church pews, butter churns, washing dolly’s, milk urns and other such factory-produced shite, deliberately made to look old so the tourists go “ooh, that must be original”, The White Horse public house is a proper pub; a time-capsule of Soho life. Barely fifty feet long by fifty feet wide and dominated by a central bar island so broad, when the pub has sixty punters in there’s hardly enough room to breath - with a familiar smell of stale ale, meat pies, sweat, bleach and botty-burps; a tobacco stained ceiling which looks like some old geezer painted it with inch thick phlegm using his cancerous old lung; tables stabbed with several decades worth of flick-knives, knuckle dusters and six-inch stilettos; a portrait of The Queen, and possibly Prince Charles, Prince Albert and any other royal whose name is synonymous with a painful penis piercing, and a bar so sticky, that to pick up your pint you have to turn and twist it first - having barely changed in decades, The White Horse truly is packed full of history, character, stories and even the odd murder. As it was here, on Sunday 14th June 1964, in the bar-room of The White Horse public house, where 21 year old Larry Winters… (stops) …do you know what? Why am I telling you this? Let me show you. As the fading summer sun dipped below the western end of Shaftesbury Avenue and that last crack of light plunged Piccadilly Circus into a disorientating mix of auburn twilights and shuffling silhouettes, it’s reassuring warmth no longer soothed Larry’s exhausted face, as slowly, a dark chill set in. Although, like many young men barely out of their teens; Larry was usually tidy and trim; today with his eyes all crusted-up with sleep, his fuzzy brown hair a tangled mess and hanging off his five foot nine inch frame was his crumpled dark suit, white shirt and black tie, which was etched with an odd cross-cross of lines, as if he’d slept a bit but not in a bed, Larry was tired, hungry and broke. For the last twenty-four hours, Larry had aimlessly walked around the West End, as the endless streets of Soho scuffed his once shiny shoes. And although - with no money in his pockets, no food in his belly, and a thick Glaswegian accent which told the world that this desperate young man was stranded 380 miles from his Scottish home – he didn’t ask for help, and he couldn’t; as having a bulbous nose, sticky-out ears and eternally smirking lips, Larry was a wanted man, on the run, who was easy-to-spot. As Larry slinked off Shaftesbury Avenue and up the shadowy cobblestoned road of Rupert Street, being bathed in lurid neon lights that flashed a stream of unsubtle single-syllable words like sex, nude and girls from its many strip-clubs, sex parlours and backstreet brothels, although a young man, Larry wasn’t here for that. And yet, as a convicted thief, he reminded himself of the promise he’d made to his beloved mother that he’d stay out of trouble - and he had, for a while - but with a second night of homelessness and hunger looming, he knew that where there was sex and drink, there was money. Illuminated by a Victorian gas-light, through its frosted glass, Larry spotted barely a handful of slightly tipsy drinkers, all of whom were being served by a just single barman, so with this being a usual quiet Sunday night, The White Horse would be an easy target. As his hand slid into his canvas army knapsack; pushing aside a well-thumbed poetry book, a battered notepad and a stubby pencil, he grasped at the little gift he’d brought home for his brother – a brown wooden handled, matt black, 38 calibre Enfield MK1 service revolver. He knew how to hold it, he knew how to shoot it, and although six bullets sat in the barrel, he knew he wouldn’t need any. With speed and surprise as his ally, he’d rush in, hop the bar, ping open the till, grab the cash, make a dash, hop on the next train to Glasgow, and with nobody hurt and the Police none-the-wiser, by dawn he’d be home. It was a simple plan, fuelled by hunger, thirst and tiredness. And as his fingertips tingled, his brain thumped and his vision grew hazy, Larry pushed open the black double doors of The White Horse to commit an ordinary robbery, of an ordinary pub, for the usual ordinary reason – money. But then again, Larry Winters wasn’t an ordinary boy. (We hear screams, “open the till”, gun goes off, more screams). And although this incident would change the life of Larry Winters forever, this is not the end of his story, and it’s certainly not the beginning. (INTERSTITIAL). Taken from his prison diaries, the earliest memories of Larry Winters are at best patchy and at worst vague, so whatever is a truth, a lie or an exaggeration, is up to you to decide. Born in Townhead, on the eastern end of the bustling Scottish city of Glasgow on 21st March 1943, Lawrence Costigan Winters was one of three siblings raised in a loving, loyal and devoutly Catholic working class family during the grip of World War Two, as the Nazi bombers obliterated its shipyards and factories, reducing great swathes of the city to rubble, as poverty and hunger became endemic. As a sickly child, Larry spent much of his formative year’s bedbound in Glasgow Royal Infirmary, staring at the bland hospital ceiling through choking tears, desperate for a reassuring kiss and a warm hug, as he pleaded for his mum to come and take him home, but every day, the doctors said “no”. Being imprisoned and trapped by the hospital ward’s cold stone walls with bars on the windows, locks on the doors and uniformed guards on patrol; as often as his mother Mary questioned these quacks as to why her little boy was ill, being too arrogant to simply say “we don’t know”, having doled out a pot of pills and prescribed some bed-rest, once again, the doctors would trot out that same old vague phrase of “he’ll probably grow out of it”, but sadly, Larry never did. Larry’s turbulent childhood started with a simple headache; a dull throbbing pain possibly caused (the doctors thought) by eye-strain, a thundering heart rate (so acute it caused his fingers to tingle) and as a dark red mist descended over his blurry eyes, being in the grip of a violent and uncontrollable rage, the terrified young boy would be struck down with anxiety, paranoia, black-outs and hallucinations. And yet, still, the doctors did nothing. As a highly-strung and easily aggravated boy, growing-up amidst Glasgow’s bombed-out tenement blocks; with no real sense of right or wrong, having been misdiagnosed and being un-medicated, Larry – led by his older brother (Don) – soon descended into loutish destruction, petty thuggery and minor misdemeanours, such as fighting, stealing and vandalism, all punishable by being roughly manhandled by a Policeman, and frog-marched home, to be shamed in front of his mother. On one undocumented night, in the early 1950’s, as Larry and Don (being two terrible tykes) restlessly strolled down Glasgow’s North Frederick Street; kicking cans, cars and cats, a gang of young bruisers corned the two boys and demanded money. Larry had nothing to give and nothing to lose, so with his fingers tingling, his head pounding and his heart racing, Larry smashed a glass milk bottle over the ringleader’s head, and grinned as the blood oozed down the crying boy’s face. Seeing them slowly slide into petty crime and wanting only the best for her two boys, with her husband having begun a new job as a groundskeeper, the Winters family left the squalor of the city behind and uprooted to the stunning Carbisdale Castle in the Scottish highlands. And with the air being clear, clean and crisp; the landscape an intoxicating array of colours, sights and smells; and being free to swim in the lakes, to run through the fields and to climb up the trees, here Mary’s boys began to flourish. In his diaries, Larry talked of his time at Carbisdale Castle as the most wonderful part of his childhood; peaceful, joyous and calm; and being closer to his beloved mother and further away from his fears, his temper quelled, his hallucinations halted and his panic attacks got less frequent. But nestling in the murky mess of his mixed-up head, the dark demon sat; goading him to stab at deer with his knife, to stomp rabbits to death with his boots, and never telling him why. And with the season over, and the greenkeeper’s job now ceased, the family reluctantly trudged back to Glasgow; to the grit, the grime, the crime and the gangs, and – soon afterwards - the old Larry Winters returned. Being ticked-off by uptight teachers, dictated to by dipshit doctors and picked-on by pushy Police, although Larry was a bright lad with a deep love of poetry, being easily bored and restless, he bunked out of school, regularly engaged in knife-fights, and having begun a career as a petty criminal, by 1957, aged just 14 years old, Larry was sentenced to two years at the notorious Larchgrove Remand Centre and later St John’s Borstal. And, once again, being trapped by four cold stone walls, with bars on the windows, locks on the doors and uniformed guards on patrol, borstal was the worst place for Larry to be, and being separated from his beloved mum who’d ask the staff what was wrong with her little boy, they’d simply trot out that same old vague phrase of “he’ll probably grow out of it”, but sadly, Larry never did. By the age of 20, unable to curb his aggression, he had notched-up five more convictions for theft and violent assault. In early 1964, a few months shy of his 21st birthday, being eager to instil some discipline into his own troubled life, having shamed his mum one too many times, Larry enlisted in the Parachute Regiment of the British Army and was posted to the Maida Barracks in Aldershot, 35 miles south-west of London. What he wanted was structure, what he needed was medication, what he got was more walls, more doors, more locks, more bars and more guards. And being barked at by bullies, day-in and day-out - as happy as Larry was that he was holding down an honest job and posting money home to his proud mum - inside his head, the dark demon sat; goading him to stab, to shoot, to kill, but with Britain’s war over and no enemies left to fight, all Larry had was routine, ridicule and a bubbling rage. On Friday 12th June 1964, in an unprovoked attack, Larry beat a fellow soldier into unconsciousness with his fists and feet. No-one knows why, not even Larry. On Saturday 13th June 1964, fearing arrest, having packed into his canvas army knapsack a well-thumbed poetry book, a battered notepad, a stubby pencil and a 38 calibre Enfield MK1 service revolver as a gift for his gun-loving brother, Larry snuck out of Maida Barracks and deserted from the British Army. Larry was heading home, to Glasgow and to his mum - that was his plan. But having blown almost a pound on a ticket to London Waterloo and a tube ride to Euston, having arrived at the train station, he realised he was £2 too short to afford the £5 fare to Scotland, and being hungry, tired and broke, Larry drifted towards the bright lights of Soho (INTERSTITIAL). Being stranded in a strange city with no friends, no family and no funds; as the sun set over Shaftesbury Avenue on the evening of Sunday 14th June 1964, with his shoes scuffed, his throat parched and his brown suit crumpled having fitfully slept the night in an abandoned Soho sex cinema, as homelessness and hunger loomed once again, Larry ambled into nearest side-street and entered into infamy. Illuminated by a Victorian gas-light, The White Horse on Rupert Street was just an ordinary pub, on an ordinary street, which he’d neither been to before, nor would ever return. And being full of ordinary people, who Larry had no hatred, malice or grievance with, with speed and surprise on his side, no-one would get hurt. And as his fingertips tingled, his brain thumped and his vision grew hazy, Larry pushed open the black double doors of The White Horse to commit a very ordinary robbery. But then again, Larry Winters wasn’t an ordinary boy… just as Paddy O’Keefe wasn’t an ordinary man. Patrick O’Keefe, known as Paddy, was a 37 year old Irishman who’d been raised in the roughest parts of Dublin, had served three tours of service in the formidable Irish Guards and as a bull-headed barman who’d turfed-out every type of tosser, loser and low-life out of some of South London’s dodgiest clubs, pubs and snooker halls, although not physically imposing, Paddy exuded authority. Smartly dressed in a dark brown suit, a crisp white shirt, a neat black tie and shiny black shoes; with short trimmed hair and a clean shaven face, Paddy was the epitome of a professional barman. And to any punter in (what he regarded as) his pub, you abided by his rules, or you were out. On any other day, Larry and Paddy might never have met, they should never have met, but – by chance - they did. Bursting open the black double doors, before the first scream had blurted passed a pint of luke warm ale, Larry had leaped over the bar-island’s sticky wooden surface and armed with the Enfield Mk1 revolver, he bruskly barked “this is a robbery, I want your money”. As his left hand swiftly reached for the cash-till, his right kept control of the terrified customers, their mouths agog. So far, so good. But having never worked in retail and with no knowledge of cash-registers, as Larry furiously pounded the till, thumped the buttons and hoped that his fists would (somehow) force great plumes of cash to fly out, Paddy sidled-up from the other side of the bar-island; his chest puffed out and his knuckles tight and white, as his cold glaring eyes fixed on this little shit who was robbing his bar. Feeling the dull ache in his brain as the pain burrowed deep and the rhythmic pulse of blood thumped like a mad man hammering on head, with the till remaining stubbornly shut, Larry barked “Open the till”, the gun’s barrel aimed squarely at the unflinching barman’s chest but calmly Paddy retorted “no”. And that was it, their whole interaction was just four words, but that is all it took. Never had two men hated each other so much and so fast, but having never met before, it wasn’t who they were that they despised but what they represented, as years of hate were condensed into less than seven seconds. To Paddy, Larry was just another little toe-rag; a tyke, a shite and a scrote; a wastrel with no brains and a loser with no rules, who every week, with a boot up his bum, Paddy would kick out into the street. To Larry, Paddy was just another authority figure – a doctor, a copper, a guard and a warder - who had stood in his way, had told him “no” and kept him from being with his beloved mum. And as both men stood eye-to-eye, inches apart and unwilling to back down, as the hot moist stench of Paddy’s breath scolded Larry’s face; with his head throbbing, his pulse racing and his finger tingling as it gripped the gun’s trigger, as a red mist descended, before he knew what he had done… (BANG)… clutching his chest, Paddy staggered back, his face flushed with shock as sharp arcs of blood spurted between his fingers and stained his crisp white shirt a dark shade of crimson. Being gripped with giddiness, and going ghostly white as pint after pint of thick sticky blood trickled down his panting chest, as Paddy’s unsteady feet stumbled on the rough wooden boards, he fell. It was said, he was dead before he even hit the floor. With the cash till unopened, Larry fled empty-handed, but as an easy-to-spot Army deserter, with a Glaswegian accent, a bulbous nose, sticky-out ears and eternally smirking lips, he was swiftly arrested at Euston Station trying to sneak onto a last train home. (FALSE ENDING) On the 16th June 1964, 21 year old Larry Winters was charged with murder whilst in the furtherance of a robbery, a crime punishable by death. But having been declared insane by a psychiatrist who’d stated that he was “an abnormal man with violent psychotic tendencies”, on the 31st July 1964, at The Old Bailey, a jury found him guilty of manslaughter owing to diminished responsibility, and with Justice Stephenson concluding that he should be put away “for the protection of himself, as well as the public”, Larry Winters was sentenced to life imprisonment. (Record scratch) Of course, as I said at the start, although this murder would change the life of Larry Winters forever; that was not the beginning of his story, and this was certainly not the end. What Larry wanted was help, what he needed was medication, but what he got was more walls, more doors, more locks, more bars and more guards. And for a clinically insane, mentally ill man with an uncontrollable rage and hatred of authority figures, prison was the worst place for him to be. And the more his mum queried these psychiatrists as to why her little boy was ill, being too arrogant to say “we don’t know”, having doled out a pot of pills and prescribed some bed-rest, once again, they’d trot out that same old vague phrase of “he’ll probably grow out of it”, but sadly, Larry never did. And being left to rot, alone in a cell, all Larry had was routine, ridicule and a bubbling rage. On 27th May 1968, in Aberdeen’s infamous Peterhead prison, as a protest against the brutality of the guards, Larry was one of four ringleaders who led a violent and bloody riot, during which he stabbed three prison officers and a civilian instructor with a set of tailor’s scissors. With the riot quelled, having cornered their culprits, as they waited for the police, the prison guards took their revenge, and using a flying fury of batons, fists and feet. Larry suffered two broken ribs and needed 14 stitches in his head. Found guilty of two charges of attempted murder and two of assault, Larry was sentenced to a further fifteen years in prison, in an already indeterminate life sentence, and being unable to curb his violent psychotic rages, finally he was prescribed medication… but not the kind he needed. And being eager to keep him doped-up and docile, they dosed him with an addictive daily cocktail of strong sedatives. On 29th December 1972, Larry attempted to escape from the Inverness prison, and in what should have been a simple plan; when confronted, he stabbed four prison officers in the back, chest, neck, face and eyes using a makeshift dagger fashioned from a sharpened table fork. He was found guilty of four counts of attempted murder which increased his sentence by a further 26 years in prison. And with his head throbbing, his pulse racing and his fingers tingling, the more he got hopelessly addicted to prescription drugs (which failed to quell his anxiety, paranoia and hallucinations), the more he became dependent on harder drugs such as opium and heroin, to make the voices go away. On the 16th March 1973, nine years into his incarceration and almost a decade after the murder of Paddy O’Keefe, Larry Winters was transferred to the notorious HMP Barlinnie Prison; a cramped, squalid, overpopulated, rat-infested, powder-keg of drug-addicts, rapists and murderers, so infamous, feared and hated, Barlinnie has earned a place high up on the list of the world's most infamous prisons alongside Alcatraz, the Bangkok Hilton and Wormwood Scrubs. But seeing his mental health rapidly decline, Larry was moved to Barlinnie’s Special Unit; a pioneering facility dedicated to the treatment of ultra-violent prisoners, which used medication and therapy, in a calm and friendly environment, where the guards were tolerant and respectful; where the days were full of open doors and fresh air; and Larry’s recovery was supported by education, enpowered by recreation and was rewarded by supervised visits to his home, his friends and – more importantly – his mum. And it was here that - reading poetry and writing his diaries - Larry began to flourish. …but by then, it was too late and the damage had been done. (Outro music fade back in). On Sunday 11th September 1977, 34 year old Larry Winters was found in his cell, slumped naked on the toilet, having overdosed on sedatives and choked on his own vomit. Of the few papers who carried the story, most described him as a thief, a murderer and (most notoriously) as “one of Scotland’s most violent prisoners”, almost as if it was badge of honour… but what they had forgotten was the truth. The mental illness of Larry Winters had been misdiagnosed and had gone unmedicated for almost three decades; and no matter where he went, what he did, or who he hurt, Larry Winter was simply just a frightened young boy, desperate to go home, to be with his mum. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Don’t forget to stay tuned to Extra Mile after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcast of the week, which is Yours in Murder (PLAY PROMO) A big thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who get murder location videos, crime scene photos and little extra pieces from myself, days before anyone else, as well as a personal thank you from me; this week’s star of Patreon is Kim Nixon. I bless you, the world blesses you, and Murder Mile blesses you, may you stay safe and happy forever. Murder Mile was researched, written & 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.
Sources: This episode of Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast was researched various sources such as Larry's prison diary and various news articles as the original declassified police investigation files which are held by the National Archives at Kew, are not accessible until 2063.
Music: Additional music was used (in the case of Cult With No Name) with their kind permission and all other artists under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution) via Free Music Archive. A full track listing follows:
Sounds: With additional sounds courtesy of the Free Sound Project, used under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution).
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 Best True-Crime Podcast at the British Podcast Awards 2018 and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile wal
Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast #36 - Love, Loss and the Lingering Death of Helen Mary Pickwoad25/7/2018 
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via iTunes, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In, Otto Radio, Spotify or Acast.
EPISODE THIRTY-SIX
Episode Thirty-Six: Love, Loss and the Lingering Death of Helen Mary Pickwoad: 27 year old Helen Mary Pickwoad thought she’d fallen in love with the man of her dreams, an Army Captain called Edward Tickell, but on Wednesday 20th May 1942, in Room 365 of the Mount Royal Hotel (now called Amba Hotel) at 508/540 Oxford Street, she died a very slow, painful and lingering death, and her boyfriend wasn't even in the room.
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THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram
Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed by various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here
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 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In, Otto Radio or Acast
Amba Hotel, formerly the Mount Royal Hotel at 508/540 Oxford Street, W1
As part of the Murder Mile Podcast - a true-crime podcast of 300+ untold, unsolved and often forgotten murders, all set within on square mile of London's West End - I have uploaded the full unedited transcript of each episode, containing all of the information, histories and backstories which I was unable to provide in the podcast episode owing to time-constraints or last-minute changes to the script.
You can DOWNLOAD episode #36 of the Murder Mile true-crime podcast via iTunes, or you can listen to it now, by clicking the play button on the media player below. Full Transcript - Episode #36 - Love, Loss and the Lingering Death of Helen Mary Pickwoad - TRANSCRIPT
Thank you for downloading episode thirty-six of the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast.
Each week on Murder Mile, there’s a free competition to win exclusive Murder Mile merchandise, such as Murder Mile badges, stickers and fridge magnets (which aren’t available to buy) as well as a personal thank you from me. To enter the competition, join us on the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast (Discussion Group) on Facebook, or click on the link in the show-notes. SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, set within one square mile of the West End. Today’s episode is about Helen Mary Pickwoad; a lovely lady looking for love, who fell for the man of her dreams - a dashing Army Captain - but owing to arrogance, incompetence and a grossly unfair law, this love affair led to her slow and agonising death. Murder Mile contains harrowing details which may make the uneasy quite queasy, as well as 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 36: Love, Loss and the Lingering Death of Helen Mary Pickwoad. Today I’m standing outside of the Amba Hotel on the east-side of the West End’s infamous shopping district; two streets south of 35 Bryanston Square where former Iraqi Prime Minister Abd al-Naif wasn’t shot dead by two incompetent assassins, one street east of the Intercontinental Hotel on Park Lane where he was, and two streets south of 112 Bryanston Court where Derek Thayer Lees-Smith murdered his own mother over a matter of just a few pounds - coming soon to Murder Mile. Situated at 508/540 Oxford Street, the four-star Amba Hotel is a colossal, eight storey, art-deco hotel from the mid-1930’s, covering half a square block, with brown brick walls, white metal windows and a stylish curved corner which looks down the length of Oxford Street. Originally called Mount Royal Hotel, its exterior has barely changed since its glory days, situated as it was, at the back of the infamous corner house tearoom (Maison Lyonese) where (it is said) The Blackout Ripper met his first victim. The Mount Royal Hotel was (and still is) a hugely popular and highly respectable West End hotel, and (as with most hotels) what happens behind the doors of its 684 rooms is none of our business; whether they’re full of randy couples rutting away, dodgy drug-dealers divvying up dope, a horny teen bobbing his one-eyed warrior over three minutes of semi-sexy stroke teasers, a seedy Saudi businessmen who (each night) has a new “girlfriend” who only stays for 58 minutes, or two pooped-out parents sodding the shopping-trip and savouring a whole weekend of child-free silence. Ah bliss. But one room has a very sordid history; as it was here, on Wednesday 20th May 1942, in Room 365 of the Royal Mount Hotel, that Helen Mary Pickwoad died a slow and agonising death. (Interstitial) Being born on 25th June 1914, barely five weeks before the outbreak of the First World War - a brutal and bloody conflict which left millions destitute, disabled and dead – by contrast, the early life of Helen Pickwoad had no hunger, horror or hardship, as being raised in an affluent middle-class family with two servants, the very worst that her upbringing could be described as was delightful, but dull. As the youngest of five children, all born to Alice (a devoutly Christian housewife) and Walter (a stern Scottish doctor), Helen was strong-willed and belligerent; but with her father’s respectable profession being at stake, as much as their three-storey townhouse at 103 Manchester Road in Southport was an extension of his prestige, so too were his children, and (as a necessary appendage to his status) at all times he demanded that they were well-dressed, well-educated and well-mannered. And so, although they had food, clothes and warmth; life was full of rules and routines, but being busy posing as the perfect family, what they lacked was love, and so, Helen descended into day-dreaming. As a pretty petite brunette with a big heart, brown almond-like eyes and a sweet smile; being a true romantic – as much as her parents ushered her towards the dreary life of a housewife and mother married to a dull loveless man - although she dreaded the stigma of bringing shame on her family, Helen dreamed not of wedding bells and babies, but of love, romance and passion. By March 1940, aged 25, and still being seen as a sinfully single woman with no husband, ring or offspring, as with the word “spinster” being unflatteringly bandied about in a cruel ruse to shame her into being trapped by tradition, Helen clung to the dream that one day her prince would come. And one day, he did, and his name… was Captain Tickell. (Interstitial) Following the outbreak of the Second World War on 1st September 1939, as a well-educated young lady from a respectable middle-class family, Helen was conscripted into the war effort, as a censor. As swarms of Nazi bombers obliterated Britain’s cities as they rained down fire from the skies, being based at the Postal Censorship Office in Liverpool, Helen was one of 120 censors whose job it was to intercept any letters, parcels or postcards; steam them open, assess the contents, and black-out any political, illegal or morally dubious sections which may prove detrimental to the war effort. For Helen, life was great; she had a good job, a solid wage and a lived in a three storey, four bedroomed Georgian terraced house at 20 Canning Street in Liverpool. One room of which was rented out to a tall, dashing and elegant Army captain named Edward Tickell… who would change her life forever. Born on St Valentine’s Day on 14th February 1905, in the Irish capital of Dublin, Edward Jerrard Tickell was a natural born charmer, whose chiselled good looks could lure in any lovely lady and whose cheeky chatter could talk his way out of any trouble. Being loved and loathed in equal measure, Edward was an enigma; a man who some saw as either confident or cocky, appealing or arrogant, sweet or selfish. And no matter which, being born into wealth and privilege, Edward Tickell was raised with a high sense of self-worth, a desire to take what he felt was his, and all without any conscience or consequence. Having being privately educated at the prestigious Highgate School; after graduation, Edward began an apprenticeship at Lever Brothers and stayed for three whole years. But being a trust-fund baby, and having no real reason to work, Edward jacked in the job, and piddled off to Hungary to become a sheep-farmer. Only to return to England two years later to set-up his own advertising agency. By the outbreak of World War Two, having enlisted in the Royal Army Service Corps, he was swiftly promoted from 2nd Lieutenant to Staff Captain in just six months and was seconded into the rather cushy position of an examiner at the Postal Censorship Office in Liverpool, where he met Helen Pickwoad. Based miles away from the prying eyes of her prudish parents, the longer Helen shared the same house with Edward, the more their love blossomed. But with Edward being an enigma, who was loved and loathed in equal measure; as much as Helen was besotted by him, and her best-friends (Neil & Mary Barkla) were still undecided, Helen’s parents disapproved, as beyond his confidence and his crisp Captain’s uniform, there was an arrogance they just didn’t like, and the same was said by his employer. One year into their relationship; on 31st January 1941, Edward’s superior submitted a report – marked file 2646E - to MI5 (the British Secret Service) stating that Captain Edward Tickell had staunch political opinions (possibly fostered during those two-years living in a Hungarian Communist kibbutz), that his right-wing rhetoric had proved unpopular by colleagues and that he required close observation. By March 1941, with Helen in floods of tears, Edward packed-up his personal items, moved-out of 20 Canning Street and was transferred to the Postal Censorship Office, 225 miles away in London. Although distraught, Helen knew that true-love knew no distance, that they were meant to be together and that – one day – she would be Mrs Edward Tickell. But what she didn’t know about her beloved boyfriend was the truth; as although he was a German-speaking Communist and a possible threat to national security, one detail had passed her by - Captain Edward Tickell was married. In 1929, thirteen years before Helen and Edward had met, Edward Tickell had married Renee Oriana Haynes in St Martin’s in the Field church in London; they had two lovely children and lived happily at Mill Cottage, in the quaint Oxfordshire village of Burford. But Helen knew none of this. To Edward, she was just a “bit of fun”, but being so besotted, Helen travelled from Liverpool to London, every two weeks, and yet - every time – Edward ignored her; choosing instead to boast to his army buddies about the many affairs he was having behind his wife’s back, as drenched in tears, Helen sobbed her way home, so that once again, Neil & Mary Barkla could picked up the pieces. Throughout their relationship, Helen kept a diary; sometimes she loved him, sometimes she loathed him, sometimes they’d break-up and other times she’d woo him back. But on Wednesday 25th June 1941, there was just one entry in her diary, it simply read: “my birthday – nothing from Edward”. On Saturday 17th January 1942, eager to re-ignite the dying embers of their on/off dalliance, Helen caught a train from Liverpool to Leeds to London – a deliberately confusing route designed to hide her clandestine affair from her disapproving parents – and with freshly coiffured hair, a poof of perfume and wearing a pretty dress, she headed into the West End for a romantic weekend away with Edward. Having booked into the modestly-priced Westway Hotel on Endsleigh Street, conveniently located just opposite Euston Station, Edward & Helen signed in as Mr & Mrs Tickell, stayed in Room 70, and both departed the very next morning. That moment marked the start of one life and the end of another. Over the next three months, Helen wrote the following entries in her diary: Friday 6th February 1942: “no curse”, Friday 6th March 1942: “no curse” and Monday 6th April 1942: “no curse”. With her body swelling, a small bump in her belly and having missed three periods, when Dr Holmes confirmed that Helen was pregnant, she should have been jumping for joy, but she wasn’t. As she looked down at her stomach, all she saw was sin, as inside her belly a baby grew who was conceived in secret, fathered by a married man and would be born illegitimate. And as much as child-birth would hurt, the greater pain she felt was the shame she’d bring on her family, and – right then - Helen swore, if ever her parents found out, she’d stick her head in the gas oven. Confiding in her closest friends, Neil & Mary Barkla were a rock during this turbulent time, providing Helen with a safe place to stay, and in the warmth of their home, she could have her baby in secret. In 1942, a pregnant woman had just two options; have the baby and keep it, or have the baby and don’t. Of course, there was always the third option, but that was both illegal and dangerous. Helen tried several times to notify Captain Tickell of the swelling in her belly, but choosing to ignore her calls, letters and telegrams, of the two replies she received, both were jokey and dismissive. When told of her missed periods, Tickell brushed it off by writing back “oi, oi, oi, what a to-do, that’s the Censorship office getting you down”, but when told of her confirmed pregnancy, he cut their affair short by replying “Anyhow, we had a good run for our money, we can’t complain”. Edward Tickell had had his fun, and now this whole pregnancy hullaballoo was becoming a drag, so wanting nothing more with to do with the baby, or Helen (for that matter), as a privileged man with no conscience or consequence, Edward did what he always did, and threw money at the problem. Wracked with guilt at the shame that her sinful shenanigans would bring upon her beloved family, on Tuesday 12th May 1942, Helen boarded a train from Liverpool to London. And against Neil & Mary’s advice, Edward introduced her to a doctor, whose name was George de Fossard. (INTERSTITIAL). On the evening of Wednesday 13th May 1942, in the Denmark Public House in Kensington, Helen Pickwoad met the impressively titled George Frederic Montagu de Fossard over a few light ales with Edward. To any outsider, nothing seemed untoward, they were just three friends chatting over a drink. Although initially suspicious of George de Fossard; an unusual little fellow with a low whispering voice, a nervous shake and blinking eyes which never met hers; as a 44 year old German who’d studied medicine at King’s College and served in the British Army, although such a “sordid business” wasn’t his usual profession, Edward assured her that de Fossard was highly recommended as an abortionist. Having pocketed £15, George de Fossard and Helen Pickwoad popped off for a few minutes as Captain Tickell watched their drinks. To anyone else, it looked as if they’d scooted off to buy some ciggies, but as Helen casually stood and inhaled the smoke, a different deadly poison swirled about the four-month foetus in her belly, having just ingested eight grams of Ergotin. And now, the termination had begun. That night, although a little bit anxious, Helen felt fine. Having performed an abortion many times before, de Fossard warned her of the risks and side-effects, and assured her that the termination would take four days. Having swallowed the pills, by Thursday, she would feel nauseous; by Friday, the deceased foetus would be removed, and with two days of bed-rest as a precautionary measure, by Sunday she would be home, with her family none the wiser. To aide her recovery, Captain Tickell booked Helen into Room 365 of the Mount Royal Hotel on Oxford Street. Obviously, he didn’t book the room himself, he said he was far too busy, so he got a friend to do it. And although he paid for the room, in cash, he didn’t want his good name sullied by such a sordid thing, so he had it booked in Helen’s name. And, of course, wanting nothing more to do with the baby or Helen, he didn’t bother to visit. He just threw money at the problem, and hoped it would go away. And although it can’t be proved whether Captain Tickell arranged the abortion, even though the man he’d booked, had performed abortions many times before, and had been arrested and imprisoned twice prior, George Frederic Montagu de Fossard wasn’t a real doctor. In fact, he wasn’t doctor at all. Born on 16th March 1898 in Bueckenberg (Germany) to a British mother and a Russian father, it’s true that George de Fossard trained in medicine at King’s College, but being broke, having quit after just nine months, he set himself up as plastic surgeon and an abortionist, having gained no qualifications. On Friday 15th May 1942, in Room 365 of the Mount Royal Hotel, with her life in his hands and dressed in nothing but a light pink nightie, Helen lay back on the dark green double bed; its colour coordinated to match the carpet, the curtains, the sink and the walls, in a shade about as subtle as surgical scrubs. Aided by little more than a handful of basic medical items; towels, hot water, a glass funnel, forceps and a length of rubber tubing; although the operation was done without anaesthetic, Helen felt only an odd twinge, as between her trembling legs - with no tears, no cries and no squeals - she caught a brief glimpse of a little baby boy; barely the size of the doctor’s hand but fully formed in every way. And although her baby was perfect, already he was dead. With two days food in the cupboard of the kitchenette, a bottle of painkillers on the bedside table and a stash of sanitary towels to stem the blood-flow, de Fossard left Helen to rest. And there she lay, feeling alone and empty in the echoing silence of Room 365 of the Royal Mount Hotel. Her parents unaware, her boyfriend absent and – somewhere, in London – the perfect little body of her supposedly shameful sin was being disposed of in a bin. And for the next two days, she cried… …but not in grief. On Saturday 16th May 1942 at 8:40pm, a full thirty-two hours after the abortion, Neil Barkla received a phone-call. Neil: “Hello?”, after a short silence the caller’s voice cracked with tears at the reassuring sound of her friend; Helen: “Neil?”, Neil: “Helen? Is everything okay?”, Helen: “No, the baby’s out, but… something went wrong”. And that’s all the words he needed to hear. As a loyal friend, as his wife Mary watched the kids, Neil caught the midnight train to London, and at 9:15am on Sunday 17th May 1942, Neil arrived at the Royal Mount Hotel. As all the while, Captain Tickell slept soundly in his bed. Inside Room 365, the first thing Neil saw on Helen’s sweat-soaked face was her sweet-smile which somehow beamed through all of her pain, and as he clutched her hand and gave her a hug, she knew everything was going to be okay. But as he looked around her, the room told a different story. Everywhere, on every surface, lay a chaotic mix of syringes, swabs and small glass bottles, as if in a feverish panic, an incompetent medic had wheeled his whole surgery in, and injected her with drug after drug in the hope that one would work. And even though the overpowering aroma of methylated spirit stung his eyes, it wasn’t this medical smell which would forever be burned into his brain. A foul stench of rotten meat hung in the air; a feted and putrid smell so repulsive, it made Neil recoil and retch, as amongst the sea of bloodied sanitary towels and clumps of matted cotton rolls which littered the floor, a swarm of flies swirled, making it look as if the carpet was crawling to escape. On the previously green bedspread lay Helen; her flushed face a ghostly white and her brown eyes all blood-shot and red, as with a gas mask covering her mouth she gulped great gasps of oxygen from a large metal cylinder. And although her baby was gone, still she writhed in pain, groaning and panting, her stomach all distended and swollen, as her exhausted body sat slumped amongst a sea of sweat, vomit and brown vaginal discharge; some new and fresh, some old and congealed. Neil tried his best to hide his horror behind a mask of hopefulness, but Helen knew the truth. To her side, stood George de Fossard; whatever he’d done, he’d done wrong; and whatever he was doing, it wasn’t working, as he scrawled down her fluctuating temperature on the back of a fag packet. And although he was unqualified, one thing he knew for certain, although the baby was out, parts of the placenta were not, and of those bloody ruptured pieces which remained within her, all had gone rotten, rancid and septic. Helen was in serious danger, but unwilling to call an ambulance (for fear of arrest) and believing he knew best, the unqualified doctor gave her more insulin, and for the next four hours, he did nothing. By 6pm, being drenched in sweat, Helen’s heart-rate erratically peaked at 200 beats per minute, twice its normal pulse, and with her body temperature being too high to record, suspecting that her death was literally hours away, de Fossard finally bit the bullet and called a professional. By 8pm, with Neil holding Helen up, her scalding skin too hot to touch, she was taken to 15 King’s Court in Chelsea, the surgery of Doctor Ernst Blumberg, a widely respected and highly qualified doctor. Seeing her obvious distress, weakened state and a stinking brown liquid oozing from between her legs, Dr Blumberg examined Helen in his sterilised operating room; noted a jagged tear on the anterior wall of her cervix – the tell-tale sign of a botched abortion – and with her body being poisoned to death by acute peritonitis, the doctor administered a strong antibiotic, a safe anaesthetic, he carefully removed every piece of putrefying placenta and flushed out her cervix with two pints of strong detergent. By 10pm, with her pulse calmer, her temperature down and her swelling subsiding, being pain-free, Helen’s sweet smile had returned, and although Dr Blumberg couldn’t prove that it was the de Fossard who had incompetently performed this illegal abortion, he recommended that (as a precaution) Helen be taken to the nearest hospital. By 10:15pm, Helen walked out of the surgery unaided… …by 11pm, being too afraid of arrest, de Fossard had driven her back to Room 365 at the Mount Royal Hotel. And with the airless room being stiflingly hot and the windows shut, the congealed vomit and caked blood had turned into a feeding frenzy of bacteria, flies and maggots. On Monday 18th May, after a restful night’s sleep, Helen was feeling weak but well. On Tuesday 19th May, being restless and sore, Helen’s swelling had returned, along with a feted stench of rotting flesh, and as she thrashed about, sweating and screaming, the brown liquid oozed from her nostrils. By 6:30, the next morning, having lapsed into a coma, 27 year old Helen Mary Pickwoad was dead. When informed of Helen’s death, although Captain Tickell claimed to be upset, he shed no tears, said no prayers, and even though he was only a few doors away at Maison Lyonese in the Cumberland Hotel, he never entered the Mount Royal Hotel, or Room 365, where his girlfriend was dead. Unlike so many deaths in London’s West End, for the Police, there was no real mystery here. With his fingerprints found on the bloody forceps, George de Fossard was arrested for the murder of Helen Mary Pickwoad. Six days later, on Tuesday 26th May 1942, they arrested Captain Edward Tickell. In a lengthy trial, lasting almost a month, beginning on 4th June 1942, at The Old Bailey, with both men charged with manslaughter and conspiring to perform an illegal abortion, they pleaded not guilty. On Friday 2nd July 1942, 44 year old German national, George Frederic Montagu de Fossard; with his low whispering voice, his nervous shake, his suspiciously blinking eyes and two prior convictions as an abortionist, was found guilty of manslaughter and was sentenced to five years in prison. And 37 year old Captain Edward Jerrard Tickell; the natural born charmer with chiselled good looks which could lure in any lovely lady and a cheeky chatter that could talk his way out of any trouble? Although his guilt was obvious to the Police, with Tickell having not booked the hotel himself, paid for the abortion in cash, written nothing on paper and with no witnesses to confirm whether he was anywhere near Room 365 of the Mount Royal Hotel, at any time, during Helen’s life or death, And with no evidence against him, Captain Edward Tickell was found not guilty and released. And once again, being born into wealth and privilege, he walked away, without any conscience or consequence. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Don’t forget to stay tuned to Extra Mile after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week, which are Cult of Domesticity and Colour Me Dead. (PLAY PROMOS) A big thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who get exclusive access to lots of secret and often sexy Murder Mile stuff as well as a personal thank you from me; they are Susan Atkins and Gary Lante. Thank you guys, you are super dooper. Murder Mile was researched, written & 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.
Sources: This case was entirely investigated using all of the original declassified police investigation files which are held by the National Archives at Kew..
Music: Additional music was used (in the case of Cult With No Name) with their kind permission and all other artists under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution) via Free Music Archive. A full track listing follows:
Sounds: With additional sounds courtesy of the Free Sound Project, used under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution).
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 Best True-Crime Podcast at the British Podcast Awards 2018 and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via iTunes, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In, Otto Radio, Spotify or Acast.
EPISODE THIRTY-FIVE
Episode Thirty-Five: On Thursday 18th February 1972, outside flat 21 of 35 Bryanston Square in London's West End, a group of killers attempted to murder the exiled Iraqi General Abd ar-Razzaq Said al-Naif, but his assassination was left in the hands of a truly unusual man.
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THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram
Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed by various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here
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 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Podcast Addict, Podbean, Stitcher, Tune-In, Otto Radio or Acast.
35 Bryanston Square as it looks today
As part of the Murder Mile Podcast - a true-crime podcast of 300+ untold, unsolved and often forgotten murders, all set within on square mile of London's West End - I have uploaded the full unedited transcript of each episode, containing all of the information, histories and backstories which I was unable to provide in the podcast episode owing to time-constraints or last-minute changes to the script.
You can DOWNLOAD episode #35 of the Murder Mile true-crime podcast via iTunes, or you can listen to it now, by clicking the play button on the media player below Full Transcript - Episode #35 - The Several Assassinations of the Exiled Iraqi (Abd ar-Razzaq Said al-Naif) - TRANSCRIPT
Thank you for downloading episode thirty-five of the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast.
Each week, on Extra Mile, I’ll be hosting a listener Q & A, so if you have any questions about Murder Mile, the making of Murder Mile, it’s recent nomination as one of the Best British True-Crime Podcasts of 2018 (whoops, did I mention it again, oh well), or any questions on the cases we’ve covered, feel free to message me via the links in the show-notes, and I’ll do my very best to answer them. As always, Murder Mile is arranged like dinner date with famous Belgian detective Hercules Poirot; as what begins with a very detailed dissection of a grisly death, soon descends into a sarcastic amount of waffle, so stay tuned to the end for Extra Mile. Thank you for listening and enjoy 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, set within one square mile of the West End. Today’s episode is about Abd ar-Razzaq Said al-Naif (Abd ar-Razzak Sayheed al-Nay-eef); an exiled Iraqi national, living in the West End, who found himself the target of several assassinations. And yet, as high up as the orders to have him killed came, his death was left in the hands of a most unlikely man. Murder Mile contains grisly details which may disturb any delicate poppets, as well as 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 35: The Several Assassinations of the Exiled Iraqi. Today I’m standing in Bryanston Square, W1; two streets north of Oxford Street, two streets east of Edgware Road and two tube stops west of Soho. If this sounds familiar, that’s because situated on the north side of the square, at the junction of Wyndham Place and Montagu Place, there once stood an air-raid shelter, where Evelyn Margaret Hamilton became the first victim of The Blackout Ripper. With its private garden surrounded by several seven-story Edwardian mansion houses, so anonymous they can only differentiated by subtle changes in their brown bricks, white windows and black wrought iron gates; this square is so exclusive and yet deliberately discrete; with so many embassies nearby, it’s highly likely that the bin-men are bugged, the street-sweeper’s a secret sniper, each concierge has top secret clearance, the milkman’s been knighted, the homeless are only here by royal appointment, and even a posh poodle doing a doggy poo-doodle on the path is protected by diplomatic immunity. And with me not being an oily oligarch, a Saudi slime-ball, a disgraced duke, or an aristocratic bit of hoity-toity who’s under house-arrest as the judge deemed him too posh for prison; the second I even think of setting foot in their private garden; alarms will wail, flood-lights will flash and six black-suited men with Uzis will hurl me into a holding cell, I’ll be frisked, stripped and water-boarded; tortured, strangled and chopped into a rather fancy pate, as (in their eyes) anyone who doesn’t have a diamond-encrusted Rolex, a Beamer painted by Picasso, an aversion to paying tax, a dubious human rights record and isn’t a regular donor to the Tory party is clearly suspicious. And although this was the home of socialite Wallace Simpson (the American divorcee who caused King Edward VIII to abdicate) and Osmond Barnes, the man who gave the whole of India to Queen Victoria as a gift, it was here, outside Flat 21 of 35 Bryanston Square, that Abd al-Naif, an exiled Iraqi national with a death sentence on his head faced a very unlikely firing squad. (INTERSTITIAL). On Friday 18th February 1972 at a little after 2pm; a sweetly-smiling, smartly-dressed and deeply-caring middle-class Iraqi couple were shopping amongst Edgware Road’s noisy, excitable and chaotic Middle Eastern bustle of shawarma bars, shisha cafes, deli’s, tailors and coffee-houses. Being home to many Arabian immigrants since the late 19th century; regardless of where their roots lay (whether in the Lebanon, Syria, Iran, Iraq, Israel or Egypt), although this half mile stretch of Edgware Road is often dubbed “Little Beirut”, it’s always been a place of peace, safety and anonymity. Being five foot nine inches tall with black wavy hair, thin brown eyes and a lantern jaw, 38 year old Abd was the epitome of an Iraqi businessmen; as dressed in a tailored suit and shiny shoes with a crisp shirt and tie, although he had the heft of a man with a military background, with a thin uneasy grimace about his lips, he had the face of a politician. But by those who knew him, he was widely respected. Side-by-side, Abd walked with 34 year old Lamya, his beloved wife of sixteen years and mother to their five children (the youngest of which – Ali – they’d dropped off at a local nursery). And although she was an unassuming little lady with long dark hair, beautiful eyes and an intoxicating smile, having followed her husband through thick-and-thin, she was his strength, his confidante and his soul-mate. And as much as they resembled an average middle-class Iraqi couple who’d relocated to London in the early 1970’s, they were anything but, and very few people knew who he truly was. Born in the Iraqi city of Fallujah (43 miles west of Baghdad) on 18th June 1934, Abd ar-Razzaq Said al-Naif was raised in an affluent middle-class family, the second oldest of six siblings, and educated with traditional values, religious upbringing and a passionate patriotism for his country. As a confident, polite and driven young man; aged 16, Abd enrolled in the Iraqi Military Academy. Being eager to rise through the ranks of the Army, after three years of intensive training, Abd was promoted to 2nd Lieutenant, graduated with a degree from the State College of Baghdad and being both a successful soldier and a political thinker, with Iraq being our ally in the years after World War Two, Abd was trained by British intelligence at an undisclosed military base in Uckfield (Sussex). By 1964, Abd was appointed Deputy Head of Iraqi Military Intelligence. By 1965, he was Advisor to the Iraqi President (Abdul Salam Arif). And by 1968, Abd was promoted to General, all by the age of 34. But by 1968, with the Cold War heating up as the US and the USSR battled for supremacy in both the Space Race and the Arms Race, with the government of Iraqi leaning towards Communism, on 17th July 1968, Abd initiated a “bloodless coup”, seized control of the state and appointed General Ahmed Hassan al-Bakr of the Ba’ath Party as President, and himself as the 39th Prime Minister of Iraq. Dubbed “The White Revolution”; this bloodless coup was seen as indicative of the peaceful coalition government Abd had created with al-Bakr as an Arab Socialist and himself as an independent, but after just 15 days as Prime Minister, President al-Bakr and several Ba’ath Party conspirators - one of whom was the future Iraqi President Saddam Hussein – had Abd arrested. Eager to keep-up the pretence of a peaceful transition, al-Bakr had Abd ejected from Iraq, exiled to Rambat and (fearing for his life) was forced to take-up the powerless position as the Iraqi Ambassador to Morocco. One month later, having been shipped-off to Switzerland to act as the Iraqi Minister for Swiss Foreign Affairs, Abd was warned that the Ba’ath Party were plotting to have him killed. As the authorities in Switzerland were unable to offer him protection, with his escape bankrolled by a wealthy Iraqi ally - Sheik Mulalhal Balasim al-Yassin – Abd, Lamya and their five children fled to London on 15th September 1969 and moved into the safety of Flat 21 at 35 Bryanston Square. It was here they hoped to live a normal life, far from al-Bakr, the Ba’ath Party and Iraqi politics. But living in a city surrounded by strangers, with a death sentence hanging over his head, he would never be sure who would be sent to kill him. On 18th February 1972, Abd came face-to-face with his assassin, and he arrived in the very unlikely guise of a man named Yahya Qassim. (INTERSTITIAL). Born in the Iraqi capital of Baghdad on 10th October 1914, 58 year old Yahya QASSIM (Yiy-yah Cazim) is described by eye-witnesses as “odd”, “feeble” and “wizened”. Being just five foot three inches tall, seven stone in weight and burdened by a wrinkled weedy frame (so thin and slight) that a sharp gust of wind could easily blow him off his feet; and dressed in a shabby raincoat, a crumpled suit, a bent trilby hat and thick wire-framed glasses, Qassim hardly looked like a hired killer. With no military experience, intelligence training or knowledge of espionage; Qassim wasn’t a soldier, a spy or an assassin. If anything, being awkward, agitated and highly strung, not only was he the sort of man who struggled to reach things on a high shelf and needed help to open a jar of pickles, but with a nervous stutter so pronounced he was often impossible to understand, being the type of weasel-like weirdo you’d naturally steel clear of, Qassim looked suspicious, devious and untrustworthy. But then, Qassim wasn’t a killer, he was a scholar. Being bright, erudite and political, in 1934, aged 20, Qassim graduated from Baghdad College with a law degree, set-up his own legal practice, and later became Assistant Secretary to the Baghdad Council of Ministers, Legal Adviser to the Iraqi Railway, editor of his own left-wing Arab newspaper - ‘Ash-Sha’b’ and devout member of the Ba’ath Party. By 1971, as a writer, a lawyer and a married man with two grown-up sons, Qassim lived at 4 Hyde Park Place, a nine minute walk from Bryanston Square. Having never owned a gun, held a gun, or even risked firing one for fear that that recoil may break his wrist, Qassim’s role in the assassination was not as the killer, but as the bait, and under the guise of an ally, eager to rebuild the reputation of this exiled Iraqi General, he would lure Abd into a public place, where his assassins would lay in wait. But first, he needed Abd to trust him… and for the weasily Qassim, that was easier said than done. Abd’s trusted friend - Sheik al-Yassin – the Arab businessman who had bankrolled Abd’s escape, exile and had even financed the education of his five kids, reluctantly introduced Abd to Qassim one year prior, describing the stuttering lawyer as a persistent pest and an irritant who was never to be trusted. Being a polite and patient man, burdened by a desire to never cause offence, Abd agreed to a brief meeting with Qassim in the safety of Sheikk al-Yassin’s Kensington office, and as they said goodbye, he considered the matter closed… but this meeting marked the beginning of the end of his life. It started with phone-calls; sometimes weekly, sometimes daily, sometimes nightly, and always on the end of the phone was Qassim, pestering Abd for more meetings to discuss the eventual overthrow of the Ba’ath Party regime and the exiled General’s glorious return to power as the rightful Prime Minister of Iraq. None of which Abd even wanted, but still Qassim droned on, and on, and on. And then came the meetings, endless meetings with a never-ending slew of nameless people, as Qassim waffled on about Abd’s impending rise to power as the leader of an anti-Ba’ath Party revolution, which Qassim had claimed to have already mustered the support of powerful allies - such as the Jordanian Prime Minister, the Shah of Persia, the Iranian Minister for Foreign Affairs and King Feisal of Saudi Arabia – and yet, as much as Abd politely tried to persuade the nervous little lawyer that he had no plans, at all, to re-ignite the Iraqi revolution, to destabilise the Ba’ath party, and that he only cared about his family’s safety, Qassim remained persistent and droned on, and on, and on. A few weeks prior to the assassination plot, Abd had grown deeply suspicious of Qassim’s questioning, as what began as polite pleasantries before a tedious barrage of business talk, soon felt more like he was deliberately fishing for information about the minutiae of Abd’s daily routine. Early December 1971: Abd received a series of strange and silent calls from public phone-boxes to his home phone, but – on every occasion - the second he’d pick-up, they’d hang-up. Late December 1971: Qassim organised a meeting between Abd and Saddig El Bassam, a (supposedly) high-profile Iraqi merchant and staunch opponent of the Ba’ath Party, and yet, as urgent as their meeting was, very little was said, the details were vague, and the next day, the merchant had vanished. January 1972: Having bumped into Qassim on George Street (a residential road one street south of Bryanston Square), with his stutter being unusually pronounced, Qassim told Abd of the rumour that he was protected by Persian bodyguards and carried a gun. In a momentary lapse in judgement, being desperate to depart this loathsome little man, Abd denied both and opened his jacket to prove it. February 1972: Qassim organised yet another urgent meeting, only this time with Aga Jaffar; an Iraqi businessman who Abd had already met, and yet, as pointless as this meeting was, Qassim’s mind wasn’t on business, or politics, or even Iraq. Instead he steered the conversation towards more trivial matters about Abd’s life; where he shopped, what he ate, who he drank with and how he travelled. And when asked why he wanted to know, Qassim simply stuttered “nothing, nothing, nothing”. As a solid judge of character, Lamya (Abd’s wife) instantly took a dislike to Qassim, and being desperate never to share the same space as such a devious and weasily little man, she asked Abd never to invite him to their home, or if he did, she would need to be elsewhere. The first assassination attempt on the life of Abd al-Naif took place on Monday 14th February 1972 at 3pm. Or it would have done, had Qassim not been so awkward, odious and inept. That afternoon, as if the city’s decrepit old sewers had been blocked by a steamy stinking cesspool of human waste, a bad smell returned to 35 Bryanston Square. And dressed in a crumpled grey raincoat, a tatty brown suit and a battered grey trilby, the stuttering rambling shambles of Qassim slinked up the stone stairs, hung by the mansion block’s black front door and buzzed the intercom of flat 21. With a crackle of static, Abd answered “hello?”, but with this being the early 1970’s, an era long before video intercoms, this call was strictly audio only, and having no idea who it was, the General let out an audible groan when he heard the nasal whine of “Abd? It’s Qassim”. Abd was too tired for this, too fed-up, too bored and too frustrated. In essence, their conversation broke down like this: Qassim: “Abd? It’s Qassim”, Abd: “Yes?”, Qassim: “We must have a meeting, it’s urgent”, Abd: “About what?”, Qassim: “Things. Come on down, we’ll go to the Portman Hotel, have coffee, tea, my treat”, Abd: “We? Who’s this we?”, Qassim: “We? You? Me? And… some people. You must come”. At which, feeling uncomfortable by the vagueness of the details and with his patience tested, Abd replied “no”. A long silence ensued, and although Abd couldn’t be certain, he swore he heard the scuffle of feet and the mutter of frustrated voices, as Qassim piped up with “come down here then, we can talk here”, as persistent as ever. But even from all the way up on the sixth floor, Aba smelled a rat. “No” Abd replied, “No, I think I won’t, I’m busy, maybe next week, okay?”, but Qassim said nothing. There was another crackle of static, another mutter, another scuffle, followed by a series of stuttering statements as Qassim insisted that what he had to tell Abd was vital, urgent and too secret to be said over an intercom. And knowing that this persistent pest would buzz about his ear like a blood-hungry mosquito – with Lamya (his wife) being out – and with an air of reluctance, Abd invited him up. For an interminably long minute, through the spy-hole of flat 21, Abd hesitantly watched as the needle of the sixth floor lift slowly crept up; from ground floor, to first, to second, to third, then it stopped, then it restarted, to fourth, to fifth, and then (ping) to sixth. Behind his thick wooden door, as the art-deco gates of the lift spread aside, into the hall, Abd spied the solitary shambling mess of Qassim. His wrinkled face grimacing an awkward grin as his wizened old hand knocked on the door, which Abd cautiously (and reluctantly) opened, and – once again - Qassim had invited himself into the flat of the exiled Iraqi Prime Minister, unaware that his presence was rarely (if ever) welcome. For fifteen minutes, they sat, sipped tea and chatted; nothing urgent cropped up, nothing important was discussed, and - once again - Abd denied he has any political plans, any revolutionary ambitions, and simply wanted to live with his family in peace. And with that, Qassim wished him well and left. Having lived in a constant fear of being killed for the last four years, maybe the stress had got the better of him, Abd had thought? Maybe he was seeing threats where there weren’t any? As if the Iraqi Ba’ath Party were going to send an assassin, why would they send Qassim? The idea was ludicrous. But as inept as it seemed, this wasn’t an aborted attempt to assassinate Abd al-Naif, this was just a dry-run for the real thing, which would occur just four days later, but first… (Phone rings) Wednesday 17th February 1972 at 7pm, Abd received a phone-call. Qassim: “Abd? It’s Qassim”, Abd: “Yes?”, Qassim: “We must have a meeting, it’s urgent”, Abd: “About what?”, Qassim: “Things”, Abd: “What things?”, Qassim: “Just things… too secret to say over the phone”. And so it was agreed that they’d meet, the next day, at 4pm, in Abd’s flat. (Phone hangs up). On Friday 18th February 1972, at a little after 2pm; a sweetly-smiling, smartly-dressed and deeply-caring middle-class Iraqi couple – known locally as Abd & Lamya – strolled along the chaotic bustle of “Little Beirut” on the Edgware Road; their senses tantalised by the sharp tang of freshly brewed coffee, the fruity waft of shisha pipes and the spitting spice of lamb shawarma, as excitable café owners lured prospective patrons in with the promise of falafel, baklava, kofta, manakeesh, grilled halloumi, fattoush and - a delicacy of Iraq - Masgouf (a slowly cooked carp seasoned with lemon and pickles). And as much as Lamya inhaled those beautiful familiar smells from her homeland, Abd’s eyes and ears were elsewhere. Was it his imagination, or was he being watched, was he being followed, were there a lot of Iraqi men milling about on Edgware Road, or was he seeing threats where there weren’t any? He looked at his watch, it was 3pm, he’d have to head home for his meeting with that irritant Qassim. (Phone rings) Thursday 18th February 1972 at 3:30pm; Qassim: “Abd? It’s Qassim”, Abd: “Yes?”, Qassim: “Our meeting…?”, Abd: “4pm, in my flat, I haven’t forgotten”, and then there was a pause, Qassim: “Hmm, let’s meet on the ground-floor, you come down”, Abd: “Down? Why?”, Qassim: “I’m worried about the lift. What if there’s a power-cut?”, Abd: “There’s no power-cut”, Qassim: “What if it’s broken?”, Abd: “I just used it, it’s not broken”, Qassim: “What if it breaks?”, Abd: “Use the stairs”. And with his patience wearing very thin, Abd said something to the effect of “here, 4pm, be there, or don’t” (phone hangs up). And with that, the assassination of Abd ar-Razzaq Said al-Naif was set. At 3:40pm, three men exited 4 Hyde Park Place and took a brisk nine minute walk over Edgware Road to Bryanston Square; two of them are a mystery. Described as men of Middle-Eastern appearance, of average height, weight and build, aged in their 20’s or 30’s, dressed in dark plain clothing, and with no scars, tattoos or redeeming features of any kind, it’s almost as if they were trained to blend-in and disappear, as of everyone who saw them, no-one can remember anything about them. Where-as the third man? There was no mystery as to who he was; as being a short shambling rambling mess, dressed in a crumpled grey raincoat, a tatty brown suit and a battered grey trilby, the only real mystery was why 58 year old Yahya Qassim (Yay-yah Cazim) was even hired. At ten minutes to four on Friday 18th February 1972, Qassim and his two mysterious assassins slinked up the stone stairs, hung by the mansion block’s black front door and buzzed the intercom of flat 21. With a sharp crackle of static, Abd answered “hello?”, Qassim: “Abd? It’s Qassim”, hearing a slight scuffle Abd asked “Are you alone?”, with a nervous stutter Qassim replied “Yes… alone”, and with an electric buzz and a metal thung, the black front door of 35 Bryanston Square opened. Which was most convenient for 72 year old Millicent Harris, resident of flat 8 on the second floor, as with her arms weighted down with shopping bags, one of the nice young men held the door open for her, and – with a sense of good manners, often absent with today’s youth – they let the lady into the lift, as they stood side-by-side; Qassim, Millicent and two highly trained Iraqi assassins, in one hand they held black balaclavas and in the other 9mm Browning revolvers. With all four squeezed into the slightly compact lift, as the mysterious man nearest the panel prodded the button to the sixth floor, Millicent politely asked “second floor please”, but the man ignored her. She asked again “second floor please”, but once again he ignored her, they all did (which was odd as Qassim was fluent in English), so believing these reprobates were either foreign, ignorant or rude, she jabbed at the button herself, and scowled at the naughty men with her most withering look. On the sixth floor, Abd watched as the lift’s needle stalled four floors below. Behind him, busy in her kitchen, Lamya prepared dinner. With Qassim closing in, normally she’d be out, but having finished her chores and with no reason to leave, she stayed, as Abd promised to keep the meeting brief. Suddenly, the needle of the sixth floor lift restarted, and slowly crept up from second floor, to third, to fourth, to fifth and finally (ping) to sixth, but Abd had no sense of trepidation. Qassim was more of an ass than an assassin and only thing he was likely to kill was time, air and brain-cells. But as the lift’s art-deco gates opened wide and the solitary shambling mess of Qassim stepped out… he froze in fear. There was no awkward grin on Qassim’s wrinkled old face and no wizened old hand knocking on the door. As (unlike ever time prior) the ever-cautious Abd wasn’t peeping through the spy-hole, waiting for the very last second to open his heavy wooden door. Instead, he was standing in front of it. Qassim tried to warn his co-conspirators, but with his wibbling lips only able muster a stutter, and a crazy compilation of consonants hardly being helpful to these hired assassins, as they strolled out of the lift – their black balaclavas off and their revolvers not cocked – sensing his immediate danger, Abd bolted backwards and slammed the door shut, as a volley of 9mm shots ripped through the wood, Behind the splintered door of flat 21; amongst the shrill screams and the choking tears, Lamya could be heard sobbing “my husband is killed, my husband is killed”, as the assassins fled, their booted feet thundering down the stairs, but gripped with fear, Qassim simply stood motionless and stared. Hearing the shots, Ernest Taylor, the caretaker of 35 Bryanston Square, bravely attempted to grapple with the fleeing assassins, but with both men being young, fit and swift, they easily dodged passed the elderly gent, dashed into the quiet residential street and disappeared forever. Unsure whether his mission was successful, Qassim (always being a bastion of tact) telephoned his victim’s flat and calmly asked “Lamya? It’s Qassim, what has happened?” To which (seeing blood pour from a bullet-hole in her body and her husband slumped on the floor) she screamed “you have killed my husband, you have killed me”, and then, he promptly hung up. Unlike the spry-assassins, the 58 year old, five foot three inch Yahya Qassim was easily collared by the mansion block’s caretaker - Ernest Taylor, questioned by the Police, of which he denied all knowledge, and with both guns and masks found nearby, on 28th February 1972, Qassim was formerly charged… …but not with murder. You see, so inept was Qassim and his assassins, that nobody actually died. With the door slammed shut and unable to see their target, of those five shots fired; one hit the hall skirting board, one hit the bedroom doorframe, two hit the door, and with all five shots entirely missing Abd - who’s military training had told him to drop to the deck and stay low – one bullet had hit Lamya in the right shoulder. But after just two weeks in hospital, Lamya had made a full recovery. Yahya Qassim was tried at the Old Bailey on 19th June 1972 and charged with the attempted murder of Abd al-Naif and with intent to cause grievous bodily harm to Lamya al-Naif. He pleaded not guilty to all charges and the jury (unanimously) found him… not guilty. With no gun on his person, no bullets in his pocket, no mask on his face, no fingerprints anywhere at the scene and no witnesses able to confirm whether Qassim had fired (let alone held) a gun, he was found innocent and walked free. Six years later, on Sunday 9th July 1978, outside of the five-star Intercontinental Hotel on London’s Park Lane, as the exiled Iraqi General hopped in a taxi and headed home to his beloved wife, he was cut down by a hail of bullets, one of which blasted a hole in the back of his head, and he died the very next day. This time, his Iraqi assassins were professionals, and his death sentence having been (reportedly) ordered by the ambitious Vice-President of Iraq, whose name was Saddam Hussein. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Don’t forget to stay tuned to Extra Mile after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week, which are Killafornia Dreaming and Targeted. (PLAY PROMOS) A big thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who get exclusive access to lots of secret and often sexy Murder Mile stuff as well as a personal thank you from me; they are Susie Brace, Lina Cho, Roger M, The Quiet One and Gunga-Dun. With a special well done to the winners of the exclusive Murder Mile stickers, badges and fridge magnets on my latest competition, only available via the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast Discussion Group on Facebook. Murder Mile was researched, written & 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.
Sources: This episode of Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast was researched using the original declassified police investigation files which are held by the National Archives at Kew, so everything you hear is original and true.
Music: Additional music was used (in the case of Cult With No Name) with their kind permission and all other artists under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution) via Free Music Archive. A full track listing follows:
Sounds: With additional sounds courtesy of the Free Sound Project, used under a Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution).
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 Best True-Crime Podcast at the British Podcast Awards 2018 and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster & tour guide of Murder Mile Walks, hailed as one of the best "quirky curious & unusual things to do in London". 
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